On My Mind: Arnie Eisen

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Six Days in June . . . Fifty Years Later

Jewish conversation in Israel and North America is understandably focused this month on lessons learned from the war fought in early June 50 years ago. One cannot but feel immense gratitude for the victory that saved Israel from the imminent destruction that had threatened in the weeks leading up to the conflict. There is cause for joy beyond measure at the extraordinary achievements made possible by Israel’s triumph, both inside the State and in Jewish communities worldwide. Questions abound on what might have been: opportunities missed, internal Jewish divisions that have deepened rather than healed, the huge cost exacted by a half-century of occupation. Many dreams from 1967 remain unfulfilled in 2017. Above and beneath all these, there is hope that the war Israel won so long ago will finally lead to peace, a hope accompanied by resolve that the immense good accomplished over the years in Israel, by Israel, and for Israel shall not, God forbid, be for naught. We need to nourish that hope and resolve, both in Israel and in North America, lest we find ourselves, at the war’s 60th anniversary, with an end to the conflict still not in sight.

I was a teenager in 1967, drawn to Israel even before my first visit by the dynamism that the Six-Day War had immediately loosened. I was compelled as well by a vision for Israeli society lifted right out of the Book of Deuteronomy. Israel would be just, generous, tolerant, forward-looking. I wanted somehow to be part of that; the future of the State became inseparable from the one that I imagined for myself. “All this is not a parable and not a dream,” we sang with Naomi Shemer. “It is as true as the light of noon. All this will come to pass tomorrow, if not today. And if not tomorrow, then the day after.”

The Israel I encountered firsthand in the 1970s was remarkably confident about its future, despite the widespread suffering and shock caused by the Yom Kippur War. One walked the narrow alleys of the Old City without fear, eating hummus and visiting holy places alongside Israelis who for years had yearned to take that walk as they fought off repeated incursions from enemies across the borders. It was not hard for a young Jew from the Diaspora to grasp the awe and wonder on Israeli faces as together we stood before the Western Wall. I spent many hours in its vicinity looking up at the Temple Mount and out toward the Dead Sea, happily breathing in the “mountain air as clear as wine” and bathing in Jerusalem’s golden light. The prophet Isaiah had stood here some 2,600 years earlier and proclaimed, “Holy, holy, holy . . .  the whole earth is full of God’s glory.” One could envision that happening, in this awesome place where faithful Jews shared the streets with faithful Christians and Muslims. I felt about all of Israel the way Naomi Shemer sang to Jerusalem: the “smallest of the youngest of [its] children.”

It was not a time or place for modest aspirations. Gush Emunim soon began to push its agenda of West Bank settlement in the name of bringing the Messiah. Other Israelis hotly debated which parts of the conquered territories Israel should and should not return in exchange for peace, none doubting that peace would come if only their preferred plan were executed. It was a heady time—the most exciting I can remember—and then Sadat miraculously came to Jerusalem, and Menachem Begin agreed (10 years after 1967) to return Sinai to Egypt in exchange for peace. It seemed things might just work out the way Naomi Shemer and her country had imagined.

Israelis have been treated in recent weeks to a fascinating exchange between Micha Goodman, a well-known philosopher and educator, and Ehud Barak, former general, prime minister, and defense minister.   Goodman has written a book entitled Catch-67 (a play on the name of Joseph Heller’s novel), which argues that Israel today finds itself trapped. The “right” maintains, correctly in Goodman’s view, that to surrender the West Bank in present circumstances would be to take an unacceptable risk to the country’s physical survival. The “left” counters, correctly in Goodman’s view, that not to surrender the West Bank soon would be to take an unacceptable risk to the country’s moral survival as a democratic Jewish state. Goodman sees symmetry between the two positions, which Barak denies in a long and respectful review. Israel is strong enough militarily to take careful, calculated risks for peace, including withdrawal from the occupied territories. To which Goodman replies that most Israelis do not agree either with him or with the “right” but instead, lacking “ideological clarity,” “labor under the nuanced complexity of reality.”

I confess that I too lack a clear vision of the way forward for Israel, as do most North American Jews of my acquaintance. One of the infuriating things about the BDS movement and its Jewish sympathizers is their blithe dismissal of moral, historical, and political complexity.  The absence of peace and justice in the Middle East is entirely Israel’s fault, they maintain; all that is needed for peace and justice to prevail is for Israel to give back the territories and accept Palestinian demands.  Extremists on the “right” seem to me equally unhelpful (and dangerous) when it comes to dreaming a future for Israel, as if several million Palestinians will voluntarily leave their homeland or give up their aspirations for a state of their own—particularly when they witness close-up the spectacular success of the Jewish return to our homeland and the establishment there of a sovereign Jewish state. Yair Lapid, leader of the Yesh Atid party, spoke for me when he said recently: “We cannot discuss the result of the Six-Day War as one conclusion or a one-dimensional result. It is like anything else in this country. It’s complicated.” Lapid celebrates the “unification of Jerusalem” but insists that, “promised the right security measures—we have no interest in ruling 2.9 million Palestinians . . . we need to separate from this idea.”

I am grateful for moderate and pragmatic voices that suggest ways of breaking the current stalemate. Israel’s President, Reuven Rivlin, has urged new initiatives (as yet unspecified) “to bring peace to Jerusalem. To grow within her an Israeli hope . . . It is not enough that the city is united if its people are still divided.” Two hundred former generals and heads of intelligence services have joined a group called Commanders for Israel’s Security (CIS) that recently issued a set of detailed proposals for unilateral Israeli actions that they believe would simultaneously improve conditions in the West Bank, enhance Israeli security, and leave the door open for a future agreement (in a way that expanded settlement on the West Bank does not). President Trump’s remarks during his recent visit left Israelis perplexed about the future course of American policy, but according to some commentators, they bore the promise of welcome movement to a peace process that for years has seemed stuck.

The most potent antagonist to constructive thought about the next 50 years of Israel’s history may well be fatalism about the chance for peace and therefore about Israel’s future. One hears more and more of it these days both in North America and in Israel. Those of us committed to the Zionist project and the well-being of the Jewish people must do all we can at this moment to keep hope alive.

I believe that hope must be nourished in and by both communities.  Diaspora Jews have an essential role to play in such efforts. That too was a lesson I learned from the 1967 war and its aftermath. As a teenager in Philadelphia, I marveled at friends of my parents who gave all the money they could to Israel in 1967 and then again in 1973, lest another tragedy befall the Jewish people so soon after the Holocaust; in the years following I was stirred by peers who either made aliyah or devoted themselves heart and soul to promoting Israel’s welfare.  Riding Egged busses the length and breadth of the country, I marveled at the strong connection I felt to Jews with physiognomies and native languages very different from any I had ever known. I bore responsibilities toward them, I realized, just as my parents had believed. Like me, my fellow passengers had made their way to Israel.   They too celebrated Shabbat and Passover, felt the tug of Jewish history, and were grateful for the soldiers sitting beside us with Uzis on their laps, protection against enemies who wanted us dead or elsewhere. My graduate studies at Hebrew University taught me that there were only two viable strategies for Jewish life in the modern period, neither without risks: sovereignty in a homeland of our own and strong minority communities in a Diaspora democracy. One immediate benefit of Israel’s victory in 1967 was a resurgence of pride among Jews everywhere that for a while resulted in increased identification with Jewish communities and with Israel.

One hears more and more voices in our community that say, or act as if, they want Israel to prosper but don’t much care what happens there—and one hears prominent Israeli voices that say, or act as if, they do not care what Diaspora Jews like us think or do where Israel is concerned. It has become more urgent than ever that Jews in North America talk and listen to Israeli Jews about the future of our people, and vice versa; it is no less important that those of us who do not live in Israel talk and listen to one another civilly—defying the polarized tenor of the times—about our shared passion and divergent visions for the State we care about so much. There is profound ignorance about Israel among the vast majority of North American Jews, and comparable ignorance about the North American community among Israelis. Myths abound on both sides. Knowledge is in short supply. Strident voices seek to shut down conversation at a time when all Jews more than ever must be heard and brought to the table.

For at the end of the day, Israel is about far more than politics to Jews.  Politics is the means by which we think and argue about the meaning of Jewish existence, in this period of history so unlike anything the world has ever experienced. Arguments about Israel are ultimately about the survival and thriving of the Jewish people and of Judaism. Jews in North America cannot be bystanders to debate conducted in the name of the Jewish people, all the more when all sides invoke Judaism, Torah, God—commitments we share with all our hearts. I take comfort, 50 years after the 1967 war, from the fact that no one back then, in Israel or in North America, “religious” or “secular,” “left” or “right,” even came close to imagining the complex situation “on the ground” that we confront today. This should strengthen our resolve that—despite widespread inability to imagine a way out of the current impasse—such a way will be found, so that by the 60th anniversary of the conflict things will be different.

This is not a parable or a dream, I believe, but a necessity—one I am confident will come to pass.

Remembering Gershon Kekst (z”l)

 

Below are the eulogies delivered for Gershon Kekst by former JTS Chancellor Ismar Schorsch and me at the funeral on March 19, 2017. Together, Dr. Schorsch and I had the privilege of working with Gershon during his remarkable 18 years of service as chair of the JTS Board of Trustees.

A Eulogy for Gershon Kekst

by Arnold M. Eisen

When I got the news of Gershon’s passing, the image and emotion that came to my mind were what I had seen and felt flying across the country last Sunday afternoon. I had a window seat, and the sky was remarkably clear. We flew for a long time over frozen plains, which eventually gave way to black-brown foothills and then to higher peaks, many of them snow-capped. The scene was so magnificent that I could not take it in. I had no words for it, just stared and stared, not knowing what to do with the grandeur except to praise the Creator who had made it, feel humbled in its presence, and be thankful that I was here to witness it, all the more from that vantage point of 35,000 feet.

