Rabbi Harold M. Schulweis Sermons

Sometime toward the middle of our heated encounter, he threw his arms around me, protesting his love for my Yiddishe' neshama, my Jewish soul whose root is traced to Father Abraham. With a firm arm lock around my shoulders, he insisted that theology and observances aside, we are, through a spiritual genealogy, connected. I felt caught. To free myself from his grip would appear a rude rejection – who can spurn another's declaration of love? To return his embrace with my own would be false. I felt neither love nor scorn for this intense, bearded rabbi, 10 or 15 years my junior, and whom I never saw before the lecture.

Resigned to accept his unyielding grip, I sensed within me an ambivalence not unlike that of Jacob's meeting with Esau, after the former's wrestling with the anonymous man beside the Jabbok tributary. When the two brothers met they embraced, and one fell upon the other's neck and kissed him. Commentators on the text, noting the peculiar set of marks over the word "kissed" (Genesis 33:4), suggest that the spelling is ambiguous. Was it a brotherly "kiss" or a long-repressed "bite"?

And this man, who sat beside me, this warm, effusive rabbi offering me gratuitous forgiveness for my heresies – did he mean to raise me up or hold me down? The conversation roamed, but the Rabbi's bear hug remained the dominant memory. That gesture, that body language took on the character of a metaphor for relations of this sort. Love and suffocation, care and intimidation entwined in one pair of sturdy arms.

"Understand, rabbi," he said, "between us, I mean between all Jews, whatever their beliefs or lack of beliefs, there is a kinship. We met at Sinai, you and I. The rebbe feels that way. All his judgments are rooted in ahavas Yisrael (love of Israel). There is nothing that I wouldn't do for a fellow Jew. That's where I spend most of my time and energy – at hospitals. And I don't ask whether they are Orthodox or not. They are Jews. That's all I need to know." It went on this way for quite a while. Though he could not understand my understanding of the evolution of Judaism and the values of Jewishness, he unsolicitedly forgave me and reassured me that my soul was loved.

At one point I grew impatient, turned to him and said, "You say you love my Jewish soul, and I am moved by that. But you have no respect for my Jewish mind, my way of seeing things, my interpretation of Jewish life and law, nor for those of my Jewish mentors. You speak only of your rebbe and his opinions, wisdoms, and judgments. I understand your trust, faith, love of him, but what of my teachers, who speak to my heart and mind. You love my Jewish soul but credit it with no integrity. Then you quickly dismiss my choices and motivations you regard as ulterior, either convenient or alien.”

He signed, held my gesturing hand still. "It's not with me or the rebbe that you have to quarrel. It's with the Lord, with the traditions. Go argue with the Rambam." And he continued in this vein, and I fell into his sing-song style.

"Not so," I answered. "The Rambam would not support you. Certainly not the Rambam of the Sefer Mada or the Guide to the Perplexed, which you don't teach. Your interpretations are not confirmed by the opinions of a Menachem Meiri, the Malbim or Rabbi Mecklenberg. Moreover, Rabbi, mein neshama iz nisht kein rozhenke (my mind is not a raisin). I have a fine Jewish training, a Jewish upbringing and a mind of my own."

He interrupted me, "You can't compare yourself to the rebbe. No one can, absolutely no one."

"It's not a matter of comparison. It's a matter of my Jewish understanding, my conscience, convictions, wrestlings and those who influence me, without coercion or threat."

"There is only one tradition, one law, one way, one guide."

"Would you admit that the rebbe could be wrong? Can you conceive that he may in some things be in error? After all, we are all mortal, fallible beings. Would you follow him no matter what?" He smiled and in a serious, hushed tone confessed, "I'll tell you the truth. I'd rather follow him when he is wrong than follow you when you are right."

It was not spoken in anger. It sort of slipped out and sensing the possible insult in his remarks, he added quickly, "Chos v'sholum, I didn't mean to put you down, but with us it is a matter of emunah, of faith."

"But I don't mean for you or anyone to follow me on faith. In fact, I always felt that unlike other traditions, Judaism is free of such personality cults, free from the deification of its leaders. I would be afraid if people followed me because of my world. My challenge is to persuade, not to pronounce."

"And where would our people be today if they did not have faith in Moses and had to be persuaded? Vayairu badonai uv'moshe avdo – They believe in God and in Moses, His servant."

“Yes, yet but first, they believed in God, and then in Moses."

We traded biblical and rabbinic quotations, scraps of evidence bolstering our respective position. The hour growing late, we parted, and once again he hugged me and even kissed me on my cheek. I thought about our conversation and about my reaction to his loving approach. I love to be loved – who doesn't? But not for my metaphysical neshama, not for my floating soul, a form without content, one I had inherited without choice from some distant past. My soul is informed by my mind, choices, moral sensibilities, and by real content. I suspect it is easier to love my abstract soul than the concreteness of my acquired convictions.

