I played hookey from school today so that I could spend the day with Daniel before he flew out this evening, homebound.
We spent a lazy morning reading and doing crossword puzzles before we headed out to the preschool's Rosh Chodesh ceremony. The preschool celebrates Rosh Chodesh with parents/congregation members every month, but this is the first time I've made it to the celebration. In honor of Shavuot, which is later this week, the cantor dressed as the high priest of the Temple, and the kids, all dressed in white, brought fruits to be sacrificed. The Rabbi opened the ark and showed the kids all of the Torah scrolls, and gave them an opportunity to touch the Torah crown. Then, there was a skit about grinding wheat to make flour and bread, followed by some singing, dancing, and shofar blowing. It was adorable, and we were also struck by the kind of knowledge it gave the kids - in a Reform setting, they had access, at a preschool age, to the Hebrew calendar, to Jewish history and holidays, in a pretty detailed fashion. It seemed particularly meaningful to be doing this in Jerusalem, especially as it was Daniel's last day here.
We went next to the L.A. Mayer Museum for Islamic Art, which we've been planning to visit all year. The museum covers Islamic art from the 7th century through the Ottoman Empire, and we enjoyed peeking around at the ceramics, tiles, and jewlery. We particularly enjoyed the exhibition on contemporary Arabic art in Israel - it was a small installation, but for us it was the highlite.
We strolled through the German colony and stopped in the Rose garden to sit on a park bench and chat before having ice cream on Emek Rafaim Street. We took a brief trip to the Malcha mall for a last-minute purchase before coming home for a game of scrabble.
We ended the day with a fancy dinner at Al Dente, an Italian place that many HUC students have been raving about all year. While there, we struck up a conversation witha family who is on a two week trip to Israel from New Mexico. Daniel used his Jerusalem expertise to recommend places they should visit while here - a final act as a Jerusalem resident welcoming others to his city. We arrived home with just enough time for Daniel to pack the last few items and make his final trip down our tiny old fashioned elevator to wait for the sherut that would carry him away.
It seems lonely in the apartment now, but I already have plenty of plans for the week, and plenty of work to do for school, so I don't think I'll even have time to feel sorry for myself. I am very much looking forward to Shavuot (which you are bound to hear about soon!) and to the next month-or-so that I have left to explore Jerusalem!
(see pictures here)
Showing posts with label Reform Judaism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reform Judaism. Show all posts
Monday, May 25, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Sabbath joy.
.עונג שבת
Friday-Saturday is the best part of our week here in Israel. Jessica and I always try to do something special on Shabbat, usually with friends. Today, we decided to spend the whole day in the house (like a non-sick sick day!), and it's been delightful so far. Last night, though, was so much more eventful - a real Shabbat experience!
A program at my school has connected me with one of the Israeli rabbinical students, and though it's taken a long time, we finally managed to find a Shabbat to spend together. She lives in Tzur Hadassah, a "sleeper" town most of whose residents work in surrounding cities. Once a month, members of her community travel to an Elwyn community, which cares for Israeli special needs adults. We agreed to travel with my classmates to meet her at Elwyn and then return with them to Tzur Hadassah for services in their small Reform congregation and dinner.
Jessica and I met Leslie and Ari at 3:30 on Friday afternoon to start this journey. Right away, we met Asher, who is a cab driver that Leslie has befriended (and apparently the only cab driver the pair of them has taken to Elwyn that doesn't consistently get lost). Of course he didn't turn the meter on, and a price wasn't discussed until we arrived at our destination. During the time between leaving and arriving, we became acquainted with this rather eccentric Israeli man. He likes singing, Jerusalem, and Leslie. ;-) Although Leslie insisted that we didn't have time, Asher pulled over to buy her some water, and he insisted that next month, he would shave and join Ari and Leslie for their song-leading at Elwyn. He was very friendly and funny, but his flirtation with crossing boundaries was a bit off-putting.
When we arrived at Elwyn, Leslie told us that she had simply met Asher when she really needed a cab once, and he's been a great resource ever since. She's called him to pick friends up from the airport, and he's their standard transportation to Elwyn. She's even met his family as a Shabbat guest. So, he may have been a bit overmuch in some ways, but he seems to be just a jokester and overall, a pleasant fellow.
Waiting for us at Elwyn were Myra (the Israeli HUC student) and another member of the Tzur Hadassah community. They took us inside, and Jessica and I were surprised to be greeted enthusiastically by a room full of special needs adults. As the six of us visitors walked in, several of the residents darted to the door to shake our hands and wish us a Shabbat shalom. We made our way upstairs to the main room, which was apparently more full than usual. As Leslie and Ari set up, Jessica and I stayed by the main entrance to the room, and from there, we greeted residents as they arrived (most in wheelchairs).
Each resident wished us a Shabbat shalom and wanted to know who we were. Many were immediately insistent on hearing our names, and after we told them who they were, they went about their business. It was obvious that today was a very special day - not only was it Shabbat, but it was the Shabbat with the special visitors.
After waiting for everyone to arrive, Myra introduced Shabbat by saying that this was a special week with special guests (including Jessica and myself). We then spent the next half-hour singing Shabbat songs. The residents knew all the songs and sang and danced with enormous smiles. Never have I seen so much unabashed joy in one place - these men and women were openly ecstatic, and Jessica and I couldn't stop from smiling. A few residents near us engaged us in brief conversations and seemed excited to have visitors nearby. Myra invited Jessica and me to lead the Kiddush, so we went into the center of the room for the last five minutes or so. We were surrounded by the joy of these special needs adults, and it was a radiant experience.
Of course, it was also a difficult one. While I had a very positive experience there, I'm sure that continuing to work or volunteer at such a place would be very draining, especially since most of the time is not so specially wonderful as our short Shabbat visit. I don't know what life is like there all of the time, but I can only assume that the ecstasy of our Shabbat visit was fairly special. Still, witnessing the potential happiness that can manifest un-self-consciously on an adults face was an impactful experience, and I'm blessed to have been able to be present for that.
After leaving Elwyn, we rode in Myra's car to Tzur Hadassah. The view was beautiful as we traveled through secondary roads in the Judean Hills. When we arrived, I noticed that people here live in houses (not apartments) and that the community is mostly residential. There are elementary schools but not junior or senior high schools, and I didn't see any businesses or stores. The view was beautiful, though I came to learn that Tzur Hadassah, which is entirely walled-in, is 300 meters from the Green Line - so Shabbat walks are always to the north or west.
The Reform congregation of Tzur Hadassah meets in the Reform preschool trailer (which is part of a collection of preschool trailers). Although the congregation has recently been one of a handful of Reform congregations to receive a building from the government (where such buildings are relatively easy for new Orthodox congregations to attain), many months and thousands of dollars are still required to connect it to electricity and sewage. So, for the time being, Shabbat services are conducted on folding chairs among pictures of bible stories and spring festivals.
The service was "standard Israeli Reform" for the most part. Ari and Leslie led the songs, and the rabbi of the congregation, Ofer Sabath Beit-Halachmi, gave a d'var Torah about contributing to the empty Pesach seder tables of needy members of the Tzur Hadassah community. Although the congregation was small, the service was full, and the several children there (including a young woman who goes to the Army this Wednesday) proved that there is definitely a future for Reform Judaism in the town.
After services, we traveled back to Myra's house for a delicious vegetarian Shabbat dinner. We met her husband, Gilad, as well as Ofer's wife, Rabbi Rachel Sabath Beit-Halachmi, and two visitors from Holland. We met Ofer's and Rachel's daughter Tehillah and Myra's and Gilad's two sons and two daughters. It was a full dinner table, and Jessica and I immensely enjoyed the entire evening. I had a conversation with Myra's oldest daughter, Yael, about school, Progressive Judaism, and the weather in Israel, and I played Ratatouille War with 5-year-old Tehillah. I learned about Jewish life in Holland and Reform life in Tzur Hadassah. Rachel and I had a great conversation wherein I found that she's friends with some of our professors from UVA and is usually a teacher (on maternity leave) at HUC. It was really a very lovely evening, and Jessica and I hope to be able to go back before the end of the year.
Ofer (can't even call him Rabbi Beit-Halachmi because that applies to him and his wife!) drove Jessica and me home, and we heard his perspective on living in cities vs. the country, issues of race in Israel, and the touching story of how he met his wife. And when we got home, it was still just after 10:00, so we had had a full night and could still watch an episode of The West Wing before bed!
Although this was a unique Shabbat experience, it represents the specialness that Shabbat holds in our week during this year in Israel. I've really come to treasure our one day of rest, and I absolutely intend to keep the spirit alive when we move to New York next year.
And speaking of next year, it's really sneaking up on us! Next week, Jessica is joining my class on a Wed-Sat trip to the Negev desert, which I'm really looking forward to. A week and a half after we return, Jessica and I fly to Moscow to participate in the FSU Pesach Project! After Passover break, I have four weeks of class, a week of exams, a weekend of packing, and then I head back to the States. I'm not trying to rush the end of the year by any stretch of the imagination - on the contrary, I'm startled by how quickly it seems like it will be over, and I'm trying to appreciate each day for what it can bring! Still, I'm excited about the summer - I've accepted the position of Community Educator at Genesis, a program run through Brandeis University in Boston. And, of course, I'm looking forward to moving to New York and starting a new adventure.
All in good time, though. For now, I'm going to enjoy the rest of Shabbat ... before celebrating a friend's birthday with Contra Dancing! Shabbat shalom!
Friday-Saturday is the best part of our week here in Israel. Jessica and I always try to do something special on Shabbat, usually with friends. Today, we decided to spend the whole day in the house (like a non-sick sick day!), and it's been delightful so far. Last night, though, was so much more eventful - a real Shabbat experience!
A program at my school has connected me with one of the Israeli rabbinical students, and though it's taken a long time, we finally managed to find a Shabbat to spend together. She lives in Tzur Hadassah, a "sleeper" town most of whose residents work in surrounding cities. Once a month, members of her community travel to an Elwyn community, which cares for Israeli special needs adults. We agreed to travel with my classmates to meet her at Elwyn and then return with them to Tzur Hadassah for services in their small Reform congregation and dinner.
Jessica and I met Leslie and Ari at 3:30 on Friday afternoon to start this journey. Right away, we met Asher, who is a cab driver that Leslie has befriended (and apparently the only cab driver the pair of them has taken to Elwyn that doesn't consistently get lost). Of course he didn't turn the meter on, and a price wasn't discussed until we arrived at our destination. During the time between leaving and arriving, we became acquainted with this rather eccentric Israeli man. He likes singing, Jerusalem, and Leslie. ;-) Although Leslie insisted that we didn't have time, Asher pulled over to buy her some water, and he insisted that next month, he would shave and join Ari and Leslie for their song-leading at Elwyn. He was very friendly and funny, but his flirtation with crossing boundaries was a bit off-putting.
When we arrived at Elwyn, Leslie told us that she had simply met Asher when she really needed a cab once, and he's been a great resource ever since. She's called him to pick friends up from the airport, and he's their standard transportation to Elwyn. She's even met his family as a Shabbat guest. So, he may have been a bit overmuch in some ways, but he seems to be just a jokester and overall, a pleasant fellow.
Waiting for us at Elwyn were Myra (the Israeli HUC student) and another member of the Tzur Hadassah community. They took us inside, and Jessica and I were surprised to be greeted enthusiastically by a room full of special needs adults. As the six of us visitors walked in, several of the residents darted to the door to shake our hands and wish us a Shabbat shalom. We made our way upstairs to the main room, which was apparently more full than usual. As Leslie and Ari set up, Jessica and I stayed by the main entrance to the room, and from there, we greeted residents as they arrived (most in wheelchairs).
Each resident wished us a Shabbat shalom and wanted to know who we were. Many were immediately insistent on hearing our names, and after we told them who they were, they went about their business. It was obvious that today was a very special day - not only was it Shabbat, but it was the Shabbat with the special visitors.
After waiting for everyone to arrive, Myra introduced Shabbat by saying that this was a special week with special guests (including Jessica and myself). We then spent the next half-hour singing Shabbat songs. The residents knew all the songs and sang and danced with enormous smiles. Never have I seen so much unabashed joy in one place - these men and women were openly ecstatic, and Jessica and I couldn't stop from smiling. A few residents near us engaged us in brief conversations and seemed excited to have visitors nearby. Myra invited Jessica and me to lead the Kiddush, so we went into the center of the room for the last five minutes or so. We were surrounded by the joy of these special needs adults, and it was a radiant experience.
Of course, it was also a difficult one. While I had a very positive experience there, I'm sure that continuing to work or volunteer at such a place would be very draining, especially since most of the time is not so specially wonderful as our short Shabbat visit. I don't know what life is like there all of the time, but I can only assume that the ecstasy of our Shabbat visit was fairly special. Still, witnessing the potential happiness that can manifest un-self-consciously on an adults face was an impactful experience, and I'm blessed to have been able to be present for that.
After leaving Elwyn, we rode in Myra's car to Tzur Hadassah. The view was beautiful as we traveled through secondary roads in the Judean Hills. When we arrived, I noticed that people here live in houses (not apartments) and that the community is mostly residential. There are elementary schools but not junior or senior high schools, and I didn't see any businesses or stores. The view was beautiful, though I came to learn that Tzur Hadassah, which is entirely walled-in, is 300 meters from the Green Line - so Shabbat walks are always to the north or west.
The Reform congregation of Tzur Hadassah meets in the Reform preschool trailer (which is part of a collection of preschool trailers). Although the congregation has recently been one of a handful of Reform congregations to receive a building from the government (where such buildings are relatively easy for new Orthodox congregations to attain), many months and thousands of dollars are still required to connect it to electricity and sewage. So, for the time being, Shabbat services are conducted on folding chairs among pictures of bible stories and spring festivals.
The service was "standard Israeli Reform" for the most part. Ari and Leslie led the songs, and the rabbi of the congregation, Ofer Sabath Beit-Halachmi, gave a d'var Torah about contributing to the empty Pesach seder tables of needy members of the Tzur Hadassah community. Although the congregation was small, the service was full, and the several children there (including a young woman who goes to the Army this Wednesday) proved that there is definitely a future for Reform Judaism in the town.
After services, we traveled back to Myra's house for a delicious vegetarian Shabbat dinner. We met her husband, Gilad, as well as Ofer's wife, Rabbi Rachel Sabath Beit-Halachmi, and two visitors from Holland. We met Ofer's and Rachel's daughter Tehillah and Myra's and Gilad's two sons and two daughters. It was a full dinner table, and Jessica and I immensely enjoyed the entire evening. I had a conversation with Myra's oldest daughter, Yael, about school, Progressive Judaism, and the weather in Israel, and I played Ratatouille War with 5-year-old Tehillah. I learned about Jewish life in Holland and Reform life in Tzur Hadassah. Rachel and I had a great conversation wherein I found that she's friends with some of our professors from UVA and is usually a teacher (on maternity leave) at HUC. It was really a very lovely evening, and Jessica and I hope to be able to go back before the end of the year.
Ofer (can't even call him Rabbi Beit-Halachmi because that applies to him and his wife!) drove Jessica and me home, and we heard his perspective on living in cities vs. the country, issues of race in Israel, and the touching story of how he met his wife. And when we got home, it was still just after 10:00, so we had had a full night and could still watch an episode of The West Wing before bed!
Although this was a unique Shabbat experience, it represents the specialness that Shabbat holds in our week during this year in Israel. I've really come to treasure our one day of rest, and I absolutely intend to keep the spirit alive when we move to New York next year.
And speaking of next year, it's really sneaking up on us! Next week, Jessica is joining my class on a Wed-Sat trip to the Negev desert, which I'm really looking forward to. A week and a half after we return, Jessica and I fly to Moscow to participate in the FSU Pesach Project! After Passover break, I have four weeks of class, a week of exams, a weekend of packing, and then I head back to the States. I'm not trying to rush the end of the year by any stretch of the imagination - on the contrary, I'm startled by how quickly it seems like it will be over, and I'm trying to appreciate each day for what it can bring! Still, I'm excited about the summer - I've accepted the position of Community Educator at Genesis, a program run through Brandeis University in Boston. And, of course, I'm looking forward to moving to New York and starting a new adventure.
All in good time, though. For now, I'm going to enjoy the rest of Shabbat ... before celebrating a friend's birthday with Contra Dancing! Shabbat shalom!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Thoughts about Israel
.מחשבות על ישראל
A lot has happened in the three and a half weeks since I last posted. My semester ended, I visited the United States for two weeks, and I attended the Wexner Winter Institute, where we focused on learning about exercising leadership with Marty Linsky. I've returned to Israel and started a new semester, and tonight, Jessica and I accepted a spontaneous invitation to a shiva (period of mourning) dinner at a synagogue near HUC. I'd love to write about any and all of these topics, and perhaps soon I will, but tonight, my mind is on Israel once again. In this post, I hope to address three primary topics: 1) Reflections on Operation Cast Lead in Gaza; 2) My relationship with the Land, People, and State of Israel; and 3) My thoughts about what ought to be the relationship of a Reform rabbi to Israel.
