Min haMuvhar

Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881) was one of the most illustrious and powerful men in 19th century England (and the world), and yet he remains an enigma. Was he a proud Jew? Was he a sincere Christian? Was he a brilliant politician? Was he a buffoon? Was he a great and visionary leader of the British Empire? Was he a party hack who was mostly interested in advancing himself and his loyalists?

            The answer to all these questions seems to be: yes, no, perhaps, we are not sure.

            Disraeli’s family had been members of the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue of London. His father, Isaac—for a variety of reasons—decided to have his children baptized and raised as Christians. In July 1817, shortly before Benjamin would have celebrated his Bar Mitzvah, the young boy was brought to church and was baptized.

            Now that he was a Christian, he could blend in better with English society, right? In a way yes, but in a way no. He was still identified as a Jew. His very name gave him away. His appearance was described as being “oriental,” not really a pure English Christian. Benjamin dressed flamboyantly and acted accordingly. After completing his studies, he spent a few years with a firm of solicitors in London, and then he tried his hand at journalism. He made some disastrous investments that put him in serious financial trouble. Heavily in debt, he tried to salvage the situation by writing popular novels that would pay him decent royalties.

            He turned to politics but lost his first several attempts to get elected to Parliament. At last, in 1837 he won an election and became a member of Parliament. In 1839, he married a prosperous widow (although not as wealthy as he had expected), and went on to live a happy married life with her until her passing in 1872. Benjamin Disraeli was a gifted orator and a very able debater. He came to lead the “Young England Party” in Parliament. He rose to various high positions in government, and became Prime Minister in 1868 for a short spell. He again rose to become Prime Minister in 1874 and served in that position into 1880. He held the title of Earl of Beaconsfield.

            Although Disraeli was a Christian, a member of Parliament, a popular author, a confidant of Queen Victoria…his detractors never stopped seeing him as a Jew, an outsider, an interloper. He had to struggle against unceasing political malice and anti-Jewish malevolence. He climbed to the top of the “slippery pole” of political power by dint of his genius, his political prowess, and his ability to outshine all his rivals.

            Instead of denying or de-emphasizing his Jewish roots, Disraeli flaunted his Jewishness. His public posture was that Christianity was an outgrowth and broader expression of Judaism. “Everything gentle and sublime in the religious code of the New Testament is a mere transcript from the so-called oral law of the Jews” (Weintraub, p. 453). In his novel, Tancred, one of his Jewish characters taunts the English nobleman by pointing out that “half Christendom worships a Jewess, and the other half a Jew….Which is the superior race, the worshipped or the worshippers?” The Christian world owed the Jews an immense debt.

            In his novel, Coningsby, Disraeli idealized a wise man by name of Sidonia. “All of us encounter, at least once in our life, some individual who utters words that make us think forever. There are men whose phrases are oracles; who condense in a sentence the secrets of life; who blurt out an aphorism that forms a character or illustrates an existence. A great thing is a great book; but greater than all is the talk of a great man” (Coningsby, p.149). Sidonia the Jew was such a man, one who had “exhausted all the sources of human knowledge.” Sidonia propounded the greatness of the Jews.  “And at this moment, in spite of centuries, of tens of centuries, of degradation, the Jewish mind exercises a vast influence on the affairs of Europe. I speak not of their laws, which you still obey; of their literature, with which your minds are saturated; but of the living Hebrew intellect. You never observe a great intellectual movement in Europe in which the Jews do not greatly participate” (p. 271). Sidonia reminds Coningsby that Europe owes the Jews “the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its literature, all its religion” (p. 273).

Anti-Semites never forgave Disraeli’s Jewishness and constantly identified him as a Jew in spite of his conversion to Anglicanism. In response to a vicious anti-Semitic comment made in the British parliament, Disraeli famously retorted: “Yes, I am a Jew, and when the ancestors of the Right Honourable Gentleman were brutal savages in an unknown island, mine were priests in the Temple of Solomon.”

Disraeli’s novel, Tancred, originally published in 1847, tells of a young British nobleman who had a spiritual longing to visit the Holy Land. When he arrived, he spent time with a Jewish family and became acquainted with Jewish religious life. His visit coincided with Succoth, and he was told that this is a great national festival celebrating the harvest. He was shown the lulav and etrog, symbols of the autumn harvest. Tancred was deeply impressed.

Disraeli writes: “The vineyards of Israel have ceased to exist, but the eternal law enjoins the children of Israel still to celebrate the vintage. A race that persist in celebrating their vintage, although they have no fruits to gather, will regain their vineyards. What sublime inexorability in the law! But what indomitable spirit in the people!”

Disraeli notes that it is easier for “the happier Sephardim, the Hebrews who have never quitted the sunny regions that are laved by the Midland Ocean,” to observe the festival, since they can identify with the climate and setting of the early generations of Israelites who celebrated Succoth. “But picture to yourself the child of Israel in the dingy suburb or the squalid quarter of some bleak northern town, where there is never a sun that can at any rate ripen grapes. Yet he must celebrate the vintage of purple Palestine! The law has told him, though a denizen in an icy clime, that he must dwell for seven days in a bower….”

He continues with a description of the ignominies which Jews suffer in their ghettos in Europe “living amid fogs and filth, never treated with kindness, seldom with justice....Conceive such a being, an object to you of prejudice, dislike, disgust, perhaps hatred. The season arrives, and the mind and heart of that being are filled with images and passions that have been ranked in all ages among the most beautiful and the most genial of human experience; filled with a subject the most vivid, the most graceful, the most joyous, and the most exuberant…the harvest of the grape in the native regions of the vine.”

The downtrodden Jews, in observance of Succoth, find real joy in life. They decorate their Succahs as beautifully as they can; their families gather together to eat festive meals in the Succah. The outside world may be cruel and ugly; but their inner life is joyous and noble. Their external conditions may not seem too happy, but their internal happiness is real. The Jews, while remembering the glories of the Israelite past, also dream of the future glories of the Israelites when their people will be restored to their ancient greatness.

            Was Disraeli a Zionist before there was an official Zionist movement? Yes…and no. Like so much about Disraeli, there is ambiguity. On the one hand, he spoke and wrote emotionally about the Jewish attachment to the holy land, and to their ultimate return to Israel. But on the other hand, he did not actively initiate or pursue any policies that would lead to a Jewish return to the land of Israel.

In his novel, Alroy, the Jewish hero states: “You ask me what I wish: my answer is, a national existence, which we have not. You ask me what I wish: my answer is, the Land of Promise. You ask me what I wish: my answer is, Jerusalem. You ask me what I wish: my answer is, the Temple, all we forfeited, all we have yearned after, all for which we have fought, our beauteous country, our holy creed, our simple manners, and our ancient customs.”

One of Disraeli’s political associates, Lord Stanley, wrote in his diary that on one occasion Disraeli spoke to him “with great apparent earnestness on the subject of restoring the Jews to their own land….The country, he said, had ample natural capabilities; all it wanted was labour, and protection for the labourer; the ownership of the soil might be bought from Turkey: money would be forthcoming: the Rothschilds and leading Hebrew capitalists would all help.” These words were spoken a half century before Herzl’s The Jewish State (1897). Yet, Stanley went on to note that Disraeli “never recurred to it again. I have heard of no practical step taken or attempted to be taken by him in the matter” (Kirsch pp.909-91).

Disraeli described himself as the blank page between the Old and New Testaments. He belonged to both Testaments in part, and to neither in full. He was born a Sephardic Jew and remained very proud of his Jewish roots. He was a member of the Anglican Church, and expressed loyalty to its teachings. But in spite of his being baptized as a child, he was still thought of as a Jew. Winston Churchill put it very well:  “I always believed in Dizzy, that old Jew. He saw into the future.”

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            Benjamin Disraeli’s family were members of the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue of London, a sister Congregation of the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue of New York—where I’ve been associated as rabbi since 1969. The two congregations share the Western Sephardic traditions and religious worldview. When I think of Benjamin Disraeli, I somehow imagine him as one of my own congregants…even though our lives are separated by many decades, and our actual religious commitments are very far apart.

            It is difficult for me to be “proud” of Disraeli, since he was, after all, a Jewish apostate who lived his entire adult life as a Christian. Yet, it is also difficult not to be “proud” of him.  He was, in spite of his being a Christian, very visible as a Jew, very identified as being a Jew. He spoke with tremendous pride of his Jewish antecedents and believed the Christian world owed an immense debt to Judaism and the Jewish people.

            If his father had not had Benjamin baptized, it would have been impossible for him to have risen within the British political system, and he never would have become Prime Minister. His entire success as a statesman was contingent on his being a Christian. Yet, this Christian political figure never stopped being a Jew. However hard his anti-Jewish detractors strove to undermine him, he outmaneuvered, outsmarted, and outlasted them.

            Fortunately, it is not our responsibility or right to judge Disraeli. That is entirely left up to the Almighty. But I admit, without apology, that I still regard this wayward son of the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue as one of our own.

References

Disraeli, Benjamin, Coningsby, Penguin Books, New York, 1989.

_______________, Tancred, CreateSpace Publishing, Scotts Valley Ca., 2015.

Kirsch, Adam, Benjamin Disraeli, Schocken Books, New York, 2008.

