Having It Both Ways (or More Than Two)

This year, several people (out of respect) have avoided wishing me a merry Christmas, instead wishing me a happy Hanukkah (well after Hanukkah was over) or happy holidays. The intent is generous and thoughtful. But I grew up celebrating Christmas. I consider it a beautiful holiday when celebrated well. I also love Christmas music of various kinds (I have a fond memory of Louisa Burnham singing “Balulalow” in our high school chorus long ago). I would have a Christmas tree, except that the cats would tear it down.

This leads to a larger question that has been on my mind. For nine years I have been practicing Judaism (and for four years serving as cantor at Szim Salom). But does this mean that I’m supposed to be only Jewish, to deny being anything else? That would be false; I am not only Jewish, and my upbringing wasn’t Jewish except maybe slightly, through hints here and there. I don’t mean I want to practice both Christianity and Judaism; I see how fraught that would be. I just do not find personal meaning in Jewish separateness (on the whole, with exceptions and qualifications). It does not make sense to me for my own life. I understand it and see its historical roots (for one thing, it was tragically forced onto the Jews many times over the centuries; and for another, it allowed Jewish practices and traditions to take shape). I love some of its meanings and principles. But it is not fully true for me. I not only want to find common ground with others, but basically do. I know that some people will perceive me as separate anyway, and that if a vicious form of anti-Semitism should rise up, I would not be spared. But let that be part of a larger truth.

Religious practice is a commitment, and its details matter. At the same time, I see it as an approximation of something else. Besides providing some sort of structure and moral framework, a religion offers a form for approaching the unapproachable and ineffable. The form is essential and serious. But it isn’t the divine. It is a way toward the divine. At least that is how I see it. I do not treat the form as literal law. But I don’t dismiss it as nonsense either.

In that light, and on that level, different religions can meet. But because the form is so important, and because the details have so many historical layers and reasons, one can’t just “mix and match.”

In other words, I don’t believe religious doctrine (Jewish or Christian) in any literal way. (What constitutes the “literal” is a complex question for another time.) I believe it as a gesture toward something else, a way of expressing something that can’t be said. My Judaism is not a rejection of Christianity; it’s where I find a home for the soul. But it isn’t my only home; I also find home in music, in poetry, in teaching, in surprising everyday things. And I am also in search of home, always.

I practiced Christianity in my early adulthood—in Episcopalean, Lutheran, and Catholic churches. (That too was absent from my upbringing, except for religious classical music.) At age twenty-five or so I drifted away; I stayed away from all organized religion until 2013 when, after a series of unexpected events, I started going to synagogue and learning Jewish liturgy and cantillation. I have been up front about the earlier part of my history; although I don’t talk about it often, it is not a secret.

This does not mean I am just “part Jewish.” I am fully Jewish by Jewish law, through matrilineal descent, as well as through practice and in my heart. (My father isn’t Jewish, whereas my mother’s parents, grandparents, and ancestors were all Jewish as far as I know.) But there’s more to any human than one particular identity, more than percentages of this and that. We are infinite, made up of many things, not entirely determined by our background, and never finally fixed. It isn’t just that I’m also Irish, Norwegian, French; I am also made up of the music I listen to, the poetry I read, the people I meet, the things I think about and write, life with all its ruptures and gifts, and things still to come. “I am a part of all that I have met; / Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’ / Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades / For ever and forever when I move.”

What’s the problem? someone might ask. Who’s putting pressure on you to be anything you aren’t? No one deliberately. But I want a new level of truth in my life. Some of this can’t be external, because external things always get mistaken and misclassified. Some truth can only be private. But I want to try to do better in getting to know others and letting them know me as I am.

People who are Jewish on both sides of the family, or who were brought up Jewish, or who want and need a particular cultural identity, may have trouble with what I am saying. But I know I am far from alone, and even if I were alone, I would have to find my way. And by that I don’t mean living by “me, me, me,” but rather taking part in the world, in a way that keeps unfolding.

Art credit: Marc Chagall, 1913, Paris par la fenêtre (Paris Through the Window), oil on canvas, 136 x 141.9 cm, Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York.

I made a few edits and additions to this piece after posting it.

