Re-thinking the "School Year"

In the past I've written about why I can't stand the term "Religious School" - because what we do in Jewish education is not described well by the word "religious" or by the term "school."  However, in one way we are exactly like a "school": we have a "school year."  I have caught myself using that term over and over again in recent weeks - "We are almost at the end of the school year."  "I am busy planning for next (school) year."  "We just opened registration for next (school) year."  As I sit with the notion of ending one year and starting another, I am struck by how stuck we are (and I am) in this mode of a "SCHOOL YEAR."

As a rabbi and mom, I wish there weren't a 'school year' for Jewish education.  I wish I could take my kids to synagogue every week for both study and prayer, in age-appropriate settings.  I look to my Mormon sister-in-law who goes to church with her family every Sunday - rain or shine, winter or spring, holiday or not.  From what I understand, the members of the church spend about an hour in communal prayer (with childcare / programming available for the very youngest kids who can't sit that long) and about an hour in learning / educational programs divided by age and gender (they have adult men's learning, adult women's learning, and kids programs for various age groups).  They join together for worship and study no matter which Sunday it is in the calendar year.  It could be a 'holiday weekend' (like Labor Day or Presidents Day weekend), a school vacation (winter break, spring break, summer break, etc), or just a regular old Sunday.  No matter what, the community is there to gather, pray, and learn.

I know this exists in the Jewish world.  In my congregation the best parallel is our Friday night worship, as we have Shabbat services every single Friday night of the year, and you will always find a critical mass of people together to worship.  The times vary, and the style of worship varies a bit, but there will always be a community there to gather and pray.  We have Shabbat morning study and prayer as well - our (adult) Torah study is pretty well attended, though our Shabbat morning worship does not draw a large number of congregants on a regular basis (it's mostly the friends and family of b'nai mitzvah students).

That being said, our Shabbat programming is not always feasible for families with young kids.  We do our best to offer kids programs on a regular basis (monthly, for example), but the piece that's missing for me is the whole-family, whole-community gathering for weekly study and prayer.  We arguably have that, but it takes place on Sunday mornings, is geared toward children ages 5-13, and is called "Religious School."  We have ~375 kids in our Religious School, along with about 50 teen TAs and ~25 adult teachers.  Kids participate in their educational programs, and parents frequently join in for a 30-min worship service (tefillah).  So we do have a weekly gathering for study and prayer for families with kids.  But it takes place during the "school year" and we take frequent breaks.  We never have Religious School on secular holiday weekends (like Presidents Day), during most school vacations, or for ~ 4 months during the summer.

Our Religious School schedule is determined by design - for logistical, practical, and financial reasons.  We know (or assume) that many of our families will not come on holiday weekends.  [We even went so far as to stop offering Religious School on the Sunday of Mothers Day because attendance was so low for many years in a row.  Mothers Day is now an official "Jewish holiday"!]  We know (or assume) that our families will not come during the summer due to vacations, summer camp, etc.  We also have a professionalized staff of teachers (unlike Mormon churches which rely on members to do the teaching, un-paid)... and our teachers need a break, time to plan their curricula, etc. (Side note: I, too, really enjoy and benefit from the down time that a break in the school year affords me!) Last but certainly not least, we only budget for a certain # of weeks of Religious School per fiscal year - somewhere in the range of 25-28 weeks of classes.  Again, that is due to the fact that we have a professionalized staff. 

However, given all these realities, I have found myself coming back to the question, "What if we did away with the notion of a 'school year'?"  After all, I assume that we do Jewish education during the 'school year' because we based our model after the public schooling model.  But we have already moved away from the public schooling model in many other ways.  And isn't Jewish learning a lifelong, year-long commitment?  Why do we abandon ship for four months every year?  What makes us so different from the Mormons, who commit to weekly worship and study as a family?  We are the "People of the Book," after all!  Could we consider a different model?  If we offered Jewish family learning on a weekly basis all year long (maybe on Shabbat?), would anyone but me be interested?  Has anyone in the world of Jewish education asked these questions before?   If so, where did the conversation lead?

