Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg
February 23, 2008

Those of you who have been in my office on the second floor may have noticed that, in addition to the pictures of my family, requisite degrees and the like, there are a few artistic pieces.  One is a sketch of Wrigley Field and another, a photograph of the Student Union terrace in Madison, Wisconsin.  Both places evoke pleasant memories – summer days spent outdoors in the fresh air, people-watching and good conversation.  A third piece is a small rendition of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks – which, incidentally contains many similar components as the other two: people, food, conversation.  And yet, it’s a painting that beckons the viewer to consider: Why the stark contrast between the luminescence of the late night diner and the desolate city streets beyond?  Who is the lady in the red dress and who is her companion?  What drives the lone employee in his white uniform and fry-cook’s hat to be working the graveyard shift?  But, most of all, when I look at Nighthawks, it is the fourth man, sitting alone at the counter, that captures my imagination.  Who is he?  What is he thinking?  Why (and how) is he cast partly in shadow when nothing else in the restaurant seems to parallel this effect?  I’ve often thought that if I could understand this man, know his story, discover why he is sitting at a distance, then I would understand a great deal more about human nature.

As a rabbi of a major congregation, I am in some ways the very definition of the status quo, the establishment, the center.  I am on the inside looking out, perhaps noticing those on the periphery, perhaps failing to do so.  Hopper’s vantage is distinctly different from mine.  Whether he is painting houses or barns or late-night diners: Hopper places the viewer on the outside looking in.  This perspective affords us a different view of the man in shadow.  We may not see his face, but we cannot avoid seeing him entirely.  Hopper’s diner, his portrayal of everyday people is so familiar to us that, just by virtue of our perspective, we are forced to reconsider the status quo. 

And this is the question that I would like us to ponder today:  What can we, the rabbis, the engaged members of established congregations, learn from those on the fringes?  How should we react when challenges arise: to our davening style or to our more traditional organizational structures?  How can we in the center, as it were, reframe our perspective to account for those who are on the outside looking in?

To these questions we should add one more: In our day, what is the nature of these peripheral Jews?  A recent study conducted by Dr. Steven Cohen and sponsored by Synagogue 3000 (http://www.synagogue3000.org/synagoguestudies.html) and Mechon Hadar in New York presents a new Jewish sociological phenomenon: “Emergent Jewish Communities.”  By the study’s count, there are currently 80 functioning communities of this type in the United States and Canada.  But far from resembling Hopper’s man in shadow, these “fringe” groups are hardly content to sit quietly.  On the contrary, Emergent Communities represent some of the most dynamic, vibrant and inspired davening, learning and community-building in the Jewish world today.  What’s more, more than any other type, these kehillot (particularly the independent minyanim and the Rabbi-led non denominational communities) most often practice some version of traditional/egalitarian worship, a position in the Jewish spectrum most commonly held by Conservative synagogues.  In other words, the Emergent phenomenon is a challenge (if an implicit one) to the normative Judaism most often represented by the United Synagogue and its member congregations. 

In attempting to address this challenge, it is worthwhile to identify an appropriate paradigm from our textual tradition.  This week’s parasha takes us back to a time when the center was newly formed, when the periphery represented the vast majority of a budding religious civilization.  Against this backdrop, we observe perhaps the most infamous challenge to authority in Jewish history.  Having received the ten commandments, having seen the smoke and heard the thunder, having heard a voice call out, Anochi Hashem Elohecha, “I am the Lord your God,” members of the nascent Jewish community, newly liberated from slavery and free to roam the wilderness, decide that they will build a false god, a golden calf.  The sin is so egregious that it leads God to nearly destroy this newly Chosen People.  Indeed, it takes Moses’ intervention to stave off God’s wrath.  Clearly this is not a model for a worthy challenge of the established order.  Denying the very existence of God, removing oneself from the conversation, as it were, cannot lead to any real synthesis.  The golden calf is a symbol of lost faith, tearing the community asunder.  Without the center, there can be no periphery.

