Have you ever been part of a conversation where, over and over again, the only thing the other person ever says is: “Why?” It might go something like this:
“Daniel, it’s time to put on your shoes.” “Why?” “Because school starts in 15 minutes.” “Why?” “Because the school board has decided that school begins at 8:15.” “Why?” “Because a well-functioning society needs clearly defined schedules.” “Why?” “Because schedules enable social cohesion.” “Why?” “Because humans are social creatures.” “Why? “Because to be human is to be vulnerable.” “Why?” “Because life is impermanent.” “Why?” “I don’t know why! Now come on. Put on your shoes.”
A conversation like that can be a challenging experience. All you’re trying to do is get out the door on time. But before you know it, the conversation has moved from the everyday task of tying our shoes to the most enduring questions of what it means to be human. In my experience, most of the time, the person asking why is not trying to be profound. They are trying to get a rise out of us, trying to delay going to school. But nevertheless, their stall tactic forces us to consider life’s great mysteries -- the questions that have no answers, enigmas about which we must ultimately say: “I don’t know.”
In this week’s Torah portion, we find a Jewish version of this conversation. The Torah portion provides a detailed list of instructions on how to observe the holiday of Passover. But seemingly every time an instruction is given, the list is interrupted by a young person asking “why?” Over and over again this happens -- until the questions begin to feel less like a genuine curiosity and more like a quiet act of protest.
Perhaps you’ve been a part of a conversation like this one -- if not about Passover, then maybe about becoming Bar or Bat Mitzvah. The conversation might go something like this:
“Daniel, it’s time to put on your shoes.” “Why?” “Because it’s time to go to the synagogue.” “Why?” “Because you need to work on your Hebrew.” “Why?” “Because you need to learn how to lead prayers and chant from the Torah.” “Why?” “Because that’s what Jewish people do.” “Why?”
This is often where the conversation begins to break down -- and for good reason. Asking why we, the Jewish people, do the things that we do is truly a hard question. If we take the question seriously, we will soon discover that it has no simple answer. It is not the kind of question for which we can easily find answers in a book -- questions like: “Why do we eat matzah on Passover?” or “Why do we light candles on Shabbat?” It is part of a much harder set of questions -- questions that challenge our assumptions, questions that probe to the very core of religious life, questions like: “Why should I be Jewish instead of some other religion?” Or: “If I believe in science and democracy, then what’s the purpose of religion in the first place?” Or, more simply put: “In a world where I don’t have to be Jewish, why should I be?”
“Why be Jewish?” is a relatively new question. Only a few generations ago, it would have been an impossible question to ask. In the pre-modern world, Jewishness was not a matter of choice; it was a matter of fact. It took until the early 1800s for the Enlightenment ideals of autonomy and self-determination to take hold in the Jewish community. Since then, we have moved from a world in which there was nothing at all you could do in order to not be Jewish, to a world in which in order to not be Jewish, all you have to do is to do nothing at all.
When a young person asks why they have to learn Hebrew, what they are really asking -- whether they mean it this way or not -- is: “In a world where I can be anything I want to be, why should I be Jewish?”
It is an absolutely critical question for us to answer. It is a question that keeps today’s leading Jewish thinkers up late at night. It is a question that we, as a congregation, must take seriously, must consider carefully -- not only for the sake of our young people, but indeed, for all of us. If we have no meaningful response to the question “Why be Jewish?” we will wake up one morning to discover that our Jewishness has become an unexamined enterprise, a hollow shell, entirely devoid of its own intrinsic meaning -- a project whose only purpose is its own self-perpetuation, without any idea as to why it ought to be perpetuated in the first place.
It is for exactly this reason that one of the most important, and also the most meaningful parts of our work as rabbis and cantors is listening to Bar and Bat Mitzvah students -- and also, quite often, to adults -- when they ask: “Why should I be Jewish?” It would be all too easy to dismiss this question as pesky, as trying to get a rise out of us, as a stubborn act of resistance. In fact, we see it the exact opposite way. It inspires us to do our best work. It keeps us honest. It forces us to think critically. It helps to ensure that we won’t wake up one morning to discover that our Jewishness is an unexamined, hollow shell.
