Conventional
wisdom tells us that the cultural traditions of the world are divided into two
general categories: ‘oral,’ and
‘literary’ traditions. Of course, the
ostensible difference between the two, is the method of transmission of
the tradition and its associated narrative.
But the difference between the two, is really much more than that. The ‘literary’ traditions of the world, apart
from the fact that they’re transmitted through text, or the written word, tend
to be rationalist and analytical. They
see themselves as transmitting objective truth.
The ‘oral’ traditions, on the other hand, bear characteristics of aboriginal
cultures. In them, wisdom and narrative
is transmitted through the telling of stories.
In telling these stories, the teller makes no pretense at being an
impartial observer. Rather, the teller has
a personal stake in the listener’s apprehension of the truths and wisdom
conveyed by the story.
As Rabbi, Lord Jonathan Sacks put it
so well in his drash this week, “history” is “his story”: an objective telling of someone else’s
narrative. Whereas “memory” is “my
story”: a non-objective narrative of my
own, in which I have an emotional stake.
Literary traditions make use of “history,” while oral traditions make use
of ‘memory.”
Now when we think of Judaism, we think
of it as a religious tradition, not a cultural tradition. But Judaism, whilst it does have a
religious element that is absolutely essential, is much more. It is a cultural tradition in the
sense that cultural is so multi-faceted and all-encompassing. One important Jewish thinker of the 20th
century, Mordechai Kaplan, went a step further.
Her considered Judaism to be no less than a civilization.
Whether Judaism is a civilization, a culture, or whatever, we tend to
think of Judaism as a literary tradition.
And why wouldn’t we??! We are,
after all the People of the Book, or perhaps more accurately, books. Books, books, and more books! One would be forgiven for wondering if Jews
do anything other than write, publish, and read.
But the truth is that Judaism is very
much an oral tradition. An oral
tradition that became an ‘early adopter’ of the power of the written word. So we Jews have published more written
words per capita than any other enduring tradition. But we are still very much an oral tradition.
Proof of that is found in this week’s
Torah portion, Ki Tavo. In the
weekly reading’s opening verses, we find the commandment to make an offering of
the first fruits of the ground, once we have entered and subdued the land of
Israel. And we are to take the offering
to the priests. And in placing the
basket with the first fruits before the priest, we are to declare before the
Lord our God the following:
My father was an Aramean slave.
He went down to Egypt and dwelt there in meager numbers. And there he become a great and powerful nation. The Egyptians were cruel to us, imposing
harsh slavery upon us. We cried out to
God, the Lord of our fathers, and He heard our voice. He saw our suffering, our slavery and our
distress. He then took us out of Egypt
with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.
With great visions and signs and miracles.
Sound familiar? Of course it does. We no longer make first fruit offerings to
the Kohanim, but we do recite these words every year at the
Passover Seder. So, unless your stomach
is really rumbling loudly at that point in the service, you hear, and say, these
words once or twice a year. And the
point is, that we say it, we don’t just read it. The words, no matter that they were written
down so long ago, become our words.
We have an emotional investment in them.
They are not just an abstract thought, a concept. The words live in us, and we in them. That’s what distinguishes an oral
tradition. Remaining with the example of
the Passover Seder, it’s why we’re instructed to tell our children (Exodus
13.8) …”God acted for me when I left Egypt.” The point of the Seder is not to tell some
historical narrative. It’s to transmit
to our children what the narrative means to us, to us personally.
Following this example, you can see
that Judaism is very much an oral tradition, one to be experienced in the first
person. It’s wonderful to study about
it. It’s wonderful to memorise factoids
about it. It’s wonderful to learn more
and more about it. But unless we can live
it, it is nothing more than an historical curiosity. That’s why, when people come to me telling me
they wish to become a Jew, I don’t enroll them in a class, or send them away
with reading assignments. I invite them
to attend services and experience Judaism.
First person. One doesn’t need to
be a Jew to study Judaism. One doesn’t even
need to be a Jew to earn a PhD in Judaic studies. But to be a Jew, one must touch and
wrestle with the tradition. Experience
it. Be able to recite the words of the
Passover Haggadah as if one was actually there, at the first Pesach.
In coming here to our service this
evening, you all are experiencing Judaism.
At least, one facet of Judaism.
When I look out upon you at these gatherings, I see faces
illuminated. I see faces animated by the
words and the melodies in which you participate. As we approach the Days of Awe, the important
observances of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I challenge you to crank it up to
the next level. Friday night resonates
with you? Try Saturday morning. Try home observances between our gatherings here. Say a blessing before you eat. Say a blessing after you eat. When you’re with another Jew, discuss some
aspect of Torah. When you’re not, think
about some aspect of Torah. Only by
living Judaism, will you create a Jewish life.
Only by living Judaism, will you be able to transmit the beauty of
Judaism to the next generation.
Judaism is not his story; it’s our story. Tell our story. Tell your story. Think about it. Live it.
Shabbat shalom.
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