The Hyphen Within

Nobody knows for certain where Sandy Koufax was on this day fifty years ago, but all of us know where he wasn’t. It was game one of the Dodgers-Twins World Series, and Koufax was due to pitch against Minnesota’s Mudcat Grant. The game did not go well for the Dodgers. Don Drysdale, the “Big D,” started in Sandy’s place and got hammered. As the story goes, when manager Walter Alston came to the mound to pull him from the game, Drysdale said, “Hey Skip, bet you wish I was Jewish today, too.” (J. Leavy, Sandy Koufax: A Lefty’s Legacy, p. 184) Post break-fast, Sandy would start and lose the second game. Thankfully, once back in Los Angeles the Dodgers would win three straight. On very little rest, Sandy started the seventh game, pitching a spectacular three–hit, ten-strikeout shutout, completing the game, winning the series, and forever changing American-Jewish identity.

Nobody knows where Sandy was that day except, of course, Sandy. As Jane Leavy shares in her terrific book on Koufax, “Like Elijah at the seder table,” he was seen by rabbis and Jews in synagogues everywhere, from the Twin Cities to Los Angeles (p. 183). Hoping for an answer, I myself reached out to him with an invitation to visit us on the holidays. He left an incredibly kind and gracious message of regret on my voicemail that I will never erase – it is more difficult, it would seem, to get an audience with Koufax, than with the Pope. While Koufax himself may not be in our shul today, I am delighted to report that his rookie uniform is – on display in our lobby – thanks to the generosity of George Blumenthal and the American Jewish Historical Society. Over the course of Yom Kippur, I invite you to take it in, a garment by which to appreciate, in the immortal words of John Goodman (The Big Lebowski): “Three thousand years of beautiful tradition . . . from Moses to Sandy Koufax.”

The more I study that momentous day, the more convinced I am that far more noteworthy than Koufax’s choice not to pitch is the mythology that came to be associated with the decision. Long before Koufax, in 1934, Hank “the Hebrew Hammer” Greenberg had sat out a playoff game on Yom Kippur, as the Detroit Tigers made their way to the World Series. Koufax himself hadn’t pitched on Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur for ten years prior to that 1965 World Series opener. The Dodger organization planned the pitching rotation around Koufax’s faith, a fan having sent Walter Alston a Jewish calendar to consult. For both Koufax and his teammates the decision wasn’t momentous, just a flip in the pitching rotation. Koufax would go on to pitch three more games in the series. In fact, while proud of his Jewish heritage, Sandy never claimed to be a devout or practicing Jew, nor did he ever seek to draw attention to his faith as had Cassius Clay when he became Muhammad Ali the year before. In the years to follow, Koufax would express wonderment at the mythological status that came to surround a decision that was, in his mind, no big deal. As he reflected in his autobiography published shortly thereafter: “There was never any decision to make . . . because there was never any possibility that I would pitch. Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the Jewish religion. The club knows that I don’t work that day.” (Koufax, p. 258)

If this is the case, if the mythology that developed around it is more important than the decision itself, then the real question that we need to address is not so much about Koufax, but about us. Koufax’s decision not to pitch was the most impactful non-event to shape Jewish identity perhaps since Barbara Streisand decided not to change her nose. In the same way that the Six-Day War reframed Israel’s self-understanding, in the same way the Eichmann trial transformed post-Holocaust Jewry, that one day fifty years ago today was a pivot forever changing American-Jewish identity. The question is not why did Koufax sit out, but rather why do we care so much that he did? Why did his decision achieve the fabled status that it has?

I think to a certain degree the answer boils down to a popular bumper sticker of the era which read: “You don’t have to be Jewish to love Sandy.” (Leavy, p. 170) Koufax was, by any definition, a sports superstar – loved by Jew and non-Jew alike. A month before that Yom Kippur, he had pitched a perfect game; he was leading the league in wins, strikeouts, and ERA, and was on his way to capturing his second unanimous Cy Young Award. Koufax had, by way of his unique athletic ability, risen to a rarified stratosphere of American celebrity, and then chose, as it were, to remain chosen, to not compromise his religious convictions. According to cultural historian David Kaufman, “acculturating Jews of the 1950s and 60s remained shy about public Jewish identification, anxious about being perceived as too Jewish. . . . Koufax’s refusal to pitch . . . gave Jews a collective kick start, stimulating their dormant sense of Jewishness.” Important as Greenberg’s decision not to play thirty years before was, his generation had yet to taste the assimilating possibilities and anxieties of Koufax’s time (Jewhooing the Sixties, p. 97). Koufax’s unspoken and reflexive avowal of his Judaism at the height of his game generated the kvell that was heard around the Jewish world. He showed American Jewry that you could stand in two cultures, you could make it big in America and remain a nice Jewish boy. He was the embodiment of masculinity and menschlichkeit; every boy wanted to be him and every girl wanted to be loved by him. Koufax was not an “American-Jew” or a “Jewish-American,” he was both, or more specifically he was the hyphen that bridged the two. The power of the Koufax myth for American Jewry is that he came to represent an ideal: He was the hyphenated dream of American Jewry.