Levine, Richard, Benjamin Disraeli, Twayne Publishers Inc., New York, 1968.

Weintraub, Stanley, Disraeli: A Biography, Truman Talley Books, New York, 1998.

Is it proper to tell someone you forgive them if you don't mean it?

In his “Laws of Repentance,” (2:10), Rambam writes: “When a sinner asks forgiveness, one should grant it with a full heart and willing soul. Even if the other has sinned greatly against him and caused him much anguish, he should not take revenge or bear a grudge.”

Rambam expects a lot of us! How can we forgive someone with a full heart when that person has wronged us grievously? How can we be expected to act in such a lofty, saintly manner?

The answer is: when we harbor grudges, we infect ourselves with negative emotions. We are expected to offer forgiveness not only for the sake of the sinner—but for our own sakes. If a person has the courage to apologize to us and admit past sins against us, we now have an opportunity to rid ourselves of negative, self-destructive feelings.

What if we cannot reach this high level of forgiving? Then we should forgive anyway, even if not sincerely. At least this is a step toward reconciliation with the offender. And it is also a step toward self-purification.

Is it good to fill one's sentences with "baruch Hashem," 'iyH," and "bli neder." How about when talking with non Jews?

Genuinely religious people feel the presence of Hashem. They naturally and spontaneously offer blessings. They know that future plans are contingent on the will of Hashem.  They often use such phrases as barukh Hashem or im yirtseh Hashem…and these are sincere expressions of a religiously sensitive person.

If these phrases are used “for show” or to impress others with one’s religiosity, then these phrases are counterfeit. Instead of reflecting genuine piety, they reflect hypocrisy.

Whether speaking with a Jew or non-Jew, one should use such phrases carefully and appropriately. One should neither flaunt one’s piety nor be ashamed to mention blessing and gratitude to the Almighty.

We learn from religious role models. My grandfather Marco Romey, of blessed memory, used to say “bendicho el Dio” (Ladino for barukh Hashem) on many occasions. When he said it, though, he tended to pause a moment so that the words were said with concentration, not merely mumbled as a formula. He set a good example that all of us would do well to follow.

Should parents encourage children to be tolerant of opposing political opinions?

Parents “encourage” their children to be tolerant and respectful by setting the example themselves. Children learn more from their parents’ behavior than from their preachments.

Unfortunately, we face growing divisions within society. The level of vitriol and outright hatred has risen dramatically in recent years. There is a tendency to stick to one’s own views, political or otherwise, and not give careful attention to those who differ. Instead of thoughtful discussion and dialogue, we too often are confronted with hostile shouting and name-calling.

Those who foster extreme divisiveness are part of the problem; we should strive for ourselves and our children to be part of the solution. The issue isn’t merely tolerance of opposing opinions, but actually listening to what the opponents are saying. If they have any truth on their side, admit it. If they are wrong, then refute their positions respectfully.

Some people are so opinionated, it’s not possible to discuss things with them in a calm way. So it’s best to articulate one’s own views without wasting time in useless arguing.

We want our children and grandchildren to grow into responsible, thinking and respectful citizens. Don’t preach at them: set the proper example.

    Elias Canetti (1905-1994), a Bulgarian-born Sephardic Jew, won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1981. He spent part of his youth in Manchester, England, but after the untimely death of his father, his mother took her three sons to Vienna. In 1938, Canetti escaped Europe and Nazi persecution and settled in England. Known as a modernist novelist, playwright, and memoirist, he was a keen observer of human behavior.

In his memoir, The Torch in My Ear, he reflected on an insight that came to him as a young man: “I realized that there is such a thing as a crowd instinct, which is always in conflict with the personality instinct, and that the struggle between the two of them can explain the course of human history” (The Memoirs of Elias Canetti, p. 387).This idea became central to Canetti’s life, ultimately resulting in his classic book Crowds and Power.

     What is the “crowd instinct?” It is the desire to blend into a crowd, to dissolve one’s personality into a large mass of people. The crowd instinct can be witnessed in sports’ arenas, where fans become one with each other and with the players on the field. It can be experienced in mass rallies where fiery orators fire up the crowd, or at rock concerts where fans lose themselves in their wild admiration of the singers and their music. People have a deep desire to be part of such crowds.

     Yet, crowds can become dangerous. When individuals succumb to crowds, demagogues can control them, can drive them to do terrible things, can turn them into lynch mobs or murderous gangs, and can push them into terrorism and war.

     So we also have a “personality instinct,” a deep desire to retain our own ideas and values, to resist the mesmerizing power of crowds.  Although we at times want to share in the enthusiasms and griefs of crowds, we simultaneously want to maintain our inner freedom from the crowds. We want to blend in…but not to blend in.

     Leadership entails working with crowds, striving to create consensus among various factions. Nations demand patriotism, national symbols that inspire citizens to feel united with each other. But nations can become dangerous crowds. Demagogues can manipulate the crowd’s emotions and can control information that they share with the masses.

     How can one resist the power of crowds? For this we need the personality instinct. Each person needs to understand the crowd, but keep enough independence not to totally succumb to the power of the crowd. Each person literally has to be a hero, has to be willing to stand up and stand out…and possibly take terrible risks in order to maintain personal integrity.

     Throughout human history, there has been an ongoing tension between the crowd instinct and the personality instinct.  Too often, the crowd instinct has prevailed. Masses of people have been whipped up to commit the worst atrocities, to murder innocents, to vent hatred.

     In our time, like throughout history, there are those who seek to manipulate crowds in dangerous, murderous and hateful ways. There are those who play on the fears and gullibility of the masses, who dissolve individuality and turn people into frenzied sheep.

     But there are also those who refuse to become part of such crowds, who resist the crowd instinct and maintain the personality instinct. These are the stars who will form a new kind of crowd, a crowd that will bring human beings together in harmony and mutual respect.

     An ever-present problem for people is putting on symbolic masks, pretending to be what they are not. In their desire to blend in or to control, they take on artificial poses in order to manipulate others.

     In describing the impact of a mask on its wearer, Canetti notes: “As long as he wears it he is two things, himself and the mask…Because it can be torn away, its wearer is bound to fear for it. He must take care that he does not lose it; it must never be dropped and must never open. He feels every kind of anxiety about what may happen to it….He must manipulate it, remaining his everyday self, and, at the same time, must change into it as a performer. While he wears the mask he is thus two people and must remain two during the whole of his performance” (Crowds and Power, p. 377).

     One wearing a mask wishes to preserve the illusion of being someone else. Being unmasked would ruin everything. So the mask wearer tries to protect the illusion by staying in control of the mask. No one must be allowed to get past the mask.

     But what happens if the mask wearer comes to identify totally with the mask? Much human tragedy is the result of people forgetting who they are at root; they don various masks and personae. They may imagine that they can only be successful or happy if they adopt a certain persona, if they betray their selves for the sake of winning the approval of others.

     People, in their desire to be popular, often end up play-acting. They dress, speak, laugh, socialize—the way they expect that others want them to dress, speak, laugh and socialize. To gain approval, they will wear whatever mask they think will advance them. The mask-wearers are terrified by those who would unmask them.

     The great challenge for each human being is to be authentic, to resist wearing masks, and resist those who attempt to manipulate us by donning masks of their own. The great challenge to society are those whom Canetti terms “survivors.” These are individuals who cut down or out- maneuver all opponents; they survive the climb to the top of the social ladder ruthlessly. They are thirsty to rule, to control, to command. They demand total obeisance; they feel threatened by anyone who sees through their schemes.

     Canetti writes:  “What has radically changed in our time, however, is the situation of the survivor. …He has been glorified as a hero and obeyed as a ruler but fundamentally he is always the same. His most fantastic triumphs have taken place in our own time, among people who set great store by the idea of humanity. He is not yet extinct, nor ever will be until we have the strength to see him clearly, whatever disguise he assumes and whatever his halo of glory. The survivor is mankind’s worst evil, its curse and perhaps its doom. Is it possible for us to escape him, even now at this last moment?” (Ibid., p. 468).

     Even an observer less gifted than Canetti would have noticed the rise of Nazism and Fascism sweeping through Europe. The mobs were incited by ruthless megalomaniac leaders; ugly crowds were forming; almost unlimited power was granted to a few leaders. The recipe for society’s destruction was in place. Canetti identified the problem, but could do nothing to prevent the inevitable catastrophe. He fled to England where he survived the war.

     Although anti-Semites spoke about “the Jews” as if all Jews were cut of the same cloth, Canetti emphasized the tremendous diversity among Jews.  In recounting his visit to the Jewish Quarter in Marrakesh, Morocco, he wrote:  “ I walked past as slowly as possible and looked at the faces. Their heterogeneity was astonishing. There were faces that in other clothing I would have taken for Arab. There were luminous old Rembrandt Jews. There were Catholic priests of wily quietness and humility. There were Wandering Jews whose restlessness was written in every lineament. There were Frenchmen. There were Spaniards. There were ruddy-complexioned Russians. There was one you felt like hailing as the patriarch Abraham; he was haughtily addressing Napoleon, and a hot-tempered know-all who looked like Goebbels was trying to butt in.  I thought of the transmigration of souls. Perhaps, I wondered, every human soul has to be a Jew once, and here they all are: none remembers what he was before, and even when this is so clearly revealed in his features that I, a foreigner, can recognize it, every one of these people still firmly believes he stands in direct line of descent from the people of the Bible” (The Voices of Marrakesh, p. 40).

