The Purpose of a New Haggadah

Why write a new Haggadah?

More than 7,000 versions of the Haggadah have appeared over the course of our history. In a contest of most-oft-printed Jewish texts, it is hard to imagine what might even run a close second. Given this, one must surely believe one has something either radically new or profoundly important to contribute if one is going to be so bold as to attempt the feat of adding value to a saturated field.

Jonathan Safran Foer's New American Haggadah is this year's most notable attempt. And the justification for this attempt as he describes it in The New York Times' Week in Review is beautifully written and well-put. He writes: "Our grandparents were immigrants to America, but natives to Judaism. We are the opposite: fluent in “American Idol,” but unschooled in Jewish heroes. And so we act like immigrants around Judaism: cautious, rejecting, self-conscious, and feigning (or achieving) indifference. In the foreign country of our faith, our need for a good guidebook is urgent."

If only the content of his guidebook were as compelling as his case for writing it.

It would be almost impossible to add to Leon Wieseltier's outstanding critique of the Haggadah in the current issue of The Jewish Review of Books. (I referenced the piece in my recent Shabbat Hagadol sermon on the Haggadah's wicked child.) In a word, the Haggadah does not live up to its billing.

If one is searching for a Haggadah that speaks to the contemporary moment while remaining steeped in and faithful to our tradition, one would be hard-pressed to do better than Rabbi Jonathan Sacks' Haggadah whose only shortcoming seems to be its unimaginative title.

But returning to Safran Foer's argument, we are surely on the verge of a critical juncture if we have not already passed it. I applaud him for spending his time and deploying his talents on the project of enlivening the dialogue around Jewish ideas. Any attempt to engage Jews and reconnect them to their tradition should be supported and encouraged. If the genre of the New Haggadah is an entry point for unlearned Jews, then by all means - let us write more Haggadot.

Peter Beinart and the Bridge I'm not Buying

Whether or not to dignify Peter Beinart's odious claims in his recent New York Times op-ed and forthcoming book with a response is a question worth thinking about. In claiming that we should refer to West Bank settlements as "undemocratic Israel," and that we should boycott products from this part of Israel, Beinart has crossed a line. From one perspective, to respond is itself to give a modicum of credence to the outlandish position he articulates. We freely acknowledge that there are all kinds of illogical and preposterous claims about Israel and the Jewish people. Yet we let them pass without comment because they represent no threat. We trust that level-headed, straight-thinking people will recognize them for what they are and dismiss them out of hand.

But I would argue that the appearance of Beinart's words in the mainstream media forces our hand. Too many opinions are shaped by arguments like these when they go unchecked. As Leon Wieseltier wrote recently in the Jewish Review Books, the Haggadah reminds us that when questions of consequence about Judaism emerge, we should have confident answers at the ready.

Many good critiques of Beinart have already appeared. Jordan Chandler Hirsch's review of Beinart's book is a good place to start. Daniel Gordis has likewise weighed in on Beinart's editorial.

It is also worth reading Ruth Wisse's Jews and Power. In it, she makes a powerful argument about the perils of our tradition's tendency to go down the path of self-blame rather than point the finger at our adversaries. We are so busy trying to defend ourselves against ridiculousness, we forget that we have a story of our own to tell. If we believe we are the ones possessed of the winning narrative, we should be shouting it from the rooftops.

Whenever the pendulum swings too far in one direction, it opens a door of opportunity to entertain the opposite pole. Perhaps now is such a time.

The moment we retreat from our moral high ground is the moment we play into the hands of our enemies.

Not Your Grandmother's Bible: Canonicity, Dead Sea Sectarians and Revelations

Among the fundamental questions any community must address are questions of canon. What are the core texts that unite the community? What is considered required reading? What teachings are so basic that one can engage in conversation working on the presuption that one's interlocuter is familiar with them?

The Talmud wonders about this when it comes to the Hebrew Bible. Ecclesiastes is included. Ben Sira is not. Songs of Songs is in; Ben Sira is out.

In visiting recently the Discovery Center's exhibition on the Dead Sea Scrolls (which ends April 15), one notices that the Dead Sea sectarians who authored and/or preserved the scrolls, had a much wider set of texts. In addition to all the books of the Hebrew Bible (with the notable exception of Esther), the Dead Sea Scrolls contain numerous books of the apocrypha and pseudepigrapha. (Needless to say, there are no mentions in the scrolls of anything to do with Christianity. The exhibition's bizarre attempt to connect the Dead Sea sectarians to Christianity is baffling.)