It does not much strain the metaphor to say that Gershon Kekst was a mountain of a man: solid, larger than life, certainly larger than almost everyone I have ever known. He was a force to be reckoned with and counted on. You could trust him to be there no matter what else changed or who failed you. Unlike the mountains, Gershon, thank goodness, was approachable. He was at once intimidating and caring, formidable and loving. It was humbling to be around him. He elicited gratitude for the advice he gave and the jams he helped get you out of, but you were grateful to him as well for the fact that you were fortunate enough to know him, and be on earth at the same time, not far away but across a desk. He too made you want to praise the Creator, “who has shared God’s wisdom with a person of flesh and blood,” and has shared as well the kind of kavod that was Gershon’s:  dignity, glory, gravitas.

It’s not easy to find words to describe Gershon because he himself used so few words. He gave hundreds of prepared speeches, at JTS and elsewhere, but in the privacy of his office or yours, he’d let you do most of the talking, guide you in the right path with a few pointed questions or gentle prods, and utter the sentence or two that made it crystal clear what you had to do, without him actually telling you in so many words.  Sometimes the advice you got was to say nothing, or do nothing. Many times he told me not to brag about things I intended to do but rather to do them and then report on what had been accomplished. One day I complained about the way my time was being frittered away on trivia. His response was to ask, “Who controls your calendar, Mr. Chancellor?”  Enough said.

Gershon could accomplish so much and convey so much without relying on verbiage because the power of the man lay in who he was. Some people are considered great because of the things they do in the world. Others are able to do great things because they ARE great. Their achievements are a function of character, and everyone knows it. You would never say of Gershon Kekst that he was clever or facile, or that something he did well was just a lucky break. I’m sure he had faults, and I suspect he knew them well, but you turned to him, you utterly relied on him, because you knew he was capital G good. You knew his judgment was not distorted by ego, and you knew he truly valued you, was listening to you with full attention, and cared about your success.   He could do all that because he deeply cared about causes larger than himself: his community, his country, the Jewish people, Israel, Torah, Conservative Judaism, God.

I first met Gershon when he and Bob Rifkind persuaded me to consider becoming chancellor of JTS. They accomplished that not so much with argument as with the example of who they were and how much they cared about JTS. Gershon was intimidating, until I realized, even at that first meeting, how tender a soul he was, and how devoted he was to JTS and other Jewish causes. I knew that he made his living by knowing exactly what to say to a given person in a given situation, but still:  it was a bit like the stories of Hasidic rebbes who looked into your eyes and read the secret fears and longings of your heart, when Gershon looked me in the eye and said,  “You’ve been a scholar your entire career, Professor, you’ve been giving the Jewish community advice for a long time now, but we really don’t need kibitzers,  you know, we need leaders. Come to New York and be a leader.” It worked. He had me—because I could see that Gershon Kekst was the very opposite of a kibitzer, and the very epitome of a leader. He told me then and many times thereafter what a privilege it was for him to serve as chair of the JTS Board, and to support it so generously. I knew that JTS was a team worth joining because I’d be serving alongside him.

In an interview conducted by the Weizmann Institute in 1994, Gershon said that he believed the Jewish people exists to be a holy people. “This means that we have a responsibility to be in partnership with our God in completing the process of creation, in seeing to it that ours is a world of justice, a habitable world in which civilization can achieve its highest potential in every respect.” Gershon believed that, humbly and with all his heart, and he lived that way. So does Carol. That’s why they supported so many Jewish causes, large and small, received so many supplicants from so many organizations, sent few people away empty-handed, and did so much good work.

Gershon had a special fondness for institutions devoted to Jewish education, and to higher education in particular.  I always assumed one reason for that was his reverence for his mother, Chana, who had been a Hebrew teacher. I think another reason was his entire approach to life. His respect for learning was built into his character. Jewish books were proof of what our people had accomplished, silent witness to a long history of achievement. The learning, if solid,  as it always has been at JTS, was something that could never be taken away from you—the kind of doing that speaks for itself, provides a firm basis for future achievement, and guarantees continuity when Judaism changes, as it must,  because the world changes.

It seemed utterly right to name The Graduate School at JTS for Gershon Kekst because we had all seen his respect for faculty and students on so many occasions and knew his real humility before the Torah and those who studied Torah. Everything JTS accomplishes in the world, the leaders we train, the individuals and communities we touch, is thanks to the learning stored up in the books and the faculty, transmitted first to our students and then by them to others. Gershon and Carol’s devotion and generosity have made this learning possible for many years. He was not a man who ever wanted his name attached to things. But the same way that a pillar in the JTS courtyard testifies to his status as pillar of JTS, his name on the Graduate School now witnesses to his love of Torah and his faith that Jews,  guided by Torah, really can make ours a “world of justice.”

I want to close by mentioning one final lesson that Gershon taught me, the one that he and Carol, and the next Kekst generation, and the one after that, taught us all together, by loving each other and the entire Kekst family as they did. Carol’s devotion to Gershon was evident from the moment I first met them, but it became overwhelmingly and movingly apparent during the years of his illness. Torah is taught not only in words but in example; leadership is usually partnership, and Carol, you and the family have been partners in chief. Gershon’s love of his family, and the family’s for him, was part and parcel of the love he lavished on the rest of us, and we felt in return. I for one loved him very much.

“I will look to the mountains, from where my help will come”—even in memory. I pray we will all be worthy of Gershon’s help and his example.

A Eulogy for Gershon Kekst

by Ismar Schorsch

Gershon passed away on erev Shabbos. On Shabbos I was in the synagogue lost in sadness, when I came across a passage in the haftarah that suddenly brought Gershon to mind. The haftarah for the day came from the prophet Ezekiel and dealt with the darkest era in the history of ancient Israel. Nebuchadnezar had destroyed the Temple and forcibly resettled many inhabitants of the Davidic kingdom of Judah in Babylonia. In their midst Ezekiel strove to offer comfort. The special haftarah for Shabbat Parah is a bold vision of national restoration, but not without an unexpected mid-course correction.

God promised to return Israel to its homeland, but only once God had refashioned its inner state of being. To break the recurring pattern of human obedience and disobedience to God’s will, God was ready to upgrade human nature, to redesign our natural endowment that it would no longer revert and succumb to acts of evil. Here is the passage in Ezekiel’s prophecy that arrested my attention:

And I will give you a new heart and implant in you a new spirit. I will remove the heart of stone from your body and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put My spirit into you, enabling you to follow My laws and faithfully to observe My statutes. (Ezek. 36: 26–27)

The prophecy in truth is a remarkable admission of divine misjudgment. To end the interminable history of human bloodshed would require the inscription of the Torah in our hearts. Free will alone could not be relied on to internalize it. Alas, we are reminded daily that Ezekiel’s prophecy still awaits fulfillment.

But then the thought struck me that in our impatient waiting we are not wholly abandoned. On rare occasions God sends us a solitary herald who embodies the nobility of a Jew whose heart is the bearer of Torah from birth. Gershon was such an exceptional Jew. His uncompromising love of Judaism was not acquired in long years of Torah study, but welled up from within and animated every fiber of his being. To be sure, Gershon had living links to Judaism. He was proud of being the great-great-grandson of Reb Josef Salanter, the teacher of the founder of the Musar movement in Eastern Europe. And he revered the memory of his mother, born in Palestine, who, widowed early, raised her two boys on the meager salary of a Hebrew school teacher.

Gershon’s Judaism was a natural wonder. He became chairman of the Seminary’s board in 1991, five years after I was selected to be its sixth chancellor. Two years later he also assumed the chairmanship of the Weizmann Institute. In Gershon’s world religion and science, Israel and America complemented each other. He was a staunch advocate of the centrality of the synagogue and day school education. The home in which Carol and Gershon loved to host Seminary faculty and students for Shabbat dinner is saturated with Jewish art. Though he couldn’t carry a tune, Gershon loved hazzanut and knew how to daven like a pietist. The rhythm of his week and the sanctity of his family life were dictated by Shabbat and haggim. Indeed, the unadorned pine coffin in which he will soon be buried eloquently expresses his deep desire to live and die as a Jew.

In sum, Gershon’s Judaism was a matter of the heart. His clients often turned to him for his compassion as well as for his wisdom. Above all, it was the extent of his legendary charitableness that made of Gershon and Carol a force of untold good. Let one small example stand for many. In the summer of 1993, Samuel Melton of Columbus, Ohio, lay on his death bed. With some visionary gifts, Sam had enabled the Seminary to strengthen its leadership in the neglected field of after-school Jewish education. Sam wanted to give the Seminary one parting gift of one million dollars and summoned Gershon and me to his bedside. Columbus was not especially easy to get to, and Gershon promptly chartered a private plane to provide the transportation. Sam was relieved by the chance to bestow his gift face to face and I was ever grateful to Gershon for the depth of his commitment to the Seminary. To my unexpected benefit, Gershon would stay by my side till I stepped down as chancellor in June 2006. Over those 15 years only Carol knows how many hours Gershon and I spent on Saturday nights on the phone talking Seminary business.

Before Gershon accepted the chairmanship of the Seminary, he visited Dr. Louis Finkelstein, its renowned fourth chancellor, to ask him what should the relationship between chairman of the board and chancellor actually be? Dr. Finkelstein responded simply by holding aloft two fingers of one hand held tightly together. Gershon was fond of telling that graphic story and I can happily attest that he fully heeded the advice. What made Gershon such a devoted partner, wise mentor, and intimate friend is that he gloriously anticipated Ezekiel’s vision of a Jew for whom Judaism constituted his very DNA. How sad that he is gone and no longer among us.

