Smoke & Mirrors

Ten is one of those mystical numbers in Judaism. Its special significance is introduced in biblical literature, and the rabbis of the 1^st century codify ten as the number which represents critical mass in a Jewish community.  A Jew can pray alone, anywhere, but he or she is required to find nine others with whom to recite the prayers designated as most important.  Ten is called a minyan, quorum, and sometimes nine Jews gathered for prayers will pause in the service to wait until the 10^th arrives.

Sometimes it feels like there are only ten Jews in the entire world, and the rest of us are a magician’s stunt, an illusion produced using smoke and mirrors.  I feel this most keenly when I play the game that Jews initiate upon meeting each other for the first time: Jewish Geography.  It is similar to Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, only a much older and more beloved version, and it goes something like this:

Jew #1: You’re from [name of town in New Jersey]? Do you know [name of random Jew from that town, with a common Jewish name, such as Cohen or Levine]?

Jew #2: Of course! He is a few years older than I am, but I grew up with [name of Cohen’s younger sister or cousin].

In Jewish Geography, it’s usually fewer than six degrees of separation, too.  We are a small clan, and just a few generations ago it was not uncommon for distant cousins to marry each other for the sake of endogamy.

So I should not have been at all surprised when I met a fellow Jew for the first time a few weeks ago and he asked me: “Did you go to JTS?”  For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he was curious about my rabbinic training or checking my credentials, as I will be reviewing his book for a journal next month.  Then I realized, from his follow-up question, that he was playing the game:

Tom: Do you know [name of rabbi who also attended JTS]?

Me: Of course! He was a year behind me in school, but I think he is a few years older than I am.  We work together at camp and our sons are going to be bunkmates this summer. I’m going to be visiting him in [name of town in Florida] in January.  How do you know him?

Tom: He was my roommate in college.

Ten Jews.  Smoke.  Mirrors.

I had the feeling that if we’d played Jewish Geography a few minutes more, we would have discovered a common ancestor.

As the evening progressed, we discussed mutual interests and affiliations, and chatted about his book, the publishing industry, politics-- the usual agenda of people getting acquainted.

Leaving Starbucks and saying goodbye to my new friend, I understood that we are actually old friends, possibly mishpochah (family), in the sense that we are part of the quorum of ten Jews who, wherever we gather, comprise a community.

100 years

In a few weeks, one of my favorite students will officially accept the responsibilities of Eagle Scout.  We adults who have watched this young man grow up feel privileged to share in his celebration.  After raising far more money than he needed for his Eagle Scout project -- he built an outdoor classroom at his high school-- he invested the surplus in a fund to help other, less-fortunate, aspiring Eagle Scouts realize their goals.

On the same day of Alex's ceremony, my spouse will attend a training session to become a Den Leader.  I am so proud of him for accepting this responsibility and so grateful that he is an active participant in my son's life.  He was surprised to hear this from me, though, because he knows that I am deeply conflicted about the Boy Scouts of America, and I continue to harbor mixed feelings about my son's participation in Cub Scouts. 

As recently as this past Friday, I was reminded of my ambivalence when I heard an interview with the new CEO of the Atlanta Area Council.  I smiled as he described the marvelous activities that would mark the 100th anniversary of scouting, and nodded appreciatively as he emphasized the scouts' commitment to the environment.  He spoke of the long tradition of service to the community and of keeping the image of Boy Scouts fresh and relevant to today's kids.  And then he poked a pin in my swelling balloon of joy, when he answered firmly and without hesitation that the Boy Scouts' ban on gay leaders has not changed: "That's been our tradition, and it will remain so."  Unspoken, but clearly communicated, was his moral certitude based on his Christian values.

I had long opposed this stance in my own religion, understanding both the exclusion of gays from leadership positions and the sentiment that homosexuality is wrong to be a most narrow interpretation of one verse in the Hebrew bible.  But as a member of this tribe and a rabbi, I was able to teach alternative interpretations and work toward ending the institutionalized discrimination against gays and lesbians in Conservative Judaism.

I had likewise discouraged my son's participation in Cub Scouts, because I felt that I was without recourse to oppose their policy.  My spouse and other leaders in Pack 1800 reassured me that homophobia would not be felt at the local level.  In fact, one of the boys in my son's den has two mothers, both smart and articulate women who share my concerns.  Still, they encourage their son's involvement in scouting and they participate in local meetings and events.  

My son, who proudly wore his uniform to school today in recognition of the 100th anniversary, has already benefited so much from scouting this year.  He has slept in a tent, hiked in the mountains, visited elderly people in assisted living, and designed an aerodynamic car that earned him first place at the Pinewood Derby--all this with his father by his side.  His father and I continue to discuss our concerns about that one "tradition" in scouting that we simply cannot abide.  But he is only 8 years old.  It isn't time yet for him to share in these discussions.  

How will I mark today's anniversary?  I open my Hebrew bible to a different chapter and read: "There is a season for everything, a time for every experience under heaven... a time for keeping; a time for discarding."  Then I pray: Perhaps it will not take the next 100 years to establish a new tradition.