Another misbegotten challenge to the status quo is the rebellion of Korah and his followers.  Though he presents himself as a mere organizer, a man of the people, the Hebrew text indicates well Korah’s true intensions:  Vayikah Korah, “and Korah took.”  Korah wasn’t interested in giving, in contributing to the larger community or the greater good.  He wanted to usurp authority for himself.  It is this fact that led our sages to label Korah’s revolt as the quintessential example of a mahloket shelo l’shaim shamayim, a destructive argument that is contrary to heaven, an affront to God’s very name.  Korah uses his mouth for ill-gotten gain and so the “mouth” of the earth swallows him and his compatriots.  This is what our tradition calls midah k’neged midah (measure for measure), or what parents of certain two-year olds might call “logical consequences.”

Elsewhere in the book of Numbers, however, we encounter a “challenge” of sorts that bears a far greater resemblance to the implicit challenge put forth by Emergent Jewish Communities of today.   At a critical moment in the Jewish people’s desert wanderings, Moses gathers the 70 elders of the community around the Ohel Moed, the tent of meeting.  Then we are told:

“And when the spirit rested upon them, they spoke in ecstasy, but did not continue.” (Num. 11:25)

Here we have a wonderful representation of a broader leadership class than depicted elsewhere in the Torah’s narrative.  Rather than God’s spirit abiding with only a truly select few individuals (Moses and perhaps his brother Aaron and Aaron’s direct descendants), we are shown that those outside the priestly class are also capable of experiencing God’s presence.  The text seems almost revolutionary; after all, at first glance the prophetic gift in this period seems to have been doled out more sparingly. 

Yet it is the next series of verses (11:26-30) that seem to truly subvert the dominant paradigm.  Moses is informed that two men, Eldad and Medad have remained in the camp and are mit’nab’im – engaged in their own prophetic ecstasy.  Whether by happenstance or design, the actions of Eldad and Medad constitute a true challenge to Moses’ central authority, a peripheral questioning of the accepted mode of divine communication.  But, when the inevitable response comes, it is Moses who is far from reactionary.  Rather, he chides the nay-sayers offering: “Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets, that the Lord put His spirit upon them!”

Two questions are worth considering.  First, why are we told that the 70 elders “did not continue” with their ecstatic encounter? And second, why is the reader specifically informed that Eldad and Medad had their prophetic experience “bamachaneh,” within the camp?  To the first question, it may very well have been the case that their vision was complete, message received – that there was no premature interruption of the signal.  And yet, equally probable is that the 70 community leaders had gone as far as they were willing or able to go.  The words ‘v’lo yasafu’ then represent a sort of metaphysical “dropped call.”  If this is the case, then the actions of Eldad and Medad do not represent simply an additional or alternative encounter with the divine but an essential continuation of the prophetic process. 

In attempting to answer our second question, I want to suggest that it was remaining within the camp that fundamentally sets this “challenge” apart from the golden calf incident and from Korah’s rebellion.  Each of those represented a true revolution which threatened the very existence of the greater community.  Those challenges could only be met by the central leadership (be it God or Moses) with a call to circle the wagons.  Conversely, Eldad and Medad were interested in being part of the process.  Their experience does not mitigate that of the establishment, but adds to it.  And to those who would remind us that we are instructed (Pirkei Avot): “Al tifrosh min hatzibur,” do not separate yourselves from the community, I would respond that innovation not need necessitate an ideological break.  Or even when ideologies diverge, the basic values which undergird classical or contemporary models of Jewish affiliation: prayer, learning and community, remain solidly intact. 