     In Crowds and Power, he made the same point. “No people is more difficult to understand than the Jews. Debarred from their country of origin, they have spread over the whole of the inhabited earth. Their talent for adaptation is well known, but the degree of their adaptation is immensely variable….Jews are different from other people, but, in reality, they are most different from each other” (Crowds and Power, pp. 178-9). Canetti points out that Jews are not a “racial” or monolithic group, but rather are united by a shared memory of the Exodus from Egypt of the ancient Israelites. That sense of being a crowd, a wandering crowd yearning for the Promised Land, has been the unifying symbol that binds Jews together.

     The victimization of Jews is an example of how tyranny can prevail in whipping up masses of people to commit horrific crimes against targeted individuals or groups. As long as there are such tyrants, and as long as the masses are willing to go along with them, that is how long it will be until humanity can be redeemed from its own evils.

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     When I learned in 1981 that the Nobel Prize for Literature was awarded to a Sephardic Jew of Judeo-Spanish-speaking background, I was very pleased. Being myself of Judeo-Spanish background, I felt an immediate kinship with Canetti.  But after reading his various writings, I felt a huge distance between us. The “ethnic” link was shaken.

     Canetti wrote in German, the language of culture that his mother instilled in him in Vienna. His major writings are on general human themes, not with any particular “Sephardic” flavor. Even his memoirs left me feeling that his    Sephardic upbringing was far from traditional or representative of Sephardic civilization. But as the years have passed, I find myself feeling much closer to Canetti. I appreciate his keen insights into human motives and behaviors. I admire his close observation of people and places. With prophet-like clarity, he foresaw how humanity could destroy itself…or save itself from the brink.

References

Auto-da-Fe, Continuum, New York, 1974.

Crowds and Power, Seabury Press, NY, 1978.

Kafka’s Other Trial, Schocken Books, New York, 1974

The Memoirs of Elias Canetti, (The Tongue Set Free, The Torch in My Ear, The Play of the Eyes), Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 1999.

The Voices of Marrakesh, Continuum, New York, 1981

A righteous person dies and the soul is brought before the Heavenly tribunal. The Almighty, seeing that this person had lived an exemplary life, gives options.

“In light of your righteousness, you may choose the section of heaven in which to spend eternity. You may opt for your soul to dwell among the great sages of Israel, the finest Torah scholars of all generations.

“I do not choose this.”

Somewhat surprised, the Almighty then offers: “Your soul may dwell among the righteous rulers of the world, those who led their people with honesty and humility.”

“I do not choose this.”

A third offer: “Your soul may dwell among the famous philanthropists who piously shared their wealth with the poor, who financed great institutions for the betterment of humanity.”

“I do not choose this.”

A fourth offer: “Your soul may dwell among famous, brilliant, respected people of all nations who lived righteously.”

“I do not choose this.”

The Almighty then said: “I have offered you wonderful choices and you have rejected them. Where then would you like your soul to dwell for eternity?”

“I would like my soul to be with my parents and grandparents.”

“But they were simple people. They were not scholars; they were not powerful; they were not rich; they were not famous. They were quiet souls who lived quiet lives. I am offering your soul to be in the presence of the souls of much greater people.”

“I would like my soul to be with my parents and grandparents. They lived pure and good lives. They maintained Torah in the face of many obstacles. They did not hurt anyone. They sacrificed greatly to live as pious Jews. They were abused and cheated and disdained; but their faith was strong. Without my parents and grandparents and the millions of other anonymous quiet souls who kept the flame of Judaism alive over all the generations, I would not have been able to live my life as I did. I would like my soul to be with them.”

The Almighty smiled. “You have chosen wisely. It is precisely their section of heaven that is the highest and most blessed. It is precisely due to your parents and grandparents and the millions of other quiet pious souls that I have not given up entirely on humanity.”

And the soul of the righteous person was bound up in eternal life, along with the souls of parents, grandparents and the millions of other quiet pious souls who sustain God’s hope for humanity.

Is it proper for one to be overly familiar and casual with his/her parents?

 Jewish law and tradition emphasize the honor and respect due to parents. Being overly familiar and casual with parents e.g. calling them by their first names, is a breach in proper conduct.

When I grew up among the Sephardim of Seattle, it was expected that children would not only act respectfully to parents, but that we would be deferential to elders and teachers.  The traditional societal structure encouraged a hierarchical system, where the younger generations were imbued with a sense of respect for the older generations. We were not “equals.”

As time has moved on, there has been an increasing societal pressure toward “egalitarianism,” where the traditional hierarchies have been challenged. We now find children addressing parents, teachers and elders by their first names. This isn’t only about names; it’s about an attitude: we are all basically equal, and no one has to defer to anyone else.  While some loosening of the old hierarchical system has positive value, too much loosening leads to an erosion of respect for authority in general.

For a family—and society—to function optimally, it is vital for children and parents to enjoy positive and warm relationships. Austere and authoritarian parenting is not in the best interest of either parents or children. But neither is overly casual and informal parenting to be desired.

Maintaining a proper balance is not always easy…but it is the best way of fostering healthy families and a healthy society.

Is it proper for a husband/father or wife/mother to leave their family for an extended period of time (say, over a month)?

Ideally, parents and children should live happily and peacefully in harmonious households. Extended separations from family are generally not in the best interest of the parties involved.

But we don’t live in an ideal world, and various non-ideal situations arise that may necessitate separations from the family unit. It sometimes happens that one must travel on extended business trips in order to maintain family financial health. While it would be nice to earn a living without having to travel, not everyone can manage this.

In unfortunate cases of physical or emotional abuse, it may be necessary for the victim to separate from the abuser until the situation can be ameliorated. Separation in extreme cases is not only proper, but absolutely necessary.

It is best to follow the advice of Hillel, as recorded in the Pirkei Avot: Don’t judge others until you find yourself in their same situation.

Is it proper to give an aliya to one who has a seiruv issued against them by a reputable beit din?

And generally how should one interact with such a person?

When issued a summons by a reputable beth din, one is obligated to show up. If the beth din ultimately issues a seiruv, the person should face communal disapproval unless there is good reason behind the refusal to appear. Each case needs to be evaluated on its own merits.

When it comes to the area of gittin, a “get” should never be used as a bargaining chip. Once a marriage has broken up, both husband and wife must arrange for a “get” promptly. Their issues of contention over children or property should be settled in a beth din or civil court.

A man who is summoned by a reputable beth din to issue a “get” must comply. If he refuses and the beth din issues a “seiruv,” the man should be treated as though in “herem.” He certainly should not be given an Aliyah or any communal honor. In my view, he should not even be allowed into a synagogue. He should be shunned in business and avoided socially.

It is especially painful to learn of men who attempt to extort money from their wife or her family before agreeing to give a “get.” Such reprehensible behavior not only reflects on the corrupt nature of the man, but casts discredit on the halakhic system that allows or tolerates such corruption.

The “agunah” problem could be ameliorated if all couples are required to sign a binding pre-nuptial agreement that stipulates that both parties will agree to a “get” if, Heaven forbid, the marriage ends in divorce. A recalcitrant party will face heavy and expensive penalties. There are halakhically approved pre-nuptial agreements available from the Rabbinical Council of America and other responsible rabbinic groups.

If you have children of marriageable age, please make sure they insist on a pre-nuptial agreement before their wedding. Much suffering could be avoided if proper precautions are taken early.

 Is it proper to spend time on social media?

Assuming we live to age 90 and sleep an average of 8 hours per night, we spend 30 years of our lives asleep. We spend many additional years at work; and other years on our basic bodily needs, waiting on lines, shopping, going to the doctor and dentist, dealing with illness etc. If we spend one hour a day watching television or on social media, that’s another 1/24th of our lives gone.

Time is our most precious commodity. It is limited and irreplaceable. If we keep this in mind, we will be very careful in how we utilize the time that the Almighty grants us.

Having said this, it is important for each person to decide for him/herself how much time to devote to social media. In many cases, people use social media to stay in touch with family and friends who live far from each other. Without this means of communication, these relationships would suffer. In other cases, people turn to social media to keep up with news, communal events, and items of general interest.

While each person should not squander precious time by overusing social media, neither should anyone decide what is or isn’t proper for anyone else. Each person has the right—and responsibility—to use his and her time in the way that seems best in their personal judgment.

   When Albert Einstein was a little boy, his father showed him a compass. The needle pointed north no matter which way Einstein turned the compass around. This amazed the child. In his autobiography published in 1949, Einstein recalls his feelings on that occasion. “The needle behaved in such a determined way and did not fit into the usual explanation of how the world works. That is that you must touch something to move it. I still remember now, or I believe that I remember, that this experience made a deep and lasting impression on me. There must be something deeply hidden behind everything.”

