A Community of Doing

At the time I write this, I am four weeks into the teaching of my Introduction to Judaism course.  I decided to begin the class by looking at the big picture of what Judaism is:  How can we define it?  What are its essential teachings and precepts?  How does it compare or contrast with other religious traditions or other institutions that are values-based, textually rooted, ethically motivated, and meaning driven?  The shared journey of discovering answers to these questions (and discovering more questions!) with my students has been fascinating thus far.  One prominently emerging theme—not at all to my surprise—is the centrality of deed or action within Jewish life.  This focus reminded me that while I might have chosen to begin our exploration in a more abstract sense, the true journey into Judaism is one that examines not only the idea of action, but the actual deeds themselves in some of their detail.  To “live Jewishly” invariably means not just to “think” Jewishly, although the intellectual emphasis within Jewish communities has certainly been quite strong; rather, the essential Jewish way towards a life of meaning is to do, to physically and viscerally participate in the world as an active soul, one that engages reality, not just abstractions.

Actively engaging reality can take many forms, even within a Jewish context.  For some, this engagement means being involved in small, selfless acts of kindness; for others, it means projects of social change that address suffering or injustice or that build and maintain institutions; for others, it means a cultivation of creative work that celebrates life and ideas through the arts; and for others, it means carrying on family or communal traditions—expressing, through ritual acts and customs, ethical or spiritual values or the relationship to one’s history or culture.  Each of these categories encompasses what we call “mitzvot,” deeds that are understood in some way to be essential to Jewish life.  Mitzvot are the building blocks of a Jewish world.  Whether they are viewed as spiritual practices, as the literal fulfillment of an obligation issued from an ultimate commander (“mitzvah” means commandment), or more generally as a coherent way of constructing a meaningful life, they serve as a unifying force for Jews.  They are the stitching that binds together the diverse fabrics of our Jewish tapestry.

The tendency to begin with (and sometimes remain stuck in) the abstract world of ideas is a result of the western view of religion as a system of faith or belief.  Westerners are more likely to investigate a Jewish outlook on a given topic, rather than considering that the actions that respond to or express that outlook are telling their own story.  Thus, although my choice for how to start my class made sense, given our inclinations, we are now about to shift gears as we enter the middle section of the course, turning to the details of action.  This call to shift from abstraction to deed has been echoing for me in other recent experiences.

The author David Mamet has a new book called The Wicked Son, in which he indicts “apostate Jews,” angrily lamenting the ever-increasing distance so many have created from a substantive awareness of their own tradition and practices.  He speaks of Jews “who are humble in their desire to learn about Kwanzaa and proud of their ignorance of Tu Bishvat.”  I recently spoke on a university panel with rabbis from all the major movements of contemporary American Judaism.  My Orthodox colleague, in a critique similar to Mamet’s, complained about the lack of learning about Jewish life that prevails in today’s Jewish communities, and he cited a glaring example:  A large synagogue in Orange County provided learning opportunities on the night of Shavuot, when Jews celebrate the receiving of the Torah.  One of the guest speakers was a Muslim imam.  How incongruous and emblematic of today’s Jewish malaise, the rabbi felt, that, on a night that should be devoted to Torah, Jews appeared more interested in learning about other traditions when they clearly don’t yet know enough about their own.  (I did not see this critique as an indictment of interfaith dialogue—of which I am a strong advocate—but rather a concern about timing and priorities).  These two examples shed light on Jews who are, Mamet asserts, like the “wicked son” at the Pesach seder—the one who asks, as if he is an outsider, “What does this service mean to you?”

I have often felt that this so-called “wicked son” has been misunderstood, and that maybe he should be praised for actually desiring to understand meaning beyond mere performance.  After all, could we not read his question with a different emphasis?  “What does this service mean to you?”—i.e., “I yearn to make all of this relevant to me by learning how you, my parents, make this relevant for yourselves.  Please give me interpretation and insight about these practices.”  This approach would stand in contrast to the “wise child,” who inquires, “What are the testimonials, statutes and laws the Eternal our God has commanded you?”—to which the Torah instructs the parents to respond with an intricate halachic (legal) discourse.  “How superficial,” one might think.  “What about the meaning behind these practices?”  (By the way, many Haggadot translate the wise child’s response as “What is the meaning of the … laws?”—but the word “meaning” does not appear in the Hebrew.)  In thinking about these two types of children and their respective questions in light of my recent reflections on the importance of the mitzvot, I am coming to see these archetypes in their more traditional vain.  Even if we read the wicked child’s question generously and assume he truly wishes to learn about meaning, what we are still left with is someone who is stuck in abstractions.  He is not moving to enter inside the observances.  He remains an outsider, not just because he asks what this means “to you,” but because he remains inactive, separated from the actual doing of the rituals.  The wise child wants to know how to engage the reality of the seder so that he, too, can become a real, living part of the story.  Let him enter the story, and then the personal meaning will flow from his active experience.

  Another recent experience that highlights my desire to focus on the mitzvot themselves occurred on a recent Shabbat, when a significant number of people remained after our kiddush lunch to continue a discussion I had begun during the service.  The topic was the mitzvot surrounding death, burial, and mourning.  I cautioned the participants that I wanted to avoid focusing on questions of the soul, the afterlife, and other abstractions.  Rather, I explained, those of us who experience loss have so much we can do to deal with death.  Our tradition is so rich in guiding a mourner through the complex and delicate process of grieving that it is essential for us to focus on the details of these actions and to prepare for implementing them at the proper time.  Of course, each of us has the opportunity to choose how and to what degree we will engage the traditional observances of mourning, but we can only make those choices wisely if we spend time talking about them before the time to decide is at hand.  The overwhelmingly enthusiastic response to the discussion and its practical emphasis was powerful proof that we Jews—right here at Ami Shalom—yearn to know about and understand mitzvot, to become more learned in how to “live Jewishly.”  I now plan to shift much of my teaching (in divrei torah during services, and in Torah study sessions following Shabbat lunch) to matters of halachah—the “what” and “how” of actually performing mitzvot.  Keep your eyes out for information about such learning opportunities.

            I want to close with a reminder about an upcoming mitzvah, a simple deed that concretizes so many values and commitments—and one that virtually all of us are likely to perform.  On Chanukah, in celebrating the Maccabees’ victory of Jewish particularity, identity, and practice, we do not merely smile, or think about the story, or reflect on its meanings for us today.  We light a candle.  We engage the reality of the physical darkness in the dead of winter by transforming our physical environment and adding light to it.  Only action can truly do justice to the celebration.  As we approach Chanukah, let us remember that by doing mitzvot, we bring more light to the world.