Struggling with Form and Feeling
Becca Bubis serves Rochelle Zell Jewish High School (Chicago, IL) as the Jewish Studies Department Chair. Previously, she spent twelve years teaching in Jewish high schools in Southern California. Her education includes Barnard College, the Jewish Theological Seminary, and the Pardes Institute.
Over a delectable meal during Hanukkah in 2012, Professor Gerald Bubis told me about a sermon he had heard at Valley Beth Shalom in Los Angeles. In it, Rabbi Harold M. Schulweis passionately insisted that kashrut practices must be rooted in ethical consciousness. “The Jewish theology of kashrut is not pots and pantheism,” Schulweis poetically preached from the bimah in 2009. Jerry spoke to me not only as a budding Jewish educator, but also as a future family member, encouraging me to balance halakhic rigor with spiritual depth. He railed against mechanical or performative acts, in all arenas. This was one of our earliest and most memorable conversations.
Thirteen years later, while teaching a capstone course in modern Jewish thought to high school seniors at Rochelle Zell Jewish High School, I found myself reflecting on that encounter. Many of our contemporary theologians espouse similar sentiments, pushing back against perfunctory practice and instead insisting on a robust personal investment. Much of the course that I inherited focused on this particular predicament.
In the opening lines of God in Search of Man, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel argues that “When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit… its message becomes meaningless.” My students were less keen on this wisdom than I had anticipated. I thought they would feel liberated by this idea, free to rebelliously declare that “I won’t daven until I feel it.” I vividly remember my high school rebbeim responding to our similar threats with the Talmudic principle “Practice not motivated by proper intent leads to practice motivated by proper intent” (Pesahim 50b). You must still engage in mitzvah performance, and eventually the ideal intent will emerge.
But some seniors felt that they did not have license to disobey. Instead, they flatly shared that Heschel’s exhortation reflected their religious experience—not a warning, but a reality. They were already vacuously “going through the motions.” I was crushed by this realization, especially given their extraordinary literacy borne out of a carefully curated Jewish education. To be fair, several voices disagreed, but their dissent did little to ease the weight of what I had heard.
After several intense classroom chats, I realized that in many ways I, too, am going through the motions. I show up when I’m told, with the material that’s needed, and say the right words to the appropriate people. I’m just as prone to transactional thinking as my students. I shared with them a moment when a colleague chastised a student who walked into the classroom saying “when will the grades be posted” with a witty retort, “I am not a GDS, a grade delivery system, I am a human!” The student laughed and asked him what he did that weekend before returning to the subject. I, too, fall victim to these types of transactional traps.
This year, I brought The Amen Effect into the classroom. Rabbi Sharon Brous reframes communal davening experiences as regular opportunities to say Amen, building a network of “repeated, ritualized encounters with the other, designed to train our hearts to see that we are all bound up in one another.” This seemingly transactional practice is meant to be profoundly relational—cultivating empathy and binding us together in a shared sacred responsibility.
The challenge of the aspiration to imbue religious practice with inspiration is not new to us. The gulf between ritual and meaning, between form and feeling, challenged our ancestors as well. Isaiah 29:13 points out this gulf with a painful clarity: “Because that people has approached [Me] with its mouth and honored Me with its lips, but has kept its heart far from Me, and its worship of Me has become a rote performance.”
My students rightfully recoiled at these sentiments. Some pushed back saying that formulaic practice was the bare minimum, but not problematic. Others questioned how realistic it was to expect constant emotional investment. One student challenged the binary between “authentic” and “formulaic,” declaring one gains connection through repetition.
Their concerns are valid. The struggle between form and feeling is real. How do we reconcile the two? This very question is taken up by one of Judaism’s most eloquent philosophers, whom my predecessor had the wisdom to place at the center of this course.
Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, in The Lonely Man of Faith, articulates this duality through two archetypes drawn from Genesis: Adam I and Adam II. Adam I, emerging from the first creation account, is created in partnership with humanity and is endowed with qualities of creativity, agency, and mastery. He finds purpose in action and achievement. In contrast, Adam II is created alone. He is existentially unique in the cosmos. From that vantage point, he seeks connection rather than control. Adam II finds meaning through humility and service. Adam I is created in God’s image. Adam II is created in God’s reflection. While Adam I pursues success, Adam II yearns for relationship. Adam I wants to advance himself; Adam II, to pull back, creating space for others and for God.
According to Rav Soloveitchik, we are meant to live in this tension of the intrinsic dichotomy in our being; “Rejection of either aspect of humanity would be tantamount to an act of disapproval of the divine scheme of creation which was approved by God as being very good.” This transcends classic keva (form) and kavvanah (intention) conversations by anchoring them in the intentional duality present in each of our psyches. Rather than seeing form and intention as competing forces in prayer, Soloveitchik frames them as complementary expressions of the twofold nature of the human soul—each a necessary component of the whole.