     But more than his amazement about the compass, Einstein gained another insight. “Why do we come, sometimes spontaneously, to wonder about something? I think that wondering to one’s self occurs when an experience conflicts with our fixed ways of seeing the world.”

     Albert Einstein (1879-1955) was one of humanity’s greatest geniuses, a man whose mind plumbed the depths of universe. But his greatness transcended his being gifted with an extraordinary IQ: he had imagination; he wondered about things; he let his mind drift in new and unexpected pathways. He remarked: “Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world” (Einstein on Cosmic Religion, p. 97).

     Einstein believed that the sense of wonder is an essential foundation for human creativity. “The fairest thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. He who knows it not and can no longer wonder, no longer feel amazement, is as good as dead, a snuffed-out candle” (The World as I See It, p. 7). In one of his famous aphorisms, he asserted: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

     Although Einstein was a deeply religious man, but in his own sense of the word “religion.”  He believed in a cosmic religious sense. “This is hard to make clear to those who do not experience it, since it does not involve an anthropomorphic ideas of God; the individual feels the vanity of human desires and aims, and the nobility and marvelous order which are revealed in nature and in the world of thought” (Einstein on Cosmic Religion, p. 48). He did not subscribe to the classic dogmas and rituals of religion, but was drawn to a cosmic God who is manifested in the awesome orderliness and vastness of nature. “The basis of all scientific work is the conviction that the world is an ordered and comprehensive entity, which is a religious sentiment. My religious feeling is a humble amazement at the order revealed in the small patch of reality to which our feeble intelligence is equal” (Ibid., p. 98). He was convinced that “the cosmic religious experience is the strongest and noblest driving force behind scientific research. The only deeply religious people of our largely materialistic are the earnest men of research” (Ibid. pp. 52, 54).

     He described his own understanding of religiosity: “A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, of the manifestations of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which are only accessible to our reason in their most elementary forms—it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute the truly religious attitude; in this sense, and in this alone, I am a deeply religious man” (The World as I See It, p. 7).

     Einstein, while proud of his Jewish identity, was not particularly observant of Jewish religious traditions. His religious focus remained “cosmic,” not particularistic. He tended to view Judaism (and “organized” religion in general) as being bogged down in dogmas and rituals, not centered on cosmic religion. Einstein’s cosmic religious sense infused his scientific work.

     His papers on general and special relativity led to a dramatic revolution in scientific thought. In 1922 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for his work in physics.

     When Hitler came to power, Einstein realized there was no future for Jews in Germany. He settled in the United States, and was appointed head of the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton University. While philosophically aligned with pacifism, he played a significant role in having the United States develop atomic weapons.

     Along with his intellectual and scientific work, Einstein was famous for his advocacy of ethics, social justice, and human rights. He identified with the Zionist movement, which offered Jews the possibility of living in their own land of Israel. Given the prevalence of anti-Semitism, he understood that Jews needed a safe haven where they could live as dignified and free human beings. He lent his name to the establishment of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, and was hopeful that the Jewish return to their ancient homeland would usher in a new era of Jewish creativity.

     He became a member of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and campaigned for the civil rights movement in America. In 1946, Einstein was awarded an honorary degree by Lincoln University in Pennsylvania—a historically black college. In his address on that occasion, he spoke about the scourge of racism in America, stating that “I do not intend to be quiet about it.” And he wasn’t.

     He viewed his Jewishness as a foundation of his humanitarian outlook.  He noted: “The pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, an almost fanatical love of justice, and the desire for personal independence—these are the features of the Jewish tradition which make me thank my stars that I belong to it” (The World as I See It, p. 103).  He believed that “the bond that has united the Jews for thousands of years and that unites them today is, above all, the democratic ideal of social justice, coupled with the ideal of mutual ad and tolerance among all men” (Ideas and Opinions, p. 195).

     While stressing the long-standing Jewish commitment to social justice, Einstein lamented the general moral decay which he felt was setting into society.  “One misses the elementary reaction against injustice and for justice—that reaction which in the long run represents man’s only protection against a relapse into barbarism” (Out of My Later Years, p. 10). He felt that technological advances gave humans great powers—but that if these powers were misused, then catastrophe would ensue. He was optimistic that humanity had the ability to achieve a better world. “If we desire sincerely and passionately the safety, the welfare and the free development of the talents of all men, we shall not be in want of the means to approach such a state” (Ibid., p. 113).

     Einstein sought a Grand Unified Theory that would explain the workings of the universe in a comprehensive way. He was convinced of the ultimate orderliness and unity of nature. In spite of his mighty brain and his tremendous efforts, he was unable to achieve his goal. But he pointed the way for others who would continue the search.

                                                                   *     *     *

            When I was a student at Yeshiva College, I wanted to gain an understanding of Einstein’s theories of relativity so I enrolled in a philosophy of science class. The professor was excellent; the readings were enlightening; the assignments were challenging. I was a diligent student—but I was unable to fully grasp Einstein’s theories.

            In the process of my readings for the class, I came across a passage from Einstein that was more important to me than my failed efforts to understand relativity. The passage reflected Einstein’s genius, humility, and ultimate optimism. “Our lives are so small that we are too often in our solitude like children crying in the dark. Nevertheless our little solitude is a great and august solitude in which we can contemplate things that are greater than mankind.”

            And if that is all that I learned from the class, I have no complaints.

References:

Einstein On Cosmic Religion and Other Opinions and Aphorisms, Dover Publications, Mineola, 2009.

Essays in Humanism, Philosophical Library, New York, 1978.

Ideas and Opinions, Three Rivers Press, New York, 1954.

Out of My Later Years, Citadel Press, Secaucus, 1956.

The World as I See It, Citadel Press, New York, 2006.

(These are exerpts from Rabbi Marc D. Angel's book, Voices in Exile, pp. 103-110).   

 Rabbi Yaacov Huli (1689-1732) was born and raised in Jerusalem, where he received an excellent rabbinic education. When he went to Istanbul in 1714, his profound and expansive rabbinic knowledge won him the respect of the great scholars of that city. Rabbi Yehudah Rosanes, chief rabbi of the community and a world-renowned scholar, appointed the young Rabbi Huli to his rabbinical court. When Rabbi Rosanes died some years later, it was Yaacov Huli who compiled and edited his master's classic commentary on Maimonides' Mishneh Torah, known as Mishneh leMelekh.

     Rabbi Huli was disturbed by the low level of Jewish instruction available to the working class and the poor. If they had no access to the Hebrew Bible and rabbinic texts, how were they to be fully observant Jews? How were they to know what the Torah required of them? The proliferation of scholarly rabbinic texts in Hebrw did nothing to improve the spiritual condition of those whose academic training was deficient.

     Rabbi Huli conceived the idea of producing a comprehensive work in Judeo-Spanish for the benefit of the Sephardic public. Entitled Me'am Lo'ez, it was framed as a commentary on the Torah. The first volume, published in 1730, dealt with the Book of Genesis. In this work, Rabbi Huli provided classic rabbinic interpretations and commentaries on the biblical verses. Laws and customs, rabbinic homilies, and ethical lessons were interspersed throughout the work.  The book was written in a popular, engaging style. Indeed, Rabbi Huli worried that it would be used merely for entertainment rather than for serious Torah study. As a work in the vernacular, it was available to a wide audience. It was written in a language and style which they could understand, appreciate, and enjoy.  The Me'am Lo'ez was something of an encyclopedia of biblical and rabbinic learning, so that those who studied it derived a wide array of information and inspiration.

     Rabbi Huli intended to publish similar volumes for all the books of the Torah. He did complete Genesis and much of Exodus. After his untimely death at the age of forty-three, other rabbis continued the work in the spirit of Rabbi Huli, comleting the Five Books of Moses and other biblical books as well.

     The Me'am Lo'ez was an immediate success. It went into numerous editions and was read enthusiastically by a large audience. Rabbi Huli had constructed the work so that people would be able to study the weekly Torah portion from it. The book was used in this manner by families and study groups, and in synagogues.....

     Rabbi Huli did not think of the Me'am Lo'ez as an original work. Rather, he viewed himself as a compiler of many and diverse classic Jewish sources. He was pleased to be a popularizer, bringing comprehensive knowledge to the public in a lucid and pleasant style. But his approach was indeed original. It was he who decided what material to include and what to exclude; how to present it in a lively manner; how to capture the interest of his readers and speak to their everyday needs. In many wasy, the Me'am Lo'ez mirrored the spiritual life of the Judeo-Spanish speaking world of the time....

     The Me'am Lo'ez appealed to the masses because it was sympathetic to the poor and downtrodden. Rabbi Huli drew on traditional sources which extolled humility and honest labor. Rabbi Huli explained that there was no shame in working for an honest living. One should not think it beneath his dignity to work at a craft or any other honest occupation, and should not attempt to live in a style beyond his means (Genesis 12:4). When our forefather Jacob prayed, he asked only for bread and clothing, not for any luxuries. Truly pious people did not seek superfluous things, but were happy with the basic necessities which God provided them (Genesis 28:22).

     God created Adam from dust, not from gold (Genesis 1:1). He created a vast universe. One who looks at the sky at night and contemplates the countless stars cannot help but be overwhelmed by the grandeur and power of God. He is humbled by his own smallness in the universe. This feeling of humility leads one to serve God with devotion and purity (Genesis 2:7).

