Finding Ourselves in Torah

When you walk into a house of worship, you might reasonably expect to find at the front and center of the sanctuary the symbols and iconography that that particular faith tradition holds most precious.

When you walk into a synagogue, you do, indeed, find at the center the symbol that the Jewish people holds most dear: the Torah. It’s not a picture of Abraham and Sarah, or a picture of Moses, Miriam, and Aaron. What the Jewish people holds most dear is not the image of these great figures of our mythic past, but rather the book that tells their story.

When you look at picture, all you see is the person in the picture. But when you look in a book, it’s possible to see not only the characters therein, but also to see yourself.

And this is why the Jewish people holds the Torah most dear: not because we can find our mythic forebears in it, but because we can find ourselves in it.

The Great God Debate

Yesterday afternoon at WRT, a group of 5th-7th grade students met to participate in "The Great God Debate."

We know that a person doesn't have to believe in God in order to be Jewish: Judaism has always been more interested in asking good questions than in providing definite answers. And so, we added our voices to the long-standing Jewish tradition of asking big questions about God.

While the nuances of each student's beliefs were left on the floor of the debate stage, we were able to capture some data on what our students believe. Below are some of the results:

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The Problem of Suffering
Philosophers argue that if God is as we expect, then God should be all-good, all-powerful, and all-knowing. However, since we see that there is suffering in the world, we realize that God can't be all three of these things at once. Otherwise, the all-knowing part of God would know that people suffer; the all-good part of God want to remove that suffering; and the all-powerful part of God would take initiative to alleviate that suffering. And yet, suffering people still suffer.

In response to this problem, philosophers argue that at any one moment, God can, at maximum, only be two of these three qualities. After a rich debate, our students voted to tell us which of these three attributes they think is least likely to be true about God. Results are below:

Jewish Theology
Jewish religious thinkers make three main assertions about God, often referred to as: Creation, Revelation, and Redemption. "Creation" refers to the Jewish belief that God created the world. "Revelation" refers to the Jewish belief that God gives us specific instructions for how to act in the world, which Jews call "commandments." "Redemption" refers to the Jewish belief that God has the power to change the world and our lives. These three beliefs are enshrined in the three blessings that surround the Shema prayer.

Below, our students ranked these Jewish theological claims, in order from most believable to least believable.





The Chosen People?
Jewish thinkers have long disagreed on what it means to be "the chosen people." Does this mean that God cares more about the Jews? Does it mean that God expects more responsibility from the Jews? Or does it mean that each people and religion has its own special relationship with God -- each people "chosen" for its own unique qualities and destiny?

Below our students respond to whether God has a special relationship with the Jewish people.





Belief in God
Based on our earlier discussions, our students weighed in on the broadest question of them all: "Do I believe in God?"

Three Generations Respond to the Election

Since the election, I have a number of times facilitated the following discussion with elementary school-aged students and their parents at WRT:

Since the election, I’ve been thinking about three Jewish holidays that fall around this time. Each holiday has a value associated with it.

The first holiday that I’m thinking of is the one that just passed, Sukkot. On Sukkot, we wave the lulav and the etrog. The lulav and the etrog are made up of a three of different kinds of tree branches, plus a citrus fruit. And although these four elements are different from one another, we hold them all together. So from the holiday of Sukkot, I’m reminded that it’s important to spend time with people who are different from you.

The second holiday that I’m thinking of is the one that’s coming up, Chanukkah. On Chanukkah, we light the menorah each night, starting with only one candle, and every night adding another candle—until finally, on the last night, we have eight bright candles aglow in the menorah. So from the holiday of Chanukkah, I’m reminded that the Jewish tradition believes that the future is always brighter than the present.

The third holiday that I’m thinking of is one that we celebrate every week, Shabbat. Shabbat is a day of rest. Rather than doing schoolwork or going to our jobs, we spend time relaxing with family and friends. We rest on Shabbat, in part, so that we can be replenished for the other six days of the week, when the world really needs our hardest, best efforts. So from the holiday of Shabbat, I’m reminded that our work in the world really matters.

My question to you is: In the wake of the election, which of these three holiday values is most important to you right now? What makes that value so important?

I’ve heard families make the case for each of the three holidays, often underscored by an obvious emotional seriousness.

