I have always enjoyed the academic calendar, because it has a defined beginning and ending. I have always wondered how one could do a job that never finishes, but continues for fifty weeks or so, is interrupted by a couple of weeks of vacation, and then resumes an endless flow.

All of us are actively engaged in the beginning our new school year, and I hope you are reaping the rewards of your successful programs and activities. This is also a very dynamic time at RAVSAK. I am pleased to share with you some of the exciting developments taking place.

I recently taught an undergraduate course entitled “Early and Medieval Judaism.” While there were several main themes to the course, one of the central distinctions I tried to get the students to see was that over Judaism’s long history, there have been two broad types of Judaic communities: “natural” and “intentional.”[1]

As a proud graduate of the kind of community day school that Berger describes and celebrates, I cannot help but agree with the case he makes for a purposeful and “intentional” education. Yet I now find myself associated professionally with the kind of day school and community which are much more akin to the “natural” “mimetic” community which he describes, and it is through that prism that I read and respond to his remarks.

Berger’s insightful piece draws upon a particularly interesting model utilized by scholars of Jewish history: the natural vs. intentional community. In applying this idea to the contemporary communal context, Berger gives voice to a nostalgic tendency in Jewish life, one that looks fondly back upon the communities of the past (the rebbes of Europe and their followers, for example) as somehow better and more solidly constructed than those we experience today. At the same time, his writing is hopeful: he indicates that we can still establish a “vibrant yet stable core,” despite the many challenges that face our community—and that Jewish day schools are critical to this essential goal.

Berger suggests a heavy mission for Jewish communal day schools, the vast majority of which serve children in grades K-8, when he advocates that the creation of intentional Jewish communities will result in students who can become the core leaders of the next generation. Berger further posits that creating natural Jewish communities will only result in nostalgia and will be unable to withstand the trumpet call of American individualism.

Berger has made a powerful argument for day schools as settings for “intentional Jewish communities,” places “that help cultivate purposeful Jewish adults.” In many ways, of course, this position reflects our very best dreams for the potential of the day school. Berger’s view of a school energized by an articulated and embodied vision defines the core of a successful school. I applaud his passionate advocacy of that concept; it recalls the late Seymour Fox’s famous dictum that the greatest problem in contemporary Jewish education is its “blandness.” A school with a vision is a school that rejects blandness in favor of inspiration and a sense of direction. I agree wholeheartedly with his articulation of the power and importance of vision in Jewish education.

While I wholeheartedly support Michael Berger’s notion of a day school in which religious purposefulness is paramount, I question the extent to which we can conceive of a day school as an “intentional” community, made up of “like-minded people who self-consciously choose to live a life that they view as superior to others.” In contrast to previous intentional communities in Jewish history (sectarians, Kabbalists, labor Zionists, etc.), the day school population is comprised of children who are not making self-conscious decisions to join a community. With few exceptions, they are simply attending school at the behest of their parents.

Currently, most, if not all, Jewish schools approach religious and spiritual growth in a non-systematic way, uninformed by the wisdom of the fields of psychology, sociology, and general religious education. When Jewish schools do approach this topic, the outcome is often a program or seminar, as opposed to a more global understanding that is infused into all aspects of school functioning. Parents, students, and educators need guidance on how to inspire religious purposefulness in adolescents in an age when various media, and society in general, compete for an adolescent's attention.

Jewish day schools are replacing synagogues as the primary source of Jewish connection and meaning for increasing numbers of adults. Day school parents still maintain synagogue memberships at a rate more than double the national average—according to the 2001 National Jewish Population Survey, 95% compared with 46% of all Jewish adults—but recent qualitative research reveals that many of those parents connect with Judaism most purposefully at their children’s school, not at shul. This phenomenon constitutes a challenge and an opportunity for day school leaders.