Operation Cast Lead
As were most people, I was enormously relieved when Israel pulled out of Gaza. I was in the U.S. at time and was glad that I would be returning to a country that was no longer actively engaged in warfare. As each day passes, people I hear from become calmer, and reflections about the war are quickly turning into election prediction and analysis. Israel is holding general elections next Tuesday (February 10), where the right-wing Likud party is expected to win, resulting in Benjamin Netanyahu assuming his second term as Prime Minister. Although Netanyahu and Obama don't see eye-to-eye, hopefully they will be able to work together to hammer out some kind of peaceful situation. Unfortunately, I believe that Tzipi Livni would have a better working relationship with President Obama and would therefore better be able to deliver peace to the region.
My recent post on the necessity to call for peace even when violence seems unavoidable and justifiable generated significant debate on this blog as well as within my personal conversations with others and with myself. I maintain that the cycle of violence must come to an end - we do still need peace. I will not judge those who engaged in Operation Cast Lead, as it's not my place to do so, but all I can say is let there be no more violence. My prayer for peace is renewed with the inauguration of President Obama, and I hope that Israel's own politicians will reflect this vision as well.
Of course, the catalyst of Operation Cast Lead and the monkey wrench in the peace plan was and will likely continue to be the radical leadership of Palestinian terrorist organizations, specifically and primarily Hamas. As long as Hamas is dedicated to the annihilation of Israel and as long as Hamas remains in control of Gaza, establishing peace with the Palestinian people is a distant dream. So, one of those factors needs to be changed. Either the leadership of Hamas should be engaged to reevaluate its position on the existence of Israel, or the people of the Gaza Strip need to be engaged to assert new representative leadership.
Examples of such leadership may be able to be found in the surrounding Arab world. There was a surprising lack of condemnation from Arab countries around Israel during Operation Cast Lead, and this reveals the hesitancy of modern Arab leaders to declare their solidarity with radical threats to their stability. It is becoming more clear that it is in the best interest of Arab nations to pressure for a peaceful solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and to generate stability in the region, and hopefully these forward-thinking Arab leaders will offer their guidance and support in an initiative for peace.
Was Operation Cast Lead justified? It's extremely hard for me to answer that question, and it's becoming increasingly difficult for Israelis as well. I can say that I wish the situation hadn't been so dire as to encourage Israeli leadership to turn to force as a solution. I can even say that I wish the operation had never been launched. But it was launched, and my prayer now is that somehow it will help pave the way to peace. I'll be sure to write more on this as time goes by, but that's enough on this topic for now.
My relationship with the Land, People, and State of Israel
In a week, I'll reach the 7-month mark of living in Israel, and my perspectives on Israel have certainly changed over the last half-year. Here's a summary of where I was before I arrived:
Land - My two trips here in 2005 and 2007 were very special to me, and I had felt a special connection to the land. This is where all that history happened and therefore became to me an example of what Mircea Eliade calls a "sacred center."
People - Even moreso than the land, I am connected intrinsically to the Jewish people. This was powerfully felt the first time I was at the Western Wall; it was much more significant to me to be at a place thought about and prayed toward by Jews for thousands of years than were the stones themselves.
State of Israel - The State of Israel was to preserve the Land and People, and therefore I had no strong feelings or connections to the State qua State.
Here's what I'm thinking now. These are rough thoughts, so I look forward to challenging them and having them challenged in the near and developing future.
Land - The Land of Israel is much less magical for me now than it was a couple years ago. I do still find it significant that biblical events took place here, but the theological significance of that fact is less than it was. On the other hand, when our class examined pre-State approaches to Zionism, I was ambivalent about initiatives to locate Jews in a land other than Palestine. While for me personally, the Land doesn't hold theological value, I recognize that this land is traditionally very important to Jews and that there are millions of Jews today who do view the land as theologically significant. For our People, then, I support the existence of Israel here even though for me, the Land itself has marginal spiritual value.
People - I am still committed to the People of Israel, though I reject the notion that a Jew is superior to a non-Jew. I do believe that there are ethical values of Judaism that have shined through the ages in a more easily accessible fashion than some other traditions and therefore that the Jewish religion has made and will continue to make significant contributions to the development of humankind. The Jewish people, bound together by (but not only by) this religion are a diverse and opinionated family, with all the blessings and challenges that come along with that. I feel an innate bond to other Jews, and I am devoting my life to the values and people of Judaism. I am excited by the prospect of learning more about what, exactly, the Jewish People is and how it manifests itself in communities. I am very interested in communities, and I want to learn more about them and how one is and can be a member and a change agent of them. Of the three categories I'm examining now, my dedication to the Jewish People is the strongest.
State - I've been struggling the most with the State of Israel this year on a number of levels. First of all, there's the security issue. Does the Jewish State have an imperative to be more ethical than a non-Jewish state? No. However, personally, I expect more from the Jewish State than from other states because of the long ethical tradition that I mentioned earlier. There's a lot riding on Israel, and I believe that it can be a terrific model of Middle Eastern democracy. Let's live up to the highest ethical standard and wage a peace campaign like the world has never seen.
On another level, I've been struggling with the religion/state dichotomy (or lack thereof) in this country. Spend some time here, and you'll find that the religious intolerance in this country is absolutely shocking and appalling, at least from an American perspective. Freedom of religion simply doesn't exist here, and that is such a hard concept for me to internalize. People get up in arms when they hear that the practice of non-Islam religions is banned in certain Arab countries, but no one (except the Progressive Jews) says anything about the anti-Jewish (as defined by the ultra-orthodox) discrimination that occurs in this country. It's a shandah, and it's one of my biggest problems with the State.
Of course, the question of whether to make aliyah (immigrate to Israel) has been on my mind the whole time that I've been here, and I seriously don't think it's in the cards for me. The above two issues are enormous elephants that I'm not sure I can get over, and I lack the vision and courage to combat them here. I seriously admire those who do make aliyah in order to help Reform Israel, and I remain committed to Israel's continued progress because of my Jewish connection to the People that live here, but submitting myself to a country that will draft my daughter into an army wherein she won't be able to speak at her own wedding ceremony is too much for me to swallow right now.
So suffice it to say that my personal relationship with the State of Israel is in a somewhat rocky place right now, though I refused to turn my back on the State and leave it to its own devices. I may not approve of everything that it does, but I approve of what it aspires to be, and (like in America), I will work as I can to help realize the (my) Jewish dream for Israel as a land of pluralism, peace, and morality.
My thoughts about what ought to be the relationship of a Reform rabbi to Israel
So then we come to what I think about others' relationship to Israel. Although I find it very difficult to determine what others might believe or advocate personally, perhaps if I approach this from an institutional level, I can come up with some cogent thoughts. In general, what kind of relationship should a Reform rabbi have toward Israel?
I think I'll echo the director of our Israel Seminar, Dave Mendelsson, who told me that one of his goals for our Israel education program is that students will have a complex and deep relationship with Israel. It doesn't have to be positive (mine isn't purely positive, that's for sure!), but the realities of our communities are that many American Jews are keenly aware of and interested in Israel, and if for no other reason, engaging our community on their deeply held convictions is necessary for effective rabbis.
I also believe that Israel has a lot to gain from Progressive Judaism, and I would hope that Reform rabbis will perceive the street of impact as two-way. Of course Israeli issues and concerns will impact the way American Jews think about their People and faith, but the People and faith of Diaspora Jews should also impact Israelis. Progressive Judaism can offer a focus on pluralism, a commitment to ethics, and a renewed spirituality that I think could be beautifully received and enacted in Israel. I hope that Reform rabbis recognize their own worth with relation to Israel and don't give in to the extant pressures of Diaspora Judaism to bend to the will of Israel.
Overall, I hope that my rabbinic colleagues will join me in supporting Israel by hoping for its continued progress toward peace and pluralism. We should also challenge ourselves to break out of our west-centered mentality and remember that when we say "Jews," we include over 6 million Israelis in our parlance. Let's stop assuming that Jewish = eats bagels and recognize that our communities are not entirely (or shouldn't be entirely) bifurcated. Just as we should feel free to offer words of encouragement and criticism to Israel, so should we be open to similar words from the other side of the sea.
Of course, these are all very general and very similar to my own perspective. But it's worth keeping these thoughts in mind as I head into my future years of rabbinical school. Will it be hard readjusting to life in America? Will I continue to think about Israel on a frequent basis when I'm back in the States? How will Israel affect my rabbinate? These are important questions for me to keep alive, and I hope that my colleagues will continue to challenge me as I hope to challenge them.
I think that's enough for now. Now that I'm back at school and readjusting to the swing of things, I hope to be able to get some more thoughts down in the blog. It's good to be back. Here's to a great semester!
A lot has happened in the three and a half weeks since I last posted. My semester ended, I visited the United States for two weeks, and I attended the Wexner Winter Institute, where we focused on learning about exercising leadership with Marty Linsky. I've returned to Israel and started a new semester, and tonight, Jessica and I accepted a spontaneous invitation to a shiva (period of mourning) dinner at a synagogue near HUC. I'd love to write about any and all of these topics, and perhaps soon I will, but tonight, my mind is on Israel once again. In this post, I hope to address three primary topics: 1) Reflections on Operation Cast Lead in Gaza; 2) My relationship with the Land, People, and State of Israel; and 3) My thoughts about what ought to be the relationship of a Reform rabbi to Israel.
Operation Cast Lead
As were most people, I was enormously relieved when Israel pulled out of Gaza. I was in the U.S. at time and was glad that I would be returning to a country that was no longer actively engaged in warfare. As each day passes, people I hear from become calmer, and reflections about the war are quickly turning into election prediction and analysis. Israel is holding general elections next Tuesday (February 10), where the right-wing Likud party is expected to win, resulting in Benjamin Netanyahu assuming his second term as Prime Minister. Although Netanyahu and Obama don't see eye-to-eye, hopefully they will be able to work together to hammer out some kind of peaceful situation. Unfortunately, I believe that Tzipi Livni would have a better working relationship with President Obama and would therefore better be able to deliver peace to the region.
My recent post on the necessity to call for peace even when violence seems unavoidable and justifiable generated significant debate on this blog as well as within my personal conversations with others and with myself. I maintain that the cycle of violence must come to an end - we do still need peace. I will not judge those who engaged in Operation Cast Lead, as it's not my place to do so, but all I can say is let there be no more violence. My prayer for peace is renewed with the inauguration of President Obama, and I hope that Israel's own politicians will reflect this vision as well.
Of course, the catalyst of Operation Cast Lead and the monkey wrench in the peace plan was and will likely continue to be the radical leadership of Palestinian terrorist organizations, specifically and primarily Hamas. As long as Hamas is dedicated to the annihilation of Israel and as long as Hamas remains in control of Gaza, establishing peace with the Palestinian people is a distant dream. So, one of those factors needs to be changed. Either the leadership of Hamas should be engaged to reevaluate its position on the existence of Israel, or the people of the Gaza Strip need to be engaged to assert new representative leadership.
Examples of such leadership may be able to be found in the surrounding Arab world. There was a surprising lack of condemnation from Arab countries around Israel during Operation Cast Lead, and this reveals the hesitancy of modern Arab leaders to declare their solidarity with radical threats to their stability. It is becoming more clear that it is in the best interest of Arab nations to pressure for a peaceful solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and to generate stability in the region, and hopefully these forward-thinking Arab leaders will offer their guidance and support in an initiative for peace.
Was Operation Cast Lead justified? It's extremely hard for me to answer that question, and it's becoming increasingly difficult for Israelis as well. I can say that I wish the situation hadn't been so dire as to encourage Israeli leadership to turn to force as a solution. I can even say that I wish the operation had never been launched. But it was launched, and my prayer now is that somehow it will help pave the way to peace. I'll be sure to write more on this as time goes by, but that's enough on this topic for now.
My relationship with the Land, People, and State of Israel
In a week, I'll reach the 7-month mark of living in Israel, and my perspectives on Israel have certainly changed over the last half-year. Here's a summary of where I was before I arrived:
Land - My two trips here in 2005 and 2007 were very special to me, and I had felt a special connection to the land. This is where all that history happened and therefore became to me an example of what Mircea Eliade calls a "sacred center."
People - Even moreso than the land, I am connected intrinsically to the Jewish people. This was powerfully felt the first time I was at the Western Wall; it was much more significant to me to be at a place thought about and prayed toward by Jews for thousands of years than were the stones themselves.
State of Israel - The State of Israel was to preserve the Land and People, and therefore I had no strong feelings or connections to the State qua State.
Here's what I'm thinking now. These are rough thoughts, so I look forward to challenging them and having them challenged in the near and developing future.
Land - The Land of Israel is much less magical for me now than it was a couple years ago. I do still find it significant that biblical events took place here, but the theological significance of that fact is less than it was. On the other hand, when our class examined pre-State approaches to Zionism, I was ambivalent about initiatives to locate Jews in a land other than Palestine. While for me personally, the Land doesn't hold theological value, I recognize that this land is traditionally very important to Jews and that there are millions of Jews today who do view the land as theologically significant. For our People, then, I support the existence of Israel here even though for me, the Land itself has marginal spiritual value.
People - I am still committed to the People of Israel, though I reject the notion that a Jew is superior to a non-Jew. I do believe that there are ethical values of Judaism that have shined through the ages in a more easily accessible fashion than some other traditions and therefore that the Jewish religion has made and will continue to make significant contributions to the development of humankind. The Jewish people, bound together by (but not only by) this religion are a diverse and opinionated family, with all the blessings and challenges that come along with that. I feel an innate bond to other Jews, and I am devoting my life to the values and people of Judaism. I am excited by the prospect of learning more about what, exactly, the Jewish People is and how it manifests itself in communities. I am very interested in communities, and I want to learn more about them and how one is and can be a member and a change agent of them. Of the three categories I'm examining now, my dedication to the Jewish People is the strongest.
State - I've been struggling the most with the State of Israel this year on a number of levels. First of all, there's the security issue. Does the Jewish State have an imperative to be more ethical than a non-Jewish state? No. However, personally, I expect more from the Jewish State than from other states because of the long ethical tradition that I mentioned earlier. There's a lot riding on Israel, and I believe that it can be a terrific model of Middle Eastern democracy. Let's live up to the highest ethical standard and wage a peace campaign like the world has never seen.
On another level, I've been struggling with the religion/state dichotomy (or lack thereof) in this country. Spend some time here, and you'll find that the religious intolerance in this country is absolutely shocking and appalling, at least from an American perspective. Freedom of religion simply doesn't exist here, and that is such a hard concept for me to internalize. People get up in arms when they hear that the practice of non-Islam religions is banned in certain Arab countries, but no one (except the Progressive Jews) says anything about the anti-Jewish (as defined by the ultra-orthodox) discrimination that occurs in this country. It's a shandah, and it's one of my biggest problems with the State.
Of course, the question of whether to make aliyah (immigrate to Israel) has been on my mind the whole time that I've been here, and I seriously don't think it's in the cards for me. The above two issues are enormous elephants that I'm not sure I can get over, and I lack the vision and courage to combat them here. I seriously admire those who do make aliyah in order to help Reform Israel, and I remain committed to Israel's continued progress because of my Jewish connection to the People that live here, but submitting myself to a country that will draft my daughter into an army wherein she won't be able to speak at her own wedding ceremony is too much for me to swallow right now.
So suffice it to say that my personal relationship with the State of Israel is in a somewhat rocky place right now, though I refused to turn my back on the State and leave it to its own devices. I may not approve of everything that it does, but I approve of what it aspires to be, and (like in America), I will work as I can to help realize the (my) Jewish dream for Israel as a land of pluralism, peace, and morality.
My thoughts about what ought to be the relationship of a Reform rabbi to Israel
So then we come to what I think about others' relationship to Israel. Although I find it very difficult to determine what others might believe or advocate personally, perhaps if I approach this from an institutional level, I can come up with some cogent thoughts. In general, what kind of relationship should a Reform rabbi have toward Israel?
I think I'll echo the director of our Israel Seminar, Dave Mendelsson, who told me that one of his goals for our Israel education program is that students will have a complex and deep relationship with Israel. It doesn't have to be positive (mine isn't purely positive, that's for sure!), but the realities of our communities are that many American Jews are keenly aware of and interested in Israel, and if for no other reason, engaging our community on their deeply held convictions is necessary for effective rabbis.
I also believe that Israel has a lot to gain from Progressive Judaism, and I would hope that Reform rabbis will perceive the street of impact as two-way. Of course Israeli issues and concerns will impact the way American Jews think about their People and faith, but the People and faith of Diaspora Jews should also impact Israelis. Progressive Judaism can offer a focus on pluralism, a commitment to ethics, and a renewed spirituality that I think could be beautifully received and enacted in Israel. I hope that Reform rabbis recognize their own worth with relation to Israel and don't give in to the extant pressures of Diaspora Judaism to bend to the will of Israel.
Overall, I hope that my rabbinic colleagues will join me in supporting Israel by hoping for its continued progress toward peace and pluralism. We should also challenge ourselves to break out of our west-centered mentality and remember that when we say "Jews," we include over 6 million Israelis in our parlance. Let's stop assuming that Jewish = eats bagels and recognize that our communities are not entirely (or shouldn't be entirely) bifurcated. Just as we should feel free to offer words of encouragement and criticism to Israel, so should we be open to similar words from the other side of the sea.
Of course, these are all very general and very similar to my own perspective. But it's worth keeping these thoughts in mind as I head into my future years of rabbinical school. Will it be hard readjusting to life in America? Will I continue to think about Israel on a frequent basis when I'm back in the States? How will Israel affect my rabbinate? These are important questions for me to keep alive, and I hope that my colleagues will continue to challenge me as I hope to challenge them.
