National Scholar Updates

In several areas of Jewish thought, more conservative positions only achieved dominance in modernity. For example, most rishonim (medieval authorities) believed in the natural order before Ramhal (R. Moshe Hayyim Luzzatto), R. Eliyahu Dessler, and others declared that nature was an illusion and that our human efforts produce no direct causal result. The same applies to attitude towards our biblical heroes. R. Dessler and R. Aaron Kotler avoid attributing basic human emotions to our patriarchs and matriarchs, forbid criticizing them, and depict their sins as the minutest of transgressions. However, Radak and Ramban did not interpret in this fashion nor did R. Samson Raphael Hirsch and Neziv. Arguably, R. Dessler type thinking on this topic only became widespread in the twentieth century. 

Before addressing twentieth century rabbinic luminaries, I shall use a lesser-known recent volume as a foil to help convey the issues at hand. R. Beinish Ginsburg, teacher for many years at Netiv Aryeh and Michlala, published a volume on Genesis entitled Ohr le-Netivati which includes several concluding chapters about the correct approach to the avot (patriarchs). After extended analysis of this work, we shall briefly confront the work of R. Avigdor Nebenzahl as well as other famous rabbinic predecessors. Analysis of Ohr le-Netivati reveals a one-sided presentation of traditional sources and shows how this ideology hinders our biblical study. Ginsburg very much belongs in the R. Dessler camp and let us explore the results.

The significant question here is not only whether we can fault our luminaries, but also whether we can attribute basic human emotion to them. In one example, avoiding this makes a patriarch look worse. According to Ginsburg: 

But at the same time, the fact that he woke up early reflects that he slept the night before. Avraham Avinu was so secure in his avodas Hashem (service of God), so confident that he was doing the right thing, that he managed to fall asleep despite the nisayon (test) that awaited him the next morning (the akedah).[1]

I would think more highly of Abraham had he experienced trouble sleeping the night before embarking on a journey to slaughter his son, divine command notwithstanding. R. Aharon Lichtenstein criticizes those who think Abraham went to the akedah as if he was attending a wedding.[2] 

Ginsburg states that the faithful never worry once they know the correct course of action.[3] This does not match the storyline in Genesis where Abraham is afraid (15:1), Isaac is frightened (26:24) and Jacob appears nervous on multiple occasions (32:8, 48:3). The traditional commentaries on those verses often work against Ginsburg's thesis. If Abraham was afraid that the four kings would vengefully attack or that he has used up his heavenly reward, these are fears about practical results and not about the correct course of action.[4] It seems quite normal and human to be nervous about either an upcoming war or the aftermath of a military conflict. 

The same applies to the very natural fear of death. Ginsburg quotes R. Avigdor Miller on Rachel's attitude to mortality. "She did not fear death because of death itself. Death was a grief because she would no longer bear any sons to build the house of Israel."[5] I would not think less of Rachel if she was upset on a personal level and not only because of an inability to further contribute to Jewish destiny. If Rachel feared not surviving long enough to spend more time with her two sons, including one who was just born, I would actually think more of her. R. Joseph Soloveitchik, for one, was not embarrassed to write about his illustrious grandfather's fear of death.[6]

One midrash emphasizes that Jacob and Moses were frightened despite their receiving divine promises and holds them up as a model for emulation. Hazal (our Talmudic sages) apparently did not view apprehension as religiously derelict.   

“Jacob was very frightened and distressed” – R. Pinḥas in the name of R. Reuben: The Holy One blessed be He made a promise to two people, but they were afraid; the chosen of the patriarchs, and the chosen of the prophets. The chosen of the patriarchs – this is Jacob, as it is stated: “For the Lord has chosen Jacob for Himself” (Psalms 135:4). The Holy One blessed be He said to him: “Behold, emphasizes I am with you” (Genesis 28:15), but ultimately he was afraid, as it is stated: “Jacob was…frightened.” The chosen of the prophets – this is Moses, as it is stated; “Were it not for Moses, His chosen” (Psalms 106:23). The Holy One blessed be He said to him: “For I will be with you” (Exodus 3:12), but ultimately, he was afraid: “The Lord said to Moses: Do not fear him” (Numbers 21:34). He says: ‘Do not fear’ only to one who is afraid. 

 

R. Berekhya and R. Ḥelbo in the name of R. Shmuel bar Naḥman in the name of R. Natan: Israel would have been worthy of elimination in the days of Haman, had they not based their mindset on the mindset of their ancestor. They said: ‘If our patriarch Jacob, to whom the Holy One blessed be He promised and said: “Behold, I am with you,” (Genesis 28:15) was afraid, we, all the more so.’ (Bereishit Rabba 76:1).

     In another portrayal of a biblical character as transcending basic humanity, Ginsburg cites R. Meir Twersky who denies that Rachel was jealous of her sister's children; she only envied Leah's good deeds which enabled the older sibling to merit offspring.[7] Hazal do indeed suggest this (Bereishit Rabba 71:6) but Radak has no problem saying Rachel was jealous of Leah for having children.[8] Imagine the situation. If not for a deceit in which Leah participated, Rachel would be the sole wife of Jacob but now she has to share her husband with her sister. To add to her frustration, Rachel remains barren as her sister quickly produces four children. Surely, it would be understandable and not a moral failure to experience some resentment and jealousy. 

None of the above examples involve transgression; they merely reflect simple humanity. If we deny these feelings to the avot and imahot (matriarchs), we render them irrelevant to us, who experience the full range of human emotions, as models. As noted, in some instances, we may actually be lowering their stature. 

Hazal alreadypresent a multitude of perspectives on biblical heroes. The same Talmudic passage stating it is mistaken to say that King David sinned in the Bat Sheva episode also includes Rav saying that R. Yehuda Hanasi went out of his way to exonerate this monarch only because he descended from the Davidic line (Shabbat 56a). Furthermore, another gemara suggests that David was guilty of both adultery and rape (Ketuvot 9a). One midrash faults Jacob for not responding with enough sympathy to his frustrated wife (Bereishit Rabba 71:7). On occasion, the sages even introduce problematic behavior not explicitly in the biblical narrative. A gemara says that Joseph stayed behind that fateful day fully intending to sleep with Potiphar’s wife but was able to restrain himself at the last minute (Sotah 10b). Our sages were not singularly dedicated to whitewashing our heroes.   

Many classic commentaries assume a normal psychological makeup for our forefathers in Genesis. Why is Joseph the favored ben zekunim (child of his advanced years) if Benjamin was actually younger? Hizkuni explains that Jacob was never able to love Benjamin as he loved Joseph because he always associated Benjamin with the death of Rachel.[9] This reaction does not reflect negatively on Jacob but it does show the complexities and difficulties of human experience. Hizkuni also suggests that the brothers sold Joseph into slavery in an attempt to save themselves from the prophecy of brit bein habetarim (the covenant between the pieces); they hoped to restrict the foreseen servitude to Joseph and his family.[10] This is quite different from asserting that the brothers convened a beit din (court) and ruled that Joseph was a rodef (a dangerous pursuer). Denying normal human apprehensions and frustrations to our biblical heroes robs biblical narrative of sensitivity and insight. 

R. David Kimhi (Radak) consistently relates to the avot and imahot as great but flawed humans. He faults Sarai for her treatment of Hagar, calling it "not the way of ethics or of the pious". In fact, the Torah includes the Hagar story to instruct us regarding this very ethical message.[11]  For Radak, a reader who defends Sarai misses the entire point. Radak also says Jacob was punished for his method of acquiring the bekhora (privileges of the first born) from Esau. His penalty was that he ultimately had to honor his brother (precisely what he tried to avoid by purchasing the bekhora) when they met after a twenty year hiatus.[12] Where one opinion in Hazal states that Reuben merely moved his father's bed (Shabbat 55b), Radak follows the simple meaning of the verse that Reuven slept with Bilhah.[13] Radak even goes so far as to explain that Joseph told his brothers his dreams in order to pain them in response to their hatred.[14] Nor do our biblical greats' errors only relate to the sinful variety. Radak suggests that Rivkah misunderstood her husband's plan to bless Esau. The birkat Abraham (blessing of Abraham) was going to pass on to Jacob with or without a blessing from his father; therefore, there was no need to fool Isaac in order to receive the blessing.[15] 

Ramban walks along the same path. Ginsburg alludes to Ramban attributing sin to Abraham but does not quote the relevant passages which contradict his position.[16] 

Know that Abraham our father unintentionally committed a great sin by bringing his wife to a stumbling block of sin on account of his fear for his life. He should have trusted that God would save him and his wife and all his belongings for God surely has the power to help and to save. His leaving the Land, concerning which he had been commanded from the beginning, on account of the famine, was also a sin he committed, for in famine God would redeem him from death. It was because of this deed that the exile in the land of Egypt at the hands of Pharaoh was decreed for his children.[17]   (Charles Chavel translation)

Ramban faults Abraham for endangering his wife, lack of faith, and leaving the Land of Israel. While he does mitigate blame by saying that the transgression was not intentional, he also refers to it as a "great sin." He does not emphasize that this was only a sin for someone on Abraham's level.[18] Parenthetically, I note that Radak defends Abraham in this episode; willingness to criticize does not entail always doing so.[19]

The driving out of Hagar inspires a parallel reaction. 

Our mother did transgress by this affliction and Abraham also by permitting her to do so. And so, God heard her [Hagar's] affliction and gave her a son who would be a wild-ass of a man, to afflict the seed of Abraham and Sarah with all kinds of affliction.[20] 

Note that Ramban thinks both transgressions were serious enough to cause long-term punishment. Regarding the category of making mistakes not necessarily sinful, Ramban explains that Abraham misjudged the character of Abimelech and Gerar and, unlike in Egypt, Sarah was not truly in danger.[21]

Ginsburg argues that Ramban frequently refers to the avot as zaddikim (righteous) so he cannot be attributing serious transgressions to them.[22] This line of reasoning highlights the problem with the entire approach. Righteous people are not infallible and they can stumble religiously and ethically. Given the pressures of a famine and a dangerous foreign country, even an Abraham can fall into a "great sin." 

His presentation of Rambam also leaves what to be desired. Ginsburg cites a passage in Guide to the Perplexed where Rambam says that Moses and the three patriarchs were all able to cling to God even as they engaged in mundane activities.[23] For Ginsburg, this shows how different they were from normal humans. However, the seventh chapter of Shmoneh Perakim (Rambam's introduction to Avot) strikes a very different note. Rambam says that a prophet must excel in the intellectual and moral spheres but that he need not be perfect regarding every character trait. Thus, the following group all prophesied even though Solomon had an excessive libido, David had a streak of cruelty, Elijah was too angry, and Samuel was overly fearful. In the fourth chapter of that same work, Rambam says that Moses became inappropriately angry in the episode of the waters of Meribah. Apparently, heroic figures can still struggle with serious character flaws

Abravanel works with analogous assumptions. He notes how Esau asks Jacob about his wife and children but Jacob only answers about the children (33:5) and he explains that Jacob was embarrassed to tell his brother that he had four wives.[24] There is no claim that the righteous are above such embarrassment. Abravanel also thinks that the Egyptian exile was punishment for the sale of Joseph. They sold him into Egyptian slavery and they ended up in Egyptian servitude. The brothers "sinned a great sin in their groundless hatred for their brother Joseph and in their plotting to murder him." Reuben was not part of the plot but he did participate in the hatred. Joseph sinned inadvertently in his prideful reaction to his dreams, and Jacob sinned to some degree in favoring one child and giving Joseph the ketonet passim (ornamented tunic).[25] Abravanel does not try to minimize the brothers' transgression.       

