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“It’s like wearing blue jeans and playing the banjo in church.” That is how my sophomore classics professor explained the unseemliness of a character’s behavior in a Greek tragedy. I don’t remember the character, the unseemly behavior or the play, but that phrase stuck with me. Blues jeans and a banjo—this image of earthy, relaxed spirituality compelled me. What a contrast to the unapproachable, robe-clad rabbi, to the choir’s ear piercing tones, to the stockings and high heels that I wore to synagogue growing up. The professor’s point was lost as I wondered where I could find a Jewish congregation where blue jeans were ok and where a banjo accompanied the service.
This yearning for a religious setting that invites participants to relax, to come as they are, to feel at home, this is the search that brought many of us to Adat Shalom. We call Adat Shalom our “home” because here we can leave behind the formalities so often associated with religious institutions and instead just be ourselves. We call our clergy by first names. We nourish each other potluck style. We relish coming to shul dressed casually. We write notes in our personal siddurim to give our prayers more meaning. We “own” Judaism by breaking the barriers that kept us at arm’s length from our tradition.
This quest for less a formal, less forbidding Judaism gives short shrift to “kavod”. “Kavod” is the Hebrew word for honor. It also means majesty, distinction and splendor. It comes from the same root as heavy, difficult, and gravity. To honor something in our tradition is to feel its weight, to respect its value, to stand in awe, to recognize its distinction. Kavod implies a solemnity not usually associated with “feeling at home”. As adults, we have the maturity to balance our tradition’s emphasis on kavod with our desire for informality. However, I am concerned that as a community we are failing to communicate this balance to our children.
A number of recent incidents point up a problem. On the dedication weekend, boys playing basketball in the lobby marked the ceiling. Rachel’s guitar has been re-tuned more than once by children who played it without asking. Roughhousing left a hole smashed in a classroom closet wall. Children in “race n roll” shoes marred the social hall floor by using it as a roller rink. A footprint on a shelf revealed the library’s use as a climbing wall. Children jammed the ark doors open. For each event leaving a mark, there have been dozens of incidents of rowdy or careless play that did no permanent damage.
None of these incidents were malicious vandalism. A few disturbed youngsters aren’t to blame. There is no rotten apple spoiling the bunch. These incidents involve elementary age kids and middle schoolers, children with ADHD and children with no apparent issues, children who attend the Torah school and those who attend day school, children of limit-setting parents, children of permissive parents, children of board members. The children involved represent all the children in our community.
On hearing of these incidents, people typically ask, “Where were the parents?” But the children involved were not pre-schoolers. By the time they are 7 or 8, children have internalized our values sufficiently that they don’t need a parent hovering nearby to stay within bounds. These children aren’t defacing their schools or their homes. We shouldn’t need guards patrolling the halls to protect our building. Parents of school-aged children should be able to sit at the Oneg knowing that their children will behave appropriately.
Why don’t our children know what is appropriate? Have we been so anxious for our children to feel at home that we haven’t draw distinctions between the social hall and a gym, between the library’s shelves and play equipment, between the ark and a kitchen cabinet, between our cantor’s guitar and a toy? Have we been so desperate for our children to “like” Judaism that we’ve neglected to teach a sense of awe for the sanctuary, the ark and the Torah? Have we been so eager for our children to see our clergy as friends that we forgot to teach them respect? Have we as parents and as a community been so concerned about making our children feel comfortable that we neglected lessons on “kavod”?
Many of us grew up in religious communities, Jewish or non-Jewish, where there was so much emphasis on kavod that we were alienated from the meaning hidden within the formalities. I think that we have swung the pendulum too far in the other direction for our children. When the shul is a place where anything goes, it is hard to find the meaning hidden behind the informality.
As parents and as a community, we need to figure out how to communicate “kavod”” to our children. Blaming “those permissive parents” won’t help because no family can break these patterns in isolation. Cantor Rachel can’t do it alone through her weekly 30-minute Mincha/Ma’aariv service. Mary Meyerson and the Torah School teachers can’t teach “kavod” if the lesson is not reinforced. Our children will only learn kavod if the entire adult community— parents, childless adults, grandparents, empty nesters, educators, clergy— joins together to communicate the message.
Part of teaching kavod is modeling it by treating the children as valued members of the community. The new monthly Torah discussion for older children needs adult leaders. This venue gives members a concrete way to demonstrate respect for our young people’s ability to grapple with the tradition. Over the summer, the Family Programming Committee’s Kid Zone gave children an appropriate alternative to sitting in a long service; keeping this initiative going requires the support of adult volunteers. We need to plan a playground for our younger children and make purchasing of outdoor climbing equipment a top priority. These are concrete ways to communicate to the children that they truly belong at Adat Shalom.
Of equal importance, the entire community needs to take up the burden of teaching our children what is acceptable. Parents are the most important teachers but every adult in the community should feel empowered to offer every one of the community’s children behavioral guidance. If we are really the community we say we are, every adult, not just the parents, should intervene when children need redirection.
We want our children to feel that Adat Shalom is where they belong. I think that the right analogy is that we want them to feel like they are at grandma’s house—place where they feel welcomed, loved, valued, and carefully watched over, and where they wouldn’t dream of throwing a football at the chandelier.
Shalom uv’racha (Peace and blessing!)
Judy Gelman
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