Earlier this week I witnessed several heated disagreements on social media that were each about the very same controversial topic. Each conversation began with someone whom I know presenting his opinion on this particular controversial and sensitive topic in a straightforward and clear fashion. And, each time, the reactions quickly escalated into heated arguments, which, in retrospect, should have been anticipated. There are certain topics which are so heated and so sensitive and about which people feel so strong about their convictions that, whenever they come up, passions are aroused and tensions flare.
Of course the topic that I am referring to is the question of how and when and under what circumstances to bring young children to shul. It just doesn’t get more real than that. For the moment, I have no intention of weighing in and discussing that question because something about the way the argument unfolded was so striking to me that I think it deserves attention separate from the original question about children in shul.
I found it so noteworthy, and even surprising, that in every discussion about the question of children in shul, participants quickly escalated into assertions that the opposing position would result in children abandoning Judaism. Some claimed, “if young children are not welcomed into shul, they will grow up alienated from Judaism and our community will die.” Others claimed, “if children are kept in shul before they are developmentally capable of prayer, they will never be able to relate to shul as a sacred space and will never connect spiritually to Judaism and our community will die”
I wish I were exaggerating the degree of hyperbole. I wish participants in the debate offered evidence to support their assertions about the ability of Judaism to sustain itself from generation to generation. Instead, a conversation that requires a nuanced and subtle and sensitive weighing of values and evaluation of particular children and their personalities and the culture of specific congregations, devolved into groundless fear-mongering.
We worry about our children and we worry about the continuity of the Jewish community, but there is something misplaced if a conversation about how we pray together, devolves into dueling accusations about which policy is putting the future of Judaism at risk. As if the goal of Jewish continuity is to ensure shul attendance and nothing more.
The world is full of risks and dangers and we have more to fear than fear itself. But, we should also be cautious of fear itself when it isolates us from other perspectives and locks us into defensive postures without the possibility of proactive confrontation with our real challenges.
If there was ever a person who confronted frightening danger and had a very good reason to literally close himself off in a box, it was Noah. The outside world was not just frightening and not just dangerous, but it was comprehensively literal. Outside the safety of the ark, nothing survived.
And yet, when the Torah describes the construction of the ark, not only does God detail the size of the ark and the type of wood it should be made from, but the Torah gives an additional detail: צֹ֣הַר ׀ תַֽעֲשֶ֣ה לַתֵבָ֗ה
Noah is commanded to build the ark with a “tzohar.” What does that mean?
Rashi, quoting the Midrash, offers two possibilities. Some say the tzohar was a window. And some some say that the tzohar was a sort of stone that provided light to the interior of the ark.
Hizkuni reconciles those two positions and says that the tzohar was a window that could be opened, but that when it was closed, it was a source of light for the ark. This is just like our windows made of glass that can be opened and closed and that allow light to penetrate into the interiors of our homes and buildings even when they are closed. The tzohar on Noah’s ark was the first glass window.
Hizkuni’s approach is reflected in the Halakhah.
The Talmud says that an individual must not pray in a room without windows and the Shulchan Arukh endorses this position (O.C. 90:4) whether one prays in private or in a shul. There are numerous sources for this halakhah. Many link this requirement to the need to be able to see the heavens above us for inspiration while we pray. But I was taught to connect this halakhah to the window in Noah’s ark.
Shul is a sort of an ark. We separate ourselves from the world around us to protect our values from hostile forces that could undermine them. We come to shul for prayer and study so that we can close off the distractions and temptations of the outside world. There are threats to our safety and there are threats to our spiritual identity out there. We come in here to take care of business that can’t be easily done out there. A shul is an ark, preserving Jewish life from a hostile world.
But even Noah, shut up in his ark, had a connection to the outside world. His ark had a window, תַֽעֲשֶ֣ה לַתֵבָ֗ה צֹ֣הַר and that kept him from thinking that the ark was the beginning and end of all that existed.
That window enabled him to send out a raven, and then to send out a dove, and ultimately, that window allows him to leave the ark and to resettle the earth.
Our Jewish communities cannot become so traumatized by fear that we close ourselves off in hermetically sealed boxes with no connection to anything that happens outside. We need to see out. We need light to come in from the outside, and ultimately, our task is to take the identities that we forge inside our intense and intimate communities and to bring them out to the wide world beyond.
So as we try to figure out how children should be educated to a life of prayer, we should analyze and problem-solve in accordance with our values and in accordance with facts and evidence, and in accordance with the culture of our community, but without alarmism and without sensationalist paranoia.
If we are able to bracket that fear, what could we say about our time together, adults and children, friends and neighbors?
We should remember that children are never as disruptive as adults. Adults always talk louder, are more distracting when they talk, and should know better.
We should remember that there is a problem of extraneous talking in shul, but that is not as big a problem as not-davvennig. If we cultivate within ourselves the ability to connect to the words of tefilah and to find moments of spiritual connection, we will be too busy praying to talk. And conversely, if we refrain from talking, but aren’t then doing anything else worthwhile, what have we accomplished?
There is so much beauty in a multi-generational community coming together in prayer and study and friendship. Every Shabbat and holiday, indeed during the week as well, the very very young, and the quite old come together. Every Shabbat and holiday, indeed during the week as well, people from every possible background and perspective come together.
And finally, I sometimes feel sorry for children who are asked by a parent to sit quietly in shul for longer than is really developmentally appropriate for an average child of that age. For example, most five-year-olds cannot sit quietly for two and half hours on Shabbat morning. And sometimes I feel sorry for adults who have really important things to say to their friends, but nebech, it’s the middle of Mussaf. I feel sorry for friends and relatives who gather for a simcha and are so excited to see one another after months apart, and nebech they have to listen to me…But it’s really OK to step outside when there is something else important to say or to do just as it’s OK to calibrate a child’s presence in shul to match that child’s developmental stage, sitzfleisch, and the sensitivity of the various moments in shul.
The shul exists as a Jewish resource for the entire community. Each family, each individual can decide how to take advantage of what the shul has to offer. Some of you will choose to attend Shacharit every morning (I hope a few more of you make that choice). Some of you will chose to attend Wednesday night classes. Some members of our community- by definition none of you right now – may choose only to step foot in this building for 20 minutes at the end of Neilah as Yom Kippur ends. When I moved here this element of the shul surprised me more than anything else. I had never known a shul that was able to serve as a Jewish resource to so many different people with so many different backgrounds and perspectives.
Different seasons present different opportunities to all of us to take advantage of our community. This weekend the clocks are changing and that creates additional opportunities to bring children to shul for shorter tefilot. Mincha, Kabbalat Shabbat, and Maariv on Friday night lasts about one hour and includes singing and grape juice. Maariv and Havdalah on Saturday night last about 15 minutes and includes glow-sticks.
And while adults don’t get grape juice or glow sticks. It’s OK if we appreciate a shorter service too.
And whatever our age and whenever we pray, let’s remember from time to time to look up to the heavens for inspiration and let’s remember to look out to the world beyond the walls of our shul so that light from the outside world can come into our community and so that we remember that the values we cultivate inside this building, are meant to be taken outside to shape the world.
Rabbi David Wolkenfeld 