He also relates to Noah as an individual with standard fears and concerns. After the deluge, Noah was saddened and scared because of the loss of friends and acquaintances, the lack of food, the possibility that the animal kingdom will overwhelm a small number of humans, and the potential repeat of the first fratricide. According to Abravanel, in the first verses of the ninth chapter, God reassures Noah regarding all four fears. For example, the allowance of meat consumption helps compensate for the reduced amount of vegetation available for eating.[26] Despite being a zaddik, Noah struggled with the trauma of a world destroyed.  

      Relying on R. Yehuda Copperman's critique of R. Shlomo Riskin, Ginsburg says that the latter takes a quote from R. Hirsch about Moses' humanity out of context.[27] Yet he fails to consider some far more telling Hirschian passages. 

The Torah never hides from us the faults, errors and weaknesses of our great men. Just by that it gives the stamp of veracity to what it relates. But in truth, by the knowledge which is given us of their faults and weaknesses, our great men are in no wise made lesser but actually greater and more instructive. If they stood before us as the purest models of perfection we should attribute them as having a different nature, which has been denied to us. Were they without passion without internal struggles, their outcome would seem to us the outcome of some higher nature, hardly a merit and surely no model we could hope to emulate (Isaac Levy translation).[28]

            R. Hirsch offers three arguments for a more human portrayal of our great men. One, it gives our stories the stamp of truth since it reflects the reality of humanity. Second, it actually enhances their greatness because it means that their achievements depended upon overcoming various character shortcomings and were not innate from birth. Finally, it makes them relevant role models for all of us who struggle with difficult personality traits. 

            His famous commentary on the education of Jacob and Esau echoes this theme: “Our sages, who never objected to draw attention to the small and great weaknesses in the history of our great forefathers and thereby make them just the more instructive for us.”[29]           He goes on to say that Isaac and Rebecca erred in giving Jacob and Esau the identical education when their needs were so diverse. The active and energetic Esau needed a different approach than the more contemplative, reserved Jacob. Additionally, Isaac and Rebecca mistakenly failed to exhibit equal love to each of their children. It seems that Copperman and Ginsburg are truly the ones distorting the views of R. Hirsch.

            R. Hirsch's approach to Simeon and Levi in Shechem also proves instructive. While, Ginsburg tries to downplay any wrongdoing, R. Hirsch is quite adamant about their transgressions.

Now the blameworthy part begins, which we need in no way excuse. Had they killed Shechem and Hamor there would scarcely be anything to say against it. But they did not spare the unarmed men who were at their mercy, yea, and went further, and looted, altogether made the inhabitants pay for the crime of the landowner. For that, there was no justification.[30]

            The juxtaposition of the chapter in which Jacob confronts Esau with the Shechem episode inspires a profound comment from R. Hirsch. In chapter 33, Esau overcomes his violent nature and embraces his brother. This contrasts sharply with the following story in which Simeon and Levi pick up the sword of Esau and engage in unjustified violence.[31]

            Strikingly, Ginsburg enlists Neziv (R. Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin) as a champion of his conservative approach even though Neziv very much humanized the patriarchs and matriarchs. R. Berlin explains that Rebecca was intimidated at her first sight of her husband, that this influenced their life-long relationship, and that she was unable to confront him directly as Rachel and Sarah did with their husbands. Therefore, she employed a deceptive strategy to get Jacob the blessing rather than just challenging Isaac's decision in an open conversation.[32] 

            Furthermore, Neziv explicitly contradicts Ginsburg's reading of a midrash which states that the great and bitter cry of Mordecai in Shushan was payment for the great and bitter cry that Jacob caused in Esau (Bereishit Rabba 67:4). Ginsburg asserts that this midrash does not deem Jacob's actions blameworthy.[33] In contrast, Neziv explains that one need not have pure motivations for mizva acts but one does need such purity for performing an avera lishmah (sin with a noble impetus); using a bad trait for a good cause must come without any personal pleasure. According to Neziv, this explains why Jacob was punished for his brother's cry but not for his father's tremble. He was pained by his father's reaction but took some problematic joy in his brother's distress. R. Berlin explicitly writes that such joy is forbidden and a sin.[34] 

            In one story, R. Berlin prefers a more human explanation over the alternative. How could Judah not have recognized the look or voice of Tamar, his daughter-in- law? Our sages suggest that this reflects Tamar's great modesty (Megilla 10b). The idea that Judah and Tamar lived as part of the same family for years without his knowing what she looks like certainly portrays their lives as radically distinct from ours. R. Berlin offers an explanation more rooted in basic human psychology. Judah first saw Tamar from afar and judged her a prostitute and, when he got closer, could not imagine that the decent Tamar was acting as a prostitute.[35] Indeed, we often get stuck in our preliminary judgment and cannot identify a person in an unexpected context.  

            Another midrash has Leah retort sharply to Jacob when he accuses her of deceit; she notes his own trickery in taking Esau's blessing (Bereishit Rabba 70:19). Ginsburg suggests a creative interpretation. 

This sounds like a rather strong criticism of Yaakov. But the meforshim on the midrash explain that the intention is entirely different. Leah was saying, "Everyone knows that Lavan's two daughters were destined to marry Rivka's two sons, and the oldest should go to the oldest. I'm supposed to marry the bechor – and you made yourself the bechor when you got the brachos.[36]   

Leah was arguing that even though she was originally destined for Esau since the older daughter should wed the eldest son, Jacob's usurping the bekhora now meant that Leah should marry Jacob, the newly established first-born. However, this is certainly not the simple reading of the midrash in which Leah asks Jacob: "is there a master without disciples;" in other words, I learned subterfuge from you.  This line relates to the morality of deceit and not to a question of correctly lined up marriage arrangements.   

Ginsburg misreads several other relevant sources as well. He quotes Ohr ha-Hayyim as explaining that Joseph knew his brothers acted with good intentions in selling him but Ohr ha-Hayyim does not say this. He does say that even at the time of the sale, Joseph continued to feel brotherhood with his siblings but this could be explained in many ways. A person can continue to love relatives even when they have intensely wronged him or her (45:4).[37]

I reiterate that the point is not only about wrongdoing; it is about having the aspirations and frustration of human beings. God states that He will not destroy Sodom without relating this news to Abraham first (18:17). R. Meir Simha ha-Cohen from Dvinsk offers a profound explanation as to why our first patriarch needed to know. A compassionate person wants the effects of his compassion to last. Indeed, we all want to leave a legacy and this is especially a concern for the childless. Abraham had heroically saved Sodom in the battle with the four kings, and thus would understandably not be happy about its impending destruction.[38] R. Meir Simha assumes that Abraham shared the same kind of hopes and dreams as other human beings.    

One of Ginsburg's important influences is the writings of R. Avigdor Nebenzahl, Rosh Yeshiva at Netiv Aryeh and former chief rabbi of Jerusalem's Old City. In the two concluding chapters to his volume on Genesis, R. Nebenzahl defends both Reuben and David as being nobly motivated and not driven by physical desire. Reuben only slept with Bilhah to break her connection with Jacob and restore his father's proper place with Leah. David's mistake was relying on the Holy Spirit informing him that Bat Sheva and he were destined for each other.[39] Let us leave aside the fact that these interpretations have no basis in the biblical narrative. In fact, the prophet informs us that Bat Sheva (Samuel II 11:2) was good-looking, presumably explaining David's interest. One gemara cites the following line in the context of the David and Bat Sheva episode. "There is a small limb in man. If he starves it, it is satisfied. If he satiates it, it is starving" (Sanhedrin 107a), clearly relating the monarch's sin to sexual temptation. Furthermore, do the motivations suggested by R. Nebenzahl truly mitigate the sins? What would we think of someone who slept with his step-mother in order to restore his own mother's place? 

R. Nebenzahl brings support for the minimization of David's sin from the fact that David does not lose the kingship, unlike Saul who forfeits the monarchy for what seems like a relatively, lesser transgression.[40] Earlier authorities give different answers to that question. R. Yosef Albo mentions several explanations, none of which reduce David's sin. Perhaps David sinned in a personal matter whereas Saul erred in a matter of kingship. Alternatively, David repented immediately when Natan confronted him while Saul initially denied any wrongdoing to Samuel. R. Albo outlines a series of areas in which David had superior character to Saul but he never denies the adultery with Bat Sheva or the murder of Uriah.[41]   

Minimizing David's wrongdoing neutralizes some of the story's power. The opening verse relates that David resides in his Jerusalem palace while his men fight on the battlefield (Samuel II 11:1). This morally dubious practice starts the moral deterioration leading to the affair with Bat Sheva. David tries to send Uriah home to cover up his having impregnated Bat Sheva but Uriah refuses (Samuel II 11:8-13). Instead of viewing this as Uriah' rebelling against David's authority, we could see it as Uriah showing sensitivity to his comrades at the front in a way that the monarch does not. Alternatively, Uriah refuses because he suspects what David has done.[42] 

   Admittedly, Ginsburg's methodology has roots in recent rabbinic authorities. However, these rabbinic personalities differ from the many rabbinic voices we have surveyed and we have sufficient motivation to prefer the more human view of biblical heroes. A comparison of the two schools reading the sale of Joseph reveals good reason for our preference. Beit ha-Levi asserts that Yaakov’s extensive sadness was due to the loss of a tribe for Am Yisrael, and not so much because of grief over a deceased son.[43] I am unsure why extensive grief over a son's death is a problematic emotion, especially given the added guilt and responsibility Jacob felt for sending his son off on a mission from which he never returned (as Radak explains).[44] This approach neutralizes the very powerful human emotion of sadness for the loss of a beloved son.

R. Nosson Tzvi Finkel, the Alter from Slobodka, insists that no one did anything seriously wrong in the entire story. Jacob had good intentions in favoring Joseph, Joseph had good intentions in tale-bearing, and the brothers sincerely judged Joseph as a rodef. The brothers were punished for the minor flaw of having some jealousy in their hearts, even though that jealousy did not warp their judgment. Based on a midrash (Bereishit Rabba 84:17), he even finds a positive element in their sitting down to a meal.[45] Similarly, R. Hayyim Yaakov Goldvicht, former Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Kerem be-Yavneh, understands their meal within the approach that justifies the brothers by saying they formed a rabbinic court, trying Joseph and finding him guilty. During legal deliberation, he says, they were forbidden to eat, so they naturally sat down for a meal following the verdict.[46] His interpretation misses out on the narrative's subtle use of the meal to indicate indifference to pain.

These readings do not cohere with the simplest reading of Humash, and thwart appreciation of the psychological and moral insights conveyed in the brothers’ sitting down to eat, as well as the potential motivation of the brothers according to Hizkuni. As noted, Hizkuni explains that the brothers wanted the prophesied servitude to take effect on their brother Joseph. Moreover, the overall approach deviates from the standard language of the major Rishonim. Note, for instance, Abravanel’s comfort in attributing significant blame all around.

R. Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler follows the path of the Alter. Jacob had a metaphysical right to grant Joseph more honor, but he sinned slightly in allowing personal affection into the picture as well.[47] As with Beit Ha-Levi, his approach seems to not value the most authentic human emotions. R. Dessler also attempts to justify Joseph’s relating his irritating dreams to his brothers. The truly righteous are so involved in otherworldly thoughts that they only get by in this world due to divine assistance. Since God wanted the Egyptian exile to begin, He removed His protection from Joseph, who then innocently told his brothers about the dreams.[48] In contrast, I suggest that a zaddik very much needs to understand human interaction even without God’s help.[49] 

In a footnote, Ginsburg says that attaching oneself to a gadol promotes the correct attitude to biblical interpretation. "If one sees and appreciates the greatness of the gedolim and witnesses how they have such complete self-control, by extrapolation one will assume that the Avos certainly had such perfect control."[50] In contrast, I posit that time around gedolim may actually lead in another direction. I have known several prominent rabbis in my time, some truly great and some not so great, but all of them knew of apprehension, frustration, and anger. Ironically enough, some of the contemporary gedolim Ginsburg cites are deeply flawed individuals, especially R. Avigdor Miller, by far the most cited rabbinic figure in the book.[51] Perusal of R. Miller's explanations for the Holocaust may be enough to show that well-known rabbis can have serious limitations. 

What is at stake here may be more serious than we initially think. The more conservative approach significantly infringes on our study of Tanakh since it prevents us from noticing many of the insights of our sacred scripture.  Furthermore, it hinders our identifying with biblical heroes and their human tribulations, robbing us of potential role models. Finally, introducing encounter with contemporary gedolim into the conversation is quite telling. In response to secularization and the weakening of religion in the modern era, religious communities responded with increased emphasis on clergy authority and clergy greatness. Both papal infallibility and daas Torah are modern innovations.[52] One contemporary manifestation of this is a strong reluctance to ever criticize prominent rabbis even if they utter insulting statements or defend abusers. Large parts of the Orthodox world (certainly not all) need a more critical attitude towards the rabbinate. There may be serious overlap between how we read Tanakh and how we relate to the shortcomings of today's rabbis. 

Of course, this does not entail going to the opposite extreme and claiming that the biblical luminaries were bad people.[53] Recall that we are discussing the gamut of human emotions and not just sinful behavior. Remember as well Radak's defense of Abraham's behavior in Egypt. Concluding that the avot do sin does not mean they always or invariably do so. Due to the complexity of human nature, great individuals also struggle with character weaknesses. Denial of that basic fact strays from the example of Radak, Ramban and R. Hirsch, robs Tanakh of some of its most powerful messages and leaves readers without authentic role models.[54]

Notes

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Vayera

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

“And the Lord said: shall I hide from Abraham that which I am doing; seeing that Abraham shall surely become a great and mighty nation and all the nations of the earth shall be blessed through him? For I have known of him that he will command his children and his household after him, that they will keep the way of the Lord, to do righteousness and justice…” (Bereishith 18:17-19).

Rabbi Hayyim Angel has pointed out that Abraham was not the first monotheist. Adam and Eve, Hanokh, Noah and others also recognized one God. Abraham was not the first “Jew,” since there were no Jews (Israelites) until generations later. Rather, Abraham’s distinction is that he is the first figure in the Bible to be identified as a teacher. God describes him as one who conveys the ideals of righteousness and justice to his family and followers.

In Jewish tradition, Abraham is generally known as Avraham Avinu, Abraham our father.  He and Sarah—through Isaac, Jacob and succeeding generations—were the founders of the extended family that ultimately became the people of Israel. Abraham’s role was not merely as the biological progenitor of the people but as their teacher of righteousness and justice.

Over the centuries, all converts to Judaism have been designated as children of Abraham. They have become members of Abraham’s family.  In his famous letter to the proselyte Obadia, Maimonides assured the convert that he was a son of Abraham, as fully Jewish and fully a member of the Jewish family as any Jew born into the Jewish People.

While Abraham is known as Avraham Avinu, Moses is known as Moshe Rabbeinu, Moses our rabbi.  Abraham is the father of our People; Moses is the conveyer of Torah to our People. Abraham is the founder of our family; Moses is the founding rabbi of our religion. 

All Jews are members of Abraham’s family by birth or conversion. All Jews are bound by the religious teachings of Moses as reflected in Torah and halakha. Jewish identity sometimes seems confusing because it entails both Abraham our father and Moses our rabbi. 

Ultimately, though, tradition links our identity to our father Abraham. Even Jews who do not observe the Torah of Moses, or even those who repudiate it, are still Jewish by virtue of being in the family of Abraham. All Jews—religious or not—are members of the same family even if they strongly disagree with each other or even dislike each other. 

It is significant that converts are named as children of Abraham, not Moses. Although converts are expected to study and observe Torah, their conversion is actually their way of joining the family of our People. 

Abraham our father taught us “to keep the way of the Lord, to do righteousness and justice.” Generations later, Moses our rabbi taught us the Torah, expanding on the foundations set by Abraham. We are blessed to be heirs of spiritual greatness of the highest order.

There is an old adage (or there ought to be) that “The finest antidote to depression is
Modim.” Indeed, anyone who prays daily and pays attention to the words he or she is saying
should find it difficult to be despondent. We thrice-daily (at least) thank God for “our lives, our
spirit, the daily miracles that are with us and God’s wonders and beneficence that are with us at
all times.” When we appreciate the breath we inhale and expel, the cognitive ability to reason,
the family and special friends that enrich our days and the consistent wonders that fill our lives,
sadness is indicative of a complete loss of perspective. This is not to argue that there aren’t
worrisome things in our lives, personal, familial, communal, national, and universal—but a
healthy appreciation for the blessings in our lives empowers us to brave these challenges with
hope and with a confidence in even better days to come.

While there are countless areas of our lives which have improved in the past few
decades—in spite of (and, in some cases, as a result of) noted worrying trends, I’d like to focus
our attention on a generally overlooked area of Jewish life—the fostering of our relationship with
the Book of Books, our Tanakh. Wondrous and heretofore unimaginable developments have
impacted the way that we view, study and teach Tanakh in at least three distinct yet interrelated
areas. One of the delightful ironies which these intersections share is their respective roles, in
earlier times, in effecting the opposite. For centuries, the serious study of Tanakh largely
disappeared from the traditional Jewish paideia and each of these areas played a central role in
that enforced distance. Yet, beautifully and seemingly serendipitously, these three areas have
become forces for increased study, promulgation and a renewed rigor of Biblical study in the
observant community.

For purposes of clarity and distinction, I will refer to developments in the areas of
“academic,” “interreligious,” and “intra-religious” Bible study. These will be presented in a non-
synchronous order; the consideration is chiefly driven by the role that area plays in study, from
the more intense and integral to the peripheral and public.
 

Academia
 

That world that we refer to as “academia” is itself young; even though the first
institutions of higher learning date back nearly a millennium, critical studies of areas which were
traditionally the bailiwick of religion (which, it should be noted, included cosmology, geology
and the rest of the natural sciences) began in earnest and in a publicly accessible manner at the
end of the eighteenth century with the advent of the Enlightenment. As the early founders of
“source criticism” developed and formed the contours of the Documentary Hypothesis, the study
of our holiest text became a target of radical splicing operations premised on an essentialist
denial of prophecy and of the traditional approach to the historicity of the text. This quickly went
from theory to creed in the academy so much so that anyone writing or lecturing on the biblical

text in those circles who even suggested that even “JEPD” be viewed through the lens of “R”
(the Redactor) was laughed out of the circles, circles which then determined the new orthodoxy
about the Bible. The history of the school of “higher criticism” and its broader impact on the
humanities throughout the western world is a much longer study with a conclusion yet to be
written. The nineteenth-century world of Jewish studies was immediately divided into two main
camps with a small but vital third camp that will eventually play a central role in all three of our
areas of interest. The two broad approaches were assimilation or isolation. The school of
Wissenschaft des Judentums along with its religious stepchild, the “Neolog” (later “Reform”)
movement adopted the Documentary Hypothesis entire and developed its intellectual and
religious platforms, respectively, against that background. Since the founding of the Hebrew
Union College in Cincinnati in 1865, Bible study and decisions about Jewish practice were
premised on seeing the Torah’s text as an amalgam of ahistoric traditions from the ninth to the
sixth centuries BCE (or later) which only came together in the fifth century BCE. These were the
assimilationists. In direct response and reaction, the world of Eastern European tradition, already
boiling in the cauldron of the new Hassidic movement and its inroads into traditional life,
completely rejected not only the conclusions reached by the school of higher criticism but even
refused to entertain the challenges that their observations raised. The general tactic assumed in
these communities was isolationism, to the point of, in some extreme cases, regarding family
members who engaged in academic Bible study or even enrolled in the universities (now
suddenly open to Jewish students) as dead. Indeed, there were families that practiced mourning
rituals for children who breached the walls of the shtetl to pursue this newly minted discipline.
 

However, there were a few traditional scholars who engaged with the world of “higher
criticism” on its own terms with the overt goal of formulating a traditionalist response and
defense of Mesorah. Most notably, David Zvi Hoffmann (1843–1921) in Berlin composed a
commentary to Leviticus with the stated aim of responding to the newly popular Documentary
Hypothesis. There were a number of other traditionalists who also came to the defense of the
Mesorah from different perspectives, such as Shmuel David Luzzato (“Shadal,” 1800–1865) in
Italy and Meir Leibush Wisser (“Malbim,” 1809–1879) in Bohemia. We will consider these
religious heroes to be confrontationalists. As always, the “golden mean” is a path walked by few.
Generally, the world of traditional study looked askance at any engagement with this new
“heresy” and built higher walls. This led, predictably, to a broad devaluation of the study of
Tanakh in these communities and their attendant schools. For the most part, the study of any
scripture was governed by a complete dependence on medieval commentators and their
observations about the text—to the deliberate exclusion and rejection of any contribution to be
offered from the “outside world.” This was the general state of Tanakh study in the self-defined
world of religious education until the last few decades.
 

What Happened?
 

Intellectual evolutions are inevitably multicausal. By the early part of the twentieth
century, there were internal challenges within the academy that questioned the foundations of the
theory, a phenomenon which is typical within three generations after a fresh, exciting
“discovery.”
 

In the meantime, a new generation of Jews was growing to embrace the Tanakh as a
result of the miraculous return to the Land and the revival of spoken Hebrew. It may be
surprising, but much of the movement towards an enhanced study of the Bible came from secular

Israelis who were emotionally committed to the historicity of the text. We need look no further
than our first Prime Minister, a decidedly secular Jew who was in love with the Tanakh and held
a regular Saturday night “parlor meeting” at his home to engage with leading teachers in the
study of our Book of Books. After all, our claim on the Land and our connection to every dunam
is ultimately anchored in the earliest chapters of Genesis; this stake is only firmly set if there
really was a Patriarchal family that was promised the Land, a premise denied by the academy.
 

