Tag Archives: judaism

Open Letter to My Students 74: Will the Real Jews Please Stand Up?

Some 70 years ago, a rabbi (Morris Kertzer) described inviting a visiting Japanese army officer to attend a Shabbat service. When it was over, the officer surprised the rabbi by asking, “What kind of Christian are you?” Upon being informed that he was a Jew, the officer inquired, “Jews? What are they?”

Yes, what are Jews? That question arises again today, not because some visiting army officer from Japan, Jakarta or Johannesburg has never heard of us, but because we ourselves need to decide what we are. There are different kinds of answers. 

Halachah: The usual answer is halachic, the way Jewish jurisprudence sets boundaries to Jewish Peoplehood: to decide who is in and who is out.

Race: The Nazis used a racial definition:  to decide who to murder. 

Secular: Israel, a secular state with an admixture of halachah, has struggled with the issue – as in the case of Oswald Rufeisen, a Polish Jew and Zionist, who hid from Hitler in a convent; then was baptized, became a Carmelite Friar, and took the name Father Daniel. In 1959, he sought entry to Israel under the Law of Return. Israel, he claimed, admits born Jews who identify as ethnically Jewish even though they are atheists and practice no Judaism whatever. Then why is he any different? He too was a born Jew who identified as ethnically Jewish. At least one of the supreme court justices who heard the case was inclined to accept his petition, on the halachic grounds that even Jewish sinners remain Jews. But the court rejected a halachic solution. The Law of Return, it said, “does not refer to the ‘Jew’ of Jewish religious law, but to the ‘Jew’ of secular law.”[i] 

Gender egalitarian: In 1983, American Reform Judaism decided to honor patrilineal (not just matrilineal) claims of Jewish descent. 

Were the Japanese army officer to ask today, “What  are Jews?” we would have to answer, “Regarding what? It all depends,” for there are other definitions too, including a moral one. Consider convicted pedophile Jeffery Epstein, clearly Jewish by any halachic definition. But when the case came to light, several people said, “Well, he’s not very Jewish in my book!” Yes, Jeffery Epstein was legally Jewish but morally, he was not “very Jewish in my book.”  

I want to build on that moral answer using the Max Weber’s concept of “ideal type.”  An ideal type is a hypothetical model, an abstract ideal (positive or negative) against which examples of real life can be measured. Each culture has its own ideal type. 

From about the 5th century to the 13th, the ideal type for classical Christianity was the monk, who exchanged the real world for the monastery, a place to work, meditate, and pray. The American ideal type is the capitalist entrepreneur who goes from rags to riches by dint of hard work and business acumen. 

Traditionally, ideal types were gendered. The ideal Victorian man succeeded at business, but was also titular master of his home and family; like Mr. Banks (appropriately named) from Mary Poppins. The ideal Victorian woman was a home maker, mother, and moral exemplar for her children.  

The classical Jewish ideal type is 1. a Torah scholar, who, however, 2. uses Torah learning to be a good person in the world. It’s not unlike Plato’s ideal of 1. a philosopher, who 2. pursues wisdom to achieve virtue. Yiddish eventually provided a word for the second half of the Jewish ideal: mensch

With secularization, that ideal was generalized to scholarship in general. Stories abound about immigrant Jewish mothers giving library cards to their little children. To this day, Jews attend college and even graduate school in record numbers. But the Jewish ideal type must also use all this education for good:  the “mensch  factor,” that is, which shows up in the percentage of educated Jews who are honored for accomplishments that benefit humanity.  Between 1901 and 2023, of the 965 winners of Nobel Prizes, at least 216 (22%) have been Jewish.  

It is not enough to be highly educated and financially successful. The Jewish ideal must strive publicly for the general good of humanity. We will never know the intimate details of people’s private lives: their messy divorces, their failures as parents, and such. But we expect them to try to live good lives at home; and if their private failures degenerate into moral disasters, they lose all claim to ideal status: The Jeffrey Epsteins and Harvey Weinsteins, for example, are out.  So too are the Bugsy Siegels and Meyer Lanskys, mob bosses in what has been called the Kosher Nostra.[ii]

I’m willing to bet that Bugsy and Meyer, at least, never claimed to be ideal Jews. But some Jews do claim the mantle of Jewish respectability, even though their actual lives defy the very notion of the historic Jewish type. I think, particularly, of the West Bank settlers bent on violently displacing Arab landowners, to fulfil a dubious biblical promise of a Greater Jewish Land of Israel.

So like the Japanese officer, I ask, “What is a Jew?” – not halachically, racially or ethnicly, but morally. What is the age-old ideal type that Jews for centuries have pursued as the right and proper way to realize their Jewish identity. It is not the west-bank thuggery but scholar mensch who betters the human condition. 