When my wife, Leah, was studying for her Bat Mitzvah, she, like many of us, had a lot of questions. She had her own ideas about God, doubts about the purpose of prayer and the stories in the Torah. So one day, during a Bat Mitzvah lesson, she asked her tutor: “If I don’t believe in any of this stuff, then why should I bother becoming a Bat Mitzvah in the first place?” The tutor shot her a disapproving look. He called her a cynic -- a word that she had to later ask her dad what it meant -- and returned to having her parrot back at him the melody of her haftarah portion. It was a formative moment for Leah. And although she dutifully completed the rest of the Bat Mitzvah process -- from the day after her Bat Mitzvah, it would be ten years before she would again step foot inside a synagogue.
We need not view the question “Why be Jewish?” as a threat. Certainly, it is a challenge. But if we back away from the challenge, how many people will disappear from Jewish life not just for ten years, but more likely, forever?
To answer the question, “Why be Jewish?” we must first respond to the question beneath it: “Why practice any religion at all?” The philosopher Tim Crane provides a helpful framework. Crane places religion and science side by side to see how the two compare. He notes that both science and religion are lenses for understanding our world -- but beyond that, the two share little in common. We often think of science and religion as in conflict with one another. But when we look more carefully, Crane writes, we discover that science and religion simply have different goals -- and that difference helps us understand what religion is for.
Science is interested in making the unknown known -- in where there is mystery, creating knowledge. Religion, Crane points out, does the exact opposite. Religion revels in mystery, is ever in search of the unknowable. Science is the practice of answering questions; religion is the practice of asking questions for which there are no certain answers.
Questions like: Why are we here? Does life have a purpose? Can people change? Why do bad things happen to us -- and how should we respond when they do? Is there such a thing as “doing the right thing”? What is love?
In our everyday lives -- and I’ll be the first to admit it, all too often, in our Jewish lives -- we are not attuned to these kinds of questions. Nevertheless, these questions lurk just beneath the surface. Like a conversation partner who continually asks “why?” until the conversation has moved from tying your shoes to the impermanence of life -- religion, when practiced well, helps to remind us of life’s great mysteries, of the questions for which there are no certain answers. Religion teaches us to humbly say: “I do not know the answer -- but here’s what I believe.”
We have addressed the question: “Why practice any religion at all?” But we have yet to address the question that got us here in the first place: “In a world where I can be anything I want to be, why should I be Jewish?”
The writer Sarah Hurwitz provides a helpful image. Hurwitz asks us to imagine an enormous library that is filled floor to ceiling with books on life’s unanswerable questions. And you, the library customer, come in every day to browse around in the stacks. Each day, you take a few books off the shelf and flip through them. Some of them, you really like -- they speak to you. And so you check them out of the library, take them home, and read them carefully. Other books, you find less compelling -- and so, after a quick flip-through, you return them to the shelf.
And then one day, buried deep within the basement of the library, you come across a book you’ve never seen before. It catches your eye -- and you notice that it has your family’s name written on the binding. Of course, you’re surprised, and intrigued, and perhaps even a little bit nervous about what might be written inside. You take it down from the shelf, blow the dust of the cover, and crack the spine -- and immediately, you discover that this is a very old book. It has endured many centuries and has traveled many thousands of miles in order to wind up in your hands today. You start flipping through, and you see that each page has been written by a different generation of your family -- each of them trying to articulate their best responses to the questions that have no answers.
You flip from page to page, reading the wisdom that each generation has shared with the next -- until you arrive at the book’s current page. And you see that it is blank -- except for one word: your name, written across the top.
And suddenly, you are reminded of a conversation you once had -- a conversation you only remember vaguely, as if it were in a dream. Someone was telling you: “Daniel, it’s time to put on your shoes.” And you responded: “Why?” “Because it’s time to go to the synagogue.” “Why?” “Because…”
And then, a pause -- as your conversation partner considered their answer carefully. “Because… life is a great mystery. And I don’t have all the answers. And that is exactly why we need you.”
So: Why be Jewish? Because life is full of unanswerable questions. And the conversation can never be complete until you add your voice.
