The Need for Judaism in These Times

by Jonathan Stanley

We live in an age marked by climate change, police brutality, and world leaders fanning the flames of hatred. On top of it all, a global pandemic is responsible for 374,000 deaths and a devastating economic downturn. In these times, we need some sense of stability, giving us the strength to proceed in spite of all the forces that might discourage us. As Jews, we have an ancient tradition available to us. The question is whether we choose to embrace it.

In my early adulthood, I have turned to Judaism as a guiding force. In a stage of my life that has seen constant change, our tradition has served as a constant for me. It has made me understand myself as a link in a chain that spans generations, and from the stories of my ancestors I draw hope; from this hope, I muster the strength to move forward.

As a child, being Jewish meant something different to me. It was part of how I understood myself, being one of few Jews in my Maine suburb. It was part of how I related to my family. It meant Passover Seders and my mom’s kugel, this cousin’s Bar Mitzvah and that cousin’s baby naming. I was proud to be Jewish, proud of who I was; however, I had not yet tasted the sacredness of our tradition.

This started to change when I entered college in 2018. I attended Shabbat dinners, and took an introductory Jewish Studies class. Being Jewish was a point of connection, and one thing that did not change upon leaving home. I was struck by the power of tradition in a way that I never had been as a child. During the uncertain journey of forging my own path, I gradually immersed myself in Jewish learning and practice. Now, only two years later, Judaism is an essential part of my life. I pray every day and light the sabbath candles every Friday night. I am preparing to be co-president of my campus’ Hillel this fall.

I am in the midst of a journey. I won’t pretend that I have all the answers. What I can state affirmatively is that Judaism has the raw materials to usher us through good times and bad, just as it has done for me. It can provide the strength to proceed in this era of uncertainty.

Strength can come from many places. Some people turn to music, and others to literature. I turn to these sources myself. I have come to see, though, that they lack the potency of religion. By orienting itself toward the divine, religion pulls from a source of strength that transcends this world.

Judaism, however, offers something more. Jewish tradition involves us in an inter-generational story with chaos as a motif and hope as a through-line. We learn that Abraham was called to leave his father’s home and enter a covenant with God, passed onto us, his descendants. History went on to show the power of this relationship. Our greatest prophet, Moses, led the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt by carrying out the will of God. He received the Torah at Mount Sinai. After forty years of wandering in the desert, our ancestors established themselves in the land of Israel. But the Holy Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed twice, leading to exile. This narrative extends beyond the biblical canon. Nearly two millennia of persecution culminated in the Holocaust. Redemption came with the establishment of the state of Israel, the homeland reclaimed after generations of yearning. And so the covenant continues. Through the power of narrative, Judaism grounds us in this heritage of hope. It allows us to look forward into the future, with a vision of fulfillment lying ahead. This is a unique form of strength.

A cynic might interpret the fact of suffering as reason for despair, not hope. Indeed, even the Torah recognizes the inevitability of suffering: after promising the land, God tells Abraham, “Know well that your offspring shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they shall be enslaved and oppressed four hundred years.” However, God continues by proclaiming: “…I will execute judgment on the nation they serve, and in the end they shall go free with great wealth” (Genesis 15:13-14). The cynic fails to see that suffering is just a setback, with justice waiting somewhere in the future. As Martin Luther King, Jr. famously proclaimed, “The ark of the moral universe may be long, but it bends toward justice.”

Hope is inseparable from the Jewish religion, and it serves as more than a mere concept. Judaism teaches us to relive the story of our people, inscribing it into our souls. We recall the Exodus from Egypt each Passover and the reception of the Torah during Shavuot. We remind ourselves of the covenant with the words of the Sh’ma: “Hear o Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one. Blessed is God’s glorious majesty forever and ever.” Through our holidays and rituals, we live by the idea that there was hope then and hope now – we have moved forward before, and we will move forward again. Chaos is temporary; hope is perpetual. We learn this message through the rhythms of Jewish tradition.

Some people feel that Judaism is constraining. I once had a friend express this view. She told me that by compelling us to partake in certain activities and abstain from others, our religion forces us to miss out on the pleasures of life. Indeed, it is incumbent upon everyone to choose how strictly they will follow Halacha. I myself am somewhat of a selective adherent. But in my experience, mitzvot are liberating. These rules are not limitations. When we follow them, they bring God into the world through a framework of hope that can help us muster the strength to move forward with courage and humility. In this way, we can tie together our past with the chaos of the present and the uncertainty of the future. Our story, which we retell through tradition, tells us that there is reason to hope for a better tomorrow, and so we can carry on with our feet planted firmly on the ground. I have learned that leaning into tradition allows us to make the most of it.

Passover this year reinforced this lesson for me. When I wanted bread or cereal, I remembered that the Israelites carried matzah on their backs when departing Egypt because the bread did not have time to rise. They had no choice to eat chametz. But in the arc of the Exodus story, this restriction symbolizes the path between slavery and freedom. This path is marked by hardship; it is also marked by hope for liberation. I remembered that hope and hardship are often inseparable. And so, I resisted my desire for chametz, abstaining like our ancestors did by no choice of their own, with my eyes gazing toward freedom, grounded by a sense of hope.

According to Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the concept of hope is a Jewish innovation. He writes, “Western civilization is the product of two cultures: ancient Greece and ancient Israel…the Greeks gave the world the concept of tragedy. The Jews gave it the concept of hope” (Sacks). The author Edmond Fleg likely had this legacy in mind when, in 1927, he wrote: “I am a Jew because in every age when the cry of despair is heard, the Jew hopes.” As we proceed into this uncertain future, we must remember the sacred nature of our tradition. Judaism is the embodiment of hope. If there was any time to spread this message it is now, as the world seems enveloped in a cloud of darkness. Hope is inscribed within our story, and with hope comes strength.

And so, as authoritarianism rises and our environment declines, as the novel coronavirus takes lives and destroys livelihoods, as persecuted minorities are murdered at the hands of those sworn to protect them, as the forces of evil seem too much to handle, I know that the inspiration to march forward does not lie far from home. It is in the tradition passed on by our ancestors and which lies with us now. We can carry it forth today – not just passing it on to the next generation but embracing it as an anchor in these trying times.

References

Sacks, Jonathan. “How the Jewish People Invented Hope.” My Jewish Learning. https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/how-the-jewish-people-invented-hope/. Accessed 1 June 2020.