“Young, gifted and religious: What do we expect from our tradition and our society? / Growing up religiously in a changing world.”
I would like to start by saying what a privilege it is for me to be here. It is a great honour to be asked to contribute to JCM and such a joy to have the chance to participate in this conference.
On being asked to speak I first asked myself: why did they choose me? Why am I the one for
this task? But then, as the old Jewish joke goes…
A man asks the rabbi, why do Jews always answer questions with another question? The
rabbi replies, how should they answer?
I have always been more interested in asking questions then giving answers. I am probably
better at it, too. According to the wisdom of the Rabbinic tradition, the only thing in the world that can be perfect is a question. So, if you were expecting to get answers today, you may instead be left with new questions.
However, you are probably – and very rightly – interested in what brought me here and why
I was chosen to speak today. I suppose I do fit the theme of this conference, as I am young and religious, and I have grown up religiously in a changing world. What exactly does this mean?
My story is an unusual one, both in Western and Eastern European terms. I was born in a
Jewish family in Hungary in 1984, on the eve of socialism. By Jewish family I mean that both my parents were of Jewish descent, but neither of them knew much about their tradition (apart from the fact that their families had been victims of the Holocaust), and they had not been brought up with religion. This, in itself, was not unusual in Hungary. My story became unique when I started visiting London regularly at a very young age, and in the company of my parents I encountered Reform Judaism. My mother and father started discovering their Jewish roots and their religion as I was growing up, and for 3 years I attended a Progressive Jewish primary school in England. In the meantime, my mother was attending Rabbinical College and went on to become the first and (to this day) only female rabbi in Hungary. Of course, I was seen as unusual in England in the sense that I had come from an Eastern European, assimilated background; but upon my return to Hungary I was considered equally odd there to have a fairly healthy and positive Jewish identity, which my peers didn’t have the good fortune to have acquired. In my secondary school in Hungary being Jewish consisted of making fun of Christianity. I was not interested in the slightest in joining this community. I have always felt I had more in common with my religious Christian friends than my atheist Jewish classmates, even if this came as shocking news to some of my parents’ generation, who talked about “a cultural Jewish identity”. In common terms this cultural identity means we don’t go to synagogue and don’t pray but we like Woody Allen. I can understand where this attitude stems from, and don’t get me wrong, I love Woody Allen. But I was always more interested in the spiritual side of religion, even if it was hard to find anyone my age who felt the same as me. As a result of the duality of my Hungarian and British childhood, I’ve felt like a stranger, an outsider most of my life, and have become quite accustomed to this state of affairs now – it is a cliché to say I’m the perfect example of the wandering Jew, but a true one. You might ask me if I now live in Hungary or Britain… the answer is the Czech Republic. And I have no idea where I will end up settling down.
What meaning does my faith have for me? I was young enough when I started believing in
God not to question the Almighty’s existence. I cannot say why I believe in God because I feel this question is beyond the realm of reasoning or logic, but I can say I consider myself lucky to have this faith, made stronger by the fact that it originates from childhood, as I think the world would look a lot bleaker without faith.
One of my favourite Jewish traditions serves as a good example of unrelenting faith in a
better future. It has been introduced to our community from Eastern Europe via America. On the Seder night, the festival to celebrate liberation from slavery, we pour a glass of wine for Elijah the prophet, to show we are awaiting the coming of the Messiah. At the end of the night, seeing that the wine has not been drunk, we pour the wine from Elijah’s cup back into the bottle while we sing these lines from Psalm 118: “You are my God, and I will praise you; you are my God, and I will exalt you” to a haunting, beautiful tune. I find so much sadness and yet such a strong sense of hope and faith in this gesture, as it incorporates the acceptance of the fact that the Messiah has not come yet, and the belief that we will not give up waiting, we still trust that there will be a brighter future.
