The Great Privilege of being a Jew

by Douglas Altabef

Let’s face it: the raging debate about Jews having white privilege is a bit absurd.

Jews are basically a historical Rohrschach depiction of a People. In other words, we take the form, we are regarded through the eyes of those who perceive us.

For most of the past two millenia, Jews were certainly not regarded as being like other people. In Europe, we were first the Christ-rejectors/killers, who per Augustine, were being kept around in order to bear witness to our own degradation and supersession by the Church.

Not too much privilege there.

Come the Enlightenment, and we became the great chameleons of civilization. We could be morphed from usurious capitalists to stateless communists in the blink of an eye. We were vermin, who were still managing somehow, thanks to the Rothschilds, to control the world.

Pretty exhausting, if you ask me.

Jews were a subhuman race, who threatened the purity of the Aryans. But we also threatened the peasantry of Poland and Russia. And after the Enlightenment, we were a threat by virtue of the fact that many Jews sought to convert to Christianity in order to gain access to the higher reaches of their society.

In Muslim countries, we were tolerated as dhimmis, second class citizens. We couldn’t wear the same clothes as others, nor walk on the same sidewalk if it meant inconveniencing a passing Muslim.

So where is the privilege from? It comes from the now dirty word called “achievement.”

Jews who fled pogroms, death sentence conscriptions in the Tsar’s or the Sultan’s armies, who typically came to America with nothing, worked hard and saw their children and grandchildren rise.

Jews sacrificed, educated their children, embraced America and the American dream and vision, and they succeeded.

Somehow, that has a sinister ring to it. Somehow, to a great many people today,  that cannot explain what Jews are about. There must be some secret sauce, some hidden card that has made it all possible. Could that be our latent privilege?

Or is privilege what happens when you work hard and succeed? Besides achieving material success, and social acceptance, can you achieve privilege?

Well, allow me to let you all in on a little secret. I, a proud Jew, am wildly privileged. Not because I might or might not be white, but because through no work of my own, by happy Providence, I was born into a Jewish family of two wonderful Jewish parents and was raised to be the next link of the Jewish chain.

I was shown that, despite the mind-boggling persecution, disdain, vulnerability, powerlessness, instability and uncertainty of what it meant for thousands of years to be a Jew, I was somehow, nevertheless, a card carrying, bona fide Jew.

Meaning, that against any and all odds of historical endurance, I was allowed to come into the world as a Jew. I was privileged to stand on the shoulders of generations of ancestors who had decided, against all good common sense, to stay as Jews.

I had ancestors who were expelled from Spain rather than take the easy way out of kissing a cross and letting it all go.

I had ancestors who toiled in poverty and constant uncertainty in Galicia, and in the Ottoman Empire, yet who believed that they had been endowed with something worth keeping.

So yes, I am enormously privileged. Because I have had the privilege to validate the struggles and sacrifices of those who enabled me to do all of that.

And to top it all off, I packed up my privileged self and, together with my privileged wife and one of our privileged children, moved to Israel, which has to be the most privileged place on earth.

We moved to a place that for almost 2000 years was a dream, an idea, a memory, a yearning. But not really a place.

But through the will power, fueled by the suffering of all those generations who were - let’s be candid here - hated, despised and loathed by most everyone around them - of Jews who refused to give up the fraught privilege of being Jews, the place that was a dreamy memory, became a gritty reality.

And the gritty reality survived against the same kind of odds that Jews have been facing for close to forever. So, this place, Israel, succeeded, and of course by doing so, it must be guilty of unspeakable crimes against - you fill in the blank -because that is what it means to be a Jew.

You do things that shouldn’t be able to be done. You endure things that shouldn’t be put up with. That is part of the existential job description of what it means to be a Jew.

And I cannot imagine a greater privilege than the opportunity to be part of it all.

ESTHER

PESHAT AND DERASH IN MEGILLAT ESTHER[1]

By Rabbi Hayyim Angel

INTRODUCTION

Elisha ben Avuyah said: one who learns as a child, to what is he compared? To ink written upon a new writing sheet; and one who learns [when] old, to what is he compared? To ink written upon an erased writing sheet. (Avot 4:20)

          Megillat Esther is among the most difficult biblical books to study anew, precisely because it is so familiar. Many assumptions accompany us through our study of the Megillah, occasionally clouding our perceptions of what is in the text and what is not.

          Any serious study of the peshat messages of the Megillah must begin with a clear sense of what is explicitly in the text, what can be inferred legitimately from the text, and what belongs primarily in a thematic exposition, using the text as a springboard for important religious concepts. This chapter will consider some pertinent examples from Megillat Esther.

PESHAT CONSIDERATIONS IN THE MEGILLAH

A. THE SAUL–AGAG REMATCH

          On five occasions in the Megillah, Haman is called an “Agagite.”[2] Several early traditions consider this appellation a reference to Haman’s descent from King Agag of Amalek, whom Saul defeated (I Sam. 15).[3]

          Similarly, several midrashic traditions identify the Kish of Mordecai’s pedigree (2:5) with Saul’s father (I Sam. 9:1).[4] From this vantage point, Mordecai’s recorded pedigree spans some five centuries in order to connect him and Esther to Saul. If indeed Haman is of royal Amalekite stock, and Mordecai and Esther descend from King Saul, then the Purim story may be viewed as a dramatic rematch of the battle between Saul and Agag.

          However, neither assumption is rooted in the text of the Megillah. The etymology of “Agagite” is uncertain; while it could mean “from King Agag of Amalek,” it may be a Persian or Elamite name.[5] Had the author wanted to associate Haman with Amalek, he could have dubbed him “the Amalekite.” The same holds true for Mordecai and Esther’s descent from King Saul. If the Megillah wished to link them it could have named Saul instead of “Kish” (Ibn Ezra). It is possible that the Kish mentioned in the Megillah is Mordecai’s great-grandfather rather than a distant ancestor.[6]

        Regardless of the historical factuality of the aforementioned identifications, a strong argument can be made for a thematic rematch between the forces of good and evil which runs parallel to Saul’s inadequate efforts to eradicate Amalek. In this case, the association can be inferred from the text of the Megillah itself.[7] The conflict between Mordecai and Haman as symbolic of a greater battle between Israel and Amalek is well taken conceptually, but it is tenuous to contend that the biological connections are manifest in the text. However, if the midrashim had received oral traditions regarding these historical links, we accept them—ve-im kabbalah hi, nekabbel.

