National Scholar Updates

When we say, “I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah, and even if he tarries, I will wait for him” —what are waiting for, what are we hoping for?

How does Rambam answer these questions? Let us see. He describes the ultimate end of the messianic process (it is a process for him, not an event) in two places. The first answer is found in the last  paragraph in Mishneh Torah, “Laws of Kings,” xii.4:

The Sages and Prophets did not long for the days of the Messiah so that they might exercise dominion over the world, or rule over the nations, or be exalted by the peoples, and not in order to eat and drink and rejoice, but so that they be free to devote themselves to the Torah and its wisdom, with no one to oppress or disturb them, and thus be worthy of life in the world to come, as we explained in “Laws Concerning Repentance.” Then there will be neither famine nor war, neither jealousy nor strife. Good things will be abundant, and delicacies as common as dust. The one preoccupation of the whole world will be only to know the Lord. Hence, they will be very wise, knowing things now unknown and will apprehend knowledge of their Creator to the utmost capacity of the human mind, as it is written: For the land shall be full of the knowledge (de'ah) of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea (Isa. 11:9) [emphasis added, here and below].

Who are the “they” referenced here? Early copyists of Mishneh Torah were convinced that Rambam must have meant Jews and changed the text to read “Israel.” This makes no sense for at least two reasons. First, “the preoccupation of the whole world” will be to know God. Second, Rambam nowhere expresses the view or even implies that non-Jews are incapable of knowing God. It is this widespread and deep knowledge of God which explains why “there will be neither famine nor war, neither jealousy nor strife.” In a world governed by intellect “Good things will be abundant, and delicacies as common as dust,” as it could even be today, were the world governed by intellect. Rambam’s messianic vision is universalist and, as we shall see, naturalist.

Prof. Zev Harvey has pointed out that Rambam recapitulates this messianic vision in Guide iii.11 (pp. 353-354 in the new Goodman/Leiberman translation). In that passage, Rambam teaches how to understand the end of Mishneh Torah:

These grave evils that human beings inflict on one another, too, out of ambition, passion, opinions and beliefs all reflect privations. Just as a blind man, sightless and unguided, always stumbles, harming himself and others, human sects perpetuate dreadful evils against their fellow humans and themselves, reflecting their ignorance. Had they the insight befitting our human form, as vision befits the eye, all the harm they do to each other and themselves would end. For knowledge of the truth would dissolve hatred and spite and end the crimes of man against man. Thus, the promise The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard couch with the kid …the cow graze with the bear…the suckling play [by the viper’s nest] (Isaiah 11:6-8). And the reason is given why such strife, hatred and struggles for power will end – man will truly know God as He truly is: They shall not harm or destroy in all My holy mountain for the earth shall be filled with knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea (Is. 11:9).

In this very short chapter, Rambam elaborates on the promises made in “Kings,” xii.4. The fulfillment of these promises depends not on miracles, not on changes in fundamental human nature, but on truly knowing “God as He truly is.” Both passages end with the same verse from Isaiah.

How ought we to read these two passages –as promises or as challenges? My point in this short essay is to argue that Rambam’s messianic vision is not a promise or a prediction of what will be, but a challenge to act in a fashion that will bring the world closer to the messianic era.

The messianic world is no different from our world, only (much) better: “Let it not enter your mind that in the days of the messiah any aspect of the regular order of nature will be abolished or some innovation will be introduced into the world of nature; rather, the world follows its accustomed course…” (“Laws of Kings,” xii.1).

However, the fulfillment of the three passages cited here depends upon humanity being vastly better than it is now. In Guide iii.32 (p. 438) Rambam emphasizes that God does not use miracles to change human nature. Rambam calls this “a major principle.” Rambam’s reservations about the possibility of truly knowing God (something even Moses failed to accomplish—Guide i.54) are well known. Since after the Messiah comes, “the world follows its accustomed course,” it would appear that Rambam’s description of the messianic world cannot be a promise or a prediction; it is, rather, a challenge to us make our world as close as possible to the messianic world.

