Masorti Judaism and All That

 

An embarrassment was averted at the Masorti shul I happened to visit last Shabbat.  The awkward situation arose when one hapless gentleman called to the Torah didn’t have a tallis.  Fortunately a woman came to his rescue with hers.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Masorti, allow me to explain something of the story of this group whose flavour of Judaism appeals to a small but growing section of Anglo-Jewry.  I have consulted my historian friends W.C. Sellar and R.J. Yeatman and I am indebted to them for the following.  You might call it “1964 And All That”.

Back in the late 1950’s Rabbi Louis Jacobs wrote a book called “Believe Me, We Have a Raisin”.  In it he contended that the children of Israel did not feed on manna from heaven when wandering in the wilderness, but that they probably lived an agricultural life cultivating vines and the like.  To his annoyance nobody took much notice of the book and so a few years later in 1964 Rabbi Jacobs decided to publicise it by having an affair.  This was known as “The Jacobs Affair”.  Rabbi Jacobs’ wife was understanding but the United Synagogue was not and they refused to allow him to hold his affair either at Jews’ College where he worked, or at his old synagogue.  They said his book was a bad thing and that consequently Rabbi Jacobs was a bad rabbi.

Rabbi Jacobs’ followers were upset because they knew he was only saying what many Jews privately believed, so they helped him to form a new synagogue in London.  They didn’t know what to call the synagogue and to this day it is known as the New London Synagogue.

Rabbi Jacobs was supposed to be Chief Rabbi but when the time came to make the appointment they couldn’t get hold of him because his friends had bought the synagogue secretly and the phone number was not listed.  This infuriated Jacobs because he very much wanted the job and he blamed BT for the mix up.  Rabbi Jacobs didn’t want the same misfortune to befall another hopeful for the role of Chief Rabbi and so he wrote a manual called “Helping With Directory Enquiries”.

Time passed and while he hadn’t intended to start a movement the children of Rabbi Jacobs’ synagogue began to move out and open their own shuls.  They decided to call their shuls Masorti which comes from the Hebrew word for “transit”, thus remembering how Rabbi Jacobs was forced to keep shlepping his family and belongings from one place to another when he was trying to find a venue for his affair.

Masorti synagogues can now be found all over Europe and consequently they must comply with equal opportunities laws from Brussels.  This is why some ladies wear kippot and tallitot and some men wear sheitels and snoods.  In every other respect the service is virtually identical to that which you would find in an orthodox shul, which is no surprise because Rabbi Jacobs was an orthodox rabbi.  He just had a thing about raisins.

Jews and Cycling

Did you know that every (dry and warm) Sunday, several groups of middle-aged Jewish men take their bicycles out into the countryside north of London on what they call training rides?  They are training for one of the many charity bike rides that take place throughout the summer months.

These cyclists are easy to spot.  They ride fancy bikes, wear lurid Lycra and they puff and pant.  We may turn up our noses at balding beer-bellied football fans in their club shirts but surely they’re no worse than balding cake-bellied cyclists hoping to pass themselves off as Lance Armstrong?  Of course, having the kit doesn’t make them Lance Armstrong.  For one thing, Lance likes to ride his bike whereas a Jew likes to admire his bike through the window of a coffee shop while telling his friends how much it cost.

The other topic of cappuccino conversation is how much they have raised so far for their chosen charity.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a good cause, and as a keen(ish) environmentalist can think of few better ways than a cycle challenge to achieve it.  I just think it’s a pity that they have to fly out to the other side of the world in order to participate.  Instead of stumping up hundreds of pounds just to get to the start line, they could give even more to the charity and keep their carbon footprint confined to their fancy schmancy carbon-fibre bikes.

Truth be told, you’ll be lucky if you ever see a Jew actually riding his bike.  If he’s not resting in Starbuck’s after a solid three miles in the saddle he’s trying to fix a puncture without suitable tools.  And when I say he’s trying to fix a puncture what I really mean is he’s amongst half a dozen men crowded around his dismantled wheel, rather like the doctors who examined the Roswell aliens; at the same time curious and fearful.

After several minutes one will suggest using tyre levers to extract the inner tube.  “Good idea” says his pal.  “What are tyre levers?” asks a third as he pathetically pokes around with an old butter knife (the Jew’s universal tool) that lives in the neat little under-the-saddle tool bag – the one that contains, apart from the butter knife, his keys, a wad of cash to pay for coffee and cake, several credit cards in case he needs more coffee and cake, and a couple of energy bars.

Eventually the self-appointed mechanic snaps the butter knife and withdraws in embarrassment leaving the rest to clear up the mess.  Before long they are back on the road and heading for the nearest café.

Of course I’m generalising.  Some Jewish cyclists take the sport incredibly seriously.  My friend Moishe is one such and his speciality is hill climbing.  When he’s managed to negotiate a few speed bumps he heads directly for the coffee shop claiming to be “King of the Mountains”.  Mountains of cake, more like.

The other place you’ll see a Jewish cyclist is in the bike shop.  In every group of Jewish cyclists at least one will be preening proudly aperch his brand new super-lightweight machine.

Why, when he only bought a new bike last year, has he gone and spent the equivalent of Greece’s national debt on another?  “Because this one is faster on account of it being three grammes lighter than that old piece of junk”, he’ll inform you as he squeezes through the doors of Starbuck’s on his way to yet another latte and cheesecake.

It’s Jewish Book Week.

Here’s one.

Bought Ledger. Goldberg the upholsterer.

Happy Purim to everyone.