FOUNDERS’ DAY ADDRESS
February 25, 2003
Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion/Los Angeles
Rabbi Sanford Ragins
Senior Rabbi, Leo Baeck Temple, Los Angeles
I want to express my gratitude to my buddy Lew Barth for giving me the koved,
the challenge and the pleasure, of speaking to you this morning. In a few months,
after some forty years, I will retire from the rabbinate, and I have been doing
a lot of ruminating of late, reviewing those decades, looking back and ahead.
So I hope you do not mind if at the outset I indulge myself in some reminiscing
as I review some moments in the life of this institution which shaped me, even
as it is now shaping you and the future of our Judaism in this country and this
Forty years. A nice round number, very Biblical. L’havdil, I feel a bit
like Moses at the end of his trek through the desert, also 40 years in length.
He never reached the promised land, but, just before he retired, he paused at
the foot of Mt. Nebo and gave his last speech. Now this is not Mt. Nebo, and
I am certainly not Moses, but you and I are indeed the children of Israel, and
this is Founder’s Day, so here goes: some words from one who looks back
as he approaches the end of his journey.
What do I recall? Two specific moments, both of which have I think some relevance
to this occasion.
Here is the first.
In 1954 the Yamim Noraim came late, just as they will this coming year. Indeed,
Rosh Hashanah fell on Tuesday, September 29. Just a couple of weeks later, during
Sukkot the very first class of the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of
Religion, California School, convened in a borrowed classroom off a courtyard
at the Wilshire Boulevard Temple (in those days there was only one Wilshire
Boulevard Temple, and it was on Wilshire Boulevard). There was a lovely sukkah
in the courtyard, and it was, as I recall, one of those dazzlingly bright sun-splashed
days we are blessed with in Southern California. Eisenhower was in the White
House, Richard Nixon at his side. Israel had not yet celebrated its first decade;
the Sinai Campaign was a year away, and Jerusalem was a divided but peaceful
city. Negroes could not get haircuts at the Blue and Gold barber shop in Westwood
Village, and Adolph Eichmann was still at large in Argentina.
I think that those of us who gathered there that day had a dim sense we were
participating an historic occasion. No, there were no brass bands or trumpets
or cameras, just a handful of very young and very eager Jewish boys (patriarchy
was still firmly entrenched at HUC), and a marvelous dedicated teacher, a melamed
par excellence, Dov Bin Nun (alav hashalom) who insisted on speaking to us in
Hebrew, and only Hebrew from day one. Unfortunately there also was no ritual
or ceremony. We even forgot to say shecheyanu. That much Hebrew we knew, but
no one thought of it on what we now see ought to been have been marked as a
Who were we? Jerry Goldstein, Art Abrams, Harvey Fields, and yours truly.
What happened to us? We learned Hebrew, and eventually more. We became rabbis.
We did our rabbinic thing in one way or another, with varying degrees of alacrity
and fulfillment. We made mistakes and sometimes learned from them. We had some
lucious, memorable moments of exultation and other times when we stumbled and
suffered and fell and somehow got up again and carried on. And once in a while,
perhaps often, we thought back to this our alma mater which tried to give us
the tools needed to ply our craft. Sometimes we looked back and qvetched: “Why
didn’t they prepare me for this?!” But as we mellowed, we recalled
with affection and gratitude our days here and the flawed but generally decent
and humane and sometimes inspiring or even brilliant folk who were with us –
our professors and classmates. Here is where we found soul-buddies and mentors
and made life-long friends. A few of us met our life-partners here.
And now fast-forward some decades to my second reminiscence.
Of late, every other year in July, I have been going to Berlin with Lew Barth
and Yehoyada Amir to teach in a program for Christian theology students. These
young German men and women give up part of their summer vacation to study Judaism
with Jewish teachers from the United States, Great Britain and Israel. On my
last visit two years ago I was lodged in Bonhoeffer Haus, a hostel run by the
Evangelical Church on a side street near the Humboldt University. It is named
after a brave young Lutheran theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer who was murdered
by the Nazis for his role in the resistance to Hitler.
This place is literally around the corner from the building which once housed
the Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums, the Institute for the
Scientific Study of Judaism, where Rabbi Leo Baeck taught until it was closed
on July 19, 1942. At the end there were about a dozen students. Six months later
Baeck was arrested by the Gestapo and taken to Theresienstadt.
It does not look like much today: an old office building several stories high,
drab and shabby like many pre-war buildings in East Berlin. The first woman
rabbi in Jewish history once studied there and so did Franz Kafka, and also
two from our own community, Alfred Wolf and Wolli Kaelter. When I returned to
my room late in the afternoon after my classes, my route took me past the doorway
through which Leo Baeck walked on his way to teach Judaism to the last generation
of rabbis in Germany. Every day, I paused to meditate for a moment on the strange
turning of history which had brought me, a rabbi in an American synagogue dedicated
to Baeck’s memory, to teach in his city, indeed in his old neighborhood.