For Rambam, the Torah holds out the promise that “knowledge of the truth would dissolve hatred and spite and end the crimes of man against man.” In such a world “ambition, passion, opinions and beliefs” will be dissolved by “knowledge of the truth.” Humans will no longer harm each other or themselves — “strife, hatred and struggles for power will end.” All this will come about through widespread knowledge of God. This is how Rambam himself interpreted the end of the Mishneh Torah in the Guide. Taking the last paragraph of the Mishneh Torah both literally and seriously and interpreting it as he himself interprets it in the Guide, we learn that Rambam anticipated a messianic world in which all human beings will devote themselves to the knowledge of God. We appear to have here a messianic vision, not of utopia (literally, no place), but of reversion to the Garden of Eden before the sin of Adam and Eve. The restorative nature of the messianic world is made clear in the passage with which Rambam opens his discussion of the Messiah in Mishneh Torah (“Laws of Kings, xi.1):

King messiah will arise and restore the kingdom of David to its former state and original sovereignty. He will rebuild the sanctuary and gather the dispersed of Israel. All the ancient laws will be reinstituted in his days; sacrifices will again be offered; the sabbatical and jubilee years will again be observed in accordance with the commandments set forth in the Law.

Rambam thus opens his account of the messianic era here by emphasizing its restorative character. The messiah will re-establish what once was and thus miracles will not be necessary. The non-miraculous restoration of what once was must be a process, not an event. As such, it is a challenge to those alive at that time to help the process forward.

Rambam’s vision is restorative, not utopian. From this it follows that the messianic era will in principle be not unlike the present world. Hollywood will not be called upon for special effects. Since the messianic era is constituted by the reconstitution of a past golden age, it is possible to find our way forward to what once was in the past (not “Back to the Future” but “Forward to the Past’) without miracles, and nature will therefore continue in its accustomed patterns, and hence the messianic era must be brought about through human effort. Note well: in this text Rambam says, ‘The days of the Messiah refers to the time when sovereignty will return to Israel, and the people of Israel will return to the Land of Israel.’ Nowhere does he say that God will send the Messiah; rather, he implies that it is up to humans to bring the Messiah. From this it follows that the coming of the Messiah is a process, not an event. This passage repeatedly focuses on political freedom and sovereignty. This point is important to emphasize, since many of our contemporaries (mis)read Rambam as teaching that the point of the messianic era is Jewish sovereignty over the (whole) Land of Israel (not to mention dominion over it). For Rambam, the point of the messianic era is knowing God.

Wisdom, apprehension, and knowledge cannot be achieved by war, only by study. The whole world can become preoccupied with the knowledge of the Lord only if war is replaced by education. To the extent that it is rational for ends to determine means, then the only way to bring about the fulfilment of the messianic redemption, at least as it is understood by Rambam, is to make the study of true Torah (which includes ma’aseh bereshit, physics, and ma’aseh merkavah, metaphysics) our aim, and not domination of one group by another. 

Was Rambam actually enough of an optimist to anticipate a messianic return to an Edenic humanity without miracles? This seems to be a large mouthful—in such a reality, the world would not continue in its accustomed way, human nature as we know it would be replaced by an improved version, and the Torah of Moses would be replaced by the Torah of Abraham.

In order properly to comprehend Rambam’s view of future history, as it were, it will be useful to examine his understanding of past history. James Diamond leads the way by citing Aviezer Ravitzky to the effect that the key to Rambam’s messianic vision "is to be found precisely in Rambam’s allegorical interpretation of the story of the Garden of Eden in the opening chapters of the Guide ... the opening of human history is united with its final perfection ... the universal redemption of the human race ... refers in fact to man's return to his original stature represented by the human archetype." For Rambam, the Eden story teaches values, not history. He presents the story of Adam, Eve, the serpent, and the Garden of Eden in Guide i.1-2 and ii.30, not as an account of what actually happened, but as an explanation of the human condition as it is and as it will be. Torah does not describe past history and apparently does not describe future history. Rambam’s account of the messianic future is not an account of what will happen; rather it is an account of a future which we should aim for, even if it is not clear that we will ever actually arrive at it. In terms I learned from my teacher Steven Schwarzchild it is regulative, not predictive. In other words, Rambam’s vision of the messianic era is not a prediction but an ideal to regulate our behavior in the here and now—not a promise, but a challenge.

Continuing in a Schwarzschildian mode, Kenneth Seeskin (like me, a student, friend, and admirer of Schwarschild) commented (personal communication): “In general, it might be pointed out that according to Rambam, human nature will not change during the Days of the Messiah so that the laws of the Torah will still be binding.Yes, Schwarzschild was optimistic to the extent that he thought a messianic era was not only possible but one day would actually arrive. But, no, he was not so optimistic as to think that human beings would be able to dispense with holidays and rituals.”

