Neil Manel Frau-Cortes' blog on music, Judaism and new technologies

Archive for the ‘Jewish spirituality’ Category

She wore blue velvet: more dangers of co-optation.

 

Some years ago, in Tel Aviv, an Israeli friend of mine told me –in a mixture of wonder and puzzlement–: “I don’t understand how can you call yourself dati (religious), when it’s obvious you are not.” What he meant was clear to me: I don’t wear kippah all the time, only when I feel like doing it, and when I don my yammy, it is definitely colorful, not plain black velvet. My tsitsit do not hang ostensibly outside of my clothes. I observe Shabbat, but I don’t mind turning on lights, taking showers or using my electric kettle on that day. To me, Shabbat is about rest, enjoyment, connection with the divine and other human beings, about spirituality, not about making myself a pretzel considering if pouring soy milk over my cereal is tantamount of forbidden cooking. All these details brought my proudly secular friend to repeat the common motto: “it’s all or nothing!” Either you observe or you do not. Translated in plain words: stop appropriating the beautiful, meaningful, ethically sound aspects of Judaism and discarding the retrograde, anachronistic aspects they define as equally essential. According to this theory, it is hypocritical to light Shabbat candles, bless the wine, smell the sweet havdalah spices, celebrate the new moon, or cry like a baby at neilah, if you are not ready to accept the laws of mamzerut, pray for the restoration of animal sacrifice, and discriminate against random folks (women, agunot, LGBTQ, converts, liberal Jews and anybody who doesn’t look like us). This is just a fallacy, a mistake that is hurting more than helping.

More recently, while writing an article, I was trying to find a good definition of “repentance” in Judaism and I did what most of us do these days: I begun by googling the corresponding Wikipedia articles. The articles on ba’ale teshuvah stirred me and brought to my memory the story I just told you. For those of you that may not know, a ba’al teshuvah (literally “penitent” or “somebody who has repentance,” for short a “BT”) is a person who was born “legally Jewish” but never practiced, and later in life has a religious awakening and comes back to Judaism. Therefore, most of us, average committed Jews of all denominations are ba’ale teshuvah in some form or other. A number of us –born Jewish or not– has experienced the transformative miracle of discovering the richness of Judaism at a point of our lives.

The problem comes when you use the concept of ba’al teshuvah in an exclusive, discriminating way. The fact is that most people have bought into the idea that a BT is somebody who didn’t grow up Orthodox and has later adopted this denomination. If you were secular, a moderate Reform, a committed Conservative Jew, or even a Conservadox all your life and suddenly you “don the black velvet kippah” so to speak, congratulations, now you are a BT, and you are a “real Jew.” However if you were secular and then come back to any progressive way of Jewish observance, you are out of luck: you have not upgraded to BT.

On a deeper meaning, from its inception, the current use of the term BT was intended to discriminate against newbies. The auto-denominated religious will say that somebody is a BT in order to differentiate this person from an FFB, a frum from birth, somebody who is born “into families that are already religiously observant, and who have been conceived, born and raised Jewishly” (quoting the Wikipedia article). And if you are a FFB you can always go wrong and become an OTD (“off the derech”), somebody who has left Orthodox practice, no matter if he is still a very observant liberal Jew.

You see, sad as it might be, it is perfectly Ok if Orthodox people use these terms and look at the rest of us as unauthentic and fundamentally wrong. There is very little I can say or do to change their opinion. My many Orthodox friends know that we will never agree in this subject, so we just don’t bother. But why in the world should the rest of us buy into it and use these words in the same terms? I have already ranted about the need to stop using the term frum or “religious” among us to mean only “Orthodox”, which invalidates the religious experience of must of us. Maybe it is time that we become aware of this other language co-optation and stop using BT with the same implications. Then we’ll realize that the so-called BT movement is immensely bigger than what they tell us. Everywhere I turn I see people who (re-)discover in Judaism a beautiful, ages-old, moving, profound, and living wisdom. And, believe me, not all of them wear black velvet kippot.

