(RNS) — My late father’s favorite expression was “no ifs, ands or buts.” It was his old-fashioned way of taking his personal stand against equivocation, against the verbal gymnastics that soften conviction.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the many “buts” Jews insert into their Jewish identity. Often, I’ll meet someone and when religion or ethnicity comes up, they say something like: “I’m Jewish, but I’m a Reform Jew.” It’s almost as if being a Reform Jew were an apology or a qualification.
Or they might say, “I’m Jewish, but I’m a nontraditional Jew.” Or “I do Shabbat, but not according to halacha [traditional Jewish law].” Or simply, “I’m Jew-ish” — with emphasis on “ish.” As in, sort of.
As verbal communication experts will tell you, whenever you say “but,” you erase everything you said before the but. They are not simply verbal tics, but acts of distancing. They are unconscious ways of saying, “Whatever you might think about Jews, I am not that Jew.”
And about Israel, I hear Jews saying things like, “I support Israel, but I’m no fan of the Netanyahu government,” or “I’m a Zionist, but I’m not one of those right-wing Zionists.” Or they might say, “I believe in a Jewish state, but I also believe in a Palestinian state.”
These qualifiers come tumbling out, as if they want to prove that their politics are acceptable to their progressive friends — their Zionism is the “good kind,” and they are safe Jews to have in polite company.
I have sometimes caught myself in precisely these equivocations. Especially around the subject of Israel, I have caught myself rushing to declare my liberal bona fides before anyone could suspect otherwise, as if channeling Sally Field at the Oscars, who said, “I haven’t had an orthodox career [LOL!] and I’ve wanted more than anything to have your respect. … This time I feel it, and I can’t deny the fact that you like me. Right now, you like me!”
But the truth is not everyone will like me or us. And that is just fine.
Sarah Hurwitz’s new book, “As a Jew: Reclaiming Our Story From Those Who Blame, Shame, and Try to Erase Us,” now lives on my bedside table. (Check out my podcast with her.) “For years,” she says, “I would go around kind of putting my Judaism into one of these five categories. I would say, ‘I’m Jewish, but I’m just a cultural Jew.’”
Writing in The Atlantic, she is even more candid: “I’d tell people, ‘I’m just a cultural Jew,’ knowing nothing about Jewish culture. ‘I’m kind of anxious, haha. I have an edgy sense of humor, haha.’” She describes how she wore her identity like a costume designed to make her tolerable to others. But she came to see that all these “buts,” “kind ofs” and “sort ofs” were symptoms of a deeper discomfort, of internalized shame and fear.
Hurwitz, as she writes, came to realize her explanations, however well-meaning, were at the root, evasions. They were a way of distancing herself from a tradition she didn’t yet understand. She challenges Jews to reclaim our story from others who defined it for us — whether enemies or supposed friends — and to stop apologizing for who we are. She urges us to begin from a place of ownership, not apology.
Every “but” is a small act of erasure. It is the linguistic equivalent of lowering one’s eyes.
We live in a time when Jewish identity has become fraught, politicized and embattled. Public displays of Jewishness can provoke suspicion or hostility, and we feel compelled to prove we are the good kind of Jews. Hurwitz reminds us that this is not a new problem, but it is an urgent one. We cannot let others write our script.
And yet, to truly belong requires the opposite. It requires courage. It means saying, I am Jewish. Full stop. No disclaimers. No footnotes.
Perhaps this is what my father meant in his old-fashioned way. “No ifs, ands or buts” was his statement of integrity: Don’t hedge what matters most.
Perhaps, we need a new way of telling our story: “I am Jewish, and …” I am a Jew, a part of this large Jewish family, but I am also a member of the larger Jewish family. I am a child of Adam and Eve, as well as a child of Abraham and Sarah.
However we choose to frame it, this is our story. As we hear in the musical “Hamilton”: “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” We do. The task belongs to the Jews.
Thanks, Dad, for “no ifs, ands or buts.” I am kicking my Jewish “but” right now.
