The Sound of the Shofar

It was Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the New Year--by Jewish reckoning the 5,732nd since the creation of the world--and the congregation had been crowding into Manhattan's new Lincoln Square Synagogue since shortly after sunrise. Now Rabbi Steven Riskin and the cantor huddled together. "Tekiah," intoned the rabbi softly, using the Hebrew command for a long blast on the shofar. The cantor tensed his cheeks and raised the ram's horn to sound the melancholy note, the first of a hundred blasts that began the High Holy Days.

At 31, Rabbi Riskin is something of a shofar himself, calling nonreligious Manhattan Jews to God--and to Orthodoxy--in surprising numbers. Even on ordinary Sabbaths his new synagogue in the round is filled, and more than half the worshipers are young adults under 30. But Riskin has prepared middle-aged men as well as teenagers for Bar Mitzvah, and last Yom Kippur gave an 80-year-old man his first prayer shawl.

Rabbi Riskin is a charismatic speaker, flexing his voice like a Bible Belt preacher, punctuating his ideas with his hands. He is also a widely respected Talmudic scholar who stresses that the most important function of the synagogue is to be a Bet Midrash--a "house of study." More than 250 people regularly jam his weekly class on Jewish Law and its application to such modern problems as contraception, prison reform and war. But concern, not relevance, is probably the ultimate key to Riskin's appeal. "The ministry must create a community of people whom the rabbi cares about and who care about each other," he says. Last spring, for example, special Passover meals were served at the synagogue because their preparation would be a hardship for many of the congregants.

Life and Law. Steven Riskin came from a family of Brooklyn Jews who went to synagogue only three times a year. Young Steven wanted more, and entered Manhattan's Orthodox Yeshiva University High School. There he first came under the influence of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchek, a preeminent U.S. Orthodox authority and Kantian scholar who emphasizes Orthodoxy's basic compatibility with secular learning. Riskin went on to become valedictorian at Yeshiva University. Then, journeying to Israel to attend Hebrew University, he sought out Martin Buber, whose works he had been reading since he was twelve. Riskin found that he had a more traditionalist view of Judaism than the great philosopher. "Buber could not understand a God of Love giving a Law," explains Riskin today. "I respectfully differ. A God who loves must give commands, must be concerned about the way His people live. Buber gave us a theology, but not a lifestyle." Riskin wanted to teach both and came back to New York determined to become an Orthodox rabbi.

In 1963, only 23, Riskin was ordained and began teaching at a special branch of Yeshiva University for Jews with little religious education. Soon Yeshiva had a side job for him, as minister to a tiny Conservative congregation whose dozen or so members met only for the High Holy Days in an upper West Side hotel room. Riskin accepted for a six-month trial period after setting three conditions: 1) he would hold weekly services and weekly classes on Jewish law, 2) he would accept no salary, and 3) the congregation must drop "Conservative" from its name.*

Before the year was out, the young scholar became the congregation's permanent rabbi, and his Orthodox teachings their guide. Even now, however, with 500 families (including his own parents), and scores of drop-ins, Riskin admits that many of his congregation are not yet fully observant Jews. If they were, he says, "there would be no need for me." He is pleased enough that they have found "a place to grow" in appreciation of the Law. Orthodox Judaism, he insists, is a living religion, and its laws provide practical guides for behavior. On the issue of abortion, for instance, one must consider the rights of "potential life" (the fetus) and the usually more compelling rights of "present life" (the mother), both sacred under Jewish law. The rabbi must help the conscientious Jew decide which law takes precedence in the case at hand. It must be the Law--not individual whim--that decides, but it is a flexible, not a frozen code. "The Talmud always includes a minority and majority opinion," Riskin notes, "so there is room for interpretation on specific issues and in particular situations."

Ritual observances are important, says Riskin, not only because they are God-given, but because "they fulfill our transcendental needs. Our lives require an element of poetry. Moments of the past and of the future become part of us." Above all, Rabbi Riskin defends the "divine rhythm" of the Sabbath and the festivals as welcome glimpses of eternity in a maddeningly busy world. He himself is active in causes ranging from prison visits to rallies for Soviet Jews, but the Sabbath is a day that bears no interruption beyond its rituals. As Riskin sees it, "the Sabbath needs structure. To create one day different from all the rest is quite a trick, so it needs Law to guard it." The inconveniences of Sabbath restrictions are a small cost for the freedom it offers, he argues, and he cites the ancient tale of the doves who complained to God of the weight of their wings--until they learned that the wings permitted them to fly.

World Reborn. This week Steven Riskin will preside at the festival he loves most: Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, which he calls the Day of Forgiveness. He is determined that his congregation shall find it not a day of sorrow but one of "total catharsis," when man can once again be completely free from sin, an innocent in a world reborn. "God loves us no matter how guilty we are," the rabbi reminded his congregation at a special midnight service in preparation for the High Holy Days. "He will stretch His arms out to us if only we will ask." Even the 25-hour total fast imposed by the Law is not a burden, insists Rabbi Riskin, but an opportunity to acknowledge man's innate spirituality and to demonstrate--even if only temporarily--independence from material things.

"Jews today have passed the age of rationalism and are giving the soul its due," says Riskin. He himself is confident that the needed spiritual dimension can be provided by Orthodox Judaism, "if it is taught right--by leaders who are teachers, teachers who care." There are many Jews who would argue with Rabbi Riskin, for the conflict between the Law and the Spirit is an ancient one, and it will likely remain unresolved. But all can agree that Riskin himself is a teacher who cares.

*Conservative Jews are generally close to the Orthodox in ritual but have dropped many Orthodox observances, such as seperate seating for men and women in the synagogue.

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