Sects in the city: the strange lure of sectarianism

Sectarians of all kinds

 

First of all, my excuses for this time of silence. I had a very busy Spring: finished my PhD, left my teaching job, and got a full time job in the Washington DC area, which of course implies an impossible commute, since my family and my other two part-time jobs are in PA! I always intend to write regularly, but sometimes it is quite challenging. In any case, I thank you for your patience and for asking me what was going on. And as I always like to start my posts with an anecdote, here it goes.

A couple of weeks ago I was surfing the net and found an interesting site that deals with Sephardic Judaism and contemporary Iberian communities. I am not going to add a link to their page for reasons you will soon understand. They offered their own study materials in Hebrew, Portuguese and Spanish, so I thought it would be interesting to check what they were doing, since I believe that study is the long forgotten mitzvah. I was a little surprised to see that all materials were password protected and that one needed to request access by email. The reason? Apparently their study materials have been “maliciously misused” by “some people and organizations,” so they had to protect everything and reserve the access strictly to those “really interested on Torah study.”   I thought it was quite bizarre but, perhaps moved by my endless curiosity and love for limud, I dropped them an email nevertheless. The answer took more than a week and it was even more surprising: before giving me a password they needed to know the name of my synagogue –the small Reconstructionist synagogue where I work and daven–, a description of its weekly programs, URL, and the name of my rabbi. Quite annoyed, I reluctantlycomplied and sent that information. Their answer took barely a few hours and it was cold as stone: “we are against anybody who wants to ‘reconstruct’ the Torah. Your access is denied.” Even if you think that all non-Orthodox are recalcitrant heretics in need of teshuvah –I thought– how in the world did you come to the idea that the best way of facilitating this teshuvah is barring these heretics’ access to Torah study? Human nature never ceases to surprise me.

Like many other animals, we humans are gregarious. Take your typical high school and see how kids have this imperious need to identify with a group, to which they keep an almost blind fidelity.  In a way, our brains are wired for tribalism and, unfortunately, for sectarianism. Humans are seduced by sects, and I am not necessarily talking about your good old spooky brain-washing, booklet-selling cults. We just seem to need to affiliate with close, dogmatic groups that make us feel secure, safe, and on the winning side of the match.

However, time and maturity, for most of us, brings moderation. One day your teenager grows out of his obsessions and discovers it is quite alright not to wear whatever the fashion is, or to listen to un-cool but interesting music. I think this coming of age has a parallel in most people’s increasing unease with Jewish denominational affiliation. It was just to be expected that, in a post-modern society where identities are very fluid and affiliations are multiple, the need of, and delimitation between, Jewish denominations is probably becoming a thing of the past.

The story of Jewish sects is as ancient as our faith. The reader is encouraged not to buy into the Orthodox view that, before the advent of Reform, Judaism was this idilical alle briden group of harmonious coreligionists. Far from true, our history is full of miss-encounters between pharisees and sadduccees, rabanites and karaites, maimonideans and traditionalists, hasidim and mitnagdim, etc., not to mention the eternal rivalry between people who follow different minhagim. What happen in the 20th century is that some of these denominations and sects reached a higher degree of institutionalization, and managed to create their own seminaries, yeshivot and synagogue federations. Now, are these structures still valid in the second decade of the 21st century? I think the pulse of the street is telling us otherwise.

No doubt, I am persuaded that one of the biggest factors for decreasing affiliation is the fact that Jews got used to having services for free. Why support a synagogue if after all you only need it for your wedding day, funeral and –just maybe– to listen to a decent Kol Nidre once a year. However, another factor that few people seem to have in mind is the increasing difficulty to identify with the global of a denomination, with its organizational culture, beliefs, and decisions. We may identify with some of the ideology of a denomination, but it is really hard not to be very critical of the realization of these postulates.