B. ASSIMILATION

          It is sometimes argued that the turning point in the Megillah is when the Jews fast (4:1–3, 16–17; 9:31), thereby repenting from earlier assimilationist tendencies demonstrated by their sinful participation in Ahasuerus’ party. According to this reading, Haman’s decree was direct retribution for their communal sin. However, the text contains no theological explanation of why the Jews “deserved” genocide; on the contrary, the sole textual motivation behind Haman’s decree is Mordecai’s refusal to show obeisance to Haman (3:2–8). By staunchly standing out, Mordecai jeopardizes his own life and the lives of his people.[8]

          Moreover, there is no indication in the Megillah that the Jews ever did anything wrong. On the contrary, the references to the Jews acting as a community display them mourning and fasting,[9] first spontaneously, and then at Mordecai’s directive (4:1–3, 16–17; 9:31). They celebrate their victory by sending gifts to each other and giving charity to the poor (9:16–28).

          Consider also Haman’s formulation of his request to exterminate the Jews: “Their laws are different from every nation” (3:8). Several midrashim find in Haman’s accusation testimony that the Jews observed the commandments and stood distinctly apart from their pagan counterparts.[10]

          Curiously, the only overt indications of foreign influence on the Jews in the Megillah are the names Mordecai and Esther, which likely derive from the pagan deities Marduk[11] and Ishtar.[12] However, the use of pagan names need not indicate assimilation of Mordecai and Esther, nor of the community at large.[13]

          Not only is there no textual evidence of Jewish assimilation—on the contrary, the Megillah consistently portrays Jews positively—but there is no rabbinic consensus on this matter either. The oft-quoted Gemara used to prove assimilation states:

R. Shimon b. Yohai was asked by his disciples, Why were the enemies of Israel [a euphemism for the Jews] in that generation deserving of extermination? He said to them: Answer the question. They said: Because they partook of the feast of that wicked one. [He said to them]: If so, those in Shushan should have been killed, but not those in other provinces! They then said, answer the question. He said to them: It was because they bowed down to the image. They said to him, then why did God forgive them [i.e., they really deserved to be destroyed]? He replied: They only pretended to worship, and He also only pretended to exterminate them; and so it is written, “For he afflicted not from his heart.” (Megillah 12a)

R. Shimon b. Yohai’s students suggested that the Jews deserved to be destroyed because of their willing participation in Ahasuerus’ party, but they did not state what was wrong with this participation. Song of Songs Rabbah 7:8 posits that the Jews sinned at the party by eating nonkosher food. Alternatively, Esther Rabbah 7:13 considers lewdness the primary sin at the party.[14]

          A contrary midrashic opinion is found in Midrash Panim Aherim 2, which relates that the Jews specifically avoided the party. Related sources describe that the Jews cried and mourned over Ahasuerus’ festivities.[15]

          Within the aforementioned rabbinic opinions, we find controversy over what was wrong with the party and the extent of the Jews’ participation (if any). But this entire discussion becomes moot when we consider that R. Shimon b. Yohai rejects his students’ hypothesis on the grounds that only Shushan’s Jewry participated; the Jews in other provinces never attended either of Ahasuerus’ parties.[16]

          R. Shimon b. Yohai then submits his own opinion: the Jews bowed to “the image.” Rashi avers that the image refers to the statue of Nebuchadnezzar erected and worshipped generations earlier (see Daniel chapter 3), while Meiri (Sanhedrin 74b) quotes an alternative reading of our Gemara, which indicates that the “image” was an idol that Haman wore as people bowed to him.[17]

          Both possibilities present difficulties: According to Rashi, the Jews were to be punished for the transgression of their ancestors, though there is no evidence that they perpetuated this sinful conduct. According to Meiri’s alternative reading, the question of R. Shimon b. Yohai to his students simply becomes more acute: only the members of the king’s court in Shushan bowed to Haman. Most Jews of Shushan, and all Jews from the outer provinces, never prostrated before Haman.

          In any case, the Gemara concludes that the Jews bowed without conviction. God “externally” threatened the Jews in return, that is, the threat was perceived, not real. The Gemara never resolves the theological question of why the Jews deserved such a harsh decree. The text of the Megillah consistently portrays the Jews in a favorable light, and the Gemara’s ambivalence over the theological cause of the Purim story only supports this positive assessment. In light of these factors, we must relegate discussions of assimilation to the realm of derekh ha-derash, that is, assimilation is something to be criticized, but the Megillah is not engaged in this condemnation—rather, it is concerned with other religious purposes.

C. RELIGIOUS OBSERVANCE

          The Megillah makes no mention of the distinctly commandment‑related behavior of the heroes, nor of the nation. Other than the term Yehudi(m), there is nothing distinctly Jewish in the Megillah. Most prominent is the absence of God’s Name. Also missing are any references to the Torah or specific commandments. In this light, the holiday of Purim could be viewed as a nationalistic celebration of victory. The only sign of religious ritual is fasting; but even that conspicuously is not accompanied by prayer. The omission of God’s name and prayer is even more striking when we contrast the Masoretic Text with the Septuagint additions to the Megillah—where the Jews pray to God and God intervenes on several occasions. In the Septuagint version, God’s Name appears over fifty times.[18] It appears unmistakable that the author of the Megillah intended to stifle references to God and Jewish religious practice. The second section of this chapter will address the question of why this is so.

D. MORDECAI’S DISOBEDIENCE

          Mordecai’s rationale for not prostrating himself involves his Jewishness (3:4), but the Megillah does not explain how. Many biblical figures bow to kings and nobles as a sign of respect, not worship; notably Esther bows to Ahasuerus in 8:3.[19] The text suggests that Mordecai did not want to honor the king and his command (see 3:2–4), but this explanation seems puzzling. Would Mordecai endanger his own life and the lives of all Jews[20] for this reason? Esther Rabbah 6:2 finds it unlikely:

But Mordecai did not bow down nor prostrate himself before him (3:2). Was Mordecai then looking for quarrels or being disobedient to the king’s command? The fact is that when Ahasuerus ordered that all should bow down to Haman, the latter fixed an idolatrous image on his breast for the purpose of making all bow down to an idol.[21]

Other rabbinic sources contend that rather than wearing an idol, Haman considered himself a deity.[22]

          Nevertheless, the text never alludes to idolatry in regard to Haman, nor anywhere else in the Megillah.[23] It appears that technical idolatry did not figure into Mordecai’s refusal to bow to Haman. In the second section of this chapter, we will consider alternative responses to this question.