What then can we learn from “Laws of Kings,” xii.4 and Guide iii.11 if we cannot learn future history? We can learn, as Kenneth Seeskin teaches, that there is much reason for hope. In Rambam’s view the point of the messianic era is to bring the Torah lekhol ba’ei olam, to all human beings. This messianic vision offers us a goal at which to aim, an ideal by which to regulate our behavior. That goal is the realization of the opening chapters of the Bible: all human beings are created in the image of God and should therefore be treated, not only as means, but as ends, also

Rambam’s naturalism means that this goal can in principle be achieved by human beings, without divine intervention, miraculous or otherwise. Kant insisted that ought implies can: if I ought to do something, I must be able to do it. Steven Schwarzschild insisted on a Jewish corollary to that Kantian teaching: If I can achieve some worthwhile goal, then I am obligated to try to achieve it. Getting ever closer to a messianic world is surely a worthwhile goal. Actually, reaching that goal may not be possible, but getting ever closer is. Since we can do it, we should make every effort to make the world a place in which all human beings are treated as creatures made in the image of God. Rambam, in effect anticipating Hermann Cohen, and Schwarzschild, following Cohen, teaches that we ought to devote ourselves to the project of creating a messiah-worthy world.

Hermann Cohen and, following him, Yeshayahu Leibowitz, would say that Rambam did not really expect this to happen, that we may come ever closer to the messianic era, but will never actually reach it.  That may or may not have been Rambam’s actual position; I do not really have a settled opinion on the subject. What is crucial to understand is that—whether actually achievable, or an ever-receding while paradoxically ever-closer dream—Rambam’s messianic vision is one of ultimate universal peace and enlightenment. This is a vision which will be realized only if human beings do not wait for God to do it but bring it about themselves.

In sum, there is something important that Maimonidean messianic universalism and naturalism teaches us: hope. We can hope for (and work towards) a world in which different nations and cultures can value their own contributions to the human mosaic without diminishing the value of others—without wholly otherizing the other. If we can hope, we need not despair: the human condition is not necessarily tragic.

For Further Reading

Diamond, James. Maimonides and the Shaping of the Jewish Canon (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2014).

Kellner, Menachem and David Gillis. Maimonides the Universalist: The Ethical Horizons of the Mishneh Torah (London: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2020).

Kellner, Menachem. "And the Crooked Shall be Made Straight: Twisted Messianic Visions – A Maimonidean Corrective," Michael Morgan and Steven Weitzman (eds.), Rethinking the Messianic Idea: New Perspectives on Jewish Messianism (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2014): 108-140.

Kellner, Menachem. "Farteitcht un Farbessert (On 'Correcting' Maimonides)," Me'orot [=Edah Journal] 6.2 (2007). (http://library.yctorah.org/files/2016/07/Kellner-on-Rambam-FINAL.pdf).

Kellner, Menachem. "Rambam’s True Religion – for Jews, or All Humanity?" Me'orot  [=Edah Journal] 7.1 (2008) (https://library.yctorah.org/files/2016/07/Kellner-III-with-Rapoport-response-revision6.pdf).

Kellner, Menachem. "The Other,” in Paul Franks and Yitzchak Melamed (eds.), Oxford Handbook of Jewish Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2026), 751–772.

Klein-Braslavy, Sara. “Bible Commentary,” in K. Seeskin (ed.) Cambridge Companion to Maimonides  (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 2005), 245–273.

Maimonides, Moses. Guide to the Perplexed, translated by Lenn Evan Goodman and Phillip Lieberman (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2025).

Schwarzschild, Steven S. “The Messianic Doctrine in Contemporary Jewish Thought,” in Abraham Milgram (ed.), Great Jewish Ideas (Washington, DC: Bnai Brith, 1964), 231-259, 339-341. 

Seeskin, Kenneth, Jewish Messianic Thoughts in an Age of Despair (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012).

Seeskin, Kenneth. "Maimonides and Hermann Cohen on Messianism," Maimonidean Studies 5 (2008): 375–392.

