What kind of Jew am I?

What follows is a transcript from my talk at Neve Shalom in Metuchen, NJ, for Tikkun Leil Shavuot 5782.

I’ve never thought much of this whole “Who is a Jew” business. There are too many nooks and crannies in our history. I’m happy to settle for the Nuremburg Laws. If at least one antisemite hates you, you’re in.

But the question of “What is a Jew”, or better, “What kind of Jew am I” – that’s something I spend a lot of time muttering about. My father (who was forty feet tall) used to say that he was a “non-observant Orthodox”. I suppose that makes me a “non-observant Conservative”. But that’s not quite right.

Once, I just figured that I was somewhere between Reform and Orthodox. That is clearly an oversimplification and doesn't mean all that much. As I started reading bit more, I learned about “Positive Historical Judaism” (acceptance of scientific and historical research and in its willingness to make some liturgical changes - Britannica) and “Catholic Judaism” (emphasizing the continuity of past and present Judaism - Britannica), which both appeal to me. In addition, I reject the “Pittsburg Platform” (not focusing on traditional customs and practices but instead on ethical living - Wikipedia). This seems to put me solidly in the Conservative mindset, at least as it was defined a hundred years ago.

But what about now?

A lot of the Conservative shuls I’ve visited aren’t that different from Reform shuls. Sure, Conservative prayer is more traditional, while Reform prayer has more English. Still, it seems that most of their memberships don’t attend services regularly. I understand that synagogues are also about social connections and community service, and these are important. But what about that whole generation to generation thing? USY chapters in our area are disappearing. I assume the same thing is happening to NFTY and BBYO.

Most of the Jewish kids in my hometown were educated in the Reform tradition, and they didn’t seem to strongly identify as Jews. It may have been that their parents were not as committed to raising Jewish children as were my parents. But I’m sure that there are many, many Orthodox Jews who would scoff at the way I was brought up.

But you don’t know what I had to put up with! Once in third grade the word “G-d” was on the weekly spelling test. Except spelled out WITHOUT the hyphen. I would not blaspheme and wrote it out as I had been taught at home. When it was marked as wrong, I courageously confronted the teacher. She said that the other Jewish kids in class didn’t use a hyphen. I explained that they were all Reform! I was ready to go to the ACLU, ADL, the Conference of Presidents of Major American Jewish Organizations, and a bunch of other entities that I hadn’t actually heard of. But she just said “Oh” and gave me credit for the word – kaddish hashem!

And then there’s the time I had to confront a classmate for eating popcorn on Pesach. Yes, I was a jerk back then too.

I am ashamed of the way I used to think of the Reform movement. I can list many specific disagreements I have with Orthodox Judaism. But as for Reform Judaism, all I had was a vague feeling of superiority. Indeed, the Reform movement beat us by decades in embracing gender equality and sexual minorities. I didn’t realize the importance of that until I was older. And what difference should it make to me if they eat all sorts of treif that would turn my stomach?

Our main prayer, the Amidah, originally had 18 blessings, but at some point, a nineteenth was added – the heretic’s blessing. I’ve seen two explanations of its origin. The more common one is filtering out those pesky Jewish Christians from the synagogues. Alternatively, it was a way of flipping the bird at some nasty folks standing at the door and jeering the congregation. Whatever. But when I say it – praising the Almighty for humbling the arrogant – I mean me. A little humbling does me a world of good.

Orthodox communities are vastly more effective at retaining their youth than we are. Although it is conceivable that the Conservative movement will disappear in a few generations, it’s hard to imagine that this will ever be the case for our Orthodox cousins. There are so many reasons for this. For starters, the need to walk to shul on Shabbat keeps them close geographically. Day schools and yeshivas certainly strengthen the bonds. At the extreme end, I have heard that some Haredi don’t even learn the local vernacular until adulthood, which leaves them insulated from secular life. Most importantly, devotion to Talmud has been critical to continued Jewish existence.

Unfortunately, my knowledge of Talmud is pathetic. I am trying to work on that. I’ve certainly heard all sorts of gems from rabbis and other teachers, but the best I can ever hope to be is the guy in the back who pays rapt attention to the learned discussions. I know that’s how Hillel got started, but his footsteps are out of my league.

The first time I was exposed to traditional Talmud study was on one of the Shabbats that I spent with a family that belonged to the Rugby shul of Rabbi Avigdor Miller, he should rest in peace. This was the point under discussion: a man was leaving on an extended trip, and he wanted the community to refrain from assisting his family while he was gone. Should they listen to him? The answer depends on how right in the head this guy was. If he was imbalanced or insane, then of course his family should be taken care of. If he was of sound mind, the community should respect his wishes.