If I can make a parallel, Judaism has no “party discipline”: we do not feel compelled to support the “vote” of our denominations, nor is our dissension a sine-qua-non like it happens in some political arenas. Furthermore, we have no real dogmas, which makes very difficult to define who is in, and who is out, who is normative and who is heretic. And yet, human nature gets on our way and we still have a tendency to act sectarian. The well-known Orthodox trend to deny legitimacy to everybody else (progressive rabbis, other interpretations of Torah, Jewish identity of some people) is a blatant example, but none of us is totally exempt of this sin. We are happy when the Other comes to our terrain: some are happy to see Conservative kids done talit katan, some are happy to see Reform shuls use more Hebrew, some rejoice when seeing any timid apertures toward women rights in Orthodox milieus, etc. Some get really excited when most of the incoming students at RRC on a particular year are not Reconstructionists but Renewalists.  It is like we are so convinced of our ways that we rejoice whenever the Other gets closer to what we consider the true spirit of Judaism.

Maybe we should stop and reconsider if we aren’t all like those Sephardic folks of my anecdote, if we are not basking in our own groupthink and isolationism. Perhaps we’ll discover that our lack of critical thinking may be one of the factors that is keeping many Jews from affiliation. In my own case, I found it more and more difficult to label myself as belonging to an univocal denomination. What is more, I don’t see the purpose or the benefit of it. I was ordained by the Reconstructionist movement and feel a strong identification with some of its core ideas about Torah, the Divine, retribution, etc. And yet, I’ll never understand or accept the movements lack of definition on hot topics, its negative to the integration of cantors into their rabbinical association, its lack of vision regarding international expansion, or the (willing?) ambiguity of its “trademark” (how many of you can pinpoint the main differences between Reconstructionism, Reform and the Renewal movement?). And since there is no Reconstructionist cantorial association, I do belong the the Conservative Cantors Assembly. I feel identified, again, with some of its core postulates, but do I agree with all of their realizations?

Why so many new congregations and independent minianim choose to be post-denominational? And yet, those shuls which choose to belong are often difficult to label: Conservadox, Reconstructinewal, Reform-but-Traditional, etc. Why should a Jew living in the second decade of the third millennium wear labels created a century ago? I think that maturity is bringing us moderation, and that we are regaining the ability of thinking outside of our denominational box. Here may lay the key of our future.

Many ways of being Jewish: the danger of co-optation.

Not so long ago I watched a Youtube video featuring a religious service.  It was a multitudinous celebration of the festival of sukkot. There were hundreds of smiling faces happily singing and clapping to some Jewish tune of Hasidic inspiration. Some of them wore kippot and flied Israeli flags. Everything very Jewish at first sight… except for a number of banners with crosses and the name “Jesus” written in bright colored letters. Of course I was not surprised: this kind of celebrations are no news to me. I was rather amazed and intrigued at my own first reaction of rebuke. Those people where not pretending to be Jewish, but rather using our symbols for their purpose, assigning them a very different and almost opposite meaning. I felt co-opted.

Co-optation is almost synonymous with appropriation. It designates the action of taking or assuming something for your own use. It often points to a tactic by which an opponent is neutralized by absorption. Sociologists talk about co-optation when a minority is taken over and assimilated to the established main culture. As Jews, it is normal for us to feel uneasy when we perceive that we are object of cultural co-optation. I think that this is an important factor of our visceral reaction to the so-called messianic Jews, people who celebrate the external aspects of our culture only to appropriate these symbols with the firm intention of “perfecting” us so we can finally cease to exist as a minority and be part of their cultural and religious collective. Co-optation is even more aggressive when a majority is not so open to diversity, when they think that their culture is superior or better than yours. This is exactly what we have done to Native Americans and Pennsylvania-dutch speakers, or what Spain does to Catalans. Reverting this path to assimilation is not impossible but you will need a critical mass and an enormous determination.

However, co-optation happens also among us, sometimes inadvertently, and it is more difficult to detect.  It is bad enough when people co-opt our identity, but it’s really bad when we accept this appropriation without questioning. It dawned on me on my first week working at a Jewish day school. Conservative Jews constitute the majority of students now but there is an  important contingent of Orthodox faculty and students. A couple of non-Orthodox kids asked me: “Cantor Frau, are you religious?” This was kind of shocking to me: how can a Jewish clergy person be non-religious? It took me a minute to realize that, in their minds, the kids reserved the term “religious” for Orthodox Jews. Yes, I wear a kippah, speak Hebrew with the kids and some see me leading services and leyning, but my long hair and colorful shirts are not frum, not “religious.” This use of the term “religious” to mean Orthodox most probably started with the Orthodox kids, but was quickly adopted and endorsed by the rest of Jews, children and adults equally.

