We have a beautiful view from the balcony of our apartment in Jerusalem. The majestic King David Hotel stands proudly on the horizon, and the walls of the Old City can be clearly seen in the distance. On warm sunny days, there is nothing like looking out over this awe-inspiring city, and taking in the wonder of it all.
Our television sits in front of the French windows leading out onto the balcony. Often a mere ornament, it has dominated my view for the past week or two. Desperate for news of events on the borders with Lebanon and the Gaza Strip, I haven’t really noticed the sun-drenched golden stone of Jerusalem. When I think about it, there’s complete dissonance between the two images at the moment: warm, peaceful Jerusalem, and the embattled, blood-soaked TV screen. It’s difficult to imagine sometimes that what I’m seeing on TV is going on just a couple of hundred kilometers up the road.
Of course, every-so-often it hits home. Like during a mundane phone conversation with one of the secretaries at work who, in the midst of the conversation started to cry because she’d just spoken to her family who were sitting huddled together in a bomb shelter in Haifa. Or when an Israeli friend suggested that it was probably reasonably safe for my sister to go back to her home to Zikhron Yaakov – a few kilometers south of Haifa – assuming she has a bomb shelter in her house. (She doesn’t by the way, but she went home anyway. Life has to carry on.) Or, when looking around synagogue this Shabbat, and noticing the eerie absence of twenty- and thirty-something men. In the Diaspora, Jewish organizations are involved in extended debates about where that demographic group is and why it can’t be found in the synagogue; in Israel this week, there was no such debate. We knew exactly where they all were.
And then there was Friday morning’s conversation with our neighbours, Greg and Nicole, just outside their front door. Greg, an Irishman in his mid-thirties who made aliyah several years ago, had just received orders to report for army reserve duty that afternoon, and they were on their way out with their three-year old daughter, Noa, for a final lunch together. Wearing his army uniform, he seemed to be taking it all in his stride. “I’ll probably just get sent to some outpost in the West Bank,” he said, smiling. “They’ll probably want me to replace a young soldier based there, and they’ll send him to Lebanon.” Then he paused for a moment, and continued: “Mind you, you just never know. I was in Lebanon for six months in ’98, so maybe they’ll want me for my experience.” Pointing to his young daughter, he said: “She knows exactly what the uniform means, you know. Daddy’s going to be away for a while.” Just then, Noa slipped on the stone floor and banged her head. Greg, a normally mild-mannered, relaxed man, lost it for a moment, screamed at his wife, ran to pick up his daughter, and slammed the door in my face. The tension they must have been feeling is unimaginable.
Israel is right to be pursuing its course of action right now. Hezb’allah launched an unprovoked attack against a sovereign state, and crossed over the border to abduct Israeli soldiers. Lobbing Katyushas randomly into another country, with utter disregard for where they land and who they maim and kill is unmistakable terrorism. Twenty percent of Israeli society is under siege right now, a larger proportion than was the case during the Six Day War. Israel cannot allow such blatant vindictiveness and hatred to fester on its northern border, and neither should the rest of the world tolerate it. It is wrong, full stop.
The fact that the abduction happened two weeks after a soldier was abducted from within Israel’s sovereign borders following an attack launched from Gaza is no coincidence. Hamas and Hezb’allah are in cahoots over this – both motivated by profound hatred for Israel, and both determined to draw Israel into a conflict in order to foment that hatred, build support for their cause, and distract the world from other more pressing issues.
The fact that the abduction coincided with the G8 summit in St Petersburg was no coincidence either. Top of the agenda for the meeting of the world’s most powerful leaders was meant to be Iran’s intransigence over the nuclear weapons issue. By enabling Hezb’allah to launch an unprovoked attack on Israel – which it did by funding the organization to the tune of an estimated $100 million per year – Iran successfully managed to divert discussion away from its nuclear programme, and onto that old, tried and tested topic, the Arab-Israel conflict. And, in doing so, it bought itself a few more weeks, perhaps months, towards achieving its ambitions.
It’s been a brilliant strategy. Hezb’allah has gained support in parts of the Arab world – in the short term at least – if only for giving arrogant Israel a damn good battering. Lebanon has been decimated by Israel’s military response, dramatically weakening the democratically-elected government that has been backed by Europe, the UN, and the United States, and that won its mandate on an anti-Syrian occupation and influence platform. Syria has strengthened its justification for being in Lebanon in the first place – surely, Israel would have thought twice before launching such an extensive and bitter attack on Lebanon if Syrian troops had still been stationed there. Iran has diverted attention away from its nuclear activities, and, best of all, hundreds of thousands of Arabs have had their lives disrupted in all kinds of traumatic ways by Israel’s military response, thereby sowing widespread seeds of anti-Israel sentiment for at least another generation, if not two. And all this simply by abducting a couple of soldiers, and hurling a few Katyushas across the border.
Given these strategic aims, Israel’s response has indeed been disproportionate. The human being in me cries out for the innocent Lebanese civilians who have experienced such unbearable levels of fear and pain, and the father in me is torn apart just trying to imagine what it must like be to see one’s child killed or maimed by an Israeli bomb attack. And yet, I understand so well why Israel has responded as it has, and why, tragically, it has had no alternative but to respond in this way. The reason is clear. Everything else has been tried. And nothing else works.
The dominant feeling I sense here at the moment is that we simply cannot win. We tried holding onto territory – both as a bargaining chip for some future peace agreement, and in order to defend our citizens from attack. It didn’t work. We were maligned by the world for being an occupying power, and our presence only served to fan the flames of anti-Israel hatred. So we tried withdrawal under the terms of an international agreement – pulling out of Lebanon six years ago on the clear understanding that the Lebanese government would take responsibility for removing the Shi’ite militant threat against Israel. That clearly didn’t work – Hezb’allah has used the last six years to build an intricate network of tunnels, bunkers, stations and minefields in southern Lebanon, and to stockpile an estimated 13,500 rockets all pointed in our direction. We tried negotiating a direct settlement – to give up territory in return for a peace agreement. It didn’t work either. We went as far as we possibly could, offering the Palestinians all of the Gaza Strip, the vast majority of the West Bank plus compensatory land from within pre-1967 Israel, and the sharing of Jerusalem. In response, we ended up with an intifada. Hundreds of Israelis murdered in suicide bombings on buses, in restaurants, on university campuses and in hotels. So, last year, we tried unilateral disengagement. Forget agreements, forget our needs or interests, just get the hell out. The pain that permeated Israeli society in the months leading up to the disengagement of August 2005 persists to this day, but it won the support of the Israeli majority because it was worth a try. Perhaps, just perhaps, if the Palestinians actually have a piece of unoccupied land, they’ll start to build the infrastructure of a democratic, or at least peaceful, state. But that didn’t work either. Hundreds of Qassam rockets launched from Gaza into the sleepy Israeli town of Sderot, terrorizing the residents, and, despite the primitive nature of the weaponry, murdering several innocent civilians. And then, the underground incursion across the border into undisputed Israeli territory, the killing of Israeli soldiers, and the abduction of Corporal Gilad Shalit.