From what I understand, this question came up in real life. One earns merit bringing Torah to this and many other issues. The integrity of the family is paramount. And so on and so forth.

But what are these folks talking about? Shouldn’t this be one of those rare occasions where castration is suggested?

Despite all my sanctimony, I can imagine a situation in which it would be correct to leave the family to its own devices. Picture the married couple Betty and Seymour. They are very much in love, with a relationship based on respect and equality. More than anything else, Seymour (who is fifty feet tall) is committed to Betty’s happiness and well-being.

Sounds pretty good so far, but they have a good-for-nothing son Aron who never gets off his butt to do anything useful. And why should he? His parents take care of everything.

Betty and Seymour are at a loss – in desperation, Betty suggests the following:

“Seymour, just leave us for a few months – then, maybe our loser son will kick into gear and contribute something to the family.”

Seymour agrees, because of course he does. He wants to tell the rabbi the full story, but Betty won’t hear of that. She hates the rabbi and can’t stand the Nosy Nathans in the Men’s Club. She makes him promise not to tell anybody. Again, Seymour (who is sixty feet tall) agrees, because of course he does. In this case, Seymour’s wishes should indeed be respected.

Nonetheless, I have never gotten over the feeling that this discussion is preposterous.

Rabbi Miller was highly respected, but one of his talks left me feeling uneasy. He started by saying that we should be grateful to be human, and not animal. (The man never met my cats.) We should be grateful to be White and not Black. (The room was silent, and I was uncomfortable.) We should be grateful to be man, not woman. (The room was filled with laughter, and I was unsurprised.) But most of all we should be grateful to be Jews. (No argument from me.)

Perhaps he meant that we didn’t have to deal with Jim Crow, redlining, and being confused for the hired help. And I am indeed happy not to pick up after a sloppy husband. But that’s not the vibe I got. We all have biases, but such bluntness was disappointing to hear.

I am very comfortable with women taking an equal place in services. Still, I would never criticize the Orthodox about this. Most of the Orthodox women I’ve discussed this with are perfectly happy with the arrangement. My father’s cousin Shirley remembers fondly that shul was the only place she got her grandmother all to herself. There are plenty of shuls with mixed seating, and we should all pray however is most meaningful to us.

(Actually, the last line of the preceding paragraph originally read something like “if you don’t like it, stay out of their shuls”. My editor - AKA my son - thought that sounded too much like “they should go back where they came from”, so I changed it. For what it’s worth, I think it’s much snappier than the pablum I replaced it with.)

This issue was once controversial in Conservative shuls. Years ago, at Beth Or in Clark, there was a heated conflict about opening up aliyot and other parts of the service to women. Two extremely wonderful ladies were on opposite sides of the debate. The first stood with the women pushing for equality. The second wanted to retain the status quo – not so much for herself, but for a large part of the membership that would be alienated. The egalitarians carried the day! But here’s the fun part: since so few of the women showed up for services, the first refuses to take an aliyah. And the second is now a regular service leader. Which is marvelous!

There is something that makes me apoplectic. It happened on my parents’ last Yom Kippur together. My mother was frail, my father ravaged by Alzheimer’s. For Kol Nidre, they went, not to an Orthodox shul, but to a Jewish nursing home. The rabbi would not let them sit together. My mother explained that she could not leave my father alone, but I guess that was irrelevant. My mother asked about the many female attendants who were with male residents, but that didn’t matter either. My mother felt that since the attendants were Black, they did not really register with the rabbi. My parents left, and my mother was hurt and angry.

Some of the Orthodox I discussed this with thought that the rabbi should have found some way to accommodate my mother. Others felt the rabbi was right, and this was no big deal. To me, it sounds like another one of those rare occasions where castration is suggested.

Many Jews say that if one doubts a single word of Torah or believes that Torah was not transmitted in its entirety at Mount Sinai, one has forfeited his share in the World to Come. Not to cut myself off, but this sounds a little like Linus in the pumpkin patch. As any kid knows, the Great Pumpkin looks for the sincerest pumpkin patch of all, and showers whoever is there with all sorts of candy. The trick is that whoever awaits the arrival needs to speak only of “when the Great Pumpkin arrives”. Every Halloween, Linus always trips up by saying “if”.

