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Good Shmood! Well-Digging as a New Paradigm for Purposeful Jewish Living
Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg, Beth Am Synagogue
Parashat Toldot, 5775.
There are a few statements we pulpit rabbis hear from congregants again and again. They’re quite
frequently some kind of confession of something the speaker either feels he or she should be doing
but isn’t or shouldn’t be doing but is… or, even more often, it’s something this person assumes I feel
he or she should or shouldn’t be doing! Often it just kind of slips out: “Rabbi, I was at Arundel Mills
last Saturday morning...” “Rabbi, I had the best crab cakes recently.” “Rabbi, you have to try this
new Steakhouse… Oh wait, you probably can’t eat anything there.” But the statement I hear most
frequently – and that, unlike the others, really makes me sad is: “Rabbi, I’m just not a good Jew.”
What does this mean, “I’m not a good Jew?” What is a “good Jew” and why do so many of us feel we
don’t measure up?
Part of the problem is there’s a tendency to think of halakhah or observance as if we’re comparing
ourselves to something fixed. There is this thing called Tradition (capital “T”). It is finite, it is static,
it is either predetermined or determined at some point long ago, and we are meant to measure
ourselves against that finite, fixed thing. You might think it quite benign, but this notion of the
Jewish yardstick, in my estimation, has caused quite a bit of trouble. It leads Jews who feel they do
measure up to question the authenticity of anyone who doesn’t. When the Israeli Rabbanut refuses
to accept conversions done by non-Orthodox rabbis, this is what’s going on. But, perhaps even
worse, this attitude begets scores of Jews who feel they themselves don’t measure up – to which they
react in one of three ways: with guilt about what they’re not doing (or what they are but shouldn’t),
with resentment toward what they perceive to be an inaccessible tradition, or apathy toward an
irrelevant one.
But the yardstick claim is fallacious, perhaps even a bit disingenuous. In part this is because halakhah
is, by definition, fluid, unfixed and developing all the time. Admittedly, this is a point of contention
among different streams of Judaism. Some would say halakhah, which implies movement, means
walking with God (lalechet bidrachav) and toward specific goals. Vertically speaking, it’s about
ascending a fixed ladder of mitzvot, standing tall against the yardstick of Jewish tradition. But others
would say halakhah is about walking with God and also with the tradition. We change as we interact
with the mitzvot, and the law changes and evolves with us. Yes, the Torah, Talmud, and legal codes
are filled with mitzvot – the fundamental “do’s” and “do not’s” of Jewish praxis. And, I won’t lie to
you; there are better choices and worse ones. There’s a reason I don’t eat crab – and it’s not that I
don’t know what I’m missing! But we have to be careful how we describe successful Jewish living.
And believing that eating treif makes you a “bad Jew” is, I believe, both inaccurate and unhelpful.
“But come on Rabbi,” you might be thinking. “There are clearly examples of bad Jews.” The
Israelis, who set fire to a Palestinian boy this summer, Yigal Amir, Baruch Goldstein – aren’t these
definitively “bad Jews?” And aren’t there “good Jews” as well? All of us know people, and some of
you are people, who quietly go about improving the lives of others. These people give tzedakah
generously, support the synagogue, volunteer their time, are honest in business and teach Jewish
values to children and grandchildren. Don’t these people deserve to be called “good Jews?” The
obvious answer is “yes.” Yigal Amir is a bad Jew; the terrorists who murdered four rabbis and one
Druze in a Jerusalem synagogue this week, were bad Muslims. Religions exist, in part, to promulgate
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concrete ideas about right and wrong. Jewish people who are, by and large, bad people are also, I’m
willing to say, bad Jews.
But, if you think about it, this just proves my point. Because ethical behavior is accurately
categorized as good or bad. Bikkur Holim and tzedakah are “good.” But is putting on tefillin “good?”
