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Andy Cook
August 7, 2010
Shabbat Shalom.
I pedaled over a rise in the road to the sun coming up above the tree‐tops and the
awakening of a new day splashed on the ponds lining my way. A vibrant red
cardinal flew out from the reeds, and with the glint of the sun in the background,
time seemed to cease for a split‐second—as if my eyes captured a most stunning
photograph. For me, this was nothing but a spiritual moment. Riding my bike,
experiencing the genius of the body and the wonders of God’s creation, and finding
awareness in a simple yet profound moment.
Not too long before, I found myself sitting in shul looking out on budding trees, a
placid Lake Windsor and an inviting sunshine overhead—not such a different scene.
As I gazed out the windows, the idea of confining myself in a synagogue struck me as
increasingly irrelevant. The beauty of creation—of God’s creation—was there, just
outside these walls. Sitting in the pews, Religion was all around me. But the feeling
was not. Why was I here? Couldn’t I pray to God and have a spiritual experience
anywhere?
My dilemma illustrates the complex and often combative interrelationship between
organized religion and spirituality. We feel that strain in today’s parsha Re’eh, as we
read in explicit detail the laws and observances we “must” follow as part of the
Jewish religion—and perhaps come away feeling overwhelmed. It all leads to the
broader question of whether we need organized religion and the synagogue to
achieve spirituality. While the simple answer to my question is no, as a committed
Conservative Jew that simple answer isn’t good enough for me. Before I disregard
the synagogue, I want to make a case for its continued relevance.
First and foremost, the synagogue is a physical manifestation of our place on the
landscape of American pluralism and religious freedom. It is a symbol to ourselves
and to society at large that we belong here, that we are welcome. When the first
Jews arrived in America during the 17th and 18th centuries, their earliest goals were
to consecrate a cemetery and to build a synagogue. After suffering prejudice,
violence and expulsion from Spain, Amsterdam and England, these Jews held a deep
desire to establish an accepted physical presence in their new community. And
hundreds of years later, the synagogue continues to provide each Jewish community
a sense of welcome and permanence.
In parsha Re’eh, the importance of “place” is clear. The Israelites are instructed to
destroy the sites of idolatry and establish their own site of worship at “the place
which the Lord your God shall choose from all your tribes, to set His Name there;
you shall inquire after His dwelling and come there.” While many of us may have
qualms about the command to destroy, I think we can appreciate the level of
significance these words of God give to physical structure. And as Rabbi Kravitz
pointed out to me, one of the names for God is “Ha‐makom,” the place. There is a
special sense of the divine when we gather together for prayer, and certain rituals
like Kaddish we only do with a minyan—the most basic form of synagogue and
Jewish “place.”
But more than just a place, the synagogue provides a community to which each
person belongs and where individual spirituality can be developed. In studying
parsha Re’eh, I was particularly drawn to a commentary by Rabbi Danny Nevins of
the Jewish Theological Seminary. Rabbi Nevins likened faith and spirituality to any
other skill or talent—one that must be cultivated and trained. Rabbi Nevins
identified five stages of “faith development” in parsha Re’eh, chapter 13, verse 5,
which he summarizes as:
1) Walk after the Lord your God;
2) revere God;
3) guard God’s commands;
4) listen for God’s voice;
5) serve God;
6) cling to God.
These five stages, particularly “listening for God’s voice” and “clinging to God,” I see
as embodying the notions of connectedness and higher level of being we often equate
with spirituality.
To continue in Rabbi Nevin’s framework, the synagogue is a place where we can
cultivate our faith and progress with support, companionship and collaboration. It’s
like our spiritual training facility, complete with all the “equipment” and “trainers”
we may need. With the community of the synagogue we can develop and achieve
spiritual heights that previously seemed out of reach.
As a final point in my case for the synagogue, this institution provides a venue for
individual spirituality to connect with and serve others. We are taught as Jews to
“Love one’s neighbor as ourselves” and emphasize acts of kindness. Parsha Re’eh is
unambiguous about our responsibility as Jews to serve others and work to improve
the world. As it says in chapter 15, verse 11, “For there will never cease to be needy
within the land. Therefore, I command you, saying, you shall surely open your hand
to your brother, to your poor one, and to your needy one in your land.”
