Belovski

Whether you call them corkscrews or curly-wurlies, the strongest identifying feature of many Chassidim and Yemenite Jews is their long peyot (side curls).

The origin of this hairstyle is Leviticus 19:27: ‘do not round off the corners (peyot) of your head,’ which the Talmud understands to prohibit levelling the hair at the temples with the hair behind the ears so that a continuous line of hair encircles the whole head. As the verse also refers to shaving the beard, it is clear that it only applies to males. It is forbidden to shave the hair in front of the ears as well as a little above them.

While shaving the hair with a razor is clearly forbidden, the Talmud discusses the use of tweezers, scissors and depilatories. One is not required to leave the hair long, yet may not remove it completely. A common view allows the hair to be cut with scissors or electric clippers, but the peyot must be left long enough so that the remaining hair can be grasped between thumb and forefinger. For the aficionado, this equates to about a ‘number 2’, certainly no shorter.

There are numerous Minhagim (customs) and Hidurim (enhancements) associated with peyot. Some mystical sources attribute great significance to the hair and demand that the peyot (and beard) are left untrimmed. If the Torah forbids shaving the peyot, it may follow that growing them long would constitute a preferred observance of the Mitzvah. So the ‘short back and long sides’ haircut is distinctly Jewish! These ideas have resulted in many variations on the peyot theme. In some circles, peyot are grown no longer than the rest of the hair. In contrast, there are those who never cut their peyot and allow them to grow long (straight or curled), tie them up, wrap them around their ears or even twist them into small buns. Other variations include small, thin peyot behind the ears (Lithuanian Yeshivish), trimmed, very thick peyot (Brisker school) and simply growing slightly longer hair in front of the ears (German rabbinical).

The Torah does not give a reason for the prohibition of cutting the peyot, although Maimonides, in common with other mediaeval thinkers, suggests that it is a law associated with idolatry. As idolatrous priests would cut their hair above the ears in a kind of ritual tonsure, Jews are exhorted to do the opposite to eliminate any memory of their practices. The great 19th century German leader, Rabbi S.R. Hirsch offers a novel alternative. He notes that the growth of peyot removes the externally visible division between the front and back parts of the head, coinciding with the cerebrum and cerebellum respectively. This expresses the concept that the sanctification of life is based on the higher dignity of the moral intellectual life to which the animal drives and needs must be subordinated. Keeping the animal factor in the background is the defining human experience. As such, the hair at the temples reminds Man of his higher calling.

A version of this article first appeared in the Jewish Chronicle. It is republished with permission.

While the North-West London eruv was still a dream, a number of wildly inaccurate suggestions were made as to what would be allowed on Shabbat within it boundaries. Some claimed that the laws of Shabbat wouldn’t apply within the eruv, allowing a Shabbat trip to the shops, while others suggested that Jewish law would be suspended completely, presumably enabling the eruv-dweller to eat non-kosher food or even rob banks! What does Jewish law actually allow inside an eruv?

In fact, the existence of an eruv around an area impacts on only one aspect of Jewish law within it – what one may carry on Shabbat. In the absence of an eruv, on Shabbat one may not transport objects through the street, whether by hand, in a container, pocket or by any other means; this includes pushing a pram. An eruv (when used in this sense) is a boundary constructed around a Jewish district, utilising existing buildings and, when necessary, poles and wires, to turn the whole area into a single ‘private’ domain. The eruv thus encloses an entire neighbourhood, within which one may carry outside one’s house in the same way as in one’s own home or garden.

This means that within the eruv, one may carry objects that are needed for use on Shabbat. These include house keys, glasses, food and Shul-items, such as a Siddur or Tallit. It is permissible to take a book and a drink to the park, carry clothes, such as a coat, which will be worn later on Shabbat and transport essential medicines. One may also push a pram or wheelchair.

There are, however, some objects which may not be transported, even within an eruv. On Shabbat, one may not prepare for another day; therefore, it is not permitted to carry anything that is not needed on Shabbat itself. For example, this means that it is problematic carrying a house key to Shul when one will not return home before Shabbat ends. Another type of prohibited act is one that Jewish law considers a ‘weekday activity’, and thus damaging to the atmosphere and contrary to the spirit of Shabbat. Examples of this are riding a bicycle or kicking a ball in the street. As an umbrella may not be opened or closed on Shabbat, it is not permissible to carry one, even within an eruv.