Today the facade of the building is undecorated, but I learned that one time
it bore a Hebrew inscription: l'chochma v’layirah, for wisdom and for
awe, or possibly toward wisdom and awe. I find that a rather remarkable motto,
most fitting for a place where modern men and women came to confront the teachings
of our ancient tradition in a new way and out of that confrontation to accept
the challenge, much like our own, of defining a new Judaism worthy of affirmation
and practice. These words, L'chochma v’layirah, for/toward wisdom and
awe, I submit, are also a suggestive paradigm for American Reform Judaism and
this institution at the beginning of the new millennium. This phrase constitutes
the text for my remarks today.
Chochma is an ancient Hebrew word, usually translated as ‘wisdom.’
I sense the leaders of the Lehranstalt chose it to embellish the doorway of
their institute in order to articulate the nature of what was to take place
in that building and also to say something about the people who came to study
and teach there. It was a declaration of self-definition, a conscious expression
of who they were and who they were not. The Lehranstalt was not in any sense
a Yeshivah, but a modern academic institution devoted to the scientific study
of Judaism. It was a place where the texts and traditions of the Jewish past
were seen through the lens of contemporary scholarly research. In its classrooms
rational, critical inquiry was not only accepted but central. By using an old
Biblical word they affirmed their connection to Jewish tradition and, at the
same moment, their acceptance of modernity.
By the beginning of the twentieth century a rather considerable body of learning
had been created. The scrutiny of texts using the latest tools of analysis,
and the historical reconstructions which were attempted showed a new way of
understanding the Jewish past. In retrospect we can see that these efforts were
not as ‘scientific’ as they pretended to be, if by ‘scientific’
you mean objective and utterly free of bias. That scholarship, like ours, was
shaped and limited by the blindspots that infect all human endeavors.
But the genie was now out of the bottle. The students and teachers in the Lehranstalt
knew that it was not possible for Jews engaged with modernity to ignore what
had now been learned about the Bible and the Talmud, the Midrash and the philosophical
and mystical cultures of the Middle Ages. To be sure, out of academic study
alone one could not create a new Judaism. But henceforth, for moderns to ignore
the methods and understandings of Wissenschaft, what we now call Madaei Hayahadut,
would be a sign of obscurantism. As Leon Wieseltier has noted: “The perdurability
of the Jews has been owed to [our] absolute refusal ever to stop thinking, to
the romance of brains….”
There is a strong and invaluable connection between Wissenschaft des Judentums
and Reform Judaism. From it we have drawn five fundamental understandings which
I believe have made it possible for our movement and the College-Institute to
be dynamic, creative, and thoughtfully responsive to the changing needs of our
They are, briefly:
- The understanding that over time there have been not one but several distinct
Judaisms, each unique, each created out of the special circumstances Jews
faced at a particular time. Yes, there are important continuities, and, some
would argue, certain constants. But ultimately when seen through history Judaism
is not monistic or unitary but pluralistic and multifarious.
- The understanding that Judaism is not immutable but always has been subject
to change, development and transformation – indeed radical transformation.
The Israeli scholar Efraim Shmueli has argued that in every era as our ancestors
“tried to redefine [the tradition] in order to create a rationale for
Jewish living that would respond to [their] contemporary needs” they
expressed vociferous dissatisfaction with the attempts of previous cultures…”
To be sure, he noted, “every one of Israel’s [historic] cultures
luxuriates in its past: it gathers, preserves and remembers. But …it
also scatters, forgets. And buries.“ We owe our survival, he concluded,
to our “remarkable ability to embrace new elements,” our capacity
“to both eradicate and revitalize [the] past” through the creation
of “innovative terminology, new images, and reinvigorated symbols.”
- When Judaism, or more accurately, the various Judaisms of the past, are
understood in this way, the result is a clear warrant for moderns to do what
is necessary to create a Judaism for our generation. If we add or subtract,
innovate or conserve, prune dead wood so that new buds may grow or graft new
branches into the trunk, we are doing exactly what our ancestors have done,
again and again, although we may be more conscious of these transformations
than they were.
- When we see the traditions and texts of our heritage in this light, we
learn, I submit, that the adjective ‘authentic’ ought be used
with great care, if at all. Indeed, I would argue that term ought be dismissed
from our discourse altogether because it is likely to obfuscate rather than
enlighten, and because it is sometimes invoked, I sense, when one party wishes
to impose its own particular belief or practice on dissenters.
- From the forgoing we also learn not to be arrogant about the Judaism we
create and affirm. If our ancestors were human and flawed, so are we; and
if, in retrospect, we understand the limitations of what they taught as absolute
or divine truth, we too must be restrained in making our truth claims and
modest in our assertions. The Judaism we create does not come from Sinai but
from our hearts and our heads. It represents not the mind of God but what
we think Jews of this time and culture can know and believe. And it is, just
like every other Judaism ever created, fully authentic in the same way that
these Judaisms were authentic: it represents the best of our thinking and
our understanding, our aspirations and our dreams.
