14th Ordination and
Commencement Exercises
Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies
December 11, 2001, Jerusalem
by Bilha Luz,
MA graduate in Jewish Studies
with a specialization in
Informal Education
Members of the Board of Governors of the Schecter
Institute, Directors of the Schechter Institute,
Recipients of Honorary Degrees, the Teaching Staff,
and my Fellow Graduates:
In 1886 an article about the cultivation of the
soil in the Land of Israel was published in Ben-Yehudah's
newspaper, Hatzvi. Paragraph 27 of that article
focused on the cultivation of tomatoes. Michel Pines
translated the article from German, and that was
the first time the Hebrew word for tomato, 'agvaniah,
was used. Pines was apparently influenced by the
romantic atmosphere surrounding that fruit, which
was rare in the colder parts of Europe, for it was
called a "love apple" there. However,
he went further and called it 'agvaniah,
derived from 'ogev, to be lustful. This caused
an uproar in the Yishuv, and the word was banned
for twenty years. Until the time of the Second Aliyah,
no one dared let it pass his lips. Today it is clear
to everyone who has won out, but it is doubtful
whether many people sitting here have noticed the
meaning of the term.
Who was Yehiel Michel Pines? Today I know that
he combated religious reform and demanded the full
observance of the commandments, in all of their
minuscule details, from the pioneer settlers. Where
did he find that surprising daring, which aroused
the ire of the people of the Yishuv, and, above
all, the secular community? I came to seek the answer
to that question at the Schechter Institute.
It is no secret that many Hebrew words change their
aspect and content. For example, the biblical root
R-V-M, to raise, is the root of the word
terumah, which originally referred to the
portion of grain tithed to the Priests which was
forbidden to be eaten by ordinary Jews. Today a
terumah is simply a contribution, and has
no connotation of raising up. Perhaps the verb taram,
to contribute, is appropriate to the tarantara!
that accrues to big donors today, whereas the act
of raising up, in Biblical times, reflected on that
which was donated. That thread of life that lies
in the distance between raising up a tithe to the
priests and the actual making of a donation is something
else that I came to discover at the Schechter Institute.
You have probably guessed that my specialty is
linguistics, but in fact it was the search for the
sources of terms and their vicissitudes that sharpened
my awareness of my ignorance and deepened that black
hole, which threatens to engulf the Jew who is ignorant
about Judaism. "I came here to seek she-asses
and found a kingdom" [This is a reference
to Saul's search for lost she-asses, which brought
about his becoming King of Israel. See Samuel I,
Chap. 9-10, - ed.] -- a kingdom whose crown
is embossed with two emblems: the emblem of Judaism
and the emblem of education, and between them is
set a precious stone. With your permission, ladies
and gentlemen, I wish to say a few words about those
two emblems.
Many graduates of the Schechter Institute, if not
the majority, are teachers or were once teachers.
I am certain that at the heart of the interaction
between teachers and students stand three indispensable
components: patience, curiosity, and the desire
for perfection.
The late professor Axinn, in his introductory lecture
on international relations, used to ask just who
"suffered" in the act of tolerance, which
is called sovlanut, in Hebrew, derived from
the root, "to suffer," like "sufferance,"
a synonym of "tolerance." Was it the tolerant
person, who clenched his teeth and suffered an
opinion contrary to the majority opinion, to which
he subscribed? Or was it the tolerated person who
suffered, while the tolerant person, because he
was tolerant, showed empathy for his suffering?
Professor Axinn did not answer that question. He
merely demonstrated, in the original way so characteristic
of him, that there are various aspects to tolerance.
Professor Nathan Rotenstreich was more outspoken.
In defining tolerance, he spoke of "the practice
or people to permit the existence of opinions, beliefs,
and principles, that are not accepted by the one
giving permission." Let us examine the concept
of "permission."1
Historically speaking, only people in authority
had the ability to take a tolerant stance. If they
wished, they permitted, and if they wished, they
forbade. Sometimes tolerance of that kind is practiced
only when the majority is effectively prevented
from acting with intolerance. Evidently, there is
a hierarchical pretension here, on the one hand,
and the inhibition of aggression, on the other.
