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I’m a Galutist Jew

Let me start by relating two of my own experiences.

The first happened in July 1999 in Israel. My brother, Jeremy, and I were
studying at Pardes’ summer program in Jerusalem and being Conservative Jews
from Stockholm, Sweden, we decided to really experience as wide a religious
spectrum as the holy city had to offer. One Friday evening, after attending Erev
Shabbat services in the reform synagogue Kol haNeshama, we made our way on
foot through half of Jerusalem, in order to reach the Kotel. We had made
arrangements, earlier in the week, with an organization that finds Charedi (ultra-
Orthodox) families to host lost Jews who want someplace to be for Erev
Shabbat. We found our designated family and walked with them back to their
small apartment in an eastern suburb of the city.
Our hosts were quite astonished when they discovered that we were not just
another pair of secular, religiously ignorant Jews. Rather these Jews could sing
zemirot and even teach them some tunes for Yah Ribon and Yom Ze LeYisrael!
It was clear that we confused them, because, according to conventional wisdom
among Charedim, “the corruptors of Judaism” were not supposed to be this
comfortable with their tradition.
It was quite an experience for us as well: we didn’t expect a non-Lubavitch
Charedi family to be that friendly and open.
Our walk back to our rented room on Emek Refaim that evening took an hour
and a half, but Jeremy and I did not mind in the least. Our heads were buzzing
with new perspectives.
As we walked through Jerusalem’s silent Shabbat streets, we felt like the Jewish
people were really a unity and that our differences were really not so great.
But strolling down Ben Yehuda we passed a disco were drunk kids were
partying the night away. It could have been a disco back home, in downtown
Stockholm. We felt a bit like shouting “Shabbes, Shabbes!” at them, as people
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much like our hosts for the evening have often done. It was a strange evening of
contrasts and left us with a feeling of not knowing were we really belong, a
night that turned our prejudices on their head.
Then there is the other story. It occured on Tisha be’Av 5754, or the 16th of July,
1994, at the Great Synagogue of Stockholm. The beautiful, ornately decorated
Synagogue is located in the middle of the center of the downtown area, between
two major city parks.
On this night, my father, the cantor of our congregation, was chanting the
heartbreaking tunes and texts of Eicha – Lamentations – that were part of the
evening service on this, the most tragic of days in our calendar. The sanctuary
was shrouded in darkness, except for the section right around the Bimah. My
brother and I sat on the floor near the Bimah with barely a dozen other
mourners, really feeling the sadness in the text and melodies and getting into the
mood of mourning the loss of both our Temples and many of the other tragedies
that had befallen our people.
Then the service ended and we walked out onto the street. To our astonishment,
we found ourselves in the middle of a giant street party with thousands of people
celebrating madly to loud music and a lot of alcohol. What was going on? We
soon informed ourselves of the fact that Sweden had just won the bronze medal
in the football World Cup and Stockholm was mad with joy. Walking home, I
could avoid juxtaposing two such opposite matters as mourning the loss of a
2000-year-old Temple and celebrating winning a medal in a major sports event.
What an amazing contrast it was! It was quite an experience, being alone in a
great mass of people – commemorating something that still retained its
emotional content after two millennia, while everybody else reveled in
something that would be all but forgotten four years later, when, as it turned out,
Sweden didn’t even qualify for the games. It was an event that would come to
shape and epitomize what the Jewish experience means for me.
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Why do I then bother relating the first story? Both experiences represent two
paradigms of Jewishness. One focusing inward, the other outward. In one,
Judaism is felt through commonality, in the other, through contrast.
I hold that both are completely valid and acceptable way to experience
Jewishness, but I wouldn’t be having this talk today if I didn’t side with the
second over the first. I feel more Jewish The question is why?
Even though I greatly appreciated experiencing a Shabbat dinner with the
Charedi family, I knew that if they could have their way, we as Conservative
Jews wouldn’t exist and the rabbinate in Israel (not to mention England) is still
doing everything it can to make non-Orthodox Judaism disappear. And even
though I didn’t feel any connection to the revelers on Ben Yehuda that night,
even though I felt they affected my Shabbat atmosphere negatively, I understand
and strongly sympathize with the reason so many Israelis feel alienated from
their religion. If being religious meant being ultra-Orthodox to me, I wouldn’t
either be very religious either.
I’m bothered by Judaism in Israel. Judaism to me is about plurality, discussion,
difference of opinion, but that kind of Judaism is in danger of extinction. Being
a majority in our own land has led to Judaism developing something akin to the
Church in Europe. Dogmas and monopolies replacing discussion and pluralism.