Information is mostly digital today. This is facilitated by hashing, check digits, and parity bits – which are too boring to explain. For centuries, scribal transmission was eyeball to stylus. It’s not possible that the Masoretes slipped up here and there?

My interest in Jewish scripture was reignited while attending a class of Gary Rendsburg, who teaches at my Alma Mater Rutgers and apparently has the entire Tanach memorized. In his recent book “How The Bible Is Written”, he points out a single word in the Noah narrative (Genesis 6:14): “qinnim” (קינים - nests) that should be emended to “qanim” (קנים - reeds). It’s a small change, but one that he made gingerly out of respect for the Masoretic text. Given his reference to Gilgamesh as well as to present day “native Middle East custom”, it seems reasonable to me. Would accepting this teensy alteration screw up my afterlife? I asked an educated friend at Ohav Emeth in Highland Park. I expected a harumph, or at least some sort of rise, but there was nothing of the sort. In fact, Gary was a friend of his and this emendation was not a problem at all. So, no harm, no foul.

But what about something a little less inconsequential?

A few years ago, the New York Times printed an article by Idan Dershowitz: “The Secret History of Leviticus”. In it he posits that Leviticus 18 originally did not forbid sex between unrelated men. This is essentially a case of the exception proving the rule. Since the reference here lists several incestuous acts, why would sex between brothers be forbidden here if all sex between men were proscribed elsewhere? This is all way above my pay grade, but I’m inclined to accept it. I’m sure this follows from by strong belief that orientation is largely intrinsic. I doubt that anything between consenting adults is an afront to the Almighty. And besides that, the Nazis shoved kikes and queers into the same ovens.

I haven’t had a chance to ask my aforementioned educated friend about this, but I assume he would not be quite as sanguine.

And if I’m not confident in the unbroken transmission of the written law, how much less so for the oral law. Does this make me a Saducee or a Karaite?

But back to the ladies.

Bahya ben Asher lived about 700 years ago. He is sometimes credited with writing the first works of Mussar. A year or two back, I read an English translation of his “Duties of the Heart”, and I was amazed at the mindfulness he brought to reverence of the Almighty. In it, he described the ten steps that lead to total trust in G-d. I’ll only describe, and probably oversimplify, the first three.

At first, an infant “trusts in his mother’s breast”. As “his perception strengthens, his trust moves to his mother”. Next, “he observes that his mother depends on his father, he moves his trust to his father due to the greater degree of protection he receives from him”.

If I ever said anything like that to my son, my father (who was seventy feet tall) would rise from his grave and rip my lungs out. Now, I don’t really believe that can happen, but it’s better not to take a chance.

Rav Zaitchik’s “Sparks of Mussar” relates stories that show a great commitment to generosity and humility. Many of these are shining examples of love and respect for women. Still, there were several that stood out as counterexamples.

Rav Yisroel Lipkin of Salant: “In worldly matters, it is proper to heed the advice of one’s wife. But in spiritual matters, one should take no notice of her opinion even if the floor is washed with her tears.”

Rav Yosef Yozel Hurwitz: “Coming home from his house of solitude for Shabbos, he found his wife wearing gloves, and soundly upbraided her for indulging in luxury.”

Rav Yisroel Meir Hacohen (the Chofetz Chayim): “He forbade the agents to sell his seforim to women, lest their husbands had not consented to purchase.”

Perhaps I am making too much of these. I may be missing some context, or something might be corrupted in translation. I doubt that my wife will be smiling as she reads the above. But Rabbi Miller comes to my rescue! From Rabbi Dolinsky’s “Walking with Rabbi Miller”: “If your wife is not in the kitchen, clean a few dishes or straighten up for her without her knowing.” Unfortunately, I waited until my recent retirement to start with that, but my wife will be turning handsprings when she reads that.

The teachers at my Conservative Hebrew school were mostly Orthodox men, and mostly horrible as well. Even so, I got a pretty good education in Jewish history from them. Most of the stories were about men – no surprise there. We’d occasionally here about Akiba’s wife, who selflessly supported her husband’s studies. However, I don’t remember learning about Deborah or Ruth until well after I became a Bar Mitzvah.

One story I remember was from current events, not history. We used to get a periodical – something like a Jewish Weekly Reader. There was an article about a young Jewish woman running for Congress in the Democratic primary. Today, ladies like that are a shekel a dozen, but in the stone age of my youth, that was quite unusual. One of the girls asked about it, but Moreh was unimpressed: “So what – she talks about women’s liberation and has nothing else.”

My wife: not smiling.

