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The following is an opinion contribution and reflects the author’s views alone.
Over this past summer, I was struck by a quote that said that the learning Jew hosts greater potential for personal growth, positive social impact, and religious continuity than the learned Jew.
While I hesitate to extrapolate this quotation beyond its Reform context to the broader study of Jewish pedagogy, I remain curious about its relevance to myself in addition to the greater experience of all Jewish Americans.
The use of the gerund learning in contrast to the past participle learned signifies both time and aspect within my Jewish edification. This message may appear inherently controversial on its face, for it strikes at the heart of the traditional notion of the hakham — the Hebrew adjective meaning “wise” that, through common usage in the exegetical teachings of the Talmud and Midrash, has come to connote an individual well-versed in the Torah — and instead emphasizes the imminent and continuous study of Jewish texts and ethics.
Upon (virtually) arriving for my freshman year at Princeton, and encountering Princeton’s vibrant Jewish community in-person thereafter, I have found that I subscribe to this model of Judaism, as it places a premium upon my lasting struggle to wrestle with the tenets of my faith, discouraging the stagnant and dangerous outlook that my previous exposure to Jewish texts can sufficiently mold my Jewish identity.
After over a year of engaging with my school’s robust Jewish programming and speaking with many friends about how Jewish identity can enhance the collective community, I was drawn to this conclusion. Through grappling with these issues here at Princeton, my involvement with Jewish life on campus has risen precipitously.
I have long recognized the promulgation and legacy of our faith as the marquee moral imperative of our people. It’s an understanding embedded within me since childhood and one that has only been heightened since I have become mature enough to identify casual incitements of antisemitism around me more swiftly. With every subsequent iteration of antisemitism in the modern world — whether at the hands of the far-left, undermining the legitimacy of the state of Israel and propagating the rhetoric of the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions movement, or the far-right, many of whose factions continue to invoke age-old dog-whistles against followers of Judaism — corroding our societal framework, the need to prolong the Jewish faith becomes direr to maintain freedom, tolerance, and prosperity — values that entangle the prerogatives of our people with the Western canon and sustain the integrity of our society. I had always consumed this thesis theoretically, unknowing of its immense significance, until a groundswell of controversy struck our campus this past May.
When the conflict in Israel reignited a campus-wide debate at Princeton over Israel’s legitimacy, intense debate tore through Princeton’s Jewish community, rupturing a combative and divisive discourse that had lain dormant for several years. Out of an abundance of concern for the state of our Jewish community, I penned a news piece for the Tory to reckon with the contentious campus climate at Princeton from a heterodox standpoint. I understood at the time that any formal addressing of this controversial issue by a student was ripe for intense criticism. I approached the brouhaha with careful enthusiasm — nonetheless, as a Zionist Jew raised in a politically and religiously pluralistic context, I feared the impenetrable precedent that silence from the Zionist camp would establish for future generations of Jewish Princeton students. If nothing else, through my authorship, I was positioning myself to fight against a legacy whereby future generations of Jewish Princetonians would feel more subdued from speaking out on behalf of the pro-Israel cause and more reticent from widely expressing heterodox beliefs than our generation feels in the present moment.
My Jewish footing on campus is greatly bolstered by my heavy involvement in Koach, Princeton’s Conservative Jewish minyan. I am fortunate to have found my religious home within Koach, which provides for me a familiar and comforting manner of prayer: Here, a more traditional purview of Jewish prayer is preferred in the form of melodies and hymns, while the egalitarian nature of Koach’s services differentiates the group from more Orthodox manners of prayer. Moreover, the meditative nature of Koach, at one with the broader Conservative Jewish movement, comes to represent a broader idea of the role of Conservative Judaism in modern American society: to triangulate Judaism’s many forms of worship and prayer, and to propose a middle ground that seeks to blend elements of other Jewish denominations comfortably.
This binary nature of Conservative Judaism extends into American politics as well. In many respects, I view myself as a “conservative squared” Jew — a “big-C” Conservative within the context of religious adherence, and a “little-C” conservative concerning my political ideology. I regard these distinctions as essential elements of my social identity and my organizational involvement on and beyond campus, as politics and religion comprise my two most crucial spheres of collegiate engagement. Yet, despite possessing the same spelling, they maintain few apparent semantic similarities. For example, the vast majority of politically conservative Jews identify as religiously Orthodox, while Conservative Jews lean heavily left; polling from the Pew Research Center indicates that Orthodox Jews hold negative views towards homosexuality (-26% net approval), and the growth of the size of government (-24%), while Conservative Jews are far more supportive of both causes (+66% and +7% respectively).
The glaring dichotomy between these two denominations of Judaism has placed me in a unique position. My political dispositions on the economy, spending, and foreign policy have alienated me from what most of my fellow Conservative Jews hold to be true. While Zionist sentiment runs deep through the fabric of Modern Orthodox Judaism, they sometimes run the risk of controversy within Conservative Jewish circles. As a strong proponent of Zionism and muscular American-Israeli relations, I have often stood at odds with other members within my Conservative Jewish community.
Nevertheless, I view any opportunity to engage with other Conservative Jews on the issue of Israel as an opportunity to implant a firmly Zionist perspective within the mix. Though the lack of consensus found within our community on Israel and a host of other topics sometimes presents hurdles for denominational cohesion, I deeply cherish the ability to take part in contentious conversations, to offer an alternative perspective, and to listen eagerly to other perspectives while normalizing the presence of right-leaning points of view within more secular spheres of Judaism.
As I reflect upon my Jewish experience at Princeton and attempt to mark out its future trajectory, I am reminded of the value that the gerund possesses over the past participle; my journey as both a big-C Conservative and a small-c conservative, traversing the complex political and religious realities that define Princeton’s campus culture. I intend to build upon the efforts of past Princeton students to demystify the unclear distinction between politics and religion at this institution and dispel false conflations between the two subjects — particularly ones that aim to ostracize those who import unconventional political identities into their denominational communities. If done correctly, we within Princeton’s vibrant Jewish community may be able to reap the benefits of a more robust political dialogue, unrestrained by denomination, lending to a culture of continued learning and growth for the broader Jewish community at Princeton.
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