Follow-up on 'literacy'

Perfect follow up to last week's post about Jewish literacy... check out Thomas Friedman's article about higher education.  The key point for me as a Jewish educator is his spot-on comment that " increasingly the world does not care what you know. Everything is on Google. The world only cares...what you can do with what you know."  I'd emend his statement for Jewish education to say "Increasingly it doesn't matter what you know about Judaism.  Everything (you're wondering about can be found) on Google.  It only matters what you can do with what you know."  In other words, what kind of Jewish life do you live?  How do you find Jewish knowledge and apply that knowledge to living a meaningful Jewish life?  It's not about what you know anymore - in the secular world or in the Jewish world.  It's about what you do.

Jewish Literacy vs. Identity

One of the things I've been thinking about recently is the question of goals in Jewish education, and more specifically, the goals for Religious Schools (also known as "part-time supplementary congregational educational programs"). If you could boil it down to one thing, what is the primary goal of Religious School? 

From what I gather, in the past - perhaps 50 or 100 years ago - the answer was likely related to Jewish knowledge.  Parents sent their children to Religious School so they could improve their understanding of Judaism.  They wanted their children to learn Hebrew, prayers, Jewish history, Torah stories, etc.  However, I think the goal has shifted in the last 10 or 20 years from Jewish literacy to Jewish identity.  In previous generations, Jewish identity was more of a 'given.'  You might have more or less knowledge of Judaism and its traditions, but there was a clear sense of Jewish identity.  Today, identity is multi-faceted, and we all make choices about which of our identities matter most.  Given the rise of inter-faith marriages, along with the notion that each of us makes choices as a "sovereign self", it is not a given that all children raised by one or two Jewish parents will necessarily view themselves as Jewish.  Therefore, our Religious Schools have begun to emphasize Jewish identity above everything else. 

This is certainly true at Temple Isaiah.  We say in our Religious School Program Vision that our goal is for "our children, our families, and all members of our community... to be challenged, exhilarated, and energized by the power of Jewish ideas and traditions."  In other words, we want them to WANT to be Jewish.  We want our families to identify as Jews and find meaning in our sacred tradition.

Of course, you cannot teach Jewish identity with teaching Jewish content.  We hope our students will learn Jewish knowledge and improve their 'literacy' as Jews.  However, there is sometimes a tension between the goal of Jewish literacy and the goal of Jewish identity. 

And so I ask you, dear blog readers - what do you think?  In what ways does the tension between the goals of teaching Jewish identity and Jewish literacy play out in Religious Schools?  In what ways are those two goals complementary?  If you are a parent, what are your goals for your child/ren?  What are the benefits and what gets sacrificed if we were to focus more on identity than literacy?  And vice versa - what are the benefits and what gets sacrificed if we were to focus more on literacy than identity? 


P.S. Coincidentally, David Brooks wrote an article for the NY Times today which talks about Western vs. Chinese views of learning.  The article addresses, at least in part, the tension I outline here.  He describes the difference between seeing learning as an 'academic' / knowledge-acquisition process, vs. learning as a moral process... there's definitely a parallel with my thoughts here!

Purim Videos for Kids

The other day my colleague was lamenting the fact that it's hard to find Purim videos that are age-appropriate for young kids (i.e. those that don't have bad language, too much sexuality, etc).  The irony of her complaint is that the "real" Purim story (i.e. the Book of Esther found in the Hebrew Bible) is definitely rated R.  There are many details that we avoid (or re-write) when we tell the story to children in order to make it a G or PG version instead of the R version it actually is.

All that being said, I did come across two very simple versions of the Purim story that are appropriate for  preschool or early elementary school kids.  Without further ado...

The Purim Story from Shalom Sesame:

From G-dcast, The Purim Story for Kids and Other Double Dutch Jumping Hipsters:

Soaking Oneself in Torah

It's been a long time since my last blog post, and it's been even longer since I wrote something original (i.e. not just cutting and pasting from elsewhere in the blogosphere).  I'm sorry to say that the dry spell is going to last a little longer, except that I want to share another article from the blog called "Kol Isha: Women Rabbis Speak Out."   It's about studying Torah, and I especially love the part at the end in bold:

[To study Torah] all you need is an hour. A partner. A commitment. An openness to struggle. A willingness to learn.