Over the past two centuries, archaeology has transformed the study of the ancient world. Periodically, a dramatic announcement appears in the news: an inscription, a seal, or a structure that allegedly sheds new light on the biblical period. The reactions tend to be immediate and predictable. People of faith celebrate: at last, the truth of Tanakh has been proven. Some scholars respond just as quickly in the opposite direction, dismissing the find as a forgery or a misinterpretation. A debate ensues, and before long, public attention moves elsewhere.

Despite their differences, both reactions share a common assumption: that Tanakh stands or falls based on external validation. If archaeology confirms it, then it is true; if archaeology challenges it, then it is suspect. This framing, however widespread, is fundamentally flawed.

The problem begins with a misunderstanding of what Tanakh is. Tanakh contains a great deal of history, but it is not “history as it really was” in the sense defined by the nineteenth-century historian Leopold von Ranke. Rather, it is historiosophy—a divinely guided interpretation of history that conveys meaning, not merely events. Its goal is not to provide a neutral chronicle of the past, but to teach enduring truths about God, humanity, and the covenantal relationship between them.

Once this point is recognized, the limitations of archaeology become clearer. Archaeology is not an experimental science; it cannot recreate the past under controlled conditions. It works with fragmentary remains, incomplete data, and interpretive judgments. Arguments from silence—claims that something did not exist because we have not yet found evidence for it—are inherently weak. Tomorrow’s discovery may overturn today’s consensus, or it may be that we would not reasonably expect to find such evidence in the first place.

For this reason, attempts to use archaeology to “prove” or “disprove” Tanakh are misguided from the outset. Some readers approach Tanakh as entirely and literally true in every detail. Others adopt a more flexible stance, generally trusting the biblical record unless clear evidence suggests otherwise. Still others assume that Tanakh has little or no historical value unless independently corroborated. These positions differ sharply, but they share a common error: they assign archaeology a role it cannot fulfill.

Classical Jewish thinkers offer a more nuanced approach. Figures such as Rambam and Rabbi Saadyah Gaon maintained that truth is unified—there can be no ultimate conflict between Torah and genuine knowledge of the world. At the same time, they recognized that our interpretations, whether of Scripture or of empirical data, are fallible.[1] This principle applies equally to the interpretation of archaeological data, which is itself tentative and subject to revision.

Moreover, even from within the field of archaeology itself, the picture is far from one-sided. Gary Rendsburg has argued that the broad contours of Israel’s history align well with the archaeological record, apart from certain debated areas—most notably the extent of the united monarchy.[2] Kenneth Kitchen likewise emphasizes the general reliability of the biblical record within its ancient Near Eastern context.[3]

In light of all this, the question is not whether archaeology can validate Tanakh in some absolute sense. It cannot. The more fruitful question is how archaeology can be used as a tool to deepen our understanding of Tanakh as the word of God.

Once we move beyond the unproductive search for external proof, archaeology opens up a range of meaningful possibilities. One particularly important area is the study of Tanakh in its ancient cultural context. Over time, scholarship has moved through several phases: first seeking to confirm Tanakh, then arguing that it borrowed from surrounding mythologies, and more recently recognizing that Tanakh engages its environment while transforming it in profound ways.

Several examples illustrate this dynamic. In the ancient world, myths of immortality were widespread. Other cultures emphasized a “Tree of Life,” reflecting a deep human desire to transcend death. In the Garden of Eden narrative, however, the Tree of Life plays only a secondary role. The central element is the Tree of Knowledge. As Umberto Cassuto observed, this shift is striking. The Torah is not primarily concerned with immortality, but with moral and spiritual knowledge—how human beings ought to live in this world.

Similarly, circumcision was practiced in various ancient societies, often as a rite of passage into manhood. In the Torah, however, it is transformed into a sign of covenant. As Leon Kass has argued, this redefinition is profound. Manhood is no longer measured by physical potency, but by the capacity to sustain and transmit a covenantal relationship across generations. The act points beyond itself to a lifelong responsibility.[4]

A third example may be seen in the principle of lex talionis—“an eye for an eye.” Ancient law collections, such as that of Hammurabi, also recognized bodily injury as a matter of legal concern (see laws 196–198). Yet the Torah’s formulation introduces a critical innovation: the law applies equally to all members of society. The dignity of the individual is not contingent on social status, but rooted in a shared moral framework under God.

In each case, Tanakh does not merely echo its environment; it reshapes it. Archaeology allows us to see this process more clearly by providing the broader cultural backdrop against which the Torah’s message emerges.