I think that's enough for now. Now that I'm back at school and readjusting to the swing of things, I hope to be able to get some more thoughts down in the blog. It's good to be back. Here's to a great semester!
Sunday, January 4, 2009
We need peace.
.אנחנו צריכים שלום
Yesterday, I learned about an Israeli phrase from the 1980s and 1990s: "Shooting and crying." It refers to the Israeli who defends himself and his country with deadly force but regrets having to do so. There are voices in Israel that focus on shooting: Kill our enemies at all costs. There are those that focus on crying: The pain caused by violence is unacceptable. And there are those who do both: I hate to kill you, but I have to do it.
The sermon I heard yesterday mounted a defense for shooting and crying. The offensive in Gaza, the speaker said, is necessary for the security of Israeli citizens, but the moral considerations cannot be forgotten even in such a critical situation. It may seem hypocritical to some, but it's the best we have.
Shooting and crying.
We're in a bad spot here in Israel. Hundreds of people are dying and everyone is weighing in with her opinion. What's the right thing to do in this situation? What's the right thing to say?
The advocacy group J Street (a liberal answer to AIPAC), released a statement condemning both Hamas and Israel and calling for an immediate cease-fire:
Israel has a special place in each of our hearts. But we recognize that neither Israelis nor Palestinians have a monopoly on right or wrong. While there is nothing "right" in raining rockets on Israeli families or dispatching suicide bombers, there is nothing "right" in punishing a million and a half already-suffering Gazans for the actions of the extremists among them.
And there is nothing to be gained from debating which injustice is greater or came first. What's needed now is immediate action to stop the violence before it spirals out of control.
I have to say that I agree. And it's hard to do so. The President of the Union for Reform Judaism, Rabbi Eric Yoffe, publicly opposes the sentiments expressed in this statement:
These words are deeply distressing because they are morally deficient, profoundly out of touch with Jewish sentiment and also appallingly naïve. A cease-fire instituted by Hamas would be welcome, and Israel would be quick to respond. A cease-fire imposed on Israel would allow Hamas to escape the consequences of its actions yet again and would lead in short order to the renewal of its campaign of terror. Hamas, it should be noted, is not a government; it is a terrorist gang. And as long as the thugs of Hamas can act with impunity, no Israeli government of the right or the left will agree to a two-state solution or any other kind of peace. Doves take note: To be a dove of influence, you must be a realist, firm in your principles but shorn of all illusions.
These words were welcomed by the commenters on the blog and likely reflect the prevailing attitude among American Reform Jews. We hate violence, but Israel has to defend itself. Moreover, Israel is the victim here: If Hamas didn't attack Israel, Israel wouldn't attack back, and therefore, every civilian death is on Hamas' hands. Rabbi Bob Orkand, president of the Association of Reform Zionists of America, defends this view by quoting Michael Walzer: "When Palestinian militants launch rocket attacks from civilian areas, they are themselves responsible--and no one else is--for the civilian deaths caused by Israeli counter fire."
But I don't buy it, and I certainly can't sell it. This view seems sound on paper: Israel's the victim, and Hamas is to blame for the people being killed. But is it entirely unimaginable for us to entertain the opposite view? If Israel hadn't acceded to the illegal settlement of Palestinian land and enforced hardships upon the Palestinian populace, maybe Hamas wouldn't be so powerful today. Both views are right, both views are wrong. And I return to J Street's point: "There is nothing to be gained from debating which injustice is greater or came first. What's needed now is immediate action to stop the violence before it spirals out of control."
I'm not surprised at what Israel has done, and I'm not surprised at the various reactions to Israel's decisions. However, I am disappointed that the rabbinic leadership of the Reform Movement isn't acting as the still, small voice reminding the public that it's wrong to kill. It's wrong to be killed, it's wrong to impose hardship, it's wrong to abandon your public. But it's also wrong to kill and that's a Jewish and universal value. And someone has to say it.
I would have been much more proud of Rabbi Yoffe if, instead of saying that influential doves have to condone killing sometimes, he had said that it's wrong to kill. Of the shooters and cryers, I'm a cryer, and I'll cry quietly to myself about the deaths of hundreds of people and I'll cry loudly from the rooftops that it's wrong to kill. Do with that information what you will, but do not ignore it.
I think that it is rabbinical responsibility to be the voice of moral conscience in this conflict, and regardless of what's politically sound or best for the people of Israel or more justifiable based on historical circumstances, someone has to be the voice that reminds the people that it's wrong to kill. Because we've seen what happens when people forget this most essential value.
I hear over and over again that "we pray for the end of the military action in Gaza." That's not my prayer. My prayer is simple.
We need peace.
We, Israelis. We, Palestinians. We, the people of the entire world. We can't separate ourselves from our neighbors, close or distant, and we can't forget that every single human being is created in the image of God. To save a life is to save the entire world.
Need. We don't want or wish for or expect or fight for or plan for or even hope for. We need. It is a basic and inalienable requirement for our lives. Our humanity depends upon it:
Peace. Non-violence. Co-operation. Reciprocal community. Respect, justice, brotherhood, acceptance, virtue, enrichment, depth, education, broadness, embraces, laughter. It's political, familial, moral, historical, and messianic.
We need peace.
That's my prayer.
It's not complex, it's not nuanced. It doesn't take into account historical arguments, and it doesn't discern winners from losers. It's a statement of existential reality, and it's my heart's loudest cry. And I believe that it needs to be heard and understood and taken into account and adhered to. You can't hear this sentence and then dismiss it because it's inconvenient right now. "We don't have time for peace, we're under attack."
We need peace.
Now. Can I simply say "We need peace" and go home? Can I make a blanket moral statement without applying it to the situation on the ground? If I do, is that irresponsible? Perhaps. So let me say this:
It's wrong for Palestinians to kill. I condemn terrorism, and I support freedom and democracy, two principles which Hamas tends to withhold from the people of the Gaza strip. Hamas is bad for the Palestinians, and if wishing made it so, I would wish that every Hamas-nik woke up in the morning and decided to step down from power. The poltical reality is that Israel has enemies, and they're trying to destroy Israel. Israel is defending itself and is not maliciously killing for the sake of killing. I understand the situation to the best of my ability, and if I had to cast a vote, I'd vote for democracy over terrorism every time. It's wrong to kill.
So what does that mean with regard to Israel today in the Gaza strip? I wish I knew... Is it justifiable for Israel to invade Gaza, trying to minimize civilian casualties, in order to demolish an aggressive enemy? Could very well be. Is it just? It's much harder for me to say. Is it right? I don't know.
But what I do know is that it's wrong to kill and that we need peace. So long as our first priority is security instead of peace, we'll be fighting for a secondary goal. We have to change our perspective, to realign our priorities, if we're ever going to reach the goal of peace that almost everyone can agree on. I believe that if, starting tomorrow, Israel's first priority were peace (regardless of what Hamas' goals are), their thinking process would be different. They would ask the question, "How do we protect Israeli citizens?" but they would also ask the question "How do we work for peace with ourselves and with our neighbors?" Right now the first question is the only one getting asked, and as soon as they find an answer, they go with it. I don't see the second question getting discussed, and that's painful to me.
So, the situation is very complicated, but I feel that there's a responsibility for a group of people to speak the moral truths that our tradition imparts upon us. We need peace. I'm at a loss for what else to say. What would I do if I were a politician? I don't know. But I believe that my role as a rabbi is to speak my heart on this issue and my heart reminds me that we need peace, and that's my message.
That's my prayer.
Yesterday, I learned about an Israeli phrase from the 1980s and 1990s: "Shooting and crying." It refers to the Israeli who defends himself and his country with deadly force but regrets having to do so. There are voices in Israel that focus on shooting: Kill our enemies at all costs. There are those that focus on crying: The pain caused by violence is unacceptable. And there are those who do both: I hate to kill you, but I have to do it.
The sermon I heard yesterday mounted a defense for shooting and crying. The offensive in Gaza, the speaker said, is necessary for the security of Israeli citizens, but the moral considerations cannot be forgotten even in such a critical situation. It may seem hypocritical to some, but it's the best we have.
Shooting and crying.
We're in a bad spot here in Israel. Hundreds of people are dying and everyone is weighing in with her opinion. What's the right thing to do in this situation? What's the right thing to say?
The advocacy group J Street (a liberal answer to AIPAC), released a statement condemning both Hamas and Israel and calling for an immediate cease-fire:
Israel has a special place in each of our hearts. But we recognize that neither Israelis nor Palestinians have a monopoly on right or wrong. While there is nothing "right" in raining rockets on Israeli families or dispatching suicide bombers, there is nothing "right" in punishing a million and a half already-suffering Gazans for the actions of the extremists among them.
And there is nothing to be gained from debating which injustice is greater or came first. What's needed now is immediate action to stop the violence before it spirals out of control.
I have to say that I agree. And it's hard to do so. The President of the Union for Reform Judaism, Rabbi Eric Yoffe, publicly opposes the sentiments expressed in this statement:
These words are deeply distressing because they are morally deficient, profoundly out of touch with Jewish sentiment and also appallingly naïve. A cease-fire instituted by Hamas would be welcome, and Israel would be quick to respond. A cease-fire imposed on Israel would allow Hamas to escape the consequences of its actions yet again and would lead in short order to the renewal of its campaign of terror. Hamas, it should be noted, is not a government; it is a terrorist gang. And as long as the thugs of Hamas can act with impunity, no Israeli government of the right or the left will agree to a two-state solution or any other kind of peace. Doves take note: To be a dove of influence, you must be a realist, firm in your principles but shorn of all illusions.
These words were welcomed by the commenters on the blog and likely reflect the prevailing attitude among American Reform Jews. We hate violence, but Israel has to defend itself. Moreover, Israel is the victim here: If Hamas didn't attack Israel, Israel wouldn't attack back, and therefore, every civilian death is on Hamas' hands. Rabbi Bob Orkand, president of the Association of Reform Zionists of America, defends this view by quoting Michael Walzer: "When Palestinian militants launch rocket attacks from civilian areas, they are themselves responsible--and no one else is--for the civilian deaths caused by Israeli counter fire."
But I don't buy it, and I certainly can't sell it. This view seems sound on paper: Israel's the victim, and Hamas is to blame for the people being killed. But is it entirely unimaginable for us to entertain the opposite view? If Israel hadn't acceded to the illegal settlement of Palestinian land and enforced hardships upon the Palestinian populace, maybe Hamas wouldn't be so powerful today. Both views are right, both views are wrong. And I return to J Street's point: "There is nothing to be gained from debating which injustice is greater or came first. What's needed now is immediate action to stop the violence before it spirals out of control."
I'm not surprised at what Israel has done, and I'm not surprised at the various reactions to Israel's decisions. However, I am disappointed that the rabbinic leadership of the Reform Movement isn't acting as the still, small voice reminding the public that it's wrong to kill. It's wrong to be killed, it's wrong to impose hardship, it's wrong to abandon your public. But it's also wrong to kill and that's a Jewish and universal value. And someone has to say it.
I would have been much more proud of Rabbi Yoffe if, instead of saying that influential doves have to condone killing sometimes, he had said that it's wrong to kill. Of the shooters and cryers, I'm a cryer, and I'll cry quietly to myself about the deaths of hundreds of people and I'll cry loudly from the rooftops that it's wrong to kill. Do with that information what you will, but do not ignore it.
I think that it is rabbinical responsibility to be the voice of moral conscience in this conflict, and regardless of what's politically sound or best for the people of Israel or more justifiable based on historical circumstances, someone has to be the voice that reminds the people that it's wrong to kill. Because we've seen what happens when people forget this most essential value.
I hear over and over again that "we pray for the end of the military action in Gaza." That's not my prayer. My prayer is simple.
We need peace.
We, Israelis. We, Palestinians. We, the people of the entire world. We can't separate ourselves from our neighbors, close or distant, and we can't forget that every single human being is created in the image of God. To save a life is to save the entire world.
Need. We don't want or wish for or expect or fight for or plan for or even hope for. We need. It is a basic and inalienable requirement for our lives. Our humanity depends upon it:
Peace. Non-violence. Co-operation. Reciprocal community. Respect, justice, brotherhood, acceptance, virtue, enrichment, depth, education, broadness, embraces, laughter. It's political, familial, moral, historical, and messianic.
We need peace.
That's my prayer.
It's not complex, it's not nuanced. It doesn't take into account historical arguments, and it doesn't discern winners from losers. It's a statement of existential reality, and it's my heart's loudest cry. And I believe that it needs to be heard and understood and taken into account and adhered to. You can't hear this sentence and then dismiss it because it's inconvenient right now. "We don't have time for peace, we're under attack."
We need peace.
Now. Can I simply say "We need peace" and go home? Can I make a blanket moral statement without applying it to the situation on the ground? If I do, is that irresponsible? Perhaps. So let me say this:
It's wrong for Palestinians to kill. I condemn terrorism, and I support freedom and democracy, two principles which Hamas tends to withhold from the people of the Gaza strip. Hamas is bad for the Palestinians, and if wishing made it so, I would wish that every Hamas-nik woke up in the morning and decided to step down from power. The poltical reality is that Israel has enemies, and they're trying to destroy Israel. Israel is defending itself and is not maliciously killing for the sake of killing. I understand the situation to the best of my ability, and if I had to cast a vote, I'd vote for democracy over terrorism every time. It's wrong to kill.
So what does that mean with regard to Israel today in the Gaza strip? I wish I knew... Is it justifiable for Israel to invade Gaza, trying to minimize civilian casualties, in order to demolish an aggressive enemy? Could very well be. Is it just? It's much harder for me to say. Is it right? I don't know.
But what I do know is that it's wrong to kill and that we need peace. So long as our first priority is security instead of peace, we'll be fighting for a secondary goal. We have to change our perspective, to realign our priorities, if we're ever going to reach the goal of peace that almost everyone can agree on. I believe that if, starting tomorrow, Israel's first priority were peace (regardless of what Hamas' goals are), their thinking process would be different. They would ask the question, "How do we protect Israeli citizens?" but they would also ask the question "How do we work for peace with ourselves and with our neighbors?" Right now the first question is the only one getting asked, and as soon as they find an answer, they go with it. I don't see the second question getting discussed, and that's painful to me.
So, the situation is very complicated, but I feel that there's a responsibility for a group of people to speak the moral truths that our tradition imparts upon us. We need peace. I'm at a loss for what else to say. What would I do if I were a politician? I don't know. But I believe that my role as a rabbi is to speak my heart on this issue and my heart reminds me that we need peace, and that's my message.
That's my prayer.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Observe and remember.
.שמור וזכור
[Originally written for my HUC blog but appearing here first!]
[Also published on the Reform Movement's blog!]
Chag urim sameach - happy Festival of Lights!
For the past two months, four classmates and I have been participating in Rav Siach, an interdenominational discussion group for rabbinical students through a pluralistic education center in Jerusalem. We meet every Tuesday night for two and a half hours, and we discuss and debate issues like commandedness, the role of the rabbi, and denominational distinctions. There are about a dozen participants with three facilitators, and participants come from Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist, “orthodox,” and non-denominational backgrounds.
One of the most intense components of Rav Siach has been our recent Shabbaton, which began when we departed from Jerusalem at 7:15 am on Friday morning for the Arbel. The Arbel is a plateau overlooking Lake Kinneret, Sfat, Tiberias, and the coastal plain. From so high up, one can see for miles in any direction, and the views were simply stunning.
Rav Siach participants at the Arbel.
The wife of one of our facilitators is a tour guide in the Arbel, and she led us through paths down the side of the Arbel and around the face of the cliff. We rested in the abandoned caves that had been inhabited by the last remnants of the Hasmonean Dynasty that had gained control of the land of Israel following the events commemorated by Hanukkah, and we read the historical account of their eventual defeat in these very hills. Afterward, we climbed back up the cliff, gripping iron handholds and stealing final glimpses of the plains and hills laid out before us. When we reached the top, we ate our packed lunches and headed to the hostel/conference center where we’d be spending the night.
The actual hours of Shabbat were fascinating on many levels. First of all, there were a number of interesting lessons offered by our peers. Some of the topics included a comparison of the parsha with a selection from Homer’s Odyssey, Reform Responsa (religious/legal decisions in the Reform movement), and the recent ruling in the Conservative movement to allow for the ordination of openly gay rabbis. We walked on Saturday afternoon to the Kinneret Cemetery, where several influential figures in early Israeli history, including the poet Rachel, the songwriter Naomi Shemer, and the Zionist labor leader Berl Katznelson are buried. And, of course, the food was plentiful and terrific!
Two particular events especially defined the scope and depth of the Shabbaton for me. The first occurred on Friday night, when we walked to our assigned room to pray together. Upon arrival, we discovered that the light was off, and to turn it on would be a violation of the rules of Shabbat in the eyes of our observant participants. As this value isn’t part of my own Shabbat practice, I thought I could fix the situation by simply turning on the light in the room. I knew that it was unacceptable to ask someone to turn a light on for you, so I quickly walked to the room and flipped the switch on without saying a word. What followed was a wholly unique experience.
Immediately, the group had transformed. Everyone was in shock. What had I done? Although I didn’t know this at the time, it’s additionally not allowed for one who observes strict laws of Shabbat to make use of the result of a fellow Jew’s breaking those laws. In other words, though I had tried to make the room suitable for our use, I had actually made it entirely unkosher.