The deeper one's acquaintance becomes with those
who hold those uncommon opinions, the stronger becomes
the gritting of one's teeth, and sometimes there
are violent outbreaks. Nor is this phenomenon unknown
to us even today.
Thus, we find that "permission" from
the authorities is not enough. There is a need to
build a mood, to establish an atmosphere, to create
a public, social climate. This is true in every
society, and in the school, which is an educational
institution, as well. It seems to me that here at
the Schechter Institute we found an extraordinary
example of such a climate, without any arrogance
or gritting of the teeth, both empathic and welcoming.
On the face of it, this is astonishing. If we assume,
as Spinoza proposed that we should assume, that
every determination is by its nature also a negation,
loyalty to a certain view, especially a religious
view, will place certain elements beyond its pale.
However, the spirit of tolerance that I experienced
here was an example and a model of how, even when
one is loyal to a system of principles and beliefs,
one need not negate the validity and honor of other
values and principles.
As for curiosity, it seems to me that, as teachers,
one of our most outstanding wishes is to instill
curiosity in our students. I was taught a lesson
in curiosity by my young son, who liked to play
with a small motorcycle without a rider, one of
those toys whose magic lay precisely in its simplicity.
The two-year old child would lie on the rug for
hours, roll the toy motorcycle, and spin imaginary
tales. One day I found the wheels of the motorcycle
lying orphaned among the fringes of the carpet.
"What happened?" I asked. "There
was an accident," he answered. "And what
happened to the motorcycle?" I continued, displaying
Adlerian curiosity. "Mom," he answered,
fixing me with scolding eyes, "you should ask
what happened to the man!" Actually, no one
was riding the motorcycle, but that short sentence
sought to channel my curiosity in more worthy directions,
toward concern with people, not with machines. That
was the first time I noticed that there appears
to be a hidden connection between curiosity and
tolerance.
In the long journey through the plowed furrows
of Judaism, I found myself digging and burrowing,
looking for yet another reference source, yet another
aspect, yet another turning point, with unquenchable
thirst for ever greater familiarity with the Jewish
person. For the Jewish person is always central
at the Schecter Institute: men and women in their
close and distant surroundings, as a couple, within
their family, in their business, in their community,
in confronting their Maker. In marvelous fashion,
blessed curiosity was planted in us, and the more
it was satisfied, the more its appetite grew, as
when one is offered a finger and demands the entire
hand.
Last but not least, the desire for perfection.
It seems to me that no one has been able to peer
into the recesses of the human soul in general and
the Jewish soul in particular better than Agnon.
In his volume of stories, Ad henah (Until
Now), there is a marvelous tale called "Hamalbush"
(The Garment). It tells about a Jewish tailor who
must finish a garment for the minister, but his
desire for perfection does not give him peace. Indeed
the garment was finished, and it was possible to
deliver it to the minister, but it was merely finished,
not perfect. As Agnon writes (p. 305):
The tailor remembered the minister
and all the good things he had received from his
hand, and again he turned his attention to the garment.
He removed his spectacles, wiped them, and suspended
them before his eyes once more, examining the garment
to see what was missing. The buttons were attached,
and the things that embellish a garment to make
it more beautiful. But something was lacking in
the garment itself. It was something that, if it
is there, the garment is a garment, and if it is
missing, the garment is not a garment.
If you will, this is the difference between what
is complete and what is perfect, between routine
actions and actions endowed with spiritual depth.
Perhaps it is that rare combination of tolerance
and curiosity that is realized so marvelously at
the Schecter Institute. Perhaps it is the aspiration
for perfection. Perhaps it is the smell of the cooking
that greets everyone who passes through the gates
of this building, as though to say, "How good
it is that you have come home" (for indeed
the Schecter Institute became a home for us). Perhaps
it is the warm and welcoming smile of all the people
on the staff of the institute, from the basement
to the corridors on the third floor. Perhaps it
is in the small details, that always make life more
pleasant, and here at Schechter they are never neglected.
And just perhaps all of these things together made
study here such an exceptional experience, turning
us into students who came here with love.
We shall miss this warm house, the "Schecter
Day" in the week, no less than the day after
"Schecter Day," when we entered the classroom
armed with new knowledge, more uplifted than we
were the day before.