Nothing works. We can’t hold onto territory. We can’t negotiate its return. And we can’t just give it away. Whatever we do, we get violence, followed by more violence, followed by more violence. And sadly, tragically even, that was the state of the Israeli mind the moment Hezb’allah began its latest little game. Given that, given our profound frustration and deep deep anger, there could be only one response to an unprovoked attack: war.
What makes it all so much worse is that we know that this approach won’t work either. We know it fuels hatred. We know that Israel will be condemned – in some quarters at the very least – for its actions. We know Hezb’allah will be back – even if it is utterly obliterated – whether under the same guise or another. But that’s life here. Every-so-often, every few years or so, we’ll have to fight, kill and be killed, because even though that doesn’t work, nothing else works either. And if we don’t fight and kill, we’ll be killed ourselves.
My sister (the one without the bomb shelter) reminded me this week that breakthroughs are made from time to time. For example, no one would have predicted the peace accords of the 1990s while scud missiles were raining down on Tel Aviv during the first Gulf War. The following day, my wife reminded me of her belief that Judaism is, at its very core, about redemption – the bizarre, irrational but profoundly important idea that reality can be overcome, that the future can be better, that we can indeed change the world. Perhaps they are right. For the sake of the Israeli soldiers who are being held hostage by terrorists in Lebanon and Gaza, for the sake of Greg who is stationed somewhere in the West Bank or Lebanon as I write, for the sake of the Israeli Moslem father from Nazareth who lost two of his children in a Hezb’allah attack last week (and who blamed Israel for their deaths), and for the sake of all those innocent Lebanese civilians who have been caught up in this mess, I really hope they are. And for the sake of the simple hope that perhaps one day soon, just perhaps, I’ll be able to avert my gaze away from the TV screen, and admire the view over Jerusalem again.
Also published on www.peoplehood.org
Monday, July 31, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
"Passionate Openness:" A New Aggadah for Conservative Judaism
Co-authored by Shoshana Boyd Gelfand
"How is it possible that 600,000 Israelites stood at the foot of Sinai and one Voice addressed an entire people, yet every individual was convinced that the Voice was addressed to him personally? Rabbi Levy answers, 'The Holy One appeared to them as a mirror. A thousand might look into the mirror, but it will reflect each of them. Do not marvel at this, for God spoke to each person according to that person's capacity. Do not wonder at this, for when the manna came down from heaven, each and every one tasted it according to their capacity – the young, the old, the sick, the healthy. So too with the Voice of God: 'the Voice of the Lord in its strength' means the Voice is heard according to the power of each individual. Do not be mistaken because you hear many voices. Know that I am He who was and is One and the same.'"
(Pesikta D'Rav Kahana)
We may worry about the trend today, but the midrash tells us that an element of individualism was present even at Sinai. Every Jew heard God's voice differently, according to his or her own capacity to do so. One assumes however, that we were bound together both by the shared experience, and the sense that everyone else held a component part of God's message, without which we were incomplete as a collective. Today, when individualism is rife, little seems to hold us together anymore. Six hundred thousand interpretations have become six billion interpretations, and our own single one quickly becomes lost in the vastness and rapidity of the discourse. We are left standing alone, with our solitary view, an individual in an individualistic paradise, with a dramatically-reduced capacity to be heard by anyone.
Like it or not, individualism is a fact of modern life, and any aggadah of modern Judaism will need to grapple with the concept in a serious way. Therefore, it may be worth taking a few moments to look at the sociological data on this contemporary American trend, and reflect on its implications both for the Conservative Movement and the Jewish community in general. In this way, at least we will have some shared language on part of the challenge that exists.
It was probably Robert Bellah et. al. who first introduced us to the phenomenon in Habits of the Heart,[1] and then Robert Putnam who sharpened our understanding of it in Bowling Alone.[2] In the more particular context of the American Jewish community, Steven M. Cohen and Arnold Eisen then demonstrated how the same force is at work in their study of American moderately-affiliated Jews.[3] In their book, they describe how the "Jew Within" – our inner-self, our personal quest for meaning – increasingly determines what to observe and what not to; external forces, like God, halacha, the family, community, even elements like guilt, play an ever-decreasing role. "More and more," argue Cohen and Eisen, "the meaning of Judaism transpires within the self."[4] Bethamie Horowitz has similarly pointed out that these Jews' ongoing involvement in Judaism "depends on it being meaningful and fitting in with their lives."[5] In short, much of the sociological evidence that we have points to the fact that a significant proportion of American Jews is unwilling to be told that there is a right or a wrong way to be Jewish; they will decide that for themselves, mainly on the basis of what their inner voice tells them.
Part of what this means, as Cohen and Eisen indicate, is that many of us "are simply not concerned with disputes about what constitutes proper observance."[6] Personal meaning trumps any notion of what is 'correct' according to a particular movement. Indeed, "Eclecticism is now the rule when it comes to practice. Consistency is no longer prized. Theology is virtually irrelevant."[7] Internal movement debates – mechitza or no mechitza, gay rabbis or straight rabbis, the relative validity of Reform, Conservative or Orthodox Judaism, etc. – are becoming increasingly meaningless to many members of our community. They know what is right or wrong, engaging or dull, persuasive or non-credible because they feel it in their all-American gut, and frankly, to them, that is what matters most.