I’ve come head-to-head with halacha before, but this was the first time that I had really affected people that I cared about. Words were exchanged, apologies were made, and discussion ensued. This certainly serves of an example of the principle that being told something doesn’t make up for experiencing it firsthand. Never before had I felt so much access to the world of halacha as when I entered that world and shattered it for others. It was a painful lesson but an important one, and certainly the most important to me over the course of the Shabbaton.
On the other side of the spectrum, the spiritual high for me came on Shabbat morning. Our non-denominational rabbinical student led us in meditative morning blessings, and the combination of singing and silence launched me into a spiritual experience. While our voices had been in debate and discussion, not until this moment were they in harmony. I felt our small community coalesce into a praying body, and I was proud and delighted to be a part of it.
In my eyes, the Shabbaton was a terrific success and showed that pluralistic Shabbat experiences may not be easy but they can absolutely be transformative. Many of the Rav Siach participants felt a renewed interest in such programs, and I believe that we’re all better equipped to lead and learn in such environments in the future. While I’m disappointed that our official group will be coming to a close in a few weeks, I look forward to continuing my relationship with these future colleagues and continuing to learn from them for years to come.
[Originally written for my HUC blog but appearing here first!]
[Also published on the Reform Movement's blog!]
Chag urim sameach - happy Festival of Lights!
For the past two months, four classmates and I have been participating in Rav Siach, an interdenominational discussion group for rabbinical students through a pluralistic education center in Jerusalem. We meet every Tuesday night for two and a half hours, and we discuss and debate issues like commandedness, the role of the rabbi, and denominational distinctions. There are about a dozen participants with three facilitators, and participants come from Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist, “orthodox,” and non-denominational backgrounds.
One of the most intense components of Rav Siach has been our recent Shabbaton, which began when we departed from Jerusalem at 7:15 am on Friday morning for the Arbel. The Arbel is a plateau overlooking Lake Kinneret, Sfat, Tiberias, and the coastal plain. From so high up, one can see for miles in any direction, and the views were simply stunning.
Rav Siach participants at the Arbel.
The wife of one of our facilitators is a tour guide in the Arbel, and she led us through paths down the side of the Arbel and around the face of the cliff. We rested in the abandoned caves that had been inhabited by the last remnants of the Hasmonean Dynasty that had gained control of the land of Israel following the events commemorated by Hanukkah, and we read the historical account of their eventual defeat in these very hills. Afterward, we climbed back up the cliff, gripping iron handholds and stealing final glimpses of the plains and hills laid out before us. When we reached the top, we ate our packed lunches and headed to the hostel/conference center where we’d be spending the night.
The actual hours of Shabbat were fascinating on many levels. First of all, there were a number of interesting lessons offered by our peers. Some of the topics included a comparison of the parsha with a selection from Homer’s Odyssey, Reform Responsa (religious/legal decisions in the Reform movement), and the recent ruling in the Conservative movement to allow for the ordination of openly gay rabbis. We walked on Saturday afternoon to the Kinneret Cemetery, where several influential figures in early Israeli history, including the poet Rachel, the songwriter Naomi Shemer, and the Zionist labor leader Berl Katznelson are buried. And, of course, the food was plentiful and terrific!
Two particular events especially defined the scope and depth of the Shabbaton for me. The first occurred on Friday night, when we walked to our assigned room to pray together. Upon arrival, we discovered that the light was off, and to turn it on would be a violation of the rules of Shabbat in the eyes of our observant participants. As this value isn’t part of my own Shabbat practice, I thought I could fix the situation by simply turning on the light in the room. I knew that it was unacceptable to ask someone to turn a light on for you, so I quickly walked to the room and flipped the switch on without saying a word. What followed was a wholly unique experience.
Immediately, the group had transformed. Everyone was in shock. What had I done? Although I didn’t know this at the time, it’s additionally not allowed for one who observes strict laws of Shabbat to make use of the result of a fellow Jew’s breaking those laws. In other words, though I had tried to make the room suitable for our use, I had actually made it entirely unkosher.
I’ve come head-to-head with halacha before, but this was the first time that I had really affected people that I cared about. Words were exchanged, apologies were made, and discussion ensued. This certainly serves of an example of the principle that being told something doesn’t make up for experiencing it firsthand. Never before had I felt so much access to the world of halacha as when I entered that world and shattered it for others. It was a painful lesson but an important one, and certainly the most important to me over the course of the Shabbaton.
On the other side of the spectrum, the spiritual high for me came on Shabbat morning. Our non-denominational rabbinical student led us in meditative morning blessings, and the combination of singing and silence launched me into a spiritual experience. While our voices had been in debate and discussion, not until this moment were they in harmony. I felt our small community coalesce into a praying body, and I was proud and delighted to be a part of it.
In my eyes, the Shabbaton was a terrific success and showed that pluralistic Shabbat experiences may not be easy but they can absolutely be transformative. Many of the Rav Siach participants felt a renewed interest in such programs, and I believe that we’re all better equipped to lead and learn in such environments in the future. While I’m disappointed that our official group will be coming to a close in a few weeks, I look forward to continuing my relationship with these future colleagues and continuing to learn from them for years to come.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Welcoming the new year.
.הכנסת השנה החדשה
Another long week has passed since my last post - sorry for the lack of updates.
This weekend was, as I described it in Hebrew class, שופ''ש אוחים (a weekend of guests). On Friday night, Jessica baked challah with a friend of ours from HUC, and then the same friend joined us later in the day to watch a movie and cook dinner. A second friend arrived just as our movie finished, and the four of us shared a delicious meal and pleasant conversation.
On Saturday morning, Jessica and I went to Shabbat services at the Conservative synagogue affiliated with the Conservative Yeshiva, which I always find meaningful. During the kiddush, we met Rick, who's thinking about applying to rabbinical school HUC or Hebrew College next year. He was an interesting fellow, and we invited him to join us for lunch. He agreed, and we welcomed him and three other friends to a potluck lunch filled with delicious foods.
Saturday night, we had our final guest, who came over for S&S (Snacks & Scrabble). That, too, was delightful. All in all, a wonderful weekend!
Sunday, for me, began a time of finally entering into the period of High Holy Days (after the long buildup over the month of Elul). We had special programming at HUC about Rosh Hashanah, including a walk-through of the Rosh Hashanah liturgy that I found very helpful in my own ability to appreciate and find meaningful Rosh Hashanah services.
I'm finding that the more I learn about the liturgy, the more meaningful I find it. One of my goals for this year (I forget whether I've written about it yet) is to become more familiar with Jewish liturgy and to strengthen my "prayer muscles." For so many years, I sat through services, finding certain parts engaging and others less so - but I never had an appreciation for the service as an entire unit (let alone Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur being a unit, let alone their being a unit with Sukkot, let alone their being a unit with Elul), and I want that to change. I think it's important not only for me as a rabbi but for me as a praying Jew to know what the service is, what comprises it, and how it can be meaningfully experienced. In some ways, I feel like I could have figured a lot of this stuff out already if I had taken the time in previous years, but on the other hand, at least I've decided to begin now ... and so far, I find my own expressions of faith growing with my knowledge.
For example, as I know more Hebrew now than I ever have (and I expect to be saying that every year for many years to come), I find that I can understand the prayers much better ... which is very handy here because we don't read a single word of English here in Israel even though we use the same Gates of Repentance machzor here as in the States. Knowing what the prayers are actually saying helps me follow the flow, feel comfortable where I am, and focus on what's being said in an impactful way. I can really focus in on the כוונה (intention) of the service and in turn, relate to the words.
So, what have these relations yielded? Here are some thoughts I've been having recently, inspired by Rosh Hashanah:
First of all, I want to highlight the latest progress in the development of my appreciation for Reform Judaism as normative and authentic. While theoretically, I believe that Reform Judaism is for Reform Jews as authentic as "orthodox" Judaism is for "orthodox" Jews, it can nevertheless be difficult to feel that way all the time. For example, when discussing with Jessica what do on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, I mentioned that I wanted to continue our series of HUC services or go to the Conservative synagogue that we like. She said that if we're not going to have an Israeli "experience," we should stick with HUC as it will probably be similar to Moreshet Yisrael. I agreed.
But in subsequent conversations, we've been talking about how our HUC services are just as Israeli as any other service in Israel. They're entirely in Hebrew, the sermon was given by a non-American, and the music has an international, though certainly Ashkenazi, feel. The real differences aren't Israeli/non-Israeli but rather Reform/non-Reform.
So, should one go to a non-Reform service to have an "authentic" experience? Of course not. Modern Reform Judaism is just as much a part of the continuum of Jewish practice as any of the dozens of brands of "orthodoxy" out there, and to top it all off, I find the Reform Jewish experience meaningful. Our services are intentional, not minimalist; moving, not fleeing. My teachers at HUC are extremely learned--some might say pious--women and men who have made Judaism their life's work, and I'm proud to follow in their footsteps. It's tempting, especially here in Jerusalem, to think of ourselves as doing things the easy way or finding the most basic way of praying, but I do not believe that that's what Reform Judaism is, and when I'm a professional practitioner of Reform Judaism, I look forward to carrying myself with just as much pride and authority as any other self-respecting Jew.
While in the area of organized religion, I had a thought this morning at services about one of the greatest values of religion. I was listening to Avinu Malkeinu, perhaps my favorite piece of Jewish music, and it was having its customary significant impact on me. After the petition ended, I mused about the ability of that music and the choir and the Hebrew words to have a transcendent effect on me, to remind me that the corporeal world is an illusion and that reality is much more complex than our human senses can know. Something about the music helped me realize that.
And I realized in turn that religion can have this effect on all of its participants if they're open to it. There are certainly people in this world who can have truly transcendent, spiritual experiences on their own or in smaller communities, but generally, people need help. Sometimes help comes through a parent, friend, or mentor or a group comprised of those people. Sometimes, help comes through a non-human intermediary. And sometimes, help can come through communities. In my case, my Jewish community is the beneficiary of thousands of years of trial-and-error, of intense debate, and of serious study. Hebrew has become a holy language because of the infinitely deep contexts it has collected, and my prayer in Hebrew in a community of Jews has the ability to transport me beyond myself and, through relation to other Jews, beyond this physical world.
So, religion--at least my religion--is extremely powerful. But it's also entirely dependent on community. My theology, though certainly influenced by countless external factors, is my own ... but my ability to relate to theos is almost entirely in the communal setting. I think that if I'm like a lot of people, this is probably the primary raison d'être of religion worldwide.
Thus, religion is for us. It helps us connect through one another to the spiritual realities that compose and transcend this world - and therefore, I believe, all of religion is really about us. As much as we describe God and thank God and petition God and ask God for forgiveness ... it's really all about us. We say אבינו מלכנו שמע קולנו (Avinu Malkeinu, sh'ma koleinu) - our Father, our King, hear our voice ... and yet I believe it's much more about koleinu than it is about Avinu Malkeinu. When I ask forgiveness from God, it's because I recognize that I've done something that needs forgiving. We're taught that one doesn't receive forgiveness unless one has resolved not to repeat the transgression - so, we come to God with a contrite heart and readiness to change. Therefore, the value in "being forgiven" is not simply to receive God's forgiveness but rather to have changed in response to recognizing our own wrongdoing. I confess to confess, not to be forgiven by God.
Now, does that mean that I shouldn't think about God during prayer? I don't think so. I believe that there is a God but that God isn't able to be comprehended on this level. Nevertheless, there can be no greater achievement than to relate to God, so we shouldn't just give up. On the contrary, we should try even harder to transcend "this level." If thinking about God as a King helps us to do that, that's fine. For me, I don't believe that God rules over our daily actions, but I don't mind calling God King in order to further a theology that supports and enables people's connections to God. And, by participating in that communal prayer, I also build bonds between myself and my fellow community members, and those bonds can be of infinite value to my person and my super-person.
Because active t'filah (prayer) always comes to an end, and what we have left are the pray-ers who are ready to go about their daily lives, now in a stronger relation to one another than before the prayer service. It reminds me of Avinu Malkeinu - the music soars and transforms and concludes with a congregational melody that lacks the awesomeness of the previous lines. Similarly, we can be transformed and transported during prayer, but we always have to alight back on earth and continue living our lives. And those lives are made richer -- and re-transformation is made easier --- through the lives of others.
This can also be reflected in Rosh Hashanah's placement in the calendar: 25In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, you shall observe a day of complete rest, a holy convocation commemorated with trumpet blasts (Leviticus 23:24). According to (a) tradition, God created the world on Rosh Hashanah, on the first day of Tishrei (the seventh month). On the first day of creation, before which the world didn't exist, it was the seventh month. Thus, six months would, theoretically, have been in the history of this first day of existence. Why wouldn't the world be created on the first month?
One response I've been thinking about is that the world begins in the middle. Our acts of transcendence during prayer are timeless, and yet they are couched in history. Similarly, when we emerge from these moments, we will once again resume relating to the world in a timebound fashion, waiting for the next new beginning. Just as we can understand God to be "day by day renewing the works of Creation," so can we understand the very "first" creation to have taken place within a context of קודמות ("previousness" - both Hebrew and English made up by me).
So, those are a few of my raw thoughts that this period of holiness has inspired in me. I hope to continue to generate thoughts along these lines during the upcoming weeks, and hopefully I'll be able to share them here. And, of course, I look forward to elaborating on these ideas in a more significant fashion as I continue my path toward the rabbinate.
In the meantime, I wish all readers a sweet and good new year, despite and because of all its contexts and aspirations.
Another long week has passed since my last post - sorry for the lack of updates.
This weekend was, as I described it in Hebrew class, שופ''ש אוחים (a weekend of guests). On Friday night, Jessica baked challah with a friend of ours from HUC, and then the same friend joined us later in the day to watch a movie and cook dinner. A second friend arrived just as our movie finished, and the four of us shared a delicious meal and pleasant conversation.
On Saturday morning, Jessica and I went to Shabbat services at the Conservative synagogue affiliated with the Conservative Yeshiva, which I always find meaningful. During the kiddush, we met Rick, who's thinking about applying to rabbinical school HUC or Hebrew College next year. He was an interesting fellow, and we invited him to join us for lunch. He agreed, and we welcomed him and three other friends to a potluck lunch filled with delicious foods.
Saturday night, we had our final guest, who came over for S&S (Snacks & Scrabble). That, too, was delightful. All in all, a wonderful weekend!
Sunday, for me, began a time of finally entering into the period of High Holy Days (after the long buildup over the month of Elul). We had special programming at HUC about Rosh Hashanah, including a walk-through of the Rosh Hashanah liturgy that I found very helpful in my own ability to appreciate and find meaningful Rosh Hashanah services.
I'm finding that the more I learn about the liturgy, the more meaningful I find it. One of my goals for this year (I forget whether I've written about it yet) is to become more familiar with Jewish liturgy and to strengthen my "prayer muscles." For so many years, I sat through services, finding certain parts engaging and others less so - but I never had an appreciation for the service as an entire unit (let alone Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur being a unit, let alone their being a unit with Sukkot, let alone their being a unit with Elul), and I want that to change. I think it's important not only for me as a rabbi but for me as a praying Jew to know what the service is, what comprises it, and how it can be meaningfully experienced. In some ways, I feel like I could have figured a lot of this stuff out already if I had taken the time in previous years, but on the other hand, at least I've decided to begin now ... and so far, I find my own expressions of faith growing with my knowledge.
For example, as I know more Hebrew now than I ever have (and I expect to be saying that every year for many years to come), I find that I can understand the prayers much better ... which is very handy here because we don't read a single word of English here in Israel even though we use the same Gates of Repentance machzor here as in the States. Knowing what the prayers are actually saying helps me follow the flow, feel comfortable where I am, and focus on what's being said in an impactful way. I can really focus in on the כוונה (intention) of the service and in turn, relate to the words.
So, what have these relations yielded? Here are some thoughts I've been having recently, inspired by Rosh Hashanah:
First of all, I want to highlight the latest progress in the development of my appreciation for Reform Judaism as normative and authentic. While theoretically, I believe that Reform Judaism is for Reform Jews as authentic as "orthodox" Judaism is for "orthodox" Jews, it can nevertheless be difficult to feel that way all the time. For example, when discussing with Jessica what do on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, I mentioned that I wanted to continue our series of HUC services or go to the Conservative synagogue that we like. She said that if we're not going to have an Israeli "experience," we should stick with HUC as it will probably be similar to Moreshet Yisrael. I agreed.
But in subsequent conversations, we've been talking about how our HUC services are just as Israeli as any other service in Israel. They're entirely in Hebrew, the sermon was given by a non-American, and the music has an international, though certainly Ashkenazi, feel. The real differences aren't Israeli/non-Israeli but rather Reform/non-Reform.
So, should one go to a non-Reform service to have an "authentic" experience? Of course not. Modern Reform Judaism is just as much a part of the continuum of Jewish practice as any of the dozens of brands of "orthodoxy" out there, and to top it all off, I find the Reform Jewish experience meaningful. Our services are intentional, not minimalist; moving, not fleeing. My teachers at HUC are extremely learned--some might say pious--women and men who have made Judaism their life's work, and I'm proud to follow in their footsteps. It's tempting, especially here in Jerusalem, to think of ourselves as doing things the easy way or finding the most basic way of praying, but I do not believe that that's what Reform Judaism is, and when I'm a professional practitioner of Reform Judaism, I look forward to carrying myself with just as much pride and authority as any other self-respecting Jew.