[i] Rufeisen v. Minister of the Interior [Father Daniel Case] Israel Supreme Court, HC 72/62 PD 16 2428 (1962). Here in the United States, Commentary (the most prestigious Jewish journal at the time) published a dissent, charging that Father Daniel’s commitment to Jewish history and even peoplehood was clear; the court should have admitted that it was specifically Father Daniel’s Christianity that decided the case (https://www.commentary.org/articles/marc-galanter/a-dissent-on-brother-daniel/). Indeed, a Jew who practices Yoga and accepts the dictates of Buddhism would doubtless be admitted today. 

[ii] https://mjhnyc.org/events/kosher-nostra-the-life-and-times-of-jewish-gangsters-in-the-united-states/

Open Letter To My Students 67: A High Holy Day Message from Home

I do like to write about “home,” especially when Rosh Hashanah rolls round and people head home for the holidays. Never mind the reality: broken homes, dysfunctional families, aging parents, and the mystery of undying sibling rivalry. Charles Henry Parkhurst, the reforming Presbyterian pastor who brought down New York’s infamous Tammany Hall, got it right when he said, “Home is heaven for beginners.” 

At the new year we become beginners all over again. Out with the old; in with the new; new year’s resolutions, or, for Jews, t’shuvah, literally, “returning” to God, but also to our childhood selves, the innocence we left behind when we took the wrong turn toward mistakes and misdeeds. Our prayer book calls the holiday yom hazikaron, the day when God remembers us, a somewhat frightening possibility, except for the fact that God, we say, is merciful – like the parents we either have or wish we had; parents, that is, who welcome us back home no matter what we’ve done out there in the world. “Home,” says Robert Frost “is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

Home is the name we give to the comfort and safety of belonging, while “not at home” means being always on guard against ever-looming disaster. So Rosh Hashanah emphasizes the positive: the guarantee that however much we may have strayed into a world where anything can happen, Rosh Hashanah brings us home to safety. 

But then comes Yom Kippur. If Rosh Hashanah is the guarantee of being back home again, Yom Kippur is a study in potential exile. Just a couple generations back, synagogue goers wept with shame over the misdeeds they might have done without even knowing it; they trembled from the fearful possibility that an obsessive accountant-God kept careful ledgers of it all.  Not that I am advocating that kind of guilt-ridden religion; we are well rid of it. But it did reflect the recognition of what a life poorly led might come to. To this day, we say over and over again on the High Holy Day supplication, Hashiveinu eilekha, “Bring us back to You,”  O God, which is to say, bring us home. An all merciful God must surely have inaugurated the open-door policy of letting us in long before Robert Frost wrote about it.

Even more poignantly, there is that Yom Kippur prayer Sh’ma Koleinu (“[God] hear our voice”) which we are supposed to say as if standing before the almighty Judge and passionately pleading our case. The central entreaty is this poignant line: “Do not throw me out” – the worst case scenario! We’ve completed a year of managing the world outside, a year of struggle, disappointment, and outright pain – which, God knows, this past year has been; and then we make it back home, only to have our parents throw us out. 

The High Holy Days are a frightening bungee jump from on high, where we almost land safely on firm ground, only to get yanked back up to the giddy state of free-fall: home for Rosh Hashanah; then thrown out on Yom Kippur. 

We can, if we like, avoid that roller-coaster nightmare: sit silently through services; give in to the boredom (which is easy to find); and then leave, unchallenged and unchanged. I can hardly blame people for doing that. The liturgy can be impenetrable; the verbiage endless; like getting lost in a Wagnerian opera because you do not understand the German and cannot relate to characters with names like Walktraute, Grimgerde, and Schwertkleite. Services should come with an accompanying program alerting you to the highlights, telling you what to look for, and informing you that prayer is not so much something you go to as it is something you must enter into. You should also be warned that if you mistake the prayers for prose instead of poetry, you will find the service alienating. Yes, “alienating,” itself an echo of exile, homelessness, home-sickness even.

The biggest mistake is focusing on a High Holy Day message of times past, seeing Yom Kippur, say, as a Jewish version of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night, just a misery-soaked diatribe on human unhappiness, sin, and guilt – which indeed, is what it was in medieval times (and still is, in many synagogues). Too many people leave too early, missing the final N’ilah service, where the day’s desolation gives way to the ecstatic discovery that we really do get to start again. Remade, reborn, and refreshed, we dare undertake another year of exploration “not at home.” Back to business; back to work; back to school; back to an uncertain future but with all the promise of youth at its best; back being young and eager, even if we are old and jaded.