It is fifty years later to the day, and as on every Yom Kippur, today we reflect on the kind of people, the kind of Jews we want to be in the year and years ahead. As modern Jews, we know our blessing and challenge is that there are many models to choose from. When the Jewish community left the shtetl in the wake of the Enlightenment and Emancipation, it was the first time that we were extended the choice of how, if at all, we were going to express our Judaism. There were many, not surprisingly, who left the fold entirely, changing their names and their faith, hoping to become citizens of a common humanity, forever untethered from the Jewish people. On the other end of the spectrum, there were those who shunned secular culture and all that came with it. In 1839, the Hatam Sofer, Moses Sofer, in his last will and testament, asked that his children be shalem – an acronym for not changing their shemot (names), lashon (language), and malbush (dress). Only by maintaining their distinctiveness could they withstand the forces of assimilation and ensure the Jewish future. In between these options there existed many others, most famously the suggestion attributed to Moses Mendelsohn: to be “a Jew in the home and a man in the street,” a bifurcation between the public and private spheres of our lives. Of course the most famous reaction to the riddle of how to balance our Jewish and secular identities is Zionism. This was, at its core, the Jewish question that Herzl sought to answer in the late 1800s: How can a Jew be both loyal to her heritage and a citizen of the world? Herzl’s answer, Political Zionism, contended that the only viable answer is for a Jew to be a citizen of the Jewish state.

There are, to be sure, many possible answers, but at risk of stating the obvious: If you are sitting here in this room, you have not chosen to live in Israel, nor have you chosen to live in a Hasidic enclave like Monsey or Kiryat Yoel. Nor, for that matter, have you opted out of Jewish life; had you done so, you would not be sitting in this room. You have chosen, we have chosen, to live our lives, raise our children and grandchildren on the foundation of that razor-thin hyphen we call American-Jewish identity. We are the people, as described by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, “who live within the language and culture of a twentieth-century nation, [are] exposed to its challenge, its doubts and its allurements, and at the same time insist upon the preservation of Jewish authenticity . . .”(Insecurity of Freedom, p. 197). In pre-war Germany, this ideal was best expressed by the philosopher Franz Rozenzweig, who employed the term Zweistromland, a land of two rivers, whereby the “Jew resides on the banks of two cultures, that of the world and that of Judaism . . . a dual allegiance . . . that preserves the Jew’s integrity as both a Jew and a citizen of the world.” (Paul Mendes-Flohr, German Jews, p. 44). To live with a hyphenated identity is not a balancing act unique to American Jewry. Most famously W.E.B. Du Bois wrote of the double consciousness of his community, to feel two souls, two thoughts, two un-reconciled strivings in one body (Souls of Black Folk, p. 364-5). In the American-Jewish context this ideal was best expressed by Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, who wrote that the American Jew could live simultaneously in “two civilizations.” (Future of the American Jew, p. 96). American Jews are heirs to a two-fold spiritual patrimony, American and Jewish: We must be loyal to both, we must protect both, and we must balance the two on the fulcrum of the hyphen at the core of our identities.