Why is this relevant and why should we care? By accepting the Orthodox co-optation of the word “religious” you are tacitly admitting that only people from this denomination are really religious. The rest of us are fake, inauthentic, not real Jews. Should I had accepted my students calling me non-religious, I would have reaffirmed the idea that their own Judaism, what they see at their progressive shul, is not good enough, not authentic. I will never be able to change the Orthodox kids’ lingo, but at least I will teach all of them that calling a committed progressive Jew “non-religious” is indeed insulting.

This prejudice is everywhere and most of us are liable of buying into this co-optation. A couple of days ago I was reading a post on Facebook that contained a link to a video by FrumSatire, an Orthodox stand-up comedian to whose videos I confess to be subscribed. It made fun of some absurd misconceptions of  “our non-Jewish/secular friends” regarding kosher food. Do you see the problem? FrumSatire and a number of his viewers put non-Jews and secular Jews (that’s anybody who is not frum according to their definition) on the same level, assuming we don’t know a thing about kashrut and that we don’t care either. See, all these committed progressive Jews you know who are shomrei shabbat and keep kosher… they do not really count.

In my opinion, a good part of the Orthodox animadversion for other Jews comes from lack of first-hand knowledge of who we are. Unfortunately, we are all too quick to take stereotypes on face value and assume way too much. Last week a young lady was telling me how she met a person at the JCC and they started dating. Pretty soon she was horrified to discover that her new partner was “one of these Jewish lefties,” label she used to classify non-Orthodox Jews.  After a while she discovered that the differences between them were less than she thought. What is more, while remaining Orthodox she begun to enjoy exploring those “lefty things” that, far from being a secular trap to lead people astray, were spiritually enriching.

Next time you try to use “religious” to mean “Orthodox” –or next time you hear somebody doing it– think twice and take action. Yesh yoter mi derekh echad li-hiyot Yehudi. This well-known bumper sticker should be engraved in our minds: there is more than one way of being Jewish. We often feel like throwing this phrase on the face of those who do not consider our Judaism as valid. But how about stepping to the other side? How do you feel about Jews from other groups and denominations? Do you frown at Orthodox or Reform Jews? Do you consider Renewal or Reconstructionist Jews inauthentic? How do you feel about queer Jews? And about black or Asian Jews? And about Jews by choice?

Reenactments of death: Kippur, prostration and judgment day

I scribbled this post right after Yom Kippur but then I told myself that all this talk about death was just not too coherent with the happy Sukkot season we were about to enter. Today, when we approach the end of the Tishri frenzy, some shocking and very sad news brought the subject back to my mind: two days ago my graduate-school friend Cantor Jason Goldberg passed away of a sudden heart attack at age 34. May his memory be a blessing.

 

While leading Yom Kippur services this year, I was meditating on what I call the Kippur reenactment of death. This is a very strange holiday, with ancient and a little obscure rituals. If you think about it, the whole idea of Kippur is to play dead. Many of the details prescribed by the ritual correspond to a metaphoric death: like the deceased, on Yom Kippur we wear a white kittel and no leather shoes. All of our attire is white, the color of purity and that of shrouds. Just like the dead, we don’t eat, drink or have sex, all actions that define the quotidian of living beings. We are, in a way, like the angels of Service, spending the whole day in prayer and praise to Ha-Shem.

 

It is not by chance that this day is also named yom ha-din, the Day of Judgment, because that is what we actually enact. Think of U-netane Tokef and its words: this day is full of awe and terrible, a time to come in front of the divine presence. The Book is opened and our destiny is now sealed: who will live and who will die, how exactly will the dead perish, who shall prosper and who shall not. A mighty shofar is blasted, but only a still small voice comes out, calling us to teshuvah. At that time of the day, I can’t avoid thinking of those who are aged or sick. I wonder how many will not be here next year for Kippur. It hurts to imagine that Jason may have had a similar thought when he sung that same dirge-like melody some weeks ago, with his limpid tenor voice, for what would be the last time of his life. Death –and even more when it is untimely and sudden– always falls on us with the cold shine of a knife.