 Without further ado...

La’asok B’Divrei Torah: Soaking Oneself In Torah

by ravlinda

Dan Nichols' sings la’asok b’divrei torah is as sweet as honey on our tongues. The ending of the traditional blessing for Torah study is translated in our prayer-book  Mishkan T’fillah as: “to engage in words of Torah”. We also might translate it as busying ourselves, or working with Torah. But most of all, I love Arthur Waskow’s wordplay: “to soak” (la’asok) in words of Torah. Torah for me is like taking a warm bath. It adds a comforting glow, provides a focus or refocus, so that I can approach the world with new vitality.

A confession: Torah for me has become an addictive regular habit. Every Wednesday at 1pm half-a-dozen women congregants gather in my office to become my study partners for an hour. This year we are slowly reading Abraham Joshua Heschel’s The Sabbath.  The structure I have struck with these ladies is the same one that I have with my other Torah enablers, my one-on-one rabbinic study partners, the ones with whom I tackle Zohar or Hasidic Commentary or Talmud.

Such study is very different to “teaching” in the congregation, where I might be viewed as the “guide” or “expert” in the subject matter we tackle. That learning takes preparation and is goal oriented. Study is different.  I have fixed guidelines for study which have allowed me through the years to make this endeavor part of my daily routine.

My study rules are as follows:

1. Study should be done in true partnership.
2. Partners should agree on a topic to study that has an equal amount of unfamiliarity to all.
3. Study is time limited to a regular hour or hour-and-a-half on a specific day of the week.
4. Study should be viewed as a non-negotiable appointment, and the only reason not to study is in the case of a true emergency or vacation/conference time.
5. No partner should pre-prepare to enter this sacred time. All learning is done there and then.

In study, we are all journey-folk , learning from one another, wrestling with the text and gleaning from its pages. Study in such a way means letting go and making struggle part of the process. The immediacy allows for first-time revelations and insights. The unprepared but open study table allows the text to speak to us and through us. The text becomes the direction and guide and a mirror.

I share this, because so often I hear from folk that they wished they had the time for Jewish learning. They lament they cannot because life feels more urgent.  Or they feel time poor. They are discouraged by the enormity of the task or their lack of expertise.

But all you need is an hour. A partner. A commitment. An openness to struggle. A willingness to learn.

Responding to Children's and Adults' Spiritual Questions & Emotional Needs

  An important article from "10 Minutes of Torah" by the URJ...

 

Responding to Children's and Adults' Spiritual Questions and Emotional Needs Following Frightening Tragedies

By Rabbi Edythe Mencher

People of all ages have questions about how a good God could let terrible tragedies happen. Following a terrible event or loss they may even cry out this question, tempting those around them to offer their own religious understanding or to engage in philosophical discussion. These are valid questions to be engaged at other times. In times of deep crisis and pain those questions when posed by adults really might be heard as, "How could this have happened?  Does anyone care about and protect me and those whom I love? What did I do to deserve this? How can this terrible and unfair thing have happened?  Is there any order and security or is the world just chaos and mayhem?" When posed by children, depending upon their ages, they may be heard as, "Why didn't my parents/teachers/caretakers protect me? Is it safe to be away from my parents? Is it safe to go to sleep? This isn't fair! Are there bad guys everywhere? Is the world a scarier place than I thought? Is anyone in charge?"

The kindest response we can offer is one of listening, conveying acceptance that the questions are being asked and doing and saying the things that help to restore a sense that there is indeed love, justice, protection and order in our world even thought what has happened is shocking, unfair, hateful or a result of temporary chaos. We don't necessarily convey that in words; it can be in hugs offered, compassionate care provided, accompaniment through often agonizing tasks like funeral preparations, gentle and timely restoration of routine. We try to provide the living proof for one another that we live in a world in which there is great goodness even though it is also a world in which terrible tragedies do sometimes occur. The great goodness is expressed in such activities as caretaking, rescuing and rebuilding and can be understood by some as a sign of God in the world.  For most of us, in the immediate moment of tragedy, the question is only partly theological and the care we desperately need is that which human beings, often Divinely inspired, can offer to one another.

