Friday, January 18, 2013

Prayer: A Process Grounded in Community


Three steps forward, three steps back. Bow to the left, right, center. Raise heels three times.

These seemingly simply instructions have guided the way I pray since I was nine years old. My Israeli teachers distributed our oversized and unfamiliar red Siddurim to my third grade class and called out the motions with the turn of each page. Our forty-five minute tefillah services every Monday enabled my nine-year old friends and I to hear the constant directions of where our feet must go and regurgitate the actions blindly. This process repeated until I turned fifteen.

As ever evolving Jewish people, we somehow feel that it is acceptable to undergo drastic changes in order to remain relevant in today’s world. Many synagogues have considered and pursued egalitarianism and ordain female clergy. Others serve cheeseburgers at Kiddush luncheons and do away with yarmulkes and tefillin. Some communities endorse the revolutionaries of our time by wearing rainbow and intertwining the Beatles music into every holiday that promotes freedom. Yet, somehow, in spite of all the radical changes and ideas that rabbinic Judaism has encountered since its formation, prayer is the one prevalent concept that may never be eradicated.

Prayer, derived from the Latin term “to beg,” is a fundamental value of our faith today. For hundreds of years, Jews across the globe have congregated to recognize, praise and communicate with a higher theological being. Depending on the denomination and synagogue, some congregations of Jews sit separately by gender, vehemently uttering every word in their siddurim. Other communities take more liberal approaches, beating tambourines and dancing in circles while wearing a multitude of colors. While the styles and structures may differ, prayer unties congregations as they grow together. One cannot help but watch in awe as a room filled with faithful people, regardless of background or religion, springs into life. For an outsider looking into a community, prayer is truly beautiful. For the nine-year old who is handed a book of foreign words and given bizarre body movements to emulate, prayer is perhaps a work in progress.

By the age of fifteen, I began to glimpse at the English words to which I was bouncing my heels. I realized that already in the first prayer, Birkot HaShachar, I was praising a God who “gives sight to the blind,” “clothes the naked,” and “makes me in His image,” yet just outside my own front door lies blindness to others, or intolerance, homelessness, and despair. This prayer compelled introspection, too, as I looked at myself and questioned if I was really living in the image that was created for me, or if that was even a good thing. As time progressed, prayer became more of a double standard: I would praise God when I accomplished a goal that I prayed for, and blamed myself when it failed miserably. While the motions I learned since I was nine years old remained consistent—I knew when to click my heels and bow—the liturgy and meaning left me confused and alone, grappling with my faith at large.

It was during my Gesher summer at Camp Ramah Darom when I learned the core values of prayer that I will pursue for the rest of my life. One of our teachers, Rabbi Hillel Nuri, stressed the importance of praying with others, constantly staying connected to others through each prayer. Through all tragedies or joys in life, we must preserve the communities we create by the words of our prayers; “faith cannot be separated from community.” The words, whether translated in English or read in its original Hebrew form, in our siddur must not leave us feeling isolated but rather united. Our feelings toward liturgy, no matter what they are, are perfectly normal and acceptable; it is our actions that follow that define our path in Judaism. We can either remain hidden beneath our anger and confusion, or share our struggle with those around us. Perhaps that is why we are required to pray in minyan or quorum of ten people; no one should ever experience faith alone.

While Judaism may constantly evolve, prayer is everlasting. Looking back, I’ve come to realize that in order to struggle and grapple with the liturgy of the prayers we recite as a nation, I needed to learn the basic motions. While we may not have all the answers to the questions that accompany our quests for understanding, we have something more powerful and indestructible: the warmth and support of our community.

So until I master the work in progress that is Jewish prayer, I will continue with the cycle that began with my oversized red siddur.

Three steps forward, three steps back. 


Embracing Pluralism


Here I am, sitting silently amongst the tension. I watch in awe, somewhere in the middle or off center-left, as my new friends defend their various Jewish backgrounds on a casual Saturday night in Tzfat, Israel. 

“My father, an Orthodox rabbi, would never officiate at a wedding for an intermarried couple, unless, of course, the spouse had converted. Halacha, or Jewish law, must always come first,” says a modern Orthodox girl on my left.

“But my mother, a Catholic, never converted,” argues a liberal Reform Jew to my right. “In my Reform community, I am still considered Jewish despite the intermarriage between my parents! In fact, without an intermarriage, I would not even be here today.”

Just six months ago, I never would have imagined that I’d somehow be struggling with the question of interfaith and its impact on Judaism with all different kinds of Jews surrounding me. In a pluralistic setting that we, twenty-six American Jewish teenagers, had created over the summer in Israel, it suddenly felt acceptable to cross the sensitive boundaries that divided us in our individual walks of faith. Will we allow our separate denominations, I wonder, to expunge our newly formed friendships? Will our different community affiliations destroy the sacred space we’ve created for spiritual growth?