 

One of the strangest aspects of the High Holidays, and particularly of Kippur, is the ritual prostration. Jews do not ordinarily kneel or prostrate when praying but we have this one time when we do. It is a humbling and deeply spiritual experience that –unlike some people think– it is not reserved to clergy. Next year, give it a try and you’ll tell me! I read somewhere that the prostration in itself is another reenactment of death: instead of falling flat at once, we slowly bow down, kneel and move to a full prostration. We are slowly breaking down and dying, falling back to mother earth’s womb. However, we are in front of the King, who has the power to raise the death, so lifne Melekh we suddenly raise back to life, like the earth revives in its cycle of seasons.

 

I am not an anthropologist, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the origins of prostration are in fact reenactments of death. Bowing down and prostrating to the sun is probably the oldest form of human worship, as if our ancestors where telling the sun: “ we acknowledge that you are very powerful, that you give life to the plants and that you even can burn us to death if left in the desert for some time; see? just one stare from you and we drop dead!” Since the tribal king –as later the pharaoh– was often a personification of the sun, it comes as no surprise that the ancients begun to bow down to him as well. Many ancient religions –and even modern Islam– have fasts that last only as long as there is daylight. Somehow, maybe they “play dead” so that the solar god don’t see them “alive and eating”.

 

Wherever we look in the Yom Kippur machzor, there are constant reminders of the metaphoric death. There is a Yizkor service, probably the central one in the year. We have a long recitation about Jewish martyrs in history –modernly including those of the Shoah– with very graphic details of their death. A number of times we repeat piyyutim like be-yom din. Finally, there are a number of confessions: remember that the vidui is not only something we recite several times on Yom Kippur but also the prayer we are supposed to say at the time of our death. This text not only permeates the viduim of the Avodah service, but also many other places such as the end of Neilah.

 

And yet, Yom Kippur is a reenactment of death so that we can enjoy another year of life. No matter how we feel, life goes on. By “playing dead” in a way we try to conjure death once again. At the end of Neilah the mighty shofar blasts loud and clear, a sharp contrast with the shofar described in U-netane Tokef, and we respond with relief and with joy, already making plans to celebrate it in Jerusalem, next year. May we all indeed be there to celebrate.

 

Don’t curb your enthusiasm.

It is not a secret that the Jewish population is getting smaller and older. Much has been written on this subject and we all agree that we need to grow and we need it now. Some have even suggested we should lift the traditional ban of actively seeking converts. By this thesis, one should not only not make things impossibly difficult for candidates to conversion (we all know some contexts where this attitude is overdone ad absurdum) but rather go as far as to encourage people to explore our faith. But let’s leave this controversial subject for a future post.

Going back to the growth of Judaism, we can pinpoint many different causes of the demographic decline. For some rabbis, intermarriage is the big monster that is eating us alive. In my opinion, the trees maybe hiding the forest in this case. See, I grew up in a country whose language and culture are clearly receding. Many thinkers blame immigration and cultural intermarriage, as if the Catalan “purity” were watering down. Catalan speakers marry Spaniards and the whole family chooses Spanish as their home language, since it is always easier to favor the culture of a majority. However, it is evident that in some areas of Catalonia “culturally-mixed” families fare better than in others. A mixed family in Palma or Alacant is more prone to abandon the Catalan language in favor of Spanish than, let’s say, a family in the Garrotxa, just because in that area Catalan is more alive and enjoys better social prestige. Now back to Judaism: in a social context where Judaism is less alive, an intermarried family will be more prone to “go with the majority” and educate the kids as Christians. The culprit here is not intermarriage, but the weakening of Jewish identification. All in all, I think that it’s about lack of enthusiasm for Judaism.

As many of you know, I’m a hazzan with a bunch of part-time jobs. One of them is as a church organist. Two weeks ago I was sitting at my organ and listening to a visiting pastor. His sermon was about the church’s need to proselytize –what they call “the Great Commission”– and make disciples. His argument was simple: imagine your life without a personal relationship with Jay-Cee. How voided of meaning, joyless, purpose-deprived would it be? Now think of your relatives, friends, and coworkers who do not have that. Doesn’t it move you to action?

