When the weather turned warm, my parents opened the screened porch at the back of the house. My grandparents often visited on Sunday after dinner. They always brought mocha almond ice cream and hot fudge from Brigham’s. My mother scooped out the ice cream, poured on the hot fudge, and we took our bowls onto the porch. The fudge often sneakily dripped down the outside of the bowls in which case a quick swipe of the finger (and finger into mouth) was necessary. Gluttony triumphed over etiquette.
The sun began to set and stars gradually filled the sky. We could hear the hoot of an owl, the chirp of crickets, the flutter of bat wings. Warm summer breezes ruffled the bushes. Sometimes there was a light rain, and we felt the peacefulness of the evening as rain splattered on the porch roof.
Amid the clink of spoons against bowls and the “Do you need another napkin?” was a great deal of chatter about ordinary happenings, family gossip, and current events. Inevitably the talk turned to the sermon my grandparents heard that weekend at their own synagogue. My Papa Harry summarized the sermon and what followed was a lively conversation about its merits and meaning, what else might have been included and so on. Papa Harry and my father did most of the talking, but my mother and grandmother participated as well. My sister expressed her own opinions and asked a variety of questions, but she was nine years older and very grown-up. I enjoyed my ice cream, content to listen.
I was probably no more than seven years old when my grandfather turned to me during one of these spirited discussions and said: “Well, what do you think?”
What did I think? What did I know? How could I possibly add anything of value? I finally replied: “Well, Papa, the rabbi said that – ” My grandfather cut me off.
“Yes, but what do you think?”
Papa Harry was my only grandparent to attend college and one of the first Jews to graduate MIT. I was flattered he included me, although I’m sure my responses were far from scholarly. In the months and years that followed until his death, my grandfather continued to ask my opinion and encourage my questions. He used to smile and tap me on the head. “You have a good brain. A good cabbage.”
Papa Harry’s goal was not to make me contradictory. He wished to promote a love of exploration and wonder.
Asking questions is an integral part of our Jewish faith. We don’t suspend our own brains and blindly accept the words of another — or even words from the Torah — without thinking for ourselves. And when my husband and I became parents, we wanted to instill this love of independent intellectual curiosity in our children. During relaxed family moments, we tried to make our kids understand that learning isn’t just about listening and repeating.
Last year, a Christian friend attended our Passover Seder. During the meal we debated topics that varied from the mundane (“Don’t you think my matzoh balls were fluffier last year? Can you really taste the difference between white horseradish and red?”) to the more intellectual. (“What, if anything, did Moses know about Judaism before he went out into the desert? How does the Israelites’ desire for freedom relate to the state of the world today?”) When I asked my friend: “What do you think happened to Moses’ children?” he lowered his fork, looked around the table with a frown and said:
“Is that a trick question?”
Later he called to offer thanks for including him in our Passover Seder. He then tentatively expressed how surprised he was by all the debating. He understood The Four Questions were part of “the service,” but what about the rest? Wasn’t that pondering and discussing somewhat disrespectful? Why did we have to think outside the box?
But this is one of the joys of Judaism. The “box” is important. The “script” is crucial. But we go beyond. We study and examine, evaluate, and re-evaluate. Judaism continues to flower if we adhere to tradition while expanding our minds. Questioning is not a rejection of our roots; it is renewal and expansion. We build upon our faith by learning, and in the process, we learn about ourselves. A child should be taught to participate in his learning and make his own discovery through further study and discussion. I cherish this aspect of my Jewish faith, and I hope my husband and I have passed this love of wonder down to our children in the way my grandfather (and parents) passed it down to me.
When the Seder meal concludes, how many of say: “I’m stuffed! I can’t eat another bite!” Our stomachs run out of room. But our minds never do. There is beauty in The Four Questions, especially when a child says them for the first time. But we should encourage our children to continually question, and not just at Passover.
This I learned on the porch with my grandfather, listening to the sounds of twilight and enjoying mocha almond ice cream from Brigham’s.
This article was published in The Jewish Advocate on April 22, 2016.