Finally, many objects are designated as ‘muktzeh’ by Jewish law. This means that they may not be moved at all on Shabbat, as their nature or purpose is incompatible with Shabbat. Relevant examples are money and credit cards, mobile phones, cigarettes, matches, electronic games, cameras.

If unsure about a specific action or whether it is permitted to carry a certain item, ask your rabbi!

A version of this article first appeared in the Jewish Chronicle. It is republished with permission.

So you’re buying a loaf at the local kosher bakery and the woman behind the counter looks you in the eye and inquires, ‘mezonot?’ You just nod knowingly and take whatever she gives you, unwilling to confess ignorance.

Jewish law ascribes special significance to bread, the ‘staff of life’, viewing it as the key food in any meal of which it is a part. Due to this extraordinary status, one is required by Rabbinical law to ritually wash one’s hands and recite the hamotzi blessing before eating a bread-based meal and by Biblical law to recite birkat hamazon – full grace – afterwards

These stipulations often create practical difficulties for travellers and business-people, who may find themselves in situations where reciting the grace is awkward and finding an opportunity to wash one’s hands presents insurmountable complications. Sometimes it simply isn’t feasible to ‘wash and bentsch.’

At this stage, the reader is thinking, ‘then don’t eat bread,’ but the halachah has an alternative solution. In common with other legal systems, Jewish law rigorously classifies the entities with which it deals; accordingly it presents a careful definition of bread. It is a baked product, made from dough that consists of flour ground from wheat (or one of four similar grains) kneaded with water. Of course, small quantities of other ingredients, such as yeast and sugar, may be added, but these are incidental. If the dough is boiled (e.g. pasta), made from other grains (e.g. rice) or liquids (e.g. fruit juice), even if it is later baked, the halachah does not recognise the result as bread; hence the rules governing it do not apply. While the precise parameters involved are very complicated and subject to lively discussion amongst halachic authorities, suffice it to say that when pure fruit juice is used as the liquid component of dough, the halachah views the final product as cake, rather than bread.

This provides us with a curious variety of food – one that looks and tastes like bread, yet requires no prior hand washing, nor subsequent lengthy grace. The hamotzi reserved for bread is replaced with the mezonot blessing, normally said before eating cakes, crackers and pasta, while a short blessing is recited afterwards. Hence the mysterious term ‘mezonot bread.’

This seems like a marvellous solution for the hungry air-traveller or pizza-starved teenager, but there is a major snag. The halachah is well aware that the diner adopts a tactic enabling him to eat a proper meal without the usual attendant responsibilities. But as our diner treats the so-called mezonot bread as real bread, the halachah does the decent thing, and ‘upgrades’ its status to bread! Thus a meal at which mezonot bread is the mainstay requires the full gamut of pre and post-prandial rituals, and we are back to square one. This is known as keviat se’udah, the act of dining on significant quantities of mezonot foods; in the eyes of the halachah this transforms them into bread. It applies to any baked goods, whether crackers, cakes or biscuits, but is most germane to mezonot bread, which is commonly used for sandwiches and as rolls for burgers and hotdogs, foods generally consumed as full meals. It is interesting to note, however, that Rabbi Padwa assumed that meals eaten on a plane are never considered fixed, due to their inconvenient nature.

The upshot is that the convenience of mezonot bread has limited applicability – to smallish snacks eaten in an ad hoc manner, rather than ‘meals’. But provided that the manufacturing criteria are met, it will work for the odd slice of pizza consumed on the hoof and those little sandwiches served at Kiddushim. Enjoy!

A version of this article first appeared in the Jewish Chronicle. It is republished with permission.

The unfolding cataclysm in Asia brought to mind a very brief Biblical quote – the words of sheer despair uttered by Judah to his disguised brother, Joseph. ‘What can we say?’

What indeed can we say about a tragedy of such unprecedented span? What words of philosophy or theology could even scratch the surface of the issues raised by such large-scale devastation and human suffering? Is this not disappointing? Would we not expect there to be an immediate and succinct Jewish explanation of the recent phenomenon?