To live with a hyphenated identity is a delicate juggling act, a dynamic and sometimes disorienting struggle to integrate our multiple selves. Sometimes it tips one way, sometimes the other. I am reminded of the exchange between Kissinger and Golda Meir, when Kissinger informed the Prime Minister that he was first an American and then a Jew. To which she replied, “That's fine, because in Israel we read from right to left.” You will not be surprised to hear that growing up, baseball was everything to me. You will also not be surprised to hear that in my household growing up, it was understood that you went to synagogue every week. I have distinct memories of waking up early for a game, changing in the synagogue bathroom, and bowing down for aleinu hoping nobody saw my baseball stirrups poking out from under my suit. More importantly, I remember my father, who to this very day will wake up early on a Shabbat morning to see his patients before he comes to shul. I think of my older brother, who despite the fact that thirty years later “The Who” is still playing Madison Square Garden, remains traumatized by my parents’ refusal to let him attend their “final farewell” concert because it fell on Shabbat. I also remember that when my other brother, the one who was actually good at baseball, made state championships, not only did he play on a Friday night, but every member of my family was there to cheer him on. I could give you a million examples. Sometimes the balance tipped one way, sometimes it tipped the other way, and sometimes, some weird third way emerged that sought to awkwardly reconcile our Jewish and secular selves. But no matter what the outcome, the understanding in our household was that every decision would be processed by way of that hyphen. My brothers and I all lead very different Jewish lives, and we all married wives with very different religious sensibilities. But the same hyphen sits at the core of all our identities; it is the prism through which we negotiate who we are in this world, spiritually, communally, financially and otherwise.

My fear, in a sentence, is that we are losing our ability to articulate that hyphen. We may know what it means to be an American, we may even know what it means to be a Jew, but we have forgotten that the essence of who we are is not one or the other, but both. We are failing to communicate the ideal, to model it in our own lives, and to pass it down from one generation to the next. The recent Pew study of American Jewry revealed the demographic shifts taking place in the Jewish community and the faith community as a whole. A rightward shift towards tradition, a leftward shift towards secularism, resulting in a collapse of the vital religious center. Jews, among other faith traditions, have been led to believe that the choice is “either/or,” forgetting that the ideal, as best expressed by Conservative Judaism, is that our two identities are meant to inform each other. The ideal is a Judaism shaped by its contemporary context and a contemporary context shaped by our Jewish identity. This is the secret sauce of the project called American Judaism, and it is a project, my friends, whose future is in serious jeopardy.

Long past are the days when a rabbi can stand in front of a congregation and tell everyone to keep kosher, keep Shabbat, or make aliyah to Israel. You recall the story of the young rabbi applying for a pulpit who was being prepped by the chairman of the synagogue for his interview sermon. The rabbi indicated that he intended to talk about the importance of keeping kosher. The chairman advised, “No, no, I would stay away from that. Many of our congregants don’t keep kosher and you will alienate them.” The young rabbi responded that maybe a better topic might be the importance of Shabbat. The chairman advised, “No, no, definitely stay away from Shabbat; our community has a wide range of practice, and God forbid you should make anyone feel uncomfortable.” “If not Shabbat, if not kashrut,” the young rabbi asked, “Then what should I talk about?” “You know,” replied the chairman, “talk to them about Judaism!”

I am not going to preach to you about any single mitzvah – Shabbat, kashrut or any other – but I am going to make you a bit uncomfortable. Because if there is one question that I want to simmer in your soul over this Yom Kippur, one act of spiritual inventory in which I want you to engage, it is to squarely confront the hyphen of your identity. More than any single practice you can pass down to your children and grandchildren, ask yourself, check yourself if you are communicating the dynamic tension of what it means to be an American Jew, the tension upon which our future depends. One of the biggest decisions my wife and I had to make this year was whether my teenage daughter was going to go to secular or Jewish high school. We had multiple long, honest discussions about it – not just between me and my wife, but with my daughter, so she understood the full implications of the decision. Another one of my kids is a very talented gymnast, talented enough that this year she will have meets on Shabbat. I can’t tell you how it will all shake out, but I can tell you that there will be lots of tears in our household – on all sides – as we negotiate and navigate this decision. Your children, I know, have ballet, and tennis, and piano, and all sorts of commitments that conflict with Hebrew school. It isn’t easy, I know, believe you me. But if your only response is to call the synagogue with the news that you are pulling your kid from Hebrew school, you may well succeed in celebrating a private bar mitzvah somewhere, but you will have failed to teach your child what it means to live with a hyphenated identity. The message your child will internalize is that Jewish community is something to be part of when it is convenient, but when it conflicts with another commitment we create a work-around. Our children pick up on our behavior; they know what’s going on when you drop them off for Hebrew school but fail to come in yourself. More often than not it is our nonverbal cues that communicate the biggest message of all. Of the four children at the seder table, the most interesting by far is the second child, the one who asks his parent: “What does this service mean to you?” This child isn’t wicked; his question is the honest one. If we can’t provide an answer to our child, by our words and our deeds, as to what being Jewish means to us, then how in the world can that child be expected to construct an answer for himself?