But if love is more than the embrace of a phantom, it must include respect for the Jewish concreteness of experiences and decisions. Not a love of condescension or domination, but of respect for the integrity of another's motivation and mind. Ahavas Yisrael is easier to express toward a metaphysical soul than an embodied self. True love is not an acknowledgment of the mystique of their souls' origination, but respect for the dignity of their souls' otherness. Better the preservation of space in our togetherness, than a smothering intimacy that obliterates all differentiation.

We parted company, and I sat up that night wondering about my ambivalent feelings. What had I expected of this man with his God sanctioned convictions? What could be expected of any absolutist convinced of his revealed truths? Not to share his beliefs is to join the rank of the heretics. Is this not the nature of the true believer? Can the faith of the true believer entertain the smallest possibility of doubt? Faith must be open or shut.

Yet perhaps that characterization of the true believer was false. I had, after all, been raised in Orthodox circles where such dismissal of other judgments were not so cavalierly brandished. I remembered the precious story told to me when I was younger by a firm believer:

This apikoros, the village atheist, boasted that he would soon confront the Rebbe with incontrovertible proofs and demonstrations that God does not exist. The villagers loyal to the Rebbe warned him of the planned onslaught. And as sure as the sun stood still at Gibeon, the apikoros midday entered the Rebbe's home with anticipatory glee. The Rebbe welcomed him, and held him off with one word: "Efshar" (“perhaps”). "Perhaps," the Rebbe repeated. With this, the apikoros broke into tears and the two of them embraced.

What kind of an answer was "perhaps," and especially from a man of faith? It is an expression rarely used these days, especially by those who are blessed with apodictic certainty. Absolutists, from the left or right, fideists or atheists, find "perhaps" a stammering admission of weakness. To know that God is or God is not, to know that this is the only way for all people to believe and to practice, must, for them, be attended with inflexible sureness. To them."maybe" betrays the sound of vulnerable openness or hidden pusillanimity. True believers or unbelievers prefer sweeping terms like "everybody,” or "nobody," or "always," or "never." Terms like "some" or "sometimes," or "it depends," or "maybe," are buried beneath the crushing rhetoric of absolutism.

But once in a while, "perhaps" may penetrate the interstices of invincible ignorance and cause one to think again. What did the atheist make of the Rebbe's "efshar?" "Perhaps" the Rebbe was not so closed to doubts, or perhaps demonstrations and disproofs aside, God could really be. Perhaps there is more doubt in belief and more belief in doubt than either fully understood. Perhaps the time has come to remove the heavy armor of infallible sources and personalities and open oneself to listen to another, even to one's inner self.

"Respicere," the Latin root of respect, means to "look again." Respect means to look again at another's argument and to see what lies beneath it. Once, it was told in the name of Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, a believer came to confess to the Rebbe that he could no longer believe. The Rebbe did not throw him out. Instead, he asked him, "Why, my son, can't you believe?"

"Because I doubt that the world has any rhyme or reason. The righteous suffer, the wicked prosper."

"So – why does that concern you?"

"What do you mean, why does that concern me. If there is no justice in the world, I doubt there is a God governing the world."
"So – what do you care, if there is no God in the world?"

"Rebbe, if there is no God in the world, my life has no sense, no meaning at all."

"Do you care so much about the world and His existence?"

"With all my heart and soul, Rebbe."

"If you care so much, are pained so much, if you doubt so much, you believe."

There is a modesty in belief, a skepticism in faith – a "perhaps" which leads to God more surely than the arrogance which finds no room for doubt. So it is told that when once the disciples of Rebbe had to leave the village where their beloved Rebbe lived for another one, they asked him for advice to find another Rebbe as authentic as he. Their Rebbe counseled, "When you find one, ask whether he ever doubted, ever had strange thoughts in his prayers. If he answers that he has never doubted, never entertained strange thoughts, know that he is not to be followed." Faith is a peculiar gift, not the last word nor the first. Faith is a process which grows with experience and reflection. It is no enemy of doubt, but welcomes it as an ally for deeper understanding. Faith is a window to be opened and shut. Stuck shut, it keeps out fresh air. Stuck open, it invites the blustery wind. Stuck shut, it shields the inhabitants but stagnates the air. Stuck open, it invites congealment.   Faith is a sliding window to be opened and shut with courage and wisdom.

Since my encounter with my rabbinic friend, I have had occasion to wonder about our separate ways. I wondered about our upbringing and how it may have effected our attitude towards pluralism. And I wondered as well about our different fears for the future of Judaism. Let me begin by explaining the natural upbringing of my Jewish pluralism.

I was raised in a yiddishist Zionist household, influenced by Orthodox grandparents, trained in a yiddish schul, Talmud torah, Orthodox yeshiva and Conservative theological seminary. The Jewish thinkers who have molded my understanding of Judaism are a varied as Y. L. Peretz, J. B. Soleveitchik, Ahad Ha-am, Israel Salanter, Martin Buber, and Mordecai M. Kaplan. For me, pluralism is not an ideology urging toleration towards other approaches to Jewish life outside my own denominational circle. Pluralism lives in me, an internal dialectic, enabling me to express a variety of Jewish dispositions, moods and preferences, at different times, differently accentuated. I am drawn to structure and spontaneity, "shukling" and quiet meditation, faith and doubt. I am affiliated and identified as a Conservative Jew, but that definition barely describes the larger ecumenicity of my Jewish self. Pluralism has enriched my Jewishness and I would transmit that advantage to others.

