The classic book of Jewish moral philosophy, Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers), opens with an explanation of how Jewish tradition is handed down: From Moses to Joshua, from Joshua to the elders, and from the elders to the men of the great congregation. Aside from the troublesome fact that women are invisible in this chain of tradition, what has always worried me about this chain is the obvious problem of handing things down.
In the physical, even the spiritual world, items handed down become frayed and damaged. Loss is a problem, since not all caretakers are equally capable or motivated. In short, by the time one gets down to little me shlepping around the diaspora 40 generations later, what is left of this shopworn tradition that has been reshaped (and sometimes discarded) by so many?
Call it neurotic. Call it obsessive. But my whole life I have always worried about that delicate vessel we call “Judaism.” Certainly it did not arrive intact in America. And who is to say that the Second Temple attendants, or the all-male rabbinate, or even the ghettos of Europe were proper shomrim (caretakers)?
Like a box of broken glass dropped off by a hapless delivery person, Judaism seems always in urgent need of repair. And as we all stand around staring at the shards of glass clustered at the bottom of the box, wondering what it was that must have been so valuable to the sender, we sometimes find it impossible to imagine or visualize the object in its original form.
Each of us walks around with a vague personal impression of what the original must have been, and we reflect that in the construction of our Jewish lives and communities. But some of us — the anxious, the serious, the curious, or committed — are never satisfied with the visualization we achieve. We keep staring into the box, trying to imagine potential reconfigurations.
As a bride and groom, Steve and I configured our Jewish lives in ways that made sense to us. We knew, for instance, that Israel was vital to our tradition, so we spent a nice long honeymoon soaking up the motherland. We knew Torah study and Shabbat were essential, so we made sure to include it in our lives. As parents, we knew that day school was a non-negotiable, so we committed all of our discretionary income, and then some, on Jewish education for our children.
Looking back at this Jewish construction we have built, Steve and I realize it is a work in progress. Certainly the Judaism handed to us by our parents was not ideal. And, indeed, though we have tried to imagine and reassemble it, the work we have done in our lifetimes is far from perfect. Questions, shards, lost pieces still beckon and challenge us.
And yet, as we were about to bring our eldest daughter to the chuppah, we realized that with every generation, there is a greater chance of recreating the whole vessel. Shomrim may be inattentive; schools, communities and individuals may function ineptly. But as long as there are Jews who are driven to reassemble shards of holiness, the tradition handed from Moses to Joshua to the elder … is potential.
As Francesca and Abraham stood under the chuppah enacting the ancient rituals of keddushin, Abe’s parents, Steve and I wished them good health together and a life filled with love and happiness. May they be privileged to build a bayit na’eman b’yisrael. May they fill it with many children and good deeds, respect for Torah, and love of Yiddishkeit.
And when they open the box of shards we gave them, attempting to assemble their version of the tradition Moses handed down to us, may they find infinite delight, fascination and success in their task. May their good works help to usher in the days of Mashiach. And may Jews everywhere find contentment in the wholeness of our shared tradition.
This column previously appeared in the Jewish Journal/North of Boston.