If you have fallen in love with someone who is not Jewish, whether or not that person converts, and you have not communicated that your shared love must go hand-in-hand with your commitment to Jewish life and tradition, then you have failed to articulate the hyphen. If your name is displayed on a cultural institution, research center, or college scholarship, but not on an institution that serves to perpetuate Jewish life, then you have failed to articulate the hyphen. If you can sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” but not Israel’s national anthem Hatikvah, then you have failed to articulate the hyphen. If you have gone ziplining in Costa Rica, but have never dipped in Israel’s Dead Sea, then you have failed to articulate the hyphen. If you have season tickets to the theatre, but have yet to sign up for a class, lecture, or concert in the synagogue, then you have failed to articulate the hyphen. If you are happy to have a seder in your home, but are unable to bring yourself to bring matzah and cream cheese to work over Passover, then you have failed to articulate the hyphen. To be an American Jew isn’t easy; it’s advanced citizenship, you’ve gotta want it bad. It means that being Jewish makes a claim on your identity and that claim affects the choices you make, in the public sphere and in the private sphere: How you spend your time and resources, how you determine your level of observance, and the educational decisions you make for yourself and your children. There is no single algorithm, each one of us needs to figure it out for ourselves. But we do all need to engage in the struggle. If we want to restore the dream of the hyphen to American-Jewish life, then we need to reinforce the intensity of the Jewish lives we lead. We may rise or fall, succeed or fail, but let us do ourselves and the Jewish future the dignity of knowing that we were honest with ourselves, our children, and our grandchildren and that we left it all out on the field.

If you know a little about Sandy Koufax, then you know that he grew up a very close friend to another Jewish New Yorker of note, a New Yorker, who God bless is having a fabulous year: the owner of the Mets, Fred Wilpon. In my research on Koufax, I discovered a kernel of a story about Wilpon that I think teaches us much today, and maybe, way back when, taught something to his friend Koufax as well. As the story goes, back in the day in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, no matter what your background – Irish, Italian, Jewish – the best baseball was played through the Catholic Youth Organization based out of St. Athanasius on Bay Parkway between 61st and 62nd. Young Fred played in that league, which was run by a wonderful priest, Father John Fleming, who served his community with distinction until he was called to Rome in 1963. One fall day, out of the blue, Fred’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Wilpon, received a phone call from the parish office informing them that Father Fleming would like to pay them a visit. You can imagine their combination of curiosity and anxiety at playing host to the communal religious leader. Fran Wilpon nervously baked cookies in anticipation of his visit. Father Fleming, it turns out, came by to express regret to the family that the championship game would be played that year on the High Holidays. Although I have on good authority that Nat and Fran of blessed memory would never have let Fred play on the holidays, Father Fleming communicated that he understood Fred’s conflict, and suggested to the family that he not play. A Jew, Father Fleming reasoned, should always be proud of his faith and for him not to play would send a message to all the boys in the neighborhood, Jewish and non-Jewish, on what it means to be proud of your heritage. Affirming how he was raised, young Fred took Father Fleming’s counsel to heart and did not play, though I think we can all agree his baseball career turned out just fine.

Is there a direct link between Father Fleming, Fred Wilpon, and Sandy Koufax’s decision years later? I don’t know. What I do know are three things. First, I know that there was once was a time when a Catholic priest helped teach a Jewish kid that to be a Jew means you have to affirm your faith even when it conflicts with another aspect of your being. Second, I know that a few years later, fifty years ago today, Sandy Koufax taught American Jews that it is possible to live in two worlds, that the hyphenated dream of American-Jewish identity can be ours to embrace if we strive to do so. Finally, I know that fifty years from then, the unprecedented freedoms we enjoy as American Jews, freedoms that have been a source of extraordinary blessing, have also presented an unprecedented challenge to the dynamic tension of what it means to be an American Jew. It will not be any priest, nor for that matter, any rabbi, who will determine whether our generation successfully articulates the hyphen within. It is will be up to you, each and every one of you, to struggle to find that balance and to model that struggle for our children, our grandchildren, and beyond. May we succeed in our task and may the dream of American Jewry be renewed for generations to come.