New Directions - Rabbi Dow Marmur
Written by Rabbi Dow Marmur Friday, 29 April 2005
I've never written a CV - Rabbi Dow Marmur
ALL THE JOBS I HAVE EVER had have been offered to me. I have been privileged never to have to write a curriculum vitae. The two jobs I applied for but never got — rabbi in Stockholm and general secretary of the Reform Synagogues of Great Britain — did not require a CV since I was well known to those concerned. Perhaps because of it, I have always feared that I would be ‘found out’ any day and sent packing, ending up driving a cab or selling ice cream because I did not have adequate academic qualifications. My distance from co-workers and toughness toward many of them may stem from this fear. My endeavours to act honestly and with integrity may not have been because I am such a fine person, but because I could not bear the humiliation of appearing weak and indecisive. I may have been trying to expiate my father’s ghost.
I do not believe, however, that it is fear or anxiety that has brought me to religion. The common wisdom that fear is the beginning of faith does not resonate with me. Had this been my driving force I would probably have ended up a rabid fundamentalist as so many ‘born again’ religionists do. Fear as a motivating force in religion may be relevant to those who in their early years have been coerced into believing, but that does not apply to me. Religion was totally absent from my childhood. If I encountered it, be it among the men in our hut in Uzbekistan or in the few Muslims I would occasionally see prostrating themselves in prayer, it never occurred to me that it had anything to do with me. I did not seem to have been even curious about it. When my friends in the Uzbek village were circumcised, I heard prayers recited, but they meant nothing. I did not even perceive my bar mitzvah as a religious occasion.
The school I attended in post-war Poland was totally secular, as were the people with whom we mixed. Though my aunts, when we met them upon our arrival in Sweden in 1948, appeared to be Orthodox, it was obvious even to me that it was their way to conform and had no religious significance. I recall that I tried to please them and for a few weeks said the traditional prayers every morning. I even donned the tefillin with which the Jewish Joint Distribution Committee provided me upon my bar mitzvah. My parents were not pleased and, as I did not feel much when I did, it I soon stopped.
My way to God was primarily the outcome of, first, a search for structure and, later, a quest for meaning and purpose. I needed to know what it was all about, and the only people who seemed to offer guidelines were religious people. I did not find any Jews who might help, but Christian teachers in my school helped, particularly one. I felt that if these people for whom I had great respect believed, there must be something to it. Perhaps had not Ove Nordstandh, my homeroom teacher who taught Christianity, encouraged me do a paper on Judaism, I might have sought myself within some Christian group, but, once I began to learn about my tradition, I was hooked. Judaism has not given me security or peace of mind, but it has given me direction. All stumbling blocks notwithstanding, I feel that I know where I’m going. Looking back, I discern a purpose that has bestowed upon me much blessing and filled me with endless gratitude.
But I was never ‘born again,’ because what attracted me to Judaism was its rational manifestations. I was in search of convictions. My Judaism has never been emotional. To the extent that the Jewish world is still divided between the pious and the rationalists, I most decidedly belong to the latter. But my theology may have been influenced by my psychological makeup. In retrospect I realize that my stance was authoritative, even authoritarian. Even those who came to me for pastoral guidance tended to do so, not because they wanted me to hold their hand and cry with them, but because they wanted to be guided toward a goal.
It’s only in recent years that I have come to relate to God as Harachaman, the Merciful, and realized that, even more than the strength of God, it’s the caring, nurturing God who really speaks to us. I now also know that, though I may have learnt much Judaism, it’s Fredzia, my wife, who’s the real believer. So I no longer agonize over why God allows evil in the world. Instead, I seek God’s comforting presence. I believe that the essence of holiness is to be found in this search. I have learned much from those exponents of Judaism who stress this dimension of the divine.
My Jewish practice, on the other hand, may have its roots in anxiety. Though I was not brought up to regard Orthodox Jewish practice as natural, and though my theological outlook makes relatively little room for it, I am a very structured person, perhaps even obsessively so. I know of no better definition of happiness than the sense of having done my duty. Though on intellectual grounds I cannot accept the traditional notion of Halachah, Jewish law, as binding, I believe that mitzvah, commandment, is essential for Jewish life. I believe that as Jews we’ve been commanded by God and that the sources of Judaism, both biblical and rabbinic, testify to the nature of the commandments. There are different ways of responding to them. My way is that of Reform Judaism. I have tried to live by it as best I can. My life is not Halachic (Orthodox), but it is Jewishly structured. Sanctification of time, prayer and the study of our tradition are central to it. It’s one of several ways in which I seek to bear witness to my commitment to God.
I have often framed my appeal on behalf of Jewish practice in terms of ‘incremental Judaism.’ It’s my way of recognizing that for many Jews, especially those to whom I’ve ministered over the years, maximal and consistent observance isn’t possible. As it’s not really possible for me, I wouldn’t try to impose it on others. But I believe in an experimental way to God. It implies a widening of the range of religious experiences in our daily life by adopting more and more aspects of traditional conduct. I have, therefore, urged congregants to embrace ‘one mitzvah at a time’ and thus enrich their Jewish lives.
As important as individual conduct is in this scheme of things, the primary way in which the testimony will be effective is by making room for the collective. I see Judaism not only, perhaps not even primarily, as a private matter, but as a public concern. The minyan, the quorum needed before certain prayers can be said, is an important category in Judaism. It speaks to me. That’s why, whenever possible, I’d rather pray in a congregation than by myself.
Perhaps, again because I do not think very much of myself, I find it impossible to look at the universe as if it were created with me in the centre. I get impatient with those, many of them rabbis, who try to persuade audiences that the seeming coincidences in their lives have cosmic significance and thus explain their being religious leaders. My religious outlook makes for humility and gratitude for being, and for being able to act as a witness to God’s presence in the world. I see myself as a tool and regard the rabbinate as the privileged way of acting as such. Teaching is a way of testifying. With Abraham Joshua Heschel I believe that the sense of awe and wonder is the root of religious faith. I try to reflect this sense in everything I do.
My commitment to duty goes far beyond personal observance. Most of my work has been shaped by my sense of obligation, including pastoral work. In retrospect, I am not at all sure that I enjoyed much in the rabbinate beyond teaching and preaching, yet I tried to be as conscientious as possible, because to be negligent would have made me unbearably uncomfortable. The thought of being accused of having failed an individual or a task filled me with enormous anxiety, so I did what I had to do in order to be able to sleep at night.
Though I have never known how to measure success, one great source of comfort and reassurance is that I have parted on the best of terms with all the three congregations I have served. I am also gratified that virtually all the presidents of these congregations and many other leaders have become more intimate friends at the end of their term of office than they were in the beginning. Despite my awkwardness, they seem to have come to appreciate my commitment and my devotion. I feel truly blessed.
Though my religious commitment has other sources, I am well aware that to the extent that I have been a successful rabbi, it is not due to a natural talent for scholarship and interaction with people, but out of fear at being a failure. I worked much harder than I had to. I overprepared most sermons, lectures, articles and even minor talks to assure myself rather than impress others. As a result, my presentations often lacked spontaneity and did not go down as well as I had hoped. Whatever I did achieve, however, was not to satisfy some burning desire to be a success, but out of a burning fear of being a failure. In the same way as my alleged courage is the result of my fear of cowardice, so is my alleged professional success the result of being afraid of idleness that might precipitate failure. Appearing tough became something of a protecting shield in the pursuit of both courage and success.
RABBI DOW MARMUR, a graduate of Leo Baeck College, served congregations in Ilford, Golders Green and Toronto. He now lives in Toronto and Jerusalem.
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