     A facet of humility is that one should not try to show off his piety and righteousness. On the contrary, one should walk humbly with God, keeping his piety as private as possible. Rabbi Huli reminded his readers that one is allowed to bow only in designated places during the silent devotion, the Amidah. To bow more frequently would be a sign of presumptuousness and false piety. One should not do things which will make him appear to be more pious than other worshippers (Genesis 12:4).

     The work of Rabbi Huli reflected the midrashic/kabbalist view of life which then predominated among the Sephardim in Moslem lands. Philosophic inquiry was no longer a vital part of the intellectual life of the community. The emphasis was on an absolute commitment to observing the halakhah in all its details. Kabbalah was recognized to have inestimable value and was a necessary ingredient in religious life. The willing acceptance of God's decrees with equanimity was encouraged, engendering a relative passivity. The predominant worldview emphasized loyalty to rabbis and the rabbinic tradition. The messianic hope was expressed longingly, wishfully.

(NOTE:  Rabbi Huli's last name is sometimes presented as Culi, rather than Huli. But the name Huli is the correct way the name was pronounced by Sephardim. Indeed, Rabbi Huli himself alluded to his name when he entitled his work Me'am Lo'ez, drawn from Psalm 114.  The word "lo'ez" refers to a foreign language, in this case Ladino.  Toward the end of the Psalm, the verse reads: milifnei adon HULI arets, milifnei Elo-kei YAACOV, a clear allusion to his own name, Yaacov Huli.)

In his book, The Perspective of Civilization, Fernand Braudel utilizes a concept that he calls “world-time.” Braudel notes that at any given point in history, all societies are not at the same level of advancement. The leading countries exist in world-time; that is, their level of advancement is correlated to the actual date in history. However, there also are countries and civilizations which are far behind world-time, whose way of life may be centuries or even millennia behind the advanced societies. In this year of 5745, for example, the advanced technological countries exist in world-time while underdeveloped countries lag generations behind; some societies are still living as their ancestors did centuries ago. In short, everyone in the world may be living at the same chronological date, but different societies may be far from each other in terms of world-time.

Braudel's analysis also can be extended to the way people think. Even though people may be alive at the same time, their patterns of thinking may be separated by generations or even centuries.

The characteristic of Modern Orthodoxy is that it is modern, that it is correlated to the contemporary world-time. Being part of contemporary world-time, it draws on the teachings of modern scholarship, it is open to modern philosophy and literature, and it relates Jewish law to contemporary world realities. On the other hand, “non-modern” Orthodoxy does not operate in the present world-time. Its way of thinking and dealing with contemporary reality are pre-modern, generations behind contemporary world-time. Thus, there are deep mental gulfs of time between such Orthodox people as Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik and the Satmar Rebbe, or between many members of the Rabbinical Council of America and many members of the Agudath haRabbanim. It is not that one is more Orthodox than the other: their belief in God, Torah min haShamayim (divine revelation of the Torah) and the sanctity of the Written and Oral Law are shared commitments. The differences between so-called right-wing Orthodoxy and Modern Orthodoxy are not differences in sincerity or in authentic commitment. Rather, the differences stem from different world views, from living in different world-times.

A Modern Orthodox rabbi does not wish to think like a medieval rabbi, even though he wishes to fully understand what the medieval rabbi wrote and believed. The Modern Orthodox halakhist wishes to draw on the wisdom of the past, not to be part of the past.

The philosophy of Modern Orthodoxy is not at all new. Rather, it is a basic feature of Jewish thought throughout the centuries. In matters of halakha, for example, it is axiomatic that contemporary authorities are obligated to evaluate halakhic questions from their own immediate perspective, rather than to rely exclusively on the opinions of rabbis of previous generations. Rambam (Hilkhot Mamrim 2: 1) writes: “A great court—bet din gadol—when interpreting the Torah with one of the hermeneutic principles, found that the law on a certain matter was such-and-such, and then another court came afterward and found a reason to reject the ruling of the first court—the second bet din rejects the ruling of the first bet din and rules according to what it deems correct. As it is said (Devarim17:9) 'To the judge who will be in office at that time'—you are not obligated to go except to the bet din of your generation.” The well-known phrase that “Yiftah in his generation is like Shemuel in his generation” (Rosh haShanah 25b) expresses the need to rely on contemporary authorities, even if they are not of the stature of the authorities of previous generations. We are obligated to be “Modern Orthodox,” to recognize present reality and to participate in contemporary world-time.

Rabbi Haim David Halevy (Aseh Lekha Rav, 2:61) deals with the case of a judge who had reached a certain halakhic conclusion and gave a ruling on it. The judge then learned that another judge greater than he ruled on the same case but came to another conclusion. Should the first judge change his decision and rely on the authority of the greater one, or is he obligated to maintain his own position if he truly believes it to be correct? Rabbi Halevy quotes Rambam (Hilkhot Sanhedrin 23:9), who states the principle that En leDayan ella mah sheEnav ro’ot—a judge has only what his eyes see. Rabbi Halevy states that the decision of a judge must be based solely on his own understanding of the case he is considering. “And no legal precedent obligates him, even if it is a decision of courts greater than he, even of his own teachers.” Later in the same responsum, Rabbi Halevy writes: “Not only does a judge have the right to rule against his rabbis; he also has an obligation to do so (if he believes their decision to be incorrect, and he has strong proofs to support his own position). If the decision of those greater than he does not seem right to him, and he is not comfortable following it, and yet he follows that decision (in deference to their authority), then it is almost certain that he has rendered a false judgment (din sheker).”

The key principle here is that each judge must make a decision based on what his own eyes see. Obviously, a judge will want to understand the reasons why the greater rabbis and courts came to their conclusions. Perhaps by studying them, he will realize that he has erred and subsequently change his opinion. However, if after all his studying and analyzing the previous decisions he still maintains that his opinion is the correct one, he is then obligated to rule according to his own conclusion. He is not bound by precedent or by the weight of greater authorities.
One of the weaknesses of contemporary Orthodoxy is that it is not “modern” in the sense just discussed. There is a prevailing attitude that teaches us to revere the opinions of the sages of previous generations, and to defer to those contemporary sages who occupy a world-time contemporary with those sages. Who is addressing halakhic questions today on the basis of what his own eyes see? Who are the sages of the present world-time, who absorb the contemporary reality, the contemporary ways of thinking and analyzing?

It is a common lament among Modern Orthodox Jews that Modern Orthodoxy lacks courage. Modern Orthodoxy is intimidated by the so-called right-wing, by the group of Jews that is pre-modern. Modern Orthodox scholars are reluctant to express their opinions and rulings for fear of losing religious stature in the eyes of the more fundamentalistic Orthodox Jews. When a Modern Orthodox scholar does express his own opinion, he often is criticized sharply by the pre-Modern Orthodox, and he is not adequately supported by the Modern Orthodox. The spiritual climate of today makes it very easy to remain quiet rather than risk lonely spiritual battle against forces that are more militant and more vocal.

We need to understand that the difference between Modern Orthodoxy and pre-Modern Orthodoxy is not one of religious validity. And we also must understand that being Modern Orthodox or pre-Modern Orthodox does not make our decisions necessarily right or wrong. To be Modern Orthodox Jews means to accept our limitations, but it also means that we must accept our responsibility to judge according to what our own eyes see, according to our own understanding. It means to have the self-respect to accept that responsibility.
Modern Orthodoxy and pre-Modern Orthodoxy do not engage in intelligent dialogue because they operate on separate time waves. They follow different assumptions.

In a recent discussion concerning the adoption of a pre-nuptial agreement to avoid the agunah (abandoned wife) problem, a pre-modern opinion has been expressed that we should not initiate a new procedure, since this would seem to imply that we are more sensitive and creative than the sages of previous generations who did not initiate such a procedure. This kind of argument cannot be countered with a reasonable discussion. This is an argument from a different world-time. The argument, which is fairly widespread, is essentially ludicrous. Throughout the centuries, our sages have initiated takanot (corrective decrees) in their communities to meet the contemporary needs of their people. Did they think it was an insult to their predecessors to be responsive to contemporary needs? Did Rabbenu Gershom slander all previous generations of rabbis by instituting his takanot?

The fact is that rabbis in all generations have had to face the serious responsibility of leading their communities in the ways of Torah. They have drawn on the wisdom and holiness of our sages of previous generations, but they ultimately have had to rely on their own judgment and on what their own eyes saw. The sages of each generation are influenced by the social and political realities of their time. If many of our sages believed in demons and witches, if they thought that the sun revolved around the earth, or if they assigned inferior status to women and slaves—we can understand that they were part of a world that accepted these notions. We do not show disrespect for them by understanding the context in which they lived and thought. On the contrary, we are able to understand their words better, and thus we may determine how they may or may not be applied to our own contemporary situation It is not disrespectful to our sages if we disagree with their understanding of physics, psychology, sociology, or politics. On the contrary, it would be foolish not to draw on the advances in these fields that have been made throughout the generations, including those of our own time.