I juxtapose this observation to a recent review in the New Yorker:

Given that we have far too little literacy of the Hebrew Bible, it is hard to imagine where there might be room or time to give serious attention to the Christian Bible. But a little time devoted to reading a review of Elaine Pagels' new book, Revelations: Visions, Prophecy, and Politics in the Book of Revelation, might be time well spent. In his recent New Yorker review, The Big Reveal: Why does the Bible end that way? Adam Gopnik highlights the most compelling aspects of this new text. Most fascinating to me, is the argument that Revelations is not so much an attempt at prophecy as it is a contemporary social critique. In fact, Pagels argues that the book is actually an anti-Christian polemic. This of course, makes the fact that it was canonzied all the more stunning. 

Issues of canonicity are always subtle reminders that we do well to evaluate and re-evaluate our own literacy of the canon. It's often more appealling to venture into the world of the contemporary, but at what expense? Have we claimed sufficient mastery of the texts we are "supposed" to know to justify the attention we give to everything else?

The Difference Between Anonymity and Belonging

Much has been written in The Jewish Week recently about Deborah Feldman's memoir, Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots. And it was telling that the title was out of stock at Barnes and Noble retail outlets in New York City for a week following the book's publication. There is something alluring about be granted access into a world that seems so distant and so opaque.

The story is a fairly typical coming-of-age narrative that just happens to be set in the Satmar community of Williamsburg. The guiding, if not self-conscious, question is this: How does a young woman individuate in a world that privileges conformity over personal autonomy? Although one cannot help but feel compassion for someone who has experienced so much hardship and loneliness, Feldman's answers are neither nuanced nor novel. And I was disappointed to learn that the book's most compelling quality, the brutally honest story-telling of its author, has itself been called into question.

In her closing pages, she raises one point of interest. In college, having discarded her Hassidic garb in favor of jeans and a V-neck, she writes without so much as a hint of irony: "I must look just like everyone else here. Finally, the blessed feeling of anonymity, of belonging; are they not the same?" The girl who has tried so hard to set herself apart, ultimately craves the feeling of fitting in.

But anonymity is not belonging. In fact, the former is quite the opposite of the latter. To be anonymous is to be without a name. And a name, as is so often in the case in the Torah, is a prerequisite for a relationship. Anonymity militates against connectedness.

Belonging is the feeling one gets when one is known. How uplifting to be recognized by others - to have an identity of one's own.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks puts it most beautifully in connection with the priestly blessing:
"You are in a crowd. In the distance you see someone you recognize. This person is well-known. You met him once, briefly. Did you make an impression on him? Does he remember you? Does he know who you are? Briefly your eyes touch. From the distance, he smiles at you. Yes, he remembers you, he knows who you are, he is pleased you are here, and by his eye contact and his smile he communicates these things to you. You are relieved, lifted. You are at peace with yourself. You are not merely an anonymous face in a crowd. Your basic worth has in some way been affirmed. That, in human terms, is the meaning of 'May the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.'"
In my experience, anonymity is overrated. Even those who purport to seek it - celebrities and those overexposed to the limelight - are all-too-happy to be recognized. And what are we to make of the fact that the author uses her real name instead of a pseudonym?

But Judaism teaches that with belonging comes responsbility - not only to ourselves - but to the fellow members of our community. I hope Ms. Feldman not only finds the feeling of connectedness she craves in her new present, but that she develops a sense of care and concern for the people who sought to love and embrace her in her past.

The Scandal of Kabbalah

Not infrequently, people ask me if I can suggest to them a good Kabbalah class in the neighborhood. As I have yet to find one, I usually attempt to gently suggest something more mainstream. But the question itself bespeaks a kind of inner longing.

The notion of the mystical always carries with it a certain allure - as if there are shortcuts or quick fixes to the great philosophical and religious quandaries of the human condition. Needless to say, there are not. But since its inception, the spell cast by Kabbalah has never quite lost its potency. Unfortunately, because of its popularization and even sensationalization in our generation, Kabbalah has been assigned to the margins of our communal conversation. This is unfortunate because Kabbalistic literature is replete with ideas and teachings that are both accessible and relevant to our contemporary moment. What readers of these sources too often lack is the context in which they should be understood.

