The adage, Those who forget history tend to repeat it, is only partially correct. Even those who remember history tend to repeat it. The economists Kenneth Rogoff and Carmen Reinhart demonstrated this curiosity in their highly regarded book, This Time is Different. After all, that is the key to why certain things seem to happen over and over again. We know what happened in the past, but insist that what is occurring now is just not the same. So, here it is: déjà vu all over again!
The parallels to the run-up to the US invasion in Iraq eleven years ago are distressingly similar. Bracket out the claims of weapons of mass destruction, the situation in Iraq was becoming more dire. Sanctions and the no-fly zone were increasing the suffering to the Iraqi people but having little effect on the Saddam Hussein government. Something had to change. Today, the situation in Syria – after two years of increasing sanctions – has become more volatile and intolerable. Again, something has to change.
While the WMDs turned out to be a mirage in 2003, a deadly chemical attack did indeed occur in August. I do not know for sure that Assad perpetrated this crime, but it appropriate to claim that the Syrian government, by virtue of being charged with the well-being of its population, must take responsibility over it. Assad issues denials (they may even be sincere), but is silent about what his government intends to do in order to assure that their own stockpiles are secure and untouched, or what steps might be taken to prevent another attack.
Finally, up to now, the dance has been nearly identical. The US is taking the lead in calling for action. (This France is the principally supporter while the UK demurs. I wonder if this is the case because Iraq used to be within the British sphere of influence, and Syria within France’s?) The White House has called for congressional authorization, and has also pursued the effort of creating an international consensus, including outreach to the Arab League and the United Nations. All the while, it reserves for itself the option of individual action.
Consider the time-line eleven years-ago. The Bush Administration began making noise about Iraq shortly after the attacks of 9/11. They began a concerted effort to confront Saddam in September 2002; received support of Congress in October, but did not begin an actual attack until March. Right now, it just September. Noise has been made, but there has been no movement of troops or ships.
Is this time different? One must hope so. The action in Iraq was poorly conceived and evenly more poorly executed. It was also clear – both at the time of the action and in retrospect – that a significant element in the Bush Administration’s overall strategy was to exhibit and maintain an overwhelming American military presence in the world. Saddam Hussein was not the object this strategy, but rather its excuse.
We must expect that the principal – the only real – objective in the case of Syria is that WMD’s – chemical, biological or nuclear – are not used. The current Administration has expressed no interest in exhibiting military might. The threat of the employment of force, we should trust, is a tactical measure that can only be successful if 1) it is credible, and 2) it is being utilized in the context of pressing certain key players – Russia and perhaps Iran – to join in a coalition laying responsibility for the use of chemical weapons in Syria at Assad’s feet.
Must Assad go? Two years ago, the protests in Syria represented a popular uprising expressing their dissatisfaction with the government in power. Now, it is more a conventional civil war. Assad, it is evident, has always had support from diverse elements of Syrian society. Compare it with Qaddafi’s Libya. When the “Arab Spring” came to Libya, in relatively short, key personalities in the power elite began to defect, and the ruling structure crumbled. More than two years into the Syrian protests and precious few significant personalities have joined the opposition. I do not know whether Assad’s support within the country is positive (appreciation of his rule) or negative (fear of what the country would be like in case of the government’s downfall), but it is reasonably stable.
The current situation – even when the incident of a chemical attack is bracketed out – is horrendous: over two million have fled the country, and two million more have been internally displaced. It could get worse, and probably will. [Query: has the per capita fatality rate reached that of the American Civil War, which was fought with considerably less lethal weapons?] The war, however, cannot persist indefinitely. Most probably, when it does come to an end, both sides can fairly be declared the loser. And the nation, in a pattern already being played out in Tunisia, Libya and Egypt, will continue to endure tension and occasional outbreaks of violence for years to come. We can only pray that over that miserable stretch of time, institutions will develop that permit some form of responsive and responsible government.
In the meantime, I believe the for the US and any allies, military engagement is not simply the last resort; it is the very last resort.