And back to Ruth for just a moment. Sure, having a young lovely sing the Song of Songs might be just too damned erotic. But the Book of Ruth is about the love and commitment between a daughter-in-law and a mother-in-law. It makes no sense to me without a woman chanting it.

I mentioned a vague feeling of superiority towards Reform Jews. I’ve certainly sensed that coming from the Orthodox. Perhaps that’s arrogant projection on my part. I’m just as much of a Jew as any of them, and no Orthodox I’ve met has ever disputed that. But my experience as a Jew is another story.

In some families – mine included – there is a tradition of holding a “Second Bar Mitzvah” at the age of 83. It’s just an excuse for the family to honor a loved one. When I told an Orthodox friend about my grandfather’s ceremony, he said his Rebbi thought those were nonsense.

Most folks who know me have heard my whining harmonica stylings. Not everyone has been so lucky to hear my soulful, passionate rendering of “Shalom Aleichem” on my fancy chromatic harp. A different Orthodox friend said the melody was inauthentic, since it dated back only a hundred years or so. And don’t get him started on that grammatical error.

And how many have been just a little too happy when telling me they would never step into a synagogue with mixed seating?

Are these examples trivial? You can bet your afikomen that they are! But really, yiddele – what’s the point? Does every thought need to be expressed?

Old joke: Every Jew has two shuls – the one he goes to, and the one he’d never go to.

Which is a loss. I get something out of every shul I go to regardless of affiliation.

A colleague at my last job was an expat Russian Jew. He sent his daughter for a secular Jewish education, something along the lines of the Workmen’s Circle. At age 13, she had a secular Bat Mitzvah. I was invited and was happy to go. I was always looking for Jewish experiences for my son, but more importantly, it’s very easy to get me to show up someplace if you’re going to feed me.

It was not so simple for another expat Russian Jew at my old job. This guy was into Chabad and declined the invitation by saying he would never go to a secular Bat Mitzvah. Which is fine, but he couldn’t think of a less hurtful excuse: ski trip, dentist appointment, dead family pet, whatever? I don’t get it.

Pirkei Avot starts with an admonition to build a fence around Torah. And of course, we should! But there must be a way to stay on the right side of the fence without insulting people.

I was at a service once, and we were reciting the Amidah “heicha kedushah”, meaning we started together aloud, then individually after the Kedushah. I noticed that the guy to my right started from the beginning when we went silent. I asked him about that later, and he just demurred that it was an “Orthodox thing” – his exact words. I gathered – maybe incorrectly – that he didn’t feel right explicitly joining in the prayer, and it was his way of splitting hairs. I loved that he found a way to stay in the sanctuary with us.

Another story that I did not witness but was related to me: some male teacher helped a girl with her Bat Mitzvah preparations – obviously, he heard her sing. But he would not enter the sanctuary for her big moment. His solution: he stood just outside the door so he could hear her.

Once, I attended Rosh Hashanah services at a shul that was evenly split between Conservative and Orthodox members – there were two mechitzot, creating three sections: one for men, another for women, and mixed seating in the middle.

These were all lovely solutions. Right up to the fence, just not over. Was that so hard?

But what if I were invited to a Messianic synagogue? My first thought would be NO WAY!

Still, let’s drill down on that a bit. Suppose the Messianic Jew was a friend of mine, not just someone out to convert me. Suppose further that it was for some significant lifestyle event, like a wedding, confirmation, or even a baptism. I think I’d find a way to go. I wouldn’t join in the prayer, and Heaven forfend I was offered an aliya. But we’re talking about a friend of mine. I think I would still be on the right side of the fence.

And while I’m on the subject of Christians, this comes to mind. I’ve been asked MANY, MANY times: the Nazarene was a Jew – why don’t I accept him? I explained to one Christian friend how the long history of persecution and coercion made this a hurtful question. Without batting his gentile eye, he responded that this was only proof of the fallibility of man, not of G-d. So, no harm, no foul? He then went on to explain that Christianity was compatible with and indeed the fulfillment of Judaism.

Really, shaigitz? You’re telling me what it means to be Jewish? Why are you trying so hard to convince me? There’s a word for Jews who accept the Nazarene, and that word is “Christian”.

I don’t mean to be hard on my old grad school chum – he was a good guy. Another Christian friend from my hometown was much smoother. I asked him about some famous pastor who said that G-d did not hear the prayer of Jews, and where did this leave me? His answer: whether I know it or not, my prayers went through the Nazarene. I liked that! It was like a “Get Out of The Inquisition Free” card.