One of the most interesting responses came from a family that agreed on a holiday/value (Sukkot/spending time with people who are different from you), but disagreed on how to interpret that value. This family had three generations present at the conversation. A fifth grader said: “I think it’s important to be around people who look different than us, or pray differently than us, or speak different languages than we do—because the United States is made up of lots of different kinds of people.” Her mom added: “On top of that, it’s important to try to understand people who may have voted differently than we did—to recognize that not everyone thinks the same way as we do, or has the same life circumstances as us.” Her grandfather added: “Yes, it’s important to try to understand people who may have different life circumstances than us, but we can never let our own goal of seeking understanding become a free pass for bigotry.”

The fifth grader believes in multiculturalism, and regrets that that Trump’s rhetoric has alienated so many people. Her mom wants to widen the circle of understanding across the political divide, feeling it her duty to understand the lived differences of Trump voters who feel that the American system has forgotten them and left them behind. Her grandfather is open to widening the circle of understanding, but no so wide as to make space for intolerance and bigotry.

I resonate with all three generations—each appropriate to its age and stage. I pray that we are able to enact all three, and most importantly, to know when is the right time for which response.

The Age-Old Story of Jewish Culture Conflict

Delivered at Westchester Reform Temple on Parshat Noach 5777.

For as long as there have been Jewish communities, there have been Jewish communal conflicts.

My mom’s family are proud Greek Jews. My great-grandfather Jessoula was a rabbi in the town Janina—a charming university town situated on a lake in northwest Greece. When he arrived in this country in the early 20^th century, he established a small Greek synagogue on the Lower East Side, which is still in existence today. There, every Saturday morning, a small minyan meets to celebrate Shabbat in the Greek Jewish style—the only such minyan in the world.

But in order for even this small Greek minyan to exist in New York City, the Greek Jewish community had to undergo a centuries-long communal conflict over the very fabric of their cultural identity.

Up until the eve of the Holocaust, the Greek Jewish community was divided into two major demographic strands: Jews of Greek origin, and Jews of Spanish origin. The Jews of Greek origin had been living in Greece for nearly two millennia, since the destruction of the Second Temple in the year 70 CE, while the Jews of Spanish origin had been living in Greece for only 500 years, since the expulsion of the Jews from Spain, in 1492. For nearly 500 years, these two groups fought each other to see whose culture would define Jewish life in Greece. They disagreed about whose prayer book they ought to use, whose dietary customs were more correct, and not least of all, in whose language they ought to conduct Jewish communal affairs.

In the northern Greek city of Thessaloniki, the sheer number of Spanish refugees eventually caused that Jewish community to adopt Spanish customs.

In Janina, where my great-grandfather was born, the Greek Jews were so concerned about the preserving their cultural identity that they petitioned the Chief Rabbi of Constantinople to forbid Spanish Jews from settling there. Their petition was not approved. The Jewish community of Janina ballooned, so much so that a new synagogue was built on the outskirts of town to accommodate the influx of Spanish Jews. Eventually, these two communities found a way to get along. For communal events, the Jews would gather in the pristine building of the new Spanish synagogue, but while they were there, they would practice the historic Greek customs.

By looking at family surnames, I’ve hypothesized that my ancestors in Janina were originally of Greek origin. Which leads me to wonder: How well did my ancestors get along with their newly arrived Spanish neighbors? Were they part of the group that petitioned to ban Spanish Jews from settling in Janina? Or were they part of the historic compromise that enabled the two Jewish communities to find common ground? In their historic Jewish culture conflict, how did my ancestors behave?

This week, in Israel, we’ve witnessed a different historic Jewish culture conflict—over who has the right to pray at the Western Wall, and how. Our own rabbi emeritus, Rabbi Rick Jacobs, marched alongside other world Jewish leaders in protest of the Israeli government’s failure to create an egalitarian prayer space at the Western Wall. We should note that the struggle over Wall itself is but one symbolic example of the many ways in which non-Orthodox forms of Judaism are granted unequal status in Israel. Reform marriages and conversions are not recognized as religiously valid by the Israeli rabbinate; and while Orthodox institutions get state funding, non-Orthodox institutions, with a few exceptions, are left to fend to themselves. With their protest this week, non-Orthodox Jewish leaders declare: the existence of Israel unites the Jewish people, but some of its policies religious divide us from one another.