Rabbis Should Speak Out

These words were delivered at a JTS convocation honoring 55 members of the Rabbinical Assembly for their distinguished service.

The question of whether and how rabbis should speak out on controversial issues of the day has been with us for a very long time—probably as long as there have been Jewish communities concerned about their place in Gentile societies and states, and rabbis charged with leading and serving those communities. If the subject has become especially contentious in America of late—causing significant strife in many communities, and a rethinking of the rabbinic vocation and the limits of rabbinic authority—the reason seems to be that American Jews in 2017 find ourselves in a situation utterly without precedent. Technology, society, and culture are all in flux; the health of the planet itself seems threatened; anti-Semitism seems resurgent and the peace process in the Middle East frozen. On top of all that, complicating matters further, the relevant political divide in America today is arguably not only that between Democrat and Republican or liberal and conservative but between supporters and opponents of a president who has disavowed major elements of long-term bipartisan policy, foreign and domestic, and disavowed major elements of the Jewish and Christian ethical traditions anchored in deeply held conviction about what God wants from us.

What should rabbis do in this situation? What should they say, on the pulpit or off? What alliances and marches should they join or lead? There seems broad consensus that Jews should not remain silent when core interests and values are at stake, but little agreement about how to define those values or protect those interests, or what the role of the rabbi should be in such efforts.

I believe that the lack of consensus on these points makes the role of the rabbi more, rather than less, crucial. It is imperative that those charged with teaching Jews Torah speak out loud and clear on moral and religious issues of the day. They must speak out carefully yet boldly; with love for God and Israel; and always from deep inside the teaching and the practice of Torah.

Consider the role of the rabbi for a moment in light of the construction of the tabernacle commanded in this week’s parashah, Terumah. The building blueprint set forth in the book of Exodus is detailed. One might think that all God needed from the Israelites were carpenters to cut and nail the boards, and weavers to cut and dye the cloth. But that is not the case. God requires Israelites who “excelled in ability,” and calls Bezalel, whom YHWH had “endowed with a divine spirit of skills, ability and knowledge in every kind of craft” (Exod. 35:21, 31). The Lord of heaven and earth needs human beings with multiple capacities and talents to take part in building a tabernacle that will make it possible for God to dwell be-tokheinu—in and among the people Israel. God needs experienced and insightful human partners in covenant to do all the mitzvot necessary to make the world a place that reveals God’s glory in its justice and compassion.

Rabbis are more than hewers of boards and dyers of wool. We do not train them as we do at JTS so they can announce page numbers or direct rote performances of ritual. It takes all the knowledge and wisdom they command, all the learning and people skills they bring to the task, all the cognitive and emotional intelligence with which they are equipped, to pronounce and preserve the difference between tamei and tahor, pure and impure—the job of Aaron and the priests who came after him. Our rabbis have to build and grow holy communities, keep the peace in those communities, and make sure they are places that bring out the best in all their members. Rabbis must bless the people Israel with their words and their presence; teach via texts and example; invite God into Jewish lives; and help make us worthy of having God reside amongst us.

We also want our rabbis to be prophets of a sort, which means helping their communities to hear clearly what God wants of them, and helping our words reach God. The words sent in God’s direction include protest, petition, thanksgiving, praise, love letters, or silent meditation. The words headed back toward us from God’s side include command, forgiveness, comfort, appeal for help, or reflection on the relationship between God and humanity. Paraphrasing Abraham Joshua Heschel, we might say that the rabbi in his or her prophetic role helps the rest of us to keep God always in mind, and stops us from focusing only on our own needs and desires.

Heschel made that declaration about Israel’s prophets in his 1963 address on “Religion and Race,” and when he marched in Selma, Alabama, he affirmed, as Martin Luther King Jr. did in his “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” that rabbis must call out injustice, call for compassion, and call lies lies. They cannot teach the opening chapters of Genesis without reminding us that human beings are assigned to work and tend the garden of earth; that all human beings are children of Adam and Eve created in God’s image; that this status carries with it a demand to protect human dignity always and everywhere. Rabbis cannot teach the Exodus narrative without stressing over and over, as the Torah does, the obligation to take care of the stranger, free those enslaved, and not bow down to false gods. The Judge of all the earth must be assisted in doing justice. YHWH must be helped in the work of redemption associated with God’s very name.

This does not mean, I hasten to add, that the rabbi should tell people how to vote. The problem with rabbis giving such advice goes far beyond IRS regulations concerning the status of religious nonprofits. The complexity of the human situation on the one hand and the nature of classical Jewish texts on the other both militate against simple translation of Biblical or rabbinic imperatives into endorsements of particular candidates or policies. Love for the stranger is compatible with a variety of government directives. Widows and orphans must be clothed and fed—that demand is non-negotiable—but multiple valid approaches to distributive justice have been articulated in Republican and Democratic platforms. Love of the Jewish people, love for the Land of Israel, and love of the stranger can be used to justify a whole range of positions on West Bank settlements. And—complicating matters still further—fulfillment of one mitzvah might clash with fulfillment of another. Sometimes the imperative to Jewish action is clear and unequivocal. Most of the time, however, hard choices must be made and difficult priorities determined.

That is why a rabbi has to be careful in the translation of timeless mitzvah to the partisan politics in the headlines on a given Shabbat. It would be a terrible mistake for our government to repeal the Johnson Amendment and permit churches, synagogues, and mosques to get into the business of political campaigning. A rabbi’s job is to teach Torah and to help Jews live Torah, not to be a political operative. Spiritual/moral leaders cannot fulfill their calling effectively if they routinely sound off on contemporary controversy rather than helping Jews listen week in and week out to the voice of Torah. The latter task requires listening to and respecting the diverse voices inside each community—as the community, to be served by the rabbis who lead them, must be willing to listen to their rabbis, even and especially when challenged by disagreement.

Bottom line: for rabbis to do the priestly/prophetic job to which they are called, they and their communities need to trust each other’s dedication and integrity.

All of us are here today because we love our tradition, despite and because it sometimes makes our lives more difficult, weighing us down with “capital-M” Meaning. We are here because we love the Jewish people—which may be easy to do in the abstract but is never easy when it comes to actual individuals in actual communities. You cannot be a rabbi unless you truly value disagreement “for the sake of heaven,” and believe in your kishkes that it must somehow be essential to the fulfillment of our eternal covenant with the Holy One.

I conclude with a word of Torah that I learned from Heschel some 45 years ago, when I asked him as a student reporter with incredible chutzpah how he had the chutzpah to call the Vietnam War evil—not just wrong, but evil—and to write on the first page of his book God in Search of Man that religion had declined because it had become “irrelevant, dull, oppressive, insipid.” Heschel said to me, in these words or words close to them, “I am the heir to a great religious tradition, and as such it is not only my right but my duty to speak in its name as best I can, knowing that others will speak differently.”

It takes enormous courage to do that—and enormous humility to do it well. You’ve got to know your Torah, and know your Jews, and love them both, and love God. We are living in a historical moment that may well test our patience and our courage, elicit every ounce of every skill we command, break our hearts over and over, and strain our capacity for hope. I pray that our rabbis, with the blessing of the communities they serve, will have the wisdom to exercise the right, and perform the duty, of speaking in the name of Torah, and will do so with the wisdom and skill needed right now throughout the tabernacles of  the Children of Israel.

Back to School

Three weeks after the election, Jews, like other Americans, can think of little else than the changes in store for our country and the world. Fundamental Jewish values and concerns hang in the balance; indeed, the Jewish communal agenda seems to pale in importance compared to anxiety about the policies and pronouncements of the new administration now forming. I believe, however, that our communal agenda is more important than ever. We need clarity about where our tradition stands on issues of the day. And we need to make sure that we are transmitting that tradition and those values effectively to the next generation of American Jews. Day schools have an essential role to play in that effort. I visited my neighborhood Jewish day school recently to see how well it is performing that task and came away with the sense that a lot we need to know about strengthening the Jewish community in North America can be learned from watching K–8 Jewish classrooms.

For one thing—to me, the main thing—the Solomon Schechter School of Manhattan spends great effort teaching its students that their fulfillment as individual Jewish human beings is best served by participation in a larger community. The sense of community starts with the four-desk clusters common in many classrooms these days. No child sits alone, or works alone, or faces the day’s challenges alone. Learning in groups day after day teaches more than math skills or the nature of Greek city-states. It demonstrates that personal growth comes through cooperation, conversation, and shared responsibility. It helps too that class size is small; everybody seems to know everyone’s name. The buzz in the classrooms and halls was happy. Many American Jewish adults—perhaps most—have never experienced such buzz, perhaps because they have never participated in face-to-face Jewish community of this or any sort. Convinced that individual autonomy is threatened by strong communal involvement, they may not want to get involved—or, sadder still, they may have walked through Jewish doors seeking Meaning and Community and left sorely disappointed. 

I toured Schechter with Benjamin Mann, head of school, who I’m proud to say holds a master’s degree from JTS, is an alumnus of the Davidson School’s Day School Leadership Training Institute, and is currently a student in Davidson’s executive doctoral program. Mann told me that the school’s philosophy had always been to nurture independent learners who know how to solve problems and to tackle challenges—together. As he told me this, I flashed back on my wonderment, upon arriving in Oxford for graduate study, that only several hours a week would be spent in lectures, seminars, or tutorials. The rest of the time I would either be alone, reading and writing, or—from early morning until late into the night—talking with my fellow students in pubs, coffee houses, or common rooms. It took me a while to figure out the educational assumption behind this regimen: gather smart and highly motivated students, put them in conversation with one another, and they will naturally share what they are learning. The problems they are working on will find new and creative solutions. I wish our adult communities did more of this. We have a lot to offer one another that does not get communicated when we sit silently in synagogues or classrooms or board meetings.