Standing there in the basement of the library, staring at the empty page that bears your name, you reach into your bag for pen. It is time to write your page.
“Daniel, it’s time to put on your shoes.” “Why?” “Because school starts in 15 minutes.” “Why?” “Because the school board has decided that school begins at 8:15.” “Why?” “Because a well-functioning society needs clearly defined schedules.” “Why?” “Because schedules enable social cohesion.” “Why?” “Because humans are social creatures.” “Why? “Because to be human is to be vulnerable.” “Why?” “Because life is impermanent.” “Why?” “I don’t know why! Now come on. Put on your shoes.”
A conversation like that can be a challenging experience. All you’re trying to do is get out the door on time. But before you know it, the conversation has moved from the everyday task of tying our shoes to the most enduring questions of what it means to be human. In my experience, most of the time, the person asking why is not trying to be profound. They are trying to get a rise out of us, trying to delay going to school. But nevertheless, their stall tactic forces us to consider life’s great mysteries -- the questions that have no answers, enigmas about which we must ultimately say: “I don’t know.”
In this week’s Torah portion, we find a Jewish version of this conversation. The Torah portion provides a detailed list of instructions on how to observe the holiday of Passover. But seemingly every time an instruction is given, the list is interrupted by a young person asking “why?” Over and over again this happens -- until the questions begin to feel less like a genuine curiosity and more like a quiet act of protest.
Perhaps you’ve been a part of a conversation like this one -- if not about Passover, then maybe about becoming Bar or Bat Mitzvah. The conversation might go something like this:
“Daniel, it’s time to put on your shoes.” “Why?” “Because it’s time to go to the synagogue.” “Why?” “Because you need to work on your Hebrew.” “Why?” “Because you need to learn how to lead prayers and chant from the Torah.” “Why?” “Because that’s what Jewish people do.” “Why?”
This is often where the conversation begins to break down -- and for good reason. Asking why we, the Jewish people, do the things that we do is truly a hard question. If we take the question seriously, we will soon discover that it has no simple answer. It is not the kind of question for which we can easily find answers in a book -- questions like: “Why do we eat matzah on Passover?” or “Why do we light candles on Shabbat?” It is part of a much harder set of questions -- questions that challenge our assumptions, questions that probe to the very core of religious life, questions like: “Why should I be Jewish instead of some other religion?” Or: “If I believe in science and democracy, then what’s the purpose of religion in the first place?” Or, more simply put: “In a world where I don’t have to be Jewish, why should I be?”
“Why be Jewish?” is a relatively new question. Only a few generations ago, it would have been an impossible question to ask. In the pre-modern world, Jewishness was not a matter of choice; it was a matter of fact. It took until the early 1800s for the Enlightenment ideals of autonomy and self-determination to take hold in the Jewish community. Since then, we have moved from a world in which there was nothing at all you could do in order to not be Jewish, to a world in which in order to not be Jewish, all you have to do is to do nothing at all.
When a young person asks why they have to learn Hebrew, what they are really asking -- whether they mean it this way or not -- is: “In a world where I can be anything I want to be, why should I be Jewish?”
It is an absolutely critical question for us to answer. It is a question that keeps today’s leading Jewish thinkers up late at night. It is a question that we, as a congregation, must take seriously, must consider carefully -- not only for the sake of our young people, but indeed, for all of us. If we have no meaningful response to the question “Why be Jewish?” we will wake up one morning to discover that our Jewishness has become an unexamined enterprise, a hollow shell, entirely devoid of its own intrinsic meaning -- a project whose only purpose is its own self-perpetuation, without any idea as to why it ought to be perpetuated in the first place.
It is for exactly this reason that one of the most important, and also the most meaningful parts of our work as rabbis and cantors is listening to Bar and Bat Mitzvah students -- and also, quite often, to adults -- when they ask: “Why should I be Jewish?” It would be all too easy to dismiss this question as pesky, as trying to get a rise out of us, as a stubborn act of resistance. In fact, we see it the exact opposite way. It inspires us to do our best work. It keeps us honest. It forces us to think critically. It helps to ensure that we won’t wake up one morning to discover that our Jewishness is an unexamined, hollow shell.
