Tradition and Change

Over the past few months, there has been much ado in the press about something called the DSM-V. DSM, short for “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders” is also known as “The Psychiatrist’s Bible.” Every decade or so (we are now on the DSM-V), the American Psychiatric Association (APA) assembles a task force of experts from psychiatry and other related disciplines, for the purpose of drafting a comprehensive register of every psychiatric condition, category, and classification. More than a reference book, this compendium becomes the standard by which all discussions take place in the field of mental health, for instance, what is and isn’t a mental disorder, what defines an addiction, is Asperger’s syndrome its own condition or on the autism spectrum? The medical, political, legal, and financial implications of the study are huge. Which conditions are or aren’t worthy of insurance coverage, who is and isn’t eligible for certain services? It also carries significant social implications. Are things like depression, eating disorders, and addictions, often subject to societal disapproval or stigma, actually biological, physiological, or psychological conditions worthy of sympathy and support? The most famous example is the reclassification of Homosexuality in DSM-III. The decision to reclassify homosexuality, previously understood as a treatable disorder, forever changed how the medical and world community approaches matters of human sexuality.

Last week I picked up the phone to speak to the Chair of the DSM-V Task Force, to get into the head of the nation’s chief psychiatrist, the chair of the study – Dr. David J. Kupfer. More precisely, he picked up the phone to call me, to check in on how his grandchildren were doing. But in the few minutes I had with my father-in-law before the kids took the phone, we discussed how the study raises some fascinating philosophical questions. How exactly do you rewrite the book about the human condition every ten years? Who has the authority to determine such questions, knowing that the authors of the next study will most likely revise the absolute sureties of present study? Who gets to define what is and isn’t a core aspect of the human condition? To use the language of my field, how does one generation define something as treif and the next call it kosher and what precisely are the criteria by which these decisions are made?

While I could go on about the DSM study and my father-in-law, the point isn’t psychiatry, but rather, the interpretive issues it raises, the process of defining what is and isn’t core, what is and isn’t kosher and who gets to decide the process and the outcome. A few years ago, Debbie and I were at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art and we saw Marcel Duchamp’s famous work “The Fountain.” You may know the story of the piece. It began when Duchamp went to J.L. Iron Works at 118 Fifth Avenue and purchased a standard Bedfordshire model urinal. He went back to his studio, turned the urinal 90 degrees from its normal position, named the piece “the fountain,” and entered it into an exhibition. For reasons you can guess, the organizers of the exhibition hid the piece, an inauspicious beginning for a piece of art that was recently voted as the most influential artwork of the 20th century. It is difficult to know when a urinal is a piece of art and when it is… a urinal. It is difficult to know when something is or isn’t a psychological disorder.

When it comes to our Judaism, it is equally difficult to determine what is core and what is peripheral to our faith, our practice, and our congregational identity. How do we identify the distinctive and essential features that make us who we are? What practices reflect a sensibility whose time has passed and may actually impede the present and future vitality of our faith? This is without a doubt a very exciting time for our community. It is a time of great strength, but also a time for great reflection and transformation. What is the narrative of Park Avenue Synagogue, what exactly is our distinctive torah, how do we define ourselves within our four walls and in the landscape of New York and North American Jewish life? What should our Shabbat morning service look and sound like, how should we conduct our Torah reading? The questions are not only on the ritual front. What is the future of supplementary school education? Are the models that we have received the ones that recommend themselves for the future?

When it comes to making changes, we must always remember that tradition is an incredibly important force; it both stabilizes and anchors our practices in our past. As I have been reading the writings of Milton Steinberg in preparation for his 60th yahrzeit next week, I have learned that Steinberg, progressive as he was, was also insistent that modifications in Jewish practice represent “an evolutionary growth rather than a revolutionary break.” Change, Steinberg wrote, should not happen just for the sake of change, it should happen when, and only when, it contributes “to the survival of Judaism and… the spiritual self-fulfillment of the individual Jew.”

Tradition, we also know, can lead to inertia. More often than not, there is a tendency to glorify the past, to idealize it and therefore become entrenched in it. Like the ark in the wilderness that could not move until the cloud of glory had lifted, the past is often granted an authority that impedes our forward momentum. It is understandable to think that the way things are is the way things must be – we all have an anxiety that change will somehow make us less legitimate than our idealized Jewish past. But this neither is, nor should be, the case.

