We begin with literature. The Jewish author is a teller of tales. Whether his story is real or fictional (what is real and what is fictional in the Bible or the Talmud? Was there any distinction made between the two?), it is a story of action, whose power lies in its brevity. In the Bible, talmudic legends, and even Hasidic tales, whole lives are compressed into a few lines, at times even a single sentence. “And the land was quiet for forty years.” Forty years in eight words. There is no descriptive element here, nor any attempt at psychological analysis; neither is there any stylistic excess-no fancy literary footwork to admire. This is economical, spare, plot-driven prose. Every word matters and is rich in meaning. Rabbi Nahman of Breslav, Franz Kafka, S.Y. Agnon, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Primo Levi, Pinhas Sadeh (Death of Avimelech), Yaakov Shabtai (Uncle Peretz Takes Off), and Yossel Birstein (Don’t Call Me Job; A Face in the Clouds) all told tales. Their tone was informative, not indulgent. In this straightforward manner, these writers produced frighteningly powerful tales, distinctly Jewish in their concision.

Prophetic verse, from Amos and Psalms to the daily prayers, is spoken poetry, not linguistic acrobatics. Its intensity stems from its content, not its form. It is powerful, not pleasing or enchanting. The Jewish poet talks to someone (to the reader, to God) in order to say something important. He does not, therefore, mince words, put on airs, or hide behind a mask of irony. Like Bialik, he “carves the poem from his heart,” and he demands an answer: “Out of the depths I have cried out to you.”⁴²

Alexander Pushkin, Charles Baudelaire, and other literary magicians wrote brilliant poetry, but their way is not our way. Our way is that of Bialik, as well as Uri Tzvi Greenberg, Amir Gilboa, Avot Yeshurun, Zelda, Yehuda Amihai (at his best), and, in her later poems, Dalia Ravikovitch. Today, Haviva Pedaya, a superb religious poet, and Dalia Pelech, a superb secular poet, continue to carve powerful Jewish language from their hearts. May others follow their lead.

As for Jewish theater and film, they ought to dramatize conflicts of values, and depict the moral quandaries of people who bear some type of responsibility-familial, societal, professional, or political. A Jewish life is a life of responsibility; responsibility and not fate, which is the focus of the Greek tragedies. The Western dramatic tradition, from Aeschylus to Shakespeare, from the opera to Hollywood, is pagan at its core. It deals with mankind’s primal urges; an important topic, but not a Jewish one. The Jewish person is normative, demonstrating through his choices that which is superior about mankind. Jewish drama, then, should not be Monumental; nor should it be thrilling or shocking, violent or arousing. Its aim is not to capture the audience’s subconscious, but rather to depict a mature dialogue, one that is conscious and challenging. It is not a spectacular invasion of the viewer’s senses, but an appeal to his interpretive abilities and his imagination via a dramatic language that excels in its restraint.⁴³

This is not to say that a Jewish screenplay or theatrical production (or television script, for that matter) must be pedantic and self-righteous, devoid of physical or emotional urges-or worse, devoid of humor. A Jewish work should present flesh-and-blood mortals, not moralistic talking heads. It should deal with feelings and desires, as did the biblical author, and it should cover the entire range of human emotions, from heartbreak to laughter, as did Sholem Aleichem. But it ought to deal with the topic of urges, not just inflame them. It ought to be funny, even to the point of tears, but its sense of humor should be warm, not mean and acidic. “If we examine the works of the great artists,” wrote the poet Leah Goldberg in 1938, “we will notice that those which lasted through the ages are those with a heart. That is to say: Those which show great love, and great mercy.”⁴⁴ Mercy and not pity. Pity is condescending, rude, derisive. It presents people as pathetic, even revolting. Jewish drama will only take shape from the honest scrutiny of human beings as they are: Neither angels nor beasts, victims nor villains, deniers of urges nor their slaves.

On to music. Here our task is more difficult, but it is still possible to try and define a uniquely Jewish musical creation or experience. Music in the Western sense is a performance, a concert. The brilliant composer, the celebrated violinist, the piano virtuoso, the maestro conductor, the acclaimed baritone display their talents on a hallowed stage. The sanctity of the event is evident from the audience’s hushed stillness, which explodes into applause when the final chord is struck. From a Jewish perspective, this is idolatry. The same may be said of rock or pop music: The worship of a concert pianist is no different from the worship of a rock star. Only the etiquette of the audience is different, not the essence of the rite.

The Jewish concept of hevruta (partner study) could shape an alternative musical experience. No idols. No idol-worship. Rather, this music would be a dialogue, played among friends, and largely improvised. Sheet music, if used at all, would contain only general notations, with ample room for interpretation-much like Jewish texts themselves. Here, the melody is what matters. All else-harmony, rhythm, structure, polish-is of lesser importance. David Zahavi’s musical rendition of Leah Goldberg’s “The Recorder” or Hanna Senesh’s “Walking to Caesarea” prove that a good melody can carry itself; it needs no accompaniment. The strength of these melodies is like that of prayer. They develop naturally, like thoughts. It is as if they were conceived with words attached. Thus, the gathering of musicians in a Jewish hevruta would form a type of melodic banter. Theirs would be the music of listening and responding to the other. An unselfish experience.

Finally, the same would be true of Jewish dance. Here, too, we must wean ourselves from the idea that dance performances are meant to amaze. Instead, they should strive to set the language of hevruta to movement. Dance in terms of reciprocity: You move, I answer. A physical conversation. The dancers’ goal would not be to display their beautiful bodies, or the astounding control they possess over every limb and ligament. Their purpose would not be aesthetic or acrobatic. Rather, it would be ethical. Jewish dancing, like Jewish music, is a conversation, not showing-off.

It has become acceptable in the West to dance to a predetermined sound track; such is the case with ballet and modern dance, Israeli “folk dances” (rikudei am), and in clubs and discos. Jewish dance, however, should be based on attentive and responsive improvisation. It should also be largely spontaneous. The choreographer would determine a baseline for the movement, just as a page of Talmud establishes and guides the ensuing discussion. But interpretive freedom would be left to the dancers, ensuring the originality of every such hevruta-that is, making certain that it never devolves into a forced replication of the same old routine. It would be possible, of course, to integrate the hevruta systems of music and dance: Melody and movement would engage in a joint discussion, with dancers responding to musicians, and vice versa.

 

A nation’s living legacy cannot be reduced to Maimonides’ “Principles of Faith” or Rabbi Joseph Karo’s Shulhan Aruch. When speaking of heritage, the divisive, destructive distinction between “secular” and “religious” is far less important than the distinction between those who nurture their heritage and those who neglect it.

Those who nurture their heritage are religious and secular traditionalists. They perceive the present as part of a living continuum. Time, to them, is a river, not a pond. A pond is standing water. Standing water grows fetid. A river moves forward. Those who nurture Judaism row its tides. They delight in its bends. They strive to stay afloat, and they refuse to be deterred by dangerous rapids.