Paul Golomb
Sept. 9, 2013

Following discussions among Jewish community professional and lay leadership, and also within the congregation, Vassar Temple has decided to create a comprehensive two-day-a-week Religious School involving both Hebrew and Judaica. It will be withdrawing from the Community Hebrew School. The following is a letter that will be published in the Jewish Federation’s monthly, The Voice.

At the conclusion of World War I, the Jewish leadership of Poughkeepsie responded to the lack of well organized religious instruction with the creation of the Community Hebrew School. Jewish education was housed in its own building, and then subsequently in the Jewish Community Center. After World War II, the management and direction of the School (CHS), was placed in a separate Board with members drawn from the four Poughkeepsie congregations. Surely, other early twentieth century small American Jewish communities sought to cooperate in Jewish education in a similar fashion. Only Poughkeepsie, however, sustained such a program into the twenty-first century.

The CHS has always been a noble idea. It was predicated on collaboration among Orthodox, Conservative and Reform congregations, and such cooperation can hardly be taken for granted. It has been dedicated to the notion that the Hebrew language binds together all Jews – secular, liberal and traditional – and that students from all backgrounds can indeed learn in the same classroom. While the goals of community-wide cooperation remain central, the noble idea represented by the CHS has run its course.

By the beginning of this century, an increasing number of families were choosing to turn to independent tutors for their Hebrew education rather than the classes housed at the Jewish Center. The overall program has experienced a rather dramatic decline in enrollment through the last decade. Something had changed.

It would be both unfair and wrong to suggest that the difficulty arises out of the CHS itself. There has been no discernible drop in the quality and dedication of the teaching staff, or in the soundness of the curriculum. The changes are rather to be found in factors beyond the CHS control: in the demographics of the Dutchess County Jewish community, and in the subtly evolving nature of Jewish identity and affiliation. For central and southern Dutchess County, the Community Hebrew School is the answer to a question the area Jews are no longer asking. The promotion and development of Jewish and Hebrew education must now move in a new direction.

[Before continuing, in the northern part of the County, it must be noted, the presence of a community-based Hebrew program is still valid. We maintain our support of the school that is running in Rhinebeck, and promote its value for its Jewish community.]

We, at Vassar Temple, wish to laud the diligence and commitment provided by the staff and leadership of the Community Hebrew School in promoting Hebrew education for over nine decades. While we are convinced that evolving times and circumstances require Hebrew to be imparted as part of comprehensive Jewish education in ways that go beyond the scope of the CHS, we also remain dedicated to its underlying values of cooperation among the varied segments and streams of the local Jewish community, and to its common hopes and aspirations. We are certain that just as the Community Hebrew School represented a collaborative effort to address a fundamental Jewish need back in 1919, we will continue to create and implement new programs and ideas that represent the full community. Just as the Jewish community of Dutchess County welcomed innovation and planned for the future in the early 20th century, we look forward to embracing the challenges of the 21st together as well.

Submitted by:
Bob Abrams, President
Bob Ritter, Vice-President
Alan Kaflowitz, Chair of Religious School
Dr. Joel Hoffman, Education Director
Rabbi Paul Golomb

Worship in the synagogue is roughly 2000-years-old.  The prayerbook (siddur), however, is only about 1100-years-old.  One reason for this time gap is that in the days before the printing press, the creation and distribution of a large number of siddurim was simply impractical.  More to the point, the competing notions of keva (consistency) and kavanah (devotion) tended to tilt toward the latter in the early centuries of worship.  The prayer leader (sh’liah hatzibbur) had a good deal of latitude in how he wished to express established rubrics that determined the order of worship.      