There is no sense in forcing ourselves into an earlier world-time in order to mold our ways of thinking into harmony with modes of thought of sages who lived several hundred or even several thousand years ago.

Modern Orthodoxy requires us to live in the present world-time, knowing full well that many of the notions which we consider true and basic may become discredited in future centuries. We do not want those future generations of rabbis to be limited in their thinking to what we are thinking and teaching today. We want them to be respectful of our teachings and to consider our words seriously; but it is they who must lead their generation. Our time is now, and only now. The Torah, which is eternal, requires Jews to go to the judge living and serving in their own time.

Specific Examples

If we take Modern Orthodoxy seriously, then we will study talmudic passages and halakhic sources with an eye to understanding their historical and intellectual context. Sometimes we will come across texts that have broad halakhic implications but whose application to the contemporary situation is problematic. The following are several specific examples of the conflict that arises.

Shabbat Desecrators

There is a well-known rabbinic dictum: “One who desecrates the Shabbat in public is as an idol worshipper” (Hullin 5a). This statement underscores the importance of Shabbat in Jewish thought and practice. To desecrate Shabbat publicly is an open statement that one denies that God created the world in six days and ceased working on the seventh. By extension, one who blasphemes God as Creator by desecrating Shabbat is indeed like an idol worshipper, i.e., he does not recognize the one true God, Creator of heaven and earth (see Rashi, ad loc.).

Flowing from this statement are a host of halakhot. A mehallel Shabbat (Shabbat desecrator) is disqualified from serving as a shohet (ritual slaughterer). Even if he slaughters an animal entirely in accordance with Jewish law, the meat may not be eaten by Jews (Rambam, Hilkhot Shehitah 4:14). A mehallel Shabbat may not serve as a witness, since he is in the category of rasha (evildoer). If he touches wine, we may not drink it, just as if the wine were touched by an idol worshipper. Rabbi Haim David Halevy (Aseh Lekha Rav, 5: 1) discusses whether a mehallel Shabbat may be counted as part of a minyan. He quotes the Peri Megadim, who stated that “a mumar (willful transgressor) to avodah zarah (idol worship), one who desecrates Shabbat, or one who violates any commandment lehakhis (willfully), behold he is as an idolater and is not included (in the minyan).” Moreover, following this principle to its conclusion, a mehallel Shahbat may not be given an aliya to the Torah, just as we may not call an idolater to the Torah.
There are several options available to us on how to deal with this set of halakhot and the principle on which they are based.

We may accept the statement at face value that in fact a mehallel Shabbat is like an idolater, and is subject to the aforementioned disqualifications. To hold this position, we must posit that the talmudic statement and the halakhic development of that statement transcend all generations, and are as applicable now as when first stated. Consequently, we should maintain the ancient standard without compromise, regardless of ramifications. If the talmudic characterization of a mehallel Shabhat is equally applicable to our time, then we should fight heroically to defend the principle and the laws based on it. This is essentially the opinion of the “pre-modern” Orthodox.

The Modern Orthodox position is that this statement simply cannot be taken at face value in our time. The number of Jews who violate Shabbat far exceeds the number of those who observe Shabbat.

One approach is to express loyalty to the original statement while finding extenuating circumstances so that the implications of the original statement need not be fully applied. For example, Rabbi Haim David Halevy was asked a question (Aseh Lekha Rav. 5:1) that posed the problem of a small synagogue that had a minyan only if Shabbat desecrators were included. Should the Shabbat desecrators be counted for minyan, even though this would be against the basic law? Or should the synagogue be closed due to a lack of a proper minyan? Rabbi Halevy writes. “It is incumbent upon us to find a way of being lenient.” It bothers him that a synagogue should have to close because of the technicality of the mehallel Shabbat. He offers several arguments to justify his position. As an extra point, he gives the following analysis:

A mehallel Shabbat in public who is disqualified from being counted into a minyan of ten—this refers only to those early days when they understood and valued the seriousness of the prohibition [of Shabbat] and also nearly everyone was scrupulous in observing Shabbat according to the law, so that one who ‘breaches the fence’ was disqualified. But this is not true in our time. Our eyes see a multitude of Shabbat desecrators, and the overwhelming majority do not understand and do not realize the seriousness of the prohibition. Behold: they come to the synagogue and pray and read in the Torah, and do not understand and do not realize—they walk in darkness—and afterwards they desecrate the Shabbat. And perhaps such as these are as a tinok sheNishbah (a child who was captured and then grew up among heathens, and is not held accountable for his transgressions, for he never knew any differently).

In another responsum (Aseh Lekha Rav, 3:16) Rabbi Halevy deals with the question whether a Bar Mitzvah and his family may be called to the Torah, if they come to the synagogue on Shabbat in a car. His answer is that we must try to bring the young boy and his family closer to the Torah, and not reject them. He quotes his own earlier work, Mekor Hayyim haShalem, (vol. 3, 122:20), where he wrote that according to the technicality of the law, those who desecrate Shabbat in public should not be called to the Torah; yet, if there is a fear that this will cause bad feelings, then such people should be called to the Torah as hosafot (those called to the Torah beyond the required seven). This is so “since in our generation, an orphan generation, it is proper to be lenient in such circumstances, and it is our obligation to bring them closer and not to push them further away, and God in His goodness will have mercy on us.”

Rabbi David Tzevi Hoffmann (Melammed Leho'il, no. 29) deals with the question of whether a mehallel Shabbat in public may be counted in a minyan. He first lists sources that forbid such a man from being counted. Then he goes on to say: “In our time it is customary to be lenient in this, even in Hungary, and certainly in Germany.” He mentions the case of a man who kept his business open on Shabbat who wanted to serve as the sheli'ah tsibbur (leader of public prayer services) during his period of mourning. He was allowed to do this in a synagogue even though the gabbai (one in charge of delegating responsibilities during services) who let him lead the service was a learned and God-fearing man. Rabbi Hoffmann asked the gabbai why he did not prevent the man from leading the service. The gabbai answered that it had long been the custom not to prevent such people from leading services. Since the rabbis of that synagogue were outstanding scholars and they allowed this practice, Rabbi Hoffmann concludes that they must have had a good reason. He suggests that perhaps they relied on a responsum of Binyan Tziyyon haHadashot, no. 23,which stated that “Mehallelei Shabbat in our time are considered somewhat like a tinok sheNishbah, since—due to our great iniquities—the majority of Jews in our country are mehallelei Shabbat, and it is not their intention to deny the basic tenets of our faith.”

Rabbi Hoffmann then writes that he was told by Rabbi Meshulam Zalman Hakohen in the name of the author of Sho'el uMeshiv, who wrote: “The people in America are not disqualified because of their hillul Shabbat, since they are as tinok sheNishbah.” Although it would be better to pray among Jews who were all Shabbat-observant, there is enough precedent to be lenient in this matter.

Rabbi Hoffmann concludes by offering the following analysis:

In our time, such people are not called mehallel Shabbat in public, because the majority of Jews violate the laws of Shabbat. If the majority of Jews were observant and a few of them were arrogant enough to violate Shabbat, then this minority would be guilty of denying the Torah and of committing a disgraceful act and of removing themselves from the community of Israel. [This is obviously the original context of the talmudic statement.] However, since the contemporary reality is that the majority of Jews violate Shabbat, the individual does not think that violating Shabbat is such a terrible crime. His public transgression today is equated to beTsinah (transgressions of the Shabbat done in private).

Rabbi Hoffmann concludes by lamenting that in our times, those who observe Shabbat are considered separatists, while the transgressors are considered to be following the normal pattern.

Rabbi Hoffmann's concluding discussion makes it clear that the original context of the talmudic statement equating a Shabbat violator with an idolater cannot be applied to the contemporary situation. We cannot judge someone to be a desecrator of Shabbat if he does not realize the true sanctity of the day. There are a great many Jews who transgress Shabbat laws, but who consider themselves to be perfectly upright Jews. They do not view themselves as denying God as Creator or as repudiating the basic principles of our faith.

The challenge of Modern Orthodoxy is to review the true status of Jews who violate Shabbat today. If someone had been religious and had studied the laws of Shabbat—and then consciously decided to violate Shabbat as a sign of rebellion against the Torah—then such a person may fit into the talmudic category and should be penalized accordingly. If, however, a person never understood the sanctity of Shabbat, his violation of the laws of Shabbat does not reflect heresy or hatred of Torah. On the contrary, it reflects his ignorance and his being part of a Jewish community that largely does not observe Shabbat properly. Such a person is like a tinok sheNishbah, and should not be subject to the penalties accorded to a true mehallel Shabbat in public. This position is stated not as a compromise with the authentic halakha; this is the actual halakha. The Talmud simply was not referring to the situation we have today. And we must judge according to the present world-time, according to what our own eyes see.