The Privacy and Publicity of Religion

Each religion, in its different ways, has both communal and private dimensions; its believers will have different proportions of the two tendencies. Some people take part in a religion primarily for the social aspects, some for the solitary. Judaism emphasizes the communal, but it is not only communal, just as some branches of Christianity, while placing great emphasis on solitude and privacy, do not live in these alone.

Degrees of privacy do not necessarily correspond with degrees of observance. A person can be highly private about religion but also highly observant, or highly private but barely observant at all. All of the combinations not only exist but are needed. In all the possible variety, the greatest danger comes from excessive certainty and self-pride, on both the believing and the nonbelieving ends. The variety helps to mitigate the certainty.

Do we know that God exists? We have no empirical proof of this; faith is different from knowledge. Do we know that sacred texts are true and divine? Again, we have no empirical proof. Yet we believe strongly, one way or another. Those on the opposite ends–those who say the Bible is perfect and divine, and those who say it’s a bunch of rubbish–will likely disparage each other. Those profane atheists who deny the True Way! Those wacky religious fundamentalists who don’t live in the actual world!

But all of us probably need people who are more observant (or believing), and people who are less so, than we ourselves are. (Not that it’s always a question of “more” or “less”–but this imperfect framework will do for now.) From those who are more observant, one can learn a great deal about centuries-old wisdom and practices; from those who are less so, flexibility and openness.

Once, in the U.S., I was in an awkward situation, in a Shavuot all-night study session. I was sitting next to someone who was at the synagogue for the first time, and new to Judaism. She was eager to start learning Hebrew and liturgy, and asked me if I could recommend any resources. I named a few, which she began to write down. Then I saw three rabbis looking intently at me.

It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening. It was a holiday; you aren’t supposed to write on certain holidays (including Shavuot and Shabbat), nor are you supposed to encourage it. They were looking at me because I was the one they knew. Then one of the rabbis approached the woman and gently asked her not to write.

In the moment, I was mortified, but I realized that the rabbis were not trying to embarrass either of us. They simply needed to maintain the expected practices in shul, for everyone’s sake. After that incident, I came to realize that this prohibition against writing on specific holidays is upheld by Orthodox and Conservative synagogues but not necessarily by Reform. In addition, I saw that even within Conservatism, individuals differ widely in their practices. Once in a while, on Shabbat, one person might give another a phone number, or an email address, and the other person would step outside, or at least out of the sight of others, to write it down. Some write on Shabbat and other holidays, but not when others are looking. Is this hypocrisy? Not necessarily; it can be seen simply as respect.

But even within a shul, you have those who wouldn’t even consider writing on a holiday, and, on the other end, those who think it’s absurd not to write if you wish to do so. There’s a distinction, moreover, between private and public practice: there are those who justify writing in private, but not in public.

Why does Jewish rabbinic law prohibit writing on holidays? The reason is that writing constitutes a type of creation, which is a form of work. Torah explicitly and repeatedly prohibits work on Shabbat and specific other holidays; rabbinic tradition interprets writing as work. Creation is work in that it brings something into existence that was not there before. The holidays cannot allow for work; they are meant for worship and rest. This has profound meaning and challenge at once. It takes tremendous discipline, but it opens up into beauty. Honoring this in its fullness can be a lifelong project and more: the project of generation upon generation.

On the other hand, there are reasons to question this prohibition. In the case above, where a newcomer has come to the shul, it feels awkward to say, “Yes, I can give you resources, but you shouldn’t write them down.” Or: “If you come back next Shabbat, I’ll give you a list I have prepared in advance.” There are many other times when writing might be both reasonable and helpful. I was surprised, at my (European Progressive) shul here in Hungary, so see people taking notes during Shabbat study sessions. At a basic level, it makes sense; if you are studying something, don’t you want to try to remember it? True, some people remember better when they just listen (I am one of those), but others are greatly helped by being able to underline, jot down words, and so on.

Back to the question of stepping out of view to give someone a phone number: If we do these things in secret, doesn’t this obscure the situation? If people are actually writing, shouldn’t they do so openly, so that others who write know they aren’t alone? Maybe it’s time for a reassessment of writing, especially in the internet era, and during Covid, when it’s a way for people not only to keep in touch, but to lay out their thoughts, to come to terms (or not) with the world.

On the other hand, the public and private questions are truly separate. What you do in public (at shul, for instance) must take into account the expectations and rules of that particular public or community. What you do in private has to do with your own conscience and standards. This is why the private aspect of religion is so important; it allows you to follow what you truly believe, while also participating in a larger whole.