When Rabbi Or Rose of Hebrew College addressed our Rose Crown Minyan community last week, he spoke of a desire to be not on the “cutting edge” of Judaism but on the “growing edge.” And this growing edge is exactly where many if not most of these Emergent communities have positioned themselves.   In fact, according to Cohen’s research, a full 90% of those who attend independent minyanim identify “being Jewish” as something very important to them as opposed to 69% of traditional synagogue members (NJPS, 2000).  This is a far cry from Madonna (or should I say Esther?) who claims that she is a follower of Kabbalah, but not of Judaism.  On the contrary, members of Emergent Communities attend services, visit Israel and in-marry in much higher percentages than their synagogue-affiliated contemporaries.  And lest you think that these peripheral Jews are unwilling to support mainstream Jewish institutions, note that adherents of independent minyanim and rabbi-led Emergent communities make contributions to Jewish Federations in slightly higher percentages than members of traditional synagogues (46% to 45%) and attend JCC programs in higher proportions.  The numbers are fascinating, challenging some assumptions while confirming others.  But one thing is clear: when we peer from the outside in, we are forced to re-examine many of those individuals and communities who have chosen to remain on the periphery.  

A body of literature is emerging on the underlying causes of this relatively new Jewish phenomenon: the break-down of traditional communal structures in general and disillusionment with religious establishments in particular, the impact of neo-Orthodoxy and strong Ramah and Israel learning programs all factor-in, to be sure.  Dr. Debra Dash Moore, a history professor at the University of Michigan writing in the most recent issue of the journal Sh’ma implies that, phenomenologically, today’s Emergent communities closely resemble that of a computer network and states that: “Jews in America have for some time now been a voluntary community of interdependence.” Others take issue with this model. Perhaps in May, when our Cummings lecture series concludes with Dr. Lawrence Hoffman, co-founder of Synagogue 3000, we will have the opportunity to further explore the issue of causation.  For the present, I think it is sufficient to pay heed to the reality of these data and attempt to ascertain their relevance to the greater Jewish community. 

Like Eldad and Medad in their time, I would suggest that modern Emergent Jewish communities ought to be cherished rather than admonished.   Like their biblical forebears, they have something unique to add to the ongoing dialectic that is our Jewish tradition.  Let’s be honest: some synagogues have atrophied, others have ceased to be truly innovative, while still others like Anshe Emet, are endeavoring to explore new and evolving possibilities for congregational life.  Emergent Communities represent a parallel initiative, the continuation of the sacred journey begun many decades ago by the bastions of Jewish prayer and communal life.  Moreover, these groups tip-toe around without plunging over (or tripping over) the borders of the machaneh.  Through their commitment to Israel, Hebrew, innovative Jewish music, prayer, study, halakhic observance, social justice, and the construction of meaningful community, they have much to contribute to the collective whole of Jewish organizational life.  They are on the growing edge, but not the cutting edge, whether they know it entirely or not.  And as long as they embrace, albeit somewhat improbably, their wings as well as their roots, we must engage them in the conversation.  “Would that we all were prophets!” proclaimed the greatest of all prophets so many centuries ago.  Those words have never contained more truth than they do today.

We are only beginning to understand the impact of these Emergent Communities on the future of American Judaism.  Will the groups continue to attract transient populations, seeing their members “graduate,” as it were, to traditional congregations as they get older and have children?  Will the communities themselves take on a more normative character, developing traditional boards and joining or creating networks much like our United Synagogue?  And speaking of our movement, will Conservative Judaism, from which a disproportionate number of these Jews emerge, reformulate its institutional makeup to better respond to a new generation with different hopes, needs and expectations?  Will more individual congregations follow the model of Anshe Emet, supporting a semi-independent minyan within its ranks, encouraging it to flourish bamachaneh, “within the camp?”  Only time will tell.

Over the next several months, the Art Institute will offer an exhibit including some of Edward Hopper’s greatest works.  Boats and barns and houses will abound, each viewed not voyeuristically, but lovingly from the outside in, each a snapshot, a moment in time, a study in humanity.  But it will be the homecoming of Nighthawks that will beckon this rabbi to take a few moments to consider the interplay of light and shadow, the quiet of the city streets and the glow of that familiar diner.  I’ll sit for a while, looking over the shoulder of a solitary man on the edge of the frame and think, “if ever I find myself in that restaurant late at night, I’ll be sure to pull up a stool, order a cup of coffee and strike up a conversation.”