Our claim to Jerusalem is not new—it dates back 3,000 years to David’s move of his capital from
Hebron to the Jebusite city and then the divine promise that just as David’s dynasty would
always rule in Judea, similarly God would never abandon David’s city. Curiously, even those
many avowed atheists were able to read these divinely centered texts as meaningful and
legitimate. With time, cross-fertilization of the worlds of academia and tradition increased, and a
new sentiment took hold in many corners of the religious world of Jewish education: There is
much of value in philology, archaeology, anthropology, paleontology, Assyriology, Egyptology,
and many more disciplines which are the bailiwick of the academy. None of these disciplines
stand in challenge to our traditional beliefs; indeed, much about the Tanakh can be understood
with more clarity and immediacy by using these tools judiciously. As a student of mine is fond of
quoting, “You cannot understand the Tanakh unless you understand the world of Tanakh.”
 

The result of this has not only been felt in the many religiously committed Bible scholars
and writers, but also in the growing acceptance even in the generally isolationist world of
“Haredi” education of many external disciplines to be used as legitimate “handmaidens” of Torah
study. There is a newfound appreciation for the critical distinction in study between what the text
says, for which any and all sources of data can and must be used to further and deepen our
understanding, and what the text is telling us, which is bound up in the covenantal community’s
received tradition; indeed, it may be said that what the text is telling us is the tradition of the holy
nation. The rest is commentary. Go study.
 

The first welcome and exciting development in the study of Tanakh is the newfound
alliance of the academy and the yeshiva. This is not a marriage; their purposes and modes, the
environment each wishes to foster is unique and exclusive. Yet, there is an amity and a
partnership which has engendered much intellectual growth among many of the committed
members of each school. The academy and the yeshiva are each wiser as a result.
 

The Growth of Inter-Religious Bonds
 

There have been epochs where Jews were able to comfortably and safely discuss, debate,
and share ideas with prelates and monks as well as kadis and imams. In ninth-century Baghdad,
there were regular gatherings of Jewish, Muslim, and Christian clerics who engaged in publicly
attended spirited debate about the truth of their respective faith’s claims. The newfound interest
in textual study among Christian scholars in twelfth-century France led to direct and indirect
adoption of Jewish methodology anchored in the school of Rashi. From Abelard to the scholars
at Saint-Victor, there was a brief yet productive period of cross-cultural cooperation and
intellectual impact. This was, again, purely in the realm of understanding what the text said, not
its message.
 

However, for most of the common era, dialogue and an awareness of a somewhat shared
textual legacy was buried beneath discrimination, persecution and dispersion. On a broader
societal level, Jews and their “others” typically viewed each other with suspicion, and the notion
of common cause was an unfathomable idea.

In a sense, this should have changed dramatically in the eighteenth century. With the
promising development of the republic, first in France and then in America, the principles of
justice, equity and civil rights for each member of the polity were understood to be grounded in
what is commonly called “the Judeo-Christian” tradition. While this hybridization does more to
obfuscate than clarify, there is something to it. The basic mores of the Tanakh inhere, at their
base, a desideratum of a just society with consideration of the rights of all people. For the first
quarter millennium of this country’s history, this understanding of a common ground was chiefly
the bailiwick of secularists; religious groups tended to amplify differences and overlook common
ground. (There were remarkable exceptions to this disconnect, such as the decade from 1955 to
1965 when traditional Jews walked, arm in arm, with Southern Baptist blacks, demonstrating on
behalf of full rights for all Americans).
 

What we are seeing in the last quarter century is a newly discovered affinity between
Jews and Christians. I am not arguing that we have a panacea, nor that complete harmony here is
even desirable—but the sense of common cause has become significantly heightened, especially
in response to “wokeness” and its many disturbing tentacles, reaching into education, language,
roles, and so much more. Observant Jews have been surprised to find themselves on the same
side of political, legal and social divides with traditional Christians (and, in some cases, devout
Muslims). Whether arguing for religious exemptions from local zoning laws, more protection for
individuals to act upon their religious convictions, or a general reaction to the excesses of
“wokeness,” peoples of traditional faith are finding more that unites them across inter-religious
lines, without dismissing that which divides them.
 

One caveat is prudent here. Whereas the traditionalist wings of both Jewish and Christian
faith communities have only recently found significant common ground, the near opposite is true
in the liberal wings. Ecumenical ventures abounded in the latter half of the last century, and
parallel developments (including expanding clergy roles to women, opening opportunities for
leadership to gay and transsexual members) could be traced to that mid-century “brotherhood.”
This has all but disappeared in the last decade, most notably since October 7 when the entire
world of progressive politics has turned an angry back on Israel and the Jewish people.
 

Before moving on to the third marvelous development of our times, I’d like to circle back
to the beginning of this section. In addition to the relatively newfound fraternity between
traditionalists in both circles, Jewish scholars are now sought after at Christian Bible
conferences, not just as academics but also as purveyors of God’s message “from this inside.” It
seems that the first two blessings of our confused era have impacted on each other and as
traditional Jewish minds have opened up to academic scholarship to enhance our understanding
of Tanakh, the lines of dialogue about that Book of Books have also opened up; there is a
genuine interest on the part of Christian students of the Bible to read it through legitimate Jewish
eyes.
 

The second, most welcome development that we are experiencing in our lives at this
current moment is a newfound sense of collegiality, common cause and healthy environment for
dialogue between traditional Jews and Christians—and this further impacts upon and is impacted
by the first welcome phenomenon. Doors open in several directions, allowing the doors of the
yeshiva and the academy to cautiously nudge open as the opacity of the walls separating the
kehillah and the Christian faith community become a bit more translucent.
 

The Blessing of Intrareligious Fraternity

Sectarianism and schismatics are no stranger to the Jewish body politic. The phenomenon
of Jewish groups splintered with rivaling claims to the legitimate tradition—or the “proper”
interpretation and application of that tradition—has existed at least since the middle of the
Second Temple period. Sects have usually had one of three destinies. In very few cases, they
maintain a quasi-identity with the Jewish world while maintaining some vestige of their unique
practices. An example of this is the Karaite community, which continues to exist and identify
with Karaite scholarship and practices. More frequently, the sects ultimately fold back into the
larger, traditional Jewish family and, with few variations, adopt the widespread approach to
practice and creed maintained by the larger community. In other words, the sects, qua sects,
disappear from the social map and become historic footnotes. A variation in this development is
the loss of those members to the prevailing religious culture of the surrounding society. In a few
cases, these sects establish themselves as a distinct religion, drop claims of having the “true”
tradition of Judaism and begin their own faith community.
 

Worldwide Judaism, especially in North America, stands at a precipitous moment. The
break from tradition, occasioned by the twin “E’s” —the Enlightenment and the
Emancipation—began in the early nineteenth century. The visible fragmentation of the Jewish
community and public dissension between the many groups which fell along various points on
the plane—from maintaining strict status quo tradition to reforming a completely “new Judaism”
—had its own salvific impact and served to force each group to develop clearer ideological
platforms, outlining why its “solution” was the most practical, most ideal or truest to tradition. In
post-World War II America, this fracturing emerged as “denominationalism,” with the Reform
movement claiming the lion share of membership, the Conservative movement maintaining that
their ethos wed a fealty to tradition with a commitment to change and the much smaller
Orthodox establishment placing its emphasis on unswerving loyalty to the ways of our fathers.
Such were the lines and although there were periods of interdenominational dialogue, even
cooperation, by the 1980s the dividing lines had sharpened and the “heterodox” movements and
those identified as “Orthodox” each made policy statements that more clearly defined the lines
which divided and made cross-denominational dialogue—and certainly cooperation—more
difficult.
 

Which brings us to the current moment in denominationalism. For the past 40 years, each
of the movements has, to a large extent driven by socio-political orientation, pushed away from
each other (“drifted away” is far too mild a description). This sad reality, that a traditionally
oriented Jew now inevitably feels great discomfort and alienation in the pews of a heterodox
Temple, has gone hand-in-hand with a more tragic development. The numbers, both of
membership and, more to the point, of active and practicing members in the heterodox worlds
have rapidly shrunk. The reports of schools closing, synagogues merging, Temples being used
for multiple congregations due to so much excess available space—this is all to weep. Yet, oddly,
both in the aftermath of the clumsy way in which society responded to the COVID-19 pandemic
as well as, far more significantly and emphatically, the grass roots response to the horrors of
October 7, 2023 and its ugly aftermath in the streets and on the campuses of this country, there is
a new kind of “teshuvah” movement. Those affected by this sudden urge to reclaim a traditional
life, to learn more about our heritage and to embrace a stronger identification with all things
traditionally Jewish refer to themselves as “October 8 Jews.” The numbers aren’t staggering, yet
doors have suddenly opened up for Jews who have come to realize what an amazing legacy they
have yet to claim to walk right in and find brothers and sisters with a greater fluency in the
rhythms of our faith to embrace and instruct them. The old models of denominational definitions

are still there—but the walls erected by these definitions are now made up of wobbly stones and
lots of sunshine is coming between the cracks.
 

One beautiful result, to which many of us involved in “outreach education” can attest, is a
newfound interest among formerly disaffected Jews in reclaiming their “portion of the Torah,”
their right and privilege—and responsibility—to engage in the study of Tanakh as the basis for a
holistic Jewish life.
 

This third blessing, one which has the potential to heal those rifts which were hatched
200 years ago in western Europe, is, unfortunately, not the result of our own initiative but of a
horror foisted on us. Yet, as the Talmud teaches, we bless and thank God for His gifts, even when
they come at a time and as a result of great pain.
 

Afterword
 

I have sketched out three areas in Jewish life, specifically with regard to the study of
Tanakh but each with a much broader back drop. I will briefly reflect on each of these from a
local perspective—that of an observant, traditional and traditionalist teacher and student of
Tanakh.
 

My own understanding of Tanakh has been immeasurably deepened by the many
opportunities to learn about “the world of Tanakh,” through the many disciplines of the academy
which, a century ago, would have been inaccessible to me. And some of my colleagues, who are
anchored in the world of academia, suddenly find traditional commentaries and approaches to
enhance their own grasp of the text.
 

The opportunities that I’ve been given to speak to people who share the Tanakh as the
key structure in the storehouse of their faith, has given me the chance to see something that only
a select few would have sense two generations ago—a healthy respect for the text, for its
language and for how our Mesorah has explained it—and tremendously powerful and essentialist
common bonds that our people of faith share, including the sanctity of life, the vitality of faith
and the task to elevate all of humanity.
 

And, finally and most significantly, the thousands of young (and young at heart) Jews
(and even “October 8 converts, yet another remarkable phenomenon) who are looking for
meaning and substance not in the latest fads of post-Marxist politics, not in the jargons of
“wokeness”—all of which have birthed a poisonous betrayal of the Jews—but in their own
heritage. Thankfully, the Tanakh is being restored to its rightful place, as the foundation stone of
Jewish life, values, nationhood and the message which our people are tasked with bringing to the
world.
 

We live in amazing times.

We are thrilled to report that Rabbi Hayyim Angel has published the third volume of his new commentary on Tanakh: The Heart of Judges. Along with The Heart of the Five Megillot and The Heart of Joshua, it is available at amazon.com in paperback and Kindle formats.

