When the current Chief Rabbi, Ephraim Mirvis, first announced his decision to attend Limmud back in 2013, several rabbis from the Charedi community publicly denounced the move as one that would have “tragic consequences” for Anglo-Jewry.
Despite this, the number of Orthodox rabbis attending Limmud has slowly climbed since Rabbi Mirvis gave it his tacit hechsher. But when it comes to the Charedi community, you might be forgiven for thinking that they had got Limmud mixed up with that other December Festival, so ossur (‘forbidden’) is it considered to be.
Indeed, growing up, living, going to school and working in the haimishe corner of north west London that I call home, Limmud was only ever muttered about in the kind of dark tones reserved for conversations about wife swapping maybe, or idol worship. I suppose I never gave too much thought to what went on there — it was clear as mud to me, however, that it was no place for a “nice Jewish girl”.
But time marches on, things change, and for a variety of reasons, this year I found myself booking a place at Limmud. It was time to find out what it was all about.
The first thing I noticed was that boy oh boy is Limmud a slick operation. Arranging food, entertainment, activities and accommodation for over 2,500 Jews with a genetic penchant for complaining is no mean feat. But everything had been thought of — from the incredibly comprehensive guidebook app, to the volunteers shpritzing people with hand sanitiser as they entered the dining room; a strategy, no doubt, intended to prevent a vomiting bug outbreak, cruise-ship style. And that’s another thing — Limmud is entirely volunteer-led. In an increasingly self-centred world, the idea of dozens of Jews coming together each year and giving up hours and hours of their own time to create something so magical, is awesome to contemplate.
And make no mistake — it was magical. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly, everyone was enjoying themselves. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many Jews I know in one place — and that’s Jews of every stripe, including, yes, quite a few sheitel and black velvet-kippah wearers, the trademark of the Charedi woman or man. And why not? Everything that a frum Jew could possibly need was provided — from the chalav yisrael milk, to the netilat yadayim stations in the dining room, to daily minyanim for Shacharit, Mincha and Maariv, complete with mechitzah.
Of course, for those looking to seek out a hearty helping of traditional apikorsus — heresy — it was present in abundance. After all, the tenets of diversity and respect are embedded deep in Limmud’s mission statement. That is why you will find a workshop on welcoming intermarried couples to shul, listed in the same guidebook as a learning session delivered by the Chief Rabbi, with both given equal value and treated with equal gravitas.
It is this very ethos that informs the stance taken by the Charedi community on Limmud; “platform sharing”, they state, lends credibility to non-Orthodox Judaism. It leads inevitably to “boundary blurring”, with all manner of moral disasters doubtless following swiftly in hot pursuit. Whether representatives of Orthodoxy appearing on the same “bill” as those who represent secular, or pluralistic Judaism when the “bill” is the size of Limmud can be considered “platform sharing” is very much a moot point.
But even so — might not the advantages outweigh any possible “risk”? “Orthopraxy” is becoming an increasing issue for the 21st century Charedi world. It refers to the phenomenon where people walk the walk and talk the talk, not because of any particular religious conviction or spirituality, but rather because they feel an overriding need to conform to the expectations of their community. Increasingly, young people see no advantage in “pretending” as their parents once might have done — instead, they wave goodbye to the community and take their talents and their potential elsewhere.
It seems blindingly obvious to me that it’s time for the leaders of the Charedi community to recognise that for many, many people, endeavours such as Limmud can absolutely be a good thing. It’s not for everyone, to be sure. But by stripping away the drama that surrounds even the very idea of attending, we have an unparalleled opportunity to allow those who feel disaffected with their Judaism to see that they do not actually have to throw the baby out with the bathwater. There are hundreds and hundreds of ways to “do” being Jewish out there; the box is bigger than they ever dreamed it could be, and there most definitely is a space for them.
Tragic consequences? Not today, thank you.