Another insight into this question may be drawn from the laws of shehitah. Rambam (Hilkhot Shehitah 4:14) rules that a mehallel Shabbat is disqualified from serving as a shohet. Even if he performs the shehitah perfectly in accordance with halakha, and even if there are reliable religious Jews overseeing his shehitah, the meat is still not considered to be kasher. In halakha 4:16, though, Rambam rules that a Sadducee or another person who denies the Oral Torah may not serve as a shohet; but if he does slaughter an animal in the presence of a trustworthy Jew, then the meat may be eaten. The Sadducee is not totally disqualified from performing shehitah. Yet, a problem arises. According to us, a Sadducee is definitely a mehallel Shabbat. Sadducees do not accept the Oral Torah; since many of the laws of Shabbat are known only from the Torah sheBe’al peh, it is inevitable that a Sadducee will not observe Shabbat as we do. He will be transgressing rules that we consider basic to Shabbat observance.

It seems, then, that a Sadducee—though he violates the laws of Shabbat in public—does not become disqualified as a desecrator of Shabbat. His lack of observance is based on a lack of knowledge, or on misguided teachings he has received. But he does not perceive himself at all as one who desecrates the Shabbat, even though from our point of view he is violating many laws. The rulings pertaining to a mehallel Shabbat are applied only to an individual who recognizes the severity of his actions and who desecrates Shabbat as a sign of his rejection of God and Torah.

The Status of Women

Let us move on to another area of discussion. In several places (Kiddushin 80b, Shabbat 33b) we find the statement that Nashim da 'atan kalah. Generally, this statement is translated to mean that women are temperamentally lightheaded or that women's understanding is light. We also have the remarkable statement of Rabbi Eliezer (Sotah 20a) that whoever teaches his daughter Torah teaches her tiflut (foolishness or obscenity). These statements reflect a cultural bias against women that was pervasive in ancient society, and which still can be found in less-advanced societies today. These statements reflect the world-time of their authors. From a literary or historical standpoint, it would be fairly easy to dismiss these and similar comments by arguing that they belong to a particular time and a certain way of thought.

The problem arises, though, in that these sentiments were not left merely as opinions of rabbis on the nature of women; they were incorporated into practical halakha. The following is a quotation from Rambam, Hilkhot Talmud Torah (I:13):

A woman who learns Torah receives a reward, but not the same reward as a man, since she was not commanded (to study Torah); and anyone who does something for which he [she] was not commanded does not receive reward on the same level as someone who was commanded and who performed it, but rather receives less. And although she does have a reward, our sages commanded that a man must not teach his daughter Torah since the intelligence of the majority of women is not geared to be instructed; rather, they reduce the words of Torah to matters of foolishness according to the poverty of their understanding. Our sages said: one who teaches his daughter Torah is as though he taught her foolishness. To what does this refer? To the Oral Torah; but as for the Written Torah, he should not teach her. If he did teach her it is not as though he taught her foolishness.

Once talmudic statements are incorporated into halakhic codes, they transcend their own original world-time and become a factor in the thinking of all later generations. The modern sensibility that accords women equal intellect with men comes into conflict not only with ancient talmudic statements, but also with practical halakha. How are we to deal with this dilemma?

We may submit ourselves to the talmudic world-time. We may argue that the statements of our sages are true and binding on all future generations. Since Rambam rules that women may not be taught Torah and that their ability to learn is poor, we should see to it that our daughters receive no formal Torah education, except in the mitzvoth that concern them directly. Moreover, when we teach girls, we should treat them as being intellectually inferior compared to boys, and therefore we should have different curricula for girls and for boys. This point of view is adopted by pre-modern Orthodox.

There are schools for girls where the girls do not learn Talmud and where their curriculum is different from that in boys' schools. There is no yeshiva for girls in the same sense as there are yeshivot for boys who wish to devote their days and nights to the study of Torah.

Among the Modern Orthodox, though, there is a general recognition that our social situation is radically different from that of previous generations. The need to educate our daughters in Torah has been widely recognized, even though there is still great difference of opinion as to how they should be educated. Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef wrote a responsum (Shanah beShanah, 5743, pp. 157–161) in which he permitted the celebration of Bat Mitzvah for girls who have reached the age of twelve. In the course of the responsum, he quotes Rabbi Yehiel Yaakov Weinberg (Seridei Esh, 3:93), who wrote that it was perfectly proper to celebrate a Bat Mitzvah.

And concerning those who argue against this because this was not practiced in previous generations: this is no argument at all, since in the generations before us they did not have to engage in the education of their daughters because every Jew was filled with Torah and fear of God, and the entire environment was filled with a pure spirit and the holiness of Judaism….But now, due to our many sins, the generations have undergone a very great change. The influence of the street destroys and uproots all attachment to Judaism from the hearts of Jewish girls. It is incumbent upon us to rally all our strength for the education of girls; and to our joy, the sages of the previous generation already took a stand and established educational institutions of Torah and understanding for Jewish girls….And if the distinction that is made between boys and girls [in terms of Bar or Bat Mitzvah] severely damages the human sensibility of the girl, it is permissible to have a party and celebration at home for girls who celebrate their Bat Mitzvah.

Since times and conditions have changed, we must adapt to the new realities.

The Modern Orthodox approach calls on us to re-evaluate the original sources and the halakhot based on those sources. We need to determine whether those statements refer to us at all. If they do then we must follow them regardless of the social consequences and implications. If they do not, then we have the freedom to deal with the reality before us without having to apologize.

The idea that women's intelligence is inferior, that girls should not learn Torah because it is too complicated for them—this is a notion that generally is discredited among intelligent people in our world-time. What possible value can there be in arguing in defense of untenable attitudes?

General evidence in modern education shows that girls are perfectly able to learn and to make great intellectual achievements. If women can win Nobel Prizes, if they can become doctors and lawyers and judges and engineers—why should they be unable to tackle the complexities of Talmud and halakha? Our eyes see that the understanding of women is not any lighter than that of men. We can understand why ancient and medieval rabbis wrote the way they did, because they lived in an environment where women generally were relegated to inferior status. But we cannot apply those outgrown attitudes to our contemporary life. We need to say: We are not “compromising” on halakha by educating our daughters in Torah; rather, we are establishing the halakha that women and girls must learn Torah commensurate with their abilities, which are equal to those of men and boys. (See R. Haim David Halevy, Aseh Lekha Rav, 2:52.)

It is difficult for Modern Orthodoxy to muster the courage to deal with such cases in a straightforward way. It is easier to surrender to an earlier world-time; or even to work out gradual compromises, which take a long time and which create much dissatisfaction. It is easier not to assume the responsibility for our generation. Because of the extreme caution of Orthodoxy not to “insult” the rabbis of previous generations, there is a reluctance to make any changes or to move in new directions.

This paralysis may be exemplified by the well-known blessing in our Siddur “shelo assani isha.” Based on a Talmudic statement (Menahot 43b), a man is obligated to bless God each day “for not having made me a woman.” This statement has been subject to much commentary, apologetics, controversy. In trying to explicate the real meaning of the statement, we can state that the blessing is not supposed to be anti-woman; rather, it is a way of thanking God for having given men extra mitzvoth that are not incumbent upon women. Granted that this statement was made with this meaning and that it intended no harm, the reality is that the statement in its present form is offensive to modern sensibilities. Trying to explain this blessing to daughters, to girls in religious school and day school, is not the easiest of tasks. In spite of all our apologetics, girls and women—if they are encouraged to think independently—resent the formulation of the blessing. Moreover, boys and men who recite the text may absorb, consciously or unconsciously, anti-female attitudes.

But once the text is in the Siddur—and has been there for centuries—who is willing to take responsibility to change it or to eliminate it? The right-wing Orthodox may believe that the statement is perfectly innocuous and reflects a genuine truth. Others may offer interpretations of the blessing to try to make it more acceptable to the modern sensibility. But isn’t it ludicrous for intelligent people today to argue in defense of a statement that is quite problematic, to say the least? A true modern Orthodox position would be to change the blessing to a more suitable formula, one that does not cast negative aspersions on women. Making such a change does not imply that we are more sensitive or more intelligent than our predecessors; it only reflects the fact that we are living in a different world-time and tha we are responding to the needs of our generation. “Yiftah bedoro kiShmuel bedoro.” We should not be hampered by the fact that the Conservative movment has made a change in the blessing’s formulation. We should be concerned with the situation, not with labels.

The Nahem Prayer

Let us consider one further example of the dissonance between ancient texts and contemporary reality. Rabbi Haim David Halevy initiated a change in a text of a prayer for Tisha b'Av— a change that was eminently intelligent. Yet he was criticized sharply by many people. On Tisha b'Av, we have the prayer that begins Nahem, which describes Jerusalem as a destroyed, and desolate city without its children. Rabbi Halevy said that the statement is no longer true. Jerusalem is filled with Jews, and is definitely not destroyed, humiliated, and desolate. How, therefore, can someone recite the traditional prayer when in fact the prayer is false? To recite this text would make us guilty of reciting falsehoods before God. Therefore, Rabbi Halevy changed parts of the Nahem text to the past tense, asking God to console the city that was destroyed, humiliated, and desolate (Aseh Lehha Rav, 1: 14). Rabbi Halevy defends his position eloquently (Aseh Lekha Rav,2:36-39). It is indeed amazing that his position should have been criticized at all, since it is so perfectly sensible and understandable. Yet, such is the fear of change, that many were ready to criticize this ruling.

The same critics have no problem reciting a prayer to God that in fact includes an obvious lie: Jerusalem is not destroyed, humiliated, nor desolate of its children.