          To conclude, certain midrashic assumptions are without clear support in the biblical text, and there often is disagreement in rabbinic sources. Both Mordecai and Esther’s biological connection to Saul and Haman’s descent from Agag of Amalek are debatable. There is no evidence of Jewish assimilation, nor is there testimony to overtly Jewish religiosity. Finally, it is unclear why Mordecai refused to bow to Haman, which is surprising given the centrality this episode has in the narrative.

          Although these ambiguities make an understanding of the Megillah more complicated, they also free the interpreter to look beyond the original boundaries of explanation and to reconsider the text and its messages anew.

THE CENTRAL MESSAGES OF THE MEGILLAH

A. AHASUERUS AS THE MAIN CHARACTER

          In determining the literary framework of the Megillah, Rabbi David Henshke notes that, viewed superficially, chapter 1 only contributes Vashti’s removal, making way for Esther. However, the text elaborately describes the king’s wealth and far-reaching power. This lengthy description highlights the fact that there is a different plot. The king’s power is described in detail because it is central to the message of the Megillah. Moreover the Megillah does not end with the Jews’ celebration. It concludes with a description of Ahasuerus’ wealth and power, just as it begins. The bookends of the story point to the fact that the Purim story is played out on Ahasuerus’ stage.[24]

          The other major characters—Esther, Mordecai, and Haman—are completely dependent on the good will of the king. For example, the political influence of Esther and Mordecai ostensibly contributed significantly to the salvation of the Jews. However, their authority was subject to the king’s moods. Esther knew that Vashti had been deposed in an instant. The king even held a second beauty contest immediately after choosing Esther as queen (2:19). When the moment to use her influence arrived, Esther was terrified to confront the king to plead on behalf of her people. The fact that she had not been summoned for thirty days reminded her of her precarious position (4:11).

          Mordecai, who rose to power at the end of the Megillah, likewise must have recognized the king’s fickleness. Just as the previous vizier was hanged, Mordecai never could feel secure in his new position.

          Rabbi Henshke points out that after Haman parades Mordecai around Shushan (a tremendous moral victory for Mordecai over his archenemy), Mordecai midrashically returns to his sackcloth and ashes (see Megillah 16a). After Haman is hanged, which should have ended the conflict between Mordecai and Haman, only the king is relieved, because the threat to his own wife is eliminated (7:10). Even after Ahasuerus turns Haman’s post over to Mordecai, Esther still must grovel before the king (8:1–6). The Jews remain in mortal fear because of the king’s decree, irrespective of Haman.

B. GOD AND AHASUERUS

          Most of the main characters of the Megillah have counterparts: Mordecai opposes Haman; Esther is contrasted to Vashti (and later Zeresh). On the surface, only Ahasuerus does not have a match—but behind the scenes, he does: it is God.[25] While God’s Name never appears in the Megillah, “the king” appears approximately 200 times. It would appear that Ahasuerus’ absolute power is meant to occupy the role normally assigned to God elsewhere in Tanakh.[26]

          Everyone must prostrate before the king’s vizier—how much more respect is therefore required for the one who appointed him! And one who enters the throne room without the king’s permission risks his or her life—reminiscent of the Jewish law of the gravity of entering the Holy of Holies, God’s “throne room.” Even the lavish parties at the beginning of the Megillah fit this theme. Instead of all the nations of the world coming to the Temple in Jerusalem to serve God (Isa. 2:2–4), all the nations of the world come to the palace in Shushan to see Ahasuerus’ wealth and to get drunk.

C. THE MEGILLAH AS SATIRE[27]

          Along with Ahasuerus’ authority and absolute power comes a person riddled with caprice and foolishness. Ahasuerus rules the world, but his own wife does not listen to him. He makes decisions while drunk and accepts everyone’s advice. Rabbi Henshke convincingly argues that the primary point of the Megillah is to display the ostensible power of a human king while satirizing his weaknesses.

          The patterns established in chapter 1 continue throughout the Megillah. Haman is promoted simply because the king wants to promote him. This promotion occurs right after Mordecai saves the king’s life and is not rewarded at all. Despite the constant emphasis on the king’s laws, Ahasuerus readily sells an innocent nation for destruction and drinks to that decision (3:11–15). Later he still has the audacity to exclaim, “mi hu zeh ve-ei zeh hu!” (who is he and where is he, 7:5). Despite the king’s indignant proclamation, the answer to his question is that it is the king himself who is the enemy of the Jews![28]

          The striking parallel between Haman’s decree (3:11–15) and Mordecai’s (8:7–14) further illustrates the king’s inconstancy: both edicts follow the identical legal procedure and employ virtually the same language, yet one allows the Jews to be exterminated while the other permits the Jews to defend themselves. The decree of self-defense rather than a repeal of Haman’s decree of extermination demonstrates that Ahasuerus is subservient to his own decrees to the point where he cannot even retract them himself (1:19; 8:8, cf. Dan. 6:9, 13, 15-16). Finally, the Bigtan and Teresh incident (2:21–23) serves as a reminder that the king’s power was precarious and that his downfall could arise suddenly from within his Empire.[29]

D. MORDECAI’S DISOBEDIENCE

          We may identify two layers of motivation for Mordecai’s not bowing to Haman: Rabbi Yaakov Medan asserts that Mordecai does not bow because he needs to send a strong message to Israel: passivity in the face of evil can cause even more harm in the future.[30]

          In light of Rabbi Henshke’s analysis, another answer emerges: Mordecai wishes to oppose the king’s command (3:2, 4). Once the king promotes Haman (especially right after Mordecai had saved the king’s life yet received no reward), Mordecai recognizes the fickle character of the king. Even further, Mordecai perceives that Ahasuerus had “replaced” God as the major visible power in Shushan. Thus Mordecai finds himself battling on two fronts. While superficially he opposes Haman, his defiance actually is also a spiritual rebellion against Ahasuerus. Therefore the text stresses that Mordecai was violating the king’s decree by refusing to prostrate before Haman.