My own beliefs are ambivalent. On the one hand, I see reasons, both sacred and practical, to refrain from writing, and from numerous other activities, at specified times. In our incessantly active world, where we’re expected to be doing, doing, doing, a sacred time for stopping can bring deep restoration. It is extraordinary that Judaism explicitly builds and protects this time. On the other hand, I am uneasy with the taboo and its effects: the guilt, the shame. Some of my best writing happens when I have a stretch of time before me, not when I am caught up in the rush of the week. For the first forty-nine years of my life, Shabbat wasn’t even a concept for me. Since my shul-going days began, I have sometimes written on Shabbat, when the ideas were there and I didn’t think they could wait; when I had a pressing deadline; when I wanted or needed to contact someone; or when I had so much teaching preparation to do (preparing lessons, commenting on students’ writing) that refraining would have put undue pressure on Sundays, leading to exhaustion at the start of the teaching week. That said, when I had left Columbia Secondary School to write my second book, I deliberately structured my writing week so that Shabbat could be dedicated to shul, reading, and relaxing. I loved that rhythm–and had plenty of time for writing, since the weekdays were devoted to it.

I do not think God, if there is one, would condemn me for writing on Shabbat or any other time, unless I were writing mean and vile things. Yet I also believe that the day of rest is a gift that asks something of us not in return, but in response. Abraham Joshua Heschel’s The Sabbath comes to my memory again and again.

Back to the beginning: the public and the private, the greater and lesser degrees of observance, all offer something, for the simple reason that no one has the complete answer, not for others or for oneself. I brought in the example of writing because it affects us all and because it illustrates how perspectives and practices can differ, even among people together in a room. People inevitably judge each other to an extent; this results naturally from setting standards for oneself. But judgments can come with questions. In a world overfilled with certainties and dogma (just as it is overfilled with activity), perhaps the questions should come first: and first among these, the ones we ask inside the soul.

I made a few minor edits to this piece, in several stages, after posting it.

  • “To know that you can do better next time, unrecognizably better, and that there is no next time, and that it is a blessing there is not, there is a thought to be going on with.”

    —Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies

  • Always Different

  • Pilinszky Event (3/20/2022)

  • ABOUT THE AUTHOR

     

    Diana Senechal is the author of Republic of Noise: The Loss of Solitude in Schools and Culture and the 2011 winner of the Hiett Prize in the Humanities, awarded by the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Her second book, Mind over Memes: Passive Listening, Toxic Talk, and Other Modern Language Follies, was published by Rowman & Littlefield in October 2018. In February 2022, Deep Vellum will publish her translation of Gyula Jenei's 2018 poetry collection Mindig Más.

    Since November 2017, she has been teaching English, American civilization, and British civilization at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium in Szolnok, Hungary. From 2011 to 2016, she helped shape and teach the philosophy program at Columbia Secondary School for Math, Science & Engineering in New York City. In 2014, she and her students founded the philosophy journal CONTRARIWISE, which now has international participation and readership. In 2020, at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium, she and her students released the first issue of the online literary journal Folyosó.

  • INTERVIEWS AND TALKS

    On April 26, 2016, Diana Senechal delivered her talk "Take Away the Takeaway (Including This One)" at TEDx Upper West Side.
     

    Here is a video from the Dallas Institute's 2015 Education Forum.  Also see the video "Hiett Prize Winners Discuss the Future of the Humanities." 

    On April 19–21, 2014, Diana Senechal took part in a discussion of solitude on BBC World Service's programme The Forum.  

    On February 22, 2013, Diana Senechal was interviewed by Leah Wescott, editor-in-chief of The Cronk of Higher Education. Here is the podcast.

  • ABOUT THIS BLOG

    All blog contents are copyright © Diana Senechal. Anything on this blog may be quoted with proper attribution. Comments are welcome.

    On this blog, Take Away the Takeaway, I discuss literature, music, education, and other things. Some of the pieces are satirical and assigned (for clarity) to the satire category.

    When I revise a piece substantially after posting it, I note this at the end. Minor corrections (e.g., of punctuation and spelling) may go unannounced.

    Speaking of imperfection, my other blog, Megfogalmazások, abounds with imperfect Hungarian.

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