The Manhattan Schechter School does something else that I admire: it aims, as I would put it, to nurture young Jewish human beings rather than to teach kids Judaism. All Jews I know, whatever their age, wrestle with the hyphen that enriches and bedevils Jewish identity in North America today. We are either American-Jews or Jewish-Americans (or similarly hyphenated Canadians). For better and for worse (and I believe it is both), we have to work hard at synthesizing these and other parts of our selves. Wholeness generally eludes us. Tensions abound. Books and classes about Judaism also abound—but how many guide us in putting all the parts together? Many Jews, young and not so young, flee Jewish community because they fear it demands exclusive allegiance, leaving no room for participation in other communities. They are wary of Jewish tradition because they think it requires them to give up other sources of wisdom, other parts of themselves—as if the twin tasks of growing into Judaism, and growing into personhood, were a zero sum game.   

Day schools (and overnight camp, as well) have a major built-in advantage where the search for wholeness is concerned. Unlike synagogues that most Jews visit weekly at best, or congregational schools that meet after the real work of the day for kids is done, or on weekends set aside for leisure, day schools bear the message that Judaism is the main business of life, integral to all the rest. Math and science, Shakespeare and soccer, take place in Jewish spaces. SSSM underlines the aim of wholeness by hiring bilingual teachers for grades K–5 who can model the integration of Jewish studies and general studies that they seek to foster in their students. The school, like the Torah, has no one philosophy on what these syntheses should look like but it is committed to the effort wholeheartedly. Students and teachers testify by being there how much Judaism matters to them. The virtual printer on the window ledge of the classroom is evidence that Judaism is perfectly at home in our 21st century world—and that this world has found a home in Judaism. When the students leave the school to feed the hungry or visit the sick, they bring their Judaism with them, along with everything else they are. Would that more Jewish adults did the same.

I asked to spend part of my SSSM visit observing and joining in tefillah. It has been my experience that prayer is the single hardest request made of contemporary Jewish adults outside the Orthodox world, and perhaps for many inside that world.  (The English word itself is a problem, constricting the range of the Hebrew to one sort of tefillah: petition to God). So much in the patterns and assumptions of our lives is at odds with the demand to sit quietly, pay attention, burrow inside words hallowed by tradition, allow emotion to show and be felt in public, express thanksgiving and obligation, confess inadequacy, and stand in the presence of the Highest. For kids, prayer can be a much simpler matter—their sense of wonder has not yet been dulled by the need to put up armor and be cool.

SSSM students do not receive a printed siddur until fifth grade. Until then, they use a binder of loose-leaf sheets on which they have written or drawn associations with lines from key prayers typed in bold at the top of the page. When they come to pray that particular line, they have before them not only the words of the prayer they will sing together, but the meaning they have found in it and for it—a meaning that, the sheets being loose leaf, can change over time. I’ve described this experience for adults as coming to shul wearing stereo headphones: in one ear you hear the words on the page, read or chanted, and in the other, the meaning it has accumulated for you.  Spend extended time on a single word or phrase, go deep into what it says to you, and the next time you reach that page, those words will stand out for you, perhaps over time even greet you as a friend. Music intensifies this experience of welcome.

I saw associations with the words of the siddur being born for a group of kindergartners as a teacher sat with them in a circle and asked why they thought we sometimes bow our heads in prayer. “To get a blessing,” said one. “To thank God for making the world,” said another. “Asking God for love,” said a third. “To save God.” Something profound had just happened in that room. I found myself wishing that my own minyan would spend time discussing what we think we are doing when we bow and sing, stand or sit, listen to Torah or say Kaddish.

This sort of education is quite expensive, more so even than other Jewish institutions.  This is not the place to debate the question of how much communal and foundation money should flow to day schools as opposed to congregational schools, camps, or training grounds for leaders such as JTS. We are a small community, struggling to persuade Jews that their people and tradition need them, and that Jewish life can supply Meaning and Community available nowhere else—but the price, unfortunately, is one that many individuals cannot afford or are unwilling to pay. Our survival and continued flourishing as Jews in this land of opportunity will not come without great resources and great effort. If we as a community really care about raising committed Jews in North America today, we will dig deeper and find the resources needed.

The investment in day schools like Solomon Schechter School of Manhattan is clearly worthwhile. For what I saw over and over again that morning was not only great teaching and learning, but kids and teachers at home in their school and in their skins.  That tremendous sense of belonging is bound to carry over to the way they feel about their community, their tradition, their society, and the world. Judaism, in this case Conservative Judaism, ceases to be philosophy at a school like this one. It becomes lived experience—what Judaism was always meant to be.

The Day After

I woke up Wednesday morning breathing deep with relief that the long nightmare of the campaign was finally behind us—and fearful that my fellow Americans and I will not be able to find it in ourselves to overcome divisions greater than at any time since the Civil War. After all, tens of millions awoke with immense pain and anger at the outcome of the election, and about the same number with the sense their voices had finally been heard. I do not know, in legislative terms, what the specifics of “coming together” will entail. But I do know that the Torah demands that we never give up on one another or our society; that we be better than we have been of late; and that we take concrete steps to return to the truth and ideals that are “self-evident” to Americans when we do not cover them over with cynicism. These are, I believe, the only ways to keep the house we share from burning. All hands are needed—and all hearts, too—to put out the fire and rebuild.

The first building block, it seems to me, is speech. Words played a major role in turning us into this nation divided—name-calling, disparagement, smears of all kinds—and words will have to play a major role in making things better. God spoke the world into being, we learn in the very first verses of Genesis, and Jewish sages taught that human beings, having been created in God’s image, have the power to make and destroy—to build up and tear down other human beings—through speech.

Let’s all resolve to watch our mouths in the post-election period. No harmful speech, let alone violent action. Let’s listen so well to the words uttered by people who disagree with us, that we hear what is intended and felt even when it is not actually said. The disagreement likely will not go away. But the anger and pain need to be registered.  So does the fear—palpable on all sides—about where our country is headed.

A related casualty of this long and grueling election cycle has been the truth, so damaged that many Americans have apparently stopped believing that any politician ever tells the truth. The Torah says that Truth is one of the names of God. The Ten Commandments prohibit us from lying in God’s name; a major aspect of loving our neighbors, Leviticus teaches, is to be straight with them about what we think they are doing wrong. Jews have learned the hard way, as have other minority communities, that when those in power play fast and loose with the truth, individuals and groups who are powerless, as Jews have been in the past, are the first to pay a heavy price.

So let’s all make a promise, with the election behind us, to tell the truth on a more regular basis than seemed possible in the heat of the campaign. There is a time for political rhetoric, and a time to own up to complexity; let’s reject the lie that a person or group is either “with us” or “against us.” Let’s own up to the complexity of things for a change, admit that the policies and individuals we favor or oppose are not all good or all bad, and recognize that disputes over principle often mask fights over turf or privilege.

Third, let’s really be our brothers’ keepers. We mustn’t think the fire will consume only their side of the house we share. Let’s reach across every aisle, every fence, to every neighbor. Let’s listen hard to the anger and the pain. Most important, we must heed the Bible’s refrain that “widows and orphans”—all who cannot provide for themselves—must not be allowed to starve. Like many Americans, I don’t much care how we accomplish that goal, but it pains me that we don’t, that it seems we can’t, and—worse—that we act as if we do not give a damn.

Let’s channel that impatience into action. Christmas Eve this year falls on the same date as the first night of Hanukkah. Could we resolve as a country—individuals of all parties and creeds, corporations and businesses of every size and complexity, governments at the federal, state, and local level, religious organizations and secular charities, all of us—that no child will wake up the next morning without enough food to eat. For that one day, at least (and for as many days afterward as possible). To make the holiday a Holy Day for all Americans, regardless of religious beliefs. To show that we can work together on something valuable, that we care. That light in the December darkness would make all Americans proud.

Kol Nidre 2016

Message delivered by Chancellor Eisen at JTS Yom Kippur services.

I went fly fishing this summer with my son and a very patient instructor, and came away with three lessons directly relevant to the work of teshuvah.

First, fly fishing is hard, very hard, and if my skill at casting that day is any indication, it’s unlikely I will ever be very good at it.

Second, in fishing as in life one sometimes gets lucky. Norman Maclean, in A River Runs Through It, writes that “if our father [a Presbyterian minister] had his say, nobody who did not know how to fish would be allowed to disgrace a fish by catching it.” I was lucky: I did catch a fish that day. It is important, as we undertake the labor of doing better than we have in the past, to know and face up to our inadequacies. But it’s also important to remember, as Jewish tradition insists, that there is hope for us nonetheless. Reverend Maclean put it this way. “All good things, trout—as well as eternal salvation—come by grace, and grace comes by art, and art does not come easy.”

The third lesson is that often, when we bend all our efforts toward a single, difficult goal, we may fall well short of it—but if we look around, we may find that we have been vouchsafed a gift that never would have come to us otherwise, and that is worth far more than the goal for which we were striving. I set out that morning wanting to learn to fly-fish—or, to be completely truthful about it, to use a fishing lesson as an excuse for spending a few good hours with my son. He and I had those hours together. But what I learned with him at my side was the joy beyond words of standing knee-deep in a sun-dappled river, surrounded by four shades of forest green, looking up at four shades of sky blue, with waterfowl gliding overhead and woodpeckers making their distinctive call—all of this raised to an exponentially higher level of stunning beauty when the wind churned the water, and clouds covered the sun, making for a show of light and shadow that causes me to shudder even now, as I recall it. Talk about a moment of grace!