It is a rare occurrence to encounter G-d as topic in a general conversation. If someone does start talking about Him, people often initially react with embarrassment or unease, or a mixture of both. G-d means different things to different people. For some He is the Creator of the world, for others a Higher Power. Some regard Him as indifferent to human affairs whereas other see Him as a personal G-d who intervenes in the course of history. And again others, although believing in G-d, have not given His exact nature much thought. These views are very personal, and most people find it difficult to speak about G-d openly.

Pluralistic Jewish education is both a new model of building Jewish community and a philosophical approach to educating Jews. In the face of deep religious, social and political divisions (including interdenominational ignorance and stereotyping) within Klal Yisrael, an intentionally pluralistic Jewish community[1] does not reject different approaches to Jewish practice, beliefs, or denominational affiliation. Nor does it merely tolerate these differences; rather, it views these differences as strengths and learning opportunities.

In each issue of HaYidion, the editors interview someone with particular expertise or experience in a topic related to the issue’s theme.

Born and raised as a Chabad woman, I knew that I would live in a city where I would work to bring Judaism to Jewish people who wished to learn about their heritage. I never dreamed that I would be head of school at a community day school, governed by a community-represented board. I did not move to Charlotte, North Carolina, for a career in education. I came with my husband to open a religious educational center for Jews of all ages in the Carolinas. I was never concerned about being able to meet the needs of a diverse group of students with varied practices and beliefs, but I was totally unprepared to operate in a politically driven atmosphere.

This was the third time she had been kicked out of minyan. She was told that she could not return unless she received my permission. Defiant, and angry, she confronted me. “Why do they make me pray in this school? What’s the point? I don’t believe in any of this!” From her perspective, this was the first time I had ever heard these challenges. Her mixture of anger and arrogance bordered on disrespect, so I first responded, “If you want something from me, do you think the tone you’re using is the way to get it, or do you want to start over?” She apologized, and then asked the same question in a softer voice.

This column features books, articles, and websites recommended by our authors and people from the RAVSAK network, pertaining to the theme of the current issue of HaYidion, for readers who want to investigate the topic in greater depth.

After working many years in various institutions in which davening takes place, I entered room 203 on my first day at Beth Tfiloh Dahan Community School in 2002 and I could not believe my ears. Tefillot that in other institutions were not taught until high school, if ever, were recited beautifully by fifth graders from families of all range of observance. From their faces, it seemed that they knew the words, they knew the tune and they knew the structure.

When we examine our history, we learn that communal prayer developed to take the place of sacrifice after the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in the year 70 C.E. An examination of the resulting siddur or prayerbook shows that it contains within it the essence of Jewish belief, practice, calendar, ideas—in fact, all that enables Judaism to be a portable religion. It is, therefore, a vital foundation of Jewish life. And educators who shape Jewish learning in inclusive community day schools that celebrate the diversity of Jewish life face the question of how to approach tefillah in a way that reflects their respect for the range of families present in their schools. As with other areas of study, in relation to tefillah, we then consider three questions: What do we want students to learn? What do we want students to value? And, as a result of what they have learned and come to value, what do we want students to do?

Tefillah stands at the heart of a Jewish day school program that nourishes religious purposefulness. Yet building meaningful and engaging curricula that both teach prayer and engage students in services remains one of our most elusive goals. The problem is compounded in community day schools that serve students representing a broad spectrum of Jewish practice. Using a denominationally based siddur can easily be interpreted by parents and community leaders as favoring one particular approach to prayer over another.

Like many community day schools that are committed to pluralism and a pluralist expression of Judaism, the San Diego Jewish Academy has historically struggled with tefillah. For some, tefillah should be an intrinsically Jewish activity that contributes to the Jewish vibrancy on campus. For others, tefillah is an intrinsically alienating activity that only contributes to the inherent discomfort with things that are “too Jewish.” In truth, many students were turned off from tefillah as it had been run. Opinions were divided among administrators and faculty; meetings at all levels of the school, including the board, exposed disagreements over how to handle this issue. Parents generally supported conducting tefillah in the school, but were troubled by negative reports from their children. The tension had become so palpable that there was discussion of getting rid of the two day per week tefillot sessions at our school.