Horowitz's research offers another important insight which we must also take into consideration. She writes: "Jewish identity is not something static that a person either has or does not have. Rather identity can evolve and change, ebb and flow, in relation to all sorts of influences, internal and external. A person may be much less connected to Judaism at one point in his/her lifetime and more deeply identified at another."[8] According to her, most of us are on non-linear lifelong journeys during which we will encounter various forms of Judaism. To hope to attract people, we will need to provide them with multiple gateways, or, as she articulates it, "an entranceway with many portals."[9]
This concept of journeys is playing itself out in a whole host of intriguing ways. According both to Hillel's recent research on the "millenials,"[10] and to Steven M. Cohen in his recent article on young adults,[11] Jews in their 20s and 30s (including fairly traditional Orthodox ones) are being very inventive and creative about their Judaism. Their physical and virtual journeys allow them to experience and sample multiple cultures and aesthetics, which many then try to blend with received Jewish norms. The result is that their Judaism is contemporary and inventive, and it is their very embrace of flexibility and the freedom they assert to innovate that allows it to be so. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett has described this as "a tectonic shift in the ways that Jewish youth and young adults relate to one another and understand themselves."[12]
The shift she describes has been heavily influenced by technology, not just in a technical sense – i.e. the simple increase in the use of the internet, MP3 players, Weblogs, etc. – but much more importantly, in a figurative way. We know that our social context impacts who we are; sociologists have long pointed out that "an individual's existence takes place under certain external conditions" (technological, economic, political, etc.), and that "there is an internalization of at least some of these".[13] The new technologies create dramatically different external conditions to those that existed a generation ago, making it entirely normative today to search out information for yourself rather than having it broadcast to you by an "authority," and to share your ideas with the world, rather than having the world impose its ideas on you.[14] To borrow Kirshenblatt-Gimbletts's phrase, the "born digital generation" – the future of our community – is particularly influenced by these forces.
In short, a distinct portrait of the contemporary American Jew is emerging. Our ways to express our Jewishness are informed and shaped by our social context, which places a strong premium on self-construction by navigating our way through life in our own way, on our own terms, in a manner that allows us to encounter interesting people and opportunities, and that is fundamentally enjoyable and life-enhancing. We determine that which is Jewishly-valid on the basis of our experience of it rather than via more authoritarian means, and our shifting social realities cause our preferences to change and develop over time. We enjoy sampling multiple options and experiences, and blending them together to create something that is interesting and personally meaningful. That, according to almost all of the sociological data, and confirmed by much of our own experience, is the reality, and whilst we should not be slaves to these trends and simply mould contemporary Judaism so that it aligns itself with them, we ignore them at our peril.
Of course, this is not the only portrait of contemporary American Jews. Whilst the social context impacts all of us, there are still plenty of us who wholly reject the notion that Judaism is such a subjective matter. Some of us are able to transcend the intense pressures of modernity, and live with the dissonance between the received idea that our Jewishness is our destiny, and the reality that it is actually our ongoing choice. But none of us can ignore sociologist Peter Berger's painful reminder that "all the individual has to do to get out of his alleged Jewish identity is to walk out [of the 'artificial shtetl'] and take the subway."[15] The boundaries around us, even those of us who buttress and fortify them on a daily basis, are extraordinarily porous.
The question then, is how to respond to all of this, and maintain, even enhance Judaism and the Jewish People in spite of it. As Berger has taught us, there have been three typical responses to such challenges in the past: the reductive option, the deductive option, and the inductive option. The reductive option is to reduce Judaism's and the community's demands and obligations, and adapt, even surrender to the forces of wider culture. The deductive option is to steadfastly maintain everything that Judaism has always been, and fence it off from modernity's pressures in order to protect it. The inductive option simultaneously seeks to find a balance between these first two poles, searching for something that is both passionate about tradition, but open to contemporary forces.[16]
Conservative Judaism has always been good at the inductive option. Indeed, its aggadot of pluralism and "tradition and change" are the epitome of the inductive option. Conservative Judaism has always sought to find a balance between the richness and depth of our tradition and the ideas and realities that exist beyond it, and has actually shown remarkable ability to contain the complexity of that dialectic. The movement has always valued multiple means of exploring and interpreting religious ideas, and has espoused a philosophy that doesn't lament this plurality as an unfortunate reality to be tolerated, but rather celebrates it as a rich opportunity to be embraced. Indeed, for Conservative Judaism to thrive, it needs the fuel of open debate and discussion, because it is in this very openness that we find the source of our passion. In contrast to those who are overly passionate about their beliefs without being open to ideas that might challenge them, as well as to those who are overly open to all ideas without being passionate about a core set of beliefs to root them, the Conservative movement has always embraced both Jewish passion and openness to ideas, and has thrived on any inherent tensions that have emerged. It is this notion that ought to form the basis of our new aggadah: the two poles of passion and openness in creative tension with one another. "Passionate Openness" is the perfect articulation of our ideals for the early 21st Century, both because it expresses something that has always been part of our movement's weltanschauung, and because it poses a critical challenge to some of the idols of our age. The former case we hope has already been established, the latter requires further elucidation.
America, the Jewish People, and perhaps the world as a whole, are currently being pulled in two different directions, both, in their own ways, deeply problematic. The sociological dynamics we described earlier are causing two particularly prominent reactions: either to go with the flow and bask in the huge range of possibilities now available, or to shut the windows, lock the doors, and fill up the sandbags in order to protect everything we believe to be sacred. These are Berger's reductive and deductive options, and whilst neither is inherently bad, both in their most extreme forms are acutely dangerous. The former – an over-emphasis on openness at the expense of passion – tends to lead to purposelessness in the general context, a life led without secure and enduring sacred values, built instead on the quicksand of instant self-gratification. In a Jewish context this is a path that begins with apathy and boredom and ends in disaffection and meaningless superficiality. The latter – an over-emphasis on passion at the expense of openness – tends to lead to religious fundamentalism in the general context, an unbending application of a Singular God-Given Truth, resulting in anything from intolerance to suicide bombings. In a Jewish context, this is a force that begins with narrowness and self-righteousness, and ends with our own forms of fanaticism and, in our recent past, even assassination. The idols of our age, avodah zara in the early 21st Century, can be found at either end of these two poles: purposelessness, apathy and instant gratification at the end of the reduction option, bigotry, extremism, and butchery at the end of deduction. Whatever aggadah we ultimately choose for our movement, it has to offer both a harsh critique of these forces, and a powerful and compelling alternative able to counter them.