          The Gemara lends conceptual support for this dual battle of Mordecai. After Mordecai learns of the decree of annihilation, he begins to mourn:

“And Mordecai knew all that had been done” (4:1)—what did he say? Rav says: Haman has triumphed over Ahasuerus. Samuel says: the higher king has triumphed over the lower king (Rashi: a euphemism for “Ahasuerus has triumphed over God”). (Megillah 15a)

According to Rav, Haman was the primary threat to Mordecai and the Jews. Mordecai bewails Haman’s manipulation of the weaker Ahasuerus. According to Samuel, Mordecai perceives that Ahasuerus was too powerful. That Ahasuerus allowed such a wicked individual to rise to power weakened the very manifestation of God in this world. Rav’s response addresses the surface plot, the conflict between Haman and Mordecai. Samuel reaches to the struggle behind the scenes—God’s conflict with Ahasuerus.

E. AN ALTERNATIVE TO THE WORLD OF AHASUERUS

          Instead of stopping at its satire of the king, the Megillah offers an alternative lifestyle to the world of Ahasuerus. As was mentioned earlier, the Megillah consistently portrays the Jews’ character in a positive light. In 3:8, Haman contrasts the laws of the Jews with the laws of the king. Thus Jewish laws and practices are an admirable alternative to the decrepit values represented by Ahasuerus’ personality and society.

          Ahasuerus is a melekh hafakhpakh, a whimsical ruler. His counterpart, God, works behind the scenes to influence the Purim story through the process of ve-nahafokh hu (9:1).[31] In the world of the hafakhpakh everything is arbitrary, self-serving, and immoral. There is no justice: a Haman can be promoted, as can a Mordecai. In contrast, God’s world of ve-nahafokh hu is purposeful and just.[32] Although the reader is left wondering why the Jews were threatened in the first place, God had justice prevail in the end.

          Even in their victory, however, the Jews remain entirely under the power of Ahasuerus. As a result, Purim is crippled as opposed to most other holidays:

[Why do we not say Hallel on Purim?]...Rava said: There is a good reason in that case [of the exodus] because it says [in the Hallel], “O servants of the Lord, give praise”— who are no longer servants of Pharaoh — But can we say in this case, O servants of the Lord, give praise—and not servants of Ahasuerus? We are still servants of Ahasuerus! (Megillah 14a)

CONCLUSION

          The showdown between Haman and Mordecai is central to the surface plot, whereas the more cosmic battle that pits God and Mordecai against the world of Ahasuerus permeates the frame of the Megillah from beginning to end.

          The reader is left helpless in the face of the question of why the Jews deserved this decree. The Jews appear completely righteous, and it specifically is the heroic integrity of Mordecai which endangers them in the first place. Yet the reader is led to confront God honestly, confident by the end that there is justice in the world, even when it is not always apparent to the human eye. This piercingly honest religiosity has been a source of spiritual inspiration throughout the Jewish world since the writing of the Megillah. The Megillah challenges us and brings us ever closer to God—who is concealed right beneath the surface.

Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo has penned a powerful critique that justifies a vigorous response. The critique: Establishment synagogues are on the way out. Most are “religiously sterile and spiritually empty.” God has abandoned them and moved to smaller unconventional locations where people are thinking about Him and searching for Him.

I can’t comment on God’s interest in these unconventional minyanim in places I know little about, but I know something about large, mainstream synagogues, having spent eight decades in one of them, Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun on the Upper East Side of Manhattan—known usually as KJ. I worry about a trend toward “smaller is better,” whether in the form of informal minyanim, specialized services such as partnership minyanim, or what is becoming increasingly prevalent: the breaking up of a large congregation into smaller davening groups.

On the other hand, I also worry about Rabbi Cardozo’s critique—somewhat justified in my opinion—about the religious sterility and spiritual emptiness in large synagogues and, for that matter, in many of the smaller venues as well. I will divide my response to Rabbi Cardozo into three parts. First, I will offer an analysis of what the large, establishment synagogue offers that smaller minyanim do not. Second, I will discuss the shortcomings of the small or breakaway services. Third, I will present the deficiencies in the large synagogue service and how one might correct them. In all of this, I am indebted to Rabbi Cardozo for raising very important questions and critiques, and getting me sufficiently exorcized so that I had to organize my thoughts on a subject of passionate concern to me and offer them to the reading public for, hopefully, the endorsement of many and, inevitably, the objections of some. I hope to learn as much from the latter as from the former.

I

What does the large, establishment synagogue provide that smaller minyanim do not? First, a large congregation fulfills the principle first enunciated in Proverbs, 14:28 “B’rov am hadrat Melekh”—A large gathering is a glory to the King. Objectively, there is strength in numbers; there is a greater sense of Kiddush haShem; we feel we are part of something much bigger and more important than ourselves. The halakha tells us that although one might prefer to make Kiddush for oneself, when one is in a group, it is a greater mitzvah to have one recite it for everybody. The reason: B’rov am hadrat Melekh. On Purim, there is a specific ruling that it is preferable to hear the Megilla in a large gathering rather than in a smaller one, because of pirsum haNes—the publicizing of the miracle. One might extrapolate from this that, in general, the larger the congregation, the greater the service of God.

But the advantages of size go far beyond the objective ones. We are a people who pride ourselves on community. We do not advocate a Robinson Crusoe existence. We want to share in the experience of the larger community. We do not seek to be poresh min haTsibbur—to divorce ourselves from the community. When we pray in a large congregation, we share all the joys and celebrations of fellow congregants. We mourn with them, and we are reminded to go and comfort them; we are made aware of the concerns of Kelal Yisrael—the entire community of Israel.

We live in the Galut, but at KJ, the holiest moment of the service is when the rabbi reads with special gravitas the prayer for the soldiers of Israel preceded by the announcement of the names of the M.I.A’s, and then the announcement of the names and ages of the American soldiers who were killed that week fighting for our country. We follow that with a prayer for the well-being and safety of the members of the American armed forces. Subsequently, at a different point in the service, the rabbi reads the Prayer for the Government of Israel—with a partial, embellished translation—and then a brief English prayer for the leaders of the United States of America. These readings are done without a sound in the sanctuary. We all know that this is the deepest concern of the community. It is consciousness-raising for all of us, that in our prayers we are deeply involved in the security and well-being of our brothers and sisters in Medinat Yisrael and our fellow citizens in the United States of America.