This trust does not have any rational foundation; however, I regard it quite inappropriate to
search for logic in religion. It has become fashionable in the circle of contemporary intellectuals to criticise religion for its illogical nature, in books such as “The Age of Absurdity” by Michael Foley, along these lines: “It is ironic that Christianity, the religion of the rational West, is, in fact, completely irrational, inconsistent and even absurd, whereas Buddhism, the religion of the mystical East, is completely rational, consistent and even practical – not a creed requiring a leap of faith into absurdity, but a method that can be shown to work.” (Foley, p. 25)
I find arguments like his rather irritating, as looking for consistency or rationality in religion is, in itself, absurd. The very beauty of religion is its irrationality, and any attempt at rationalising it would be taking away its essence. I was also intrigued yet deeply puzzled at the news of Alain de Botton’s proposal to build an Atheist temple in London. On this matter I tend to agree with Richard Dawkins for once, who claimed the money was being misspent and that a temple of atheism was a contradiction in terms. But this is something that I’d be interested to hear your opinions on later.
Unlike many of you, I have a lot of personal experience with confirmed atheists, having lived
most of my life surrounded by non-religious people, as Judaism has never been my main field of study or work. I feel one rabbi in the family is enough. In the past few years in particular some of those closest to me have been people who hated religion with a fervent passion. They all had good reasons for doing so, such as having been brought up in a fundamentalist sect, or being from a country where religion serves as the basis of war and hatred to this very day. So I’m quite used to a wide array of reactions from my generation when revealing my Jewish identity, ranging from forgiving smiles and bewilderment mixed with mild disgust (She’s a bit odd), to outrage (Religion is to be blamed for all evils of the world) or covert anti-Semitism (I once knew a Jew who was nice…). I suppose I have become immune to these reactions, and do not have the desire to convince anyone that they should turn to religion; I think it is a private matter. However, I do consider it my mission to try and make people see that NOT all religion is evil, fundamentalist and narrow-minded. Sadly, religion has very bad “PR” these days, so many people only hear about it in the context of war and terrorism. In fact, my fantastic experiences at the last 2 JCM conferences have served as my most powerful argument to convince people about the opposite. But there is always something comforting about finding a fellow outsider, another believer like myself, as if we had inadvertently become members of a secret club. When I was studying English Literature at the University of York, I noticed that one of my course mates never drank alcohol. I didn’t want to ask him about it, but after several months I somehow mentioned to him that my mother was a rabbi, and he was greatly relieved to confess that he, in fact, was a Mormon. Neither of us would have felt comfortable talking about our religions with the other people on our course – not because they would have condemned us, but because it would have sounded totally alien to them, something that our secularised generation would not be able to relate to. Interestingly enough, the other person I ended up befriending there turned out to be from a devout Quaker background.
One of my favourite contemporary writers, a British woman named Jeanette Winterson, belongs to the above-mentioned group who have a well-founded personal reason for disliking religion. Yet in her recent autobiography ‘Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?’ she offers some valuable insights into the vacant nature of our secular existence. “A meaningless life for a human being has none of the dignity of animal unselfconsciousness; we cannot simply eat, sleep, hunt and reproduce – we are meaning-seeking creatures. The Western world has done away with religion but not with our religious impulses; we seem to need some higher purpose, some point to our lives – money and leisure, social progress, are just not enough. We shall have to find new ways of finding meaning – it is not yet clear how this will happen.” (Winterson, p. 68)
In a nutshell: I do not think religious people are in any way better than non-religious people, in fact I have a great respect and love for many friends holding anti-religious views. I do, however, think that I may consider myself lucky in some sense to have the blessing of faith. I think all religions that I know of are beautiful and intriguing, as well as being potentially dangerous and even deadly at the same time.
This diversity is the most important thing to realise if someone is approaching a religion as
an outsider: no tradition is homogenous and there are several strands, approaches and
interpretations inside each one. This is especially true of Judaism in today’s world. To say “I don’t like Judaism” would be as absurd as saying “I don’t like food” – how can somebody have an equal dislike for spaghetti Bolognese, chocolate cake, chicken soup and apples? Such pluralism seemed to be a basic characteristic of Jewish communities in every city and country I have seen so far. Orthodox, Conservative, Reform and Liberal Judaism disagree with each other on many basic matters, not to speak of the Chabad Lubavitch, Reconstructionist Jews and others. On the one hand this is sad, because it leads to many conflicts between people who essentially share the same faith. Looking on the bright side though, it means that young people like myself have the chance to choose a variation of their tradition that they find compatible with the values and lifestyle of our time. I am not trying to say that my choice of Reform and Liberal Judaism is the right one for everybody, but I think it is important to emphasise that many choices exist, as opposed to the binary opposition of
anachronistic fundamentalism and enlightened atheism.