However, in our context, the inductive option seems to be having a hard time. The pull to the extremes is strong, and if we were to base our view of the world entirely on the version of it presented by the media, we might assume that the middle ground is rapidly being consumed. The truth, however, is somewhat more complex. A large silent majority still exists that continues to passionately believe both that there are certain core values that are essential to pass on to our children, and that we can benefit significantly from our interaction with and openness to other people and ideas. However, at present, many such people seem to be struggling to find a home in any of the pre-existing categories or places, and so perhaps it is no accident that in wider society, according to Steven M. Cohen, "the party label with the healthiest growth over the last few decades has been 'Independent,' at the cost of both the Democratic and Republican labels."[17] In a not dissimilar manner in the Jewish sphere, the attraction of 'post-denominational' or 'multi-denominational' initiatives is growing – institutions like Pardes and the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem are attracting significant numbers of Jewish students and rabbis from almost all denominations, and Boston's Hebrew College proudly advertises its general specialization in "trans-denominational Jewish education" and the option of "Rabbinic ordination in a trans-denominational setting."[18] None of these are passing fads; indeed, similar phenomena can be observed in the various post-denominational minyanim that have been set up in recent years (Hadar, IKAR and Keshet to site just three examples), in independent or collaborative educational initiatives like Limmud and Alma/JCC Manhattan's Tikkun Leyel Shavuot, and in cross-denominational cooperatives like Chicago's City North Kehillah.[19] The beauty of all these initiatives is that they play into the social dynamic described earlier: they allow people the opportunity to navigate their way through Judaism in a serious way, sampling different options and ideas according to their preferences and needs, but without making rigid statements about what is acceptable and unacceptable. They work because they capture the spirit of the age without sacrificing the central importance of content. But whilst all this is going on, the inductive specialist par excellence – the Conservative Movement – is being described as "the grayest denomination in American Jewry."[20] What on earth is going wrong?
The critical error of the Conservative Movement is neither its core beliefs, nor their applicability to our contemporary context. The critical error is all about our movement's capacity to figure out how to allow its core values to live and thrive in our contemporary context. We know that out target population is searching for meaning. We know that they are on lifelong journeys to discover it, and that what captures them at one stage in their life may not do so at another. We know that they don't want to be told what is right and wrong; that they can figure that out for themselves. We know that they want to sample different styles of Judaism, different approaches, different ideas, and that this very diversity is what makes Judaism interesting. Yet for all our movement's pluralism, for all our belief in multiple voices, we continue to maintain very rigid boundaries around ourselves. Certain ideas exist beyond the borders of Conservative Judaism, and we are reluctant to allow them in, whether they come from the left or the right of our particular stances. And herein lies the inconsistency. To be a pluralist in an age of journeys to self-meaning demands that boundaries be drawn as widely as possible, precisely in order to allow those journeys to take place. The options that exist within the boundaries need to be as diverse and multi-faceted as possible, to clearly demonstrate that this is a genuine version of pluralism that enables diverse, contradictory and even oppositional voices to speak, because truth is not something that exists in any one place or any one person, but in the genuine dialogue or machloket that takes place between us.[21] It cannot be that if you, as a pluralist open-minded Conservative Jew, want to explore alternative modes of Jewish thought and practice, you either have to leave the movement and join a different one, or you have to go to a multi-denominational program where you can sample whatever you choose. If that is the case, there are few compelling reasons to remain within the movement. For all our talk about pluralism, our continued existence as a particular movement with a particular worldview and narrowly-drawn boundaries undermines core components of that which we are attempting to espouse. "Not surprisingly," notes Cohen, "signs point to the out-flow of some of the most committed and capable Conservative Jews, be they to Orthodoxy or, in a few cases to post-denominational institutions."[22] We're not allowing the real richness of the conversation to take place within our boundaries; in short, there is a paradoxical closedness to our openness.
The question, of course, is where then should the boundaries be drawn? If we draw them too narrowly, we close off options, but if we draw them too widely, we create an environment where absolutely anything goes. The answer lies again in the notion of "Passionate Openness", and the creative tension and dialogical relationship that exists between passion for Jewish people, traditions and ideas, and openness to diversity and multiple truths. To be a "Passionately-Open" Jew, you have to be able to say with conviction both that you are committed to exploring Judaism in a serious and thoughtful manner, and that you are open to considering manifold views and perspectives. If you can only say one of these statements with conviction, you are not a "Passionately-Open" Jew; if you can say them both with conviction, you are.
The real issues of import in the Jewish world are not the existence or absence of a mechitza, or the acceptability or unacceptability of homosexual rabbis. The real issues are how to counter violence and vicious religious extremism at one end of the spectrum, and apathy and meaningless instant gratification at the other. The only response to both of these is to gather all the positive energy and passion that can be found throughout Jewish tradition and open ourselves up to all the positive creativity and dynamism that exists throughout our wider context. If we can fuse these together and create a dramatic and spark-filled genuine dialogue between them, perhaps we'll start to reconstruct that One Voice that spoke to us at Sinai, and in doing so, we'll create something of genuine significance and allure, both for the Jewish People and the wider world.
NOTES
1. Robert Bellah, et. al., Habits of the Heart. Individualism and Commitment in American Life. (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985).
2. Robert D. Putnam, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community. (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2000).
3. Steven M. Cohen and Arnold M. Eisen, The Jew Within. Self, Family and Community in America (Indiana University Press, 2000).
4. Ibid., pp.183-184
5. Bethamie Horowitz, "Connections and Journeys. Assessing Critical Opportunities for Enhancing Jewish Identity." (New York: Report to the Commission on Jewish Identity and Renewal, UJA Federation of New York, 2003), p.186.
