Wisdom Wherever You Find It
 
I’ve reason to believe we all will be received in Graceland.   Paul Simon
 
This has been a summer of destinations for me.  Theme parks, museums, government institutions, embassies, and Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee.  For a sum of money (ranging from significant to outrageous) you can visit the Shrine of Elvis Presley, including the home he bought for his mama and (after the tour hosted by John Stamos on the iPad you are issued as you board the shuttle bus) a series of thematic warehouses with his vehicles, souvenirs of his acquisitive life, his flamboyant costumes, and his many gold records.
 
I had a great time there. My traveling companions were my beloved wife and my cherished friend whom I have known for a combined 100 years. We were surrounded by people who came to be immersed in legend. There were people dressed the same as the crowd at Water Country USA. There were people whose parents could not have met while Elvis was still alive. There were people in wheelchairs navigating the family home which was built long before the Americans with Disabilities Act.  There was an older couple (and, at my current age, “older couple” is a considerable observation) whose fragile presence had me wondering if this might be the last item on the bucket list.
 
Graceland presents a curated depiction of Elvis. He was loved and loving, physically fit, ready to sing at every moment. His taste in art, furniture, and anything made with fabric was, well, let’s call it accessible to the masses. And the memorial garden, final resting place of the Presley clan (except his stillborn twin), was both politically and grammatically incorrect. And yet.
 
For more than twenty million people since it opened to the public in 1982 (not including Paul Simon, believe it or not), Graceland has been the object of a pilgrimage.  Some, like me, come ready to raise eyebrows and mutter “OMG” and apply critical methodologies to the glaring omissions of fact and circumstance.  Most, however, come to pay tribute reverentially to the King of Rock and Roll.
 
What is it about Elvis that so appeals to so many people? I don’t ask about his music; he was indeed a pioneer and a considerable talent. I refer to the phenomenon of the man, the myth, the legend. 
 
I mean no disrespect to his memory, his family, or established faith traditions when I suggest that the life and legend of Elvis Presley make for great religion.  People who are believers – and I am one of them – make the choice to believe the most inspiring aspects of a narrative, to excuse the shortcomings of the actors in that narrative, and to emulate the heroes who carry the message. In Elvis there is scripture and music for every season and circumstance (think “The Wonder of You,” “Heartbreak Hotel,” “If I Can Dream,” and, of course, “I Can’t Help Falling in Love.”).  In Elvis there is choreography (the “wiggle”) and even sacrament (scoff if you want at peanut butter and banana, but it is EVERYWHERE in Memphis – including in beer). In Elvis there is feeling better even when things look grim.  In Elvis, there is gratitude (“Thank you. Thank you very much.”). In Elvis, there is life sustained when death comes too soon.  Ground Zero for that is Graceland.
 
Religions celebrate the pilgrimage – official ones like the festivals at the Temple in Jerusalem and the Hajj, less official ones like the stations of the cross, and completely unofficial ones to shrines and historical sites.  There is a holiness in the effort and a fellowship in the journey.  And at the point of arrival, there is an affirmation of the central message. The faithful and the curious, the novice and the veteran, the poor boy and the pilgrim have reason to believe they will be fulfilled by the effort.
 
Americans do not share a faith, despite the attempt of some to insist we do and others to impose their own on the rest of us. Some elements of our culture have served the purpose of religion in the past – Thanksgiving has devolved into football and political arguments; the Fourth of July has lost its appeal to so many; baseball can’t seem to maintain its innocence or keep up with the pace of life.
 
But Elvis – the Elvis who was and the Elvis we want him to be – serves that purpose for somewhere north of twenty million people since 1982. 
 
I have a tee shirt that dates back thirty-five years and thirty-five pounds.  It is a picture of young Elvis, and under his likeness it says, “I’m dead.”  I got it when there were claims that Elvis didn’t really die – he just escaped.  At the time, I wore the shirt as an expression of faith n the natural order of things, also because I was more of a wise guy. These days neither the shirt nor the sentiment fit. Elvis lives at Graceland.  I saw it with my own eyes.
 
No kidding, as I wrote these words, I received an email from Graceland.  I am invited to kick off the holiday season at the annual Holiday Lighting Weekend. If you want to go, I have reason to believe you will be received.

Wisdom Wherever You Find It
 
That kind of bias is extraordinarily common – the inability to recognize that the past was a real place, where real people made choices just as new generations do: weighing their options and coming to conclusions about what worked best for them and occasionally surfacing ideas that then stood the test of time.      Christine Emba
 
I remain suspicious of the past, even as I celebrate it. It is a tension that keeps me insecure about the decisions I have made in my lifetime (even if I know there is no going back to experiment with a different pathway). And when you add to that one such decision – to live most of my adult life as a “professional Jew” – the momentum created by public pronouncements and purposeful examples can be a challenge to independent thinking.
 
Early in my adult life I embraced an approach to the practice of Judaism that relied on a now-disfavored slogan of my chosen denomination, Conservative*. The watchwords are “Tradition and Change,” popularized by Rabbi Mordecai Waxman, of blessed memory. Essentially, the notion committed the faithful Conservative Jew to accept the binding nature of Jewish law, which could be re-legislated only in specific ways by a committee of respected representative rabbis. Let me reduce it to the absurd: the speed limit on the highway is 55 by state law, and it can be changed only by the authorized authorities.  It prohibits, but does not prevent, a driver from going much slower or much faster.
 
And let me beat the metaphor into submission. That speed limit reflects an assessment of what the presumptions are, including driving conditions, road access, traffic volume, and driver expertise (and maybe even environmental impact). In practice, however, weather conditions could commend a much slower speed, and the behavior of other drivers could make adhering to that speed limit unsafe. Do I, as a driver, wait for the highway commission to complete a study before I hit the brakes or the accelerator? And if I do get a ticket for speeding or impeding, do I have a defense that claims my judgment in the circumstances is more reliable than those who have studied the situation? If it happens too often, I forfeit my license to drive.
 
Well, of course, I don’t forfeit my right to be a Jew if I develop a taste for pork carnitas (I haven’t; don’t worry).  But at what speed on the highway of Jewish religious observance do I relinquish my claim to be Conservative? *
 
Underlying the belief in the binding nature of Jewish law is the idea that it finds its source in God and the revelation to Moses at Mount Sinai. For thousands of years, the scholarly and everyday members of the Jewish community have understood their beliefs and actions to have traveled along a thread that, if followed to its origin, would bring them back to Sinai. Of course, some contend the thread is part of a tightly-woven tapestry and others more akin to the ends of the fringes fluttering from the corners of a prayer shawl.
 
Will I get to my point before I reach my word limit? Let’s hope.
 
At this season in my life, I have an appreciation of Christine Emba’s trenchant observation. The tradition I have inherited is true and certain enough to lay claim to its origins, but not to its immutability – not in Jewish life in general and not in my life in particular. As a people, as an ostensibly religious folk, we have the permission and the even the obligation to weigh our options and come to conclusions about what works best for us. As a person, I have that permission and that obligation as well. If done with integrity, I will extend the thread, and maybe even change the speed limit. If not, I will forfeit my claim to the Judaism I have promoted for breaking that thread or defying the safe speed limit too often.
 
My hope these days, more so than at any other point in my life, is that I have the privilege of being part of surfacing an idea that will stand the test of time because I did not forget that the past was as real a place as my own.
 
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*If you are unfamiliar with the terminology, Conservative Judaism has nothing to do with conservative politics, much as the word “straight” means different things referring to geometry and gender.