Not at all. Actually, our inability or unwillingness to offer a response is, perhaps, the most Jewish response of all. Any justification would be trite, foolish and an affront to the victims. While the suffering goes on, we cannot and will not offer an explanation. As we would expect, the Jewish sages tackled this reality millennia ago. The great Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar warned us not to comfort the bereaved when ‘his dead lies yet before him,’ meaning that while the calamity is still in progress, consolation and explanations are inappropriate. That’s not to say that Judaism does not have profound answers to the greatest existential questions; it’s just that they are reserved for the dispassionate arena of philosophy, one far-removed from real tragedy.

Psalm 124 adopts the metaphor of ‘raging waters’ to describe an enemy attack. ‘If it were not for God when Man rose against us,’ sings King David, then ‘the water would have swamped us.’ The bitter irony of the tsunami disaster is that if it were not for Man when God rose against us, many thousands more would have died. The relief effort, while too late for uncountable numbers, is saving thousands who would otherwise have certainly perished. In this lies the beginning of a Jewish response to current events, in which ‘explanation’ is set aside in favour of the two classic alternatives of action and introspection.

Upheaval on any scale, from personal difficulty to global catastrophe, is greeted by the Jew as an opportunity for self-examination. It is important to realise that this does not make a judgement about the cause of the tragedy – it simply insists that a correct response will include introspection. We may never know the ‘reason’ such events occur within God’s plan for humanity, but can always identify much wrong with ourselves and our planet and then attempt to rectify it. At one end of the scale, it may be failures in our interpersonal relationships, at the other, the appalling imbalance between the haves and the have-nots of our world. Judaism expects us, at the very least, to be jolted from our complacency by events around the globe, to take notice and to recognise that all is not well with our lives and our society.

There is another aspect to this introspection, however. Very often we forget how incredibly fortunate many of us are. Whether in terms of health, security, wealth or opportunity, most in the West are living lives of comfort and affluence undreamt of just a few years ago. That much is obvious. But how many of us realise that the tsunami could just have easily struck the United States? Scientists are carefully watching the volcanic activity on La Palma in the Canary Islands. They believe that at some time in the next few thousand years (it could happen next week, although this is extremely unlikely), a section of the island, weighing 450 thousand million tons, will fall into the Atlantic ocean. This would trigger a mega-tsunami that would engulf the whole Eastern coast of the USA within a few hours. But it didn’t happen in the West – we were mercifully spared. The words of the important thinker Rabbi Yitzhak Arama are apposite. ‘The nature of water is to cover the land, and it remains in place only by God’s instruction.’ It may be a cliché, but events in Asia should be challenging us to value each moment of our comfortable lives. Together with our sympathy for the victims and our disbelief at their plight, we should experience a profound sense of gratitude for our own circumstances.

The natural consequence of these feelings and the flip side of Rabbi Shimon’s exhortation is that action and action alone is the correct response. For most of us, there is little we can do directly, yet we can contribute generously to the relief agencies trying desperately to help the survivors and the families of the victims. We should applaud their efforts and encourage others to help to the best of their abilities. This is a proper Jewish response. The signs in this direction are encouraging – many nations have pledged vast aid packages. And cooperation is in evidence, transcending political divisions and religious prejudices. Even the BBC reported Israel’s offer of a field hospital to Sri Lanka with guarded favour!

And we need to think and act before the pop-stars return from their holidays and the sportsmen resume their vulgar antics – for when they do, they will inevitably supplant the tsunami tragedy from the front pages of the newspapers and from the minds of their readers. If we do, perhaps a small ray of light will emerge from a horrendous calamity.

Based on a sermon given at Golders Green Synagogue on 1st January 2005, a version of this article first appeared on Jewish World Review

It can't have escaped anyone's attention, but the Anglo-Jewish Shiva is dying. The full-week observance has become less common, replaced with a briefer period of one or two days. While not long ago, a shorter 'Shiva' (this is odd – the word means ‘seven’) was frowned upon - perhaps considered disrespectful, those observing a full week are now in the minority and sometimes seen as unduly religious or old-fashioned. A 'one night sit' is common, giving all of those who want to offer their condolences just one evening to do so.

Many of my colleagues are highly critical of this phenomenon. They feel that standards are slipping and that steps should be taken to force people into a full-scale Shiva. Allow me to state that while I consider it a tragedy that many families do not avail themselves of the healing powers of Jewish mourning, I fully understand why few families wish to do so. In reality, the typical Anglo-Jewish Shiva is not beneficial to the mourners, rather an ordeal that any normal person would wish to avoid.