Thanks to that experience, I know something of what Maclean meant in the (very Jewish) mystical affirmation at the end of his story. “Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.” We stand in that river, you and I, never with more awareness than on a glorious morning like the one I have described, or on a day like Yom Kippur.

It’s hard to do better than that sort of experience in this super- empirical age. Try to turn literature or memoir into theology or theory, I find, and you quickly run up against more conundrums than the technical terms in a fly fisherman’s lexicon. What is the “one” into which all things merge, exactly—or the One, the ehad, in the creedal affirmation that you and I will make in the final moment of Yom Kippur about YHWH, the God of Israel? When is the “eventually” when all things merge, or make sense, or allow us to figure out, as the characters in Maclean’s story ask, why it is so hard to figure out what people need, and to help them with it; why “it is those we live with and love and should know who elude us”?

I often meet Jews, young and not young, who throw up their arms in frustration that Judaism is so much better at asking questions like these than answering them. Sometimes, desperate for the answers, they mistake our tradition’s poetry, allusion, story, praise, reassurance, hope for things not seen, guidance for living, and companionship along the wilderness journey of life—for theology or even system. I too believe, and wish at times I could believe more. I am a seeker after every scrap of Truth that grace and art allow mere mortals to grasp. But my gratitude for Yom Kippur does not stem from the expectation that I will leave Ne’ilah with ultimate questions answered or will have all my deep-rooted doubts assuaged.

Why then am I here? What do I hope to receive in the next 25 hours, which we will spend largely with a liturgy that prompts introspection and resolve? I will answer by sharing two personal religious high points of the year that has just ended.

One was a conversation that took place at Yale University Hospital. I sat with a group of physicians, faculty, and staff who meet regularly to explore and strengthen the connection between “spirituality” and medicine. After a brief presentation by me on Jewish approaches to illness and healing, a physician at the far end of the table remarked that he goes to church regularly—and none of his colleagues understand why. “I go to church,” he explained, “because I find there a kind of discourse and community available nowhere else—certainly not at the hospital.”

Beautifully put, I think. I suspect that many Jews, perhaps many in this room, would say the same about their synagogue attendance, particularly at the High Holidays. The Pew Report of 2013 found that over 70 percent of American Jews self-identify as having a religion, Judaism. Yet 70 percent of those Jews declare in answer to a follow-up question that religion is not the major component of their Jewish identity. Judaism for them is rather a matter of family, ethnicity, tradition, ethics, or peoplehood. It claims their engagement, in other words, by providing a kind of discourse and community that is rarely available elsewhere.

There are times when I wonder, as much as the next person, why we really need to say all these prayers, the same ones day after day, or year after year, almost all of which were not written with 21st century Americans who carry smartphones in their pockets in mind. I have to tell you, though, that after following the latest news of the election campaign, reading the paper, listening to the pundits, I often feel cheapened, lowered, even sullied by what has been said and done. Is this the best that adult Americans can achieve in pursuit of the leadership of our country at this crucial time in the world’s history? This is the way we talk to and about one another, this is role-modeling for young people, this is what life is for and about? Maclean says gently, with the wisdom of his Presbyterian father, that “if you have never picked up a fly rod before,” as I had not before this summer, “you will soon find it factually and theologically true that man by nature is a damn mess.” This election campaign has proven that, with or without rods and reels. The question this Yom Kippur, more than any other in my personal memory, is whether we will sink into the mess beyond hope of rising. Words and melodies like Kol Nidre, and the 25-hour immersion that follows, constitute an alternate discourse and a restorative experience of community. They are to me, and perhaps to you as well, a very welcome antidote to the mess all around. They may even help us to do better.

Last fall I had the privilege of joining about 200 other religious leaders and public officials at the service of prayer and remembrance that Pope Francis convened at Ground Zero. The pope’s words were moving, and, especially to an audience sitting in those literal and moral depths, his presence was palpably elevating. No less moving, to me at least, was the silence that greeted the Pope’s entrance; the multi-faith character of the audience that he led in prayer; and the singing of Oseh Shalom Bimromav with that group, in that place, at that moment. Had the Pope sought theological agreement from those assembled, he would have failed before he began. The members of the audience, dressed at Francis’s request in the distinctive garb of their various traditions, probably brought dozens of different notions of prayer to the prayers we shared. They held divergent notions of the shalom that exists in heaven and the shalom we hope to see on earth. Without doubt, they cleave to widely varied ideas of the Higher Power to which that day, we all agreed to attach the word God. The degree of theological unity among us counted for less that morning than the fact that we were humbled to stand before God as mere mortals, our time on earth fleeting, the work to which we are called immense, the planet with which we are entrusted in real danger of irreparable harm.

They, at that moment, you at this one, are my community as we face up to, and face down, the terrorists and the nihilists and those who think only fools believe in any goal other than self-seeking. They, you, are the community that guarantees the existence of an alternate discourse, a better language, a higher path. Joining with you in this space—a Christian space, davka, loaned to us by allies of another faith who know how important it is for us to exercise and strengthen our faith on Yom Kippur—I am raised up and you with me.

The rabbis, as they did so often, front-loaded a lot of the meaning of Yom Kippur into the opening moments of Kol Nidre, knowing perhaps that they had our maximum attention then, and wanting to take full advantage. Let me in conclusion draw your attention to what we said and did a few moments ago at their direction. With the ark open, and Torahs in hand, we said with as much solemnity and focus as we could summon, that “by the authority of the court on high and by the authority of this court below, with divine consent and with the consent of this congregation, we grant permission to pray with those who have transgressed.”

Who else is there to pray with, after all? How could permission to pray be given if we, all of us transgressors, did not grant it to one another?  Who else except a community like this, gathered at a moment like Yom Kippur, blessed with a discourse like the one we will inhabit for the next 25 hours, could affirm, in the face of the moral relativism peddled daily by our culture, that there really is an “above” and a “below”? That there is Good and Evil, Truth and Lies, and we need to turn from evil and lies to goodness and truth, and can turn? That there is blessing to be had, and we can choose it. That there is life—and with God’s help, we can choose that too, at least for a little while yet.

Then we turned the page, and requested release from vows we have not even made yet, and declared before God and each other that our promises shall not be considered promises, lest our inability to fulfill those vows and promises paralyze us from helping one another and making the world better. Finally, the liturgy offered the precious reassurance, in God’s name, that we can be and will be forgiven for whatever needs forgiving. We quote God’s words to our ancestor Moses, “I have forgiven, as you have asked.” That’s when we say sheheheyanu, having been given the promise we need in order to go on, and face another year.

Yom Kippur reminds us, in the Kol Nidre prayer and many others, how hard it is to get life right at any point. It teaches me that we may get it right nonetheless. We may get lucky. There may be grace. We may do better next year than we did before. And even if we don’t, there will be unexpected blessings, moments when we might be pierced by a melody, or a phrase, or the pleasures of a shared community.

I thank God for the blessing of this day, the blessing of this discourse, and the blessing of this community. I wish us all a day studded with moments of great meaning, and a year of both art and grace.

High Holiday Message from Chancellor Eisen

JTS High Holiday services are being held this year in borrowed space at Riverside Church—a graphic reminder, if one were needed, of how this Rosh Hashanah is different from all other Rosh Hashanahs for JTS faculty, students, staff, and extended family. In the final months of 5776 we witnessed the demolition of our 1980s Library building. (The bulldozers are active, outside my window, as I write.) Long before Passover of 5777 we will break ground on construction of our renewed campus, which is set to open in Fall 2019. I want to reflect briefly on the wider significance of these developments. I believe they carry meaning at this season that is both communal and personal.

Gerson Cohen, a renowned chancellor of JTS, expressed the matter eloquently in Fall 1980 at the dedication of the building that is now giving way to new construction:

It is as if this simple act of digging a hole constitutes the affirmation that we have all been awaiting. We are building—and by so doing have demonstrated our belief in the authenticity of Conservative Judaism, our faith in the future of the American Diaspora, our confidence in our scholars, our schools, our publications, as the sources from which the American Jewish community will draw the strength it needs to guide our institutions into their second century. Those shovels, the blasting, the expanding foundation hole, are doing more for our sense of identity, our acceptance of mission, than all the arguments we marshaled while we debated whether or not to build.

Cohen’s words resonate with me—as they will with many readers who have resolved to embark on an ambitious path, personal or institutional, after long consideration of the alternatives, and in the face of skeptics who said it couldn’t—or shouldn’t—be done. “Why are you building a new campus,”  I have been asked, “when American Judaism (Orthodoxy excepted) has an uncertain future at best—and may not exist in 50 years?” Or: “Why are you investing in the preparation of leaders for the Conservative movement in particular, when its future is particularly bleak?” I have spoken with Jews who see no point in preserving an institution loyal to the Jewish religious tradition because they are convinced that all religion in America is declining steeply. Others expressed the wish for greater certainty in these troubled times. So much is changing,  and the change is so fast and so far-reaching. Perhaps JTS should hang back and wait a while, until the horizon clears.

I think it’s important to say,  as Cohen did—and never more so than at the High Holidays—that we build in full awareness of the data and the trends. We seize a unique opportunity presented to us at this moment because we are confident of JTS’s future, that of Conservative Judaism,  and that of the Jewish community in North America. We believe it is important—now as much as ever—that the sort of religion for which JTS stands, the sort of Judaism we have maintained and transmitted for over a century,  survive and thrive. The world is increasingly given over to intolerant fundamentalism on the one hand and militant (and no less intolerant) atheism on the other. We urgently need Jewish leaders who are trained to broadcast the opposite message, and help their communities navigate uncharted territory, alongside respected allies from other communities and traditions. JTS will provide these leaders.