While in the area of organized religion, I had a thought this morning at services about one of the greatest values of religion. I was listening to Avinu Malkeinu, perhaps my favorite piece of Jewish music, and it was having its customary significant impact on me. After the petition ended, I mused about the ability of that music and the choir and the Hebrew words to have a transcendent effect on me, to remind me that the corporeal world is an illusion and that reality is much more complex than our human senses can know. Something about the music helped me realize that.
And I realized in turn that religion can have this effect on all of its participants if they're open to it. There are certainly people in this world who can have truly transcendent, spiritual experiences on their own or in smaller communities, but generally, people need help. Sometimes help comes through a parent, friend, or mentor or a group comprised of those people. Sometimes, help comes through a non-human intermediary. And sometimes, help can come through communities. In my case, my Jewish community is the beneficiary of thousands of years of trial-and-error, of intense debate, and of serious study. Hebrew has become a holy language because of the infinitely deep contexts it has collected, and my prayer in Hebrew in a community of Jews has the ability to transport me beyond myself and, through relation to other Jews, beyond this physical world.
So, religion--at least my religion--is extremely powerful. But it's also entirely dependent on community. My theology, though certainly influenced by countless external factors, is my own ... but my ability to relate to theos is almost entirely in the communal setting. I think that if I'm like a lot of people, this is probably the primary raison d'être of religion worldwide.
Thus, religion is for us. It helps us connect through one another to the spiritual realities that compose and transcend this world - and therefore, I believe, all of religion is really about us. As much as we describe God and thank God and petition God and ask God for forgiveness ... it's really all about us. We say אבינו מלכנו שמע קולנו (Avinu Malkeinu, sh'ma koleinu) - our Father, our King, hear our voice ... and yet I believe it's much more about koleinu than it is about Avinu Malkeinu. When I ask forgiveness from God, it's because I recognize that I've done something that needs forgiving. We're taught that one doesn't receive forgiveness unless one has resolved not to repeat the transgression - so, we come to God with a contrite heart and readiness to change. Therefore, the value in "being forgiven" is not simply to receive God's forgiveness but rather to have changed in response to recognizing our own wrongdoing. I confess to confess, not to be forgiven by God.
Now, does that mean that I shouldn't think about God during prayer? I don't think so. I believe that there is a God but that God isn't able to be comprehended on this level. Nevertheless, there can be no greater achievement than to relate to God, so we shouldn't just give up. On the contrary, we should try even harder to transcend "this level." If thinking about God as a King helps us to do that, that's fine. For me, I don't believe that God rules over our daily actions, but I don't mind calling God King in order to further a theology that supports and enables people's connections to God. And, by participating in that communal prayer, I also build bonds between myself and my fellow community members, and those bonds can be of infinite value to my person and my super-person.
Because active t'filah (prayer) always comes to an end, and what we have left are the pray-ers who are ready to go about their daily lives, now in a stronger relation to one another than before the prayer service. It reminds me of Avinu Malkeinu - the music soars and transforms and concludes with a congregational melody that lacks the awesomeness of the previous lines. Similarly, we can be transformed and transported during prayer, but we always have to alight back on earth and continue living our lives. And those lives are made richer -- and re-transformation is made easier --- through the lives of others.
This can also be reflected in Rosh Hashanah's placement in the calendar: 25In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, you shall observe a day of complete rest, a holy convocation commemorated with trumpet blasts (Leviticus 23:24). According to (a) tradition, God created the world on Rosh Hashanah, on the first day of Tishrei (the seventh month). On the first day of creation, before which the world didn't exist, it was the seventh month. Thus, six months would, theoretically, have been in the history of this first day of existence. Why wouldn't the world be created on the first month?
One response I've been thinking about is that the world begins in the middle. Our acts of transcendence during prayer are timeless, and yet they are couched in history. Similarly, when we emerge from these moments, we will once again resume relating to the world in a timebound fashion, waiting for the next new beginning. Just as we can understand God to be "day by day renewing the works of Creation," so can we understand the very "first" creation to have taken place within a context of קודמות ("previousness" - both Hebrew and English made up by me).
So, those are a few of my raw thoughts that this period of holiness has inspired in me. I hope to continue to generate thoughts along these lines during the upcoming weeks, and hopefully I'll be able to share them here. And, of course, I look forward to elaborating on these ideas in a more significant fashion as I continue my path toward the rabbinate.
In the meantime, I wish all readers a sweet and good new year, despite and because of all its contexts and aspirations.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The value of being Jewish.
.ערך קיום יהודי
Jessica briefly mentioned in her previous post that she was instructed to get a letter from an American rabbi attesting to her Jewishness in order to receive a student visa. The whole notion is absurd because one doesn't need to be Jewish to be a student in Israel, and the fact that it would even come up is troubling and frustrating to Jessica and me. That the officer at the Ministry of the Interior would even think to ask for such confirmation (even in error) belies the gross neglect of religious freedom in this country. Sure, if Reform Judaism is treated as a separate faith (as suggested by Rabbi Yisrael Rozen), we could have equal rights, but so long as we claim Judaism as our own, progressive Jews in Israel will continue to face religious and legal barriers that fly in the face of Deuteronomy 16:20's invective, "צדק צדק תרדף" (Justice, justice shall you pursue).
This is because, if the Ministry really wanted to push the matter (which I don't expect), the authority of the American rabbi that Jessica finds would have to be examined. Perhaps Jessica's pedigree would be up for discussion. Of course, Jessica is unquestionably Jewish even by the most orthodox standards, but someone who (A) didn't have a rabbi, (B) didn't have a Jewish mother, or (C) wasn't Jewish would certainly have a hard time receiving this visa! I can't believe that even here this letter is required, but that it's asked for is indicative of a pro-Jewish bias that exists in Israel to such a large degree that it can't even be seen.
And what's it based on? Israel was founded as a Jewish country and has been struggling with that title for the past sixty years. People have been asking, "What does it mean to be Jewish?" for a very long time, but I doubt the question is often raised of, "What's the value of us being Jewish?" If a magic genie gave me the option of making Israel a true model of civil liberty, a bastion of peace in the region, an anti-war advocate, and a democracy that values the voices of the few and seeks to bring peace and security to the whole but lose its Jewish identity, I don't know what I would do. Is being Jewish so important that I would choose it over an automatic guarantee of ethics?
On the one hand, I believe that Judaism is a gateway to ethical living and that the Torah is a medium through which we can gain wisdom and Truth. On the other hand, I don't believe that Judaism and the Torah are unique in these roles but rather are specifically efficacious and beneficial to those who identify with them. Why are there Jews? I don't know. But I believe that it's good for the Jewish people for us to be Jewish, and insofar as the Jewish people has a strong track record of "getting it right" in terms of ethics and spirituality, I'm proud to espouse the values of my religion. Yet being Jewish is neither necessary nor sufficient to being ethical, and if ethics are my ultimate priority (and my support of Judaism is a support of unification and ethical living among and outside of our people), should not ethics (or, religiously speaking, perhaps even "pure" spirituality?) outweigh Jewish identity?
I don't know.
Take the example I laid out during Wexner Post 3 about giving money to the questionably Jewish organization that I believed in. Why does Judaism have to enter into the equation at all? We might cede that Jews have a tendency to be more likely to be involved in social action/progress than a non-Jew (though I'm far from claiming that as an existential truth), but nevertheless, I would never feel comfortable making such a decision based on religion alone.
And yet, I also struggle with the notion that not only Israel's orthodox Judaism has an obvious, occasionally unjust bias towards Jewish identity. Also our very own movement has struggled and continues to struggle with this concept, as do I. Take marriage between Jews and non-Jews as an example of assumptive priority of Jewish identity. As of right now, the "official" position of the Reform Movement is as follows:
"The Central Conference of American Rabbis, recalling its stand adopted in 1909 that mixed marriage is contrary to the Jewish tradition and should be discouraged, now declares its opposition to participation by its members in any ceremony which solemnizes a mixed marriage. The Central Conference of American Rabbis recognized that historically its members have held and continue to hold divergent interpretations of Jewish tradition.
In order to keep open every channel in Judaism and Kelal Yisra-el [the Jewish People] for those who have already entered into mixed marriage, the CCAR calls upon its members:
1. To assist fully in educating children of such mixed marriage as Jews;
2. To provide the opportunity for conversion of the non-Jewish spouse; and
3. To encourage a creative and consistent cultivation of involvement in the Jewish community and the synagogue."
However, a statement given by CCAR president Harry Danziger in 2006 at the CCAR convention complicates the Reform movement's stance:
"I look back thirty-three years to the Atlanta convention of 1973, called by some the Battle of Peachtree. There after years of debate and too often acrimony, a ten line resolution was passed opposing officiation at intermarriages. Pamphlets and articles attacking one side or the other abounded. There were even threats of a split in the Conference as there had been before over Zionism.
Five years later, in 1978, Alex Schindler, zichrono livracha, proposed a comprehensive outreach program through which we turned our attention, not only to weddings – the beginning of a new household – but to outcomes – the nature of the family thus created.
In 1983, there were passionate divisions in this Conference over the proposed resolution on children of intermarriage, what has been termed “the patrilineal” resolution. The debate was intense. At the end, we broke new ground in response to new realities, and we proclaimed that, for us, the gender of the Jewish parents would not be the determinant of who is a Jew. Most of us came to live by it. Some still question it. That is part of who we are.
Move forward yet another eleven years. In 1994, in Philadelphia, I was invited to be part of a major program at the convention. Two rabbis and two lay leaders spoke. I was invited to speak on why and how I do in fact officiate at intermarriages. And the president of the Conference at that time, Shim Maslin, who deserves great credit for that program, was a leading proponent of the 1973 resolution. Beit Hillel – They studied and listened to the views of the other side.
This week we have workshops and programs that deal with how we respond to intermarriage, how we engage and involve, yes, and honor, the non-Jewish partner who lives as a Jew albeit without conversion – what some of us call a ger toshav – what I sometimes call a “common law Jew”. The official position may continue to be a ten line resolution in Atlanta, but the practice has become a consensus that there is more than one respectable way to deal with those issues."
So, in combining these two sources, we find that the Reform movement "officially" discourages interfaith marriages and, in the case of an interfaith marriage, encourages the raising of Jewish children, participation in the Jewish community, and the conversion of the non-Jewish spouse. Individual rabbis (including the president of the CCAR) may (and many do) disagree with any of these points and act according to their conscience. So there's an internal struggle in the movement about whether it's of existential value to marry a Jew.
What seems to be agreed upon is that a rabbi should encourage participation in a Jewish community and, ideally, the raising of Jewish children. A point of contention is whether a non-Jewish spouse should be encouraged to convert. Rabbi Richard Address, who was at the Wexner institute last month, told me that sometimes he's had non-Jewish members of his community angry because--in their perception--Rabbi Address was pushing them to convert; and he's also had members of his community angry because--in their perception--Rabbi Address wasn't pushing them enough to convert. Even on a personal level, this is a tricky situation.
But my question is: If a couple is raising their children Jewish and participating in the Jewish community, what value is there to the community for the non-Jewish partner to convert to Judaism? Obviously, if a person discovers a personal meaning in converting to Judaism, she should follow her convictions on whether to convert. But communally, what statement are we making by saying that, all other factors being equal, Jew A is more valuable to us than non-Jew B?
I can't ignore the fact that a Jewish identity is neither sufficient nor necessary for active participation in Jewish family or communal life. Nor can I ignore the fact that Jewish identity makes that participation significantly more accessible (or that an active non-Jewish identity can disrupt a family's Jewish participation). So, is emphasis on conversion a numbers game? "Sure, we agree that a non-Jew can raise Jewish children, but since a Jew is more likely to do so, we want as many Jews raising children as we can."
But that brings us right back to the original question (and please forgive me for traveling in circles; if it's not clear, this forum is largely an opportunity for me to work through complex issues) - Why be Jewish in the first place? Israel, the Jewish state, has done some terrible things. Jews all over the world act immorally and non-Jews act morally. What's the big deal?
Let's cut to the chase: I think that there is a big deal, but I can't back that up. I don't know where the feeling comes from, but I recognize that Jewish history is full of innovation and ethical progress that is worthy of praise. I also recognize that the Jewish community is like a family, and there's no necessary reason to be born into a family; one is simply a part of a family and inherently loves it. So, I suppose I have a blind love for the Jewish people and want to see us live morally and progressively in as many ways as possible.
Does that justify the following caveat in the HUC rabbinical school application?
"In addition to the above requirements, please note that applicants and their spouses, partners, fiancés or fiancées must be Jewish by birth or conversion."
In other words, if I admit to having a non-Jewish girlfriend, I won't be admitted into HUC.
Now, this statement doesn't define Judaism, nor was it ever mentioned during my entire application process. I have heard of students omitting the fact that they have non-Jewish partners and getting into HUC regardless (though as I understand, it generally doesn't happen that someone graduates from HUC with a non-Jewish partner). Nevertheless, the statement is there: Rabbis should have Jewish partners.
This is a topic I discussed with some Wexner Fellows in Stowe. Does a rabbi need to have a non-Jewish partner?
On the one hand, a congregational rabbi is meant to be a leader and example in the Jewish community. There are many Jews, one of my Wexner colleagues included, who would expect a rabbi's partner to participate fully in all congregational activities and have a strong Jewish identity that can be shared with the community. The rabbi's should be a model of a strong Jewish family, and the rabbi should be able to have an uncompromisingly Jewish household to raise children and welcome guests.
On the other hand, if I were talking about anyone else, I would continue to repeat that all those things can happen in an interfaith marriage. A non-Jewish partner can contribute to the Jewish community, participate in a Jewish household, and raise Jewish children. We often stress that rabbis are just like everyone else ... only with more specific knowledge about Jewish topics ... so why should the household of a rabbi be any different? If anything, a rabbi would be virtually guaranteed to have a Jewish household regardless of the religion (or non-religion) of the rabbi's partner, so a rabbi, in a way, could be given even more leniency to cohabitate with whomever she desires.
Furthermore, not all rabbis are communal leaders. Some rabbis become professors, work in Hillel, serve with non-profit organizations, teach at day schools, etc. Are we saying that a Jewish professor has to be married to a Jew if the word "rabbi" comes before (or after) the word "doctor" in his title?
Moreover, as I've mentioned, being Jewish doesn't necessitate that someone is going to be involved in a Jewish community. A rabbi could have a Jewish partner who is entirely disengaged from the Jewish community. If we are looking for Jewish engagement, perhaps there should be a "participation test" for the rabbinical school applicant's partner rather than a "religion test."
Ultimately, the question is: Are we comfortable with playing a numbers game with people's family lives? Are we comfortable saying that, because it is more likely that a Jew will raise a Jewish family, we should encourage Jew-Jew partnerships? I might be able to make that statement if I believed that being Jewish was an existentially superior state than being a non-Jew. I believe that being Jewish is special and unique and wonderful and should be promoted and supported. I believe that being Christian/Muslim/Buddhist/Sikh/Agnostic/Humanist/Unitarian/Alternative/Druid/Tribal/Hindu/Etc. is special and unique and wonderful and should be promoted and supported. I believe, ultimately, that being moral and promoting peace is the greatest value to be promoted and supported and that our focus should be on creating welcoming communities that foster positive interpersonal relations on all levels - familial, communal, and inter-communal.
It's a tough call, whether Jews should have a mission to promote Judaism. As a future rabbi (and according to my own beliefs), I say that Judaism should be supported and that it's generally a good thing for people (especially Jews) to involve themselves in a Jewish community. But, if someone is fulfilled by participating in another community and is going to work to bring peace to the world, I can only offer my blessings and wish them peace.
Jessica briefly mentioned in her previous post that she was instructed to get a letter from an American rabbi attesting to her Jewishness in order to receive a student visa. The whole notion is absurd because one doesn't need to be Jewish to be a student in Israel, and the fact that it would even come up is troubling and frustrating to Jessica and me. That the officer at the Ministry of the Interior would even think to ask for such confirmation (even in error) belies the gross neglect of religious freedom in this country. Sure, if Reform Judaism is treated as a separate faith (as suggested by Rabbi Yisrael Rozen), we could have equal rights, but so long as we claim Judaism as our own, progressive Jews in Israel will continue to face religious and legal barriers that fly in the face of Deuteronomy 16:20's invective, "צדק צדק תרדף" (Justice, justice shall you pursue).
This is because, if the Ministry really wanted to push the matter (which I don't expect), the authority of the American rabbi that Jessica finds would have to be examined. Perhaps Jessica's pedigree would be up for discussion. Of course, Jessica is unquestionably Jewish even by the most orthodox standards, but someone who (A) didn't have a rabbi, (B) didn't have a Jewish mother, or (C) wasn't Jewish would certainly have a hard time receiving this visa! I can't believe that even here this letter is required, but that it's asked for is indicative of a pro-Jewish bias that exists in Israel to such a large degree that it can't even be seen.