6. Cohen and Eisen, Jew Within, op. cit., p.92.
7. Ibid.
8. Horowitz, "Connections and Journeys", op. cit., pp.186-187.
9. Ibid., p.189.
10. Unpublished data, presented by Avraham Infeld at the Mandel Leadership Institute, Jerusalem, February 2006.
11. Steven M. Cohen, "Engaging the Next Generation of American Jews. Distinguishing the In-Married, Inter-Married, and Non-Married." Journal of Jewish Communal Service, Fall/Winter 2005.
12. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, "The 'New Jews': Reflections on Emerging Cultural Practices" downloaded from: http://www.nyu.edu/classes/bkg/web/yeshiva.pdf
13. See: Peter Berger, The Heretical Imperative. Contemporary Possibilities of Religious Affirmation. (New York: Anchor Press, 1979), p.5.
14. For a more detailed analysis of this trend, see, for example: Don Tapscott, Growing Up Digital. The Rise of the Net Generation, (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1998).
15. Berger, Heretical Imperative, op. cit., p.30.
16. Ibid.
17. Steven M. Cohen, "Non-Denominational and Post-Denominational: Two Tendencies in American Jewry," in: Contact, Vol. 7, No.4. (Jewish Life Network/Steinhardt Foundation, Summer 2005/Av 5765), p.8.
18. See: http://www.hebrewcollege.edu/
19. For further details of these initiatives see: http://www.kehilathadar.org/ (Hadar); http://www.ikar-la.org/ (Ikar); http://www.limmudny.org/ (Limmud New York); http://tikkunny.org/intro_flash.swf (Tikkun Leyl Shavuot); http://www.shurekehilla.org/ (City North Kehilla).
20. See: Cohen, "Non-Denominational," op. cit., p.8.
21. We use the term "genuine dialogue" in its Buberian sense. See: Martin Buber, Between Man and Man (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1947).
22. Cohen, "Non-Denominational," op. cit., p.8.
(Also published in Conservative Judaism)
"How is it possible that 600,000 Israelites stood at the foot of Sinai and one Voice addressed an entire people, yet every individual was convinced that the Voice was addressed to him personally? Rabbi Levy answers, 'The Holy One appeared to them as a mirror. A thousand might look into the mirror, but it will reflect each of them. Do not marvel at this, for God spoke to each person according to that person's capacity. Do not wonder at this, for when the manna came down from heaven, each and every one tasted it according to their capacity – the young, the old, the sick, the healthy. So too with the Voice of God: 'the Voice of the Lord in its strength' means the Voice is heard according to the power of each individual. Do not be mistaken because you hear many voices. Know that I am He who was and is One and the same.'"
(Pesikta D'Rav Kahana)
We may worry about the trend today, but the midrash tells us that an element of individualism was present even at Sinai. Every Jew heard God's voice differently, according to his or her own capacity to do so. One assumes however, that we were bound together both by the shared experience, and the sense that everyone else held a component part of God's message, without which we were incomplete as a collective. Today, when individualism is rife, little seems to hold us together anymore. Six hundred thousand interpretations have become six billion interpretations, and our own single one quickly becomes lost in the vastness and rapidity of the discourse. We are left standing alone, with our solitary view, an individual in an individualistic paradise, with a dramatically-reduced capacity to be heard by anyone.
Like it or not, individualism is a fact of modern life, and any aggadah of modern Judaism will need to grapple with the concept in a serious way. Therefore, it may be worth taking a few moments to look at the sociological data on this contemporary American trend, and reflect on its implications both for the Conservative Movement and the Jewish community in general. In this way, at least we will have some shared language on part of the challenge that exists.
It was probably Robert Bellah et. al. who first introduced us to the phenomenon in Habits of the Heart,[1] and then Robert Putnam who sharpened our understanding of it in Bowling Alone.[2] In the more particular context of the American Jewish community, Steven M. Cohen and Arnold Eisen then demonstrated how the same force is at work in their study of American moderately-affiliated Jews.[3] In their book, they describe how the "Jew Within" – our inner-self, our personal quest for meaning – increasingly determines what to observe and what not to; external forces, like God, halacha, the family, community, even elements like guilt, play an ever-decreasing role. "More and more," argue Cohen and Eisen, "the meaning of Judaism transpires within the self."[4] Bethamie Horowitz has similarly pointed out that these Jews' ongoing involvement in Judaism "depends on it being meaningful and fitting in with their lives."[5] In short, much of the sociological evidence that we have points to the fact that a significant proportion of American Jews is unwilling to be told that there is a right or a wrong way to be Jewish; they will decide that for themselves, mainly on the basis of what their inner voice tells them.
Part of what this means, as Cohen and Eisen indicate, is that many of us "are simply not concerned with disputes about what constitutes proper observance."[6] Personal meaning trumps any notion of what is 'correct' according to a particular movement. Indeed, "Eclecticism is now the rule when it comes to practice. Consistency is no longer prized. Theology is virtually irrelevant."[7] Internal movement debates – mechitza or no mechitza, gay rabbis or straight rabbis, the relative validity of Reform, Conservative or Orthodox Judaism, etc. – are becoming increasingly meaningless to many members of our community. They know what is right or wrong, engaging or dull, persuasive or non-credible because they feel it in their all-American gut, and frankly, to them, that is what matters most.
Horowitz's research offers another important insight which we must also take into consideration. She writes: "Jewish identity is not something static that a person either has or does not have. Rather identity can evolve and change, ebb and flow, in relation to all sorts of influences, internal and external. A person may be much less connected to Judaism at one point in his/her lifetime and more deeply identified at another."[8] According to her, most of us are on non-linear lifelong journeys during which we will encounter various forms of Judaism. To hope to attract people, we will need to provide them with multiple gateways, or, as she articulates it, "an entranceway with many portals."[9]
This concept of journeys is playing itself out in a whole host of intriguing ways. According both to Hillel's recent research on the "millenials,"[10] and to Steven M. Cohen in his recent article on young adults,[11] Jews in their 20s and 30s (including fairly traditional Orthodox ones) are being very inventive and creative about their Judaism. Their physical and virtual journeys allow them to experience and sample multiple cultures and aesthetics, which many then try to blend with received Jewish norms. The result is that their Judaism is contemporary and inventive, and it is their very embrace of flexibility and the freedom they assert to innovate that allows it to be so. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett has described this as "a tectonic shift in the ways that Jewish youth and young adults relate to one another and understand themselves."[12]
The shift she describes has been heavily influenced by technology, not just in a technical sense – i.e. the simple increase in the use of the internet, MP3 players, Weblogs, etc. – but much more importantly, in a figurative way. We know that our social context impacts who we are; sociologists have long pointed out that "an individual's existence takes place under certain external conditions" (technological, economic, political, etc.), and that "there is an internalization of at least some of these".[13] The new technologies create dramatically different external conditions to those that existed a generation ago, making it entirely normative today to search out information for yourself rather than having it broadcast to you by an "authority," and to share your ideas with the world, rather than having the world impose its ideas on you.[14] To borrow Kirshenblatt-Gimbletts's phrase, the "born digital generation" – the future of our community – is particularly influenced by these forces.