This part of a project that ultimately will cover the entire Tanakh. Upcoming volumes currently in preparation are:

1 Samuel, 2 Samuel, 1 Kings, 2 Kings, Psalms, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel.

The Heart of Tanakh series explores each biblical book through close textual analysis, classical Jewish commentary, and contemporary biblical scholarship. With the biblical text always at the center, each volume uncovers its literary artistry, historical setting, theological depth, and enduring religious and moral teachings. Written for both scholars and thoughtful general readers, the series shows how traditional learning and modern scholarship together illuminate the timeless message of Tanakh. Building on decades of teaching and writing, Rabbi Hayyim Angel offers a model of biblical interpretation in which rigorous scholarship and profound religious commitment work hand in hand, inviting readers to encounter the enduring voice of Tanakh with both intellectual honesty and spiritual depth.

You can order The Heart of Judges here:

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=heart+of+judges&crid=2XKM1MXDCHSCI&sprefix=%2Caps%2C132&ref=nb_sb_ss_recent_1_0_recent

Jewish Minds for Humankind, by Rabbi Marc D. Angel, Da'at Press

Twenty-two figures. Twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet. One argument: that a life rooted in Jewish tradition and open to the full breadth of human wisdom is the highest expression of both.
In this elegant collection, Rabbi Dr. Marc D. Angel profiles the thinkers, rabbis, poets, and activists who shaped his religious vision — from Rabbi Eliyahu Benamozegh in nineteenth-century Livorno to Primo Levi in the shadow of Auschwitz. Each essay recovers a mind that refused the false walls between the sacred and the secular, the particular and the universal, the ancient and the modern. Together they form a portrait of a Judaism deeply faithful and intellectually expansive — one that has always understood the love of God and the love of humanity as a single vocation.
For readers who believe that Jewish particularity and universal responsibility belong together, this book is both an inheritance and an invitation.

This book was originally published as issue 38 of Conversations, the journal of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.

To order: https://www.daat.press/product-page/jewish-minds-for-humankind-rabbi-marc-angel

The tragedies of the past few years for the Jewish nation have been immeasurable, yet they have forged a type of “national unity” that was previously thought to be impossible. More and more Jews around the globe are coming to terms with the fact that their lives are intimately tied up with those of their brethren, irrespective of each of their specific “versions” of Judaism—this in addition to their associations with the modern state of Israel. That is not to suggest that Jewish “infighting” is finished, or will be in the near future. However, this moment does present us with a rare opportunity in which to finally push toward actualizing the dream that Sepharadi Jews have hoped and advocated for since our exile two-thousand years ago: national reunification. However, to precisely understand this dream and how best to actualize it, it is crucial to first examine how Judaism has been historically understood by the Sepharadim.

Recent centuries in the west have led to Judaism receiving many labels, most notably “religion” and “ethnicity.” The former is often embodied by how modern-day Orthodoxy views Judaism, where one must “buy-in” to a set of dogmatic beliefs, or conform to the precise communal standards of law. The latter is best expressed by the diverse set of Jews who feel that while they have a “culture” that was ethnically passed down to them, it bears no relevance regarding God, covenant, or broader spiritual meaning. Yet, all these notions are foreign to the Sepharadim, who have consistently viewed Judaism the way it began—as a nation of people, bound together via a bilateral covenant that they formed with God at Sinai. It is not about someone’s dogmatic beliefs, or how they dress, or how precisely they observe the law; it is about whether they feel bound by the covenantal system that is in place. A fundamental aspect of that covenant is that it was freely contracted with the consent of the entire people: each member of Israel experienced a direct communication with God. As a result of this personalized experience, the collective people appointed Moshe to be their spokesman[1]—Moshe’s status as the lawgiver was not because of his miracles, his oratory skills, or his charisma, but because the people decided to approve him. Furthermore, the acceptance of the covenant did not take place during the moment of God’s theophany but was instead in a moment when God was not present amongst the people, thus allowing them to consider their decisions without divine coercion.[2] Due to the public nature of this covenant, no matter the person’s merits or abilities, each member of the Israelite nation is considered to be an active one, and is to be included in its system. Not only are they to be included, but each Israelite must be treated with the same basic standards of care and respect, for none are “above” each other within the covenantal system. The notion of citizenry eschews questions of “ethnicity,” “religiosity,” or familial background. It is thus unsurprising that Sepharadi legal authorities have never dismissed the works of their Ashkenazi brethren just based on their “ethnic origins” but have instead endeavored to study them based on the quality of their contents. Furthermore, the goal of expert jurists such as Rambam and R. Yosef Karo was to craft legal codes that would serve to educate the masses,[3] not just the elite scholars, and that would support the entire nation, not just a particular region of it.[4] R. Karo observed that the primary danger that faced the post-Spanish expulsion Jewish communities was not theological, but national. The people’s exilic fragmentations had made it difficult to coalesce back together as a nation which was bound by a unified legal system, 

For as the days lengthened for us, we have been poured from vessel to vessel and [have] walked into exile. Many afflictions, bundles of trouble, afflictions from here to there, have come upon us until, because of our sins, the verse was fulfilled, ‘the wisdom of its wise men shall perish’ (Isaiah 29:14). The hand of Torah and its students [has gone away] for the Torah has not been made into two Torot, but like Torot without count due to the great number of books which are [now] found – [all] explaining its judgements and laws [differently].[5]

With this view in mind, for the Sepharadim, exile (galut) was political, not “religious” or “spiritual”; it centered around the loss of national sovereignty[6] and the dispersal of its citizenry.[7] This national framework of Sepharadi Judaism leads to a far better understanding of how they reacted to questions of modernity and “secularization.” 

To the modern eye, Sepharadi Jews today stand as an “anomaly” —on the one hand they are deeply committed to traditional observance, but on the other hand, many are not “orthodox” or “strictly observant.” They have not splintered into denominations; no matter how “secularized” they have become, they will still gather for Shabbat and holiday services in the same traditional synagogues and perform the exact same traditional rituals with their families.[8] This phenomena has been, in my view, incorrectly assigned by most to the lack of an exposure to the “Enlightenment” and “Emancipation” movements in the Europe, which would have theoretically produced a more secular split amongst the Sepharadim as it did for the Ashkenazim. However, such a hypothesis fails on several fronts. First, many Sepharadi countries did become exposed to Enlightenment European thought via European colonialization, most notably via the Alliance Israélite Universelle, which went to North Africa, the Balkans, Iraq, etc.[9] These schools instructed children in the latest secular subjects, languages, and ideologies, with many becoming less adherent to the observant lifestyle. These schools were often sent with the mission of breaking the children away from traditional models. Yet, these communities never splintered, nor have their modern descendants, as “secular” as some of them are, broken away. Indeed, my own family, who came to America from Constantinople, is a perfect example of this “paradox”: upon their arrival, they took modern jobs, embraced modern educations and cultures, and did not observe a number of the legal requirements that their ancestors had observed. Yet, they continued to remain within the same communal structures, and traditional systems—to marry without the necessary halakhic requirements, or to go to a Reform temple was unthinkable.[10] Nor were these places lacking opportunities for emancipation: in Algeria for example, the Crémieux Decree granted its Jews full French citizenship, and many families from Iraq traveled and traded across Europe for their businesses.  Finally, several Sepharadi communities did exist within Europe, and yet when faced with the same challenges that led to the German reform movement, such as organs in the synagogue,[11] they did not devolve into factionalism when addressing them.[12] To me, this all points back to the national character of Sepharadi Judaism, which does not seek to impose views, or determine the “true culture,” which must serve as the communal standard, but instead seeks to include all its citizens in every way possible. Modernization brought with it numerous challenges for the Sepharadim, just as much as the Ashkenazim, but rather than respond to a perceived “theological” threat to the Jewish “religion,” the Sepharadim responded as any nation might—balance and integration when possible.

Moving beyond the general public, the Sepharadi sages were characterized by their extreme sensitivity to the people’s needs; they strove to guide them as best as possible while acknowledging that life and its circumstances are not always perfect. That is not to say that these figures were “happy” with breaches of the law, but they understood that persuasion and dialogue are stronger than a sword and fist. Better to keep someone within the fold than squeeze them out of it. Such respect for the public was reflected back onto them in turn, as the people acknowledged the scholarship and wisdom that they possessed. Halakha was treated as a living system of law, that required sensitivity, and that needed to be carefully applied to all the people, and not just the select few. The people understood that they were not always adhering to the laws as required, however that never meant viewing themselves as “not Jewish enough,” just as someone who chooses to speed past a red light in New York City would not view themselves as “less American.” Such a lifestyle recalls that of my parents. My parents are not the most observant Jews in the world. However, from my first conscious memory of life, I could feel their love of Judaism: They attended only traditional synagogues, stressed the importance of tefillin when I reached bar mitzvah, performed the Pesah seder with joy, and instilled a deep, intuitive, belief that God exists and has a relationship with each of us. Those whom they knew with higher observance standards were not the subject of ridicule or rejection, but of admiration and respect. They did not have to keep every detail of kashrut or Shabbat for me to understand that Judaism is meaningful, and that Jewish law is important even if it is not always kept. For them, “alternative” Judaisms are completely unthinkable—how does one even begin to replace their national system?

Such a national character is also found within the writings of key Sepharadi figures during the emergence of the State of Israel.[13] One might have expected them to focus on the spiritual greatness of such an achievement, or the pollution of it by the “secular Zionists,” however none of this was their focus. Instead, the dream of the modern state was best expressed by R. Ben-Tzion Meir Hai Uziel, 

the national mission [of the state], which is the central bar that connects, joins, and binds, all the limbs of the nation into a single body, must be intellectually recognized and clarified to those who stand at the head of the nation’s leadership, and to every one of its members…the slogan of the assimilators or fake-philosophers, ‘be a Jew in your home [but] a human in your streets’, is absurd and foolish…hiding this mission in the synagogue or study hall, or even the private rooms of our homes and neighborhoods, is to conceal and bury our national mission. Those who hide their Judaism in [secret] rooms so that no strange eye may see it…reveal about themselves that they do not know what it is, or the [real] value of Judaism.[14] 

The restoration of a state would allow for the national character of Judaism to flourish once more, expanding back out from the ritual halls into the civilian streets, and working on a national level. In speaking of the role of Jewish law within the new state, R. Uziel stressed that it must be of a national character:

it is my tremendous desire to unify all of the divisions that the diaspora tore us into, the separate communities of Sepharadim, Ashkenazim, Teimanim, etc. This will not be a difficult task for me, since unity is in our nature and our national character as a people. It was only our dispersion throughout the diaspora that created the particular linguistic and communal divisions that exist amongst us. As we now return to our homeland, there is absolutely no reason to continue living by these communal and linguistic divisions imported from the diaspora. Instead, we will be one unified community.[15]

Questions of ethnicity or particular practice in law become irrelevant, all that matters is the unification of the nation. To these figures, the modern State of Israel represents a divinely gifted chance for reunification, and for the national salvation of Israel and its people. Such a reunification is primarily expressed through the restoration of Israel’s legal courts of halakha, and through the communal life of the national citizenry. Of course, the exile has been long and difficult, it is therefore understandable that a reunification would be fraught with challenges in how to get all the citizens back under the same framework once again, both “secular” and “religious.”