At the typical evening Shiva, the house becomes densely packed with visitors, who have come ‘for prayers’. On arrival, they offer a cursory nod to the mourners and then engage in noisy conversation about any issue that takes their fancy – holidays and television programmes are firm favourites. They will often meet people they haven’t seen since the last Shiva, whom they greet with a kiss, exclaiming loudly, ‘lovely to see you,’ or some similar inanity. When the officiant arrives, all goes quiet until he has conducted the brief evening service. This over, the visitors shuffle past the mourners, nod at them and wish them ‘long life.’ Immediately returning to their noisy conversation, their prodigious efforts are rewarded by the provision of tea and refreshments. Meanwhile, the mourners sit on their low chairs in the corner, bewildered by the noise and party atmosphere that engulfs them; often no-one is talking to them, if indeed, it is possible to speak above the cacophony.

This is no less than an ordeal for the mourners. At a time when people are emotionally confused, shocked and paralysed by their loss, and the slightest noise or sight could cause additional stress or pain, this experience can be unbearable. And I quite understand why many people choose not to put their families through it.
It is sad to see just how often we miss the mark. A guest at a real Jewish wedding knows that it is his privilege and honour to make the groom and bride rejoice, for no matter the quality of the food or the venue, he has come for them. Likewise, as visitors at a Shiva, we have come to share the grief of those who have lost a loved one. We are there for them. Yet for so many in Anglo-Jewry, these concepts have been lost - whether at a wedding, when we think that we are there to be entertained by the hosts, or at a Shiva, when we expect tea and cake, we have become the focus of the occasion. We have gone terribly wrong.

Real Shiva serves a dual purpose. Honour is accorded to the deceased by dedicating an entire week to thinking and talking about him or her; the mourners neglect their regular personal, family and business activities, instead remaining at home to concentrate entirely on the qualities and character of their loved one. By the end of the Shiva, they have crystallised a mature image of the deceased in their minds, which will accompany them for the rest of their lives. As well as this, the Shiva has a positive effect on the bereaved, cocooning them from regular activity when grief is at its strongest, allowing them to gradually emerge into normal life only when the immediate harshness of their loss has passed.

This requires great understanding on the part of the visitors to the Shiva-house. Let us note that Jewish law, the great master of human emotional need, regulates this to perfection. How many of us aware that one may not even speak to the mourner until he indicates that this is his wish? Maybe he does not want to speak. How can we, mere onlookers to a family tragedy, impose on the bereaved in any way at all? We must be exquisitely sensitive to the mourner’s emotional trauma. If he speaks, we will respond; if he cries, we will empathise; if he laughs, we will share the humorous recollection of his loved one. And if he remains silent, unable or unwilling to speak, we too will remain quiet. This is the real Jewish concept of comforting the mourner.

This is far cry from a momentary nod in the direction of the mourner, raucous conversation and gobbling of refreshments that so characterise the modern Shiva. Let us face the truth – these practices must stop, for they are counterproductive and selfish; indeed, far from alleviating the mourner’s distress, they actually add to it. For many, Shiva has become a nightmare after a tragedy – the precise opposite of its true intention and capacity. And unless we are prepared to change the way we do things, Jewish mourning will be completely lost, together with the immense benefit that it brings in the face of tragedy.

As a mourner, recognize that the visitors are present for your benefit. Have no qualms about resting when you feel tired, asking people to be considerate and, as Jewish law allows, asking them to leave when you no longer want to speak to them. Resist the party atmosphere by not offering food or drink. As a visitor, remember that you are present for the benefit of the mourners. Visit during the day, if possible. If food is offered, refuse it. Do nothing whatsoever which imposes on the mourners. When appropriate, enable the mourner to express himself in his own way. Leave when the time is right.

May we be blessed with long and happy lives, filled with sensitivity to each other.

This article originally appeared in the London Jewish News and is reprinted with permission. It was then adapted into a shorter piece for the Holocaust educational book '60 days for 60 years'.