Beyond these conceptual insights, archaeology also serves as a practical tool for interpreting the biblical text. Already in the Talmudic and medieval periods, sages drew on real-world knowledge to clarify details of Tanakh. The Talmud (Sukkah 5a) records that when Rabbi Elazar visited Rome, he saw Temple vessels, including the tzitz, the High Priest’s golden headband, and reported on its appearance. The Arch of Titus informs our understanding of the design of the Temple menorah. Ramban revised his understanding of the geography of Rachel’s burial place after arriving in the Land of Israel and seeing the terrain firsthand (see his commentary on Genesis 35:16).

Material discoveries likewise illuminate specific terms and practices. The “pim” mentioned in I Samuel (13:21), once obscure, has been identified through archaeological finds as a particular weight, helping to clarify the verse. Linguistic advances, drawing on Akkadian, Ugaritic, Egyptian, and other ancient languages, have deepened our understanding of biblical vocabulary, much as earlier commentators used Aramaic and Arabic as cognates. Even historical context—knowledge of Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian imperial practices—enables a richer reading of the prophetic books.

All of this falls under the category of using archaeology as a tool for understanding God’s word in Tanakh. It sharpens our reading, clarifies ambiguities, and situates Tanakh within the lived reality of the ancient world.

Perhaps the most powerful example of this approach lies in the study of covenant. Scholars have noted parallels between the structure of biblical covenantal texts and ancient Near Eastern treaties, particularly those of the Hittites.[5] These treaties typically include a preamble identifying the ruler, a historical prologue, stipulations, and a list of blessings and curses.

The Torah adopts a similar structure for the revelation at Sinai. Yet the similarities only highlight the profound differences. In the ancient world, treaties were agreements between a powerful ruler and a subordinate vassal. In the Torah, the covenant is between a transcendent God and an entire nation. The laws are issued not by a king or sage, but by God Himself. The covenant is eternal, embedded in a narrative that gives it meaning, and addressed to every member of the community.[6]

Moreover, the Torah introduces concepts with no true parallel in the ancient world: the prohibition against representing God physically, and the demand for inner moral integrity, extending even to one’s desires. As Samson Raphael Hirsch noted, the very notion that a law could govern human thought and emotion points to a divine origin beyond the reach of ordinary legislation.

Here, too, archaeology and comparative study do not diminish the uniqueness of Tanakh—they bring it into sharper focus. By understanding the familiar forms, we can better appreciate the revolutionary content.

In the end, the role of archaeology in the study of Tanakh is both significant and limited. It cannot determine the truth of Tanakh, nor should it be asked to do so. Attempts to use it as a final arbiter are bound to fail, as scholars will continue to debate fragmentary evidence and incomplete data.

At the same time, when used properly, archaeology is an invaluable resource. It enriches our understanding of language, geography, historical context, and cultural background. It allows us to see more clearly how Tanakh speaks within its world—and how it transforms that world through its message.

“What happened” in history matters. But for the religious reader, what Tanakh teaches through history matters much more. Archaeology uncovers the physical remains of ancient civilizations; Tanakh reveals the meaning of human existence. When approached with clarity and intellectual honesty, the former can illuminate the latter—but it can never replace it.[7]

Hayyei Sarah:

Abraham’s Servant and the Art of Biblical Retelling

One of the most striking features of Genesis 24 is its extensive repetition. The Torah first narrates Abraham’s servant’s mission to find a wife for Isaac, and then recounts much of the same story through the servant’s own words to Rebecca’s family. Although the two accounts are substantially similar, they contain numerous differences in wording, emphasis, and sequence. Why does the Torah devote so much space to repeating the story, and what should we make of the variations?

This question reflects a broader methodological debate among biblical commentators. Ibn Ezra and Radak maintain that many differences between repeated accounts are ordinary literary variations. The Torah need not repeat an event in precisely the same words each time. One account may clarify the other without requiring us to assign independent significance to every variation.

Other commentators, including Rashi, Ramban, Abarbanel, and Malbim, often adopt an approach that emphasizes the significance of every detail in the biblical text. From this perspective, differences between parallel accounts invite interpretation rather than being dismissed as stylistic alternatives.

Genesis 24 provides a particularly rich opportunity to consider these approaches. Is Abraham’s servant faithfully recounting his experience, with the Torah employing natural literary variation? Or does he deliberately modify his account to persuade Rebecca’s family to approve the marriage?