During the reading of the Torah, we celebrate engagements, weddings, and significant milestones in the lives of men and women in the congregation. We make a Mi Shebeirakh (special blessing) for each; then we sing an appropriate song—a different one for each kind of simha; and then the rabbi congratulates each celebrant. This all takes time, but this is what creates community and joy and mutual love among us. Rabbi Isaac Luria, the mystic and pietist of sixteenth-century Safed, taught that before every morning’s prayer one should say, “I am now preparing to fulfill the mitzvah of love thy neighbor as thyself.” Prayer in our large synagogue is formulated and structured to fulfill that mitzvah. But there is something else that happens in the large, establishment synagogue.

We summon our members to the task of building the institutions without which Kelal Yisrael cannot thrive. There would be no eruv in Manhattan but for the large, establishment synagogues who paid to build it and who contribute to maintain it. Similarly, when we had a Midtown Board of Kashruth, it was maintained by the same synagogues. The original mikveh and those which have been added are supported through the large synagogues. There would never have been a Ramaz without KJ, or a Manhattan Day School without the large West Side synagogues. Yeshiva Day Schools across the country have been created and are sustained by major synagogues in their communities. The needs of the community are conveyed to the worshippers in large synagogues. Massive rallies for Soviet Jews in the 1970s and 1980s were promoted through these synagogues. United Jewish Appeal and Israel Bonds reach the religious community—of all denominations—through them. Appeals for Passover relief (for Met Council) bring a response. When Hurricane Sandy struck, we made an appeal at KJ, and we were able to give massive aid to two communities in Brooklyn and Long Island because we could reach people in shul who had a sense of communal responsibility.

In short, the large establishment synagogue is more than a place where many people come to pray; it is more than b’rov am; it is a place where a community is created and nurtured, where we all celebrate our semahot, where, inevitably, we also mourn our losses, where we are aroused to meet the needs of the Jewish community here and in Israel, to build and support institutions and further causes that are vital to the community, to identify with the struggles of the Jewish people in Israel and in America, and to learn from scholars in the congregation and outside of it. All of this and much more is not only a fulfillment of “b’rav am”—bringing glory to God—but it also provides vibrancy and great meaning to the life of every member of the community.

II

Now, let us turn to the purpose and function of smaller minyanim and analyze their shortcomings. These minyanim usually focus on the needs of worshippers. Sometimes, those needs are for an important, individual expression, as in the case of partnership minyanim, where women have more of an active role in the ritual. More often, the need is for a “no-nonsense davening”—short, to-the-point—usually with a full Kiddush following (time is not much of a factor there!)—less talking, no sermon (or a greatly reduced one); no celebrations (which take time); no appeals; and no announcements of a communal nature. It is a davening and a Torah reading with no frills and it fulfills a real need—do it right; do it fast; have a nice Kiddush; enjoy the camaraderie of a select group and go home with a big chunk of the day left. This is the standard hashkama minyan. It follows the Israeli pattern, where there is only one day “off” and when, therefore, leisure time is at a premium. In Israel, however, the communal functions are served in other ways, and, therefore, many feel that there is less of a need for a congregation—although this absence of community and congregation is actually a very serious problem, one that is beyond the scope of this article.

Sometimes, this small minyan is not hashkama. Sometimes it begins an hour before the main minyan, or a half-hour after the main minyan starts, or it is a break-away in another place. The common denominator is that they are a substitute for the main service of a community synagogue, and they fulfill the needs of a certain group of worshippers. Aside from all that is missing in these small minyanim, there is a fundamental flaw here from a Jewish perspective. The small minyan is ultimately all about the participant—call it “all about me”—my needs, my convenience, my time, my davening comfort, my Kiddush, my camaraderie. It should be remembered, however, that Judaism is not concerned primarily with “my” needs, but rather with “my” mitzvoth, my obligations, my duties to serve God, to enhance the community, to love others like myself, which means, among other things, to celebrate with others, mourn with others, visit the sick, support the needy, and respond to communal causes. None of these plays a major role in the smaller, needs-oriented, minyan. Worshippers in the smaller minyanim are not in shul for an Israel Bonds Appeal; they don’t hear an impassioned plea for the personal philanthropy to help sustain friends of theirs who might be seated next to them and who used to be generous donors, but who now need the community’s support; and, for the most part, they do not respond in the manner in which the congregants in the main service do. And if there were a rally for Israel, they wouldn’t hear our fervent call to action. They are out of touch because they simply are not there. It is sad, but true. In the Rambam’s term, they are, unintentionally, poresh min haTsibbur—separated from the efforts, experiences, joys, and struggles of the community. It is terribly sad that they are not full participants in the community’s life.

Consider: Why should one care if it takes another 30 to 45 minutes to hear a bar mitzvah boy read the Torah and listen to the rabbi’s speech to him; or listen to the Mi Shebeirakh for a hatan v’kalla; or hear a berakha, sing a song, and listen to a pulpit announcement on the occasion of the birthday of a 90-year-old man who never misses a daily minyan? Shouldn’t the whole congregational family celebrate such moments? The worshippers in the small, high-speed, minyanim miss all of this. In fact, to some extent, they want to miss it. That’s a good part of why they are not in the main service. They have no patience for all that “stuff.” Is it really right to get through davening in one to two hours rather than two to three hours and miss these communal joys? They are not the joys of some individual. They are our semahot, the semahot of the community. They are our past, our present, and our future, too!

I was recently worshipping in a large, established synagogue with more than 500 member families. They have four or five minyanim in addition to the main service. Each service fills a unique need of the participants. The main service, of course, suffers in attendance because of all the options. There was an outstanding woman scholar on that Shabbat who spoke after the conclusion of the main service. I looked around and saw fewer than 100 listeners. Everyone else had long ago enjoyed Kiddush and left for home. I thought to myself, what a shame! The shul provided for its members a gifted scholar, a role model for women and teenage girls, and only a fraction of the congregation benefited from her exceptional discourse. Such is part of the cost of each going his or her own way and losing the sense of belonging to a community.

