Guest Post by Michael Weiner
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| R' Aharon Lichtenstein, arguably the spiritual head of Centrist Orthodoxy |
For as long as I can remember, I have been stuck in the
middle. At the non-denominational Jewish elementary and middle school I
attended, I was the only Orthodox student who took notes and did homework
alongside my intelligent, cynical, and proudly non-religious classmates. Such a
setting had its positives and negatives. Undoubtedly though, I was zocheh to
take part in some tremendous kiddushei shem shomayim as a result of being among
non-orthodox students for so many years.
Every Shabbat at my Orthodox synagogue, I was the only kid
who did not attend the local ultra-orthodox yeshiva populated by the wild children
of black-hatted, black-bearded rabbis who learned in kollel and their demure,
bewigged wives who raised children and made excellent kugels. On weekdays right
after school, my brother and I studied various sugyos in gemara with our chareidi
shul rabbi, and my worlds collided.
My Reform and Conservative classmates
walking through the non-denominational school hallways wearing shorts and
t-shirts would stop and stare as a man decked out in a white dress shirt, black
hat, and thick leather volume tucked under his arm would lead my brother and I
into a quiet room in the corner of the building to study 1,500 year old Jewish
legal arguments pertaining to questions of finding lost objects, the laws of
public Torah reading, the intricacies of the Jewish calendar, as well as
fanciful Talmudic legends and stories.
I loved it all: the challenge of reading
foreign script, the winding legal analysis, the Yiddish phrases my Rabbi would
pepper his questions with, and finally, the strange, surging emotion of
connectivity that I felt to ancient commentators and arcane ideas. Due to all
of the above, Talmud Torah became an addiction for me.
Meanwhile, outside in the halls, my friends passed the time
waiting to be picked up by listening to rap music, playing basketball, and
using lots of profanity. Just a few hundred feet away, my brother, the Rabbi,
and I were engaged in passionate Talmudic arguments over questions such as
whether one who finds a bundle of purple wool indiscriminately scattered on the
sidewalk is required to announce this discovery even if the original owner has already
given up hope on finding the object.
It might not seem interesting, but to me,
this study was electrifying. After the hour-long session, we would and I would
go home to complete homework problems far more boring than discussions of
purple wool, and talk to my friends about basketball, rap music, and the
goings-on of the secular world. Again, I was stuck in the middle, between the
yeshiva and the academy, the pull of America versus the tantalizing forces of
religious texts and learning- the havayos d’abayeh ve’ravah.
In middle school, my non-observant classmates began asking
me questions about my Orthodox faith, practices, and upbringing. One boy
couldn’t understand how I could keep Shabbat and therefore not use the Internet
for a whole day. Another girl had questions about kashrut and why God would
care what we ate. One of my closest friends at the time was an outspoken
atheist. In 7th grade, we would sit for hours at lunchtime discussing basketball
and rap music as well as science, god (or lack thereof) and philosophy.
I
didn’t have the answers to all of my classmates’ questions, so I asked the very
same black hatted rabbi, an English major at Yale who became observant in his
20s and today rails against secular college, homosexuals, and television. He
gave me some answers I liked, others I didn’t and a bit later on, I went home
and asked my modern orthodox, college-attending, television-owning parents the
same questions and they gave me different answers. At first, these
discrepancies were quite troubling. It took me years to accept the fact that there
are sparks of truth in all the questions I got from my non-religious friends
and all the answers I received both from my chareidi rav and from my parents.
Today, I am in 10th grade at a Modern Orthodox yeshiva high
school and I again feel stuck in the middle. Many of my classmates are
frustrated with the strictures of an Orthodox lifestyle and want to throw it
all away in exchange for a normal high school experience. They want the dances,
proms, short days, and lax dress codes of regular American teenagers in
exchange for the thrice daily tefillos, hilchos shomer negiah, and gemara
shiurim. Rabbis tell them that Judaism is beautiful, that their religious
tradition is inspirational, rich, and true.
But they do not listen, nor do they
believe in that which they practice. Every day, I see groups of kids sneak out
of shacharit (morning prayer)- the most intimate moment of the day when we are
allowed to grasp on to the Soul of the universe and better understand Him and
ourselves- in order to talk, play games, and dream about the secular world I
left behind. Every day, I see Modern Orthodox high school students who are
supposed to take pride in balancing Torah and openness to modernity together
choose one over the other. Hint: they did not choose Torah.
Where are the
intellectual heirs of Rabbis Hirsch, Solovetchik, and Kook? Many Modern
Orthodox students and families I know have prioritized the modern over the
orthodox. In a tug of war between secular studies and Gemara, secular studies
wins every time. It is a sad and unfortunate truth.
Sadly, those classmates of mine who are serious about Torah
and observance are much more chareidi-leaning and frequently discuss topics like
the height of our mechitzah and how the Shulchan Aruch would be against
mixed-gender schools. They remind of me of the yeshiva students I knew years
ago, their pale faces constantly reading holy books, their bodies moving
awkwardly to avoid bumping into women at a crowded Kiddush.
One of them is a
good friend of mine, and we debate endlessly about the legitimacy of the state
of Israel, the state of Modern Orthodoxy, and halacha in contemporary times.
Listening to him rant against the dangers of all things “modern,” I smile
bitterly as I remember witnessing another Modern Orthodox classmate of mine
break Shabbat because he hated religion and embraced modernity.
If you clench
your hand too hard, the bird dies. If you open your hand, it flies away. Where
is the happy medium? For most people, it is one or the other, black or white,
dead or alive. I have that familiar sinking feeling of being stuck in the
middle, again.
Sometimes I think of my Rabbi from the past, a lonely figure
in black that inched his way through the crowded hallways of my school filled
with immodestly clan women, foul language, and normal American teenagers, in
order to give me a drink from the everlasting fountain of Torah.
But of course,
I cannot follow in his footsteps. For admittedly, I do enjoy learning English,
history, and math, listening to rap music, and watching television shows. Israel
is on the brink of civil war between people like me and people like him. I wish
it didn’t have to be that way. After all, what we share is a deep love of Hashem,
Torah, and Klal Yisroel. That itself should be enough to bind us together as a
people.
Oftentimes, I feel like the Mishnaic sage Rabbi Meir, who
witnessed his teacher Elisha ben Avuyah become a heretic due to his readings of
Greek philosophy and struggle to understand the grand scheme of divine justice
in this world. Despite Elisha’s apostasy, Rabbi Meir continued learning from
him, ignoring the protests of his rabbinic colleagues by responding with the
statement: “ochel tocho vezorek klipaso” ‘I eat what is ripe and throw out the
shell.’ I disagree with so much of what non-religious Jews believe, and yet I
have learned from them how to be kind and how to question religious authority
when necessary.
Modern Orthodoxy has plenty of problems, inconsistencies, and
the next generation does not look so bright, but my greatest role models are
its Rabbis who imbue within me their love of Torah while still astounding me
with their knowledge of philosophy and science. And yes, I have boundless
appreciation of and respect for the chareidi world, its total dedication to
Talmud Torah, and chessed. Nevertheless, I cannot see myself living in the
yeshivishe velt of black and white, minimal secular studies, and closed doors
to the outside world.
So where do I belong? What box do I check if they ask me
what my religious preference is? I don’t know. I am perpetually stuck in the
middle. You can give me some pointers in the comments, though. After all, kabel
es ha’emes mim sheomro! Kol tuv.