But we’ve disrupted this innate balance. We’ve elevated Adam I characteristics of pursuit, productivity, and pragmatism in our modern society. We laud the loud success of Adam I and resist the soft spaciousness of Adam II.
One student, when reflecting on how this tension played out in classroom discussions, wrote “They oscillated between looking at their own notes and gearing up to add their own input, and truly listening to what they were saying without thinking about furthering their own ideas. It was in these moments when Adam I and Adam II fought for attention. More often than not, Adam I won, as once they got an idea in their head of something to say, they could no longer fully listen, and mainly focused on what they were going to say next.” This reflection captured the battling dichotomy within the classroom, as well as the broader spiritual dissonance that Soloveitchik ultimately addresses.
Towards the end of his magnum opus, the Rav deepens his investigation and offers a critique of the current state of religion. Here lies the most challenging piece for my seniors. The problem of Modern Man according to the Rav is not that our Adam II has been reduced, effaced, eclipsed, or even amputated. It’s much, much worse than that. The issue is that we’ve corrupted religion, the domain of Adam II, by forcing it to operate within the construct of Adam I. As one student said in a class discussion, “people don’t like to retreat or to be humble or to give ourselves to God in the way that Adam II demands—Adam I and Modern Man cannot comprehend surrender.”
The result is a shallow religiosity that’s burdened by Adam I goals. Our religious experience has been reduced to acts of ambition and approval. This was one of the hardest pills to swallow for my learners. Together we listed out examples: we engage in charity for the sake of bolstering our resumes or reducing our taxes; we attend shul for the sake of networking; we watch celebrities publicly display their spirituality; we allow consumerism to interface with faith; we use religion as a vehicle to build portfolios and corporate strengths.
Even worse, the Rav claims, “If he gives of himself to God, he expects reciprocity. He also reaches a covenant with God, but this covenant is a mercantile one. In a primitive manner, he wants to trade ‘favors’ and exchange goods.” When reading that line aloud, one student remarked, “The modern Adam wants to be successful even in relation to God.”
What a sigh the class let out after that. It’s gutting to hear that we’ve desecrated Adam II by cloaking it in the garish garb of Adam I. That we’ve betrayed our Adam II selves. That we’ve sacrificed Adam II at the altar of Adam I. That what’s left is a hollow echo of religion and religiosity. The line from Isaiah finally resonated for them.
Instead of closing the last page of The Lonely Man of Faith feeling deflated and demoralized, the class rallied to find solutions. It was inspiring to hear their energy. They let Isaiah’s critique morph from a condemnation to an invitation. Through deep spiritual hevruta work, they attempted to reclaim their natural duality by uncovering the distortions of Adam II and instead turning to authentic relationship with the Divine and with the other. They wanted to rebalance the productivity of Adam I and the presence of Adam II.
During one of the final days of the last school year, one of the seniors shared the following poem he wrote:
We’ve been taught to chase titles.
To build resumes.
To collect trophies, test scores, LinkedIn badges, and GPA decimals like they’re the measure of our worth.
And sure, that gets you in the room.
But it doesn’t tell the world why you matter once you’re there.
We’re stepping into a society that’s obsessed with the “I—It.”
Where people become transactions.
Relationships become strategies.
Even identity becomes something to brand and monetize.
But if that’s all we live for—if we reduce our lives to acquisition and achievement—then we’ll wake up one day with full hands and empty hearts.
And so, I offer you this quote from the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, whose words challenge the very foundation of how we live:
“The Thou is beyond the categories of subject and object; it does not fit into a framework of knowing or possessing.”
Read that again:
The Thou—that sacred “other,” the full humanity of another person—cannot be known like a fact or owned like a thing.
It cannot be measured, marketed, or manipulated.
It must be met.
Your charge is to live a life of meeting.
To show up in your relationships not with an agenda, but with authenticity.
To make space for the other—not as an object to use, but as a Thou to encounter.
Because the most powerful thing you can do in this world is to look someone in the eye and truly see them.
Not as a means to your end.
But as an end in themselves.
These words gave voice to what we wrestled with all year—the ache for authenticity and the yearning to live in dynamic relation with others. The poem reflects a deep desire for a life grounded in presence, humility, and encounter.
This year I am returning to Rabbi Schulweis’ question of pots and pantheism, charging both my students and myself to focus equally on the quality of the ritual and the depth of the experience. I will lean further into the educational tools that helped us grow last year—validating discomfort, modeling vulnerability, and encouraging dialogue. My hope is to foster an environment where students are both seen and stretched. May we ultimately move the needle from routine to radiant, from form to feeling, from habit to holiness. I think Zaida Jerry would be proud.