This is not to suggest that pastoral counseling and religious questions aren't important and should not be addressed in the days to come. Some may change their own beliefs because of what has happened. Yet, however tenuous or tentative a person's belief in God may be, the moment of serious loss and fear is not a good time to toss aside all possibility of belief in a loving compassionate Presence. We needn't try to convince them or to challenge their doubts and disappointments, it just isn't helpful either to add our own negative conviction to theirs.  If we hear their statement to be that life and the world seems devoid of love and order and meaning then we can see that agreeing or disagreeing isn't the issue. It is how it feels to them now and anything we can do on the side of life, calm and meaning will be most valuable.

Children sometimes raise religious questions in the midst of tragedy too, although less often than their parents. It is important to ask them what they think and to try to support what they wish to and are able to believe if it is strengthening and reassuring. We needn't profess beliefs we don't have but we can be respectful of their hopes even if our own beliefs and faith may be shaken. Children can be reminded how religion and God can inspire ("teach us" in child language) us to take care of one another and to do the good and wonderful things that are also part of our world. Religious rituals like lighting candles, expressing hopes through prayer and participating in celebrations that support optimism can be very helpful. Children need their sense of security restored and anything that helps with that which is consistent with their family's practice and belief is what counts--including explaining that those who have died are with God. They may not be able to conceive that someone who was here is not somewhere-this is difficult enough for adults. Older children can conceive of people living on within our hearts or of souls returning to God. For younger children it may be much more concrete. Listening to children's questions as we compose answers is essential because very young children may not be clear about the permanence of death and the difference between being alive and no longer alive. They still may be most concerned about being separated from parents themselves and are reassured that the child or adult who has died is not "somewhere" suffering and crying out in loneliness.

At moments of traumatic crisis, children's faith and trust in the people they have counted on to protect them may be more significantly shaken than their religious faith; everything people can do to restore their sense that all around them they are working to restore safety will matter most. They need to be allowed to remain close to caring adults and to have a sense of calm and eventually joy returned to their lives. Perhaps in this way children and adults are more alike than different; all of us need to feel we are not alone and that there are trustworthy sources of hope, security and joy within our world.

Rabbi Edythe Held Mencher, L.C.S.W., serves as URJ Faculty for Sacred Community. She is a practicing psychotherapist and serves on the faculty of the Westchester Center for the Study of Psychoanalysis and Psychotherapy. Rabbi Mencher is the major author of Resilience of the Soul - Developing Spiritual and Emotional Resilience in Adolescents and their Families, a program guide focusing upon how Jewish communities and tradition can help adolescents and their families develop positive ways of managing stress and difficult emotions.

A Modern Female Rabbi Maccabee

Letter from Rabbi Elyse Frishman to her congregation 
(http://www.arza.org/Articles/index.cfm?id=2456)

Friday, December 14
Late afternoon in Jerusalem
 
Dear Friends,

I’m going to miss you tonight; this Friday evening in Chanukah is a favorite time with you. I love bringing our menorahs into the sanctuary and then kindling them with joy. We sing, we bless, we remember: the Maccabees fought for our religious freedom! And for every memory of our past, we reaffirm our present and future.
Religious freedom. This morning, at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, I felt like a Maccabee.
 
Today is not only the seventh day of Chanukah, it is also Rosh Chodesh, the beginning of the new month of Tevet. At 7am this morning in Jerusalem, 50 men and 88 women came together to pray at the Kotel, the Western Wall. As always, Jews lined up to enter through security to the plaza. All of us carried or wore our tallesim and prayerbooks. There were rumors: no women permitted to bring prayerbooks in today! No women allowed with tallit today! 
 
