Rabbi Katzan shows a photo with his father at his bar mitzvah.
Photo by Ari Noonan The path of Rabbi Joshua Katzan, the leader of Venice’s Mishkon Tephilo, is a story that stretches back generations. “My great-grandfather was classically religious in Poland,” Katzan said, “and his younger siblings were more adventurous. Socialists.”
His Uncle Yoel told him that by the early 1930s, economic pressures forced his family to reconsider their position in Poland. “Hitler was making some hay,” Katzan said, “and apparently, my great-grandfather had lost everything once before to the Bolsheviks.” All but two members of the family declared “We are out of here.”
Hearing those stories influenced his childhood, starting in the 1960s: “My father was an immigrant. He came here in 1946 when he was 15. My mother was born here, and was a second-generation Angeleno. They were divorced when I was very young. I was raised by my father.”
Although father and son moved to Pico-Robertson, the European life his father left behind was never far away. “Holocaust survivors were in the air. I wasn’t told much about the Holocaust, but when I did learn about it, it made sense.”
The younger Katzen attended Hillel Hebrew Academy — for four years. “In the fourth grade, I emancipated myself,” he explained. “Couldn’t stand it anymore. It was normal for me to be around older people with accents and bad attitudes. They were really harsh, with punishments and threats.” That same year, a cousin around Joshua’s age moved to L.A. and was enrolled at Sinai Temple’s Akiba Academy, a green light for young Joshua. “Akiba was a w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l experience,” he said.
His father, raised in a classic shtetl community, owned “a beautiful voice, like a hazzan.” He realized he was a humanist. Rabbi Katzan described him as “an extraordinary man, able to hold two realities at one time: There is no God, on the one hand, and on the other, it did not translate into a rejection of culture. He created for me something of what he had: Shabbat at the center — there doesn’t have to be God for there to be Shabbat. My father’s attitude was, ‘There is no God, but if you are going to pray, do it right.’ Some of that rubbed off on me.” It also inspired him to reassess Jewish traditions, Katzan said. “Where does tradition come from? Why do it?”
Father and son also attended the Orthodox Beth Jacob Congregation — but only twice a year. And when he was 14, young Josh decided even that was too often. He didn’t want to go to shul on Yom Kippur to hear Kol Nidre. “Fasting was bad enough,” he told himself. Fine, his father said, they would stay home and listen to Yossele Rosenblatt, perhaps the greatest cantorial voice in American history, on their record player. Thereafter, young Joshua participated in Kol Nidre.
When he was in high school, Katzen relented a bit; he would go to shul for holidays and special occasions. “Davening, though, never was a real thing for me,” he said. His father was fine with that. “But when I was on the phone with my zayde [grandfather], my father would take the phone from me and say ‘If he asks if you are putting on t’fillin, say yes.’ I said, ‘But that is lying.’ He said, ‘It will make him feel better’ … That was confusing,” said Katzan, “but it was the reality I grew up with.”
While a student at CSUN, he would visit Tommy’s Burgers with pals, avoiding baconburgers because they aren’t for Jews. At a point, Katzan said “it struck me I was abandoning the religion of my childhood or I needed to take another look at it. It was a child’s religion. I needed to know if there was anything adult about it. That’s an important bridge adolescents need to make — through questioning.”
Katzan said he never left Judaism, but now he was back. He began his new life by wearing a kippah.
Soon after he started college, he recalled, “a group of us started to get much more religion-curious.” A friend told Katzan that Aish HaTorah was sponsoring a Shabbaton weekend, which caused a big change in attitude. It resonated. “It was very moving,” he said, “because I saw my zayde everywhere, the joy, the cultural uniqueness. It was mine, proprietary. This is where I come from. Katzan said he never left Judaism, but now he was back. He began his new life by wearing a kippah. Soon he saw a person in a wheelchair trying to enter the school library. “I realize I’m on display here,” he thought. “Be the mensch.” He opened the door – to a new and fulfilling life.
After teaching for more than a half-dozen years at Milken Community High School, he became a rabbi “because it was a natural expression of my own spiritual seeking. I want to share it as a teacher, as a guide.” And three years ago, after stops in Denver and New York, mid-Covid, Rabbi Katzan came to Mishkon Tephilo, a Conservative congregation founded by his grandparents. “We are very much rebuilding,” he said, “and it’s all been working. “We just landed our 100th paid membership, up from 76 last year … I am really passionate about there being a place in traditional Judaism for the atheist. Many Jews are atheists. They don’t admit it. The teachings of our tradition are incredibly wise.”
Fast Takes with Rabbi Katzan
Jewish Journal: Do you have an unfulfilled goal?
Rabbi Katzan: Writing the book “Judaism for Atheists.”
J.J. Your favorite place in Israel?
Rabbi Katzan: Hummus Pinati in Jerusalem. Everyone sits together, and soon as you are done, they kick you out.
J.J. Best book you have read?
Rabbi Katzan: “As a Driven Leaf” was one of the more important ones. Also, “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay” by Michael Chabon.
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