Almost every Shabbat afternoon on my way home from the gym I walk past the Belz shul on Ahad Haam street. The scene I find there could not be more perfect if it were staged. Two or three Hassidic women in their late twenties or early thirties - always wearing suits of navy, grey, or black and hats perched atop fairly plain wigs - sit and chat on a bench. In stark contrast, there is an unbounded energy present on the playground and basketball court nearby. Young girls, dressed just as modestly but in more liberal styles than their mothers chase each other, jump rope, holler and shriek. Some of the older girls stand in a circle and chatter, many clutching little books of Tehillim. No matter how many times I witness this scene I am struck with an inexplicable mixture of joy and nostalgia. Their world barely resembles the world I grew up with, but the same themes are present. And I always find myself reaching for my phone to snap a few pictures, but the desire not to trespass or intrude always wins.
In many ways this scene is a symbol of everything leaving observance has caused me to lose. There is something almost pristine about this lifestyle. Carlos Fraenkel put it best (fyi - this article is a must-read):
“When Isaac asks me how I became interested in their world, I tell them that while I am not attracted to its content, I am intrigued by its form—a world that revolves around wisdom and God, rather than wealth, sex, power, and entertainment. They are surprised when I say that from Plato to Spinoza most philosophers endorsed this ranking, if not the same accounts of wisdom and God. And they are stunned to learn that I would be very disappointed if my 2-year-old daughter grew up to value lipstick, handbags, and boys in sports cars more than education and ethics.”
I think my background causes me to be underwhelmed and bored of secular culture. And when I think about any future children I may or may not have, I am a little sad that they will be missing out on the richness of a world that is so thoroughly preoccupied with the internal elements of man instead of the external trappings. So it’s easy to lose sight of the other side of the coin.
In the same article Fraenkel talks about those Hassidim who have rejected the doctrines of their community, but for a variety of reasons remain within it. They must continue to applaud their childrens’ religious-centered accomplishments, although they do not believe in the zealotry and extremism that is an inextricable part of it.
"’It can be heartbreaking,’ Isaac says.’So people in our situation often avoid having more children.’ Although the use of contraception is prohibited in their communities, the issue is not publicly raised and childless couples or couples with fewer children are generally presumed to have medical problems. ‘The worst,’ Isaac says, ‘is if the spouse is not on board.’ He tells me about a friend who stopped having sex altogether because his wife did not agree to using contraception. Jacob points out how harsh an indictment of their world this is: ‘In effect I guess we're saying that it is better not to live at all than to live a Hasidic life.’"
When I first began my departure from observance a friend asked me why I could not simply lead a liberal Modern Orthodox life - glean the positive elements of each world and live in some kind of happy medium. The question has been posed to me a hundred times since and my answer has not changed. I cannot accept the immorality I find within Jewish faith. I cannot be part of a community that believes that homosexuality is an abomination, that the women’s role is so debated, and a hundred other positions that are untenable for me. Each world is flawed, but I choose to make my happy medium on the secular side of the border, and hope that I can sufficiently infuse my life with culture, introspection, and meaning.
But in the meantime I’ll keep walking by the Belz shul yard on Shabbat.
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