Among the 138 of us were Israelis and tourists, including a group of young Jews from Netzer, the Reform movement’s international youth movement; these 18 year olds were on a year’s study program. As we stood on line, the singing of this Psalm began, “Let all our voices be raised in song to praise God!”
 
We began to move through security. Contrary to rumor, prayerbooks were permitted -- but for the first time, not a tallit. A decree had been issued – illegally, randomly – that no woman could bring her tallit today. Security began to confiscate them. Some of the men walked in with their friends’ tallesim. But most women had theirs removed. Some of us wore them beneath our jackets, obscured by collars. Some were seen and taken. Mine was not.
 
There is no law in Judaism against a woman wearing a tallit. If anything, the law from Torah (Numbers 15:38) is: “Speak to the children of Israel and say to them that they shall make themselves fringes on the corners of their garments, throughout their generations…” 
 
Ironically, I was so jet-lagged this morning at 6am that I couldn’t locate my African tallit. I borrowed one from Anat Hoffman– a Woman of the Wall tallit celebrating our matriarchs, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. Thus I carried their wisdom on my shoulders as I moved towards the Wall.
 
We gathered quietly at the rear of the Kotel to pray, and then to sing Hallel, joyous psalms. One woman came over to me and asked quietly, “May I stand with you and pray? I wanted to wear my tallit, but I’m afraid.” 
 
Remember: I came this morning prepared to be spiritually provocative. I believe deeply that prayer and song are God’s gifts for every man and woman, and that on Rosh Chodesh, the holiday designated for women, women’s voices especially matter. This is why Women of the Wall celebrate on Rosh Chodesh. So in theory, if God indeed cares about these things as the ultra-orthodox believe, then the presence and voices of women should matter most. My spiritual provocation was to test this.
 
Two policemen who were watching walked over. One said in Hebrew, “You are not allowed to wear the tallit.” Pretending, I said politely in English, “Excuse me, I do not understand.” (I did this because I am not Israeli, and wanted to be clear throughout my actions that I am a Jew. The Western Wall is the universal site of prayer for all Jews. If anything was to happen, I wanted the police to have something to think about, to take home and mull over at night – all of us are Jews; all of us in that holy site are equally religious before God in our prayers). 
 
The policeman ushered over another who spoke English. “You are not allowed to wear this.” “Why?” I asked. “It’s against the law.” “It is not against the law.” You cannot wear it.” The policeman took my elbow and steered me away. “You’ll have to come with me.” I moved with her. “I don’t understand,” I said. “What am I doing wrong?” “You are wearing a tallit.” “Why is that illegal? It is not wrong in Jewish law,” “Because you might disturb the public peace.” “I don’t understand. Am I not part of the public?” The police officer did not respond. I realized three other women were being taken, too. The police ushered us out of the plaza. An attorney materialized, hired by Women of the Wall to protect women accused unjustly. “Do not worry,” he assured us. 
 
We were taken to a police station courtyard. We were told not to talk with one another. I had taken off my tallit as soon as we left the Kotel, since I was no longer praying. I put it on again and opened my prayerbook, thinking, “This is a good time to communicate with Torah and prayer!” I began to sing prayers quietly. The other three women joined in. We reached the Shema, and I taught them to sing it in harmony. Our voices echoed and the police watched. We sang a melody of Mi Chamocha that we all knew – one of us from New Jersey, one from Scotland, one from Britain, one from Jerusalem. The police listened. Then I shared a teaching from the Talmud, from Berachot. As I began, the policeman said, “There is no talking.” I said, “I am not talking; I am teaching.” And I taught, “When a Jew prays from the north, she faces south towards HaMakom, the Holy Place. When in the south, she faces north. When in the east, she faces west; and when in east, west. Always, from each direction, the Jew prays facing HaMakom. What is HaMakom? God. So when we face HaMakom, who are we facing? God-- and who else? Yes -- one another. We pray and we see one another.” We smiled. The police were quiet.
 