We know that Judaism can make a tremendous difference to Jewish lives and communities in North America, because it already does for many hundreds of thousands, offering experiences of Meaning and Community (Capital “M,” Capital “C”) available nowhere else. And the record shows that wise, learned, and inspiring leadership is crucial to the success of this endeavor. That is the “core business of JTS,” one which requires a community of teachers and students committed to the endeavor and a constant flow of people and ideas into and out of that community, enriching conversation at 3080 Broadway and throughout the Jewish world and beyond.

Institutions that have been around for a long time can change dramatically to meet new challenges—just as individuals who have resolved to change at Rosh Hashanahs past, with disappointing results, can undertake teshuvah this year that,  unlike all past attempts, really turns their lives around.  Maimonides urges us in his Laws of Repentance not to heed those who tell us all is determined or decreed, with no “degree of freedom” left to you and me to alter the course of our lives. “This is a great principle, a pillar of Torah and mitzvah, as it is said (Deut. 30:15)  ‘Behold I have set before you this day life and goodness, death and evil…blessing and curse.…’”

That call is sounded for individuals,  this Rosh Hashanah as every other. It applies to the Jewish community in North America as it does in Israel. It holds true for our society, which at this moment seems to be struggling with its very soul. And it holds true for our world—which, if we heed the climate scientists, is in desperate need of our resolve to keep it habitable.

“Wake up!” a broadside issued by JTS declared in 1981. “It is Rosh Hashanah—the birthday of the world. The hungry need to be fed, the illiterate need to be taught. The old as well as the young need to be loved…Wake up. Accept your role as a partner in creation. Rosh Hashanah is the time and wherever you are is the place to begin.”

So much has been invested in us, the Jews of today,  individually and collectively. Returning that investment with interest, for the benefit of those “here with us this day,  as well as those not here with us this day” (Deut. 29:13)  is one of the greatest satisfactions a person can enjoy. May it be yours this Rosh Hashanah, ushering in a year that is good and sweet.

Remembering a Great “Jew of Culture” *

July 1 marks the tenth yahrzeit of my teacher, Philip Rieff, one of the most important sociological theorists of his generation. This is the 50th year since the publication of his book The Triumph of the Therapeutic, which gave the world a name for—and theory of—contemporary culture: “therapeutic.” It is a word that from this vantage point seems a prescient account of our country and its election campaign in 2016. I will never forget Philip Rieff, and hope that America will remember the lessons that he tried relentlessly to teach.

Rieff was above all else a teacher. I became his student during my senior year at the University of Pennsylvania, in a seminar that (if memory serves) began at 4:00 p.m. each Monday and ended whenever Rieff said it did. The reading that semester consisted entirely of a bare handful of paragraphs in Max Weber’s credo essay, “Science [or Scholarship] as a Vocation” (1918). The going was slow—we read line by line—and Rieff had a rule that students could not use words we were not prepared to define.

One day I remember someone made the mistake of using the word “institution.” We stayed quite late that evening. I did not mind. Rieff had entranced me with his basso profundo voice, precise diction, studied formality, and impeccable three-piece suits. His lectures were typically as brilliant as his masterpiece, Freud: The Mind of the Moralist (1959). I felt at home in his classroom, I think, because his method of reading brought to mind Hebrew school classes where we read the Torah, word by word, with Rashi’s commentary.

I stayed in touch with Rieff through graduate school, and when I assumed my first position as a “fellow teacher”—the title of a classic Rieff essay from 1972—I regularly took the train from New York to Philadelphia to see my parents and study with Rieff. He tutored me in Weber, Nietzsche, and Freud, the lessons always interspersed with good meals, good wine, and conversation that went back and forth from texts to what Rieff called “text analogues”—events in the news or recent cultural developments that illumined or illustrated the texts. I vividly remember discussions about politics, universities, art, literature, Israel, and Judaism. On several occasions after my mother’s death I took my father along, and had the pleasure of watching him and my teacher exchange jokes. Rieff’s demeanor was normally stern. He loved to depart from it in uproarious laughter.

It’s no surprise that a scholar of Freud should enjoy a good joke, or even a bad one; Rieff’s analysis of culture, like Freud’s, paid careful attention to the elements of daily life in which personal and societal character stand revealed. The central problem of our time, he believed, was that our culture had lost its bearings, ceasing to provide the norms and behavior required to nurture ethical selves and give just order to society. Distinctions between Right and Wrong, Good and Evil, Truth and Lies, had given way to relativism and deconstruction. What mattered in public and private life, much of the time, was what Rieff called therapy: feeling good, living comfortably, getting along. One did not want to judge others, lest we be judged in return. The worst we might say of a person’s behavior is that it was “inappropriate.” Triumph of the Therapeutic argued that the loss of faith in a Commanding God, loss of confidence that justice could ever be achieved in this world (or that we could ever agree on what justice meant), and loss of hope in reward or punishment in a world to come, had led modern individuals and our societies to settle for lesser salvations. We too often aim at mere fulfillment of pleasures and desires, some noble, some not. Our culture, Rieff wrote, proclaims that “the therapy of all therapies, the secret of all secrets. . . is not to attach oneself exclusively or too passionately to any one particular meaning, or object.” We “are now committed, culturally as well as economically, to the gospel of self-fulfillment” (Triumph, 59, 252).

Rieff’s ideal character type—the one he himself tried to live up to and describe, despite failings in both departments; the polar opposite of the “therapeutic” who disdains fixed norms and rejects hierarchies of High and Low—was the “Jew of Culture.” That person did not have to be a Jew, but he or she did have to follow the example of the Ten Commandments in saying “no” to lower urges, and saying “yes” to just authority. Rieff had utmost respect for personal courage, ethical striving, care for the poor, devotion to God, and the discipline required to produce great art, in whatever culture these are found. The building blocks of culture were universal, in his view—all the more reason to bemoan the fact that “Jews of culture” everywhere were under siege.

The evidence for that claim, which of course could never be demonstrated empirically, seemed to Rieff to be all around us. Rieff’s most frequent “text analogue” was the daily newspaper, rife with accounts of corrupt powers, transgressive behavior, and the tearing down of any and all authority. My teacher was firmly conservative in his orientation. Like Hobbes, he valued order above freedom when forced to choose between them. But he was no advocate for unthinking obedience to the powers that be, and understood that culture (any culture) survives only when its tenets are challenged and its practices altered from within in response to changing circumstances. Rieff was certainly no apologist for the American status quo. (I remember him telling me proudly that in the 1968 presidential election he had voted for the African-American comedian and civil rights leader Dick Gregory.) But he was unrelenting in his criticism of Freud for explaining away much of humanity’s highest achievement in terms of our lowest desires. By the same token, he taught me to understand why we so often see human beings—like the murderers of ISIS—justifying the very lowest deeds of which a person is capable in terms of the highest authority a person can conceive: God.

Rieff was never surprised when he saw transgressive behavior move from the realm of art or humor— where it belongs, in his view—to that of life, where it is destructive of right order. I know how he would have reacted to a candidate for president bragging about the size of his sexual organ and his adulteries from the stage of a campaign debate. The vulgarity itself was a challenge to authority, a loosening of the restraints that hold society together. The same was true of winking at the violence of one’s supporters, or mocking immigrants and the disabled. Power unrestrained by submission to the Right and the Good, bullying of the weak, was every bit as much a danger as rioting and orgy. Rieff knew the Bible inside out, and alluded to it frequently. Respect for the poor and the stranger was to him no laughing matter. When a culture succumbs to its lower urges, thereby becoming what Rieff called an anti-culture, one has to resist.

“We mere teachers, Jews of culture, influential and eternally powerless, have no choice except to think defensively: how to keep ourselves from being overwhelmed.” (Fellow Teachers, 126) One often feels overwhelmed, these days. Jews faithful to our people and our tradition may feel especially so, given events in America and Israel. Rieff’s analysis and example offer his fellow teachers understanding, guidance, and the comfort of companionship. I loved him for that, in all his “human, all too human” imperfections (a phrase, and a condition, that I learned from Nietzsche through Rieff’s teaching). May the therapeutic in each of us get the help we need from one another to resist, to rise up against base urges, and to serve the Good and the True.

*For more on this concept and on Rieff’s complicated relationship to Judaism, see Philip Rieff, The Jew of Culture: Freud, Moses and Modernity, edited by Arnold M. Eisen and Gideon Lewis-Kraus (2008).

Teaching The Torah of Conservative Judaism

The following address was given at the 2016 Rabbinical Assembly convention.

Let me begin by saying that for me it is an honor beyond words to address my colleagues in the RA once more as chancellor of JTS. Working with you over the years; visiting the institutions that you lead; teaching and learning with you each January at RTI; benefitting from the excellent mentoring that you provide year after year to JTS students; getting the benefit of your wisdom, experience, and friendship in frank conversation on issues we face in our community and at JTS; partnering with RA leadership on these issues, publicly and behind the scenes; hearing the Jews you work with sing your praises—which does happen more than you might realize—all of that and more fills me with pride.

At a deep, personal level, you provide me with the pleasure of companionship, as together we walk a path in Torah that is not as well-travelled these days as we might like, if it ever was, but which—I believe, as you do—is of great and enduring importance for the future of our community and to the vitality of Torah. JTS would not be investing in the campus construction that has forced us to meet at Park Avenue Synagogue instead of 3080 Broadway if we were not confident in the future of our institution and in the kind of Judaism that inspires us. For reasons I shall explain in a moment, I believe that future is bright.

