A Shul by Any Other Name: YaYakhel 5771

Well it’s official. Ayelet has begun to talk and the words are coming out in droves. First it was Abba, then it was Abe her puppy, now it’s Ima, milk, cheese; you name it, there is a recognizable one syllable sound slightly reminiscent of a word. And now, we’ve even moved on to sentences – if that’s what you want to call them; basically an ‘I’ added on to any of those mono-syllabic words of hers.

But of all of Ayelet’s words, there is one that is truly near and dear to my heart. One word, and now one sentence that makes me pause and recognize the truly important things in life: and that word is shul.

Shul. She started saying it several months ago. Where is Aba going? we would ask. ‘Shul!’ she would say with delight. Why are you putting on that dress? ‘Shul!’ Where do we go on Shabbas? ‘Shul!’ And now comes the sentence: she sees me putting on my coat – ‘I shul! I shul,’ and she wants to come too! And the truth is she means it – she loves it here. She is just the newest in a long line of Jews who feel the same way.

Shul, is a Yiddish word which originally meant ‘school’ but quickly became synonymous with the synagogue. After all, the synagogue is the place where learning takes place, for adults and for children, and what are we really if we are not a school?

But the truth is that the word shul is much more evocative than merely ‘school.’ It is ripe with nostalgia of days gone by. It is the word our parents and our grandparents used as they put on their coats and walked out the door. It is a word that has echoed through the Jewish home for centuries – Where are we going? We are going to shul.

And so, shul is a very powerful word for me. Much more powerful, I must admit, than the word Temple. Rabbi Ismar Schorsch, Chancellor Emeritus of the Jewish Theological Seminary, agrees. In an article called “A Synagogue is Not a Temple”, he explains that early 19th century German reformers re-cast the synagogue and the worship service in the language of the Temple; denoting a place where Schorsch says, “one came to listen – not to daven.”

But while Chancellor Schorsch certainly preferrs the word synagogue to temple, we nonetheless should examine what that word represents in terms of its development and its connotation. Synagogue is a Greek word meaning an assembly of people who come together to learn. It derives from the Hellenistic period and is likely a Greek translation of the Hebrew word K’neset, or assembly.

But why would we choose to call ourselves by a Greek translation? Why not use the original Hebrew, as they do in Israel and call ourselves a Beit K’nesset, a house of assembly. After all, that is what we do, we come together, to pray, to learn, to eat, to kibbitz, to commune.

And among the many other descriptive names for this place that are floating around out there – there is one more, one that you may have heard about recently, especially if you read through the United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism’s Strategic Draft – and that is the word kehillah.

As the USCJ explains in their Strategic Plan:

“The change in language from “synagogue” or “congregation” to “kehilla”[SIC] is more than semantic. It reflects two concepts: first, it focuses on the raison d’être of a congregation or synagogue, i.e., that it is a sacred community. Second, it signals a welcome to those
who resonate with the ideas of Conservative Judaism . . ., but who do not necessarily belong to official Conservative congregations or feel comfortable with the “Conservative movement” label.”

Now it is important to point out that the concept of a Kehillah as an appropriate name for a Synagogue is not a new one by any means. The word Kehillah appears once in the Torah, in Smichut, that is in construct with another word in the famous pasuk:
תּוֹרָה צִוָּה-לָנוּ מֹשֶׁה, מֽוֹרָשָׁה קְהִלַּת יַֽעֲקֹֽב:
“Moses charged us with the Torah, the inheritance of the community of Jacob.” (Deut. 33:4)

Also, many famous synagogues around the world have inscribed on their cornerstones the letters kuf, kuf: standing for the Hebrew words Kehillah Kedosha – a holy community.

And of course the root word for Kehillah, Kuf, Hey, Lamed, appears most famously in its verb form as the name of this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat VaYakhel.

Our parasha begins this morning with the verse:
וַיַּקְהֵל מֹשֶׁה אֶֽת-כָּל-עֲדַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם,
אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרים אֲשֶׁר-צִוָּה יְהוָֹה לַֽעֲשׂת אֹתָֽם:

“Then Moses assembled the entire Israelite community and said to them: These are the things that the LORD has commanded you to do.”

This first word of our Parasha, VaYakhel is the key. The commentators explain that you cannot read this word without understanding the context which preceded it. On the heels of Heyt HaEgel, the Sin of the Golden Calf, the Jewish people had been brought to the brink of destruction. Through Moses’ intervention with God they were saved; and as Rashi explains, the day of their salvation was on Yom Kippur. Thus our parasha this morning begins the very next day. As Rabbi Shaul Yisraeli explains in his sefer Eretz Hemdah: When the children of Israel received the Torah they were united as one; but when they sinned with the Golden Calf they separated and warred with one another, but here the work of the Tabernacle was meant to atone for the Heyt HaEgel,
לכן השתדל משה להקהילם למען יחזרו למצבם שבו היו
במעמד הר סיני

So Moses tried to gather them all together in order that they return to their former state of unity that they felt at Mt. Sinai.