One year earlier, the world of Jewish pluralism had barely entered my realm of thinking. Growing up in a Conservative Jewish sheltered bubble through both synagogue and Camp Ramah, I never considered the idea that the “other” Jews who existed around the world particularly cared about what I believed. I simply believed, like many American Jews today, that sects of Judaism were structured into a scale with Orthodoxy titled as the “most religious” and Reform as the “least Jewish” of them all, for reasons that I can no longer understand today. For years, I secured my place on this scale of American Judaism with the ignorant awareness that some denominations were placed at higher and lower levels, but I refused to ever explore these other communities. Besides, if non-Conservative Jews distanced themselves from my lifestyle, then what could I possibly learn from them?

It was during my last summer at Camp Ramah Darom in Clayton, GA, when I learned about the Bronfman Youth Fellowships in Israel, a Jewish high school program that would later open my eyes to the perspectives of other Jewish denominations and shape my pluralistic view of Judaism. In early June 2011, a friend in my age group had drowned while we were rafting down the Ocoee River in Southern Tennessee. He was rushed to a local hospital where he passed away that afternoon, leaving my entire camp and community in a shock and utter grief. This tragedy inspired me to question theology and Conservative ideologies beyond the mandatory lectures throughout the week. Unsettled by the limited opportunities for spiritual introspection during the day, I attempted to explore my faith at night alongside my friends, who, understandably, wanted no involvement. It seemed sensible that, after overcoming a ten-day mourning period at camp, my friends did not need to hear phrases such as “How could God let this happen?” or “the Conservative movement has struggled with death and dying for years” anymore. My curiosity toward Judaism, text studying, and spiritual growth only burgeoned as the summer continued, but my social circle was taking a faith break. As a result, I was nicknamed “little rabbi” and “super Jew,” names that seemed to justify my constant desire to debate God’s omniscience with the first person I saw. I wondered if I would ever be fortunate enough to find a community of Jewish seekers with whom I could explore my own Jewish path. Throughout the emotional whirlwind of a summer, I simply wanted to unravel the rudiments of my Judaism and analyze their every aspect.

During my last week of camp, a counselor pulled me aside and provided me with information that marked a new direction to my post-Ramah junior year. She simply looked at me and said, “There are people out there who are like you. They’re applying to a program called the Bronfman Youth Fellowship, a five-week program in Israel next summer. You really should check it out.”

Weeks later, the Bronfman website became my most frequently visited computer page. Unfamiliar terms such as “Jewish pluralism,” “Ma’aseh,” and “Edgar Bronfman” entered my daily realm of thinking. As the days progressed, I continued to learn more about this once nebulous yet intriguing Jewish program. This organization could somehow amalgamate twenty-six high school students from across the Jewish spectrum to learn together? Five weeks in Israel will be spent learning from some non-Conservative teachers? Fascinated by the idea of exploring Judaism through new perspectives, I felt motivated to expand my sheltered Jewish bubble. Three months into my academic year, I opened the summer application, realizing that I had found my future community.

Seven months, five essays, and two interviews later, I packed my suitcase and joined the twenty-sixth Bronfman class for five life-changing weeks in Israel. Would these random people be interested in starting vehement theological discussions at any hour of the night? Will any of them enjoy being challenged and passionate about their beliefs this summer? I anxiously (and perhaps creepily, too) eyed the circle of unique thinkers from across the country. Little did I know, these twenty-five other individuals would inspire nights of deep, endless conversations, reconstruct my view of Jewish denominationalism, and sharpen my faith with the experiences of their own.

While I had traveled to Israel with Jewish groups in the past, this journey was unique in infinite ways. I never imagined that I would find the opportunity to debate God’s omniscience while overlooking Jerusalem’s Old City, learn Torah from acclaimed professors and rabbis while wearing Bedouin pants and a T-shirt, and become more comfortable with the idea of pluralism, a phrase that I had begun introducing to my Jewish vocabulary---all within the first week there. Once the first Shabbat as a community approached, I couldn’t help wondering if there was any scientific force on earth that could even attempt to drag me down back to reality.

As the weeks progressed, however, I faced some of the religious issues that our faculty had warned us to expect. Shabbat observances, levels of kashrut, and forms of modesty were tense topics that inspired hours of heated debate. A term like “more religious,” originally so common in my pre-Bronfman life, suddenly made me cringe when it was used to categorize the twenty-six of us rather than unite us. We defended our separate denominations in an attempt to secure the only Judaism we each knew, rather than looking at the incredible Jewish influences that surrounded us: each other. Striving to create a pluralistic community, we, in a sense, embodied both the strengths and flaws of our own denominations, allowing these titles to box us into different categories. Ultimately, that is how most Jews identify themselves today—through the offered boxes left for us to “check.” I learned over the course of five weeks in Israel, however, that the boxes themselves have become the issue in American Judaism today.