From the inception of the State of Israel, these Sepharadi thinkers pondered this very question: how to best encourage and promote such a process, especially for those who were not actively observing the laws. However, the overarching answer remained the same as it had been in antiquity: persuasion. R. Uziel was once asked by a worker’s union about a milkman who was making deliveries on Shabbat as he would during the weekdays. This posed an issue for his membership in the union, which explicitly stipulated that it would not allow a Shabbat desecrator to be a member. The question was whether to label this man as a Shabbat desecrator and thereby remove him. R. Uziel responded as follows, 

I was hesitant in this matter, because on the one hand the prohibition stands before our sages that, “one should always push away [a person] with their left hand and bring them closer with their right hand” (Sotah 47a), but on the other hand I was concerned that perhaps [the public] would say, “the Pharisees permitted the matter” (Sanhedrin 82b)…and if you are silent and continue on in silence, this will be considered in the public eye as if you permitted the matter…however, I decided to judge this man favorably because he did not know there was a prohibition in his actions. Therefore, I must inform him of all that I wrote and to reprove him with pleasant words regarding his weak [observance], which is wrapped up in his weaker belief regarding the sanctity of Shabbat, that [he does not feel that God] provides for all who keep Shabbat according to the law…and I am assured that these [pleasant] words will enter his heart, sit there, and heal him as it is said, “peace, peace for those far and for those near said God, and I will heal them.” (Isaiah 57:19)[16] 

Encouraging adherence to the law, and educating the people in its importance, did not equal their exclusion or persecution. R. Hayyim David Halevy, R. Uziel’s prime student and spiritual successor, was once asked whether Judaism is compatible with the values of a democracy. His answer was extremely nuanced; he at once rejected that the two were equivalent. This is reflective of a historical truth, that Judaism’s system, which includes a monarchy, and does not grant every specific citizen a vote in its affairs, does not match a modern democracy. Nevertheless, R. Halevy intuitively noted to the questioner, that much like a modern democracy, Judaism does not impose itself upon its citizens. Even during the Second Temple Era, when Israel wielded far more power, including corporal punishments, the government refused to enforce them with prejudice against the people—this in spite of the fact that not everyone was adherent to all the laws.[17] Thus, R. Halevy notes that, “there was not, nor will there be, any ability to force Torah and mitzvot on the group…but in our time, any attempt to force [these spiritual] views and beliefs onto others with force and violence awaits a great danger, a danger to deepen the chasms of hatred between the parts of the nation.”[18] It is only through successfully demonstrating that Judaism is a livable, sensitive, communal system, free of coercion, that the people will fully return—this national, and inclusive, view is what was always responsible for Sepharadi unity and traditional adherence from its members.

Returning to the present, our nation would do well to heed these messages of our ancestors. Judaism must not dissipate into just another culture of the past, but it also cannot shrink into a small group of intentionally pious figures and their followers. Judaism must retain its national character, and its leaders and sages must look toward addressing the needs of not just those who choose to scrupulously fulfill the law, but also to those who do no such thing. In this fashion, the Chabad movement has already tapped into something wonderful—their simple encouragement to perform actions and participate in events, regardless of one’s background or belief has allowed for countless Jews to retain a connection to the national covenant, and feel more welcomed in spiritual participation. But this cannot remain an isolated phenomenon, nor can the flames of unity, which current global events have sparked be stamped out so quickly. It is easy to fall back into factionalism, and to promote leaders who incite division between families, neighbors, and the overall nation. The visions of Rabbis Halevy, Uziel, Karo, Rambam, and the Talmudic sages themselves, must not be cast aside in this crucial hour. The collapse of Israel in the Second Temple was not from a lack of ritual stringency, or a failure to stamp out heretics and rebellious individuals—it was from political corruption,[19] a complete lack of unity and comradery,[20] and a failure to understand that the Jewish nation is first and foremost a nation that serves all its citizens. This is as the Talmudic sages teach regarding the four species on Sukkot, that even the “simplest” Jew must be bound together with the “wisest” in national participation. Our leaders must be held accountable for their rhetoric, and they must be reminded of their national mission; they cannot be allowed to cater only to the groups that currently uplift them. They must recognize the opportunities of the present in strengthening this goal, rather than actively weakening it. Those who carry legal influence must be reminded that their responsibility is not just to the pious few who will obey their every detail of law, but also to the masses who seek a livable system in their daily lives. Finally, the general public must be made aware of this national goal via education that stresses such a mindset and actively works to bridge people rather than further separate them. What made the Sinaitic experience so unique was not simply that everyone participated, but that each individual personally experienced it. No person turned toward their fellows to coercively impose what they had experienced. Each separate person experienced God together. May our people soon achieve this not just for a moment in the desert, but for an eternity in Israel.

“Inclusive Orthodoxy” was Rabbi Sacks’ way of describing how the majority of Jewish congregations operate in Britain and the Commonwealth. In these communities most synagogues are run along Orthodox lines with an Orthodox Rabbi, and some members who are observant. However, most congregants are more traditional than strict in their religious practice. Nevertheless, they are part of an Orthodox congregation, and when the model is working at its best, they feel at home there, are actively welcomed and valued, and they may even grow in their religious commitment. Beyond their commitment to maintaining Orthodox communal standards, these congregations are not part of a dedicated ideological project of any particular variety, but religious communities that seek to provide a home to as many Jews as possible.

That is the model of the United Synagogue in London, similar congregations around Britain, and in other countries including Canada, New Zealand, South Africa, and my own home in Australia. I have been the Rabbi of one such congregation, The Great Synagogue of Sydney, for just over 10 years now. In that time, I have had to reflect on how a Rabbi can and should lead an Inclusive Orthodox community. It is not straightforward, and raises several quandaries. How can the Rabbi uphold Orthodox standards while still welcoming everyone? How can he make everyone feel at home even though they might have very different lifestyles to his own, and very different from a halakhic ideal? How can he promote increased Jewish observance without alienating his congregation?

I cannot claim to have all the answers to these questions, but I think that the bridge that needs to be built may rest on three pillars: Embracing, Exemplifying, and Encouraging. Just as Rabbi Sacks argued that Inclusive Orthodoxy as a whole was not an accommodation, but an ideal, certainly in the context of the modern world as it actually exists, I submit that this rabbinic approach is not just a strategic choice, but is also a religious imperative.

First comes Embracing. It is the job of the Rabbi of any congregation, and especially a congregation where the members are not uniform in their level of religious observance, to embrace each and every person. My young children have a board book called We Go to Shul (by Douglas Florian and Hannah Tolson), which includes the line, “Rabbi greets all those he meets,” which captures this responsibility perfectly. Everyone who wants to come to any activities of the congregation should be greeted, embraced, genuinely welcomed and valued, and they should feel that is the authentic disposition of the Rabbi. This is a different concept to being non-judgmental.  Choosing not to be judgmental implies that I harbor an unexpressed judgement, and I am making the decision not to bring it out, but it exists and I could if I wanted. Embracing puts all that aside, and sees only a person who wants to connect, and celebrating and facilitating that desire. Although, as I will go on to argue, the Rabbi can and should be ambitious for each person’s religious growth, authentic embrace is not a tool to bring about that growth but a fundamental expression of Jewish values in its own right. When Maimonides codified the obligation to love another Jew in Hilkhot Deot 6:3, he did so without qualification: “Each person is commanded to love each and every one of Israel as themselves.” It is not dependent on the level, actual or prospective, of religious observance.

Sometimes this can be difficult, on a personal or a religious level. Some people are difficult, they are prickly characters, or simply have a personality that does not click with the Rabbi’s. Sometimes the Rabbi may feel frustration or disappointment with a congregant’s religious observance. He might feel the congregant could do more, or has even slipped backward. He might feel that his hopes for that congregant have not borne fruit, or that he has poured care and effort without experiencing reciprocity. There are two ways for the Rabbi to address this, and they are both internal work. The first is to try to set all these considerations aside, and return to the core values of universal and unconditional embrace. If that is not immediately or always possible, then it is worth remembering that religious-pastoral relationships play out over a long time. What does not happen this year may happen next year, or in 10 years.

Patience and persistence are the keys to both a happy and a successful rabbinate. The second pillar is Exemplifying. Yelling at people to do more or do better probably never worked well, and certainly cannot work today. A Rabbi makes clear their standards not by demanding them of others but by living up to them, as much as possible, himself. Again Maimonides points us toward this, when he advises (Hilkhot Talmud Torah 4:1) that however wise a teacher may be, he should only be followed if his behavior exemplifies proper conduct, because teaching ultimately resides in actions more than words. The Rabbi must therefore be scrupulous in how he speaks and what he eats, in timely and reliable attendance at services, visible enthusiasm for the study of Torah, hospitality, generosity, acts of personal kindness. As the Talmud states in Yoma 86a, he should prompt observers to say of him, “how pleasant are his ways, how proper are his deeds.”

This should not make the Rabbi appear angelic, because the Torah was not given to the angels. He can thoughtfully give insight into his struggles because questioning and doubt are inevitable parts of the religious experience, and his congregants should not be misled into believing they alone face these challenges. That would be both dishonest and unhelpful. In a careful way, the Rabbi can share the practical struggles of, say, raising a young family while also attending to religious and communal obligations, or the theological struggles that come from seeing the innocent suffer.

The Rabbi must also demonstrate palpable intellectual integrity and moral clarity. If he feels the need to teach difficult lessons or transmit challenging ideas, he must do so, but not in a way that demands agreement or compliance. The stance of the Rabbi should be: “You have asked me to be your teacher, and that gives me an obligation to teach the truth as I see it. No one is obliged to agree with me, but you have a right to know what I think if I believe the circumstances call on me to tell you.”

That combination of courage and conviction with humility and openness is a contribution in itself and also makes even the hardest messages possible to give and receive without destabilizing relationships. They reveal a Rabbi who might be wrong, and knows he might be wrong, but who is not prepared to be a liar or a coward. Of course, knowing when not to speak, and how not to speak is just as important, and verbal recklessness is no more a quality in a Rabbi than it is in anyone else. What is true, is that with the growth of love and trust, more can be said.

Have I detailed impossibly high standards? Probably. Which means in turn there can be modeling of living with imperfection, honesty about falling short, the need for repair following rupture, and a continual attempt to do better.

The final pillar is Encouraging. The challenge is to nudge without becoming a "noodge." In an Inclusive Orthodox congregation, the Rabbi cannot rely on a shared understanding of the practical binding force of halakha, or on peer pressure and social expectations, but he still wants to see his congregants grow in their religious observance. He is not presiding over what is sometimes called a “kiruv shul,” a place where everyone is consciously and deliberately on a journey toward greater religious observance and where they want the Rabbi to help them on that path. That is probably not the project or the consensus of the membership of an Inclusive Orthodox community. What, then, can the Rabbi do? He can and should encourage. He should engage with his congregants, as Maimonides counsels “patiently and gently” (Hilkhot Deot 6:7). Suggesting to someone who rarely attends services to come, not just more often in general but on a specific occasion, whether Shabbat, Yom Tov, or weekday; offering to take time to learn Torah with them; not just laying tefillin for them, but teaching them how to put on tefillin; teaching them how to read a Haftarah, perhaps the Torah, or lead a service; giving them an active role in services as a shamash or gabbai. This is aside from a role in lay leadership, such as joining the synagogue board; it is about deepening specifically religious activity.