A wit once observed that asking Jews not to talk in Shul is like expecting diners not to eat in a restaurant – that’s the reason they came. The problem of talking in Shul has tormented rabbis for centuries. A number suffered their frustration in silence, some railed at their parishioners and yet others acquiesced and ‘went native’. Unsurprisingly, Jewish literature is replete with condemnation of this phenomenon. Examples of this include those who describe talking in Shul as hasagat g’vul – encroaching on another’s personal ‘prayer-space’ and the cutting observation of Rabbi Moshe Sofer (early 19th century) noting that only those synagogues used for prayer, rather than for conversation, will be rebuilt in Israel in Messianic times. The Code of Jewish Law even refers to the sin of someone who speaks during the chazzan’s prayer as ‘too great to bear.’

Yet despite universal denunciation, talking besets most Shuls. It has even attracted the interest of sociologists, and at least one rather humourless analysis of it has appeared in recent years. Apart from the Jewish angle, the informality and noise in some Shuls bewilders many gentile visitors, who are quite unable to reconcile their expectations of a prayer service with the chaotic reality.

All this, of course, highlights a clash of paradigms that is evident in numerous Anglo-Jewish Shuls. While prayer is the stated purpose of synagogue attendance, for many regulars, it is essentially an opportunity for social engagement. That’s not to say that they don’t read the prayers – it’s just not the focus of their visit. Actually, many hardly pray at all, yet choose to meet their friends and catch up on the latest gossip in the context of a Shul service. To some degree, sanction for this is drawn from the description of a Shul as a beit k’nesset – a house of meeting, although it seems far-fetched to suggest that the Sages intended the social activity to take place while the services are actually in progress.

Besides, I would consider it dishonest not to note that talking in Shul is often generated by boredom. Services can be lengthy, hard to understand and occasionally, tedious beyond endurance. Mind-numbing sermons and lacklustre chazzanut are still in fashion in some Shuls. Many congregants and not a few rabbis are unwilling to admit this, but I think it undeniable. And while the rabbi may choose to catch up on his learning or visit the children’s service, the obvious antidote for some congregants is to chat until it’s all over. Indeed, I fully acknowledge that in this all too common situation, remaining silent demands considerable self-control.

Appreciating prayer requires sensitivity to the structure of the ancient texts and an understanding of the sophisticated Man-God dynamic - advanced Jewish skills that are not widespread in our communities. In reality, most Anglo-Jews lack proficiency in even rudimentary Hebrew and as such, the nuances and beauty of the prayers are lost. That’s not to suggest that a chazzan will never succeed in rousing the congregants, but for many, this is essentially a musical, rather than a devotional experience. Chazzanut is also a matter of personal taste, a curious barometer of spiritual meaning.

One of the regrettable outcomes of this is that the inspirational content of the prayer-services is de-emphasised. Since for many attendees, spirituality is scarcely on the menu, the overall atmosphere and meaning of the service is low on the list of priorities. This has created a fascinating but rather worrying paradox. Those who view the Shul primarily as a meeting place are served well by the existing model, but those who want to pray are not. That’s not to say that those who come to pray don’t talk in Shul – they very often are among the worst culprits – but their focus and expectation is different. This divergence is frequently generational – to be sure, younger people also wish to meet to chat and socialise, but they do so elsewhere, not in Shul, a place that they identify with prayer. Perhaps the Kiddush or another communal event will meet this need, but not the services themselves.

The current social and religious milieu is such that Shul services that are essentially social clubs do not succeed in attracting those newly interested in Judaism. While many older people have been conditioned to identify Judaism with Shul attendance, younger enthusiasts may become involved with Jewish learning, Shabbat observance or learning Hebrew long before they consider entering a Shul. By that stage, they feel a need to pray and come largely for that purpose. Bizarrely, our Shuls often turn them off. In fact, many a conflict has arisen in Shul between a regular who is talking through the Torah reading and a neophyte who would actually like to listen! In fact, newcomers are commonly lost to both the right and the left, where they find that the content and purpose of their visit is taken seriously.

I believe that the map of the United Synagogue-style communities will be drawn as a function of the extent to which we take these needs seriously. Talking in Shul is a symptom of an entrenched, but resolvable clash of expectation. With good will, sensitivity and the vision that I believe can now just be perceived within our communities, we can develop the flexibility to create a vibrant and eclectic future.

A version of this article first appeared in the Jewish Chronicle. It is republished with permission.