The Scandal of Kabbalah is an excellent book. Rigorous and scholarly, it emanates from the highest echelons of the academy. Yaacob Dweck is among the fastest rising stars in a small constellation of outstanding Jewish historians to come onto the scene of Jewish Studies in our day. In this exceptionally well-researched and beautifully written treatise, Dweck gives us a window into the reception of Kabbalah in 17th century Italy. By telling the story of Leon Modena, one of the first and most important critics of Kabbalah, Dweck provides a context for understanding the great debate between those proclaiming a fealty to Maimonidean rationalism and those who argue for what they believe to be an ancient mystical tradition.

If the sweep of the book in its entirety seems too ambitious, read the introduction. It will (re)-orient your understanding of Kabbalah - it's meaning, reception, context and place within both the historical and religious canon.

If after reading his book you are interested in learning more about Kabbalah, I can recommend a good class at Princeton.

Dweck is also the translator of Haim Sabato's The Dawning of the Day, which I hope will be the subject of a future posting.

Reading the Jeremy Lin Story

The Jeremy Lin phenomenon has spurred more than enough virtual and real conversation. Amazingly, it even brought out David Brooks' heretofore unknown affinity for Rav Soloveitchik. I wish only to add one footnote of Jewish interest.

I think part of what makes the Lin storyline so compelling is something beyond the triumph of the underdog. Of course that is a big piece, but what Brooks and others have picked up on is Jeremy Lin's refreshing humility. And this humility is all the more notable when held up against the backdrop of a sport that has made self-aggrandizement its governing ethic. Almost without knowing it, we've been waiting for this moment - a moment in which a Jeremy Lin comes along and raises us out of professional sports epoch that suffers from such a tragic role model deficit.

It is no accident that the Torah's greatest man is also its humblest. In Judaism, the value of humility cannot be overstated. It is a quality best begotten experientially - either through lived experiences that remind us of the yawning chasm between who we are and who we are capable of becoming - or through exposure to people who are genuinely humble. If Jeremy Lin is such a person, his contribution to our generation will be a great one.

I hope the Jeremy Lin phenomenon is powerful enough to shake up the entire sports world. What a boon to society it would be if the heroes whose names adorn the jerseys of so many sports fans were actually possessed of qualities worthy of being called heroic.

Brainstorming Doesn't Work, But Shuls Do

I have been thinking a lot lately about the role of a shul and the ever-increasing need in our generation to bring people together - not just virtually - but in real time and in real life. Of course the notion of Beit Knesset speaks directly to this point. What we sometimes under-appreciate is the value of being together with people who are unlike us.

I highly recommend Jonah Lehrer's recent article on Groupthink in the New Yorker for two reasons. First, it makes a fascinating and compelling argument against the coventional wisdom of brainstorming. And second, it argues for expanding the opportunities for vibrant human interaction and even healthy friction. Rather than coming together simply to be mutually supportive, it's possible to come together to share ideas and challenges that push an agenda ahead faster and more effectively.

When Steve Jobs was planning Pixar's headquarters in 1999, he insisted the building be arranged around a cenral atrium so that all kinds of people would bump into each other. For Jobs, it was about maximizing creativity. For shuls, I think it's about maximizing humanity. Our lives are so silo-ed. We form little networks and sub-networks around people who are just like us. They're at the same life stage, they have similar interests, or they work in our field. This is a natural and healthy phenomenon. But it also leaves us short-changed, limiting our opportunities to interact in real ways with people who aren't exactly like us.

Shuls are a treasure trove - a safe and known space where every member has access to an extraordinarily diverse group of people doing extraordinary things. The normal barriers of rank and status dissolve the moment we walk into a sanctuary. Each of us is just a davener. There's nothing stopping the first year associate from striking up a conversation with the senior partner. And there's nothing stopping the veteran from striking up a conversation with a beginner. It's rare in life to have this kind of access. But too few of us take advantage of it.

You can find a slightly more developed piece on this on here. I invite you to think more about how each of us can maximize the shul-going experience and bring people together in ways that simply aren't happening at other times or in other venues.

John Lehrer's new book, Imagine: How Creativity Works comes out in March. If it's as good as his article, you will enjoy it.