Not everyone will agree to try to do more, some will agree but not follow through, some will follow through for a while and then participation will tail off, but the more and the wider the Rabbi’s encouragement the greater will be the results. This encouragement has to be personal. I have not seen exhortations from the pulpit or appeals in emails have much effect. Success comes most often from personal invitations made in the context of personal relationships. The greatest success for the Rabbi is when, in the case of an individual, he no longer needs to encourage, because that person now attends and participates because of their own internal enthusiasm and not because of an external intervention. Of course, no longer making specific suggestions should never mean the relationship is allowed to atrophy. Anyone can see when the Rabbi loses interest because their presence is taken for granted, is regarded as “in the bag.”  Instead, what starts out as drawing people in can become a warm, close and settled relationship of fellowship and appreciation. No one should feel looked down upon because they do less, but they should feel celebrated when they do more.

While these three pillars represent an ideal rather than a claim of personal achievement, they are perhaps parts of a vision to which an Inclusive Orthodox Rabbi can aspire and strive. They are a route to combining openness with integrity.

Ben Rothke published an excellent review of Rabbi Hayyim Angel's book, The Heart of the Five Megillot.

Jewish Press, September 24, 2026

https://jewishpress.com/the-five-megillot-beyond-easy-answers/

Title: The Heart of the Five Megillot: Tradition, Complexity, and Meaning

By: Rabbi Hayyim Angel

(158 pages)

The Five Megillot are read annually. One could easily mistake these books for being germane only to the time of year in which they are read. In The Heart of the Five Megillot: Tradition, Complexity, and Meaning, Rabbi Hayyim Angel quickly puts that erroneous notion to rest.

The Five Megillot – Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, Ecclesiastes, and Esther – are among the more challenging books of Tanach. Rabbi Angel demonstrates that they are not merely timeless literary and religious classics, but texts that continue to speak powerfully throughout the year. Their themes – love, loyalty, identity, suffering, mortality, meaning, evil, and Divine Providence – are as relevant today as they were when these works were first composed.

Although many of the essays in this volume have appeared previously, readers encountering them for the first time will find Angel to be a writer of considerable depth, sophistication, and clarity. More importantly, he does not treat these Biblical books simply as repositories of inspirational lessons. He takes their literary and theological complexity seriously. That is one of the book’s greatest strengths – rather than forcing difficult passages into convenient answers, Angel allows the texts to challenge the reader.

Song of Songs provides perhaps the clearest example. On its surface, it is intensely sensual love poetry. Yet Rabbi Akiva famously described it as “Holy of Holies,” recognizing a profound theological dimension beneath its apparent surface meaning. Angel explores the longstanding difficulty of determining how the book should be understood. Is it literal love poetry? Figurative language? An allegory of the relationship between G-d and Israel? Rather than dismissing the tension, Angel uses it as an opportunity to explore the text’s remarkable interpretive richness.

Ruth presents a different set of challenges. Angel examines its stories of loyalty, kindness, identity, conversion, acceptance, and belonging, showing how much lies beneath its deceptively simple narrative. His literary approach draws attention to word choice, repetition, characterization, and narrative structure, revealing layers of meaning that can easily be overlooked on a straightforward reading.

He applies the same approach to the remaining three Megillot. In Lamentations, he confronts the agonizing question of how to relate to a G-d who has seemingly abandoned His people. Ecclesiastes wrestles with some of the most fundamental questions of human existence: What is the meaning of life? What ultimately remains after the pursuit of wealth, achievement, and physical pleasure? And in Esther, Angel examines a book in which G-d is never explicitly mentioned, yet Divine Providence can be discerned even when He appears to be absent.

Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the book is Angel’s ability to bring together two approaches that are sometimes portrayed as incompatible: traditional Jewish interpretation and modern literary scholarship. Rather than viewing them as competing methodologies, he demonstrates how they can complement one another and produce a deeper understanding of the Biblical text. The result is an approach that allows readers to benefit from contemporary scholarship without sacrificing traditional Jewish perspectives or religious integrity.

The word “Complexity” in the subtitle is particularly appropriate. One of the dangers of religious commentary is the temptation to make Biblical texts seem simpler than they really are. A difficult passage becomes a straightforward moral lesson; an ambiguity becomes a certainty; a profound theological problem becomes little more than a sermon. Angel generally resists these temptations.

Indeed, one of the book’s most important insights is that ambiguity is not necessarily a flaw in a Biblical text. Sometimes ambiguity is precisely what gives a work its enduring power. Esther’s hidden G-d, Ecclesiastes’ apparent pessimism, Lamentations’ confrontation with suffering, Ruth’s complicated questions of identity and belonging, and Song of Songs’ blending of human and Divine love all become richer when we allow the texts to remain complicated rather than insisting on easy resolutions.

This leads to what is perhaps the most important lesson of the book: The purpose of studying Tanach is not always to eliminate questions. Sometimes it is to learn how to ask better questions. That is an especially valuable lesson in an age in which complex religious and literary texts are often reduced to easily digestible messages.

Despite Angel’s considerable scholarly expertise, the essays are accessible to readers who are not specialists in academic Bible scholarship. He succeeds in maintaining intellectual rigor without making the material unnecessarily difficult or inaccessible.

The Heart of the Five Megillot is ultimately a reminder that these five books deserve to be read not merely as holiday texts or sources of familiar religious lessons, but as works of extraordinary literary, intellectual, and theological sophistication. Rabbi Hayyim Angel brings that complexity back into focus. The result is a thoughtful and illuminating collection that encourages readers not only to understand the Five Megillot more deeply, but to appreciate why these ancient texts continue to speak so powerfully to modern readers.

The Heart of the Five Megillot, as well as The Heart of Joshua, are available in paperback or kindle format at amazon.com. Check them out here:

https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Five-Megillot-Tradition-Complexity/dp/B0H7VZKZ6M/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3JS35QXKO7802&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.Nn0H3HwjLpcQTxcr9D…

https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Joshua-Wilderness-Covenant-Tanakh/dp/B0HJD2VY4L/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3FDF2FWQHAM9Q&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.VjfLo08YgQcBxaD7xEB…

The famous Hasidic Kotzker Rebbe commented that God comes where God is invited.  In principle, God should be invited to every daily minyan in every synagogue throughout the world. Each worshiper should feel the presence of God when praying. The services should be conducted with love, devotion, piety…with a genuine desire to experience the Divine. 

Very fortunate are those who attend daily minyan and who indeed invite God’s presence…and feel God’s presence. The spiritual uplift of sincere prayer is of inestimable value.

Regrettably, the daily minyan experience isn’t always like this ideal model. Prayers are often recited quickly, by rote, without evoking much religious emotion.  In some synagogues, even the rabbis don’t attend daily services regularly; and when they do show up, it’s usually late. And then rather than immerse in prayers, they are busy chatting or joking with congregants.

Some attend daily minyan because that’s what Jews are supposed to do. It’s part of their daily routine and is important to them. They are pleased to participate in services, chat with fellow congregants, maybe even have some refreshments after prayers. But whether God is at the center of their concern is a moot point. For many, they sincerely pray to God. For others, God isn’t even on their minds!

Some years ago, my dear and respected friend, Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo, wrote an article about the "relocation" of God. Here is an excerpt from that article.

"Synagogues – whether Orthodox, Conservative or Reform – are no longer His primary residence. Surely some of the worshippers are pious people who try to communicate with their Creator, but overall, the majority of these places have become religiously sterile and spiritually empty. So God is moving to unconventional minyanim and places such as Israeli cafes, debating clubs, community centers, unaffiliated religious gatherings, and atypical batei midrash. The reason is obvious. In some of those places people are actually looking for Him. And that is what He loves; not those who have already found Him and take Him for granted."

While I believe Rabbi Cardozo’s contention is over-stated, it contains deep truth. God has not abandoned synagogues that aspire to holiness, that raise our spirits and nourish our souls. God has not given up on the many pious Jews who sincerely pray in their daily minyanim. But Rabbi Cardozo touches on a serious dilemma…where synagogues don’t seem to be inviting God’s presence, don’t convey a sense of religious yearning and solemnity. If God isn’t experienced in the daily minyan, it means God isn’t really invited. And if God isn’t invited, daily minyan loses its raison d’etre.

The daily minyan, for many, is a spiritual anchor of their lives. They pray quietly, meditatively. They avoid chatter or frivolity in the sanctuary. They conduct themselves as though they are in the presence of God. Ashrei Yoshevei Veitekha…happy are those who dwell in Your house…a house where You are not only invited but are the Host.

There is a comforting tendency in contemporary discussions of Jewish history to speak of survival almost as though survival itself constituted victory.

I cannot accept that formulation. For me, Jewish and Zionist identity is neither an abstraction nor merely a religious affiliation detachable from history. It is the inheritance of a people whose collective memory has been shaped by exile and return, persecution and creativity, political vulnerability and national renewal—and, above all, by an extraordinary determination not to disappear.

This understanding is intensely personal. Almost my entire family was murdered because they were Jews. The overwhelming majority of the Jewish community from which I come was segregated, dispossessed, deported, and exterminated during the German occupation of the Netherlands. Centuries before that catastrophe, my Sephardic ancestors left the magnificent Iberian Peninsula because remaining openly Jewish had become impossible.

These are not remote episodes in a history book. They form part of the consciousness through which I understand Jewish identity. I speak as a native Dutchman who later became an American citizen; as a Jew by faith, culture, history, memory, and peoplehood; and politically as what has become an increasingly rare creature: an old-fashioned General Zionist.

The Lost Center of Zionism

General Zionism once occupied an important position within the Zionist movement. Historically, it described those Zionists who belonged neither to the socialist-Labor camp nor to the religious parties. Over time important elements of General Zionism became associated with European liberalism, private enterprise, a substantial middle class, constitutional government, civic responsibility, and Jewish national self-determination. That political world has largely vanished.

The old disagreements among General Zionists, Labor Zionists, Revisionists, religious Zionists, and other movements were never merely quarrels among party organizations. They reflected fundamentally different conceptions of the society Zionism ought to create once Jews again possessed political sovereignty.

What should a Jewish state be?

Was Jewish sovereignty merely intended to provide Jews with military and political power after centuries of defenselessness? Or was sovereignty supposed to create something greater: a society in which Jewish national independence existed together with liberty, constitutional restraint, human dignity, freedom of conscience, and civic responsibility?

For me, the latter was always implicit in the Zionist project. Zionism was not meant simply to exchange Jewish powerlessness for Jewish power. Its purpose was the restoration of Jewish political agency: the ability of the Jewish people to take responsibility for their own security, culture, institutions, and future.

But political agency carries obligations as well as rights. When corruption, ideological absolutism, political polarization, or irresponsible leadership weakens democratic institutions, the danger to a nation does not arise exclusively from external enemies. A sovereign people must possess sufficient confidence to examine itself.

Jewish history teaches us what can happen when others possess unlimited power over Jews. Jewish sovereignty should also teach us why unlimited power is dangerous in anyone’s hands. Survival Is Not Victory

The Jewish people survived Babylonian conquest and exile.

We survived Rome. We survived expulsions, forced conversions, massacres, ghettos, inquisitions, pogroms, and centuries in which Jewish existence often depended upon the goodwill of rulers whose protection could vanish overnight.