I’ll give you one small example. When I arrived at PAS it was the custom to say an additional kaddish at the conclusion of the service following a dvar torah by the rabbi. I was struck by the practice because from a gastroenterological perspective it made no sense. Once the service has reached Ein Keloheinu, Aleinu, and announcements, all you are thinking about – at least all I am thinking about – is what is being served for Kiddush. Why would you teach again at that moment? But I was the new rabbi and I went with it. One day, a long-time congregant explained that at one point in Park Avenue Synagogue history, the congregation felt that each rabbi should speak every Shabbat morning, so a speaking slot was created in addition to the sermon. You may have noticed I have discontinued the practice. It is not that one practice is right and one is wrong; the point is that it was a custom that arose under certain circumstances, circumstances that are no longer applicable.

There is a difference between the past serving as a steadying force in our congregational mission and the past serving as a filibuster that undercuts our ongoing vitality and efforts towards renewal. There are some, wrote Steinberg’s teacher Mordecai Kaplan, who “will always assume a deprecatory attitude toward [change]… on the ground that the Jewish religion would attain a form that its Jewish forebears would not recognize.” The error in this approach,” wrote Kaplan, “is that it proceeds from the assumption that those who are to determine whether or not the continuity of a culture is maintained are its founders or initiators, and not its spokesmen in the generations following.” “The only ones,” concludes Kaplan, “to decide whether the continuity of a culture is maintained are those who are actually confronted with the problem. The past or its proxies can no more pass judgment upon the present than the child can sit in judgment upon the man.” (Judaism as a Civilization, p. 404)

There is nothing I take more seriously than being entrusted to shape the identity, practices, programs, and schools of this congregation. I am constantly thinking about where we have come from, our desired results, and the process by which we will create a shared vision and achieve our goals, whether we are considering what our Shabbat morning service looks like or how the congregational school is structured. While this conversation is only beginning, let me share with you three preliminary ground rules for our journey forward. Number 1: Our conversations cannot begin with the bludgeoning statement, “This is the way we have always done it.” The beauty of this congregation is that the more I learn about it, the more I discover that there are very few things that “have always been done” a certain way. Besides, it is our commitment to our congregation’s unrealized future, not a loyalty to an idealized past, that must determine our present needs.

Secondly, conversations that take place under my watch will not be framed in a black and white, either/or fashion: we will either have a 2-day- or a 3-day-a-week Hebrew School; we will either have a full or a triennial Torah reading. I am dogmatic that we are not dogmatic. Such formulations are not only unhelpful, but they are divisive and, worst of all, demonstrate an abject lack of creativity. The questions that I want answered are what are the spiritual and intellectual needs of the Jews in this sanctuary and those Jews potentially in this sanctuary? I want to ask: What is the most compelling model of congregational education for a community as diverse as ours, for a community that exists in a city with a myriad of other educational choices? One day we will inevitably have to make certain choices, but I have a hunch that if we are as good as I think we are, when that day comes, the answers will be self-evident.

Thirdly and finally, it is my job – our job – to formulate an explicit or implicit narrative of what our community stands for, a torah of Park Avenue Synagogue, if you will, different from any other congregation in the city, different from the Park Avenue of ten years ago and different from the Park Avenue of ten years from now. Whether we are psychiatrists, art critics, or committed Jews, our mandate is to assess the moment in which we find ourselves, to sort through the available options, and formulate the most thoughtful and passionate response that we are capable of creating.

Ultimately, I don’t know, and none of us know, if what we are doing will be judged kosher or treif by the generations to come. What I do know is that I want people to look back at these years and say that the lay and professional leadership left it all out on the field working tirelessly to serve God and the Jewish people. I hope that future generations appreciate our present efforts and I pray they will be smart enough to know that when it is their turn, they need to come up with the answers right for their age, not ours.

There is a story in the Talmud (B. Menachot 29b) that as Moses goes up to Heaven, as an act of comfort, God allows Moses see the future legacy of the Torah first given at Mt. Sinai. God transports Moses to visit the academy of Rabbi Akiva, the great rabbinic sage who lived some 1400 years after Moses. Moses sits in the back row of Akiva’s classroom, and not surprisingly, does not understand a single thing Akiva is teaching, never mind agreeing or disagreeing with him. He is thoroughly disoriented and discomfited by the experience. But then Moses hears that in response to a student’s question, Akiva cites that such and such law was given to Moses at Sinai. At that point Moses is comforted, realizing that his Torah takes on new forms in new settings, that there is an ongoing coherence even though the content may be unfamiliar to him.

May we, as creative and committed Jews have done throughout history, continue to formulate a Judaism responsive to the Jews of our time, foreign and familiar both to those who came before and to those future generations who will come after.