Reflecting on Reflex: A Personal Struggle with Judaism
by Matthew Rochkind
Fall 1999

Of course I'll come home for the high holidays. I'll be home for dinner, I'll get dressed up, and I'll go to synagogue for services. I will stand when the congregation stands, sit when the congregation sits, and even say the murmured prayers whose meanings are vague in my mind, but whose tunes I learned well in Hebrew school, and come back to me on cue. All of this I will do by reflex, like standing for the Star Spangled Banner. There's no hesitation in my decision to go home for the holiest days on the Jewish calendar, but that sureness belies a nagging self-questioning that tugs most during these symbolic gestures of faith.

Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, is a time for us to repent and pray for God to inscribe us in the Book of Life. It is one of the few holidays of the year where the two extra wings of the sanctuary need to be opened to accommodate all of us who only come for the big events. When the after-life is on the line, God draws a full house. The great significance of the holiday only serves to enlarge the irony to me, another Jew in slacks, sport coat, tie, yarmulke, and tallith, standing before God in His house, not sure I even believe in Him. What am I doing in synagogue? I feel nothing, nothing but turmoil at my continuing reliance on these few annual visits to prove my faith, at the overwhelming feeling that I have none, that I'm not being true, and that I'm not strong enough to admit it.

The fact that my upbringing has been far from devoid of religion makes it even more complicated to sort this out. I've been led straight down the path of Judaism, but how blindly was I led? I was raised conservative, not orthodox, and this less rigid form of practice may have helped build my current state of questioning. This less rigid form of practice seemed to only emphasize itself on specific occasions, not all day every day. I was allowed to form a very secular mode of living while the seed of Judaism sprouted steadily inside me. Even in considering my Bar Mitzvah, that rite of passage where I read from the Torah in front of the whole congregation, the conflict is apparent. For countering this quintessentially Jewish moment, I took the whole process of preparation not as a privilege or blessing, but as a duty. I memorized my portion, and made only a half-hearted attempt at understanding it's meaning. And so did nearly every kid I know. While it may be easy to criticize the religious system that breeds such apathy, or deem the ceremony meaningful beyond my childishness, I think it's terrible. Acts without heart don't hold much weight.

Such a weightless act has been most of my life as a Jew. Like regular school, to me and to most of my friends Hebrew school and going to services were repeated activities that were simply a part of life, but which did not carry any extra spiritual significance. It was just another thing I did at my parent's request (or command), like brushing my teeth. I learned the Hebrew alphabet, stories from the bible (Old Testament), about the holidays, and prayer, all because I was told to. Like brushing, it was clearly intended to benefit me - I wasn't even really opposed to it - but I couldn't be trusted to do it on my own. I figured, or I assume this is how I saw it, that I was Jewish, and was slowly being trained in the things that I needed to know, and that would one day make me a full-fledged Jew. In synagogue they would talk about God, and my reaction was a sort of mental shrug. As long as I was praying and going to services, there may as well be a God, but I never gave it much thought or formed my own relationships with Him. All these markers of Judaism - Hebrew school, Shabbat dinner every Friday night, attendance at synagogue for important holidays several times a year - were small symbols of a religion that was but a backdrop to my every day life.

Now I'm way past being told to brush my teeth, but am just beginning to govern my own personal accounts in a meaningful way. I feel little personal connection to the faith, yet it's rituals are routine and taken for granted in my life. There is an unmistakable gap in personal examination that contributes strongly to my feeling of detachment. After years of being swept along by the current, I'm lost at sea. It's about time to start paddling or jump ship.