With the creation of a siddur, however, keva began to overtake kavanah.  People prayed the words that were before them.  Further, the siddur itself began to expand.  Jewish communities were comfortable with including new prayers and readings, but uncomfortable about dropping established ones.  By the middle of the nineteenth century, a standard siddur (now printed and widely distributed) had become rather long and unwieldy.  Many of the additional prayers and liturgical poems were thematically repetitive.  Thus, began the era of prayerbook reform.      

From the start, Reformers made two important changes in the siddur.  They began to cut down the length, particularly eliminating redundant prayers and readings.  And they introduced a translation of the service into the vernacular (German, French, Yiddish, and English, among others).   Reducing the size of the siddur also reduced the length of a service.  When combined with increasingly larger portions of worship being recited in the vernacular, a tacit understanding within the congregation was achieved.  Congregants would make a point of being present at the start of the service, and staying through to the end.  The pace of worship would be dignified; not excessively fast, and virtually all of it would be recited aloud.      What happened to kavanah? 

Classic nineteenth and early twentieth century Reform Judaism put a great deal of stock into idealist reason; that is, a non-metaphysical rational understanding of the world about imbued with a progressive spirit.  Jewish liturgy was therefore translated or paraphrased to be both scientifically sound and socio-politically optimistic.  The liturgy was designed to say just what most of the congregation already believed.  Kavanah was built into the service, rather than being something brought by the individual to worship.      

Toward the latter half of the last century, Jewish optimism in the inextricable progress of civilization began to be shaken.  A liturgy that exuded idealist reason began to ring a bit hollow.  Even after the experience of the Holocaust, however, it was not shattered.  Reason and progress still animated most of those who joined Reform congregations, but it could no longer be the sole basis of kavanah in a Reform service.  The Movement responded to a new reality – it reformed! – and created a new type of prayerbook (Gates of Prayer) that attempted to tackle a variety of approaches to worship with a variety of prayer themes.      

The newest siddur, Mishkan T’fila, has made an important modification.  Gates of Prayer offered a variety of services, each one of which was thematic consistent.  Kavanah could be brought to bear on the service, only if the theme of that day’s worship resonated for you.  Mishkan T’fila, on the other hand, brings a variety of themes together on each two-page spread.  A worshiper has a choice.  You can read (or sing) along with the prayer leader.  Or, you can read to yourself one of the alternative prayers.  Or, you can meditate and create a prayer of your own.  Public and silent worship is combined; kavanah is preserved.    

Vassar Temple’s late starting Shabbat service maintains this more conventional approach to Reform worship.  It is a reform of classic Reform.  No doubt, future congregations and siddurim will modify the approach in order to suit yet unknown developments in Jewish thought.  From near the start of the synagogue worship service, Jewish prayer has been a combination of keva and kavanah, achieved through a combination of public and silent worship.  Vassar Temple employ two ways of preserving this most basic element of the service

If you went to an American public school, you began each morning with the Pledge of Allegiance; day in, day out, five days a week for thirteen years (Kindergarten through senior year of High School).  This regimen comes to over 2300 recitations.  I would wager that you can recite the 31 words (29, if you went to school before 1954, and did not say “under God”) to this day.  It is pretty well burned into your memory.  But, what did it mean?      I am not referring to proper definitions of the words of the Pledge, but rather to what import did have on you; what was the overall aim and purpose in reciting it daily?  Did it work?  If one of the purposes was that you would remember it, it probably was successful.  Has the Pledge actually reinforced a sense of allegiance in you, to either the flag or the U.S.?  Maybe!  I am certain, however, that one purpose was indeed achieved: the school as an institution had publicly bonded itself to the country and its flag.      

This last assertion is important.  Reciting the Pledge may or may not create within you a sense of patriotic loyalty, but your saying the words established that loyalty for the institution in which you said it.  Thus, from the institution’s point of view, not everyone actually has to speak the words of the Pledge.  Somebody does, but you might be exempt.  During the recitation, you might let your mind wander.  Occasionally, you might even focus on the words of the Pledge – not all the words, perhaps, just a phrase or two – and ponder what they really mean to you.      