The personal meaning I have in walking our distinctive path in Torah is greater still because of the close connection to Conservative Jewish leaders who preceded us. For me, of course, that means especially the men and women who walked the halls of JTS and paced the dalet amot of the Chancellor’s Office. This year, I’ve spent a lot of time in virtual conversation with Gerson Cohen. Many in this room, of course, knew him well. I spoke to Cohen at length only once: about 30 years ago, when he offered me a position on the JTS faculty. But I’ve been reading him a lot lately, on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the “Blessing of Assimilation” address. In the course of that reading I was particularly struck by an essay called, “Modern Jewish Scholarship and the Continuity of Jewish Faith,” which Cohen delivered at an RA Yom Iyyun in 1981. Several passages in it say a lot about the Torah that is distinctive to the kind of Judaism that you and I teach and try to live.

The first occurs in the opening paragraph of the talk, right after Cohen asserts that “critical scholarship and traditional faith and practice are the pillars upon which Conservative Judaism rests.” He then says the following: “If learning and scholarship do not affect our religious faith and behavior, we are simply engaging in a kind of antiquarian exegesis. If critical learning does not have an effect on our theology, on our experience of God, we have to ask ourselves why we are engaging in it with such tenacity.”

Exactly. To me, “Conservative Torah” as you and I teach i—whether our Torah she bichtav, found in the set of texts from Frankel to the present that I teach in my seminar on Conservative Judaism at JTS—or Torah she b’al peh, transmitted and embodied in countless drashot, modes of practice, and styles of discourse, as well as in distinctive sensibility, emotional valence, and musical traditions—is permeated by our desire to bring together what we know about our history, our texts, and the history of our texts, with what we know about our world and from our world.

We seek wholeness, we Conservative Jews; we want the two parts of levaveinu, minds and hearts, to be in sync as much as humanly possible, and to be in sync too with our souls and our strivings; we want to serve God as best we can in this world, in shul and out, in our homes and on the way. We want to be God’s partners in making the world more just and compassionate. And we know, oh do we know, how hard that is. The work requires serious Talmud Torah, in the expanded definitions of learning and of Torah that have always been a distinctive feature of our Conservative way.

Citing etymological evidence from the Akkadian, Cohen argued that the passage from Proverbs that serves as his key text—“bekhol derakhekha da’ehu” (Proverbs 3:6)—means “that we must experience God in every ramification of our lives.” Lada’at means to know something [or someone] “ethically, sexually, physically, intellectually.” We should make it the central principle of our lives, Cohen said, “to experience the presence and the Word of God in every area of our being.” Only so “will we be able to overcome the fragmentation that threatens to overwhelm us.” And because the point is to live God’s Torah in the real world, which is rapidly changing, “one thing is certain: we cannot allow ourselves to be rigidly confined by the authority of earlier ages.”

Several implications follow directly, in my view, for the teaching of our Torah. One is that contemporary Jewish ethics, both personal ethics and social ethics, must be front and center when we Conservative Jews teach Torah and seek to live Torah. My veneration for Abraham Joshua Heschel stemmed initially from the fact—and photograph—of his march beside Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in Selma, and from his remarkable integration of great learning and piety with courageous social/political activism. That is true for many of my generation, and remains the case today.

I believe that Gerson Cohen would have strongly approved of JTS’s new degree program and adult learning initiative in the field of ethics. Indeed, it seems to me that in 2016 we cannot but recognize that humanity faces a global ethical challenge never before encountered: all the children of Noah may soon be unable to “live upon ha-aretz la-vetach,” in such a way that “the land yields its fruit and we can eat our fill,” as Parashat Behar puts it (Lev. 25:28-19). Leviticus is in many ways the most intimate of the Torah’s five books. It meets us frail, mortal human beings where we live, in our skins and with our families, in private spaces of home and tabernacle. But in this passage the Torah instructs us as a society, as a species, that divine blessings of rain and sun will surely turn to curses if we do not do our part in stewarding God’s earth properly.

The curses we will soon read in Parashat Behukotai bear time-sensitive significance as never before. Massive disruptions of rain and fertility are happening before our eyes, millions of people are already without food and shelter as a consequence, human dignity suffers greatly every day—all this the result not of divine punishment (at least not visibly so) but from human action and inaction. Ancient Israelites were promised a second chance by God, once the Land has observed the Sabbaths it had been denied by non-observance of sabbatical laws. The scientists hold out no such hope for us.

Conservative Torah, echoing Moses’s Torah, must have a lot to say on this point now and in coming years. We can’t allow the universality of the problem to dissuade us from raising a distinctive Jewish voice of alarm and address, any more than we can permit the particularity of our love and concern for Israel to silence our defense of its legitimacy or our aspiration that it live up to the promises of its Declaration of Independence and the prayers of countless generations.

In order for Conservative Torah on this or anything else to be heard in 2016, or to deserve to be heard, two other aspects of bekhol derakhekha da’ehu seem to me essential.

One is the emphasis upon experience. Conservative Judaism, with strong input from JTS, has never lacked intellectual heft. Its ideas, its emphasis upon learning, its devotion to intellectual achievement and intellectual integrity, have been of incalculable importance to many of us over the years. They are obviously important to me. I’d venture to say that Benjamin Sommers’s book, Revelation and Authority, published last year, will take its place on the shelf of key texts that define Conservative Torah and fortify our conviction as Conservative Jews. I trust that books and ideas will never cease to play a central role in our kind of Judaism.

Even so: when I look back upon my life—upon my life as a Jewish human being, upon my life as a Conservative Jew—it is not the intellectual piece that seems most salient. Experience counts for more. Reflect with me now upon your own lives and I bet the same will be true for you.

I’m thinking of the wedding made for my wife and me by Minyan M’at in 1982; the day, like the congregation that danced us to and from the huppah, was a creation of havurah Judaism that was in turn a direct outgrowth of Conservative Judaism and could not have existed without it.

The single greatest religious experience of my life without a doubt was watching my daughter come into the world at Hadassah Hospital on Mt. Scopus. I remember dancing around the room with her in my arms, singing “Baby, baby I hear a symphony,” and saying over and over again, “Thank God, thank God.” I had reviewed some reproductive biology, and accepted it as scientific fact; I also knew for a fact that my wife and I had not performed that miracle alone. God was in that place, ve-anokni kein yada’ti (“I, I did know it”). Conservative Judaism had freed us for that synthesis of faith and science, undergirded it with reason, and helped me to translate it at that moment from thought to primal emotion.

I know from the survey data that I am typical in the fact that so much of the deepest meaning in my life is bound up in my family. Sovereign selves melt in gratitude at ritual events with children, grandchildren, or extended family. In my case the memories that pack the most emotional punch, even now, include my daughter’s brit bat in Jerusalem and my son’s brit in Palo Alto; blessing our kids at the Shabbat dinner table, and watching my father cry every time he was present for that blessing; the way my wife and I learned from our communities to celebrate our kids’ bat and bar mitzvah, just as those communities helped us to find the strength—emotional and cognitive, to deal with our parents’ deaths.

Kaplan was not entirely wrong when he said that recital of the Shema is an occasion for experiencing the thrill of being a Jew. I certainly feel that thrill when the Torah is returned to the Ark each Shabbat morning to one of the soaring chants we use in Conservative shuls for Etz Hayim Hi. I know that Torah is my life, and it is satisfying to feel that, and to know that everyone around me is feeling it, too, each in his or her own way. The same is true when we dance at Simhat Torah or chant that final Avinu Malkeinu at Ne’ilah on Yom Kippur, or rise to sing Ha’tikva on Yom Ha’atzma’ut. The gifts of Community with a Capital C and Meaning with a Capital M are on vivid display on such occasions. The power of those two gifts acting in unison is deeply felt.

My point, familiar to every rabbi here, is that we dare not neglect this non-intellectual, affective, and highly personal aspect of the Jewish self: the one that forms the backdrop to most of Leviticus; the one so wrapped up for me (and not only me) in music. Conservative Torah needs to take its cue from Moses’s Torah in addressing this experiential dimension of the self, evident when Rebekka cries out to God during childbirth, or Esau cries out to Isaac with bitter weeping, “Bless me too, my father” (Gen 27:34), or Jacob, having run a from Laban and about to face Esau, says to God in one of his finest moments, “I am unworthy of all the mercies and of all the truth which You have done with Your servant” (Genesis 32:11). I am grateful to God for the chance to meet up with those pesukim and many others year after year. Heschel’s lyrical evocations of the soul’s yearnings stir me to the depths. Be’khol derakhe’kha da’ehu.

I believe, despite all the depressing statistics of Pew reports, that if Conservative clergy continue to share this sort of experience with others, Jews and non-Jews alike, drawing on all of who we are, many of those individuals and families will want to be part of our community of Torah. That reference to the survey data will not be my segue to defending our movement’s strength and prospects at length yet again. But I will say a few words on this subject. We all know, or should, that Conservative Jews have a lot going for us right now—and that we have a lot of work to do. Our numbers are not what they once were, and will likely continue to fall in coming years. But that is no reason for talk of decline, let alone demise. If you are among those driven to despair by the 2013 Pew Report on American Jewry, make sure you are familiar with the valuable context provided by Pew reports on American religion as a whole, as well as the altered view of the data that results from disaggregation of the “non-Orthodox” category. We’re indebted to Steven M. Cohen and Jack Wertheimer for that important work and to Alan Silverstein and others for bringing it to our colleagues’ attention.

My confidence in the future derives in large part from the quality of our people: proud Conservative Jews who in so many cases are leaders in their fields, and who do what they do in the world, whether professionally or as volunteers, because of the Judaism they have been taught in Conservative auspices. Our future is bright as well because of the kind of talent gathered in this room, and—perhaps most important—because of the excellence of the students, person for person, who have elected to spend their lives serving the Jewish people and our Torah. As of last week, I am happy to report, 19 new rabbinical students are signed up to join the JTS community this coming fall—chai plus one, a very good number for signifying vitality and growth.

