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For the first time in my life, I have been dubbed a religious fanatic.
Back in my religious day school, I was just marginally considered a “religious” Jew. The fact that my family kept Shabbat and maintained a kosher home allowed us to be categorized among the majority of observant families in my class, but we were far from one of the herd. We didn’t live in Beverlywood. We occasioned non-kosher restaurants. And we asked questions.
I continually questioned rabbinic authority via my Judaic Studies teachers. What does separating tomatoes from lettuce have to do with refraining from work on Shabbat? Why must we take three steps backward before beginning the silent amidah (personal prayer)? Why can’t girls learn to daven with a minyan?
Most of my teachers were excellent and patient and answered each of my questions with care and consideration. A few considered me insolent and would avoid calling on my extended arm at all costs. Looking back on my past from a new perspective, though, I am embarrassed to admit that I don’t think I really wanted answers. My “questions” were, in truth, challenges to the design of Jewish observance. I was certain that in so meticulously observing and teaching the nuances of Jewish law, the entire Orthodox movement had lost sight of the bigger picture. They had somehow neglected to attempt to understand the greater beauty lurking behind God’s laws for the Jewish people. I felt that comprehending the philosophical implications of Judaism was infinitely more important than actual, rigorous religious observance.
Enter high school. My ninth grade Jewish Law class was like no other Judaic environment I’d set foot in. I was thrilled to see that everyone challenged rabbinic authority, asking questions and engaging one another in fast-paced and argumentative dialogue. I didn’t care that my classmates barely glanced over the thirty-nine prohibited labors that I’d spent the majority of sixth grade memorizing and that they scarcely comprehended what those thirty-nine Biblical references entailed. They understood the essence of Shabbat, and that was what was really important.
As the 2003-2004 school year drew to a close, I started to feel very differently about my new Jewish studies course. A particularly unmemorable class we had regarding kashrut continued to haunt me, especially as approaching finals forced me to review material from the entire year. It was mid-March, and a girl sitting beside me distractedly began a question with, “But why should I…” and the teacher immediately called a halt to her inquiry. “You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do,” she said, “I’m not telling you to keep kosher.”
My immediate reaction surprised me: I sat in my seat silently, wondering “Why not?”
Why not tell a captive audience of young Jewish students to keep kosher? Why not, after months of debating and studying and finally reaching a glorious understanding of the beautiful meaning of kashrut, the acknowledgement of God from within the most absentminded of human tasks?
It was then, riffling through the pages of my photocopied Jewish Law textbook, that I began to recognize the fundamental flaw behind the way that my school teaches Judaism. I understand and fully appreciate the fragile nature of a school environment caters to all views. I am constantly impressed with other students’ command of complex and controversial Jewish theories. However, I am also saddened by all of this knowledge, because what is its purpose if it lacks manifestation?
The same applies for the way we learn Torah at my school. Yes, we delve into the text, but our motives and our methods seem improper to me. We shouldn’t be scanning the text in search of discrepancies and listing those we find on kushiot charts. We should be developing a love for Torah, hunting between the lines for hints as to how to live our lives.
The truth is that no one, no parent, teacher, nor Rabbi, can force religious observance on anyone else. It’s too large and too personal a commitment for it to be the result solely of external urging. That being said, would it be so terrible for a teacher in this school to acknowledge in the classroom setting that we need to practice what we preach?
I would never claim to hold solutions to all the intricate problems an open-minded Jewish education presents. All I am attempting to express is that sitting in a classroom where you are told what Judaism requires should not be any more appalling for non-believers than sitting in a classroom where you are told what Judaism says. Such a setting, I believe, would not take away from the opportunity to dissent and disagree that has become so integral a part of Jewish study, while simultaneously allowing a some semblance of definitive structure that I truly believe would be beneficial to the student body.
The ideas in Judaism are so grand that it is easy to get lost in them. God understands that we are creatures of confusion who need more than just ideas. God has given us concrete obligations to ground our greater understanding of the way the world works. For example, many people I know do not like traditional prayer; they want to talk to God on their own terms. I see things differently: talking to God all by yourself in a time that you determine is an enormous undertaking. How much conversation is enough? How much is too much? What do I even say? God makes things easier on us by providing us with a formula and encouraging us, within the boundaries of that formula, to mix in the essence of ourselves. Personally, I’ve always found that it’s easiest to bake cookies with a recipe.
Religious observance is a constant challenge. What is far more challenging, though, – indeed, impossible – is living in constant acceptance of religious ideas without making use of any concrete forms of observance.
I am by no means advocating a return to the study of the intricate menusha of halacha to the exclusion of the broad and the essential that I initially found so distasteful. On the contrary, all I am pleading for is that in our noble attempt to continually appreciate the ideological fabric of our time-tested heritage, we maintain visual contact with the individual threads that bind together the fabric of a committed Jewish life.
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