Allow me the somewhat-risky exercise of bringing the pastor’s argument to Judaism. Imagine your routine, your whole world without Judaism, without its ethics, life-cycle rituals, yummy food, music, and crazy idiosyncrasy. Imagine going through the week without the anticipation of Shabbat and without its rest, or going through the year without the excitement of the holidays. No shivah to comfort you, no seder to prepare for, no Purim frolic, no apples and honey for a sweet New Year. Chances are a considerable number of your Jewish relatives, friends and acquaintances have a life like that. You can’t miss what you don’t know.

Some rabbis and cantors get rather angry with the so-called Kol Nidre Jews. I just find them difficult to understand. Why on earth would you choose to come to shul only once a year, and pick the day that has more fasting, impossibly-long services, and weirder rituals? (Admit it: legally declaring vows invalid and the whole avodah service have some rather peculiar tinges). It is as if they wanted a confirmation that religion is this strange, foreign, depressive thing they witness once a year. To me, the worse part is that people choose to look at their entire Jewish heritage through the prism of a “sad” penitential commemoration. Ask some non-practicing Jews: they may have no idea what Shavuot is about, but they know most details of death and mourning rituals. Why live in “Kol Nidre mode” all your life?

Sukkot is a time of rejoicing, probably the most beautiful holiday of our calendar. Talking about the exuberance of these celebration, the sages said “he who has not seen the rejoicing at the Simchat Bet Ha-Shoeva, has never seen rejoicing in his life” (Sukkah 1:5). It is also the ultimate time to engage in an important mitzvah, hakhnasat orkhim, inviting people to share a meal with you. This Sukkot, make your love and enthusiasm for Judaism something contagious. Show the beauty and richness of Jewish life to those who still don’t know it, Jewish or not. Show your disaffected Jewish friends that there is so much more than fasting and long piyyutim. Show your non-Jewish friends that the external aspects of Judaism they know (all those prohibitions and picturesque attire) are nothing but a small detail in the whole dazzling picture. Let us all spend our whole year in Sukkot mode.

Future of Judaism, again.

These days I have been thinking a lot about the future of Judaism, particularly in the US. It is obvious that we are in transition; we just don’t know to what new models! What is sure is that synagogues, Jewish institutions and even Jewish culture itself will be something radically different in twenty years. We can live in denial or begin to work to adapt ourselves. The blogosphere and other media offer so many interesting opinions on that subject that it is hard to keep track. Just yesterday, I was reading two extremely different online articles.

The first one was Daniel Pipes More about the future of Judaism.”After analyzing recent studies and statistics about the evolution of American Jewish population, Pipes reaches to the conclusion that the future is in the hands of Orthodoxy. Two major factors point out to this trend: they have a higher birth rate –and thus a younger population– and a supposedly stronger vitality that helps combat the general trend towards assimilation. Quoting Norman Lamm, Daniel Pipes thinks that in the future the Reform and Conservative movements will be history, an interesting but failed experiment. We will be back to that mythical time when –as Orthodoxy chooses to believe– there was only “one Judaism.”

The second article is Patrick Aleph’s “How do you approach a future of Judaism.” Aleph’s overview of the current state of the Jewish community is, in my opinion, quite accurate: we are keeping a huge number of anchylosed institutions that are essentially duplicate offers targeting an already over-marketed collective. JCC’s gyms and day-cares try to compete against their non-Jewish counterparts; in any given city you have a Hillel, a Birthright Next, plus the youth programs of the JCC and of each one of synagogues competing for a pool of increasingly disengaged young Jews. For Patrick Aleph the trend towards dual-identities (BuJews, HindJews, etc.), interfaith households, and non-theism is rapidly transforming Jewish life, from our prayer to our pastoral care. Patrick Aleph’s opinion is that the future of Judaism is in humanistic, secular, non-theism.