So which is it? What are we to be in this, the twenty-first century? How will we respond to the needs of a changing clientele, a Judaism that is utterly free from the fetters of convention? Are we to respond in English, in Greek, in Yiddish or in Hebrew? Are we to be a Temple, a Synagogue, a Shul or a Kehillah.

The truest answer is: it doesn’t matter. No matter what, it is simply a question of semantics. And despite USCJ’s best efforts, a name change will not serve as a panacea for all ills. A Shul by any other name will still struggle to bring in a new and increasingly distant generation of Jews. A Synagogue by any other moniker will still evoke the past. And a homogenous alternative minyan by any title will still fall short of being the kehillah that it so desperately trying to be. No, the truth is that the name does not matter – but the content most certainly does.

So what, I ask, is the essence of a kehillah? I believe the first answer is: it must be multi-generational. Ramban, in his comment to the first verse of our portion states “Moses then assembled the whole Israelite community;” this included men, women and children. We cannot be a community unless we recognize that our lives are bettered by the presence of others. This means giving rides to the elderly when they wish to come to a program, this may mean connecting to a havurah of other empty-nesters, this means welcoming back a college kid with a hug, celebrating our teens as they advance in USY, and it means supporting our religious school and our day school here in our community.

Secondly, in order to succeed a kehillah must have warmth. Not physical warmth (in this way we can sometimes be too warm!), but in emotional warmth. In other words a kehillah must try to be the antithesis of modern secular society – which has become a collection of ‘good fences’ which indeed make for poor neighbors. We must fight the urge to shut ourselves in – instead making efforts to reach out to those who are new, to those who are in need and to those who are lonely.

Finally, a kehillah must strive to be a place of spirituality, a place where we yearn for a closer connection to God and to our tradition. Sometimes this can be the most difficult part. But a kehillah must be about Judaism. It must be saturated with its values, its principles, its words, its shabbat and its God. A Kehillah without God, will never merit the all important adjective – kedoshah, holy.

So now, one final word of muted regret: Alas, I recognize that I am preaching to the proverbial choir. Your very presence here this shabbas attests to your connection to this kehillah, this temple, this shul, this synagogue. You know the power of community.

But what I am also confident in, is the fact that while there are many Jews out there who are not familiar with the word kehillah, who do not wax nostalgic about the word shul, who are not drawn in by traditional denominational notions of synagogues or temples, nonetheless, I am certain they are cognizant that they are missing something.

In a world that is global they are craving proximity. In a life that is isolating they are longing for connection. And in a time that can feel so desperate, they look for the light of God in their life. So no matter what our name; our job is to reach out, to bring them in and to show them how goodly life can be in this, our kehillah kedoshah.

Afraid of the Dark: Bo 5771

So there I stood, in one of the cool and moist underground caves which typify the Dixie Caverns outside of Roanoke, Virginia; trying to make sure that the forty Camp Ramah teenagers I was in charge of did not cause too much trouble, when suddenly my Rosh Edah, Rabbi Avi Katz Orlow says to the group, ‘Ok, everyone stand shoulder-to-shoulder up against the wall of the cave.’ Slowly, the kids began to move, and ultimately they stood in a tight line in relative silence. ‘Face the wall,’ Avi shouted, and when they did he shined his heavy-duty flashlight toward their backs, casting their shadows against the wall. ‘Read,’ Avi said, as he handed me a small book. So I read.

The book he handed me was Plato’s The Republic, and the particular section was the famous Allegory of the Cave. In it Plato imagines a group of human beings who are made to sit in a dark cave, chained so that they may only look straight ahead of them, staring at the wall. Behind them is a fire, and men are walking, speaking and carrying objects in front of this fire – casting their shadows upon the opposite wall. In this situation, Plato explains, a person who was forced to watch these shadows on the wall, and therefore knew of no other reality, would surely come to the conclusion that these dark images were actual beings, with real voices, carrying real objects, and that this world of mere passing shadow was indeed the very epitome of reality.

But then, Plato (through the character of Aristotle) asks us to imagine that one such person was freed from their chains and forced to look around at his true situation; would he not be overwhelmed by such a revelation: the existence of the fire, the reality of the players and the actuality of the objects they were carrying? Furthermore, if that person were then taken up a rugged ascent and brought out of the cave into the sunlight, would not their understanding of the world be irreparably shattered? Surely the light of the sun would pain them and, until their eyes adjusted, they would certainly be unable to even look at another human being and see their bodily image as it truly is. Thus, Plato proves, perception truly is reality.

I’m not sure that group of forty teenagers would remember a single detail of this story – but I remember it well. Not only because it was the first time I had read the work of Plato, and not only because it typifies the unique approach to education that Camp Ramah offers its children, but ultimately I remember this incident because of its unfortunate truth. That we human beings are sadly chained to our limited perceptions; we stare ahead at the wall, never daring to turn and see the world as it truly is. We take both darkness and shadow as givens in this world of ours, and over time, we have allowed our eyes to adjust to this unnatural lack of light.