Becca Bubis serves Rochelle Zell Jewish High School (Chicago, IL) as the Jewish Studies Department Chair. Previously, she spent twelve years teaching in Jewish high schools in Southern California. Her education includes Barnard College, the Jewish Theological Seminary, and the Pardes Institute.
From The Editor: Fall 2025
The year was 1982. I was studying in Jerusalem for the year and my roommate invited me to join him on one of his visits to an elderly recent immigrant from the Soviet Union now living in an absorption center. When we arrived, I was introduced to the elderly gentleman, who told me that his name was Mr. Morehdin (although I suspected that the name was not his original one). While he had a difficult life in the Soviet Union, having spent time in Siberia, he chose to share with us that day how he survived a Nazi concentration camp. One day a Nazi guard summoned him, having heard that he was Talmud scholar. The guard had been told that there were disparaging statements in the Talmud about gentiles, and even laws discriminating between gentiles and Jews in civil matters.
Deuteronomy and the Buddhas of Bamiyan
The Buddhas of Bamiyan were two giant Buddha statues, each well over 100 feet tall, that survived nearly 1500 years until they were obliterated by the Taliban in 2001. The explicit motive of the destruction was extreme Islamic iconoclasm. Almost as soon as the explosions were broadcast worldwide, I raised the obvious connections to Deuteronomy 12:You are to demolish, yes, demolish, all the [sacred] places where the nations that you are dispossessing served their gods, on the high hills and on the mountains and beneath every luxuriant tree; you are to wreck their altars, you are to smash their standing-pillars, their Asherot you are to burn with fire, and the carved-images of their gods, you are to cut-to-shreds—so that you cause their name to perish from that place!
Troubling Texts or Troubling Troubles with Texts?
In the instruction of Biblical or Rabbinic texts, it is quite common for teachers to experience apparent conflicts between the values arising from the texts and the prevailing values of their students. Teachers may feel torn between their loyalty to Jewish tradition that they are expected to impart and their personal and/or cultural identification with the students entrusted to their care. It is my contention and experience that the sharper or more painful the apparent conflict between the values of a text and the values of students, the greater the educational potential. However, teachers need to carefully consider how their own value-orientational ambivalence is playing a role in the educational dissonance—are we really dealing with “troubling texts,” or are we dealing with troubling troubles with texts?
Rebranding God
I’ve been teaching for forty years, mostly to day school graduates. And I’ve noticed something surprising: very few of them have had real educational experiences exploring who God is—or what kind of relationship we’re meant to have with Him. They’re taught about Judaism, Torah, Halakha—but not God.
I won’t explore why that’s the case here, but I do want to talk about the consequences.
We live in a world shaped by beliefs. Beliefs build our reality. They can uplift and energize us—or drain and depress us.
Tanakh’s Challenging Issues: Traditional and Modern Torah Perspectives in Dialogue
Many people view traditional religious and modern critical orientations to Tanakh study as mutually exclusive… Yet, presenting these two approaches as oppositional, with only one holding a claim to the “real” truth, forces students to choose between the curiosity of their minds and the yearnings of their souls, rather than cultivating and nourishing both aspects of their personhood as fully committed Jews living in the modern world. In its best form, Jewish education should involve teaching critical academic and traditional religious perspectives alongside one another, so that students can see the value of both approaches in uncovering the Tanakh’s multivalent meaningfulness and come to embrace the texts of their heritage “with all their hearts, minds, and souls.”
Engaging the Gemara Gap
In my mid to late teens, I became very attached to the study of Gemara. That passion continued for me until, as a twenty-something, I began teaching it to high school students. I soon came to the realization that I did not understand the Gemara in a way that allowed me to successfully transmit its meaning to others. My cultural and religious connection to Gemara had been strong, but not because its contents were fully clear to me. In fact, coming to this realization, I stopped teaching Gemara for a while.Years later, I fell in love with Gemara again. Now, I love learning difficult segments in the Gemara. These are not necessarily morally or ethically disturbing texts. For me, difficult texts are those where meaning-making is not simple; where, as a learner, I will ask: ”What is this Gemara trying to say and why is it here at all?”
A Conversation Across Contexts: A Case for Intertextual Jewish Education
Some Jewish texts are difficult to teach because they demand so much from us and, even more challengingly, our students. They present moral tensions, portray uncomfortable ideas, or raise questions about our faith that sit uneasily with younger thinkers trying to reconcile earlier voices with contemporary values when they feel most comfortable in a space of clear definition. Avoiding these texts can feel easier, but doing so undermines an opportunity for meaningful engagement. When we engage them honestly—balancing yirat shamayim and intellectual integrity—we offer them opportunities for deep learning, not just of content, but of character. I teach both English and Limudei Kodesh at a Modern Orthodox high school.