In short, a distinct portrait of the contemporary American Jew is emerging. Our ways to express our Jewishness are informed and shaped by our social context, which places a strong premium on self-construction by navigating our way through life in our own way, on our own terms, in a manner that allows us to encounter interesting people and opportunities, and that is fundamentally enjoyable and life-enhancing. We determine that which is Jewishly-valid on the basis of our experience of it rather than via more authoritarian means, and our shifting social realities cause our preferences to change and develop over time. We enjoy sampling multiple options and experiences, and blending them together to create something that is interesting and personally meaningful. That, according to almost all of the sociological data, and confirmed by much of our own experience, is the reality, and whilst we should not be slaves to these trends and simply mould contemporary Judaism so that it aligns itself with them, we ignore them at our peril.
Of course, this is not the only portrait of contemporary American Jews. Whilst the social context impacts all of us, there are still plenty of us who wholly reject the notion that Judaism is such a subjective matter. Some of us are able to transcend the intense pressures of modernity, and live with the dissonance between the received idea that our Jewishness is our destiny, and the reality that it is actually our ongoing choice. But none of us can ignore sociologist Peter Berger's painful reminder that "all the individual has to do to get out of his alleged Jewish identity is to walk out [of the 'artificial shtetl'] and take the subway."[15] The boundaries around us, even those of us who buttress and fortify them on a daily basis, are extraordinarily porous.
The question then, is how to respond to all of this, and maintain, even enhance Judaism and the Jewish People in spite of it. As Berger has taught us, there have been three typical responses to such challenges in the past: the reductive option, the deductive option, and the inductive option. The reductive option is to reduce Judaism's and the community's demands and obligations, and adapt, even surrender to the forces of wider culture. The deductive option is to steadfastly maintain everything that Judaism has always been, and fence it off from modernity's pressures in order to protect it. The inductive option simultaneously seeks to find a balance between these first two poles, searching for something that is both passionate about tradition, but open to contemporary forces.[16]
Conservative Judaism has always been good at the inductive option. Indeed, its aggadot of pluralism and "tradition and change" are the epitome of the inductive option. Conservative Judaism has always sought to find a balance between the richness and depth of our tradition and the ideas and realities that exist beyond it, and has actually shown remarkable ability to contain the complexity of that dialectic. The movement has always valued multiple means of exploring and interpreting religious ideas, and has espoused a philosophy that doesn't lament this plurality as an unfortunate reality to be tolerated, but rather celebrates it as a rich opportunity to be embraced. Indeed, for Conservative Judaism to thrive, it needs the fuel of open debate and discussion, because it is in this very openness that we find the source of our passion. In contrast to those who are overly passionate about their beliefs without being open to ideas that might challenge them, as well as to those who are overly open to all ideas without being passionate about a core set of beliefs to root them, the Conservative movement has always embraced both Jewish passion and openness to ideas, and has thrived on any inherent tensions that have emerged. It is this notion that ought to form the basis of our new aggadah: the two poles of passion and openness in creative tension with one another. "Passionate Openness" is the perfect articulation of our ideals for the early 21st Century, both because it expresses something that has always been part of our movement's weltanschauung, and because it poses a critical challenge to some of the idols of our age. The former case we hope has already been established, the latter requires further elucidation.
America, the Jewish People, and perhaps the world as a whole, are currently being pulled in two different directions, both, in their own ways, deeply problematic. The sociological dynamics we described earlier are causing two particularly prominent reactions: either to go with the flow and bask in the huge range of possibilities now available, or to shut the windows, lock the doors, and fill up the sandbags in order to protect everything we believe to be sacred. These are Berger's reductive and deductive options, and whilst neither is inherently bad, both in their most extreme forms are acutely dangerous. The former – an over-emphasis on openness at the expense of passion – tends to lead to purposelessness in the general context, a life led without secure and enduring sacred values, built instead on the quicksand of instant self-gratification. In a Jewish context this is a path that begins with apathy and boredom and ends in disaffection and meaningless superficiality. The latter – an over-emphasis on passion at the expense of openness – tends to lead to religious fundamentalism in the general context, an unbending application of a Singular God-Given Truth, resulting in anything from intolerance to suicide bombings. In a Jewish context, this is a force that begins with narrowness and self-righteousness, and ends with our own forms of fanaticism and, in our recent past, even assassination. The idols of our age, avodah zara in the early 21st Century, can be found at either end of these two poles: purposelessness, apathy and instant gratification at the end of the reduction option, bigotry, extremism, and butchery at the end of deduction. Whatever aggadah we ultimately choose for our movement, it has to offer both a harsh critique of these forces, and a powerful and compelling alternative able to counter them.