Perspective One: 

A Carefully Crafted Persuasive Narrative

Rabbi Elhanan Samet, in the third series of his studies on the weekly Torah portion, identifies approximately twenty differences between the original narrative and the servant’s retelling. He argues that these changes serve a coherent purpose: the servant wishes to convince Rebecca’s family that her marriage to Isaac is both appropriate and divinely ordained.

Consider Abraham’s original instructions: “Go to my land and to my birthplace (moladti) and take a wife for my son Isaac” (Genesis 24:4). In the straightforward reading of the original narrative, Abraham instructs his servant to travel to his homeland, rather than explicitly requiring him to marry Isaac into Abraham’s extended family. Indeed, when the servant arrives at the well, he prays for a sign that will identify a suitable wife. He asks that the young woman who offers water not only to him but also to his camels be the one whom God has designated for Isaac (24:12–14).

The narrative describes the young women as “the daughters of the people of the city” (benot anshei ha-ir, 24:13). Nothing in the servant’s prayer explicitly requires the chosen woman to be Abraham’s relative. Moreover, after Rebecca fulfills the sign by generously watering the camels, the servant gives her jewelry and only afterward asks about her family: “Whose daughter are you? Tell me, please. Is there room in your father’s house for us to spend the night?” (24:23). This sequence suggests that the servant initially identifies Rebecca as a suitable candidate because of her extraordinary kindness, without yet knowing her ancestry.

When the servant recounts these events to Rebecca’s family, however, he presents the mission somewhat differently. He reports that Abraham instructed him: “You shall go to my father’s house, to my family, and take a wife for my son” (24:38).

The distinction is significant. Rather than describing a search for a woman from Abraham’s homeland, the servant presents his mission as a search specifically within Abraham’s family. Ramban, Abarbanel, and Malbim recognize the importance of this variation.

The servant also changes the sequence of his encounter with Rebecca. In his retelling, he first asks about her family, receives confirmation that she is Abraham’s relative, and only then places the jewelry upon her (24:47).

This revised sequence strengthens his argument considerably. In the original narrative, the jewelry appears to reward Rebecca’s generosity before the servant knows her identity. In the retelling, the jewelry follows his discovery that she belongs to precisely the family Abraham supposedly designated.

The servant carefully recounts his prayer, Rebecca’s fulfillment of the sign, and his subsequent recognition of divine providence (24:42–48). By presenting the entire sequence as the fulfillment of Abraham’s specific instructions, he makes the marriage appear to be the unmistakable will of God.

His presentation achieves its intended effect. Laban and Bethuel respond: “The matter has come from the Lord; we cannot speak to you either bad or good. Here is Rebecca before you; take her and go, and let her be a wife to your master’s son, as the Lord has spoken” (24:50–51).

Their conclusion is understandable even from the original narrative. Rebecca’s appearance at precisely the right moment, her remarkable generosity, and her relationship to Abraham all point toward divine providence. Nevertheless, the servant’s retelling makes the providential nature of the encounter even more compelling.

On this reading, the servant is not merely repeating his experience. He is a skilled advocate who adapts his presentation to his audience. His objective is to secure Rebecca’s marriage to Isaac, and he arranges the details to emphasize family connection, divine guidance, and the compelling nature of Abraham’s request.

Perspective Two: 

A Faithful Retelling That Clarifies the Original Narrative

Although the differences between the accounts are undeniable, an alternative reading challenges the assumption that the servant substantially altered the facts. The central issue concerns Abraham’s original instructions. Did he merely require a wife from his homeland, or did he specifically intend that Isaac marry a member of his extended family?

Rashbam understands the Hebrew word moledet in Genesis 24:4 as referring to family rather than birthplace. This usage is supported by Genesis 43:7, where the brothers explain that Joseph had questioned them about their family. On Rashbam’s reading, Abraham instructed the servant from the outset to seek a wife among his relatives. The servant’s later reference to Abraham’s family therefore does not represent a change in the mission but an accurate clarification of its original purpose.

The possibility remains that Abraham specifically hoped to find Rebecca. Genesis 22:20–24, immediately preceding the account of Sarah’s death, reports the birth of several members of Abraham’s extended family, culminating in Rebecca. Abraham therefore may already have known of her existence and regarded her as a prospective wife for Isaac.