I am not sure if denominations are soon going to be history, but definitely they have a somber future, Orthodoxy included. Otherwise, we would not have so many Conservadox, Reformative, Reconstructionewal or “just Traditional” Jews (not to mention the closing of seminaries, increasing number of non-affiliated shuls, etc). Diversity is a sign of our times: if historically there never was a “one Judaism,” today each of us chooses its unique identity that is in constant osmosis and evolution, a well balanced cocktail of Jewish-Catalan-American-Progressive-Queer-Recon-yoga-traditionalism. David Pipes is right to declare that Orthodoxy is growing, but I don’t think this goes beyond mere statistics; I am not sure how much retention there is in this growth, nor do I see any particular signs of vitality. If this was true, Israel –and not America– would be the motor of Jewish culture and renewal, the think-tank of Jewish future. Quite the opposite, wherever Orthodoxy is the majority –like in Israel and in my own country of origin– it is exerting an asphyxiating power and influence in the rest of the Jewish community. There is no innovation, no flexibility, no realistic outreach, little adaptation or concern for contemporary issues, and very little intellectual honesty. Everywhere I look, I see insularity, blatant hostility to potential converts, hijacking of Zionism, and less than ethical political lobbying. We will be a handful but boy, will we be kosherer-than-thou! Religious fundamentalism may be a popular global trend in this day and age, but does it inspire any constructive changes for the future? (Disclaimer: I am talking of cases and places where Orthodox are majority, not of individual Orthodox persons).

We have to think outside the box, reinvent Jewish infrastructures. Carthago delenda est. However, unlike Patrick Aleph, I don’t think theism is our contemporary Carthago. The interest for spirituality is not decreasing at all, although the approach to this spirituality is more individual, less group-oriented

and definitely less institutional and standardized. Our concept of the divine may need updating, and we need to be attuned to all forms of spirituality, theistic or not. However, there is still plenty of space for a theistic spiritual community; we will have to figure out what will this community look like.

I agree that Jewish federations and JCC’s are less and less relevant for most people, and that there is a trend to connect with horizontal groups and minyanim rather than with vertical, institutionalized synagogues. Unfortunately, I have more questions than answers, more concerns than excitement about this trend. To begin with, there is a danger of atomization: we can create a number of new collectives whose new tradition is so different that it is just not recognizable to the rest of the Jews. At a certain point in history, the Latin spoken in Italy and the one spoken in France became so different that, in fact, they spoke two languages, French and Italian. I am not advocating for a chief rabbinate to decide who is in and who is out –a solution that never made much sense and that now is just anachronic–, but I’m not sure how are we going to hold this together.

My second concern is how much effort and money do we really want to invest in these well-needed new Jewish venues and structures. While I am a strong believer in horizontal communities and equality, I am also concerned that a trend towards independent minyanim may hide an unwillingness to pay for a synagogue membership or for a rabbi/cantor salary. It is great that people take responsibilities, learn to lead services, teach what they know to others; but sometimes we need a better-educated person to help us go the extra mile. A professional clergy can expose the minyan to things they never heard about. An unfortunate example of the opposite is the present state of hazzanut: it is nice that so many people are knowledgeable and feel empowered to present themselves as cantorial soloists. What would a synagogue hire a more-expensive ordained cantor if this volunteer can do it? As a result, so much of our musical tradition is just lost. You may not even know there is a nusach for the holidays, since we all sing Shabbat modes for Shavuot. Those of you who know me, know that I am the last person to advocate for an five-minute operatic cantorial recitative. I am more for spirited singing and clapping, but I also deplore the fact that people think there is only one melody for Salm 92.

So here it is: wish I had innovative ideas to expose. I think that the motor for change is our willingness to not take anything for granted. We have been changing and evolving for centuries and this is just another step. Let’s all get involved and excited about it, keeping an open mind and a passionate heart.

Gone with the ruach: dancing with Pentecostal Jews.

Summer is always too short and leaves me yearning for more. Undoubtedly, the spiritual highlight of my summer has been co-leading services at the Nehirim camp with my friend R. David Bauer. There were around 70 adult men of all ages lightning the candles, joyfully singing the kabbalat Shabbat psalms to the sound of drums and other instruments, and welcoming the Bride with dances. Next morning, the genuine fervor and love of the many active participants sitting on the floor of an improvised temple literally moved me to tears. Ruach –the Hebrew word for “spirit,” “wind,” and even “divine breath”– was something very palpable and touching.