However, in our context, the inductive option seems to be having a hard time. The pull to the extremes is strong, and if we were to base our view of the world entirely on the version of it presented by the media, we might assume that the middle ground is rapidly being consumed. The truth, however, is somewhat more complex. A large silent majority still exists that continues to passionately believe both that there are certain core values that are essential to pass on to our children, and that we can benefit significantly from our interaction with and openness to other people and ideas. However, at present, many such people seem to be struggling to find a home in any of the pre-existing categories or places, and so perhaps it is no accident that in wider society, according to Steven M. Cohen, "the party label with the healthiest growth over the last few decades has been 'Independent,' at the cost of both the Democratic and Republican labels."[17] In a not dissimilar manner in the Jewish sphere, the attraction of 'post-denominational' or 'multi-denominational' initiatives is growing – institutions like Pardes and the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem are attracting significant numbers of Jewish students and rabbis from almost all denominations, and Boston's Hebrew College proudly advertises its general specialization in "trans-denominational Jewish education" and the option of "Rabbinic ordination in a trans-denominational setting."[18] None of these are passing fads; indeed, similar phenomena can be observed in the various post-denominational minyanim that have been set up in recent years (Hadar, IKAR and Keshet to site just three examples), in independent or collaborative educational initiatives like Limmud and Alma/JCC Manhattan's Tikkun Leyel Shavuot, and in cross-denominational cooperatives like Chicago's City North Kehillah.[19] The beauty of all these initiatives is that they play into the social dynamic described earlier: they allow people the opportunity to navigate their way through Judaism in a serious way, sampling different options and ideas according to their preferences and needs, but without making rigid statements about what is acceptable and unacceptable. They work because they capture the spirit of the age without sacrificing the central importance of content. But whilst all this is going on, the inductive specialist par excellence – the Conservative Movement – is being described as "the grayest denomination in American Jewry."[20] What on earth is going wrong?
The critical error of the Conservative Movement is neither its core beliefs, nor their applicability to our contemporary context. The critical error is all about our movement's capacity to figure out how to allow its core values to live and thrive in our contemporary context. We know that out target population is searching for meaning. We know that they are on lifelong journeys to discover it, and that what captures them at one stage in their life may not do so at another. We know that they don't want to be told what is right and wrong; that they can figure that out for themselves. We know that they want to sample different styles of Judaism, different approaches, different ideas, and that this very diversity is what makes Judaism interesting. Yet for all our movement's pluralism, for all our belief in multiple voices, we continue to maintain very rigid boundaries around ourselves. Certain ideas exist beyond the borders of Conservative Judaism, and we are reluctant to allow them in, whether they come from the left or the right of our particular stances. And herein lies the inconsistency. To be a pluralist in an age of journeys to self-meaning demands that boundaries be drawn as widely as possible, precisely in order to allow those journeys to take place. The options that exist within the boundaries need to be as diverse and multi-faceted as possible, to clearly demonstrate that this is a genuine version of pluralism that enables diverse, contradictory and even oppositional voices to speak, because truth is not something that exists in any one place or any one person, but in the genuine dialogue or machloket that takes place between us.[21] It cannot be that if you, as a pluralist open-minded Conservative Jew, want to explore alternative modes of Jewish thought and practice, you either have to leave the movement and join a different one, or you have to go to a multi-denominational program where you can sample whatever you choose. If that is the case, there are few compelling reasons to remain within the movement. For all our talk about pluralism, our continued existence as a particular movement with a particular worldview and narrowly-drawn boundaries undermines core components of that which we are attempting to espouse. "Not surprisingly," notes Cohen, "signs point to the out-flow of some of the most committed and capable Conservative Jews, be they to Orthodoxy or, in a few cases to post-denominational institutions."[22] We're not allowing the real richness of the conversation to take place within our boundaries; in short, there is a paradoxical closedness to our openness.
The question, of course, is where then should the boundaries be drawn? If we draw them too narrowly, we close off options, but if we draw them too widely, we create an environment where absolutely anything goes. The answer lies again in the notion of "Passionate Openness", and the creative tension and dialogical relationship that exists between passion for Jewish people, traditions and ideas, and openness to diversity and multiple truths. To be a "Passionately-Open" Jew, you have to be able to say with conviction both that you are committed to exploring Judaism in a serious and thoughtful manner, and that you are open to considering manifold views and perspectives. If you can only say one of these statements with conviction, you are not a "Passionately-Open" Jew; if you can say them both with conviction, you are.
The real issues of import in the Jewish world are not the existence or absence of a mechitza, or the acceptability or unacceptability of homosexual rabbis. The real issues are how to counter violence and vicious religious extremism at one end of the spectrum, and apathy and meaningless instant gratification at the other. The only response to both of these is to gather all the positive energy and passion that can be found throughout Jewish tradition and open ourselves up to all the positive creativity and dynamism that exists throughout our wider context. If we can fuse these together and create a dramatic and spark-filled genuine dialogue between them, perhaps we'll start to reconstruct that One Voice that spoke to us at Sinai, and in doing so, we'll create something of genuine significance and allure, both for the Jewish People and the wider world.
NOTES
1. Robert Bellah, et. al., Habits of the Heart. Individualism and Commitment in American Life. (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985).
2. Robert D. Putnam, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community. (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2000).
3. Steven M. Cohen and Arnold M. Eisen, The Jew Within. Self, Family and Community in America (Indiana University Press, 2000).
4. Ibid., pp.183-184
5. Bethamie Horowitz, "Connections and Journeys. Assessing Critical Opportunities for Enhancing Jewish Identity." (New York: Report to the Commission on Jewish Identity and Renewal, UJA Federation of New York, 2003), p.186.
6. Cohen and Eisen, Jew Within, op. cit., p.92.
7. Ibid.
8. Horowitz, "Connections and Journeys", op. cit., pp.186-187.
9. Ibid., p.189.
10. Unpublished data, presented by Avraham Infeld at the Mandel Leadership Institute, Jerusalem, February 2006.
11. Steven M. Cohen, "Engaging the Next Generation of American Jews. Distinguishing the In-Married, Inter-Married, and Non-Married." Journal of Jewish Communal Service, Fall/Winter 2005.
12. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, "The 'New Jews': Reflections on Emerging Cultural Practices" downloaded from: http://www.nyu.edu/classes/bkg/web/yeshiva.pdf
13. See: Peter Berger, The Heretical Imperative. Contemporary Possibilities of Religious Affirmation. (New York: Anchor Press, 1979), p.5.
14. For a more detailed analysis of this trend, see, for example: Don Tapscott, Growing Up Digital. The Rise of the Net Generation, (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1998).
15. Berger, Heretical Imperative, op. cit., p.30.
16. Ibid.
17. Steven M. Cohen, "Non-Denominational and Post-Denominational: Two Tendencies in American Jewry," in: Contact, Vol. 7, No.4. (Jewish Life Network/Steinhardt Foundation, Summer 2005/Av 5765), p.8.