Is observing shatnez “good?” Is studying Torah or not cooking this afternoon or waiting three hours
after a burger to eat ice cream categorically “good?” Remember, the rasha on Pesach is called that
because of how he comports himself, not what he eats. So we need a new paradigm, a new way of
thinking about what it is to be positively, purposefully and authentically Jewish.
What’s the current paradigm? When observant Jews describe being devoted to halakhah we often say
we are shomer mitzvot, in keeping kosher we are shomer kashrut and when observing Shabbat we are
shomer Shabbos. A “shomer” is a “guard” and it’s a perfectly accurate way of describing adherence to
Jewish law. But it also conjures up certain images of strict piety, of ritual fastidiousness – it’s about
measuring up to that yardstick. Lawrence Kushner, prolific author and a highly regarded Reform
rabbi suggests a different term for being devoted to Shabbat. “Perhaps it is for us,” he writes, “to
create a new standard of Shabbat behavior called ‘Zakhor Shabbat.’ One who is Zokheir Shabbat
would remember throughout the day’s duration that it was Shabbat (not so easy as it sounds).”
Kushner coins the phrase for good reason: while Deuteronomy’s version of the fourth commandment
uses the word shamor, the Exodus version says zakhor et yom haShabbat vayekad’sheihu – “remember
the Sabbath day and keep it holy.” I love this idea of being Zokheir Shabbat, but I believe it’s
ultimately insufficient. To remember Shabbat, to simply be aware of its existence, honors its spirit,
its soul, but it doesn’t pay enough attention to the body, the particulars of Shabbat as observed by
Jews across zip-codes, nations or centuries. Kushner writes, “We say to one another, ‘Do anything
you like – as long as you remember it is Shabbat.’ Because that will ensure that whatever you do, it
will be likh-vod-ha-Shabbat, “for the honor of Shabbat.”
The problem is that Kushner’s model while not morally relativistic is ritually so. And ritual
relativism is problematic too. If it’s all form and no function, all broad categories with no substance,
then the categories – of Shabbat or Kashrut for example – cease to stand for anything. When
everything is kosher, nothing is. An absurd example (and this is true): There was a national leader in
the Reform movement when I was a kid who would remark: “You know, when I walk through the
buffet line, and I take shrimp and put it on my plate, I am keeping Kosher, because I’m aware that
I’m making deliberate choices about food.” Not being Reform Jews we need a different paradigm.
Another approach is one that has gained some traction in Israel. You’ve heard the term Ba’al
T’shuvah? It means “Master of the answer(s).” It’s how those who, as adults, become Orthodox in
their observance define themselves. “I’m not FFB (frum from birth), I’m Ba’al T’shuvah.” Again, our
yardstick – there are fixed answers and I now have them – at least more-so than I used to. In Israel,
though, someone who adopts Orthodoxy or Hareidi practice is called Hozer L’Teshuvah, one who has
“returned to the answers.” More humble than the other term but still problematic. But, there’s this
trend among some in Israel to call themselves “Hozer L’She’elah” those who have returned not to the
answers but to the questions. I also very much like this approach. After all, we are a people more of
questions than of answers. On Pesach we are required to ask questions. We’re called Yisrael, GodWrestlers, those who struggle with belief and tradition. The art of Jewish study is perhaps best
represented by the chevrutah, a dyad of learners engaging in a fierce battle to – through their
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questioning of one another – unearth the hidden secrets in our most sacred texts. Questioning is very
Jewish. Einstein called it “holy curiosity.” “…curiosity,” he writes, “has its own reason for existing. One
cannot help but be in awe when contemplating the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure
of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of the mystery every day. The important
thing is not to stop questioning; never lose a holy curiosity.” \
So I like Hozer L’She’elah. But the problem here is similar to Kushner. By claiming one extreme pole
over another, we limit ourselves too. There are answers in Judaism and not just ethical ones. We can
navigate the tricky waters of tefilah, for example, question the wording of some prayers, even change
some of them – like praising God sh’asani b’tzalmo, “for creating us in the divine image” instead of
the more traditional rendering “sh’lo asani isha, for not making me a woman.” But it would be tragic
for the entire matbeah tefilah, the whole framework of Jewish prayer, to be called into question, to be
subject to individual approval. Our siddur is a carefully rendered, meticulously edited, collection of
poetry and prose, of Psalms and hymns that, as a comprehensive text, offers a robust and balanced
theology. The siddur elicits questions by suggesting answers. And not just any answer, but a range of
answers within a certain framework. So, we need a paradigm that incorporates both questions and
answers.
