WHY BE JEWISH?
Phyllis Arlow
As I scanned the table of contents of Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi’s book, Jewish with Feeling, my eye rested on the title of Chapter 6: “ Why Be Jewish?” What a great question, I thought, and how courageous for the author and spiritual leader of the Jewish Renewal movement to take it on! It is a question that I have grappled with and acted out in many ways since I was very young. The opening paragraph rang true to me: “Being Jewish in our culture is like swimming upstream. You’re fighting the constant pull of other commitments, fighting against your kids’ resistance to Hebrew school, fighting against the all-pervasive Christmas season, and struggling to budget in those synagogue dues or to choose a synagogue in the first place. Sooner or later—no matter how spiritual we are, no matter how connected we feel, deep down, to our Jewishness—the question comes up: Why am I doing this ? Why be Jewish at all? Why hold on to this? Why pass it on? What if I were the ‘last link in the chain’—would that really be such a terrible thing”? (p. 181).
As I read those words I remembered the year when I was about eleven. It was Christmas and the lights and songs of the season were irresistible to me. I took some of the money I had saved up, went to the “avenue” and purchased a little table-top Christmas tree. When my father came home from work and spied it, he instantly opened the kitchen window and tossed my dream of Christmas out into the alley. That took care of those fantasies—for a few years, anyhow.
When I was born in Brooklyn, New York, the Depression still had our family, and the families around us, in its grip. In my family, with three children to care for, and later, one more, my parents had no money to spare. That may have been one reason that neither I nor my older sister, Dorine, went to Hebrew school. None of my Jewish friends did either. Girls did not have Bat Mitzvahs at the time and I’m certain that my parents felt it was unnecessary for their girls to have the kind of Hebrew school education that my brother, Stanley, was given. When my sister, Bernice, who was nine years younger than I was, reached the age of about eleven, she did go to Hebrew school and had a simple Bat Mitzvah quite unlike anything one commonly sees today.
At home, there was almost no emphasis on teaching us about Judaism. My mother, Bessie, who was eldest child of Russian immigrants, went to Talmud Torah, and probably read Hebrew well. I know she read and spoke Yiddish fluently, as she and my father, Samuel, also a Russian immigrant, often conversed in Yiddish. But they both worked very hard and seemed oppressed and tired by their labors. My father attended synagogue on the High Holy Days, and my mother went to Yiskor services. At one point during the holidays, we children were dressed in our best clothes and went to synagogue with my mother. It seemed to me that the purpose of going was to find my father in the crowd of daveners all covered in white talit, and say hello to him so he could be proud of us. When I was young, my mother would benshe licht on Friday night. There was never an explanation of what the motions my mother made with her hands were about, and when she covered her eyes with her hands and murmured to herself, I thought she was crying. Since I was a very sensitive and shy child, I refrained from ever asking her about the meaning of what she was doing or saying, as I did not want her to recall her sadness again. We always had a wonderful Sabbath meal, and afterwards in the evening, and on Saturday, we all went about our normal routines. Dorine often went to the store for us, and then took me with her to the movies.
I always had great difficulty connecting to what went on in the synagogue. I didn’t understand anything, and I developed the feeling quite early that religion was something for boys and men. Yet, I was deeply interested in religion and spirituality, and enjoyed attending services of various denominations from time to time. When I was twenty-two, my husband and I moved to Staten Island, and began attending the Unitarian Church there. Most of our friends, who were involved in the peace, civil rights, and ecology movements, as we were, also attended the Unitarian Church. The minister, Rev. Charles Rhinehart, was an avowed atheist, which fascinated me. Another aspect of the services that I enjoyed was the emphasis on the writings of Emerson, Thoreau, and the other Trancendentalists, whom I was studying. My children attended the Sunday school at the church, and I taught Sunday school classes there, too.
After several years, we moved to Great Neck, N.Y. where the schools were better. I was always interested in diversity and wanted my children to attend public schools for this reason, so imagine my disappointment when my daughter came home from school one day after a couple of months of attendance and said: “Want to hear something funny, Mom? Everyone in my class is Jewish!” To me, this was not a good thing. As my son approached the age when he needed to prepare for his bar mitzvah, we joined a reformed synagogue and attended services there for a several years. There were two rabbis—one an older man, and the other younger. Both of them told wonderful stories and I did enjoy knowing that I was doing something that connected me to my parents, grandparents, and ancestors. Most of the trustees of the synagogue were men, the President was a man; men had the honor of carrying the torah; men still thanked God for not making them a woman; and I still searched for a spiritual life that was consistent with my feminist ideals. I yearned for a spirituality that would lift me up, be more inclusive, express concern about the welfare of all peoples, and hold as a value the equality of women and men. I still had difficulty experiencing Judaism in a way that spoke to my innermost yearnings for equality, healing the planet, and fulfilling my hope that a vision of a better world can be a reality for everyone.
I continued to experiment, on and off, with Unitarianism, Ethical Humanism, and Buddhism and felt they all had something positive to teach me. Although I had spent most of my adult life going to school, earning two Masters’ degrees and a Doctorate, it never occurred to me to study Judaism in earnest. When I moved to Santa Fe in 2003, I quickly sought out and joined the Unitarian Universalist Congregation, where I felt very comfortable and became actively involved. One day, I happened to attend a lecture in Santa Fe by Rabbi Malka Drucker and an anthropologist, Barbara Tedlock, and through this lecture, I found out about HaMakom. I was very impressed with Rabbi Malka, and began to think that perhaps the problem I had with being Jewish was that it was always filtered through the heart and mind of a male rabbi. Perhaps a female rabbi would make a genuine difference to me. When I lived in New York, I did not attend Rosh Hashanah services, but I would get together for a holiday celebration with family and friends. I often made a special dinner for Rosh Hashanah and we made seders at Passover at which friends of all denominations came and participated. On Yom Kippur, I usually spent the day at home meditating in self-reflection. But on this particular Rosh Hashanah fairly early in my life in Santa Fe, my husband had to go to Michigan to care for his ailing father, and because I didn’t know anybody with whom to share a meal, I decided to see what Rosh Hashanah at HaMakom was like.