18. See: http://www.hebrewcollege.edu/
19. For further details of these initiatives see: http://www.kehilathadar.org/ (Hadar); http://www.ikar-la.org/ (Ikar); http://www.limmudny.org/ (Limmud New York); http://tikkunny.org/intro_flash.swf (Tikkun Leyl Shavuot); http://www.shurekehilla.org/ (City North Kehilla).
20. See: Cohen, "Non-Denominational," op. cit., p.8.
21. We use the term "genuine dialogue" in its Buberian sense. See: Martin Buber, Between Man and Man (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1947).
22. Cohen, "Non-Denominational," op. cit., p.8.
(Also published in Conservative Judaism)
Tzav: Commands and Choices
"Tzav." "Command." "The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Command…"
"Tzav" is a tricky word nowadays. In pre-modern times more or less everything and everybody we encountered (both within and beyond Judaism) accepted as a given the existence of an omnipotent and omniscient God who commands us to act in accordance with certain principles and ideas. Today, in contrast, more or less everything and everybody we encounter accepts as a given that we're not obligated to believe or practice anything because it is up to the individual to decide such matters on his or her own. What was a world of command has become a world of choice, and suddenly, everything feels entirely different.
In a world of command, multiple choice is impossible; in a world of choice, singular command is untenable. Yet the latter world is our home, a place where there is profound dissonance between the commanding voice of God, and the multiple voices of choice. How should we manage this discord? How should we resolve this tension?
The truth is I'm not so sure that it is resolvable, and, even if it is, I'm not sure I want to resolve it. Perhaps all I can do is to share my own thoughts and struggles, and invite you to do likewise. I have difficulty with the idea of a singular commanding voice that imposes itself on me, not least because I know that voice will always be mediated through something or someone. My capacity to understand any text is always compounded by my own limitations: even when I read Torah in its original Hebrew with as many of the m'farshim as I can collect, I can never know for sure its "true" meaning or intention. It will always remain a text as interpreted by me, influenced by the people and forces that surround me. Therefore, I can have no certainty about what constitutes a "true" version of Judaism – I am no more convinced by the certainty of a haredi rabbi living in Bnei Barak than I am by that of a Reform rabbi living in the Borough of Barnet.
On the other hand, I don't know how to function in a world that rejects the idea of "tzav" – the idea that there is no commanding voice that contains within it an eternal notion of truth. If there is no notion of truth, it becomes easy to slide into relativism, where there are no notions of right or wrong either. Judaism does command me to behave in certain ways, even if my capacity to know those ways is imperfect due to my own limited ability to interpret the tradition, not to mention my own weakness to always live up to the standards it sets. My responsibility, therefore, if I reject a world built on the quicksand of relativism, is to uncover that tradition, both by delving deeply into it, and by learning about it from those who are similarly engaged in the pursuit. To do that I need both the haredi rabbi living in Bnei Barak and the Reform rabbi living in the Borough of Barnet, because within both of their voices, as within mine, exists a small component of the commanding voice of God.
Alasdair MacIntyre suggests that a tradition is "a historically extended, socially embodied argument," and makes the claim that it may be considered to be "in good order" if it is dynamic and generative, responding to internal debate and changing circumstances as it seeks to realize its vision of the good life. Part of the historically extended, socially embodied argument that enriches us today concerns the place of "tzav" in our lives – the notion of command, the nature of command, and our capacity to hear the command and respond to it, both in spite of, and with the help of the vast array of choices that are perpetually available to us.
(Also published at: www.limmud.org)
"Tzav" is a tricky word nowadays. In pre-modern times more or less everything and everybody we encountered (both within and beyond Judaism) accepted as a given the existence of an omnipotent and omniscient God who commands us to act in accordance with certain principles and ideas. Today, in contrast, more or less everything and everybody we encounter accepts as a given that we're not obligated to believe or practice anything because it is up to the individual to decide such matters on his or her own. What was a world of command has become a world of choice, and suddenly, everything feels entirely different.
In a world of command, multiple choice is impossible; in a world of choice, singular command is untenable. Yet the latter world is our home, a place where there is profound dissonance between the commanding voice of God, and the multiple voices of choice. How should we manage this discord? How should we resolve this tension?
The truth is I'm not so sure that it is resolvable, and, even if it is, I'm not sure I want to resolve it. Perhaps all I can do is to share my own thoughts and struggles, and invite you to do likewise. I have difficulty with the idea of a singular commanding voice that imposes itself on me, not least because I know that voice will always be mediated through something or someone. My capacity to understand any text is always compounded by my own limitations: even when I read Torah in its original Hebrew with as many of the m'farshim as I can collect, I can never know for sure its "true" meaning or intention. It will always remain a text as interpreted by me, influenced by the people and forces that surround me. Therefore, I can have no certainty about what constitutes a "true" version of Judaism – I am no more convinced by the certainty of a haredi rabbi living in Bnei Barak than I am by that of a Reform rabbi living in the Borough of Barnet.
On the other hand, I don't know how to function in a world that rejects the idea of "tzav" – the idea that there is no commanding voice that contains within it an eternal notion of truth. If there is no notion of truth, it becomes easy to slide into relativism, where there are no notions of right or wrong either. Judaism does command me to behave in certain ways, even if my capacity to know those ways is imperfect due to my own limited ability to interpret the tradition, not to mention my own weakness to always live up to the standards it sets. My responsibility, therefore, if I reject a world built on the quicksand of relativism, is to uncover that tradition, both by delving deeply into it, and by learning about it from those who are similarly engaged in the pursuit. To do that I need both the haredi rabbi living in Bnei Barak and the Reform rabbi living in the Borough of Barnet, because within both of their voices, as within mine, exists a small component of the commanding voice of God.
Alasdair MacIntyre suggests that a tradition is "a historically extended, socially embodied argument," and makes the claim that it may be considered to be "in good order" if it is dynamic and generative, responding to internal debate and changing circumstances as it seeks to realize its vision of the good life. Part of the historically extended, socially embodied argument that enriches us today concerns the place of "tzav" in our lives – the notion of command, the nature of command, and our capacity to hear the command and respond to it, both in spite of, and with the help of the vast array of choices that are perpetually available to us.
(Also published at: www.limmud.org)
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