National Scholar Updates

Together...Uniquely: Thoughts for Parashat Naso

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Naso

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

 

When the Almighty calls on Moses to command the priests to bless the people of Israel, the instructions are in the plural (emor lahem). When the blessing is concluded, the Almighty indicates: “and I will bless them” (va-ani avarakhem)—also in the plural. The setting of the priestly blessing, then, is clearly to be a public event intended for the entire collective.

Yet, the tripartite blessing itself is entirely in the singular form. Although the blessing is intended for the plurality of Israel, it is aimed at each individual separately. It prays that God will bless and protect each of us; that God’s countenance should shine on each Israelite and grant each one of us peace—shalom.

The formulation of the priestly blessing is alluding to a profound truth. The blessings are given to the entire community…not as an anonymous mass of people, but as an assembly of individual human beings. The emphasis is on the uniqueness of each person, the desire that each of us finds blessing and fulfillment in life. The goal is shalom…peace, wholeness, personal satisfaction.

God’s infinite wisdom encompasses all…but focuses on each. This idea is underscored in a Talmudic teaching (Berakhot 58a) that requires the recitation of a special blessing when witnessing a vast throng of Jews. We are to praise the Almighty Who is hakham harazim, the One who understands the root and inner thoughts of each individual. “Their thoughts are not alike and their appearance is not alike.” The Creator made each person as a unique being. He expected and wanted diversity of thought, and we bless Him for having created this diversity among us.

Religious life entails participating in a community, observing shared rituals, following traditional patterns. It can happen that one’s individuality may seem compromised or lost in the process. The overwhelming emphasis on communal mores tends to diminish the uniqueness of each individual. The priestly blessing reminds us of the need to be part of the community…but to retain our own distinctive individuality.

In his famous essay, “Self-Reliance,” Ralph Waldo Emerson taught: “There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion.” We each are who we are; to squelch our individuality in order to imitate others is self-destructive. Emerson lamented the tendency to forfeit one’s ideas, ideals and values in order to blend in with the dominant group. Rather, one should be true to him/herself.

Poignantly, Emerson wrote: “Man is timid and apologetic. He is no longer upright. He dares not say ‘I think,’ ‘I am,’ but quotes some saint or sage.” These words, proclaimed in the mid-19th century, continue to ring true nearly 200 years later. So many religious people, including rabbis, are reluctant to express an original opinion unless it is authenticated by sages of earlier generations. Instead of relying on their own thinking, they seek to amass sources of earlier “authorities.”

The framework of the priestly blessing provides a vital dynamic. We are a community; we stand together in our beliefs and observances. At the same time, though, we are each unique individuals with our own particular thoughts, sensitivities and needs. While we—as members of a community—receive the blessings from the priests and from God, those blessings are directed to each of us separately.  

This is not merely a blessing on us. It is a challenge for us.

* * *

Rabbi Marc Angel has a youtube series on religion and literature, with the first session dealing with the teachings of Ralph Waldo Emerson:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqP9UMJOwmk

 

 

 

The Grand Religious Worldview of Rabbi Benzion Uziel

     Rabbi Benzion Uziel delivered the opening address at a gathering

in Jerusalem of the rabbis of the land of Israel (spring

1919). In describing the rebirth of the Jewish nation in Israel,

he pointed out the many challenges facing the emerging Jewish communities

and settlements. He urged the rabbis to be active participants

in this historic process. It would be unacceptable and dangerous if religious

Jews were to say: "Let us stand in a corner as though looking at

the events from a distance. Let us say to ourselves: we and our families

will serve the Lord." He felt that this isolationist attitude was contrary

to the vision upon which our religion is based. Rabbi Uziel exhorted

his colleagues to go among the people, to work with the people, to participate

in every aspect of the nation-building process. In this way, they

could bring the eternal teachings of Torah into the real world. [1]

 

     This theme was to dominate much of the thought and work of

Rabbi Uziel, who proclaimed that Judaism is not a narrow, confined

doctrine limited only to a select few individuals; rather, the Torah is the

guide for the ideal way of life for the entire Jewish people, and also carries

a message for humanity at large. Jewish religious expression must

not be confined to a parochial, sectarian mold. Rather, it must thrive

with a grand vision, always looking outward.

 

     Rabbi Uziel's philosophy of Judaism flowed from various sources.

Born in Jerusalem to an illustrious Sephardic rabbinical family, his father

was the Av Bet Din of the Sephardic community of Jerusalem and presi-

dent of the community council. His mother was part of the Hazan

rabbinical family, which had produced fist-rate rabbinic leaders for generations.

As a youth, Rabbi Uziel studied with the Sephardic sages of

Jerusalem, but also with Ashkenazic rabbis. He became one of those

unique individuals who was well steeped in the halakhic methods and literature

of both the Sephardim and Ashkenazim.