If it were only a question of identity I would not be so concerned. Who, after all, can ever figure out exactly where they stand in relation to all the various groups with which one affiliates? To me there is more at stake in this issue that the satisfaction of knowing who I am. This issue drives to an issue of how people treat each other, and how internal conflict creates external conflict. Because I am Jewish. I tell people I'm Jewish, and I feel Jewish. And at the same time I feel like a hollow Jew, well constructed but lacking a core. There are no guidelines for inclusion in certain religions, classes, or any classification. We go by instinct, and we try to feel our way. But while on the inside I search and listen for my heart's calling, how do I deal with what I have to reveal on the outside? Every time I say I'm Jewish, or am faced with Judaism in public, I have to deal with what that claim means to me, and to those I'm with. And ever y time I must ask myself, do I feel justified and comfortable making those claims?

Because in the end I have to live with those claims daily. I can't ignore what people think of me, or live only within my self-exploring personal space. Correct or not, rational or not, identification with any group is wearing that group's label, complete with their history and public image, like a zebra's stripes. Among a large group of zebra, those stripes serve to camouflage, protect, and reassure the individual against predators. However, outside that familiar space they may be pretty stripes, but mostly they just draw attention. Among Jewish company being Jewish is normal, nearly taken for granted, and I get lost in the familiarity. But outside of that context I have to take more responsibility for what I say, because I'm a representative. That doesn't sit right with me.

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I spent 9 months living with a Spanish family in officially Catholic Spain. My host mother went to mass every day, and the family would pray before every meal. I would not bow my head, nor close my eyes, nor say Amen to those prayers, and they accepted that. But the division was made. Why did I do it? I was taught to be Jewish, not to pray to other Gods. Yet I don't even have a God, so what does it matter if I pray to someone else's, especially when that may have drawn me closer to my hosts? Was I just drawing boundaries, making myself stand out? I don't think so, but I think I did it by reflex, like so much of my religious practice, and isn't that even worse? My actions were not based on personally fundamental convictions, as was apparent when as issue regarding religion would come up in conversation. As is normal, they were curious to learn about Judaism, but it would put me in the position of authority, a position I was not prepared to hold. I did not have the knowledge of my own religion to answer their questions on theology and ritual (though I'm sure I would have had I paid an ounce of attention through 12 years of Hebrew school). What was I doing claiming to be Jewish, while during my stay in their house my only act of religious practice was seeking out a service on the high holidays (go figure)? Wasn't my ignorance a sign of my true feelings?

Yet in spite of my feeling as a false representative, I did indeed seek out Yom Kippur services in a small apartment-turned-synagogue, the only temple in this city of 750,000 people. And immediately upon hearing the Hebrew prayers I felt comfortable. Constantly the foreigner that year, struggling with Spanish, at services I heard a third language that connected us, and their happiness at seeing another Jew in Seville made me want to be the most religious Jew they'd seen. But I wasn't. My comfort was a response to the stimulus of prayer I had observed oft before. I had found the other zebras in Seville, but outside that small room I was once again out in the wild.

I think people of all sorts face the same problem of dealing with their identity in public situations. However, the members of groups not easily recognized visually face the perils of subtle conflict. Non-Judaism is assumed in the general population, as I suppose heterosexual is. And within smaller contexts a person of any affiliation may find himself in foreign territory. An NRA member among a crowd of the opposition, or one democrat among a crowd from the NRA. Within groups conversations assume a certain tone of inclusion and complicity, and this becomes problematic when that homogeneity is incorrectly assumed. A Diag preacher approached me one day as I sat reading. He made small talk and then offered me a little booklet of questions and answers about Christianity. It was supposed to help me find my way, and he told me it was not meant any particular denomination. I'm not sure it entered his mind that I wasn't even Christian.