Which brings me to this morning’s Parasha, Parashat Bo, which continues the narrative of the Exodus of B’nei Yisrael out of the slavery and degradation of Mitzrayim. In Parashat Bo, God delivers the final three plagues upon the hardened-heart of Pharaoh, the Egyptian people, and their gods; the plagues of Locusts, Darkness, and the Killing of the First-Born. While the final plague Makkat B’chorot, the Killing of the First-Born, is no doubt the most devastating, the penultimate plague, hoshekh, or darkness, must have been the most terrifying.

The Torah tells us that the Lord said to Moses
וַיֹּאמֶר ה' אֶל-מֹשֶׁה נְטֵה יָֽדְךָ עַל-הַשָּׁמַיִם, וִיהִי חֹשֶׁךְ עַל-אֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם, וְיָמֵשׁ חֹֽשֶׁךְ:

“Hold out your arm toward the sky that there may be darkness upon the land of Egypt, a darkness that can be touched.” (Exodus 10:21)
This final phrase of this verse “v’yameish hoshekh”, “a darkness that can be touched,” has puzzled commentators for centuries.

The 16th century commentator Rabbi Ovadiah ben Ya’akov S’forno remarks that this darkness was not like the darkness we experience at night. That ‘natural’ darkness of night, S’forno explains, is simply air that is ready at any moment to take on the light; whereas the ninth plague of hoshekh is an ‘unnatural darkness’ – and even if you shined light upon it, all would remain in shadow. S’forno’s explanation is indeed terrifying. Imagine a darkness so thick that it actually repelled light; reminiscent of modern physics’ understanding of a black hole, not simply darkness, but actually the very antithesis of light itself.

A much more modern rabbi, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom, offers a more scientific explanation. He understands the Torah’s words “v’yameish hoshekh”, as suggesting that the plague was actually “a khamsin, a sandstorm of a kind not unfamiliar in Egypt, which can last for several days, producing sand- and dust-filled air that obliterates the light of the sun.” This kind of hoshekh, Rabbi Sacks explains, is the kind that could indeed be touched.

But ultimately, I prefer the explanation of the Hasidic master Rabbi Yitzhak Meir Alter, better known as the Gerrer Rebbe. Basing his comment on the verse which reads:

לֹֽא-רָאוּ אִישׁ אֶת-אָחִיו, וְלֹא-קָמוּ אִישׁ מִתַּחְתָּיו שְׁלֹשֶׁת יָמִים, וּֽלְכָל-בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הָיָה אוֹר בְּמֽוֹשְׁבֹתָֽם:
“People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was, but the Children of Israel had light in their dwellings.” (Exodus 10:23)

The Gerrer Rebbe, explains that the inability to see one another was in fact both the cause as well the consequence of this plague. He says that the greatest darkness of all is when a person cannot see the other, when they can not feel the pain of their fellow; and this leads to the terrible result that “no one could get up from where he was,” meaning no one arose to the alleviate the pain of their friend.

This, explains the Gerrer Rebbe, was the true sin of the Egyptians, their inability to see the suffering of the other. They failed to see the sorrows of their neighbors as the suffered through the first eight plagues; and worse still, they failed to see the humanity of the Israelites who cried out to them bitterly from the hardship of their enslavement. Thus hoshekh, the darkness, became both the cause and the consequence of these failures.

The truth is that in our modern world, sometimes it feels as though we are sitting in the overwhelming darkness of Plato’s cave. We stare ahead thinking that the animus, the pessimism and the mistrust that abounds is indeed the very epitome of our reality. We gaze at these ‘mere shadows’ of our world and we perceive them as though they were truth.

Worse still is that we are in danger of falling into the apathetic trap of the Egyptians. We teeter on the edge of constant complacency, not only do we not see the struggles of our neighbors, but even when we do see them, even when we recognize their pain, we too often shrug our shoulders and proclaim, ‘what can I do?’

What we can do is remember the end of that verse:
וּֽלְכָל-בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הָיָה אוֹר בְּמֽוֹשְׁבֹתָֽם:
“But the Children of Israel had light in their dwellings.”

Why did the Israelites in Egypt experience light, amidst the terrifying darkness? Perhaps it is because they recognized that the hoshekh was only a trick of their limited perception; it was only a passing shadow on the wall of a cave. They were able to fight the darkness, withstand the temptation towards apathy, and despite their being chained, turn towards one another to see the light of God reflected in the face of their neighbor. And thus, they were redeemed.

I believe strongly that we must deny the false reality of this world of shadows. We must arise to the aid of our fellow human beings. When there are people without homes, without food, without clothing, we must be there. When there is terror, devastation and darkness, we must try to bring light into our world; this is the very nature of our commandedness.

Yes, the truth is that the light of God, and therefore our true reality, lies outside the cave of our cynicism. It lies in our ability to look at and truly experience the divine spark which exists in the other; this is the truest example of how to shine light upon the hoshekh of our world. It is the task of the Jew, and of every human being, to seek out this light, to allow our eyes to adjust to the true, Godly reality of our world, and to let this light shine through – even in the most unnatural of darkness.