When my wife, Leah, was studying for her Bat Mitzvah, she, like many of us, had a lot of questions. She had her own ideas about God, doubts about the purpose of prayer and the stories in the Torah. So one day, during a Bat Mitzvah lesson, she asked her tutor: “If I don’t believe in any of this stuff, then why should I bother becoming a Bat Mitzvah in the first place?” The tutor shot her a disapproving look. He called her a cynic -- a word that she had to later ask her dad what it meant -- and returned to having her parrot back at him the melody of her haftarah portion. It was a formative moment for Leah. And although she dutifully completed the rest of the Bat Mitzvah process -- from the day after her Bat Mitzvah, it would be ten years before she would again step foot inside a synagogue.
We need not view the question “Why be Jewish?” as a threat. Certainly, it is a challenge. But if we back away from the challenge, how many people will disappear from Jewish life not just for ten years, but more likely, forever?
To answer the question, “Why be Jewish?” we must first respond to the question beneath it: “Why practice any religion at all?” The philosopher Tim Crane provides a helpful framework. Crane places religion and science side by side to see how the two compare. He notes that both science and religion are lenses for understanding our world -- but beyond that, the two share little in common. We often think of science and religion as in conflict with one another. But when we look more carefully, Crane writes, we discover that science and religion simply have different goals -- and that difference helps us understand what religion is for.
Science is interested in making the unknown known -- in where there is mystery, creating knowledge. Religion, Crane points out, does the exact opposite. Religion revels in mystery, is ever in search of the unknowable. Science is the practice of answering questions; religion is the practice of asking questions for which there are no certain answers.
Questions like: Why are we here? Does life have a purpose? Can people change? Why do bad things happen to us -- and how should we respond when they do? Is there such a thing as “doing the right thing”? What is love?
In our everyday lives -- and I’ll be the first to admit it, all too often, in our Jewish lives -- we are not attuned to these kinds of questions. Nevertheless, these questions lurk just beneath the surface. Like a conversation partner who continually asks “why?” until the conversation has moved from tying your shoes to the impermanence of life -- religion, when practiced well, helps to remind us of life’s great mysteries, of the questions for which there are no certain answers. Religion teaches us to humbly say: “I do not know the answer -- but here’s what I believe.”
We have addressed the question: “Why practice any religion at all?” But we have yet to address the question that got us here in the first place: “In a world where I can be anything I want to be, why should I be Jewish?”
The writer Sarah Hurwitz provides a helpful image. Hurwitz asks us to imagine an enormous library that is filled floor to ceiling with books on life’s unanswerable questions. And you, the library customer, come in every day to browse around in the stacks. Each day, you take a few books off the shelf and flip through them. Some of them, you really like -- they speak to you. And so you check them out of the library, take them home, and read them carefully. Other books, you find less compelling -- and so, after a quick flip-through, you return them to the shelf.
And then one day, buried deep within the basement of the library, you come across a book you’ve never seen before. It catches your eye -- and you notice that it has your family’s name written on the binding. Of course, you’re surprised, and intrigued, and perhaps even a little bit nervous about what might be written inside. You take it down from the shelf, blow the dust of the cover, and crack the spine -- and immediately, you discover that this is a very old book. It has endured many centuries and has traveled many thousands of miles in order to wind up in your hands today. You start flipping through, and you see that each page has been written by a different generation of your family -- each of them trying to articulate their best responses to the questions that have no answers.
You flip from page to page, reading the wisdom that each generation has shared with the next -- until you arrive at the book’s current page. And you see that it is blank -- except for one word: your name, written across the top.
And suddenly, you are reminded of a conversation you once had -- a conversation you only remember vaguely, as if it were in a dream. Someone was telling you: “Daniel, it’s time to put on your shoes.” And you responded: “Why?” “Because it’s time to go to the synagogue.” “Why?” “Because…”
And then, a pause -- as your conversation partner considered their answer carefully. “Because… life is a great mystery. And I don’t have all the answers. And that is exactly why we need you.”
So: Why be Jewish? Because life is full of unanswerable questions. And the conversation can never be complete until you add your voice.
Standing there in the basement of the library, staring at the empty page that bears your name, you reach into your bag for pen. It is time to write your page.