III

Finally, a word about Rabbi Cardozo’s critique that the services in large establishment synagogues are “religiously sterile and spiritually empty.” Although his critique may be somewhat overstated, there is no doubt that large congregations need to recognize that tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis—times change, and we (must) change with them. In my father, Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein’s—z”tl—day, the Shabbat morning service ran from 9:00 to 12:00 sharp. The sermon was 30 minutes long. Nobody moved until after the benediction that coincided with the 12 gongs on the clock in the nunnery next door. Well, the nunnery is long gone and the clock left with it—and so did the attention span of the congregation. We now try to end by 11:30—and when I’m not there the service somehow ends by around 11:15! The sermon lasts 10 to 15 minutes. The cantor knows that the age of cantorial virtuosity is essentially over, and he davens beautifully as a ba’al tefilla with a major emphasis on congregational participation. We have to streamline the service even more, recognizing the lower P.Q. (patience quotient) of twenty-first-century adults and children, but without sacrificing the family nature of a davening community.

We should continue to focus on welcoming beginners in our community; in fact we have a Learners’ service and Intermediate minyan for just that purpose. This effort not only supports those who are new to traditional Jewish prayer; it also energizes the entire congregation. It keeps us new and fresh and reminds us that, in a way, we are all beginners. That alone should dispel the “religiously sterile and spiritually empty” feeling that Rabbi Cardozo finds in the large congregations. Five hundred participants in a Friday Night Shabbat Across America davening and dinner can provide inspiration, too! That also is the natural task and opportunity of the large mainstream synagogue.

There is, of course, more that we need to do. From my perspective, however, the most important task is to keep the congregation together and emphasize that prayer in shul is not an exercise in meeting our own individual needs; it should be an effort to meet the needs of our total community and to reinforce our duties and obligations toward Kelal Yisrael. That will not only bring glory to God; it will also provide holiness to our lives.

Folktales of Joha, Jewish Trickster, collected and edited by Matilda Koén-Sarano. Translated from the Judeo-Spanish (Ladino) by David Herman. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 2003, 296 pp., $30.

In a world saturated with sophisticated entertainment, it would seem we are well beyond Joha, and wouldn’t need Matilda Koén-Sarano’s 2003 collection of tales about this celebrated Middle Eastern-Sephardic wise fool. Think again.

Pronounced Joe Hah, with the accent on Hah, this underdog doesn’t really promise big laughs. The punch lines are anticlimactic, the situations silly, the scope limited. Joha, in fact, in many of the tales, has no money, no work, no food, nothing but a donkey, or an olive he keeps chasing around the plate to get on his fork. And yet Joha is Joha; when his Turkish friend gets the olive with one deft stab, he cheerfully says, “Don’t forget, if I hadn’t tired it out you would never have managed to catch it.”

Reading through this collection, we go from one tricky quandary to the next. When you write the number three hundred thirty-three, which three do you put first? Do you sleep with your beard under the covers or on top? At the end of the final Ne’ilah prayer, which word is it, echad or acher, and as soon as you’ve got the answer the two words keep going back and forth in your head, so you’ve got to chase the rabbi to ask him again, and again—and again. How do you get the rich man to serve you the big fish instead of the little one, when he charitably invites you to Shabbat dinner? And what do you do, when beneath a big ugly stone you find a bag of gold, and suddenly you are the rich man? If you are Joha, you keep a fancy little box with dung in it, and each day you open it to remind you of what it was like to have nothing.

Joha is the self before the self was invented. He is the self with no self, no borders or boundaries. He is the fool liberated from the terrible fear that plagues most people most of the time—the fear of looking foolish. Sent to buy sweets, he eats all but one before he gets home, and when asked how he could do that, he demonstrates by eating the last one. He lights all the matches to make sure they all work. He talks to his donkey and to the train. He stamps the behinds of the thieves who come to relieve themselves on his grave, then rounds them up after his faked death, and proves they are all his branded servants.

I grew up with the stories of Joha, told by my father. My father, known for his outgoing charm and warmth, didn’t know how to tell a joke but that never stopped him. He would get the wording wrong, tell the same story many times. A punchline was as uncharacteristic of him as a punch.

Two Joha stories were favorites, nonetheless, at our dinner table in a two-bedroom second-floor apartment in the 1950s. To call them stories is like calling a grain of kosher salt a diamond, but they managed to season and ornament a childhood, even provide a sense of self and a worldview—what an Ashkenazi might call a Weltanschauung, a word a Turkish Jew would not use and never heard of and would not be caught saying. Joha is sitting on a branch, sawing away, and when he is warned that he’s cutting off the branch he’s sitting on, he scoffs, and keeps sawing away. Sure enough, when he finally cuts through the branch, he falls to the ground. Instead of complaining and crying in pain, he is astounded by the person who had been warning him. “Fortuneteller! This man is a fortune-teller!” he shouts. “A genius!”

It turns out that the story continues, somewhat elaborately. However, for this one listener, if the rest of this tale was ever told, it went unheard. It probably wasn’t ever told in the hubbub of the dinner table: amidst the various hectoring complaints that are such an important part of family life; the political news; the gobbling up of juicy zucchini with tomatoes, lively salads with olives, onions, cucumbers, and generous fistfuls of parsley. The images from Joha’s world that remained over the years were of Joha cutting off the branch he is sitting on and the sage warning him he’ll fall—and the point: Joha isn’t fixated on his mistakes; without missing a beat, he cheerfully moves on.  

The second favorite is even simpler. Joha wants to count the donkeys he is bringing to market, and so he does. He carefully counts one, two, three, four, five. But he is supposed to have six. So he gets off his donkey, and counts again, slowly, deliberately, and this time there are six. When he gets back on his donkey, it is five again. Joha can’t figure it out.

Obviously here we are not speaking of jokes. We are hardly even speaking of humorous stories, although that’s what they are. Jokes and humorous stories are different. Jokes must have come in with the Enlightenment, with the scientific method. They are efficient, establish credibility, lead you along, build to a climax, then boom: “You see, it’s working already.” That’s the one about the Russian who asked the Jew how come Jews are so smart, it’s because we eat herring, would you happen to know where I could get some herring. I happen to have some here—we all know this one—how much would it cost, well, three rubles, and after he finishes it, the Russian suddenly says, I could have bought that same herring in the market for two rubles, then “You see, it’s working already.”

You don’t want to know how this “joke” is told in Koén-Sarano’s collection. The narrator of this particular tale flubs it, flunks the science of jokes. And the one about the man—in another tradition it would be Hershele Ostropoler—who threatens the innkeeper that he will do what his father did, frightens the innkeeper so badly that the innkeeper provides a great meal, and after he is finished eating, when the innkeeper timidly asks what it was the man’s father would have done if he had been denied the meal, Hershele says, “He would have gone away hungry.”