They brought us inside the police station. We sat quietly, until one by one, we were brought in “for investigation.” I understood from the attorney earlier that I was to sign nothing, and to agree to nothing. The “interrogator” asked if I knew why I was there. I said, “No.” She said, “You are not being arrested; you are being detained. You have broken a law; do you know that?” I asked, “What law have I broken?” “Wearing a tallit.” I said, “That is not against the law, Jewish or Israeli.” She said, “Sign this paper that says you know why you are detained.” I said I could not sign. She took my fingerprint and asked me to sign another document. I declined. She told me that if I did not sign, I could be arrested. I knew this was not true, so I said nothing. She asked if I wanted an attorney. I said yes. She told me that I had the right, but the court could say they were not going to provide one. I said nothing. She made a phone call. We waited. After some time, the attorney from the Women of the Wall came. I think the police officer was relieved. The attorney assured me that I was doing exactly right: I had broken no law, I should sign nothing, and I should be fairly certain that I would be released. “Fairly certain?” I asked. He shrugged. 
 
I returned to the “investigation.” The officer asked me, “Do you know why you are here?” “No,” I said. “You are being detained on suspicion of going to cause a public disturbance. Do you understand?” I replied, “I understand your words, but I do not understand the charge.” “Will you sign that you understand?” “No.” 
 
The officer continued. “Do you come to the Kotel often?” “Whenever I am here.” “How often is that?” “When I visit every year, every couple of years.” “Do you wear a tallit at the Kotel?” “Yes, when I pray here.” “Do you wear a tallit only at the Kotel?” “No, I wear a tallit whenever I pray.” “Not only at the Kotel?” “No, whenever I pray.” Again she asked me this, and again, I said, “I wear a tallit whenever I pray.”
 
The questions continued a bit. She concluded and asked me to sign. I declined. She told me that I was not allowed to come to the Kotel for 15 days. I knew this is also against the law since I had done nothing wrong. She asked if I understood. I said yes. She asked if I agreed. I said, “I decline to answer.” She frowned. She warned me that if I came to the Kotel and was recognized, I could be arrested and fined several hundred dollars. Did I understand? I said, “I decline to answer.” She frowned again. She said, “You are free to go.”
 
I walked out of the police station, and was immediately embraced by about 20 men and women who had heard of our detention and came to support us. Anat was there and embraced me with a blessing, “Baruch Atah Adonai, HaMatir asurim! Blessed are You, God, who frees captives!” Cell phones were ringing; the media had been alerted: Was she released? What happened?
 
And so, it seems, this was an important morning. A Maccabee morning. The fight of the Women of the Wall is a fight by men and women to gain full religious equality for all Jews. 
 
There are those who say, “But if the orthodox men are not able to pray with women present, and are distracted, and believe that men have the greater obligation to pray than women, it is incumbent on the women to give way.” 
For them, we can reply: “But on Rosh Chodesh, the holiday for women? Men do not have to be present at the same time that the women always come. They can choose to let women celebrate with joy on their special holiday. Instead, it is the provocation of men that creates this public disturbance on the holiday of women.”

The Maccabees fought against religious persecution. So do we. Consider these wonderful lyrics from Peter Yarrow’s “Light One Candle,” which you’ll sing tonight at Temple:
 
“Light one candle, for the Maccabee children,
give thanks that their lights didn’t die.
Light one candle for the pain they endured
when their right to exist was denied;
Light one candle for the terrible sacrifice
justice and freedom demand;
And light one candle for the wisdom to know
that the peacemaker's time is at hand!”
 
Indeed: Chanukah restores our memory of what happened long ago so that we might act justly and righteously today: 

“What is the memory that's valued so highly
that we keep it alive in that flame?
What’s the commitment to those who have died?
We cry out, ‘They have not died in vain!’
We have come this far, always believing
that justice will somehow prevail;
this is the burden, this is the promise,
and this is why we will not fail!”
Today is dedicated to the young woman who came to my side and asked quietly, “I am afraid to wear my tallit here. May I stand and pray next to you?” 
 
I miss you all, and send you my hug for this important Chanukah in Shabbat. 
 
Shabbat shalom.
Rabbi Elyse Frishman