Fittingly, in this week’s Torah portion, we read the story of the Tower of Babel. As the story goes, human beings were united by a desire to be like God, to make a name for themselves on earth and in heaven. And so, they decided to build a tower that would reach the sky. United by their common purpose, people from the four corners of the earth bought tools, skills, and materials to aid in the Tower’s construction. But threatened by this upstart human endeavor, God decided to confound the humans’ speech, such that each person spoke a different language, and no one could understand the other.

A midrash imagines that at the Tower of Babel, one worker asked another to pass him a brick. But because, they didn’t speak the same language, the second worker brought the first not a brick, but rather, a shovel. And when the first worker realized that he’d been misunderstood, he took his co-worker’s shovel hit him over the head with it. In this way, the Tower of Babel represents not only the origins of the world’s many languages, but also the origins of cultural conflict.

Our tradition knows of the possibility of internal Jewish culture conflict. It is perhaps for this reason that we can recognize two schools of thought within our sacred texts: one that emphasizes what binds all Jews together, and the other that emphasizes what makes each Jewish community unique. The tension between these two schools of thought is illustrated by a brain puzzle presented in the Talmud. If, God forbid, a Jewish house of study should catch fire—asks the Talmud—and only half the books can be saved, which books should be rescued: the books written in Hebrew, or the books translated into the local vernacular? What’s most important, the Talmud asks: Hebrew, which unites us, or the many other languages in which Jews have written throughout the ages, which define, and thereby, often divide us? The Talmud, in its characteristic style, gives no definitive answer, as if to say: “We must strive to save them all.”

Indeed, throughout our history, the Jewish people have written—and written prolifically—in many different languages. The core of our tradition, Torah and the rest of the Bible, is written mostly in Hebrew. But much of the Talmud is written in lingua franca of the ancient Near East, Aramaic—causing rabbinical and cantorial students to spend many late nights hunched over a trilingual Hebrew-English-Aramaic dictionary. Many Americans may know a little bit of Yiddish—common words that have floated into American English, mostly of a comedic flavor, like klutz, schlep, schvitz. But perhaps they don’t know that beyond these jokey words lies a rich literary tradition of Yiddish theatre, poetry, song, and fiction. Let us recall that Maimonides, considered by many to be the greatest medieval Jewish thinker, wrote not in Hebrew but in Arabic. And Martin Buber, one of the most influential modern Jewish thinkers, wrote in German. I often wonder if, centuries from now, future rabbis and cantors will spend many late nights hunched over some new trilingual dictionary wishing that our great contemporary thinkers, like Brad Artson or Rachel Adler, hadn’t written exclusively in English.

If, God forbid, the imagined Jewish library I’ve just described were to burn down, which books, which languages, should we save first? Should we save the books written in Hebrew or the books written in other languages? What’s more important: Jewish unity, or intra-communal Jewish distinctiveness?

When Leah and I were married, we decided to write our Ketubah not in the traditional Aramaic, but rather in Hebrew and in English. We wanted it in English so that we could easily read and remember what promises we made to one another on our wedding day. And we wanted it in Hebrew so that if, God willing, our future great-grandchildren should someday find our Ketubah, they would be able, no matter what language they speak, to connect to their ancestors. The English on our Ketubah connects us to the present; the Hebrew connects us to the past and the future.

So let’s once again connect to the past—to my great-grandfather Jessoula in Greece, and to his ancestors when the Spanish Jews arrived on their doorstep. Were they with the group that wanted to keep the Spanish out? Or were they with the group that wanted to welcome the Spanish in? Did they, like the builders of the Tower of Babel, hit one another over the head at the first sign of culture conflict? Or were they, like our imagined Jewish library, open to the cultural gems of every Jewish place and time?

I can’t say for sure. Of course, I hope that they were champions of Jewish diversity—just as I hope for the same in our day, this week at the Western Wall in particular.

But I wonder. I wonder if they ever could have imagined that someday, a descendant of theirs would live in a place called the United States; if they could have imagined that he’d be the product of Greek Jews and German Jews; if they could have imagined that his native language would be English—and that yet, despite all these unimaginable differences, he, like them, would still celebrate Shabbat, still know a little Hebrew. I wonder if it was some unimaginable version of you and me that they had in mind when they decided to settle their differences—to honor their Greek-Jewish heritage while welcoming their Spanish-Jewish neighbors.

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I hope that Jewish diversity in Israel will grow. But more importantly, I hope that we and Jews everywhere can recognize that what unites us is as important as what divides us. I’m here because Greek Jews and Spanish Jews learned how to get along. Let’s learn to do the same. The future is counting on us.