Told as a Joha story, it’s not about a meal, but a jacket. He would have “bought himself a new jacket,” especially if you know the other version, just does not cut it. You wince, you cover your eyes. Perhaps this is actually a story that modern Joha raconteurs have taken from eighteenth-century Eastern Europe, changing a Hershele into a Joha, but let’s not go there—because it’s the genius of Joha that we want, not grafts (or branches) from or to other trees.

Who is Joha? He is from before television, before Einstein, the sewing machine, Isaac Newton, the Enlightenment, Shakespeare. He is from before the Inquisition, the Crusades, before the automobile, the pressure cooker, and Dannon’s packaging of yogurt, which used to be made in a big pot swaddled in blankets left to sit for eight hours in a warm spot. Joha is from the ninth century, and from medieval Turkey. This folk hero, perhaps little talked about in Manhattan, is known in about 35 countries, by a different name in each culture, but each derived from the Turkish wise fool Nasreddin (Nas reh deen) D’Hodja. Hodja means teacher, and this legendary or historical popular figure was said to be born in thirteenth-century Turkey, and to have died in the Turkish town of Aksheir, which in our own times still celebrates an annual Nasreddin festival. His grave there is famous for having a large locked gate attached to no fence.

Sephardic Jews, forced to flee Spain in the fifteenth century were, as we know, welcomed to settle in the Ottoman Empire. Many did, while others went to Portugal, then Amsterdam and other cities of Western Europe. Spain was foolishly and brutally depopulating itself at the same time that the Ottoman Turks were seeking to populate a vast new territory, and one of the treasures of the new land for Jews who survived and went East to Turkey was the Turkish folk hero, Nasreddin. Sephardic culture was transmitted in Ladino and Hebrew, in prayers and songs, and the many languages of the new home—Turkish, Greek, Armenian—but it also found expression in the tales of Nasreddin, called by a variety of names by the Jews: the Hodja, Nas al-din, and Joha.

Adopting the Hodja was a way of mediating with Turkish culture, and of finding familiar folk values, pleasures, and realities, an overlapping that is all the more of interest in our own time, with its Muslim-Christian-Jewish tensions. The stories are simple, yet at the same time, extensive, rich, varied, energetic, a cultural feast of insubordination, stubborn survival, cheerful unmovable optimism and play. Joha is always what people have needed to survive. Joha is Jewish play with Middle-Eastern yichus (pedigree).

For a Jew growing up in New York City with bits and pieces of Joha stories, the word Joha cut two ways. If you said someone was a real Joha, it was no compliment; it meant, what a dope!! But on the other side, unspoken, never mentioned, was the daring, wit, and totally unselfconscious audacity of Joha, the liberation of Joha. Joha has deep Jewish meaning. The laugh and a cheerful approach to life represent a core Jewish religious belief. It is liberating to hear stories about someone who circumvents rationality, and effortlessly embraces the folly that is wisdom. But more specifically, Joha’s stories represent the willingness and the daring, in the best sense, of going out on a limb. Abraham left the sophisticated civilization of Ur, Sarah laughed, David took a slingshot to Goliath. Joha is the other, who laughs and calls life as he sees it. Joha flouts the arrogant assumption that rationality trumps all.

Matilda Koén-Sarano has given us a great gift with this collection in English, Folktales of Joha: Jewish Trickster. The excellent introduction by Tamar Alexander contextualizes Joha in the Turkish tradition, and provides a brief thoughtful folkloric analysis. Alexander holds the Estelle Frankfurter Chair for Sephardic Culture, and is Chair of the Folklore Program of the Hebrew Literature Department, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. Alexander dates Joha to ninth-century Arabic, although one wonders when Jews first encountered this folk hero, if he came with the Arabic that Jews spoke beginning in the ninth century, or if he was only a post-1492 treasure.

Koén-Sarano is a writer, scholar, poet, storyteller, and broadcaster for the Israeli radio station Kol Israel. She reports the news in Ladino, and entertains listeners with Sephardic music, poetry, and tales. An eminent, prolific folklorist devoted to preserving Sephardic oral culture, she has been collecting Joha stories since 1979; her first collection, a 400-page compilation, was published in Jerusalem in Ladino and Hebrew (Kana, 1986, 1991).

One of the most satisfying aspects of her collection is her respect for the narrators, their wording, and their individuality. The description of the narrators at the end of this 2003 volume is a good read. Move over Goldberg and Greenberg. Welcome Avzaradel, Babani, Bahbout, Bardavid. Diversity has a different geography here. Koén-Sarano’s narrators come from Tripoli, Salonika, Istanbul, Milan, Oran, Russhuk, Sliven, Cairo, Beirut, Buenos Aires, Izmir, Tunis, Bursa, Marseilles, Beit Shean, Jaffa, Tel Aviv, Jerusalem. The 82 narrators, the folk who have told the tales, were born between 1898 and 1993. Perhaps because many are women from an era before careers, the listing tells the schools and universities the male and female narrators attended, and so emphasizes institutions of cultural transmission, in itself a fascinating survival story; occasional glimpses let us know they studied many things from Italian literature to ritual slaughter to classical dance. There are, yes, a couple of lawyers, a violinist, a professor at Tufts (the only narrator from New York City), but the bios for all of them are folk bios, a couple of times with the neighborhood of birth thrown in, (“Born in Jerusalem in the Shama neighborhood at the foot of Mount Zion, 1910”), once with the number of grandchildren (12 in Koén-Sarano’s case), one Salonika man’s World War II survival of eleven concentration camps, another’s exile by the Turks from Palestine to Syria, and the somber fact that one man—Pinhas Tokatly—was killed by a suicide bomb attack in Jerusalem last year.

Just folks. It’s a refreshing change from the professional bios we’re used to reading, with awards, titles, organizational affiliations, a lot of careerist huffing and puffing. “Dios nos lleva a Yerushalayim,” says the 13-verse Ladino Passover song; many of the narrators have had several migrations in their lives, for instance, from Istanbul to Marseilles to Turin, but three quarters of them by birth or eventual nationality are Israelis.