On a very windy day, we drove to the car park at the top of one of the most beautiful nature spots in the country. As I got out of the car, a women hanging onto her sheitel for dear life, accosted me and remarked that it was a shame I had just missed Minchah. This took place not somewhere in Israel, as you might think, but a few years ago during the summer holidays in Wales!

Each year, members of the Orthodox community organise group summer holiday camps in a number of locations around the British countryside. Usually on University campuses or similar, they are located in places that offer access to the seaside and other places of family interest. The accommodation tends to be basic, self-catering, modestly priced, spacious, and geared to the needs of larger families.

These holiday camps fulfil a number of Orthodox needs, providing, for example, minyanim, an eruv for Shabbat and kosher groceries. Other Jewish holidaymakers in the area will also rely upon the camp shop for top-up supplies. Starting and ending mid-week, this type of holiday also avoids the perennial Saturday-to-Saturday let problem that makes most cottage rentals awkward for the observant family. There may also be shiurim, study opportunities and group coach outings, but rest assured, these are optional. My own practice is to discover the destination of the coach outing and go there the following day.

At this point, the reader contemplates the mind-boggling spectre of Baruch Butlin’s, populated entirely by black-clad campers, complete with glamorous bubbe contests and Chassidic karaoke. Actually, most families keep to themselves, using the camp as a convenient base for a quite ordinary self-catering holiday.

Obviously, this type of holiday lacks certain comforts and a degree of privacy, but enables the religious family to get an inexpensive, wholesome break while avoiding some of the issues thrown up by more conventional vacations, such as food, immodest dress and Shabbat observance. It also raises another subject – the modus operandi of the large family within a society of smaller ones.

Judaism considers children to be one of the greatest blessings that God can bestow. Each child is a cherished individual, who will bring holiness, love and kiddush HaShem – sanctification of the Divine – into the world in his or her own unique way. The commandment in Genesis 1:28 to procreate, and Isaiah’s observation (45:18) that God intended the earth to be populated, not desolate, are taken very seriously in the Orthodox community. As a result, large families are common in religious circles, and, as we would expect, this creates some unique, sometimes comical challenges.

Consider, if you will, the simple issue of buying yoghurts. As they often come in six-packs, my wife and I, with our relatively modest brood of five (k’naina hora!) have to take it in turns to have one. The same goes for schnitzels, and a whole range of other packaged foods.

How about visiting other families? Many homes are just not geared to the descent of a large clan. Apart from the likely trail of devastation left in the wake of the visitors, the size of the dining room, number of chairs and quantity of cutlery needed may elude even the best host. Spending Shabbat with another family may prove to be quite impossible. On another theme, our washing machine runs daily what the instructions refer to as normal weekly usage. And of course, domestic appliances, from irons to toilets, even the ‘indestructible’ German varieties, meet their maker much sooner than the manufacturer ever envisaged.

As a child, my brother, cousins and I used to pile into the back of my aunt’s Ford Anglia (a lá Harry Potter), but since, wisely, the laws have been tightened, only three children may sit safely in the back of an ordinary car. This means that even a family with four children can’t manage with a regular vehicle and only the ubiquitous MPV, frequent casualty of width-restrictions, will suffice. We’ve all experienced the nightmare – the huge van, crammed with a seething mass of bouncing children, driven by a tiny woman barely visible over the steering wheel, careering at breakneck speed towards us down a narrow street.

Turning to the so-called ‘family ticket’ for entrance to leisure attractions, these are often woefully inadequate. ‘Family’ is usually defined as two adults and two, or at most, three, children. Witness the scene at the entrance to a theme park. The attendant, a student employed for the summer holidays, pokes his spotty face out of his booth to survey with disapproval the contents of a MPV that does not meet his textbook definition of a family. While the harassed driver attempts to convince him that three of the tribe really are younger than five, and thus qualify for free entry, the children start a riot and the queue of frustrated drivers just gets longer.

Yet every parent of a large family will agree that these minor, and sometimes hilarious, disturbances are a tiny price to pay for the wonder, happiness and love that their family brings them. They consider themselves truly blessed.

Perhaps the final word on this matter should go to the Israeli mother of a very large family, who was waiting at a bus stop with several lively children. While she was herding them on to the bus, the driver became annoyed and remarked tetchily, ‘lady, next time, leave half your children at home.’ The response of our patient heroine? ‘I did!’