HaMakom was a revelation to me. Here were women who wore yarmulkes and talit, and were involved in every aspect of the services. Although I didn’t understand any Hebrew, there was something about the sound of the language, the chanting, and the prayers that I enjoyed. I tried to recite the prayers using the transliterations, but in many ways I felt like an imposter—not like a real Jew. I felt that those who knew the prayers and songs derived great pleasure from that knowledge, a feeling which I could only imagine. That is why when the opportunity was offered to me to study Hebrew and learn the prayers, I accepted the challenge.
From Rabbi Zalman, I found several good reasons to appreciate being Jewish. He clearly outlines the major contributions that Jews bring to the table, and also, most importantly, why the world needs what we have to offer.
He talks first about the significance of our understanding of time. Our calendar is anchored in the natural cycles of days, moons, months, and seasons, and “the more we immerse ourselves in these cycles, the more we experience living in organic time” (p. 189). Living in Santa Fe put me more in touch with the beauty of the sun, moon, stars, and seasons, and living with the natural cycles of time became important to me.
The second Jewish idea that Rabbi Zalman discusses is kashrut. He points out that centuries of distinguishing between kosher and nonkosher food has made us more conscious of the way we produce our food and what we put into our mouths. Practicing more conscious acts of consumption have affected both our spiritual and our physical well-being, and can easily be expanded into a more discriminating awareness of ecology, and how we use the earth’s natural resources.
Judaism also has a profound approach to talmud torah, or study. Judaism teaches us “to maintain a living dialogue with the texts that are the beating heart of our culture” (p. 196). Jews have always loved learning, and our texts are sacred to us. Our interest in study has also always demanded that we study not only for our own edification, but to perform the torah’s teachings with love and with the purpose of transforming the many problems in the world. Many Jews have devoted themselves to some form of tikkun olam, or repair of the world. I realized when I read this in Jewish with Feeling, that I am more Jewish than I ever thought I was, because learning and activism have always been important to me.
Over the course of many centuries, and because of our history of exile and the various sufferings that have befallen the Jewish people, we have learned how to hold on to our faith and deepen it even in the midst of uncertainty and powerlessness. Unfortunately, Jews are not the only ones who have had to learn bitter lessons as they saw their people die in great numbers because of racism and hatred—the Rwandans, Native Americans, and many others have suffered unjustly as well. As the Dalai Lama has recognized, Jews have become specialists in pursuing holiness that is both deeply rooted to this world, and yet, independent of worldly structures of power. This is knowledge that we can offer people of many different faiths and in many situations.
For the reasons stated above, Rabbi Zalman feels we can be justly proud of our heritage, and “ feel that it is still something that the world needs.”
The book, I am Jewish: Personal Reflections Inspired by the Last Words of Daniel Pearl edited by Judea and Ruth Pearl, encourages people to reflect upon Daniel Pearl’s last words, “I am Jewish,” and express their feelings about their lives as Jews. Here are a few responses that motivated me to think about my own Jewish identity:
Ruth Bader Ginsberg: “The demand for justice runs through the entirety of the Jewish history and Jewish tradition.”
Avraham Burg: “Judaism is like a chain of peace and existence that spans space and time, where each individual Jew is a different link.”
Ruth Pearl: “Empowerment to question, zeal for honesty, reverence for learning, and deep commitment to create a better world for the next generation.”
Stephen H. Hoffman: “Identify with the yearning to see all people free—free from want, free from terror, free from dictatorships, free from modern-day slavery and injustice.”
Rabbi Tony Bayfield: “To be a Jew is to go on a journey of discovery.”
In many ways, this has been a journey of discovery for me. I have been very fortunate to find HaMakom, Rabbi Malka Drucker, and Hazzen Cindy Freedman, and my extraordinary teachers, Yafa Chase and Zoe Van Raan. To be honest, I do not know where my studies will take me. The idea of striving for peace and justice is a very important ideal for me, both as a Jew and as a woman. Letty Cotton Pogrebin in Deborah, Golda, and Me speaks about her belief in Israeli-Palestinian reconciliation and reminds us that although beliefs and methods do not always work in practice “the desire to root one’s goals in a continuum larger than one’s own numbered days is what keeps life mindful and meaningful” (p. 375). Not long ago, I became aware of an organization, Creativity for Peace, that works to nurture understanding and leadership among Palestinian and Israeli adolescent girls and women. The organization aspires to develop the next generation of female leaders and peacemakers in Israel and Palestine. The hope is that the girls and women who attend workshops and camps will take on significant roles that advance peaceful coexistence in their families, communities, and countries. Each summer, there is a camp that takes place in New Mexico, and I plan to explore ways I can support the efforts of Creativity for Peace. I know that the education I have undertaken with HaMakom is only the beginning, and I want to leave room for what I still may become now that I know some good answers to the question “Why be Jewish?”
References
Pogrebin, Letty Cotton. Deborah, Golda, and Me. New York: Anchor Books, 1991
Pearl, Judea and Ruth (eds.). I Am Jewish. Personal Reflections Inspired by the Last Words of Daniel Pearl. Woodstock, Vt.: Jewish Lights, 2004
Schachter-Shalomi, Rabbi Zalman, with Joel Segel. Jewish with Feeling. A Guide to Meaningful Jewish Practice. New York: Riverhead Books, 2005.