In the early 20th century, Mordecai Kaplan helpfully described the ideal American synagogue as “a shul with pool” -- out of a recognition that, in the United States, Jewish identity was not only religious, but also cultural (or “civilizational,” as he would have called it). This model made sense in the 20th century, as Jews were still trying to find their place in this country. In our era, however, Jews have more confidently integrated into American life. Today, we need something more from our synagogues than merely a space in which we can gather with other Jews.
We need, instead, for our synagogues to have a clear sense of their purpose, an understanding of their unique value proposition -- what it is that the synagogue offers that can’t be experienced in other civic institutions.
I believe that the 21st century American synagogue should strive to be: a community that grapples with life’s big questions by utilizing the power of ritual and stories. This proposition has three elements: community, big questions, and ritual and stories. Let us address them in order.
The foundation of synagogue life is community. A synagogue is not its building, not its program calendar, not its clergy -- but rather, its people. The people who constitute the synagogue should not be referred to as “members,” as if their primary function was the paying of dues, but rather, as “congregants” -- the people who congregate, collaborate, and communicate with one another to form the vital life of the institution.
A congregation is like an extended family. Even though we do not live in the same household, we share a deep connection. We share in each other’s lives -- not only in our times of heightened joy or sorrow, but regularly. We know each other’s children. We ask after each other’s parents. We stay in relationship with one another, even when we disagree. We care about and feel love for one another.
Among all the communities to which we might belong (say, the PTA or a hiking club), what makes a synagogue community unique is that here we grapple with life’s big questions. The philosopher Tim Crane provides a helpful framework. He observes that science is interested in making the unknown known -- where there is mystery, creating knowledge. Religion, by contrast, does the exact opposite. Religion revels in mystery, is ever in search of the unknowable. If science is the practice of answering questions, then religion is the practice of exploring the human questions for which there are no definitive answers.
All too often, Jewish life gets stuck in the scientific mode. A helpful example comes from the Passover haggadah. We read there a parable about four children, each of whom approaches their parent with a question. The so-called Wise Child asks: “What are all of the laws and customs of Passover?” This is a question with a definite but a shallow answer. It helpfully inquires about Jewish tradition, but little else. The so-called Simple Child, by contrast, asks a far more profound question: “What is the meaning of all this?” Without quite having the words to do so, this child is asking about something big: What does it mean to be free? Can a stubborn leader have a change of heart? How does an enslaved people muster the courage to hope? These are the kinds of questions that a synagogue community ought to explore -- questions that grapple with the fullness and complexity of the human condition.
Of course, there are many ways to grapple with life’s big questions (say, by journaling or by studying philosophy) -- but what makes a synagogue community unique is that here we do so by utilizing the power of ritual and stories. Ritual and stories expand our horizons. They give us glimpses of truths that are usually just beyond our awareness.
There’s a reason why the Jewish people’s most revered symbol is not a statue, not a shrine, not a dogmatic statement of faith, but rather is a story -- our Torah story. Stories give concrete form to big ideas. The story of Joseph and his brothers not only entertains, it also demonstrates that reconciliation is always possible. The story of Ruth and Naomi not only touches our hearts, it also demonstrates that love can transcend borders. Whether it is the stories of our tradition or the stories of our own lives, our stories express who we are and what we believe.
If stories express big ideas, then rituals allow us to experience them. When we tear a kriyah ribbon before a funeral, the sound and the feel of the fabric ripping brings the pain in our hearts to the surface. When we sit in our sukkah -- which is small and fragile, but nicely decorated -- we feel that although life is short, it can be made beautiful. Whether the ritual is one that our people has been practicing for thousands of years, or one that our own communities create to speak to our times -- a well crafted ritual stirs something deep within us, giving us access to our most deeply held beliefs, so that they are transformed from ideas into experiences.
I believe that the pandemic has provided those of us who are committed to synagogue life with an unparalleled opportunity. The pandemic has revealed just how much we need synagogues: how deeply we need to be in community, how full our world is of big, perplexing questions, how empty our lives can feel without regular, powerful reminders of who we are and what we believe.
Precisely this is what the 21st century American synagogue is able to provide. Together, we can build it.
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