PrintI believe in the restorative powers of sleep, I believe in universal health care, I believe that the British hard rock band The Darkness will have a comeback, and I believe in Modern Orthodox Judaism. Modern Orthodoxy is a thoroughly traditional variant of Judaism that also aspires to engage with secular, modern life. At this moment in my existence, though, I do not adhere to the standard of observance that Orthodoxy espouses: For instance, I don’t pray, I don’t observe the Sabbath to Orthodox standards, and I don’t call my grandparents as much I should. You may ask, how can I believe in something and at the same time effectively ignore it?
Think of it this way: During my time at Columbia, I have conditioned myself to eat horrible, horrible things, and live accordingly: once, for three days straight, I ate nothing but Cool Ranch Doritos and Nutri-Grain bars. The point is, in the same way that I know I should eat healthfully, but instead—for whatever reason—choose to subsist on garbage, in my heart I believe I should be a better Jew‑but for now, simply, I am not. From time to time, I feel guilty about my level of commitment to Judaism, Proxy-Connection: keep-alive
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d while I’m not exactly obserProxy-Connection: keep-alive
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nt, I am religious. Whether it is because I have a meaningful, existential relationship with God, or because my Jewish day school teachers succeeded in indoctrinating the hell out of me, I think about God and religion a lot.
In accordance with my present Jewish status, I don’t go to Hillel that often, but when I do, I go to the Orthodox prayer group, Yavneh. Hillel is a large organization with different Jewish cultural and religious groups, but having grown up Orthodox, I am most comfortable at Yavneh. Perhaps it is the deep-seated Jewish guilt, the familiar rituals, or the nostalgia-inducing hymns and prayers that every so often compel me to head to the basement of the Kraft Center for Friday night or Saturday morning services at Yavneh. I go there to enjoy a familiar reminder of my upbringing and to, for a moment, experience the type of Judaism with which I identify.
And yet, going to Yavneh services has often proven quite unpleasant. To return to my junk food analogy: Imagine that, as a result of life choices, I’ve recently put on some weight—say, 100 pounds. Sometimes, I’ll think, “I’d like to do something good for myself. I’m gonna go eat salad at a salad bar.” Do you think anyone would stare me down as I walked up to fill my plate with lettuce? No! Maybe people would even say things like, “Hey, good for her!” or, “Hey, it’s nice to see you here, at the salad bar!” or, “Hey, if we make her feel good about eating salad, maybe she’ll finally get her fat ass to the gym. Let’s make this a judgment-free zone.”
But when I go to Yavneh, I am often met with awkward half-hellos, cold stares, and silence. My Jewish friends from high school, without fail, include me in their conversations and activities, and for that I am really thankful. But sometimes I can stand in a new group of people and no one will talk to me, or I can sit in a row of completely new faces and no one will introduce themselves to me. I feel like people usually pay more attention to the length of my skirt than to the content of my speech. At Jewish gatherings, I’ve been asked things like, “Are you going clubbing after this?” (No.) and, “So, have you ever done crystal meth?” (NO.) All of this amounts to an overwhelming sense of embarrassment and unease that usually prompts me to leave early.
When I leave Yavneh, I feel worse about myself and about my relationship with Judaism. I should make clear here that there is not an inherent exclusivity built into Orthodoxy just because of its relative strictness. In fact, while it is not necessarily part of mainstream Judaism to proselytize or perform “outreach,” essential tenets of Judaism do include welcoming guests, being accepting of strangers, and above all, in the words of Rabbi Akiva, loving your neighbor as you love yourself (as seen in Genesis 18:1-14, Exodus 22:20, Leviticus/the Talmud).
Now, in light of everything I’ve just said, there are certain factors that must be taken into account. For one, Yavneh is by no means the only Jewish place of gathering where I’ve experienced ‘tude or been cast down for my level of religious observance, so the pleasant people over at the Kraft Center can’t necessarily be held accountable for this trend. The main issue at hand, I think, is the disproportionate ratio of marriage-seeking girls to boys, which creates a tension that would make anyone behave poorly or feel generally awful. Lastly, I might be projecting my own guilt. Maybe this is all in my head, or maybe I just naturally repel people.
It is inevitable that social groups form within religious groups on campus, and that people who are consistently involved with religious life end up as a part of a tight-knit community. However, I think that religious groups should maintain the ability to absorb those who exist outside of that tight community but still seek religious experiences on campus. In fact, this very ability is one of their core responsibilities. Groups like Yavneh should be able to welcome people back into the fold, even if they are not cookie-cutter Jews. Maybe the next time I walk into Yavneh, someone will say, “Hey, it’s nice to see Rebecca. Let’s make this a judgment-free zone.” A girl can still dream (or pray).