And what's it based on? Israel was founded as a Jewish country and has been struggling with that title for the past sixty years. People have been asking, "What does it mean to be Jewish?" for a very long time, but I doubt the question is often raised of, "What's the value of us being Jewish?" If a magic genie gave me the option of making Israel a true model of civil liberty, a bastion of peace in the region, an anti-war advocate, and a democracy that values the voices of the few and seeks to bring peace and security to the whole but lose its Jewish identity, I don't know what I would do. Is being Jewish so important that I would choose it over an automatic guarantee of ethics?
On the one hand, I believe that Judaism is a gateway to ethical living and that the Torah is a medium through which we can gain wisdom and Truth. On the other hand, I don't believe that Judaism and the Torah are unique in these roles but rather are specifically efficacious and beneficial to those who identify with them. Why are there Jews? I don't know. But I believe that it's good for the Jewish people for us to be Jewish, and insofar as the Jewish people has a strong track record of "getting it right" in terms of ethics and spirituality, I'm proud to espouse the values of my religion. Yet being Jewish is neither necessary nor sufficient to being ethical, and if ethics are my ultimate priority (and my support of Judaism is a support of unification and ethical living among and outside of our people), should not ethics (or, religiously speaking, perhaps even "pure" spirituality?) outweigh Jewish identity?
I don't know.
Take the example I laid out during Wexner Post 3 about giving money to the questionably Jewish organization that I believed in. Why does Judaism have to enter into the equation at all? We might cede that Jews have a tendency to be more likely to be involved in social action/progress than a non-Jew (though I'm far from claiming that as an existential truth), but nevertheless, I would never feel comfortable making such a decision based on religion alone.
And yet, I also struggle with the notion that not only Israel's orthodox Judaism has an obvious, occasionally unjust bias towards Jewish identity. Also our very own movement has struggled and continues to struggle with this concept, as do I. Take marriage between Jews and non-Jews as an example of assumptive priority of Jewish identity. As of right now, the "official" position of the Reform Movement is as follows:
"The Central Conference of American Rabbis, recalling its stand adopted in 1909 that mixed marriage is contrary to the Jewish tradition and should be discouraged, now declares its opposition to participation by its members in any ceremony which solemnizes a mixed marriage. The Central Conference of American Rabbis recognized that historically its members have held and continue to hold divergent interpretations of Jewish tradition.
In order to keep open every channel in Judaism and Kelal Yisra-el [the Jewish People] for those who have already entered into mixed marriage, the CCAR calls upon its members:
1. To assist fully in educating children of such mixed marriage as Jews;
2. To provide the opportunity for conversion of the non-Jewish spouse; and
3. To encourage a creative and consistent cultivation of involvement in the Jewish community and the synagogue."
However, a statement given by CCAR president Harry Danziger in 2006 at the CCAR convention complicates the Reform movement's stance:
"I look back thirty-three years to the Atlanta convention of 1973, called by some the Battle of Peachtree. There after years of debate and too often acrimony, a ten line resolution was passed opposing officiation at intermarriages. Pamphlets and articles attacking one side or the other abounded. There were even threats of a split in the Conference as there had been before over Zionism.
Five years later, in 1978, Alex Schindler, zichrono livracha, proposed a comprehensive outreach program through which we turned our attention, not only to weddings – the beginning of a new household – but to outcomes – the nature of the family thus created.
In 1983, there were passionate divisions in this Conference over the proposed resolution on children of intermarriage, what has been termed “the patrilineal” resolution. The debate was intense. At the end, we broke new ground in response to new realities, and we proclaimed that, for us, the gender of the Jewish parents would not be the determinant of who is a Jew. Most of us came to live by it. Some still question it. That is part of who we are.
Move forward yet another eleven years. In 1994, in Philadelphia, I was invited to be part of a major program at the convention. Two rabbis and two lay leaders spoke. I was invited to speak on why and how I do in fact officiate at intermarriages. And the president of the Conference at that time, Shim Maslin, who deserves great credit for that program, was a leading proponent of the 1973 resolution. Beit Hillel – They studied and listened to the views of the other side.
This week we have workshops and programs that deal with how we respond to intermarriage, how we engage and involve, yes, and honor, the non-Jewish partner who lives as a Jew albeit without conversion – what some of us call a ger toshav – what I sometimes call a “common law Jew”. The official position may continue to be a ten line resolution in Atlanta, but the practice has become a consensus that there is more than one respectable way to deal with those issues."
So, in combining these two sources, we find that the Reform movement "officially" discourages interfaith marriages and, in the case of an interfaith marriage, encourages the raising of Jewish children, participation in the Jewish community, and the conversion of the non-Jewish spouse. Individual rabbis (including the president of the CCAR) may (and many do) disagree with any of these points and act according to their conscience. So there's an internal struggle in the movement about whether it's of existential value to marry a Jew.
What seems to be agreed upon is that a rabbi should encourage participation in a Jewish community and, ideally, the raising of Jewish children. A point of contention is whether a non-Jewish spouse should be encouraged to convert. Rabbi Richard Address, who was at the Wexner institute last month, told me that sometimes he's had non-Jewish members of his community angry because--in their perception--Rabbi Address was pushing them to convert; and he's also had members of his community angry because--in their perception--Rabbi Address wasn't pushing them enough to convert. Even on a personal level, this is a tricky situation.
But my question is: If a couple is raising their children Jewish and participating in the Jewish community, what value is there to the community for the non-Jewish partner to convert to Judaism? Obviously, if a person discovers a personal meaning in converting to Judaism, she should follow her convictions on whether to convert. But communally, what statement are we making by saying that, all other factors being equal, Jew A is more valuable to us than non-Jew B?
I can't ignore the fact that a Jewish identity is neither sufficient nor necessary for active participation in Jewish family or communal life. Nor can I ignore the fact that Jewish identity makes that participation significantly more accessible (or that an active non-Jewish identity can disrupt a family's Jewish participation). So, is emphasis on conversion a numbers game? "Sure, we agree that a non-Jew can raise Jewish children, but since a Jew is more likely to do so, we want as many Jews raising children as we can."
But that brings us right back to the original question (and please forgive me for traveling in circles; if it's not clear, this forum is largely an opportunity for me to work through complex issues) - Why be Jewish in the first place? Israel, the Jewish state, has done some terrible things. Jews all over the world act immorally and non-Jews act morally. What's the big deal?
Let's cut to the chase: I think that there is a big deal, but I can't back that up. I don't know where the feeling comes from, but I recognize that Jewish history is full of innovation and ethical progress that is worthy of praise. I also recognize that the Jewish community is like a family, and there's no necessary reason to be born into a family; one is simply a part of a family and inherently loves it. So, I suppose I have a blind love for the Jewish people and want to see us live morally and progressively in as many ways as possible.
Does that justify the following caveat in the HUC rabbinical school application?
"In addition to the above requirements, please note that applicants and their spouses, partners, fiancés or fiancées must be Jewish by birth or conversion."
In other words, if I admit to having a non-Jewish girlfriend, I won't be admitted into HUC.
Now, this statement doesn't define Judaism, nor was it ever mentioned during my entire application process. I have heard of students omitting the fact that they have non-Jewish partners and getting into HUC regardless (though as I understand, it generally doesn't happen that someone graduates from HUC with a non-Jewish partner). Nevertheless, the statement is there: Rabbis should have Jewish partners.
This is a topic I discussed with some Wexner Fellows in Stowe. Does a rabbi need to have a non-Jewish partner?
On the one hand, a congregational rabbi is meant to be a leader and example in the Jewish community. There are many Jews, one of my Wexner colleagues included, who would expect a rabbi's partner to participate fully in all congregational activities and have a strong Jewish identity that can be shared with the community. The rabbi's should be a model of a strong Jewish family, and the rabbi should be able to have an uncompromisingly Jewish household to raise children and welcome guests.
On the other hand, if I were talking about anyone else, I would continue to repeat that all those things can happen in an interfaith marriage. A non-Jewish partner can contribute to the Jewish community, participate in a Jewish household, and raise Jewish children. We often stress that rabbis are just like everyone else ... only with more specific knowledge about Jewish topics ... so why should the household of a rabbi be any different? If anything, a rabbi would be virtually guaranteed to have a Jewish household regardless of the religion (or non-religion) of the rabbi's partner, so a rabbi, in a way, could be given even more leniency to cohabitate with whomever she desires.
Furthermore, not all rabbis are communal leaders. Some rabbis become professors, work in Hillel, serve with non-profit organizations, teach at day schools, etc. Are we saying that a Jewish professor has to be married to a Jew if the word "rabbi" comes before (or after) the word "doctor" in his title?
Moreover, as I've mentioned, being Jewish doesn't necessitate that someone is going to be involved in a Jewish community. A rabbi could have a Jewish partner who is entirely disengaged from the Jewish community. If we are looking for Jewish engagement, perhaps there should be a "participation test" for the rabbinical school applicant's partner rather than a "religion test."
Ultimately, the question is: Are we comfortable with playing a numbers game with people's family lives? Are we comfortable saying that, because it is more likely that a Jew will raise a Jewish family, we should encourage Jew-Jew partnerships? I might be able to make that statement if I believed that being Jewish was an existentially superior state than being a non-Jew. I believe that being Jewish is special and unique and wonderful and should be promoted and supported. I believe that being Christian/Muslim/Buddhist/Sikh/Agnostic/Humanist/Unitarian/Alternative/Druid/Tribal/Hindu/Etc. is special and unique and wonderful and should be promoted and supported. I believe, ultimately, that being moral and promoting peace is the greatest value to be promoted and supported and that our focus should be on creating welcoming communities that foster positive interpersonal relations on all levels - familial, communal, and inter-communal.
It's a tough call, whether Jews should have a mission to promote Judaism. As a future rabbi (and according to my own beliefs), I say that Judaism should be supported and that it's generally a good thing for people (especially Jews) to involve themselves in a Jewish community. But, if someone is fulfilled by participating in another community and is going to work to bring peace to the world, I can only offer my blessings and wish them peace.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Wexner Summer Institute, Part 3
.מכון ווקסנר קיץ, החלק השלישי
What follows is a series of thoughts that would normally probably not appear side-by-side. However, one of the greatest values I found at the Wexner institutes was the juxtaposition of topics and people in such a way to generate new and engaging thoughts. Although this post can't possibly reflect all that I learned at the Institute, it'll serve as a good start.
Let's get the ball rolling with an announcement: I will be officiating at my brother Josh's wedding.
I was honored and touched that he asked me before I left for Israel, but I had to think about whether I would accept the honor for about a month. My reservations focused mostly on my extreme lack of knowledge and my uncertainty about the "appropriateness" of my overstepping the bounds of my student-hood and serving in the capacity of a religious leader. At the Institute, I spoke to a rabbinical student at JTS who had recently officiated at his sister's wedding, and in talking to him, I came to realize that I wouldn't be serving so much as a rabbi as a brother in this capacity. In addition, at the Institute I heard several mentions of non-rabbis performing at wedding ceremonies, and I learned that traditionally, weddings have never needed a rabbi. On top of that, this ceremony isn't going to be a traditional Jewish wedding, so my rabbi-hood (or lack thereof) really shouldn't play into it. There's still the bit about my lack of knowledge, but the Wexner Fellow I spoke to shared with me the process of reflection he went through with his sister and her fiance, and I took heart from hearing about someone else going through a similar process. And, of course, I've promised to begin my studies immediately in order to be able to help Josh and Sheri create the most meaningful ceremony we can, and as such, I have a meeting with a rabbi at HUC about this very topic tomorrow afternoon!
Not everything I took away from the Institute was so personal, but I did engage in a number of internal reflections. For example, I spent much of the week being acutely aware of my status as a Reform Jew. Growing up, there were only Reform and Conservative Jews, and what that mostly meant to me was that a few students in my Sunday School class would have Bar and Bat Mitzvahs at the Temple while the rest would have their ceremonies at the Synagogue (in longer and, in my opinion, more boring services). When I immersed myself in the study of Judaism and religion at UVA, I relished in wading through the world of theological and historical Judaism ... but practically speaking, Jewish life was basically Reform, Conservative, or "Cultural." As I increased my involvement in Hillel, I became more "broad" in my thinking (while remaining Reform in my practice), and largely I focused on engaging the "Cultural" Jews in "Cultural" ways. At City Year, my Jewish experience was largely either virtually secular youth programming or deep, significant text study with my chevruta partner, Josh. Once I entered HUC, I was once again dropped into a world of Reform ... but a world that seemed to be surrounded by orthodoxy.
That's a hasty and broad portrayal of the views of Judaism throughout my life, but a common theme that I recall is a two-group system. In Roanoke, it was Reform/Conservative; in Hillel, it was Engaged/Cultural (not fair, I know, but that's how I felt a lot of the time); in Washington, it was spiritual/secular; and in Jerusalem, it's been Reform/Orthodox. During most of those periods, including a lot of my time here at HUC, I'd been more practically aware of what Reform isn't rather than what it is (though since a stimulating conversation with Jessica's parents in Toronto, I've had thoughts of "positive Reform identity" simmering on the back burner). However, that was different at the institute.
As I struggled to remember who was from what program, I also strived to learn from what perspectives my fellow Fellows were approaching various topics. And in juxtaposition with them (and in delayed response to a conversation I had with Ari, one of the Fellows in my class, in Jerusalem before the institute), I began to identify very strongly with the Reform movement. Now, don't get me wrong: I've always (or at least often) felt "very Reform," and I've always been a supporter of most if not all of the Union for Reform Judaism's policies and platforms. I've thought about what it means to be Reform, and I've had opportunities to explore in small ways the differences between Reform Judaism and other movements. But when I was sitting in a circle with 18 non-Reform Jews (and 1 HUC classmate), all of whom were people from whom I wanted to learn, I felt that I stood out as Reform. Since many Jews identify as post- or non-denominational though still "progressive," I believe most of the views about liberal Judaism are represented by Reform Jews. And there I was, at least in self-perception, the walking label of liberal Judaism.
And I didn't feel at all uncomfortable with this. On the contrary, I was proud to be representing my movement in this atmosphere of dialogue and progress. The particularism of that pride waned over the week, but I never entirely lost the feeling of being one of the Reform Jews, especially as I sat at the HUC table that was convened for one of the meals to talk about HUC things.
So, what did that do for my Reform identity? As we proceed, I'll write more about pluralism and my thoughts and interactions with different streams of Judaism; in conjunction with my exploration of other perspectives, I by default continued to define my own position. I talked last post about reading the Pittsburg Platform of 1885 and how I felt a certain identity with my movement in ways I hadn't felt before. On the other hand, the bonds I made with rabbinic students at JTS and American Jewish University, Yeshiva University, Hebrew College, and Yeshivat Chovevei Torah and students in other programs as well extended my communal identity and made my Reform more inclusive. I'm not entirely sure what all this means yet, but I hope that by the time I become a "real" rabbi in the Reform movement, I'll have a much better idea of how I feel about being a member of this specific community in relation, conjunction, and cooperation with members of other specific communities.
Now, of course, I say "specific communities," but I'm also talking about a larger "Jewish community," and in a major way, our institute about Jewish Family was dealing with the question "What is a Jewish Community?" Some corollary questions that came up in conversation were "Who is a Jew?" and "Why does it matter?"
Here's what I would say before the institute: No one can determine someone else's identity. If I identify as Jewish, no one has the authority to tell me that I'm not. (The same goes for gender, sexual orientation, and other classifications as well.) However, my ability to be a part of a community, by definition, requires the cooperation of other members of that community. So, a person says to me, "I believe that Christ is the messiah, I go to church every Sunday, my family doesn't identify as Jewish, and I have no intention of participating in Jewish life. However, my mother was Jewish, so I identify as Jewish as well." I can't tell that person that she's not Jewish, but I can inform her that (A) there are Jews out there who will (erringly, in my opinion) tell her flatly that she's not Jewish and (B) were she to seek acceptance as a member of the Jewish Community, she would not be successful. End of story (especially since extreme hypotheticals rarely reflect reality).
Now, I still largely believe that one's identity is one's own and that participation in a community is communal; however, I have a better appreciation for alternate points of view, and that appreciation came about through a series of discussions that touched on some of the following topics.
Let's move out of the realm of hypothetical and into the realm of actual. In Israel, a Jew can immigrate and become a citizen of the country; they are considered Jewish if at least one grandparent was Jewish. This Judaism is determined by documentation such as birth, Bar/Bat Mitzvah, marriage, or death certificates or affirmation by a rabbi. However, to get married in Israel, one must have an official Orthodox wedding. Official Orthodox weddings cannot happen between the following couples:
Let's say Lev, a Jew, marries Elizabeth, who has a Conservative conversion, and they have a daughter, Sarah. Sarah has two Jewish grandparents (Avi's parents) and therefore successfully makes aliyah. Now, she wants to marry Tomer, an Israeli Jew, and they're willing to have an Orthodox ceremony in Israel (instead of flying to Crete or someplace and coming back for a non-binding wedding ceremony in Israel). So, they go to apply for a marriage license.
When asked to supply affirmation of her Jewishness, Sarah may be asked to produce documentation that her mother is Jewish (which is the traditional halachic/legal definition of Jewishness). Although Sarah was "Jewish enough" to make aliyah under the Law of Return, her mother's conversion certificate isn't sufficient to grant her status as a Jew in the eyes of the rabbinic courts, despite having lived her entire life as a Jew. Now, she and Tomer cannot get married in the State of Israel unless Sarah undergoes an orthodox conversion or they leave the country and receive a foreign marriage license that will be retroactively recognized by the state.