 

The following Shabbat I lead services at my home shul. The songs were almost the same and I played pretty much the same music notes. The spirit, however, was different. Feeling the Divine, touching heaven with your two hands was certainly still possible, but it didn’t come as easy. It required an extra kavanah effort to be there, present, receiving the Shabbat. Nobody danced down the aisles or peacefully swayed, their eyes closed. Who knows, maybe it was the pews, the more formal setting. Maybe we all instinctively conformed to what it is expected of a suburban synagogue-goer. In the morning I visited a nearby shul for the first time. The service was more traditional than ours, with no instrumental music. The melodies were familiar but their tempo was a lot slower, in a way that made the song linger forever. Right after the song, the service leader chanted the openings and closings of prayers in a succession that not even me, a quite fast and proficient Hebrew reader, could follow. We “did it all” and it all was smooth and flawless, but I didn’t feel anything spiritually uplifting.

 

That’s why, in my end-of-summer melancholic mood, I ask myself where’s the ruach? We have built magnificent synagogues and created impressive Jewish institutions. We may have learned how to be as reverent as our neighbors, how to mourn and say kaddish, and how to beat our chests on Yom Kippur. However, we have almost forgotten how to dance with the scroll on Simchat Torah; how to sing hallel joyfully; how to act silly on Purim; how to rejoice genuinely on sukkot under the stars; how to welcome the Queen dancing in the woods, like the Kabbalists of Sfad when Lekhah dodi was composed. It is shocking and quite sad to see that we have relegated Purim parties and Shimchat Torah celebrations to our Hebrew schools, with almost no participation of the adults, as if the joy of Judaism was only to be experienced by children.

 

In a way, I would like to daven at some sort of a “Pentecostal shul” with all its joy, ecstasy, clapping, dance and joyful noise. A kind of service that has deep Torah study, but also moments of pure enthusiasm and freilikh. Admittedly, some Jewish denominations are more or less spirit-aware, but I think nobody is yet experiencing truly Pentecostal Judaism or, if you want, Shavuot Judaism, since ultimately the Christian fest of Pentecost is not but a transvaluation of our Shavuot. On Pentecost, Christians celebrate the moment when the spirit miraculously descended on the believers and –so to speak– “energized” them for their mission. On Shavuot we celebrate our joy for the reception of the Torah on Sinai, the precise instant of our covenant with the divine. Among other things, we mark our joy with a strange meeting: the tikkun. We gather for an all-night long session of singing, study, meditation and fellowship.

 

Somehow, my crazy idea of a Pentecostal Judaism is not that far from a Hasidic tish (without idealizing a movement that has its clear downsides). It combines moments of ecstatic singing and dancing with Torah discussion, with calm contemplative nigunim, and with joyful fellowship. I just wonder how can we pack all that and bring it to our shul and to our Shabbat table, how to become uninhibited and genuine as children once more.

 

Now, not everybody relates to spirituality in the same way. In her book Discover your spiritual type, Corine Ware presents four types of persons, four different spiritual identities: mystic, feeling, thinking and visionary. Silent prayer may touch the mystic or contemplative people, while boring other worshipers to tears. Lively music, clapping and dancing connects with the feeling individual, but may bother those who are more cerebral. A deep Torah study moves the thinking type, but may seem spiritually dead to the feeling person. Individuals with a visionary spiritual type will find themselves at home in a service that calls to action or in tikkun olam programs; and, again, some people will think that these events are nice and necessary but not spiritually fulfilling. The last of the services I described at the beginning was probably meaningful for somebody. Probably, in every group there is a predominant spiritual type but, essentially, they all contain people of all types.

 

I think that the point is to ask ourselves: for my own spiritual type, in my own understanding of spirituality, is this service or meeting fulfilling and edifying? What would have to happen for it to be? What’s my next step towards a more fervent, joyful, and meaningful Judaism? How can I get closer to the Divine –she, he, it– and be more fully human, more fully Jewish?