The Pledge of Allegiance is an apt model for traditional synagogue worship.  There is a fixed liturgy, and from the point-of-view of the institution (in this case, the congregation in the synagogue), the words ought to be said.  They need not be said by everyone.  Classically, congregations have selected a sh’liah tzibbur [literally, the congregational representative] to recite the liturgy.  (The sh’liah tzibbur can be a volunteer, or a professional like a cantor [hazzan] or rabbi.)  The rest of the minyan is then free to recite the prayers along with the leader, or to focus on something else.      

As a matter of practice, the sh’liah tzibbur does not recite everything aloud.  Much of the service is carried on in silence, or near silence, as it is not unusual to hear congregants singing or reading softly to themselves.  The sh’liah tzibbur generally only announces through bits of liturgy where the minyan is in the service.  Congregants are confident that the sh’liah tzibbur is actually reading the liturgy, freeing each of them to do what they wish.  One would expect that many, having chosen to attend the service in the first place, would take this opportunity to meditate on the personal meaning of the liturgy to themselves.      

In Part I, I introduced the key concepts of keva (consistency) and kavanah (devotion).  Through the employment of a sh’liah tzibbur  and the liberal use of silent or personal reading,  Jewish liturgical practice takes the rhythm of prayer, its rote repetitiveness and familiarity, and allows it to be turned into the possibility of personal devotion.      Actually, kavanah is not possible with keva.  Services move by too fast, making reflection and meditation nearly impossible.  When the service becomes really familiar – like the words of the Pledge – mostly through regular attendance, then one is free to pick and choose among the prayers; to spend the silent stretches creating a personal bridge to the divine through bits and pieces of the liturgy.    

 When Vassar Temple holds its early evening Shabbat service, it is offering each congregant to bring kavanah to the keva of the liturgy.  Clearly, the practice works better for those already familiar with the service.  When, however, the Temple conducts a later evening service, it employs a more classical Reform Jewish approach to the liturgy.  In Part III, I will discuss the reasoning behind that style of service.

Regular attendees of Vassar Temple’s Friday evening services note a substantial shift in how worship is done when the service is moved from 7:30 to the pre-dinner 6pm time during the winter months. The change is that we substitute the public reading of the central portion of the service – the Amidah – with a silent reading. An important reason for that change is to facilitate a somewhat shorter service in time. It also represents two approaches to worship based in Jewish tradition and practice. Here, in this and the next two blog submissions, I will explain the sources of the two approaches.

Jewish worship is a strange thing. When does one pray? Whenever you feel the need or urge to pray: in the morning, evening, the middle of the night. And where does one pray? Wherever you are at the time you feel you ought to pray. At home, at work, on vacation, in the car. So, what is prayer that is recited at a fixed time and in a fixed location? Informally, Jews do not refer to this activity as prayer, but rather as davening. But, does this mean that when you show up at the synagogue on a Friday evening for services, you are not praying?

From the earliest days of the worship service, this issue concerned Jewish religious leadership, the classic Rabbis. They responded to the problem by suggesting that one must approach the service with two attitudes: keva and kavanah; with consistency and devotion.

Keva, its literal meaning is “rhythm,” is similar to the attitude you might have when you brush your teeth, take the dog for a walk or catch the 6:32 train each morning to work. These are repeatable activities, but they are not merely habits. You do them because they each have an intrinsic value, and thus you do them even when you are not particularly in the mood. Sometimes you simply wish to forego brushing your teeth, but you do it anyway. You do it not just because you are concerned about cavities or bad breath, but also because you sense that you are going to feel bad later on if you did not.

Such is the keva of Jewish worship: a regularly performed act made up of a consistent set of prayers and readings, to be recited in community (the minyan) at a particular location (the synagogue) and a set time. You go and recite the prayers, occasionally even when you do not feel particularly interested in doing so, because you also sense that it is important, and because you will miss it later if you neglected it. The keva of Jewish worship requires merely showing up.