This shul is a great example of the power of community in the service of others. We
have institutional arms of service like the Hesed Committee, while our connections
to organizations like Mazon, JFCS, and STEP help expand the reach of individuals at
Adath. And our congregation isn’t alone. Across the country, synagogues are
vehicles for service to the Jewish community and the greater community as well.
Together, we make our corner of the world a better place, enriching ourselves in the
process and moving towards a higher level of spirituality.
So now I’ve constructed my case for the synagogue. Looking at various commentary
and at this week’s Parsha, we’ve identified several important roles of the
synagogue—as a physical place, as a haven for spiritual development and as a
vehicle for service to others. But I’m still not convinced. I say this because I still
think that I can achieve spiritual experiences outside the synagogue, in my own way,
and because I’m not alone—especially among other Jews in my age group. So even if
the synagogue is relevant—even critical—we must now undertake the mission of
better connecting this institution to the spiritual journey that people, especially
young people, are looking for.
It is my view that the Conservative movement is in a unique position to tackle the
challenge of making spirituality and Jewish religion work together, and in bringing a
new generation into the fold. As JTS Chancellor Arnold Eisen comments, “We are
women and men committed to full and authentic engagement with the Jewish
people and the Jewish tradition, heart and soul and mind, as well as full engagement
with the society and culture of which we are a part, again heart and soul and mind.”
I think many of us, and especially young people, see this “full engagement” as a very
appealing spiritual and religious experience.
But I also recognize that our Conservative movement faces challenges in its own
right, and that these obstacles lie in the way of our advancing religious and spiritual
vibrancy. The Conservative synagogue is shrinking, aging and, some argue, losing its
focus. Strengthening our movement and overcoming the religious/spiritual
dilemma go hand‐in‐hand. By making progress on one, we will invariably make
progress on the other.
This past year, I had the opportunity to teach at Adath SMP. In one of our sessions,
the 9th graders and I discussed what it meant to be a Jew, and why we were
Conservative Jews. They all said they would rather be Conservative Jews than
Orthodox or Reform, but when pressed about why, it was difficult to hit on an
answer. The common theme was “Reform doesn’t do enough but Orthodox is too
much.” So one answer to strengthening the spiritual/religious connection—
especially among young people—may be to develop a clear, attractive definition of
Conservative Judaism—a definition that welcomes and promotes spiritual journey.
But will that definition be enough? That modern society Eisen speaks of offers so
many outlets for people to find themselves and their spirituality—or ignore it
altogether—that more may need to be done to break through. Eisen himself says,
“Currently one cannot take for granted that a person born Jewish is going to remain
committed to Judaism. Certainly one cannot assume that a person raised in one
denomination is going to stay in it. One thus has to give Jews a good reason to be
Conservative. Intellectuals tend to overvalue the importance of ideology. The
quality of a person's experiences within the movement may, however, count for
more than its message.” On top of a definition, then, we also need to provide the
experiences that draw people in and engage their spiritual and religious needs.
But the questions that remain are many. How do we expand our reach without
sacrificing the committed core that David Levey spoke of a few weeks ago, and that
forms the backbone of our congregation? How do we offer alternative religious and
spiritual experiences without diminishing the integrity of our commitment to Jewish
tradition? And how do we make Judaism and the synagogue not just relevant, but an
appealing and worthwhile component of people’s lives? Do we do any of this at all?
I’m afraid that I don’t have any concrete answers. But I do know that finding them is
of the utmost importance to me. A few weeks ago I thought maybe the answer for
me was a new synagogue. But sitting in those pews left me empty. It wasn’t the
sanctuary where I’d become a Bar Mitzvah. It wasn’t the place where my
grandfather ushered people in week in and week out. It wasn’t Rabbi Kravitz on the
b’imah. It just wasn’t home.
And so this exploration will end with a return to the beginning of this week’s parsha.
“Re’eh anochi noten lifnechem ha‐yom bracha oo‐clela.” “Behold, I set before you
today a blessing and a curse,” God says. God then puts the future in the hands of the
Israelites—it’s up to them to make their way forward and determine their fate.
While perhaps not as extreme, our situation is nevertheless quite similar. Adath and
our movement’s future are in our hands. As that future is important to me, I know
that everyone here cares deeply about our faith and our fate just the same. Like the
Israelites nearing the Jordan, our journey continues.
Shabbat Shalom.