We are not born pluralists any more than we are born monotheists. Pluralism has to be taught and experienced from within our institutions and denominational fidelities. Pluralism has to be taught to others and cultivated within oneself.

Particularly in these angry days, it is an imperative of high moral order to learn how to apply the dictum of "assessing the other according to his/her merits" (l'kaf zechut) to the other's ideological and institutional attachments. It is important to learn how to value not only the juridical fact of one's born Jewishness ("A Jew is a Jew no matter his transgression"), but to value his chosen form of Jewishness according to its noblest intent. Such appreciation does not entail our agreement, endorsement or financial support of our fellow Jew's commitment. Santayana wrote that "agreement is the sincerest form of friendship." I would qualify his adjective. Agreement is merely the easiest form of friendship. Appreciation of the other does not mean agreement, but it does require respect for his decision and respect means the effort to understand the fears and hopes which surround his beliefs and practices – especially his fears, for fears reveal the vulnerability of others. Fears enable more empathic access to a fellow Jew's formally-stated positions. Understanding fears humanizes the theory and practice that frequently appear as hardened obduracy. There is a kinship in fear even when the proposed antidotes set us apart. What do they fear, these "extremists;" those "middle roaders," those "fanatics," those unbelievers?"

Some fear anomie, the rootlessness of not belonging, and find solace in structure, in rigid adherence to authorities and law. Others fear the heavy hand of authoritarianism, the weight that grinds conscience to the dust and are wary of spokesmen who mandate belief and practice in God's name.

Some fear the reduction of Judaism to a meta-language, a way of speaking, and consequently the avoidance of practiced observances. Others fear more the ritual behaviorism that ignores reason and feeling, and turns religious sensibility into obedient, mechanical practice.

Some fear the dizzying heights of universalism clutching the air of abstraction, losing their footing on particular soil. Others fear the suffocation of parochialism that transforms a world people into corporate narcissists.

Some fear the obsession with "relevance" that turns eternal truths into the putty of fads. Others fear the veneration of habit, the confusion of antiquity with authenticity.

Some fear the distillation of Judaism into ethical culture alone while others fear the enforced muteness of the prophetic voice.

Some fear the unmoored idealism which encourages us to live with our heads in heaven betraying the realistic ground of a people's security, while others worry that the territorial imperative has desensitized our moral sense. Identifying and understanding the fears which tacitly inform all our theories and practices may help us develop a warmer and more natural pluralistic outlook.

Another side to the training of the pluralist sensibility is the willing suspension of fault finding. With that in mind, I announced a series of lecture-sermons on "The Best of Judaism: The Best of Orthodox Judaism, the Best of Conservative Judaism, the Best of Reform Judaism, the Best of Reconstructionist Judaism, the Best of Satmar Judaism, the Best of Lubavitch Judaism, the Best of Secular Judaism" – seven varieties of Jewish interpretations.

The exercise is designed to overcome invidious comparisons, and the "gerrymandering" that assigns the best to our own jurisdiction and leaves all the rest to the others. It confronts the avowed pluralist with a series of questions. Can I preach and teach another approach to Jewish theology and observances without condescension? Can I suspend all negativities about the other's theory and practice so and allow its strengths and affirmations shine forth? Can I identify the elements which attract other fellow Jews to these movements and respond to their needs?

In the course of preparing for such lectures, I experienced the temptations to find faults in other movements, institutions and leaders. Somehow their weaknesses are taken as my strength, their failings my victories, their flawed projects as justification for my having to do nothing about the problems they seek to address. With twisted logic, I drew dangerous conclusions. If they are wrong, I am right; if they falter, I stand erect. The conclusions do not follow. Erik Erikson once commented, "You have heard of the Rabbi who felt inhibited when he was asked to make a speech in heaven. 'I am only good at refutation', he said." Refutation has replaced affirmation. Can I make a speech without refutation?

The exercise in pluralism is not designed to kill the critical sense or to subdue the reservations or objections. I bracket these, hold them in abeyance because they tend to eclipse the brightness of the other side. The task is to humanize our disagreements, clarify our own fidelities, and acknowledge the plentitude of our old-new traditions.

The pluralistic exercises celebrate no piety of polytheism – all the gods are gods. It is not meant to deny conflicting preferences. But, in the preparation for the series I sensed the transcendent unity in Judaism, a confirmation of Chesterson's insight that "heresies are splinters of the whole."

The empathic exercise is not for Rabbis alone. Through such projects, havuroth and adult education circles could serve the well-being of Jewish community and the self-understanding of the individual Jew. No one, I suspect, will be converted from his denominational proclivity to another, though it would be far from calamitous if such a change took place out of conviction. More likely, the attitude towards alternative ways of Jewish believing, thinking, and behaving would be altered towards the good and one's own Jewish awareness elevated.

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