For Modern Orthodoxy to succeed in meeting its responsibility, it will be necessary for us to recognize that we are part of the contemporary world-time. We should have a blue ribbon panel composed of Modern Orthodox rabbinic scholars who will be willing to evaluate the above examples as well as so many others, and to come up with specific halakhic rulings for our generation. If we have the confidence and good sense to lead, we may be surprised to find that many people are ready to follow. It is up to us to bring Orthodoxy into the modern generation and world-time.

Some years ago, I read about a German Jew who established a "Jewish Nazi Society" during the 1930s. While Jews throughout Germany (and Europe in general) were facing horrible anti-Jewish persecutions, this Jewish man internalized the vicious anti-Semitic propaganda to such an extent that he also became a Jew-hater. Perhaps he thought that by identifying as a Nazi, he would be spared personally from the anti-Jewish persecutions. He wanted to be considered as "a good Jew" in the eyes of the Nazis, rather than be accounted among the "bad" Jews whom the Nazis were tormenting.

 I don't know what ultimately happened to the members of the "Jewish Nazi Society", but I doubt that they were spared by the Nazi hate machine. The Nazis hated Jews for having Jewish blood, regardless of their beliefs or political leanings. Jewish Nazis were just as despicable to Nazis as any other Jews. The Jewish Nazis were despised by Jews for their treachery; and despised by Nazis for their Jewishness.

These thoughts came to mind as I contemplated the phenomenon of Jews in our time who struggle to undermine Israel, and who identify themselves with those who strive to destroy the Jewish State. These individuals seem to suffer from the same psychological problems as members of the "Jewish Nazi Society" in Germany. Israel is constantly barraged by its enemies--through terrorism, economic boycotts, political isolation, anti-Israel propaganda, threats of war and nuclear destruction. To the enemies of Israel, the Jewish State is the object of blind, unmitigated hatred. The enemies use every possible forum to malign Israel and deny its legitimacy. This unceasing war against Israel is resisted courageously by the Jewish State, by Jewish supporters of Israel, by millions of non-Jewish supporters of Israel.

It is bizarre and morally repugnant that the one tiny Jewish country in the world has to suffer so much abuse. It is a matter of honor to stand up for Israel and to remind the world of the right of the Jews to their own homeland. We need to counter the attacks against Israel in every forum. We need to speak truth to combat the unceasing stream of lies heaped up against Israel.

Does this mean that we must agree with and condone everything that Israel does? Of course not. Israelis themselves are vocal in their criticisms of aspects of Israeli life and government policies. As long as criticisms are voiced with love, they should be welcome. They help shake the status quo and move things in a better direction. But criticism must be balanced with an appreciation of the amazingly impressive positive aspects of the Jewish State.

While fair and loving critics are vital to Israel's welfare, haters are destructive. Haters do not seek to improve Israel--they seek to destroy it. Their goal is not to encourage a vibrant, flourishing Jewish State--their goal is to eliminate the Jewish State. The hatred is so blind and so intense, that it is oblivious to facts and figures. For haters, Israel is guilty just by existing. It is particularly regrettable when people of Jewish ancestry align themselves with the haters. In some perverse way, they may think this separates them from the fate of Israel and the Jewish people--they think they will be viewed as "the good Jews" in contrast with the Zionists who are viewed as "the bad Jews". But such Jews are despised by Jews as traitors, and are despised (or mocked) by the haters of Israel--because after all, these hating Jews are still Jews! The enemies are happy to use such people for propaganda purposes; but if they were ever to succeed in their wicked designs, these hating Jews would not fare well. Their treachery to Israel and their fellow Jews would not make them beloved by the enemies of Jews and Israel.

We have read recently of Jewish haters/self-haters who have participated in-- and even spearheaded-- anti-Israel boycotts. We have read of Israeli professors/left wing intellectuals who have participated in anti-Israel programs on college campuses throughout the world. We have read columns by Jewish journalists that are so blatantly unfair to Israel that it makes us shudder. We have learned of Jewish groups and individuals who blame Israel for every ill suffered by Palestinians, even when most of the blame rests with the Palestinian leadership. We have heard Jewish voices decrying Israel's defense of its border with Gaza, even though the stated intent of Hamas is to murder and kidnap as many Israelis as possible...and ultimately to wipe Israel off the map.

For some critics, everyone in the world seems to have rights...except Jews. Every nation in the world has the right to defend its citizens...except Israel.  These are positions which must be repudiated by all fair-minded people. These are positions which most surely should be repudiated by the victims of such views...the Jews themselves.

Remembering Mom: Thoughts for Mother's Day

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel 

(Below is an essay I wrote, included in my book The Wisdom of Solomon and Us, Jewish Lights, 2016, pp. 135-138.)

My mother, Rachel Romey Angel, was born in 1914 in Seattle, Washington, the second of seven children born to Marco and Sultana Romey—both immigrants from Turkey. Although my grandparents were born and raised in Turkey, their first language was Judeo-Spanish, the language of the Sephardic Jews scattered throughout the former Ottoman Empire. My mother did not learn to speak English until she attended kindergarten in public school.

The Sephardic immigrants of Seattle came to America with little money and little formal education, but with a tremendous desire to make a new and better life for themselves and their families. The first generation immigrants worked at various trades; their children went on to own stores and other businesses; their grandchildren were nearly all university educated professionals and business people.

My mother was “only a girl.” In those days and in that society, it was assumed that girls would marry at an early age and have families of their own. Girls did not need much education, only basic domestic skills such as cooking and sewing. In the milieu of my mother’s childhood, it was highly unusual for a woman to attend university or to hold a serious job outside the home.

My mother was a brilliant student, but when she turned 16—the legal age that one was required to attend school—my grandfather told her she had to quit school and get a job to help support the family. Her older sister had done that and was working in a candy factory, and my grandfather wanted my mother to do likewise. My mother told her teachers at Garfield High School that she was going to be leaving school to go to work. One of the teachers was so distressed by this news that she spoke with my grandfather, urging him to let my mother graduate from high school. She told him that his daughter was a wonderful student with an excellent mind; if given the opportunity, she could attend university and do great things with her life. My grandfather replied: “she’s only a girl; she doesn’t need more education; she has to go to work and earn money.”

Thus ended my mother’s academic career. She never graduated from high school. She worked in the candy factory for a few years, got married at age 21, and went on to have four children, and eventually twelve grandchildren. She was a voracious reader, a deep thinker, and a keen observer of human nature. Neither her husband nor their close group of friends had a college graduate among them, so my mother was sort of a closet intellectual. She functioned happily and successfully in her world, but she kept her intellectual, philosophical side pretty much to herself. If she had been born two generations later, she would have been a university graduate, probably a Ph.D., and she would have had opportunities in academia, public life or business that were totally out of reach for her in her time and place.

Was my mother a success? Was she happy? Did she fulfill her mission in life? The answer to these questions depends on how we evaluate success, happiness and fulfillment in life. If we deem someone successful, happy and fulfilled if she earned a good income, lived a prosperous life, earned an academic degree, and held responsible positions in professional life—then my mother did not meet these requirements.

But my mother was a remarkable woman. She was a loyal daughter, devoted wife, loving mother and grandmother, gracious hostess, excellent friend. She was a profound thinker, an avid reader, a talented knitter. She enjoyed the simple pleasures of life. She was good and kind, thoughtful, and highly principled. If measured by standards of quality rather than quantity, my mother was eminently successful, happy and fulfilled in life.

When King Solomon praises the “woman of valor,” he refers to the virtues of being a good wife and mother, a hard-worker on behalf of her family, a generous soul who is charitable and kind. The Hebrew word for valor, hayyil, has the connotation of strength and courage. The “ideal” woman is not identified as being passive and obedient, but rather as having a strong character focused on her life’s values and goals.

When reading the last passages of Mishlei today, one is struck by how much society has changed in recent generations. Women today have far more opportunities in education, professions, public life and business than had been true for women in many societies of the past. But this success has also come with trade-offs. In pursuing careers, women may defer or forego the joys of a solid marriage, child-rearing, and being full-time mothers. Are the modern “liberated” women more successful, happier, and more fulfilled than the women of my mother’s pattern of life? In some ways, yes; in other ways, probably not.

I remember reading somewhere that in our modern society a woman is considered creative if she produces a piece of sculpture or operates her own business. But if a woman is “merely” a mother who creates children, shapes their lives, and sees to it that they can lead happy and good lives, she is labeled somewhat pejoratively as “only being a housewife.” A full-time wife and mother is deemed to be on a lower level than women who devote their energies to professional or business life.

If my mother had been given more opportunities to develop her intellect and talents, she would have had a significant impact on many people beyond her immediate circle of family and friends. She would have been gratified to learn more and teach more, and to play a greater role in the larger society. She would have been very happy to have many of the opportunities which were available to her own daughter, daughters-in-law and granddaughters.

But having said that, her own life evaluated in its own context was a remarkably happy, meaningful and successful adventure. She was grateful for what she had and what she was able to achieve. She was beautiful and graceful; she feared the Lord; she loved and was loved; she raised and inspired her children; she left an indelible impact on her grandchildren. “She shall be praised.”