Strangers in a Land Not Their Own

If the wicked child were sitting at the Global Planning Table of the Jewish People rather than at the Seder table, the response he would receive would be of a decidedly different and far more embracing nature. “What does this service mean to you?” the chutzpah-filled child asks. “To you and not to him – thereby excluding himself from the community.” He stands in breach of a fundamental principle of our people, so much so, the Haggadah famously explains, that he must be struck in the teeth. “You who have placed yourself outside the Jewish community: had you been there at the Exodus, you would not have been redeemed.”

Nowadays, the Jewish communal reaction to the second child would be radically different. Our first response would be to create a blue ribbon study on engaging the unaffiliated. We would create a trip specially designed for such young adults – a ten-day all-expense-paid trip to Israel with the hope that disengaged Jews would retrieve that pintele yid buried deep within. On college campuses, we would identify a funder to underwrite free Shabbat meals, so as to remove any actual or perceived barrier to entering Hillel. If that second child had a family of his or her own, another Jewish foundation would send free Jewish children’s books every month with the hope that bedtime could become a moment of Jewish identity building. For young professionals, we would create alternative spring breaks to India, Costa Rica or Nicaragua to backdoor Jewish identity and connection through acts of social justice. “Tatale, don’t beat yourself up,” we now say to that second child, “if you can’t connect to the Jewish community, we will send someone to your office to teach, provide an outreach worker “to meet you where you are,” and be sure to check out our free High Holiday services in an converted warehouse with an open bar. These days not only do we not heap scorn upon the Jew who sits at the periphery, but just the opposite: we pour enormous amounts of affection, energy and resources into that disengaged Jewish soul.

In the 1990s, Jack Wertheimer, Steven M. Cohen and the late Charles S. Liebman wrote an award-winning essay called “How to Save American Jews.” (Commentary, Jan. 1996). It was written in the wake of the 1990 National Jewish Population Study that famously reported, among other signs of erosion in the Jewish community, the sobering statistic of an intermarriage rate of over fifty percent. The authors went on to distinguish between the different segments of American Jewish life: the “actively engaged,” the “moderately engaged,” the “loosely engaged,” and then of course, the “disengaged.” And while we could quibble with their classification and the criteria by which a person qualifies for each category, the stir the article caused was due to its prescriptive recommendations. The authors argued that the Jewish future would be better served by focusing resources on the core of affiliated Jews and not on those Jews sitting at the margins of Jewish life. Given the limited nature of Jewish resources, why would we do anything but direct our efforts at those already predisposed to affiliation? Day schools, synagogues, Jewish camping – these are the “in-reach” efforts that will bring the greatest return on investment. Well intended as it may be, outreach to the unaffiliated is throwing good money after bad. Besides they argued, if we are really interested in saving American Jewry, is it not a bit misguided to appeal to the lowest common denominator? Not only, their reasoning goes, does such a stance neglect those seeking an “authentic” Jewish expression, but Jews on the periphery are actually more likely to respond to traditional modes of Jewish expression, and not some bland, soulless “Jewish lite,” denuded of the very substance that makes Judaism worth fighting for in the first place.

Twenty years and a Pew study later, the debate rages on, both in principle and pragmatics. With limited resources, shall we focus on the core or on the margins of communal life? It is not just a theoretical question, but one that plays out in my rabbinate all the time. Let me give you a recent example. A few Sundays ago, I officiated at a baby naming for a beautiful little girl. Neither the child nor the parents were members of the Synagogue, but the grandparents were. They called me on behalf of their child asking if I, as their rabbi, could be present for the naming. From there, I went to a board meeting for a campus Hillel at a university where a disproportionately large number of young people from this congregation attend. The question on the table was how congregational rabbis can collaborate with Hillel directors to integrate our kids into Jewish campus life and then, hopefully, back into congregations after graduation from college. One of the many ideas discussed was the possibility of my spending a Shabbat on that campus next fall, inviting our kids and their friends for Shabbat dinner with their rabbi – and in doing so – deliver them, as it were, into the hands of the campus rabbi. Later that evening, I met up with a group of about eighteen successful young professionals, all but one unaffiliated, many children of this congregation, who, to their great credit, took time out of their schedules to serve meals to the homeless at the Bowery Mission. We did a mitzvah, they connected with each other and, despite the fact that they do not enter the synagogue other than on the High Holidays – in some circuitous way they connected to their rabbi and, by extension, their Judaism.