Then came the destruction of European Jewry. Six million Jews were murdered. Ancient communities disappeared. Families vanished. Languages, schools, synagogues, libraries, traditions, institutions, and entire Jewish civilizations were destroyed.

Three years after the liberation of Auschwitz, the State of Israel proclaimed its independence. That restoration of Jewish sovereignty was among the most consequential events in modern Jewish history.

But sovereignty does not retroactively transform catastrophe into victory. The murdered did not “win” because descendants or survivors lived to establish a state.

That distinction matters. Survival means that the murderers failed to extinguish the Jewish people. It means that after destruction someone remained to say Kaddish.

Someone remained to teach a child the Shemang. Someone reopened a synagogue. Someone wrote Hebrew poetry. Someone argued about Jewish politics. Someone built another Jewish home. Someone raised the flag of a sovereign Jewish state. That is an extraordinary historical achievement.

But it came at an almost incomprehensible human cost. Our great achievement is therefore not that history could not wound us.

History wounded us terribly.

Our achievement is that it could not erase us. Empires that ruled us disappeared. Governments that expelled us fell. Movements that sought to convert us failed. Regimes that attempted to annihilate us were eventually consigned to history.

And still there are Jews. Still Hebrew is spoken. Still Torah is studied. Still our melodies are sung.

Still Jewish children are born. Still Jerusalem occupies its incomparable place in Jewish and civilized consciousness.

And today there exists a sovereign State of Israel in which Jews possess something denied to generations before us: the political capacity to participate directly in determining their national future.

That is not triumphalism. It is continuity. 

The Dutch Lesson: Liberty of Conscience

Yet there is another element of my identity that is equally important to understanding my Zionism. I remain profoundly Dutch.

When I think about political liberty, I think not only about Herzl, Pinsker, Jabotinsky, Weizmann, Ben-Gurion, or the Zionist Congresses. I also think of William the Silent and of the long, imperfect struggle in the Netherlands against religious coercion.

The Pacification of Ghent of 1576 arose from the revolt against Spanish authority and included an end to religious persecution as part of an effort to reunite deeply divided provinces. It did not create modern religious liberty, and its compromises quickly proved fragile. Nevertheless, it formed part of William of Orange’s effort to achieve a measure of religious peace in a society torn apart by confessional conflict. 

The Union of Utrecht of 1579 went further in establishing what became one of the foundational political arrangements of the northern Netherlands. It expressly provided that no person should be persecuted on account of religion, even while the individual provinces retained considerable authority over public worship. It was therefore not yet the American First Amendment, nor was it a modern separation of church and state. But it helped establish a principle of immense historical significance: the state should not hunt a person into the privacy of his conscience.

That distinction matters. The early Dutch Republic did not abolish religious privilege. Public worship was regulated, religious minorities remained subject to restrictions, and full civic equality was far from complete. Yet something revolutionary had begun.

The violent principle that political authority must impose a single religious truth upon every citizen gradually yielded to a more pragmatic conception of society: people of different convictions could inhabit the same political community without requiring one another’s theological submission.

For European civilization, this was no small achievement. It created space in which Jews, Protestants of different denominations, Catholics, freethinkers, merchants, scholars, refugees, and dissenters could coexist—sometimes uneasily, often imperfectly, but with a degree of freedom extraordinary for its time. That environment mattered enormously to Sephardic Jews.  It helped make my home city Amsterdam one of the great centers of Jewish intellectual, commercial, and religious life. The lesson was profound: A state becomes stronger, not weaker, when it ceases attempting to govern the human conscience.

Zionism and Constitutional Liberty

This brings me to an unresolved question at the heart of the Zionist enterprise.

The Zionist movement created institutions, mobilized Jewish communities across continents, promoted settlement, developed political diplomacy, fostered Hebrew culture, and laid much of the organizational groundwork from which Jewish sovereignty emerged. The World Zionist Organization itself was founded at the First Zionist Congress in Basel in 1897, with the goal of securing a recognized Jewish home in Eretz Yisrael.

Yet when Israel achieved independence in 1948, the new state did not ultimately adopt the comprehensive written constitution originally contemplated by its founders.

Israel today possesses Basic Laws based upon Ottoman and British jurisprudence rather than a single codified constitutional document. The Knesset itself acknowledges that the state has no comprehensive constitution and that disputes about Israel’s identity as both Jewish and democratic have contributed to the continuing constitutional debate. That unfinished constitutional project should concern Zionists.

The Declaration of Independence spoke in unmistakably liberal terms. It envisioned a state founded upon freedom, justice, and peace, and promised equality of social and political rights irrespective of religion, race, or sex, together with freedom of religion and conscience. Those principles were not foreign decorations attached to Zionism.

They belong at its center.

Indeed, the World Zionist Organization’s own current constitution describes Zionism as adhering to justice, equality, and democracy and as rejecting discrimination on grounds including origin, nationality, race, gender, and sexual orientation.

The question, therefore, is not whether liberty is somehow incompatible with Zionism. The more difficult question is whether Zionist institutions and the State of Israel are sufficiently determined to defend liberty when doing so becomes politically inconvenient.

Freedom of Speech Is Not a Luxury

Freedom of speech is especially important in a society whose citizens carry radically different memories, religious convictions, political philosophies, and understandings of national identity.

A free society does not protect speech because every opinion is wise. It protects speech because no government, political faction, religious establishment, or ideological movement can safely be entrusted with determining which opinions may be expressed.

Zionism itself could hardly have developed without intellectual dissent. Herzl challenged accepted assumptions about Jewish emancipation. Ahad Ha’am challenged political Zionism. Religious Zionists challenged secular Zionists. Revisionists challenged Labor. General Zionists challenged both socialist collectivism and religious political authority.

Israeli democracy has always contained arguments of extraordinary intensity precisely because Jewish sovereignty returned political disagreement to the Jewish people. That disagreement is not evidence of national weakness. Properly protected, it is evidence of political maturity.

The moment criticism of government becomes confused with treason, or disagreement with religious authority becomes confused with hostility to Judaism, liberty is already in danger.

Freedom of Religion Means Freedom From Religious Coercion  The same principle applies to religion.

A Jewish state has every right to express Jewish history, Hebrew civilization, the Jewish calendar, Jewish national memory, and the relationship of the Jewish people to Eretz Yisrael. But the Jewish character of a state cannot depend upon compelling belief. Faith imposed through political power ceases to be faith and becomes coercion.

Freedom of religion necessarily includes several liberties simultaneously: the freedom to believe, the freedom to practice, the freedom to change one’s degree of observance, the freedom to belong to a different religious tradition, and the freedom not to believe at all. Those liberties protect religious Jews as much as secular Jews. They protect the Orthodox Jew from a hostile secular majority. They protect the secular Jew from rabbinic coercion.

They protect Sephardim whose religious traditions differ from Ashkenazi establishments. They protect Reform and Conservative Jews. They protect Christians, Muslims, Druze, Baháʼís, and others. And they protect the individual human conscience.

A government powerful enough to impose somebody else’s religion upon you today is powerful enough to suppress your religion tomorrow.

Jewish history should make us particularly sensitive to that danger. 

The Seduction of Religious Extremism

Religious extremism becomes dangerous when theological certainty acquires political power.

This danger is not unique to Judaism, Christianity, or Islam.

It is a danger inherent whenever human beings become convinced that disagreement with them constitutes rebellion against God.

Once political opponents cease being fellow citizens and become heretics, traitors, infidels, apostates, or enemies of divine purpose, ordinary democratic compromise becomes morally suspect.

From there, persecution becomes dangerously easy to justify.

Jewish civilization knows the consequences of such thinking because Jews have repeatedly been its victims.

We therefore carry a particular responsibility not to reproduce the logic that persecuted us. No rabbi, priest, imam, minister, politician, or ideological movement should possess authority over another person’s conscience. No government should determine which interpretation of God every citizen must accept. And no political majority should imagine that electoral victory gives it ownership over the spiritual life of minorities.

The Jewish State Must Not Fear Liberty

Some believe that more religious coercion makes Israel more Jewish.

I believe Jewish history suggests precisely the opposite question should be asked: What kind of Jewish society requires coercion to remain Jewish?

A civilization confident in itself does not fear freedom. Judaism survived Babylon, Rome, Christendom, Islam, the Inquisition, emancipation, secularism, communism, fascism, assimilation, and modernity. It does not require a policeman standing behind the synagogue door. Nor should secular Israelis fear Judaism.

The Bible, rabbinic civilization, Sephardic philosophy, Jewish law, Hebrew language, liturgy, poetry, historical memory, and the experience of exile constitute a civilizational inheritance vastly larger than any contemporary political party or religious institution.

A genuinely Jewish and democratic state ought therefore to protect both Jewish civilization and personal liberty. The two need not be enemies.

From Survival to Responsibility

The Jewish people have accomplished something remarkable.

We survived.

But after 1948, survival alone could no longer be the complete Zionist program.

A sovereign people must ask not merely whether its state exists, but what kind of state it wishes to become.

That is the transition from survival to responsibility.

Jewish history imposes upon us an obligation to defend Jews against persecution.

But that same history ought to make us defenders of the persecuted.

Jewish history teaches us the danger of statelessness.

But it should also teach us the danger of unrestricted state power.

Jewish history teaches us to cherish our religion.

But it should therefore also teach us that religion is most precious when freely embraced rather than politically imposed.

And Jewish history teaches us the value of having a national voice.

It should therefore make us reluctant to silence the voices of others.

The Netherlands of William the Silent did not instantly create modern liberal democracy. Neither did the American Revolution, the French Revolution, or any other historical transformation produce perfect liberty overnight.

Political liberty developed slowly, through struggle, contradiction, compromise, and repeated correction.

Israel’s constitutional journey remains similarly unfinished.

Perhaps that unfinished work constitutes one of the most important Zionist tasks of our generation.

We must preserve the Jewish state.

But we must also preserve the kind of liberty that makes a Jewish state worth preserving.

We must defend Israel against those who seek its destruction.

But we must equally defend its democratic institutions against those—whether religious or secular, right or left—who would subordinate individual conscience to ideological power.

And we must remember that Jewish sovereignty was not restored merely so that Jews could survive behind stronger walls.

It was restored so that after centuries of living at the mercy of others, the Jewish people could build a society worthy of its history.

Am Yisrael does not exist because history was kind to us.

We exist because generation after generation Jews chose to remain Jews.

The challenge of sovereignty is greater still:

to remain Jewish without becoming intolerant;

to remain strong without worshipping power;

to remain faithful without coercing faith;

to remain national without denying human dignity;

and to defend the State of Israel without surrendering the freedoms that give democratic sovereignty its moral meaning.

Survival brought us here.

Liberty, responsibility, and constitutional restraint must help determine what we become.

I also changed the historical formulation about the Dutch Republic slightly. The Pacification of Ghent and Union of Utrecht were major milestones toward liberty of conscience, but not modern church–state separation; Article 13 of the Union allowed considerable provincial control over public religious practice while establishing that individuals should not be persecuted for their religion. That nuance actually strengthens your comparison with Israel because it shows constitutional liberty developing gradually rather than appearing fully formed. 

Let me finish with the motto of my native country:

Je maintiendrai!

(I shall maintain)