The King David Hotel Bombing: Eyewitness Accounts as Educational Tools
On 22 July 1946, a massive explosion ripped through the King David Hotel in Jerusalem, leaving 91 people dead, dozens injured, and significant damage to the building itself. Although all three paramilitary organizations operating in the Yishuv had known about this event beforehand, the Irgun was solely involved in planning and executing the attack. This bombing is a critical moment in the history of modern Israel, exemplifying the desperate lengths to which Jews in Palestine were willing to go to confront the British through increasingly military means. At the time, the bombing of the King David Hotel was condemned by many, including the international press and even prominent figures such as Chaim Weizmann.
Love, Gender, and Leviticus
For the final unit assessment of our 12th grade Jewish Studies elective called “Love, Gender, and Relationships,” students had to address the prohibition of same-sex intimacy found in Leviticus 18:22. They could either explore the inclusion of this text in the Yom Kippur Minha Torah reading or respond to a (fictional) friend’s request for advice regarding Jewish practice and same-sex relations. Gabby—a dedicated student who had never missed a deadline—requested an extension because she cried every time she sat down to write.
The Ephemeral Nature of Difficult Texts
This article is neither a record of success nor of unmitigated failure. It is a reflective description and evaluation of my experience, which I see as part of my own professional growth and which I share in the hope that it will be of help to other teachers. I should add the caveat that this reflection is happening much too soon for reliability. My standard line to students is that I judge my teaching by the condition of their souls ten years afterward (and I love it when they call to let me do that).Nearly three decades ago, I taught the book of Jeremiah in a Modern Orthodox high school. I identified ways that the text might challenge my students and planned my teaching around them.
Three Hashkafot, One Torah: Teaching Challenging Jewish Texts about Women
It is impossible to learn and teach Torah without encountering texts that relate to women in challenging ways. Contemporary conceptions of women’s roles and rights chafe against stories and laws in the Tanakh and Talmud, the historical development of halakha, normative prayer practices, and underlying assumptions in philosophical works. In this brief article, I do not attempt to soothe these tensions—that is far too great a task! Rather, I seek to offer the reader three conceptual frameworks—hashkafot, if you will—through which we tend to approach this tension in Orthodox day schools. Each hashkafa is described in the full-throated voice of a proponent of that lens. Then, I discuss some potential tradeoffs of using each conceptual framework in a Judaic studies classroom.
Using Context and Subtext to Unpack the Text
Teachers of Torah texts in the day school setting are bound to encounter a text that contains content that is difficult to teach. It can be especially difficult when the text seems to be working from a framework of values or interests that are distant from the current moment. Or, it may just be too heavy a lift to explain to students what a particular text or story was trying to accomplish when the students only notice a bothersome turn of phrase. With attention paid to context and subtext, a text that initially seems troubling may show depth that makes teaching it not only possible, but essential. An example of this can be found on Kiddushin 49a-b. The Gemara begins a discussion about how to make sure a man has fulfilled a condition he set regarding his own character traits in order to accomplish the transaction of kiddushin.
Shelo Asani… Navigating Prayer Practices in a Modern Orthodox School
Oakland Hebrew Day School is a Modern Orthodox school that draws from a wide range of religiously diverse families. With our enrollment coming from (and relying on) a diversity of affiliations, our commitment to maintaining our Modern Orthodox identity sometimes creates complications, particularly in the realm of our tefillah practices. Many parents don’t have personal prayer practices, and for parents who do, some use liturgy or have traditions from different denominations. Like many schools, we have a siddur ceremony in the 1st grade in which students receive their own siddurim. As an Orthodox school, we distribute Orthodox siddurim (we have been using the Koren Youth Siddur).
Utilizing Communities of Inquiry to Navigate Challenging Tanakh Texts
When addressing morally complex Tanakh texts, middle school educators face the dual challenge of maintaining textual integrity while fostering meaningful student engagement. To meet this challenge, we have introduced “Communities of Inquiry” (CoI), a pedagogical approach rooted in the Philosophy for Children (P4C) movement. These collaborative learning environments allow students and teachers to explore ideas, questions, and ethical dilemmas that arise from complex Tanakh passages. In this framework, students engage in “doing philosophy”—not as an academic discipline, but as a way of thinking that deepens their connection to Tanakh and to the broader human experience.This approach emphasizes philosophy as an active, practice-based discipline.
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Go Becca!!