What are my expectations towards my religious tradition as a young person? It is essential
in my opinion for any religion to be accepting and welcoming towards other people. Being open to dialogue with other faiths, and having a liberal attitude to moral issues in contemporary life is something that I personally could never give up. A lot of Biblical and Rabbinical laws do not and cannot make sense in our world today; accepting them literally, without any thought or interpretation could hold many dangers. I personally feel that Judaism can be egalitarian (giving equal rights to men and women), liberal and inclusive. Many young people would agree with me; however I cannot say that the Progressive approaches are the only strands of religion to attract my generation. I have heard of many young people being increasingly drawn to the orthodox way of life, and I respect their choice as long as it does not harm others or result in extremism. For me, however, it is very important in our secular and intercultural society to be able to live together with non-Jews, and I think this requires some flexibility and open-mindedness. Tradition is important but being tolerant and non-judgmental towards others are equally essential.
And in what way, you might ask, is religion relevant for young people if I find so many
aspects of it problematic? There are a lot of things that I dislike about modern day society and I often find myself genuinely worried about the youth of today, even if this makes me sound inappropriately grandmother-like. In an era of obsession with smart phones, Facebook, computer games, gadgets and brands, an age of consumerism ruled by advertising and TV programmes, an age of impatience and boredom in the face of the increasing multitude of stimuli, I think we need God more than ever. My teenage students recently told me they do not write emails because “to wait for a whole day for someone’s reply” is preposterously long. Instead, they only use instant chat. In my time, we wrote letters… I am only 10 years older than them, but feel that there is an unbridgeable abyss dividing us. I also sympathise deeply with the aforementioned Michael Foley’s outrage at a piece of news characterising modern attitudes to encountering difficulty: “It is shocking and profoundly regrettable, but, apparently, the sales of oranges are falling steadily because people can
no longer be bothered to peel them.” (Foley, p. 112)
If one needs to wait for something, or to work for it, they will appreciate it more when they
get it – but our society is used to demanding instant satisfaction. I think the Western world
desperately needs values, as we need spirituality – we need something to aspire to that is more than a new pair of trainers, the latest tablet PC, a better car, a better house, a better body. These are things that money can buy; at the same time, however, money has become an end in itself as opposed to being a means to an end. We need to remember how lucky we are to be alive and that we can be thankful for the sunshine and the snow, the clouds in the sky, our friends, our family – the things that we take for granted. In fact the original word for Jew, “Yehudi”, means one who is grateful. Too many people have forgotten it, and sometimes I’m inclined to make this mistake too, but for this very reason it is more important than ever to remind ourselves constantly.
Every Friday night I go to the Liberal Jewish community in Prague to take part in their
Shabbat service and I feel truly at home there (one more thing to be grateful for!). something struck me recently as we read their progressive, interpretive translation of Aleynu, the main closing prayer.
“Therefore, Almighty God, we put our hope in You. Soon let us witness the glory of Your
power; when the worship of material things shall pass away from the earth, and prejudice and
superstition shall at last be cut off; when the world will be set right by the rule of God, and all humanity shall speak out in your name.”
The phrase “when the worship of material things shall pass away” (in Hebrew,” the worship
of idols”), seems particularly relevant to me today as well as “prejudice” being cut off. I do not think this prayer means that we are hoping everyone will once become Jewish – for me it certainly does not carry this meaning. However, to pray for spiritualism to overcome the idolatry of materialism and for understanding to triumph over prejudice is something that we can all do.
References:
Foley, Michael, The Age of Absurdity. London: Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2010.
Winterson, Jeanette, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? London: Jonathan Cape,
2011.
Aleynu translation from: Hegyon Lev, Czech and Slovak Progressive prayer book. Prague: Bejt Simcha, 2008. Ed. Jan David Reitshlager, Tomas Kucera.
