Be Open-Minded Without Dropping Your Ideals

By Risa Weinstein
KOACH Rabbinic Intern

It was seven in the morning and I was praying kiyahid (alone, without a minyan) alongside two other female rabbinical students behind barrack-like dormitories in Ciudad Romero in El Salvador. With tallitot (prayer shawls) covering our heads and faces, our praises and thanksgivings were hidden from everyone but God. While I spoke my prayers softly to myself, I could hear the voice of the 23 other rabbinical students who davvened (prayed) together with rousing melodies nearby.

It was the winter of 2004 and I was taking part in a delegation of rabbinical school students from Reform, Reconstructionist, Conservative, and Orthodox seminaries across the United States to El Salvador to learn about sustainable development. This great program, sponsored by the American Jewish World Service, also challenged the delegates to create a pluralistic community among Jews of different denominations. Every morning, the whole delegation prayed together as a group. Each rabbinical seminary represented was responsible for leading services one morning of the trip.

I enthusiastically joined in the services that my Reform and Reconstructionist peers led. Although they omitted some prayers that I considered to be obligatory, I nonetheless followed their liturgical practices for the sake of supporting pluralism. After all, I knew that the lack of pluralism, or the ability to respect differing beliefs and practices, was something ripping apart the seams of the Jewish community. I read horror stories in the Jewish press about this problem. There were times when rabbis from different denominations had so much hatred for each other that they would not sit together on local rabbinical councils. Similarly, painful fights erupted when converts from one denomination were not accepted as Jews by another denomination. I thought this trip to El Salvador would provide me with the ideal opportunity to take my own personal steps to counter this dangerous trend.

Despite my support of pluralism, when the day arrived on my trip for the Orthodox seminary students to lead Shaharit (morning) services, I fervently refused to attend. Although there were no halakhic (Jewish legal) reasons for my decision, my feminist beliefs would not let me take part in a service in which men and women would be sitting separately and only males would be allowed to lead. Suddenly, the drive I felt to promote pluralism among the Jewish people could not compete with my feminist identity.

Thus, I chose (along with two other female rabbinical students) to pray separately from the community. Although I felt proud that I respected my feminist beliefs, I felt like a pluralistic failure. It was to my surprise, delight, and comfort, then, when two of the service leaders from the Orthodox seminary approached me and told me they supported my decision to pray alone. They said they understood my need to create my own ideological boundaries. They made me realize that I was not rejecting my pluralistic goals. Instead, I was redefining my pluralistic process.

I began my trip to El Salvador thinking that pluralism meant that I had to submerge and hide my religious and personal convictions for the sake of k'lal Yisrael (Jewish unity). I discovered, though, that I have limits that I am not comfortable crossing. Respecting these boundaries personally does not mean that I cannot champion Jewish pluralism in general.

Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, the chief Rabbi of the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine (pre-statehood Israel), wrote that although the ancient schools of Hillel and Shammai often taught contradictory legal practices, their opinions were like different parts of a construction project that all eventually fit together to create a solid and impressive building. Similarly, I learned on my trip to El Salvador that different denominations, praying side-by-side, can create a large metaphorical structure of Jewish unity, reaching with voices to heaven.