Communal Judaism has not brought me joy in quite some time. In clique-think I must be inferior or damaged in some way if I do not love being in synagogue, shuckling with the men, and taking delight in the Rabbi's wisdom. Enough experiences accumulated to think that maybe they're right until another experience comes along unexpectedly to challenge that. It came my way for megillah reading and Purim shpiel. The room sparkled. My anhedonia, even my experience generated cynicism took a reversal. I chuckled at the jokes, admired the wit and dedication and creativity of talented people. The room, while not large, was full. I saw what I lacked and possibly cannot acquire with the relentless quest for mediocrity that gets rationalized as our shul's minhag. But it really need not be that way. I miss the ironies, the challenges, expertise that is more real than assigned by title. And I saw it happen in one evening.
Judaism is not inherently dour. Spirit comes in myriad forms from delving into the complex, searching for an answer but really only finding two more questions instead, those instantaneous quips, questions that seem odd but have a basis if you can think beyond the concreteness of a Hebrew school imprint. It has not only a measure of the absurd but teachable absurd that leaves you advanced from your starting point.
It can be had. As much as I feel disheartened, even despondent, from a service at my congregation, if I am the only one who realizes what could be, I need to be the one who at least makes an effort to generate what could be.