Hank Halio’s Ladino Reveries (The Foundation for the Advancement of Sephardic Studies and Culture, 1996) is another good source of Joha or Djoha stories, a couple of dozen of them sprinkled in Ladino and English into a chatty collection of proverbs and reminiscences.

But when we read Koén-Sarano’s collection, we don’t stop off for a meldado or the recipe for Turkish coffee. It’s straight, 300 short takes ranging from a few lines to a few pages, and presented in chapters on school, work, animals, the law, and so on. When you read about Joha, you don’t expect to laugh out loud. But you’ll be with a character who is first cousin to all the underdog wise fools from around the world. It’s an immersion, like a novel before the first novel. The narrations are refreshingly direct, and as Koén-Sarano notes of Joha in one of the best tales she herself narrates, “pure of heart.”

In a tale I recently heard, Joha was spooning yogurt into a lake. The story was told to me by a Turkish Jew who grew up in Istanbul in the 1950s, before television had arrived, and who said he and his friends used to read Hodja stories all the time. There were lots of collections of the tales, and it was great fun. They loved them. But he doesn’t tell the stories to his daughters growing up on Long Island, because, well, they wouldn’t laugh. A man asked Joha what he was doing, and then asked him why. Joha said he wanted to turn the lake into yogurt. But the man said “That isn’t possible, is it, for a little yogurt to turn a whole lake into yogurt.” “No,” said Joha, “but what if it does?”

A few spoons of inspired foolery can shape the way we view the world. In terrible times, dare we waste time on humor? Dare we not?

One more, from Koén-Sarano.

“Thieves entered Joha’s house. Joha already knew that he was poor and had nothing in the house. The Thieves were searching very slowly. Joha got out of bed and started to search behind them, slowly, slowly. When they reached the corner, he said: ‘Look, if you find something. . .fifty-fifty!’”

Postscript

In 2014, Eliezer Papo, Director of The Sephardic Studies Research Institute, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, spoke at the JCC of Manhattan about the difference between Ashkenazic and Sephardic humor. His talk resonated with me. I can be irritated and nonplussed, for instance, by a kind of Ashkenazic humor that is smart-alecky and depressed. Some Joha stories of course are over-the-top feeble, but nonetheless Joha is a gift. With a free hand, Joha cuts us loose from solemnity and pretentiousness.

Papo said Ashkenazic humor comes from the harsh climate (and pogroms) of Eastern Europe, while Sephardic humor comes from Mediterranean Ottoman lands with their relative tolerance and mild weather, plus the luscious fruit on the trees and the fish in the sea, free for the picking. Perhaps what’s considered lowbrow about Joha is its optimism, an attitude that may be antithetical to what’s widely known as “Jewish humor.” In an article about Jewish humor (by which he means Ashkenazic humor since he speaks of nothing else), Joseph Epstein says optimism is foreign to it. (“Jokes: A Genre of Thought,” Jewish Review of Books, Winter 2017).

Joha in fact is absurdly optimistic. Joha is cheerful, idiotically cheerful, and his good cheer, because of its patent absurdity, is balm for all of us caught in the net of what I as a child named “disaster orientation.”

The odd thing is that the instinctive habitual love of cheer, the desire to sing, the desire to tell stories and talk, the refusal to give up a chance to join in an argument, even when Joha, for instance, is happily presumed dead and is being carried home on a stretcher in a procession of the whole community, is so natural. Well, the neighbors carrying his stretcher are arguing about the shortest route to his house! Joha’s inclinations and instincts ring true. And what’s more, his responses are at home in a culture that accepts religion in a natural uncomplicated way. The luscious fruit of spiritual gratitude frees Joha.

Incidentally, perhaps the proof of the pudding for a Joha story is not a laugh out loud, but a little gleam of understanding in the eye accompanied by a compulsion to reply in kind. And so, when a Sephardic friend read my 2003 Joha article when it first came out, and loved it, of course he had to tell me about when Joha finds a glittering shard of a broken mirror on the ground. Joha picks it up with excitement and holds it up to his face to admire it. But when he sees a face in it, “That’s ugly,” he says with repugnance. “No wonder someone threw that away!”

Other notes:

Folktales of Joha: Jewish Trickster is currently available at over 1400 libraries worldwide (WorldCat database).

Matilda Koén-Sarano’s prolific output of works on Sephardic culture continues apace since 2003 with publications in Jerusalem, Istanbul, Paris, Berlin, Buenos Aires, and Genoa; in Ladino, Ladino and Hebrew, Ladino and French, and Italian, including CDs and books ranging from Gizar kon Gozo and a Hebrew-Ladino Dictionary to a Ladino conversation manual expected out soon (Wikipedia, Nov. 21, 2016; CV, March 2017).

      In 2015, Tamar Alexander was appointed chairperson of the National Council for Ladino Culture, replacing Yitzhak Navon, chair until then.

The Turkish-American Jew who told the story of Joha spooning yogurt into a lake, is Selim Sadaka. His father, Haim Vitali Sadacca, is a Ladino poet published by the the Foundation for the Advancement of Sephardic Studies and Culture; his daughter Janine Sadaka has remarkably transcribed a Ladino short story of mine into Solitreo.

If you wondered how Joha can date from both the ninth century and the thirteenth century, Tamar Alexander’s statement in her “Introduction” explains: “The origin of the name is unclear,” she says of Joha, “but we do know that he is first mentioned in Arabic stories dating from the ninth century. A similar character, Nasr-a-din Hodja, appears in medieval Turkish stories. According to Turkish literary tradition such a man really existed…Eventually the two characters’ names merged” (Folktales of Joha: Jewish Trickster).

The Sephardic Jewish Brotherhood of America, active over the past century and now energetically revived by Director Rabbi Nissim Elnecavé, features a weekly Joha story in its online newsletter. Each brief tale is presented in Ladino, English, and a Ladino voice recording by Rachel Bortnick (Devin Naar, “The Sephardic Jewish Brotherhood of America Celebrates its Centennial,” Tablet, Sept. 22, 2016; La Boz Sefaradi: The Sephardic Voice).

Finally, for your information: Koén-Sarano herself provides 40 of the stories in her collection, Beki Bardavid 27, Eliezer Papo 19, and Gloria Ascher is the New York City-born narrator who contributes one story—in verse: this Tufts University professor has been teaching Ladino and the Sephardic Tradition at Tufts for years; she founded the Judaic Studies program there and has been its long-time Co-Director.