A version of this article originally appeared in the Jewish Chronicle. It is republished with permission.

Among the myriad laws of Pesach there is a rule that I find it very hard to persuade my congregants to accept! It is not some minutia of kitchen preparation, or even the amount of matzah they should eat at the Seder. Surprisingly enough, it is the requirement that they understand the story of the Haggadah while they read it. It seems such a simple idea – instead of struggling through the text, just about managing to get through it in the original, read the story in a contemporary English translation. Actually, the idea of reading the story of the Exodus in the vernacular is particularly interesting to a British rabbi, as it recorded in the name of the rabbis of the mediaeval rabbi of London. Now I use the word ‘contemporary’ with care, as there are many translations that are so out-of-date and archaic, that they are no use at all. One I saw recommends searching for Chametz with ‘a wax randle in the gloaming’, which, apart from the obvious spelling mistake, leaves the reader with the impression that he is about to engage in some wacky Victorian pantomime. Others are so full of ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ that they require translation themselves.

Why is so difficult to get those who are not fluent in Hebrew to read the story in a translation? Why would anyone choose to labour uncomprehendingly over the original text, syllable by syllable, instead of enjoying the drama and charm of the age-old story in a language that they can understand? Responses to this question vary. Some say, ‘we have always done it like this.’ Others feel compelled to use the Haggadah they received as a Bar Mitzvah present in the 1930s. Still others assume that it must be better to read it in Hebrew, even if they don’t understand it. At some level, I suppose they are right - for those who have a good grasp of Hebrew, it is preferable to read the Haggadah in the original; after all, Hebrew is the language of God and of the Torah and expresses nuances and concepts that cannot be fully translated into English. But these are entirely lost on the non-Hebrew reader. In fact, reading an unintelligible story loses more than nuances, it loses everything else too.

In reality, I think that there is more to this problem than Haggadot and Hebrew. It cuts to the heart of our own self-perception and attitude towards Judaism. Incredible as it may sound, for many people, part of the Seder experience seems to be the mystique of not understanding! Some people are actually troubled by the prospect of understanding and enjoying the procedure. Since their earliest recollections are of incoherent mumbling, this is how things must remain for evermore. Any endeavour to disturb this state of affairs is met with resistance. ‘It was good enough for my grandfather, so why isn’t it good enough for you?’ Surely some attempt to think through the long-term consequences of this attitude is called for. For whatever reason, previous generations were happy to accept that Judaism called for martyrdom – whether it was sitting through an unintelligible Seder, or tolerating lengthy, unrewarding Shul services. Younger people are simply unwilling and unprepared to do so. Worse still, many of us still expect youngsters to participate in this way and become frustrated with them when they refuse. It is hardly surprising that a generation that is well educated, advantaged and surrounded by exciting life alternatives, is also uninterested in a meaningless experience. Let us be honest – why would anyone participate willingly in a meaningless experience?

But the most destructive aspect of this is feeling comfortable with the unintelligible model. It permits us get away without a challenge - without allowing the real message of Pesach, and indeed of Judaism, to have any impact upon us. Happy with the meaningless, we have convinced ourselves that the experience has nothing to offer, and fulfilled our expectations by rendering it impotent; as such, it need not disturb our lives in any way at all. We have turned the Seder, without a doubt the most powerful educational tool in Judaism’s armoury, into a gun loaded with blanks. We have inoculated ourselves against the most exciting inspiration to creating a vibrant Jewish future that exists. It suits us to extract the teeth of the Seder by keeping it incomprehensible, for in that way, we will require no self-examination, no reconsideration of the way we impart Judaism to our children and certainly no modification of our Jewish lives.

This problem pervades every area of Jewish life, but at the Seder, the contrast between the reality and the ideal is most evident. Seder night this year is a perfect opportunity to begin the revolution. It is time to fully exploit the magic of the Seder - the original all-singing, all-dancing, multi-media inspiration. It is time to recognise that young Jews need meaningful Jewish experiences if they are to play any part in the Jewish future. It is time to turn the Seder back into a real event, with genuine communication between parents and children, and consign the mumble-through-the-text and dash-to-the-meal of the past to the waste bin of failed Jewish experiments. Throw away that old Haggadah.

Old Haggadot must be treated with respect. Please ask a rabbi how to dispose of them properly.

A version of this article first appeared on Jewish World Review