On May 16, 2010 (3 Sivan 5770), my father—may his memory be a blessing—passed from this world to the next. I was with him in the final moments, and during most of the preceding three days and nights. Since that intense weekend I have been able to think seriously only about two things: the good life that my father lived and the reality of death that brought his earthly life to a close.

I have never encountered death at such close quarters. I was also with my mother when she passed away, but she made the transition quickly and with a minimum of fuss. She was always the impatient one. My father, in contrast, took his time with everything that he did. Like my mother, his way of dying reflected his way of living.

“. . . every scribe who has become a disciple of the kingdom of heaven is like a head of a household, who brings out of his treasure things new and old.” Matthew 13:52

Tradition! Just saying the word makes me think of Tevye and Fiddler on the Roof. The movie is set in the mythical Russian town of Anatevka, where life is a poor, hard grind, the Russians can’t be trusted not to kill you one day, and—however hard he tries to stop it—Tevye is watching his tradition disintegrate day by day. At the end of the movie, the whole village packs up and leaves for America.

My grandparents did not live very far from the villages that inspired Sholom Aleichem, author of the Tevye stories. And they came to the United States in the same tide of immigration that Tevye would have, intent on finding a new life.

When I was growing up, I was often exhorted by my grandmother, with a twinkle in her eye: “Boychick—you’re a link in the chain,” she would say with her heavy Yiddish accent. “Just make sure you don’t break the chain!” The message was clear and my generation heard it often, especially from the lips of relatives from the “old country.” The message was, If you don’t keep Jewish customs, our tradition will die—and it will be your fault! Even when said with a smile in her voice, the message was somber. Here I was, little Carl Kinbar, a link in a great and mighty chain stretching from the past and—if I did the right thing—into the future as well. No pressure there!

Theology thrives on problems.  Of course, there is more to theology than just problems.  Theological reflection is driven by an impulse inherent in biblical faith.  That impulse pushes us to seek the meaning and implications of what we believe. God is Truth; theology ponders this Truth, in obedient response to the summons of Truth itself.

That said, the history of Jewish and Christian thought makes clear the essential role of problems in theological development.  Theological breakthroughs have occurred when Jews and Christians have faced unavoidable challenges to their convictions.  As a classic example, the theological vision of the Talmud emerged in part as a creative response to the challenges posed by the adoption of Christianity as the official religion of the Roman Empire.

For much of Jewish history, theology has had a low profile.   There are many reasons for this, but one that is often unrecognized is the unproblematic nature of Judaism for generations of traditional Jews.  Between the close of the Talmud and the modern era, the Jewish community led a relatively self-contained existence.  Within the community, basic theological convictions were assumed rather than argued.  In such a setting, spiritual life may thrive—but theology usually lies dormant.