The Value of Hebrew For Religious School Students

On a chilly autumn Wednesday in Connecticut, I stood before the six students of my Kita Hey (fifth grade) Religious School class and tried to review with them the written words of the Amidah, a core section of the daily Jewish service.

“I like your hair, Morah Miriam,” one girl called out.

‘I like your boots,” chimed in another ten year old.

“Well I hope you like what I’m teaching you!” I responded with a forced smile of assurance.

For the last two years I have walked twice a week the short distance from my campus, Wesleyan University, to my job at the town’s local synagogue. I was graciously welcomed into this spirited community and have since grown very fond of the students and other educators. As a product of Jewish Day School and a tight-nit Conservative community outside of Philadelphia, my recent entrance into this parallel realm of Jewish education has been both an instructive and thought provoking experience.

Yet that Wednesday, my affable co-teacher, a member of the synagouge, was absent. While as the younger of the two teachers, I have grown accustomed to the more carefree demeanor with which my students approach my position in the classroom, that afternoon this behavior only aggravated by irritation.

“Ethan,” I called, signaling out one of linguistically stronger children in the class. “Can you please read the first line of the Amidah.”

Carrying a fairly fine tune, Ethan preceded to sing the words, just as he had done ten minutes prior during the preliminary school-wide service.

“Ethan,” I said, patiently cutting him off, “Please read the words, don’t just recite them from memory.”

Seizing this moment as a teaching opportunity, I tried to reinforce for them the true value of reading, not just reciting, Hebrew.

“Look at the page before you,” I instructed. “You just sang the names of the matriarchs, as we do in services, but they aren’t here in the text. If you can read the words, then you can follow along in any service, even if the tune is slightly different or some phrases have been altered.”

There was silence for a moment.

“I like your shirt, Morah Miriam,” the old refrain rang back.

“Thank you,” I responded. “I got it on sale. Now Ethan, could you please read the phrase that you just recited?”

“But I only learned to sing it,” Ethan said, and stared blankly back at me.

I stared back while wondering why these words, which each student will recite with ease to the tune of the community, now appeared so foreign a construct to his or her individual eye. I wondered why my students, generally so eager to learn and to interact with others, were unmotivated by the contents of this lesson. This is surely not a symptom just particular to my well-run school, but rather an indication of a greater concern.

For ultimately I want my students to desire to learn these letters, to appreciate the countless religious or cultural opportunities available to them within the speeches, songs, and services of the spoken language. I want them to make the Hebrew letters their own, to contemplate their history and recent revival. I hope for them understand that they, once secure with this knowledge, can then chose whether to use the language or not.

This, I know, is a lot to ask of a ten year old.

Admittedly, it is only now as a college student that I have begun to appreciate the strong phonetic base that my education provided. In retrospect, I regret my indifference to mastering the Binyanim (verb forms), or my refusal to sound ‘fake Israeli’ and adapt the proper pronunciations. As a freshman in college, I began what will inevitably be a long journey to study Arabic and to learn the Levantine dialect. From this perspective, I have gained a greater appreciation for the lessons, meanings, and linguistic connections that cannot be captured through translation in any language.

I have tried to remember how it was for me at first to learn each Hebrew letter, and when it was that I began to connect vowels and consonants into coherent words and phrases. As a young student learning Hebrew, I can’t recall any particular motivation, except for the satisfaction of a child eager to learn and to excel; I was privileged enough to be put in the position where this knowledge was expected.

Yet that is not the case for every Jewish American child. And perhaps, with such a short time spent in the classroom and no mechanism for ensuring the completion of homework, it is most beneficial for teachers of Religious School students to emphasis English songs and Hebrew recitation over basic language comprehension skills. Or perhaps, as I have come now more to believe, a greater emphasis on Hebrew is a necessity for understanding the ever-developing branches of tradition.

I believe that the ability to read and speak the basic components of the language are a key tool through which future generations can remain informed and connected to the still living tradition – from the writings of Maimonodes to Amos Oz – as the value of this knowledge extends far beyond the classroom. I am not claiming that every Jew must be fluent in Hebrew – I myself am not yet – but it is certainly a life opportunity that we should emphasis for our students. While there are important considerations at play, such as the connection between religious studies and Modern Hebrew, no matter the path, we must ultimately avoid merely injecting information into our students, without providing them the proper context with which to evaluate and develop their own formulation. As a greater community, we must continue to pursue dialogue regarding the motivating messages that our system sends to the students regarding why they should even care at all.