A baby naming, a Hillel meeting, an evening serving meals to the homeless, each act, I hope you will agree, worthwhile if not noble. But the thought did occur to me that under a strict definition of resource allocation, my time that day was not spent serving the membership of this community. “Rabbi,” I can imagine some board member saying: “You are paid to serve the 1500 family units of this congregation. That time you spent with the unaffiliated young professionals should have been spent doing visits to home-bound congregants. That baby naming you did … if that parent is old enough to draw a paycheck and father a child, he can darn well join a synagogue. And as for you taking a fall Shabbat to make a campus visit, let’s be clear – you are paid to be on the bimah of this synagogue week-in and week-out. Rabbi, its not that any of these activities are objectionable, but if you spend your time running after those Jews who are not here, then you risk making the Jews who are here feel they are being taken for granted and – even worse – neglected.”

There is no one crisp answer to the question, but it is the question of our time, and I think it can and should be added to your seder table discussions two days from now. The Haggadah is a story about many things – national liberation from slavery to freedom, the fulfillment of a divine promise, the recitation of sacred history. But at its core, I believe, the seder is about a journey – not only geographical, but also spiritual – a story of homecoming. “In every generation, you must see yourself as if you personally came out of Egypt.” This is the objective, to feel yourself at home in the narrative of our people. It is a goal that remains elusive for far too many. Think about it. Why is the very first statement of the Haggadah not about welcoming those present, but acknowledging those who are not: “Let all who are needy come and celebrate Passover.” Why does the entire ritual begin (Mah Nishtanah) and end (Who knows one?) with questions that immediately level the playing field? If there was ever a ritual attuned to the person coming in from the outside, it is the seder. It isn’t just the wicked child who is alienated: three out of the four children have no idea what is going on. “From the beginning,” the Haggadah clarifies, our ancestors were idol worshippers … but now, we are called to God’s service.” The Haggadah’s curricular goal is two-fold. First, to encourage participants to identify with the core narrative of our people, and also to remind us of those who remain spiritually alienated, a demographic from which we can never disconnect because it is a demographic that once was us. As God said to Abraham: “Know well that your descendants will be strangers in a land not their own ...” Even as, especially as, we gather at the seder table, we are made aware of those who remain in a condition of spiritual exile, and the Haggadah reminds us of our obligations to bring them back home.

Put simply, maybe the message of the Haggadah is that we, as a people, are a mixed multitude. From the four different kinds of children to the variations among contemporary Jews, we are not and have never been homogeneous. We need to be brought home by means as diverse as our varied constitutions. On a communal level, we must be willing to educate each other regarding the tipping points of Jewish identity and to be in constant dialogue on the roles that Jewish institutions play in impacting Jewish life. Day schools and Birthright, Jewish camping and campus outreach, AIPAC and AJWS. Yes, there are limited resources, but it is not an either/or proposition. As a synagogue, our first mission must be to articulate the unique role congregations like ours play as drivers of Jewish identity. In prayer, in study, in joy and sorrow, in community with each other and the greater people of Israel over a lifetime – no other institution can lay claim to our differentiated role. Yes, we are a membership organization – that is and will always be our first priority. But our mission extends beyond our walls and membership to young professionals, people considering conversion, teens, and social justice projects, to name but a few. When it comes to Jewish identity, return on investment should never be measured strictly by way of members served. It is not an easy balancing act, and it is a struggle I face every day. In a sense, the task of a contemporary rabbi is no different than the role of the prophet Elijah as described in today’s Haftarah. “To turn the hearts of parents to their children, and those of the children to their parents.” Religious leadership then, and now, is an act of mediating between the generations, helping each side understand, appreciate and validate narratives and needs different from their own.

A final word: As I clicked to print this sermon yesterday, an email arrived in my inbox, at 3:13 pm to be exact. The sender was not a member in their own right, but a child and grandchild of congregants. I officiated at the wedding a few years ago, and knowing me, I imagine the question occurred to me in our pre-wedding meetings and at the Saturday night ceremony, how it could be possible that this bride and groom, both accomplished beyond their young years, just couldn’t get around to sending in a shul membership form. I never said anything, we celebrated their wedding, and I never really heard from them again. So you can imagine my smile when I read the following words yesterday: “Dear Rabbi Cosgrove, We just wanted to reach out because although we already feel like we belong in the PAS community, we are interested in becoming official members of the synagogue and, in particular, getting involved in the young couple activities. How should we go about this? Thanks. Happy Pesach! Sent from my iPhone.”

Nobody, not even a rabbi, can predict the timing or path of a person’s return. But Passover teaches that if we leave our doors open, we never know who might just walk in. There are, in every generation, those longing to return, some who realize it, and others who don’t. The story of redemption is ongoing. May the doors of our community, our shul and our homes be wide enough to provide a homecoming to all who seek entry.