For me this phenomenon manifests itself most in discussions about religion, especially faced with forceful declarations about Jesus, or first encounters with Jews. A new friend might start talking about Jews they'd met, and things they were told. "I was talking to a Jewish kid and he said...." At this point I feel the need to declare myself Jewish, as if to warn them that I may be especially sensitive to generalizations and misinformation. It's a terrible thing to have to do, because odds are nothing offensive in the least will be said. But if I don't say it the conversation may develop to a point where it truly is uncomfortable. If my friend says "and I couldn't believe they do that," and I'm still assumed gentile there arises an uneasiness. It's an uneasiness that for me stems from not being completely confident in my Jewishness, not knowing whether it's important enough to me to make a scene. It's not that it's an offensive comment, but it may include that spirit of complicity that I can't be comfortable with. By now it's too late to identify myself without embarrassing my friend. The need for this constant consciousness reminds me that I do have this mysteriously strong Jewish identity hidden within me.

Everyone has these hidden or not so hidden identities, and the same potential exists for that uneasiness. For me I need only consider the University Greek System to notice similar tensions. I suppose I don't fit the stereotyped fraternity mold, but the fact remains that for one reason or another I joined one. I felt loyalty to that brotherhood out of the simple fact of my membership, although I was never sure I believed in the things it did as a group, or of my place within it. It occurs to me that I don't really feel Greek much in the same way that I don't feel Jewish. An unidentified loyalty based to some degree on artifice, not conviction. It's another set of stripes, and in both situations I can get caught in those awkward situations. In Greek company, my status does not create tension, it even grants me inclusion. But when the Greek system comes up in other conversations, if I don't announce my position, some borderline offensive or stereotypical comments may surface and I'll be forced into the unwelcome role of defender. As an insider, perhaps I'm biased towards it, perhaps against it, or maybe I really have a more educated image of it. In any case, a familiar deal applies. When I mention it, I'm carrying it's image around with me. I'm drawing lines I'm not sure I like drawing.

Everyone I've ever told I was in a fraternity was surprised, and those not in the system themselves will often make jokes about the new, lesser light they see me in. It's funny, because nobody would dare say those things when I reveal my religion. It's a lighter issue in a sense. Still, it all goes back to the same thing. Non-extremist, atypical members of groups must deal with the public images of those groups. It is hard to maintain a moderate stance against the strength of common conception, because when confrontation. Arises based on that conception a firm position is required.

Claiming inclusion within a system of defined identities automatically lays claim to a variety of other things, good and bad. The ills of discrimination are well known, but is blind praise or positive judgment any more deserved? Jews are a minority, and I struggle with the notion that I may take advantage of and benefit from that. White, American, male, I am the majority. Who am I to take part in any progressive discussions about equalizing the playing field? Sure, people understand that not all of us are devils, but neither is it easy to accept that we can really understand or empathize with the plight of wrong peopled. Being Jewish lets me in to that discussion. It may not be completely without base, for it's already surfaced that I may share some anxieties about disclosure and identification against norms and majorities. But that is a gross simplification. Neither white, nor American, nor male is a tidy term, and anxieties about identity are not limited to any set. That fact only accentuates my frustration at the nearly automatic solidarity formed among minorities. It's upsetting that the simple fact of being Jewish puts me in an entirely new light. It's as if all of a sudden that allows me to understand things a bit more than if I were just a straight WASP. Aren't there racist Jews too? Without saying a word, my Jewishness grants me a place among the victims. But I don't feel like a victim. That comes with being Jewish, even if I have no connection to the religion at all.

That seems wrong. Status of this sort should not be displayed like a neon sign. It should not be used to access privileges or special consideration on any level (I dare not enter the affirmative action debate here - I hope my words speak on a less political, and more internalized level). That is another reason to be wary of saying "I'm Jewish" in a conversation. Because I don't want to invite inappropriate assumptions, whether positive or negative. I've already explained my lack of spiritual motivation, so how am I really Jewish, anyway?

