Difficulties of Teaching Jewish Sense of Humor

Though there was a time when I was interested in the study of humor as an academic discipline, my interest in humor in general—and Jewish humor in particular - has always been part of my broader interest in life and in other human beings.

I have been living Jewish humor for many years, but it never occurred to me to think about teaching it - or, to be more precise, teaching Jewish sense of humor - until I suddenly realized what my study of Chassidus had done to my own (Jewish) sense of humor. Before Chassidus, I used to laugh at others; after Chassidus, I have come to laugh with them.

After this sudden realization, it didn't take me long to take action. Recently I began teaching an experimental course in Jewish humor as a way to transform life, hoping that in eight 90-minute sessions I would be able to help my students build a foundation for Jewish sense of humor. The Jewish jokes I shared with them were meant to serve as a kind of "choreography" of Jewish laughter in several major areas where many of us encounter challenges.

To make a long story short, I realized after the second session that I had been far too naïve. Even developing minimal literacy in Jewish humor turned out to be earth-shattering for my four non-Jewish students, who had agreed to participate in this experimental course despite the fact that they had already been studying and practicing a spiritual teaching.

Because they failed to understand many of the Jewish jokes even after my explanations, I came to realize that internalizing any sense of humor requires a fundamental rewriting of the brain, especially when it comes to Jewish sense of humor. In a sense this may be no less demanding or difficult than spiritual awakening.

Some of my Jewish readers may wonder what went wrong with my mind when the idea of teaching Jewish sense of humor to non-Jewish students as a way to transform life even occurred to me. Do you know what? I have to admit that I'm not perfect. ;-)

In the meantime, I have shelved this course. But my desire to share even minimal literacy in Jewish humor as a way to transform darkness into light - and thus to transform life fundamentally - has not dimmed. So what do I (continue to) do? I simply demonstrate how I live with this sense of humor and laugh with my "victims" ;-) whenever and wherever I can. To my pleasant surprise, I seldom fail to make them laugh, especially in places where I would least expect laughter such as governmental and municipal offices.

Life of a "Professional Outsider"

I tasted the life of an outsider for the first time when I was ostracized by one social collective I belonged to in my mid-teens, and then publicly humiliated by its members.

The emotional scar this traumatic experience left on me lingered until I visited the very place where it happened for the first time since then several years ago. About four decades had passed.

What did I see there? A bunch of onions! ;-) The place had stopped serving its original purpose and was being used as a storehouse for harvested onions. I suddenly realized that those who I thought had humiliated me had simply followed the collective ego unconsciously. The onions were very symbolic. What could I do there except laugh - and in a very healthy way at that? How could I blame onions? ;-)

Though I've long been liberated from this trauma, I've followed - first unconsciously, then consciously - the lesson I learned "on my flesh", so to speak. I've developed a very subtle sensitivity to even the tiniest scent of the collective ego, which has inevitably made me feel like an outsider wherever I go, as I haven't been able to feel at home in any social collective.

Even when I felt comfortable in some collective at first, I would begin to feel uncomfortable after a while and eventually leave. I have a long list of such collectives I've left this way. The last one was academia. Those who have never worked in academia may not be able to imagine that it also has a collective ego. I have "good news" for you - many of those who are inside aren't aware of it either, so please don't blame yourself. ;-)

Since I left academia, I've found a new profession. I'm a "professional outsider"! ;-) I already know that I can only truly feel comfortable with fellow "professional outsiders" but on one condition - that we don't form a group of our own. We are connected only spiritually, not egoically.

Though I didn't want to leave Jerusalem, I also feel rather relieved now, as I had begun to feel choked in one collective. Here, I have few opportunities to socialize with fellow Jews except when I visit a local Chabad House once a year on the High Holidays. In the place where I've lived since leaving Jerusalem, I also have few opportunities for meaningful face-to-face communication.

Sometimes I miss such occasions, but mostly I feel serene - perhaps partly because I know that physical loneliness is temporary, and physical loneliness doesn't mean spiritual aloneness. Davka in this physical loneliness I feel far more connected with the Universe, especially when I seclude myself in nature without labeling anything linguistically.

I've found a new local minyan of flowers and leaves. They never label me, nor do they force me to follow any collective ego. We communicate with each other in the native language of the soul - silence - though I can't help caressing them in Russian. ;-)

Knowing More Than One Possibility

The most important thing I learned in academia, after spending about three decades there, is the realization that it's not for me. ;-) The second most important thing is a set of skills that allows me to learn almost any new subject, at least in the humanities and social sciences, from scratch. I've applied these skills to my post-academic study of nonduality and geopolitics, among others - two areas in which my life has been fundamentally transformed.

One of these skills is learning to study, and then to know, more than one possibility in any field in general and in any specific topic in particular. In the context of nonduality, these possibilities include different teachings, schools, and traditions. In geopolitics, they usually mean two opposing narratives of the parties involved in a controversial issue, as well as analyses by third-party observers.

I've seen again and again how people who are otherwise wise or clever can become trapped in an echo chamber by confining themselves to a single teaching or narrative. They often end up apologetic, making themselves look rather ridiculous - or even painful - to external observers who happen to know more than one teaching or narrative.

I've learned never to criticize them directly. They simply don't know - and sadly, often refuse to know - what they don't know. And I can never know that I know better. Besides, any attempt to rationally explain or even gently invite them to consider another possibility only makes them emotional and more stubborn.

As long as I stay away from them, they don't criticize me either. But once I find myself in their proximity, whether literally or figuratively, and they sense that I don't share their idea, they rarely miss the opportunity to judge me in various forms, from unsolicited "bona fide" advice to outright accusations. Here again, I had to learn the hard way not to argue with them and simply walk away in silence, as I now prefer inner peace to being right.

Fortunately, I encounter such emotional confrontations less and less frequently. But when I do, or when I witness similar confrontations between two other people, I try to turn the moment into an opportunity to check whether I am stuck with only one possibility in that very area, or in neighboring ones. Sometimes I notice that I, too, know only one possibility, even if it differs from those of the two people arguing. I don't think they realize that they're doing me a favor by giving me an important life lesson for free. ;-)