And Judaism isn’t a viable option for secular Israelis searching for spirituality.
I am seriously bothered by the secularity of secular Israelis. Because one change
the Jewish state has brought about is to provide secular Jews with an alternative
identity to being Jewish while not being accused of assimilating and abandoning
the Jewish people. It is not hard to be Jewish in Israel. Shabbat and chagim are
public holidays. Everybody speaks the holy language. There is a Parashat
haShavua column in the newspaper. You don’t have to do anything to be Jewish
in Israel. It is wallpaper. I’ve even had religious Jews tell me that that is OK.
That living in Israel and serving in the army are such big mitzvot that it’s alright
that they’re secular.
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After 2000 years of Galut we have a Jewish state for 60 years and devoutly
religious Jews tell me it’s OK to abandon your religion as long as you serve in
the army?
I live in Sweden. I live in the Diaspora. I live in the Galut. Materialistically, it’s
an easy life, the streets are clean, education is good and healthcare is available to
everyone. It is a secular country. Most people don’t consider themselves
Christian, but nearly everybody will celebrate Christmas and will talk about how
they really like the ethics Jesus introduced to the world.
When I point out to them that we actually introduced those ethics to the world,
the response I get is a shrug.
15000 Jews live in Sweden and about half belong to the three Jewish
communities, one in each of Sweden’s three biggest cities.
What is interesting that even a very secular Jew, who has never set foot in a
synagogue will still profess to being Jewish, even express a certain pride in this
heritage they know nothing about. Many feel more Jewish than Swedish, many
feel about as Jewish as Swedish. Contrast that with secular Israelis who will say
that they want nothing to do with that Jewish stuff because it’s not a part of their
identity, or if it is a part of their identity it’s of far lesser importance than their
identity as Israelis.
But as a religious Jew it is a difficult country to live in. I can’t wear my kippah
on the street without being nervous, although I’ve never experienced any threats.
The papers are thoroughly anti-Israel all the time. I always have to explain to my
professors at the university why I can’t take the exams on Saturday and they
give me home assignments that are much harder. There are no kosher restaurants
in Stockholm these days, there was one, but it closed down – not enough
business, even though it was about 200 m from the Jewish community center.
Talking to my friends who have made aliyah and they’ll tell me they made
aliyah because they were tired of never being able to eat out, of always having
to negotiate with their boss just to take off for some of the holidays, tired of
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paying 4 times the price of a treif chicken, for a kosher one. It’s just not worth it,
they’ll say. And when they read the one-sided anti-Israel articles daily in all the
major newspapers and there are attempts by left-wing politicians to outlaw brit
milah, my friends just throw in the towel.
“What am I doing here!” they’ll say and put their apartments up for sale.

I’m I a masochist? Why do I not follow them?

Because I, unlike them, am a Galutist Jew.
What is Galutism? Is it another word for anti-Zionism? Not in my vocabulary. I
Googled the term Galutism and Galutist. I only got three hits on one and four on
the other (two were from the Limmud website displaying this session) so, while
I may not have been first to use the term, I do take the liberty of providing the
first definition for it.
Galutism to me is the belief that the Galut, the Diaspora, is an important place
for Jews to be. Not because somebody needs to stay behind and advocate for
Israel while the rest of us make aliyah, but because we Jews have a God-given
mission to engage ourselves in the world and make it a better place. This God-
given mission is essential to my idea of Galutism. Galut means exile. It is a
negative term and I hold strongly to the idea that we should feel in exile. It isn’t
a fun place to be, but it shouldn’t be.
The Talmud explains that God let both Temples be destroyed and His chosen
people go into exile because we were not living up to our mission and purpose
in the status quo. The first time we reverted to Avodah Zara – idolatry, and the
second time we fell victim to Sinat Chinam, senseless hatred, Jew against Jew.
Is modern Israeli society free of either of these elements?
In my personal theology, God exiled us from our land because we couldn’t grow
there anymore. Much can be said of the last 2000 years of Galut, but one cannot
claim that the Jewish people has not grown. I don’t mean in numbers, but in
maturity. Our entire tradition of questioning and plurality and tolerance of
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difference is just now coming into fashion with the rest of the western world. I
believe we are the bees that pollinate the flowers of the ethical intellect in this
world and this is our purpose. Or laGoyim, a light onto the nations, is what God
told Avraham we would be to the world and in the last 2000 years we truly have.