A final possibility. Miriam and I were recently discussing a colleague’s suggestion that instead of
espousing Halakhic Judaism, we should aspire to Aggadic Judaism. If you’re in my BIG Jewish Ideas
class, we learned this week the differences between Halakhah and Aggadah, respectively the legal and
narrative realms of the Jewish textual canon. And, once again, the counterpoint to Halakhah is
alluring – the stories and fables, the narrative excavation of Torah’s hidden treasures entices the
romantic heart. But here too we are reminded that the dialectical tension between these two genres
of Rabbinic literature is at the very of heart of what it has meant to be a Jew for two thousand years.
These are the Yin and Yang of Yahadut; you can’t really have one without the other.
So if being Zokheir Shabbat, Hozer L’Teshuvah and Aggadically Jewish don’t suffice, is there an
alternative to the yardstick, the fallaciously fixed standard for meaningful and authentic Jewish living?
Yes. Happily, such a paradigm exists in this week’s parasha. Vayashav Yitzhak, vayach’por et b’erot
hamayim asher chafru bimei Avraham Aviv, “In settling [in Wadi G’rar] Isaac dug anew the wells
which had been dug in the days of his father Abraham,” vay’sat’mum P’lishtim acharei mot Avraham,
“which the Philistines had stopped up after Abraham’s death…” (Gen. 26:18). Two things are worth
noting about this passage. First, the wells are not new. They’re a reclamation of his father’s work, a
re-embracing of the previous Jewish generation. Ein hadash tachat hashemesh, “there is nothing new
under the sun,” says Kohelet. In part, Jewish wisdom is extracted, the process of which, says the
Talmud (San. 34b) is like a hammer that awakens the slumbering sparks in a rock. What’s more
important, though, is not the well but its contents. Water is not fixed, it’s the very definition of
fluid. It moves. It flows. It finds its way into the narrowest of cracks and fills the vastest oceans. And
water is multitudinous. The Hebrew word for water is mayim, a plural word, and there is no singular
form.
Have you ever been to Colorado? Have you seen aspen trees? You know the most amazing thing
about aspens? They exist not as individual organisms but as outgrowth from a vast colony. Aspens
are clones – the trees themselves springing from root systems that can exist for millennia. One colony
in Utah is thought to be 80,000 years old. Old trees die. New ones arise in their place. E Pluribus
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Unum, but inverted: Out of the one, many. Judaism is like a stand of aspen trees or a limitless
underground stream. And we Jews, in each generation, are well-diggers like Isaac, tapping limitless
potential through time-tested means. Our mitzvot, our texts and traditions are familiar settings, but
what we discover is not static or still but fluid and free. We drink Torah’s words, swim in the lessons
of our fathers and mothers.
So, by all means, be a good Jew. Be ethical and attentive to your fellow human beings. But, with
regard to ritual and Jewish practice, while you should aim high, don’t measure yourselves against
some imaginary constant. It’s a losing proposition. “Of myself forever reproaching myself,” says
Walt Whitman, “for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?” Let’s stop being so hard on
ourselves, and let’s be careful when judging others. To live a purposeful Jewish life is to return again
and again to our reservoir of practice and knowledge. Be a well-digger. Walk with God and with
Torah too. Draw nourishment from the old but know that you have something unique to add.
Whitman poses the question:
“What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
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