Unlike the radical thinkers who endorse the concept of post-denominational Judaism or “Judaism with no prefix,” I have come to value different Jewish denominations, the communities that ensue from them, and the traditions that make each one unique. Since post-denominational Judaism has evolved into a denomination of its own, I believe in the idea of “experimental” Judaism instead, a Judaism that encourages others to explore all denominations and integrate themselves into different communities.  People, myself once included, have the tendency to commit to one community both physically and mentally, almost entirely for security. This association, however, prevents us from exploring and experimenting with our individual walks of Jewish life and ultimately creating pluralism. This summer, our pluralism was not a reflection of our agreements and shared conclusions, but rather our willingness to grow from every perspective and opinion we encountered. Our pluralism was defined by our ability to unite, talk, struggle, and laugh together despite our different walks of life that diverge Jewish communities on a daily basis. Most importantly, however, our pluralism marked an incredible feat in our generation of American Judaism: we, teens, jettisoned the walls of ignorance and fear that our ancestors built to insulate us. We embraced our differences and discovered beautiful commonalities through our experiments with the faith that divides so many people. to We live in a world where too many focus on the direct destinations of their Jewish life, rather than on the journeys themselves. There is myriad knowledge and warmth we can gain by visiting the synagogues or communities that emphasize different ways of being Jewish than what we’re accustomed to practicing.

From my one summer in Israel, I learned that it is truly impossible to experiment with faith unless you are willing to step outside of your comfort zone. Denominations are necessary in order to strengthen communities; however, tolerance and the ability to explore these denominations, is the most vital step to creating Jewish pluralism. From the countless conversations I witnessed among my Bronfman friends, I realized that pluralistic Judaism could exist. And through the friendships we created based on understanding and faith exploration, I realized something more: pluralism can thrive.


Saturday, January 5, 2013

Reoccupy Judaism


In the midst of the various “Occupy” movements that emerge and disappear even more rapidly than Shabbatot in the winter, I tend to wonder if we as a global Jewish community are speaking as loudly and defiantly as we think we are.

Younger generations of Jews are propelling a “post-denominational” identity as a statement against organized religious denominations, synagogue obligations, and membership dues. They seek what Rabbi Elie Kaunfer calls “Empowered Judaism,” or the idea that they can create and strengthen a communal, meaningful, and sacred space bereft of any formidable membership related obligations. This movement of young Jewish independent thinkers intimidates their parents, grandparents, rabbis, and ritual committee chairs across the country that are rooted in the traditions and comforts of a formal synagogue experience. I think that there can be a middle ground between these two loud attempts to secure a meaningful Judaism in contemporary society. I think Judaism can be “reoccupied.”

While I do think that successful pluralism cannot be created when denominations define Jews, I do think that those labels are the stepping-stones that inspire us to form communities. It is when we become so consumed by those titles and statuses that we isolate ourselves from other movements and tear down all walls of tolerance. We defend our separate denominations as an attempt to secure the only Judaism we each know, rather than looking at the incredible Jewish influences that surround us. As an aspiring pluralistic Jewish world, we, in a sense, embody both the strengths and flaws of our own denominations, allowing these titles to box us into different categories. Ultimately, that is how most Jews associate themselves today—through the offered boxes left for us to “check.” I, however, feel the boxes themselves have become the issue in American Judaism today, for they limit us into thinking that there can only be one way to practice faith.

Unlike this new generation of post-denominationalists, or “Jews without prefixes,” I value different Jewish denominations, the communities that ensue from them and the traditions that make each one unique. Since post-denominational Judaism has evolved into a denomination of its own, I believe in the idea of “experimental” Judaism instead, a Judaism that encourages people to explore all denominations and integrate themselves into different communities.  People, myself once included, have the tendency to commit to one community both physically and mentally, almost by means of security. This association, however, prevents us from exploring and experimenting with our individual walks of Jewish life and ultimately creating pluralism. We live in a world where too many focus on the direct destinations of their Jewish life, rather than on the journeys themselves. There is myriad knowledge and warmth we can gain by visiting the synagogues or communities that emphasize different aspects of Judaism than what we’re accustomed to.

With these two existing Jewish movements today—one that maintains the traditional synagogue movement structure and another that strives to destruct it—we may never reach unity between generations. While denominations are what can ultimately unify us, it is our inability to broaden our view of community that makes them detrimental to Judaism today.  It is truly impossible to experiment with our Jewish identities unless we are willing to step outside of our comfort zones. Denominations are necessary in order to strengthen communities, however, tolerance and the ability to explore these movements are the most vital steps toward creating Jewish pluralism.

So rather than being independent Jews and avoiding the commitments of being members of our own faith, let’s simply expand the definition of membership. Let’s appreciate denominations that have helped Judaism thrive for all these years, but eradicate all our exclusivity and explore every community. Let’s experiment with the denominations of Judaism that we try to jettison and allow ourselves to grow and be inspired. Let’s, if we may, reoccupy Judaism.