More importantly, the original narrative itself suggests that the servant was concerned with Rebecca’s family identity before he regarded his mission as successfully completed. After Rebecca waters the camels, the Torah states: “The man stood gazing at her silently, to know whether the Lord had made his journey successful or not” (24:21). At this point, Rebecca has already fulfilled the sign. Why, then, is the servant still uncertain whether God has granted him success?

The answer becomes apparent from what follows. After presenting Rebecca with jewelry, the servant asks about her family. She identifies herself as the daughter of Bethuel, the son of Milcah and Nahor (24:22–24). Only after learning this information does the servant bow and thank God: “Blessed be the Lord, the God of my master Abraham, who has not forsaken His kindness and faithfulness toward my master. As for me, the Lord has guided me on the way to the house of my master’s brothers” (24:27).

This sequence is crucial. The servant does not declare his mission successful immediately after Rebecca fulfills the sign. His expression of gratitude comes only after he learns that she belongs to Abraham’s family.

Furthermore, his thanksgiving specifically identifies the family connection as part of God’s providential guidance. The servant celebrates having been led to “the house of my master’s brothers.” This language suggests that reaching Abraham’s family was an intended objective, rather than an incidental benefit that the servant subsequently exploited in his presentation. Consequently, the original narrative itself supports the possibility that the servant was seeking a woman from Abraham’s family all along.

This observation significantly weakens the argument that the servant transformed a general search for a suitable woman into a family-specific mission only when speaking to Rebecca’s relatives.

Ibn Ezra and Radak, consistent with their broader approach to biblical repetition, understand the servant’s retelling as substantially faithful to the original events. Ibn Ezra maintains that the servant had indeed asked Rebecca about her family before giving her the jewelry, as he later reports. The initial narrative does not necessarily provide every detail in strict chronological order. The two accounts therefore may be read together to reconstruct the complete sequence.

Similarly, the servant’s more explicit account of Abraham’s instructions may clarify what the original narrative expressed more briefly. Rather than assuming that the servant modified Abraham’s words, we may understand the two formulations as complementary descriptions of the same mission.

The servant’s retelling, therefore, need not be understood as a calculated revision of the facts. It may instead be a natural and faithful restatement of the story, emphasizing details already implicit in the original account.

Nevertheless, this interpretation does not eliminate every possibility of deliberate rhetorical emphasis. Even if Abraham genuinely instructed the servant to find a wife from his family, and even if the servant faithfully conveyed that instruction, he may have rearranged the sequence concerning the jewelry to strengthen his appeal. By presenting the gifts as following his discovery of Rebecca’s ancestry, he reinforces the connection between Abraham’s instructions and their providential fulfillment.

Thus, acknowledging the general reliability of the servant’s account does not require denying that he shaped his presentation for persuasive effect.

Two Approaches to Biblical Narrative

The two perspectives illuminate both the character of Abraham’s servant and the literary character of the Torah.

According to the first approach, the servant demonstrates remarkable intelligence and diplomatic skill. He recognizes the importance of securing Rebecca’s family’s consent and deliberately highlights the elements most likely to persuade them. The differences between the original narrative and his retelling reveal his strategy and invite readers to appreciate the artistry of biblical characterization.

According to the second approach, the servant’s retelling primarily clarifies the original narrative. Abraham’s intention to find a wife from his family, the servant’s concern with Rebecca’s ancestry, and his recognition of divine providence form a coherent account. The variations need not all reflect deliberate changes to the underlying events.

The distinction also reflects the broader interpretive debate over repetition in Tanakh. Must every difference between parallel accounts communicate a separate message, or may the Torah employ the ordinary variations characteristic of human storytelling?

Genesis 24 suggests that the question cannot always be resolved by adopting one methodological principle to the exclusion of the other. The servant’s account may be substantially faithful while still reflecting the rhetorical needs of the moment. Conversely, recognizing persuasive elements in his speech does not establish that every variation represents a conscious alteration.

Perhaps the most important insight emerges from the original narrative itself. The servant’s prayer identifies generosity as the sign of a worthy wife for Isaac, but his thanksgiving follows the discovery that Rebecca belongs to Abraham’s family. Her character and her ancestry together confirm the success of his mission.

Whether the servant carefully reshaped his story or faithfully clarified its details, both accounts ultimately point toward the same conclusion: Rebecca’s marriage to Isaac brings together human initiative, moral excellence, family continuity, and divine providence.

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

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:

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