So, how do we go about building a Judaism for our times? That brings me to
the second part of that inscription over the doorway of the Lehranstalt in
Berlin. Chochma, reason and especially Wissenschaft des Judentums were the
method, but that methodology was linked to another powerful Biblical word:
yirah. In the Bible yirah means ‘fear,’ or ‘terror’
and by extension, in some contexts, ‘reverence, piety, awe.’ An
interesting and complex term: yirah. Fear and terror there have been aplenty
in modern times, not to mention Angst, markedly since 9/11. But reverence
and piety and especially awe have been harder to come by. Perhaps that is
what the founders of the Lehranstalt sought to express when they inscribed
over their portal the watchword l’chochma v’layira – which
might be translated: for wisdom and toward reverence, as if to say ‘in
these times we will use our minds and our knowledge to move toward religious
How do we do that today? We live in a culture where the canons of virtually
every field of human endeavor are unclear. Uncertainty and ambiguity are rampant,
and technology subjects us to incessant, destabilizing, and disorienting transformations.
To articulate a vision of Judaism that is consonant with this culture, without
affirming every aspect of it, is no easy task. It requires careful thought
and hard work and deep sensitivity to the quest for faith.
The quest for faith. Faith as a task rather than a given. That is what I witness
as a synagogue rabbi in the souls of most of my congregants and in my own. Are
the majority of the members of the CCAR clear and firm in their beliefs and
free from religious doubt? I suspect that is not the case, despite the current
pulpit fashion of speaking often and easily about God and what God wants us
to do. I believe it is also not true of most of our people. In our community
achieving religious faith is an arduous struggle.
Here’s Efraim Shmueli again. “The secret of [the Jewish people’s]
endurance [he wrote] …lies…in its faith in redemption and its belief
that history is not haplessly abandoned to the powers of evil.” But he
added: “history unfolds within a sphere plagued by all the afflictions
entailed in man’s mortality, a host of evils, foremost of which is the
Angel of Death. Man journeys toward his end, to a place of worms and decay:
all the benefits history brings with it are outweighed by the great calamity
of [our] subjection to contingency and extinction.”
The reality of death. Our finitude and frailty. The human condition. Here every
religion meets its greatest challenge. When the malach hamavet, the Angel of
Death, stands before us –and sooner or later, he will -- we need a Judaism
that will speak to us with coherence and power, that will assuage our suffering
and give meaning to our vulnerability, which will bring consolation on the darkest
of nights and hope in the hour of despair.
That, I submit is the central task of Judaism in our times: to transmute terror
into awe; to hold out the hope of redemption; to help us deal with those agonizingly
difficult questions religious seekers have always asked: "Who am I? Where
am I going? What is expected of me? Why is it so that in a universe of such
astonishing loveliness and majestic grandeur we are subject to dreadful forces
we cannot understand or control? Why am I and all those I love and need destined
to die? How must I live in this small hour granted to me, this ‘brief
crack of light between two eternities of darkness.’"
Human beings at all times desperately need comfort and sensitive wisdom in the
search for meaning, especially in this era of broken symbols and failed gods.
There is so much suffering, so much injustice, so much loneliness which pervade
modern life, so much yearning for guidance in the struggle to live with depth,
and so few resources in our culture for achieving transcendence.
As long as this is so --and it is likely to be so for as far as we can see--
there will always be a place for a Judaism like ours. What will that Judaism
be like? Perhaps something like this.
It will be tension-filled and paradoxical, a post-Auschwitz Judaism which knows
the limitations of reason, but refuses to join in the chorus of mindless irrationality;
--a Judaism which cultivates emotional intensity without anesthetizing our critical
faculties; rich in symbolism and metaphor and myth, it will relish the power
of ritual to move our spirits, but continue the romance of brains and never
forget that the essence is the moral life;
--a Judaism which accepts our peoplehood as a given, but knows the dangers of
untempered ethnic passion, and believes that Israel must have security, that
the Palestinians must have a homeland, and that Jerusalem is big enough to be
the capital for both;
--a Judaism which loves the tradition but is unafraid to say when necessary
that our ancestors were fallible or limited by their times or just plain wrong;
--a Judaism that brings consolation when tragedy strikes, and hope in a time
--a Judaism which evokes in us awe and wonder before the mystery of existence,
awe and wonder in the presence of the Infinite One, Unnamed and Unknowable.
We did not say Shehecheyanu on that first morning in the middle of the last
century when we began to study in this institution. But perhaps it is not too
late to say those hallowed words now. We look back with gratitude for what has
been given to us by our founders, those who came before, and, in the same moment,
suffused with trepidation and hope, we look ahead to the work that remains to