The metaphor of returning home is overrated. In real life, our childhood home is something we grow out of — a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there again. The High Holy Day homecoming too is a temporary fix. It ends. We venture forth again to life. But we manufacture other homes along the way, informed, perhaps, by the High Holy Day drama in two acts: both Rosh Hashanah’s joys and Yom Kippur’s trials.

The adult homes we make must indeed be shelters from life’s storms, but they are never actual heavens, as Pastor Parkhurst wrongly imagined them to be, because as much as we emerge from the High Holy Days with the hope of new beginnings, we ourselves are no longer just beginners. Whether there is some kind of heaven where we eventually find an eternal home I do not know. But until I find out, I happily have recourse to what Sigmund Freud called the reality principle. Life is not a bowl of cherries, but it’s not just sour grapes either. It is a day-by-day grind; but day-by-day joy and satisfaction as well. We will spend next year commuting back and forth from the homes we make to the work we do; and pray that both will be surprisingly rewarding.

Ya Gotta Believe — Something!

When it comes to religion, Jews have trouble believing things. The American population as a whole still widely believes in religious realities: 93% believe in God or a Higher Power; 86% believe in heaven; 73% believe in hell. There are rarely enough Jews in these polls to be sure just what the Jewish parallel would be, but it surely isn’t anywhere near these figures. When it comes to God, 93% may be high – the question included belief in a “higher power” which skews the results upward — but another poll that limits the question just to “God” shows that 90% of Protestants, 79% of Roman Catholics but only 47% of Jews believe in God.

Another way of looking at it is to compare percentages of believers across countries, including Israel, where the majority is Jewish, When asked to affirm the proposition, “I know God exists and I have no doubt about it – as strong a statement as one can imagine (I mean, no doubts at all??) 62.8% of Americans answered yes. Israelis scored 43%. Even that seems like a lot, but somewhere around 19% of Israel’s population is Orthodox. Discount that 19% and you get a whole lot fewer Jews who believe in God! Orthodox Jews everywhere are likely to be believers; it goes with the Orthodox territory. The belief gap (a bad term, as we shall see, but usable for now) affects non-Orthodox Jews, specifically.

But why is that? Why do non-Orthodox Jews register so low on religious belief scales? In part it is all about “territory,” not geographical but social. It is not the case that we believe something and then learn to say it; we start by saying it, and then get so used to the sentences coming out of our mouths, that we profess to believe it, even though we may not be absolutely clear on what it is that we have said we believe.

What determines our ability to make belief statements is the territory, the people we hang around with. If they regularly say they believe this or that, the odds are we will too; and whether they say they believe or not (in the first place) depends on the institutions that hold them (and us) together. Even relatively lapsed Christians who nonetheless attend church on occasion (for social reasons, perhaps, or even out of nostalgia or habit) get used to making statements of belief, which, as I say, go with the territory. In conversation afterward, they may hedge their statements so as not to sound too literal (“I do believe in God, but what I mean by that is…”) but they are apt to have little trouble making the statements, without which, they would have to forego association with the church they still attend.

The same is true of Orthodox Jews. To be sure, people who believe strongly in God are likely to belong to synagogues where other people believe as well – belief sometimes does come first – so more believers come to Orthodox synagogues in the first place. But lots of people join Orthodoxy for reasons having nothing to do with God. They then get used to hearing (and making) sentences about God. Orthodox Jews are not more naïve, less educated, or less critical as thinkers. They just belong to language communities that take God seriously. Non orthodox Jews do not.

Belief is socially constructed. The organizations we frequent generate certain kinds of conversations, which, in turn, generate certain sentences that we get used to hearing – and then saying. Jewish organizations are good at making sentences about Israel, anti-Semitism, the state of the world, other Jews, and charitable causes (to name but a few things). But not God. Even if you are on a synagogue board, you can go for years without hearing anyone say a sentence about God.

When I consult with synagogues, I find that people have great difficulty wrapping their heads around a sentence with God in it. It is not so much that they do not believe in God, however, as it is that they do not think of themselves as people who talk about God. God-language embarrasses them. They yearn to believe in something, but they don’t know how to go about figuring out what it is.

More on this is a later posting. Suffice it to say that we suffer less from lack of belief than from inadequate language to express the beliefs we might have. The way toward belief lies in broaching conversations that are out of our comfort zone; listening to what we say; and then trying to determine what we might have meant when we said it.

The Jewish “failure to believe” is a misnomer. What is at stake is not a belief gap but a conversation gap, and for reasons I will get to later, it is time we changed the conversation.