In this instance, Sarah's Judaism is being defined for her and it has real legal implications on her life. I don't know to what degree situations like Sarah's would be enforced in Israel, but conversion, marriage, and divorce are hot topic issues in Israel as there is no separation between religion and state here.
So, getting back to our original question, what right does the rabbinic court have to tell Sarah that she is or isn't Jewish? If they were to follow my philosophy, they'd say, "Okay, so you're not orthodox; we wouldn't recommend trying to fit in to an orthodox community. However, since you identify as Jewish, that's good enough for us. Have a happy marriage!" Although I'm a fan of the separation of religious and legal matters, if Israel is determined to erase that boundary, I believe that they should have a more pluralistic/accepting approach to Judaism. Take the most liberal definitions of Judaism, the ones that include the most Jews and therefore strengthen most of the "Jewish community," and implement them on a broad scale.
A modern orthodox Fellow with whom I was discussing this topic more or less agrees with that assessment (and actually brought it up as a recommendation in our conversation). However, he pushed me to consider further examples where relying on someone's self-identity as Jewish (or on a community's inclusion of someone as a Jewish) may not be so simple. Some complicating examples:
Let's say I'm working with a Jewish non-profit organization that distributes grants to smaller Jewish organizations. An independent chavurah (prayer group) in my city has jointly participated in the Save Darfur campaign of a local synagogue and, inspired, is starting its own grassroots movement. Using college connections, this chavurah is going to undergo a relay bike-a-thon across the entire state and post interviews with state residents about the Darfur situation on YouTube. This chavurah is asking my non-profit for a start-up grant to buy bicycles and a digital recorder.
Background: the chavurah meets once monthly and doesn't include Hebrew in their meetings. They largely follow the Quaker meeting style of sitting in silence and combine it with yoga and meditations. Each meeting, a different member gives a short ethical "sermon," which is followed by discussion at a coffee shop over lunch. The founding members of the chavurah identify as Jewish, and several of their Jewish friends attend. However, a majority of the participants in the monthly meeting do not identify as Jewish.
Now, let's say that I and my colleagues really like the program idea and want to give the group money. However, our charter insists that we support only Jewish programs in order to create solidarity and strengthen support within Jewish communities. So the question is: Is the chavurah a Jewish group?
Let's say we deny them funds because they're not a Jewish group. Are we then stipulating methods of prayer as a definition of Jewishness? Or simply a majority of participants? Would an interfaith-friendly Humanistic congregation face the same fate?
Let's say we grant them funds, agreeing that they are a Jewish group. Are we then affirming that Jewish identity is good enough to be a Jewish group? "Jewish" ethics? Would a Messianic Jewish congregation be accorded the same status?
Here's a second example.
Let's say I'm a rabbi with a Reform congregation. A couple with a 12-year-old son approaches me to say they'd like their son to have a Bar Mitzvah in the sanctuary. The wife and husband don't pay dues to the Temple, they haven't participated in a Jewish event as long as I've been around, and the son hasn't received a religious education. Both parents and the son identify as Jewish; however, none are willing to commit to religious education for the son. They all feel that it's important to mark the son's 13th birthday, to commemorate his ascent into adulthood in the Jewish community (that, who knows?, he may someday participate in), but the demands on the son's time are too great for him to learn a Torah portion and read the prayers. What do I do?
They all identify as Jewish, they've expressed at least a theoretical future interest in Jewish communal life, and they are looking to me to help them commemorate what they feel to be a significant Jewish moment in an otherwise non-Jewish lifestyle.
Let's say I tell them that a true Jewish adult values learning, and therefore the son should make time for his studies. What does that say about the parents' Jewish identities?
Let's say I tell them that, since they haven't needed the Jewish community until now, they should have their own private Bar Mitzvah and continue to live a life of private Judaism. Does that mean I don't want to welcome them into my community?
Let's say I grant the request and offer blessings and commemoration from the bima. Does that send a message to the rest of the congregation that I don't value Jewish education?
The underlying question in these two scenarios is: What is the basis of inclusion in a Jewish community? Is it Jewish identity, singular or popular? Is it monetary contribution? Attendance of services/events? Adherence to tradition? Participation in education? Following a code of ethics?
Prior to the Wexner institute, my answers to these questions would be pretty broad. Largely, inclusion in a Jewish community is experiential. I feel something different about interacting with Jews than non-Jews - there's something special there for me. Perhaps I'd have to apply the same gut reaction to the examples above. Do I connect to the individuals involved as Jews? And are they also seeking inclusion in my Jewish community?
After the Wexner institute, I don't think I have any more specific answers, but I do have in my toolbox a helpful concept: Family. Jews are a family. According to our story, we all descend from Abraham. According to history, Judaism descends from a group of people that achieved a certain amount of national success and identity in Canaan and maintained that identity for thousands of years across the entire globe.
Just like a human-relations family, you can't pick who's related to you. I may not like my cousin (hypothetical here), but I "have" to love him because he's in my family. Just because I disagree with many orthodox points of view doesn't mean I can reject them entirely - we're all still members of this family. Members of a family fight, and they also support one another. They celebrate with each other even if they disagree, and sometimes they get irrationally angry when they wouldn't feel that way with someone outside of the family. The members of my family, like it or not, are related to me, and I have an inescapable bond with them for better or for worse.
And this idea is quite novel to me and really very deep. As pointed out to us by Rabbi Greenberg, this notion of Jewish family isn't just an existential reality but is the method of redemption established by God. God creates the world, and all is good. Then, things start to go wrong as soon as a family is created. Things get worse, and God destroys the world. God makes a covenant with Noah and says, "Okay, I get it, the world's not perfect. Just please try to adhere to some basic rules." Still things continue to go wrong, so God, instead of relying on a covenant with the entire world, turns to one family: Abraham's. God's covenant with Abraham is a unique outlook on the world that says that the instrument of salvation is not through obedience or divine intervention or transcendence or scientific progress but rather through family relationships. As Abraham's family grows, its struggles and developments will create something new and holy in the world. Sometimes it will be beautiful, and sometimes it will be murderous. But in the end, it will be bound by love, and in emulation of that binding love of the Children of Abraham, the world will be able to see past the things that separate people and recognize our responsibility of automatic devotion to one another as Children of Adam.
Of course, this outlook (like all outlooks) has a certain number of complications to it. A major one that was brought up in my conversations at the institute is that of universalism vs. particularism. That is, do I believe that there is something unique and holy about the Jewish family from which the rest of the world would do good to learn? My answer, as always, is complex and unstable.
On the one hand, I believe in a universal good. If one were to sum up ethics in a single statement, it could be, "Do not violate." However, to understand that sentence in all its myriad particulars is a daunting task, and a system by means of which people can order their lives ethically can be extremely helpful. Thus, I believe that the words of Torah are, existentially, holy and through studying them in community, one can touch truth in such a way that one's behavior is shaped in an ethical direction. The Jewish family has produced, protected, and championed a tradition of ethical action and evolution.
However, there are traditional Jewish texts that scream immorality, and I believe it's important to follow our instincts in interpreting the original statement of "Do not violate" in our search for a meaningful interpretation of Torah. For example, in this week's Torah portion (Re'eh), we read:
If anyone secretly entices you—even if it is your brother, your father’s son or your mother’s son, or your own son or daughter, or the wife you embrace, or your most intimate friend—saying, ‘Let us go and worship other gods’, ... you must not yield to or heed any such persons. Show them no pity or compassion and do not shield them. But you shall surely kill them; your own hand shall be first against them to execute them, and afterwards the hand of all the people. Stone them to death for trying to turn you away from the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. Then all Israel shall hear and be afraid, and never again do any such wickedness (Deuteronomy 13: 6, 8-11).
Now, of course, the Jewish notion of idolatry is complex and ultimate, but whether we're talking about enticement away from recognizing God's singularity, encouraging conversion away from Judaism, propagandizing into nationalism, or preaching of immorality, I nevertheless believe that "show them no pity or compassion ... your own hand shall be the first to execute [your own son or daughter]" must be interpreted in a non-literal way because the literal translation absolutely transgresses the precept of "Do not violate."
But how do I know that it transgresses that precept if traditional Jewish texts aren't telling me? Well, the easy answer is that Jewish texts are telling me, and I surely could find Jewish texts to support my view. This becomes particularly evident with rabbis who want to give a sermon on a particular topic and go researching texts that will support their view. But, look more basically: How did the original authors of those Jewish texts (assuming they're identifiable) come up with the interpretations that they did? I could be wrong, but my assumption is that they were acting according to basic moral principles that guide our everyday life.
So, back to the question: What's so great about the Jewish family? The answer: I don't know. Perhaps it's merely historical/factual: In history, the Jews have done a lot of good things and continue to do a lot of good things, so we must have gotten something right. Of course, I also believe that not just the Jews but also the Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, etc. also got a lot right. Perhaps what we've got, though, is a practical approach to peace:
Family. Christianity is focused on God as an instrument of salvation. Judaism is focused on our family. A universalizing of the Jewish message could therefore read: Cherish the human family, despite our differences, and we'll be able to love one another like the Jews do. Maybe it's not a perfectly thought-out conclusion, but I think it's pretty good. The model of family is an excellent paradigm of human interrelations, and our ability to recognize one another as true family members is essential to being able to spread peace throughout the world.
Easy, right? Maybe in thought but certainly not in practice. And the Jewish family still hasn't gotten it totally right. Jews continue to fight, disagree, and be separated from one another. We often talk about Jewish communities since agreeing about the Jewish Community is too difficult. This Wexner institute enormously helped me out personally in this field by getting me to challenge myself and my notions of pluralism. By trying to see "Judaism" through the eyes of a Jew of a different perspective, my own view was broadened.
To me, halacha (Jewish law) is not the literal word of God since to me, God is not a conscious actor in the world and therefore couldn't have told us, in language, what to do. I do believe that words of God exist but are more broad that halacha allows. We read in Genesis, "God said let there be light, and there was light." That is, everything in the world is a Word of God. In Hebrew, דבר means both "thing" and "word." They're the same. So claiming that the Talmud is the Word of God and that the New Testament or I am not is too exclusionary.
However, after conversations at Wexner, I can further shade my understanding. Just because halacha does not represent the entire corpus of God's words does not mean that they aren't holy. I believe that those who adhere to them should be concerned with constant re-examination in the light of ethical review (see the Conservative movement), but I can't say that living by halacha is not a good starting point.
And therefore, I allow that for many, Judaism is not just thought-based but also action-based. To many Orthodox Jews, Judaism does imply a necessary set of ethical and theological standards, but one must also act in a certain way to be Jewish. (For the purposes of this conversation, let's assume that an Orthodox Jew is defining herself and not trying to determine someone else's level of Jewish commitment or peoplehood.) Thus, if I'm Orthodox, believing in God and keeping kosher are identical.
This leads me to thoughts I've been having about pluralism. Generally, I have thought of pluralism as being a worldview - to be pluralistic is to accept that what I believe is true without making a judgement one way or another on whether what you believe is true (and leaving room for both of us to be right even if we're in contradiction). However, I now recognize another dimension of pluralism, at least within the context of Judaism: Pluralism of practice.
It was my experience at Hillel that, whenever we wanted to plan something "religious" for the entire community, we'd survey the most observant students and make sure that everything adhered to their standards. Over the years, I became somewhat frustrated by never being able to express the strong Reform identity that I mentioned way back at the beginning of this post. "Why can't we be pluralistic about this?" I'd wonder. "Why always be monolithic in our practical approach?"
Fast forward to the Wexner institute, where pluralism is the name of the game (though never actually mentioned officially). I found that the programs and dialogues were very pluralistic and sought to address challenges of building a welcoming and broad Jewish community. In talking with an Orthodox Fellow, I realized that this was a form of the same process I had experienced at Hillel but in the opposite direction.
Pluralism of practice leans to the right; pluralism of thought leans to the left.
At the institute, was that there wasn't an attempt to achieve pluralism of practice. Services were all separated, the food was strictly kosher, and we didn't have the institute over Shabbat. All practical considerations were handled deftly and in advance so that we could get to the meat of the pluralistic discussion.
However, the essentially practical elements of Judaism were excluded from our institute.
On the one hand, I loved the conversations, and I know that they were mind-stretching to us all, the most observant among us more than most. Yet, I feel a certain sense of guilt at having had everything "my way." In a sense, I was very at ease talking about interfaith marriages, homosexuality, conversions, and rational religion, but there were others who were forced into silence on these issues. If we were in an Orthodox service, perhaps I, too, would be forced into silence, and I would better have been able to appreciate the perspective of some of my fellow Fellows.
I'm not sure what this means for my life other than that I have a more nuanced appreciation for the practical challenges of pluralism. I will definitely keep this thought alive, though, and I may seek to address it at a future institute.
As is obvious, I learned a tremendous amount at the institute, and I deeply appreciated the opportunity to engage in serious critical thinking. Perhaps more than anything else, I learned so much about orthodox Judaism, orthodox outlooks on pluralism, challenges in the modern orthodox world, etc. To be honest, it was exactly what I needed. Yes, stories about the "Modesty Squad" still set my blood aboil, but I love my orthodox friends as family, and I hope that one day I can relate even to ultra-orthodox Jews in such a way that, though I disagree with them, I also love them (and vice versa). The Wexner institute, though imperfect, was a small-scale model of positive pluralistic thinking that hopefully will be translated into action. I very much look forward to future institutes and, moreso, to building a stronger Jewish family that reaches out to all of our fellow Children of Adam.
What follows is a series of thoughts that would normally probably not appear side-by-side. However, one of the greatest values I found at the Wexner institutes was the juxtaposition of topics and people in such a way to generate new and engaging thoughts. Although this post can't possibly reflect all that I learned at the Institute, it'll serve as a good start.
Let's get the ball rolling with an announcement: I will be officiating at my brother Josh's wedding.
I was honored and touched that he asked me before I left for Israel, but I had to think about whether I would accept the honor for about a month. My reservations focused mostly on my extreme lack of knowledge and my uncertainty about the "appropriateness" of my overstepping the bounds of my student-hood and serving in the capacity of a religious leader. At the Institute, I spoke to a rabbinical student at JTS who had recently officiated at his sister's wedding, and in talking to him, I came to realize that I wouldn't be serving so much as a rabbi as a brother in this capacity. In addition, at the Institute I heard several mentions of non-rabbis performing at wedding ceremonies, and I learned that traditionally, weddings have never needed a rabbi. On top of that, this ceremony isn't going to be a traditional Jewish wedding, so my rabbi-hood (or lack thereof) really shouldn't play into it. There's still the bit about my lack of knowledge, but the Wexner Fellow I spoke to shared with me the process of reflection he went through with his sister and her fiance, and I took heart from hearing about someone else going through a similar process. And, of course, I've promised to begin my studies immediately in order to be able to help Josh and Sheri create the most meaningful ceremony we can, and as such, I have a meeting with a rabbi at HUC about this very topic tomorrow afternoon!
Not everything I took away from the Institute was so personal, but I did engage in a number of internal reflections. For example, I spent much of the week being acutely aware of my status as a Reform Jew. Growing up, there were only Reform and Conservative Jews, and what that mostly meant to me was that a few students in my Sunday School class would have Bar and Bat Mitzvahs at the Temple while the rest would have their ceremonies at the Synagogue (in longer and, in my opinion, more boring services). When I immersed myself in the study of Judaism and religion at UVA, I relished in wading through the world of theological and historical Judaism ... but practically speaking, Jewish life was basically Reform, Conservative, or "Cultural." As I increased my involvement in Hillel, I became more "broad" in my thinking (while remaining Reform in my practice), and largely I focused on engaging the "Cultural" Jews in "Cultural" ways. At City Year, my Jewish experience was largely either virtually secular youth programming or deep, significant text study with my chevruta partner, Josh. Once I entered HUC, I was once again dropped into a world of Reform ... but a world that seemed to be surrounded by orthodoxy.
That's a hasty and broad portrayal of the views of Judaism throughout my life, but a common theme that I recall is a two-group system. In Roanoke, it was Reform/Conservative; in Hillel, it was Engaged/Cultural (not fair, I know, but that's how I felt a lot of the time); in Washington, it was spiritual/secular; and in Jerusalem, it's been Reform/Orthodox. During most of those periods, including a lot of my time here at HUC, I'd been more practically aware of what Reform isn't rather than what it is (though since a stimulating conversation with Jessica's parents in Toronto, I've had thoughts of "positive Reform identity" simmering on the back burner). However, that was different at the institute.
As I struggled to remember who was from what program, I also strived to learn from what perspectives my fellow Fellows were approaching various topics. And in juxtaposition with them (and in delayed response to a conversation I had with Ari, one of the Fellows in my class, in Jerusalem before the institute), I began to identify very strongly with the Reform movement. Now, don't get me wrong: I've always (or at least often) felt "very Reform," and I've always been a supporter of most if not all of the Union for Reform Judaism's policies and platforms. I've thought about what it means to be Reform, and I've had opportunities to explore in small ways the differences between Reform Judaism and other movements. But when I was sitting in a circle with 18 non-Reform Jews (and 1 HUC classmate), all of whom were people from whom I wanted to learn, I felt that I stood out as Reform. Since many Jews identify as post- or non-denominational though still "progressive," I believe most of the views about liberal Judaism are represented by Reform Jews. And there I was, at least in self-perception, the walking label of liberal Judaism.