Let me be very clear about this. I am not now, have never been, and will never be a Christian. I will never abandon the Holy One of my parents, the Holy One of Israel. If nothing else, I have too much resentment and fear pent up after centuries of oppression, burning our holy writings, censuring our liturgy, and killing us.

But I do admit to being just a little Jesus-curious, and not because I have a Catholic wife. A few years back I went to a program at Seton Hall established to honor Sister Rose Thering. Every Jew should revere her memory for the work she did to identify anti-Judaism in Catholic literature. The program featured Amy-Jill Levine, an Orthodox Jew who is a professor of New Testament Studies at Vanderbilt University Divinity School.

It goes without saying that she does not view the Nazarene as divine, but she is quite deft at presenting him as part of the Jewish experience of the late Second Temple period. Without going into detail, it was absolutely amusing to hear her respectfully explain that Christians aren’t interpreting some of the parables correctly.

I read the “Jewish Annotated New Testament” that Levine co-edited, and it was quite a learning experience. For starters, how do Christians read the thing without a good understanding of the Tanach? And it was stunning to realize how many snippets of the text are embedded in popular culture. My personal favorite comes from a Star Trek episode: “The Trouble with Tribbles”. Spock just can’t understand why these humans like those fuzzy things. They remind him of the lilies of the valley, which “do not toil neither do they spin”. Alas, Spock said that with contempt, while the Nazarene said it with praise. What can you expect from a Vulcan?

And that bit about “what you do for the least of my brothers, you do for me” – I’m sure that sentiment is expressed many times in Jewish scripture, but never quite so eloquently.

James Carrol’s “Constantine’s Sword” is one of the most incredible books I’ve come across. To read a fervent Catholic’s account of Christian anti-Judaism and to understand the pain it causes him – it was incredible. He lays out how the doctrine of supersession is the root of so much Jewish suffering, and he reminds the reader that Jesus was a Jew. But this is not at all like hearing it from the proselytizers. For example, he’ll quote some theologian from a thousand years ago: “Jesus said thus and so, and that’s why Judaism is evil”. Carrol then explains that Jesus was a Jew, that’s not what he meant at all.

Am I still on the right side of the fence? Surely, many Jews, and particularly our Orthodox cousins, would say no. I respect that, but I am that I am.

I don’t mean to come off as too harsh. Some of my most meaningful experiences have been at Orthodox shuls. For starters, the Sephardim at Etz Chaim in Highland Park really know who to pray – I’d never seen anything like it. At Ahavas Yisroel in Edison, the women are mostly hidden, but I did manage to see a young girl whose prayer was so intense it made me jealous. At Anshe Chesed in Linden, where men and women sit separately but can still see each other, I watched a woman watch her grandson lead Musaf, and I was almost as moved as she was.

I haven’t studied Ezra and Nehemia in great depth, but I’m uncomfortable that the Samaritans were frozen out upon the return. It reminds me of Liberia being founded by returning freed slaves, who then excluded the natives from the ruling class.

How can anyone be so sure of his unbroken roots from the distant past? Is the chain of custody so fundamentally obvious? It certainly isn’t so clear to me.

Here’s something from the preface of Gershom Scholem’s “Sabbatai Sevi – The Mystical Messiah”:

“I do not hold to the opinion of those (and there are indeed many of them) who view the events of Jewish history from a fixed dogmatic standpoint and know exactly whether some phenomenon or another is ‘Jewish’ or not. Nor am I a follower of that school which proceeds on the assumption that there is a well-defined and unvarying ‘essence’ of Judaism, especially where the evaluation of historical events is concerned.”

You go, Gershom!

And Moses Hess, from “Rome and Jerusalem”: “The free development of the knowledge of G-d … is the holiest religious obligation in Judaism. … The dogmatic basis of Judaism is so wide as to admit every free creation of spirit.”

I might be taking Hess a little out of context. Whereas I had a “vague sense of superiority” regarding the Jewish Reform movement, he had many specific and biting criticisms. But I still like the quote.

I have many different Jewish perspectives, some of them quite heterodox or syncretistic. When I’ve shared some of these with more traditionally minded friends, I’m frequently answered with something along the lines of “No true Scotsman puts sugar on his porridge”. Or less obscurely, no true Jew thinks that way. Perhaps that’s more arrogant projection on my part. Who knows?

And so I conclude with my original question: what kind of Jew am I?

Haven’t a clue. Maybe I need some help from my guardian maggid. I’ll get back to you when I’m older.