I am not Pollyanna-ish, as you know, but I have no patience with reports that confuse numerical decline with imminent demise. The figure always cited for Conservative Judaism’s decline reflects self-identification: an answer to the survey question, “What kind of Jew are you?” If you look at membership percentages, however, Conservative Judaism comes in at 11 percent, compared to 9 percent for Orthodoxy and 14 percent for Reform. The number of the most active Conservative Jews has actually grown in recent years. Success stories in camps, schools, synagogues, and elsewhere abound. Our new Lev Shalem siddur is another case in point. Please: Let’s not lose respect for ourselves or our Jews.

Instead of talking more sociology, I’d like to conclude by stressing one final aspect of the bekhol derakhekha da’ehu theme articulate by Gerson Cohen: how the quest to experience God’s presence and Word in “every area of our being”—the sacred, the Transcendent, the Most High and Deep, the “ineffable” realm of the spirit—helps to overcome the “fragmentation that threatens to overwhelm us.”

Cohen had that right. I don’t know about you, but I know from experience what he means by fragmentation. I am familiar with the feeling of being overwhelmed. Life pulls us in so many directions. So much to do, so little time, so much suffering to bear with and ease, so many needs to meet, so many desires, noble and less so, so much anxiety for Israel, for America, for our families. I am intensely grateful for the sense of wholeness that Judaism provides. The words “every” and “all” mean a lot to me. We cannot experience this sense of wholeness if we repress the doubts and convictions of our 21st century minds, or if our minds are at odds with our hearts or with our souls. It is not possible to seek wholeness, let alone achieve it, if we are unaware that we have souls and that our souls are in need of cultivation—or if our ritual observance is out of sync with our ethical striving—or if my love of Motown or Cezanne, for example, cannot co-exist in synergy with my love of Carlebach niggunim and the Rambam.

The Torah calls on all the heart, all the mind, all the soul, all our effort to find happiness and fulfillment as part of a people and a faith larger than ourselves. The older I get, the more I am convinced that the possibility of you and I achieving any “be-kholness” in life is a function of God’s “ehad-ness.” The Shema connects the two for us, in plain sight, and has us recite the promise of that linkage—and its unbreakable connection to love—each morning and evening of our lives. At rare moments we get to experience it—and perhaps to figure out, thanks to such experience, what the words mean. This central element of Conservative Torah is one for which I am deeply grateful.

I love this Judaism of ours, and I cannot be pessimistic about its prospects, certainly not when I am here with you, surrounded by rabbis older and younger, women and men, gay and straight—our collective “be-kholness.” I cannot not believe our future is anything but bright, given all we have going for us.

Conservative Torah is alive and well because it is Torah that we live for and live by, drawing on age-old Jewish wisdom about the needed balance between that which must change, lest Torah fail to speak to dramatically changed circumstances, and that which must not change at any cost, lest we lose what is most precious in our tradition—and in the process lose ourselves. I hope that that in the weeks and months to come every member of the RA will take advantage of the increasing number of ways in which JTS can help you to locate that balance and bring this Torah to more and more Jews hungry for the community and meaning that is Torah’s gift to all who take hold of it.

Encountering History in Jerusalem

I write on the flight home from a four-day trip to Israel, trying to process from 32,000 feet the jumble of events I witnessed on the ground during these few days—all of them developments that may well impact Jewish history for many decades to come. The past is impossible to escape on the streets of Jerusalem; the future is seemingly up for grabs on a daily basis. The bustle of crowds and the screaming headlines are not just street noise but history hurtling forward.

Consider the decision at the beginning of the week to set aside a portion of the Western Wall for mixed prayer by men and women, as well as the congregation known as Women of the Wall. For the very first time, official and explicit government recognition has been afforded to Reform and Conservative Jews. The immediate outcry by Orthodox leaders and politicians provided eloquent testimony to the immensity of what non-Orthodox Jews had just achieved. So did the protests of Jews who were unhappy with the compromise because it left the part of the Wall known to Jews everywhere as “the Kotel” in the hands of Orthodox authorities who have denied women the right to pray there wearing tallit and tefillin, and prohibited any kind of public prayer that did not meet with their approval. I cannot but cheer the compromise, one that I did not believe could possibly happen during the present government, which holds only a one-vote majority in the Knesset that depends on ultra-Orthodox support. But it did happen. Many details still need to be worked out, and the process of implementation might yet be derailed, but the symbolism of what occurred, to my mind, could not be more profound.

What it means is that Jews who live abroad as well as who live in Israel, no matter their belief and practice, have a full share in the Land and State of Israel. The wall is universally held to be “the holiest site in the world” for Jews. If one can only approach that holy site on Orthodox terms; can only pray according to Orthodox rules; cannot open a Torah scroll without Orthodox permission; cannot as a woman wrap oneself in prayer shawl and phylacteries or lead prayer for a mixed congregation or raise one’s voice in petition to the Creator of the Universe—and if all these rules are enforced by Israeli police officers—then the message is loud and clear: this site belongs to us and not to you, as does the authentic form of Jewish tradition, and even—in a very real sense—that State.

Minister of Tourism Yariv Levin put the matter with stunning directness when he said that there was no reason to accommodate Reform and Conservative Jews—who were not only a tiny minority in Israel, but would not exist in two or three generations because of assimilation and intermarriage. The Prime Minister immediately dissociated himself from those comments, but Levin refused to retract them—knowing full well that he had centuries of Orthodox disdain for non-Orthodox Jews, and decades of Zionist confidence that the Diaspora would soon disappear.

Conservative Judaism, for its part—our part—has always invoked the authority of history in countering such claims maintained: there has never been only one interpretation of Judaism, never only one way to be Jewish, and—in our brand of Judaism at least—there has always been an emphasis on obligation to the entire Jewish people (even Haredim who won’t give us respect) and strong attachment to the Land and State of Israel. The realities of Israeli society and coalition politics have long denied non-Orthodox Jews an equal playing field in the contest for the minds and hearts of Israeli Jews, just as they have long denied Israelis the right to be converted, married, divorced or buried except by agreement of the (ultra Orthodox) Chief Rabbinate. That changed this week, in one crucial aspect, at one crucial intersection of your life and mine with history.

“It does not give us what we need,” one thoughtful Israeli said to me, “The Kotel, the place where Jews have prayed for centuries, remains in the hands of the Haredim.” “Yes,” I replied, “but centuries from now Jews will regard the place set aside by this week’s decision for non-Orthodox prayer as just as much a part of the Kotel as the other because Jews will have sanctified it by praying there. The stones have stood silent for a very long time, untouched by tears or petitions inserted in their cracks. That will soon change. Israel will change with it.”

Just how much such change is required, from the point of view of the Torah that Jews like me have learned and taught, was underlined by two other events of the week, fitting brackets for the decision about the wall. My arrival coincided with reverberations from the verbal attack by the right-wing Im Tirtzu group on prominent Israeli artists and writers such as Amos Oz and A. B. Yehosha as “plants” (or moles) and “traitors.” Minister of Culture Miri Regev demanded that any artist or arts organization receiving or applying for a government subsidy swear an oath of loyalty to the State and not impugn Israel or its symbols. The move was widely seen as part of a growing campaign by the right to silence its critics—a secular parallel to action by the rabbis with whom the right is politically allied.

That partnership was evident again at week’s end when the chief rabbis along with politicians of the right sought to overturn an army decision that weakened the power of the chief rabbinate’s educational arm in the Israeli Defense Forces. A friend of mine who has one son in the officer corps and another about to be drafted expressed concern – apparently growing inside the army as well as outside it – that rabbis in the military are abusing their special access to the minds and hearts of soldiers. By some accounts, more than half of the officers in the IDF are now Orthodox – a direct result, some say, of the pre-induction yeshivot that, under army auspices, promote the confluence of right-wing politics, Orthodox belief and observance, and military prowess.

I thought, as I reflected on this battle, of the new book by political philosopher Michael Walzer, The Paradox of Liberation. In Israel, as in India and Algeria, Walzer argues, nationalist movements that had achieved independence in part through the use of religious symbols, myths, and longings, have been overtaken several decades afterward by religious parties that deny legitimacy to secular authorities and have gained positions of power in the state. Will Israeli soldiers who pledge loyalty to their rabbis as well as their commanders follow the orders of the latter when the two come into conflict—as they surely will as some point? Or will they follow the rabbis, who not only wear an army uniform but speak in the name of God and Torah?

If only Israel were a peaceful place, these battles for the definition of a Jewish state could be fought through competing teachings, divergent rituals and prayer services, and multiple school systems. Instead they take place against a background that forces one to ask, every week and sometimes every day, not only how but whether Israel will someday come to live at peace with its neighbors. On my way from the airport to Jerusalem, my cab driver told me about the soldier who had been shot by terrorists earlier that day; my cousin Leo told me, as we drove to Mount Scopus for a discussion comparing Latin American and North American Jews, that we would make a giant detour because terrorists had just killed one soldier (a recent female recruit) and wounded two others at the Damascus Gate. The site is a short walk through the Arab Quarter from the Western Wall. “I don’t see an end to this anytime soon,” my cousin said, echoing a sentence I heard many times this week.

Such sobriety and pessimism are widespread these days, along with recognition that Israel represents a truly incredible chapter of Jewish history and that its problems, which are many, are more than matched by its achievements. No one I know is regretting their decision to join their personal fate to Israel’s destiny. The highlight of the week for me was a ceremony honoring four JTS alumni who moved to Israel many years ago and have made notable contributions to its character and its citizens. We conducted the evening in Hebrew, aware that the fact of Hebrew’s revival had transformed Jewish history and greatly altered all of us. Next year in Jerusalem, we hope to celebrate our alumni again.