And I didn't feel at all uncomfortable with this. On the contrary, I was proud to be representing my movement in this atmosphere of dialogue and progress. The particularism of that pride waned over the week, but I never entirely lost the feeling of being one of the Reform Jews, especially as I sat at the HUC table that was convened for one of the meals to talk about HUC things.
So, what did that do for my Reform identity? As we proceed, I'll write more about pluralism and my thoughts and interactions with different streams of Judaism; in conjunction with my exploration of other perspectives, I by default continued to define my own position. I talked last post about reading the Pittsburg Platform of 1885 and how I felt a certain identity with my movement in ways I hadn't felt before. On the other hand, the bonds I made with rabbinic students at JTS and American Jewish University, Yeshiva University, Hebrew College, and Yeshivat Chovevei Torah and students in other programs as well extended my communal identity and made my Reform more inclusive. I'm not entirely sure what all this means yet, but I hope that by the time I become a "real" rabbi in the Reform movement, I'll have a much better idea of how I feel about being a member of this specific community in relation, conjunction, and cooperation with members of other specific communities.
Now, of course, I say "specific communities," but I'm also talking about a larger "Jewish community," and in a major way, our institute about Jewish Family was dealing with the question "What is a Jewish Community?" Some corollary questions that came up in conversation were "Who is a Jew?" and "Why does it matter?"
Here's what I would say before the institute: No one can determine someone else's identity. If I identify as Jewish, no one has the authority to tell me that I'm not. (The same goes for gender, sexual orientation, and other classifications as well.) However, my ability to be a part of a community, by definition, requires the cooperation of other members of that community. So, a person says to me, "I believe that Christ is the messiah, I go to church every Sunday, my family doesn't identify as Jewish, and I have no intention of participating in Jewish life. However, my mother was Jewish, so I identify as Jewish as well." I can't tell that person that she's not Jewish, but I can inform her that (A) there are Jews out there who will (erringly, in my opinion) tell her flatly that she's not Jewish and (B) were she to seek acceptance as a member of the Jewish Community, she would not be successful. End of story (especially since extreme hypotheticals rarely reflect reality).
Now, I still largely believe that one's identity is one's own and that participation in a community is communal; however, I have a better appreciation for alternate points of view, and that appreciation came about through a series of discussions that touched on some of the following topics.
Let's move out of the realm of hypothetical and into the realm of actual. In Israel, a Jew can immigrate and become a citizen of the country; they are considered Jewish if at least one grandparent was Jewish. This Judaism is determined by documentation such as birth, Bar/Bat Mitzvah, marriage, or death certificates or affirmation by a rabbi. However, to get married in Israel, one must have an official Orthodox wedding. Official Orthodox weddings cannot happen between the following couples:
- Jew/non-Jew
- Kohen/divorcee, child of non-Jewish father, offspring of non-recognized marriage, a widow who performed chalitza, a widow who converted
- Man/man
- Woman/woman
- Mamzer/non-mamzer
Let's say Lev, a Jew, marries Elizabeth, who has a Conservative conversion, and they have a daughter, Sarah. Sarah has two Jewish grandparents (Avi's parents) and therefore successfully makes aliyah. Now, she wants to marry Tomer, an Israeli Jew, and they're willing to have an Orthodox ceremony in Israel (instead of flying to Crete or someplace and coming back for a non-binding wedding ceremony in Israel). So, they go to apply for a marriage license.
When asked to supply affirmation of her Jewishness, Sarah may be asked to produce documentation that her mother is Jewish (which is the traditional halachic/legal definition of Jewishness). Although Sarah was "Jewish enough" to make aliyah under the Law of Return, her mother's conversion certificate isn't sufficient to grant her status as a Jew in the eyes of the rabbinic courts, despite having lived her entire life as a Jew. Now, she and Tomer cannot get married in the State of Israel unless Sarah undergoes an orthodox conversion or they leave the country and receive a foreign marriage license that will be retroactively recognized by the state.
In this instance, Sarah's Judaism is being defined for her and it has real legal implications on her life. I don't know to what degree situations like Sarah's would be enforced in Israel, but conversion, marriage, and divorce are hot topic issues in Israel as there is no separation between religion and state here.
So, getting back to our original question, what right does the rabbinic court have to tell Sarah that she is or isn't Jewish? If they were to follow my philosophy, they'd say, "Okay, so you're not orthodox; we wouldn't recommend trying to fit in to an orthodox community. However, since you identify as Jewish, that's good enough for us. Have a happy marriage!" Although I'm a fan of the separation of religious and legal matters, if Israel is determined to erase that boundary, I believe that they should have a more pluralistic/accepting approach to Judaism. Take the most liberal definitions of Judaism, the ones that include the most Jews and therefore strengthen most of the "Jewish community," and implement them on a broad scale.
A modern orthodox Fellow with whom I was discussing this topic more or less agrees with that assessment (and actually brought it up as a recommendation in our conversation). However, he pushed me to consider further examples where relying on someone's self-identity as Jewish (or on a community's inclusion of someone as a Jewish) may not be so simple. Some complicating examples:
Let's say I'm working with a Jewish non-profit organization that distributes grants to smaller Jewish organizations. An independent chavurah (prayer group) in my city has jointly participated in the Save Darfur campaign of a local synagogue and, inspired, is starting its own grassroots movement. Using college connections, this chavurah is going to undergo a relay bike-a-thon across the entire state and post interviews with state residents about the Darfur situation on YouTube. This chavurah is asking my non-profit for a start-up grant to buy bicycles and a digital recorder.
Background: the chavurah meets once monthly and doesn't include Hebrew in their meetings. They largely follow the Quaker meeting style of sitting in silence and combine it with yoga and meditations. Each meeting, a different member gives a short ethical "sermon," which is followed by discussion at a coffee shop over lunch. The founding members of the chavurah identify as Jewish, and several of their Jewish friends attend. However, a majority of the participants in the monthly meeting do not identify as Jewish.
Now, let's say that I and my colleagues really like the program idea and want to give the group money. However, our charter insists that we support only Jewish programs in order to create solidarity and strengthen support within Jewish communities. So the question is: Is the chavurah a Jewish group?
Let's say we deny them funds because they're not a Jewish group. Are we then stipulating methods of prayer as a definition of Jewishness? Or simply a majority of participants? Would an interfaith-friendly Humanistic congregation face the same fate?
Let's say we grant them funds, agreeing that they are a Jewish group. Are we then affirming that Jewish identity is good enough to be a Jewish group? "Jewish" ethics? Would a Messianic Jewish congregation be accorded the same status?
Here's a second example.
Let's say I'm a rabbi with a Reform congregation. A couple with a 12-year-old son approaches me to say they'd like their son to have a Bar Mitzvah in the sanctuary. The wife and husband don't pay dues to the Temple, they haven't participated in a Jewish event as long as I've been around, and the son hasn't received a religious education. Both parents and the son identify as Jewish; however, none are willing to commit to religious education for the son. They all feel that it's important to mark the son's 13th birthday, to commemorate his ascent into adulthood in the Jewish community (that, who knows?, he may someday participate in), but the demands on the son's time are too great for him to learn a Torah portion and read the prayers. What do I do?
They all identify as Jewish, they've expressed at least a theoretical future interest in Jewish communal life, and they are looking to me to help them commemorate what they feel to be a significant Jewish moment in an otherwise non-Jewish lifestyle.
Let's say I tell them that a true Jewish adult values learning, and therefore the son should make time for his studies. What does that say about the parents' Jewish identities?
Let's say I tell them that, since they haven't needed the Jewish community until now, they should have their own private Bar Mitzvah and continue to live a life of private Judaism. Does that mean I don't want to welcome them into my community?
Let's say I grant the request and offer blessings and commemoration from the bima. Does that send a message to the rest of the congregation that I don't value Jewish education?
The underlying question in these two scenarios is: What is the basis of inclusion in a Jewish community? Is it Jewish identity, singular or popular? Is it monetary contribution? Attendance of services/events? Adherence to tradition? Participation in education? Following a code of ethics?
Prior to the Wexner institute, my answers to these questions would be pretty broad. Largely, inclusion in a Jewish community is experiential. I feel something different about interacting with Jews than non-Jews - there's something special there for me. Perhaps I'd have to apply the same gut reaction to the examples above. Do I connect to the individuals involved as Jews? And are they also seeking inclusion in my Jewish community?
After the Wexner institute, I don't think I have any more specific answers, but I do have in my toolbox a helpful concept: Family. Jews are a family. According to our story, we all descend from Abraham. According to history, Judaism descends from a group of people that achieved a certain amount of national success and identity in Canaan and maintained that identity for thousands of years across the entire globe.
Just like a human-relations family, you can't pick who's related to you. I may not like my cousin (hypothetical here), but I "have" to love him because he's in my family. Just because I disagree with many orthodox points of view doesn't mean I can reject them entirely - we're all still members of this family. Members of a family fight, and they also support one another. They celebrate with each other even if they disagree, and sometimes they get irrationally angry when they wouldn't feel that way with someone outside of the family. The members of my family, like it or not, are related to me, and I have an inescapable bond with them for better or for worse.
And this idea is quite novel to me and really very deep. As pointed out to us by Rabbi Greenberg, this notion of Jewish family isn't just an existential reality but is the method of redemption established by God. God creates the world, and all is good. Then, things start to go wrong as soon as a family is created. Things get worse, and God destroys the world. God makes a covenant with Noah and says, "Okay, I get it, the world's not perfect. Just please try to adhere to some basic rules." Still things continue to go wrong, so God, instead of relying on a covenant with the entire world, turns to one family: Abraham's. God's covenant with Abraham is a unique outlook on the world that says that the instrument of salvation is not through obedience or divine intervention or transcendence or scientific progress but rather through family relationships. As Abraham's family grows, its struggles and developments will create something new and holy in the world. Sometimes it will be beautiful, and sometimes it will be murderous. But in the end, it will be bound by love, and in emulation of that binding love of the Children of Abraham, the world will be able to see past the things that separate people and recognize our responsibility of automatic devotion to one another as Children of Adam.
Of course, this outlook (like all outlooks) has a certain number of complications to it. A major one that was brought up in my conversations at the institute is that of universalism vs. particularism. That is, do I believe that there is something unique and holy about the Jewish family from which the rest of the world would do good to learn? My answer, as always, is complex and unstable.
On the one hand, I believe in a universal good. If one were to sum up ethics in a single statement, it could be, "Do not violate." However, to understand that sentence in all its myriad particulars is a daunting task, and a system by means of which people can order their lives ethically can be extremely helpful. Thus, I believe that the words of Torah are, existentially, holy and through studying them in community, one can touch truth in such a way that one's behavior is shaped in an ethical direction. The Jewish family has produced, protected, and championed a tradition of ethical action and evolution.
However, there are traditional Jewish texts that scream immorality, and I believe it's important to follow our instincts in interpreting the original statement of "Do not violate" in our search for a meaningful interpretation of Torah. For example, in this week's Torah portion (Re'eh), we read:
If anyone secretly entices you—even if it is your brother, your father’s son or your mother’s son, or your own son or daughter, or the wife you embrace, or your most intimate friend—saying, ‘Let us go and worship other gods’, ... you must not yield to or heed any such persons. Show them no pity or compassion and do not shield them. But you shall surely kill them; your own hand shall be first against them to execute them, and afterwards the hand of all the people. Stone them to death for trying to turn you away from the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. Then all Israel shall hear and be afraid, and never again do any such wickedness (Deuteronomy 13: 6, 8-11).
Now, of course, the Jewish notion of idolatry is complex and ultimate, but whether we're talking about enticement away from recognizing God's singularity, encouraging conversion away from Judaism, propagandizing into nationalism, or preaching of immorality, I nevertheless believe that "show them no pity or compassion ... your own hand shall be the first to execute [your own son or daughter]" must be interpreted in a non-literal way because the literal translation absolutely transgresses the precept of "Do not violate."
But how do I know that it transgresses that precept if traditional Jewish texts aren't telling me? Well, the easy answer is that Jewish texts are telling me, and I surely could find Jewish texts to support my view. This becomes particularly evident with rabbis who want to give a sermon on a particular topic and go researching texts that will support their view. But, look more basically: How did the original authors of those Jewish texts (assuming they're identifiable) come up with the interpretations that they did? I could be wrong, but my assumption is that they were acting according to basic moral principles that guide our everyday life.
So, back to the question: What's so great about the Jewish family? The answer: I don't know. Perhaps it's merely historical/factual: In history, the Jews have done a lot of good things and continue to do a lot of good things, so we must have gotten something right. Of course, I also believe that not just the Jews but also the Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, etc. also got a lot right. Perhaps what we've got, though, is a practical approach to peace:
Family. Christianity is focused on God as an instrument of salvation. Judaism is focused on our family. A universalizing of the Jewish message could therefore read: Cherish the human family, despite our differences, and we'll be able to love one another like the Jews do. Maybe it's not a perfectly thought-out conclusion, but I think it's pretty good. The model of family is an excellent paradigm of human interrelations, and our ability to recognize one another as true family members is essential to being able to spread peace throughout the world.
Easy, right? Maybe in thought but certainly not in practice. And the Jewish family still hasn't gotten it totally right. Jews continue to fight, disagree, and be separated from one another. We often talk about Jewish communities since agreeing about the Jewish Community is too difficult. This Wexner institute enormously helped me out personally in this field by getting me to challenge myself and my notions of pluralism. By trying to see "Judaism" through the eyes of a Jew of a different perspective, my own view was broadened.
To me, halacha (Jewish law) is not the literal word of God since to me, God is not a conscious actor in the world and therefore couldn't have told us, in language, what to do. I do believe that words of God exist but are more broad that halacha allows. We read in Genesis, "God said let there be light, and there was light." That is, everything in the world is a Word of God. In Hebrew, דבר means both "thing" and "word." They're the same. So claiming that the Talmud is the Word of God and that the New Testament or I am not is too exclusionary.
However, after conversations at Wexner, I can further shade my understanding. Just because halacha does not represent the entire corpus of God's words does not mean that they aren't holy. I believe that those who adhere to them should be concerned with constant re-examination in the light of ethical review (see the Conservative movement), but I can't say that living by halacha is not a good starting point.
And therefore, I allow that for many, Judaism is not just thought-based but also action-based. To many Orthodox Jews, Judaism does imply a necessary set of ethical and theological standards, but one must also act in a certain way to be Jewish. (For the purposes of this conversation, let's assume that an Orthodox Jew is defining herself and not trying to determine someone else's level of Jewish commitment or peoplehood.) Thus, if I'm Orthodox, believing in God and keeping kosher are identical.
This leads me to thoughts I've been having about pluralism. Generally, I have thought of pluralism as being a worldview - to be pluralistic is to accept that what I believe is true without making a judgement one way or another on whether what you believe is true (and leaving room for both of us to be right even if we're in contradiction). However, I now recognize another dimension of pluralism, at least within the context of Judaism: Pluralism of practice.
It was my experience at Hillel that, whenever we wanted to plan something "religious" for the entire community, we'd survey the most observant students and make sure that everything adhered to their standards. Over the years, I became somewhat frustrated by never being able to express the strong Reform identity that I mentioned way back at the beginning of this post. "Why can't we be pluralistic about this?" I'd wonder. "Why always be monolithic in our practical approach?"
Fast forward to the Wexner institute, where pluralism is the name of the game (though never actually mentioned officially). I found that the programs and dialogues were very pluralistic and sought to address challenges of building a welcoming and broad Jewish community. In talking with an Orthodox Fellow, I realized that this was a form of the same process I had experienced at Hillel but in the opposite direction.
Pluralism of practice leans to the right; pluralism of thought leans to the left.
At the institute, was that there wasn't an attempt to achieve pluralism of practice. Services were all separated, the food was strictly kosher, and we didn't have the institute over Shabbat. All practical considerations were handled deftly and in advance so that we could get to the meat of the pluralistic discussion.
However, the essentially practical elements of Judaism were excluded from our institute.
On the one hand, I loved the conversations, and I know that they were mind-stretching to us all, the most observant among us more than most. Yet, I feel a certain sense of guilt at having had everything "my way." In a sense, I was very at ease talking about interfaith marriages, homosexuality, conversions, and rational religion, but there were others who were forced into silence on these issues. If we were in an Orthodox service, perhaps I, too, would be forced into silence, and I would better have been able to appreciate the perspective of some of my fellow Fellows.
I'm not sure what this means for my life other than that I have a more nuanced appreciation for the practical challenges of pluralism. I will definitely keep this thought alive, though, and I may seek to address it at a future institute.
As is obvious, I learned a tremendous amount at the institute, and I deeply appreciated the opportunity to engage in serious critical thinking. Perhaps more than anything else, I learned so much about orthodox Judaism, orthodox outlooks on pluralism, challenges in the modern orthodox world, etc. To be honest, it was exactly what I needed. Yes, stories about the "Modesty Squad" still set my blood aboil, but I love my orthodox friends as family, and I hope that one day I can relate even to ultra-orthodox Jews in such a way that, though I disagree with them, I also love them (and vice versa). The Wexner institute, though imperfect, was a small-scale model of positive pluralistic thinking that hopefully will be translated into action. I very much look forward to future institutes and, moreso, to building a stronger Jewish family that reaches out to all of our fellow Children of Adam.
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