People talk about cultural Jews, pointing to a set of common experiences, not directly based on religion, that unite us. A friend of mine told me all Jews grow up in similar households, and our bonds are based on common experience, related or not to loyalty to any religious teaching. Wouldn't that have to be qualified with other factors, such as economic class and location (American Jews might grow up far different than Mexican Jews). Here we grew up on all those Jewish dishes that give us special feelings of authenticity and authority in old Jewish delis. But do tzimmes, noodle kugel, and matzah ball soup make me Jewish? We hear bits of Yiddish that filter down through the generations and feel a special privilege at understanding them in public. Is that Jewish? I'm afraid it is. This concept of cultural Judaism is widely embraced, but to me it seems a pseudo-Judaism. For although it is a descriptive term that indicates a certain group, it need not always indicate the religious tenets and philosophies it once did. I'm on example. And another would be the non-Jew who grows up in a Jewish neighborhood and has the same experiences.

Along with these things, growing up in a Jewish household creates other by-products in the form of opinions on certain issues. Consider my view of Israel. When I hear of a terrorist act against Israel, I'm horrified. These are my people, they fought for a land it is their right to have, there is finally a home for us, we are constantly in danger of being exiled and wiped out. Well, how is my connection to Israel any stronger than the next guy's? My Judaism gives me this mysterious, invisible bond. Another guy could be just as supportive, but would not feel that sense of inclusion. He would say they have a right, they are in danger. But he might also believe, from his external view, that Hey! The Palestinians are kind of getting screwed here. Don't they have a right to some land? Is it first come, first served here, and the rest starve and suffer? This is a real issue, and both sides are arguable. But while it is fine for him to understand my side, is it equally acceptable for me to see the flip side? I do, but as a Jew I feel somehow traitorous doubting the State of Israel, questioning not their right to land, but why their right outweighs those of another people whose quest is just like their own, only too late. Once in a group, certain absolute allegiances are taken and expected. They are no longer simply humane or rational opinion, but are based on a whole tradition.

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The hard part for me is accepting that difference. Acknowledging and living with the difference between by-the-book Judaism and this Jewish-by-conditioning life that I live. Judaism has taught me valuable lessons about kindness, humility, morality, and what's important in life. All those things seem relevant to me, but by no means exclusively Jewish.

Everything I take from Judaism I could probably take from another religion, or even from some intelligent thinking. Being Jewish has given me much, but I'm not convinced that in fulfilling these seemingly non-religious ideals I am practicing Judaism. Sure, I like Yom Kippur, but, better said, I like what Yom Kippur means. It's the day God is supposed to write me in the Book of Life because I've repented my acts against God and against people, and have sought forgiveness from those people. I like that idea: a day to think about and recognize the wrong we do, to wipe the slate clean. But when I consider how much I'd like to start again, to not offend or hurt anybody, I don't really include God in that equation. I don't quite consider it repentance on a religious level. I like what I see as the essence of the holiday, and of Jewish life, but whenever somebody mentions God, I just skim over it. That's what I mean by feeling disconnected. I'm attached in moral ways, and while my moral attitudes are in part due to a Jewish upbringing, I don't consider them Jewish morals as much as human morals. Is this a selective but appropriate approach to religion?

We must make these choices in every realm of our life, and we must deal with how that affects us. In a book about Cuban-Americans the author was writing about those Cubans born in Cuba who move to American during or just after their childhood.1 Neither wholly Cuban nor wholly American, they must deal with formation as American adults while holding on to their Cuban heritage. What struck me were the author's words, as a parent, of his children's Cuban identity. He writes, "they maintain a connection to their parents' homeland, but it is a bond forged by my experiences rather than their own."2 My Jewishness is a product of my childhood. It is based on experiences of my ancestors long ago, my relatives in wartime Europe, the Jews in Israel, and I have trouble connecting to that. As I realize that my responses to Jewish issues are passive reflex, that inherited world view needs to constantly be examined in light of doubts and oppositions. Being born into something is not a conclusive argument, and neither is it possible to ignore. A zebra cannot shed his stripes, and inside and out those stripes affect how he roams the earth.

1 Firmat, Gustavo Perez. Life on the Hyphen the Cuban-American Way. University of Texas Press. Austin. 1994.
2 Firmat, p. 5