It hasn’t been easy and we certainly have been punished more than rewarded for
our efforts in the Galut, but are we to do it for the sake of reward? Are we to
stop if we are persecuted for it?
This is the nature of Galutism for me. It is a painful state. It is a state of
otherness, of discomfort if not worse. I AM more Jewish because I have make
an effort to be Jewish. I AM more Jewish when I with ancient mourning, walk
through a crowd of non-Jews partying for the moment. For me that IS what
being Jewish is! Did God send Avraham to Canaan because it was an easy place
to live? On the contrary, Avraham, born and raised in Babylonia, was in the
Galut when he settled in the land. He was known as the Ivri, the one from the
other side of the Jordan river. Ivri means outsider.
Galutism isn’t a political concept, it is a religious state of mind. It is being the
Ivri, the Hebrew. Our Jewish tradition teaches us independent thought,
questioning of authority. Avraham started it when God wanted to destroy Sodom
and Gomorrah and we haven’t stopped since. It’s the propheticness of
demanding the ethical no matter what, to be the ultimate nudnikim to those in
power.
The Judaism I practice can’t survive as a majority culture because it chokes on
itself. There’s the joke: what is wrong with Israel? It’s a country of 5 million
prime ministers! Yes, debate is good, but not if we tear each other apart with it.
So what do I think of Israel. I’m a Zionist, a proud one because I know that
when the world of the Galut will threaten my life again, simply because I am a
Jew, then Israel is there. Yes, it’s a selfish way to think about it, but that is what I
believe. To me, the Galut doesn’t exist for Israel’s sake, Israel exists for the
Galut’s sake. But the law of return is one of the purposes the Jewish state was
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founded upon.
But one could look at it the other way too. There’s a Talmudic passage, found in
Pesachim 87b where it is proposed that God exiled us so that our enemies would
not be able to find us all in one place and wipe us out entirely. Think about that!
I wish to point out that I even want to make Aliyah! Temporarily. I want to live
there for several years and learn to speak Hebrew fluently, for it is the language
of my people. (It bothers me that my mama loschen, mother tongue, the
language of my intellect is this west-Germanic Christian language.)
So yes, I love my country, my Israel, but I cannot make it my home. For me to
live there for the rest of my life goes against the very deepest grains of my
Jewish/Galutist soul.
What a contradiction, huh? Defining Judaism as wrestling with being bothered
and then stating that I could never live my whole life in Israel because it would
bother me too much to not be bothered. Or maybe it’s the other way around…
But seriously, being bothered is the nature of being Jewish. Our texts our filled
with nothing but bothered characters wrestling with what bothered them.
Ja’akov never experienced a moment of peace in his life, Moshe only reached
his full potential when he accepted a job he didn’t want to lead a people he’d
never really been a part of. We don’t have one prophet in the Bible who ever
said “Things are good as they are. Let’s make life easy on ourselves.”
Do I think life in Israel is easy to live? No, but religious Jews have everything
they need right there. The one part of their lives that should be the most
challenging isn’t at all. And that bothers me.
Allow me to end with this insight I had a few years ago. The Torah gives us a
holiday to commemorate the Exodus from Egypt, a holiday to commemorate the
Receiving of the Torah, a holiday to commemorate the wandering 40 years in
the desert. But why weren’t we commanded to commemorate settling the land
with a holiday? Yom ha’Atzma’ut doesn’t count. It’s modern and certainly not
near the status of the three chagim I mentioned.
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One might answer that this is because settling the land occurred in the book of
Joshua and not in the Torah, but this opens up an even bigger question. The
narrative of the last 4 books of the Torah is hurtling towards the inevitable point
when the formerly enslaved people will enter the land and be at peace at last,
safe within their own land to live in wholeness and faithfullness with God.
Why then does the Torah end when the people are on the verge of entering the
land and Moshe dies? Shouldn’t the first chapter of the Book of Joshua be the
last chapter of Deuteronomy?
My answer is no. We have not really reached the land and fulfilled our true
purpose. In reading the Torah, we conclude with the death of Moshe and return
to the beginning with the creation of the world. We, Hebrews are always left
hanging on the banks of the river Jordan, haIvrim be’Ever haJarden, before
returning to Bereishit to read the Torah for another year. Simchat Torah is the
biblical Groundhog Day.
When will we cease this circular seemingly never-ending process? When will I
cease being a Galutist Jew? When will the Zionist and the Galutist sides of my
Jewish nature cease their struggle against God and man and be at one?
Bayom haHu Yiyeh Adonaj Echad, uShemo Echad.
The day God will be one and His name one.