Kavanah [literally “intention”], on the other hand, does pertain to attitude. The liturgy of Jewish worship is, after all, prayer. It is supposed to speak to the heart, to your hopes and dreams. To this end, Jewish worship demands more than merely showing up. It asks you to wring meaning out of the words set before you on the page of the siddur (prayerbook), and to make them your own.

As you can see, keva and kavanah are in tension. The sheer obligation to recite prayers at a set time and place works against doing so with feeling and devotion. The classic Rabbis did not expect individuals (including themselves) to resolve this tension. Such is the reality of life. They did, however, offer some techniques that made the melding of the two distinct elements of worship more possible. In the next post, I will discuss what the Rabbis suggested.

1. Firearms are dangerous. The exclusive purpose of a loaded gun is to do damage. While probative reasons can be brought forward regarding the possession of firearms, it remains irrefutable that all they can do is mar, hurt, destroy or kill.

2. The principal beneficiary of limiting restrictions on firearms is not gun owners or collectors, but rather gun manufacturers and dealers. Short of an absolute ban on non-police or military possession of firearms, people who wish to own a gun will do so, and collectors can amass their collection. Anything, however, that makes the possession of certain guns, or guns in general, more difficult simply restrains the market for a manufacturer or dealer. They have the most to lose from such restrictions.

3. The most efficient way to facilitate gun sales is to promote paranoia. All marketing is based on developing or maintaining a need. When an item is a clear (even if marginal) benefit, the task might be straightforward. In the case of items whose disabilities are at least as strong as their benefits, the marketing usually has to be indirect. Cigarettes and beer are (or had been) promoted because they might increase one’s attractiveness or social desirability; gambling, because, as New York Lottery reminds us, “Hey, you never know.” The argument for guns boils down to “they are out to get you.”

This line of argument can be very successful. As the old joke goes, “Just because you are paranoid, that doesn’t mean they are not out to get you.” It is nonetheless in the interest of gun marketers to massage our natural fears regarding loss and injury as much as possible.

4. Few are guilty, but everyone is responsible. Make no mistake about it. Although a single disturbed individual took it upon himself to kill his mother and then to fire multiple times into first and second grade classrooms, everyone of us has some measure of responsibility for the tragedy. A tiny amount of that responsibility is what each of us could have done to prevent it from happening. Much larger, however, is what we do now.

Responsibility does not fall evenly on everyone. I would suggest that the first burden falls on those who feel that current gun control regulations are sufficient or should even be loosened. It is incumbent upon them to show that the deaths of twenty six and seven-year-olds justifies the status quo. If no compelling and empirically sound argument is forthcoming (keep in mind statement 3 above), then they are also have the responsibility to join with the rest of us in thinking about serious changes to the availability of firearms.

* * *

5. The tragic shooting in Newtown, CT, occurred in a week in which the Torah portion was the episode in the book of Genesis in which Joseph is pulled out of the royal prison in order to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams. Rabbinic commentators note that the meaning of the dreams were hardly difficult to discern. They suggest that Pharaoh’s counselors should have had no problem doing so. What was difficult, however, was coming up with a plan to do something about it.

I am quite confident that absolutely nobody is defending the terrible misuse of firearms that happened on that tragic Friday morning, or even the numerous similar, if less horrific, incidents that show up periodically in local and national news. The strongest defenders of gun ownership will often argue that there are already thousands of gun regulations on the books, but that many of them are poorly conceived or erratically enforced. On these points, I believe they are correct. Some regulations are very ineffective in getting firearms out of the hands of those most likely to misuse them.

The debate must then be not on regulation versus no regulation, but rather on what has the best chance of working. On this point, pointing to faults and problems, and not working toward solutions is simply irresponsible. We all know the meaning of Pharaoh’s dreams; we all must be like Joseph, and work to ameliorate death and loss.

Rabbi Paul Golomb
December 16, 2012