 

     In 1911, Rabbi Uziel was appointed Chief Rabbi of Yafo and its district, where he worked with Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, the Ashkenazic spiritual leader of Yafo. Although

Rabbi Kook was older, Rabbi Uziel was appointed Chief Rabbi (Haham Bashi) by the authority

of the Turkish Government. Officially, the office of Chief Rabbi was

open only to individuals born in the Ottoman Empire, whose families

had been living there for several generations, and who knew the language

of the land, as well as French and Arabic. Rabbi Uziel had all

these qualifications, while Rabbi Kook did not. Rabbis Uziel and Kook

developed a good working relationship and held each other in high

esteem. In 1921, Rabbi Uziel became the Chief Rabbi of the famous

Sephardic community of Salonika, returning to be Chief Rabbi of Tel

Aviv in 1923. In 1939, he was elected Chief Rabbi of Israel, Rishon le-

Zion.

 

     Rabbi Uziel was a leading posek, thinker, teacher, communal leader

and political activist, one of the unique figures of 20th century Jewish

life. Rabbi Uziel saw God's hand in the development of Jewish life in

Erets Yisrael. He felt that he was participating in the early stages of the

final redemption of Israel. His writings are characterized by the calm

wisdom of a genuine scholar and at the same time by an overwhelming

sense of urgency. Depending on the quality of religious leadership, he

said, everything could be won or lost.[2]

 

     Rabbi Uziel believed that the Jewish people, especially those living

in a revitalized Erets Yisrael, could be living models of the excellence

inspired by the Torah. Through their moral and ethical accomplishments,

the Jews would succeed in making the rest of the world aware of

the great standards set by the Torah for all of humanity. [3]

 

     He felt strongly that Jews must be aware of their own national

charter. Through this self knowledge, they would be able to conduct

their lives according to the ideals set forth in the Torah tradition. This

would lead to their own happiness, as well as to a positive influence on

the world in general. Rabbi Uziel criticized those false ideologies which

distracted the Jewish people from their authentic national charter. He

rejected the assimilationists, since their strategy would ultimately undermine

the true message of Judaism. He also chastised those who would

restrict Judaism to the narrow confines of their homes, synagogues and

study halls. This strategy would bury Judaism in a small inner world,

cutting off its impact on society as a whole. It was necessary to steer a

middle course between assimilationist tendencies on the left and isolationist

tendencies on the right. Rabbi Uziel cited the verse in Mishlei

(4:25) as a guide: "Let your eyes look right on and let your eyelids look

straight before you. Make plain the path of your foot and let all your

ways be established. Turn not to the right nor to the left. Remove your

foot from evil."

 

     Only by focusing on the specific charter of the Jewish people--to

create a righteous nation based on the laws of Torah tradition--could

the Jewish people fulfill its mission. Through our creating a model

Torah society, we would be seen by the entire world to be the representatives

of God. Our Torah teaches us to live life in its fullness. It teaches

us how to apply the highest moral and ethical standards to all human

situations. Judaism is not a cult, but a world religion with a world message.

"Our holiness will not be complete if we separate ourselves from

human life, from human phenomena, pleasures and charms, but (only if

we are) nourished by all the new developments in the world, by all the

wondrous discoveries, by all the philosophical and scientific ideas which

flourish and multiply in our world. We are enriched and nourished by

sharing in the knowledge of the world; at the same time, though, this

knowledge does not change our essence, which is composed of holiness

and appreciation of God's exaltedness." The national charter of the

Jewish people is "to live, to work, to build and to be built, to improve

our world and our life, to raise ourselves and to raise others to the highest

summit of human perfection and accomplishment. (This is accom-

plished by following) the path of peace and love, and being sanctified

with the holiness of God in thought and deed."[4]

 

     In his address accepting the appointment as Chief Rabbi of Yafo

(6 Heshvan 5672), Rabbi Uziel stated that a leader must have two

seemingly opposite qualities: strength of character and humility (gevura

nafshit and anava). In truth, these two qualities are not in opposition

but must go together. True humility cannot be found except in one

who has spiritual strength. Indeed, humility without such strength is

not humility at all: it is weakness stemming from fear and doubt.[5]

 

     In his address to the rabbis of Erets Yisrael in 1919, he reminded

his colleagues that while humility in itself is praiseworthy, it becomes repulsive

if it leads to shying away from the needs of the hour. Rabbis

who hide in the mantle of humility abdicate their responsibility to the

community. Leadership requires strength of character. [6]

 

     Rabbi Uziel saw the rabbis' influence deriving from the force of

their own righteousness, devotion and erudition. Since the hallmark of

Torah is peace, coercion and threats are not the proper ways to gain

adherence to Torah. Rather, rabbis (and religious people in general)

must win the hearts of their fellow Jews through deeds of love and

kindness. [7] One cannot demand respect; one must earn it.

 

     Rabbi Uziel was among those who believed that the time had

arrived for the reestablishment of a Sanhedrin. Through such a structure,

rabbinic authority would once again be centralized. The public

would know where to turn for Torah guidance. A properly constituted

Sanhedrin would have profound influence on Jewish communities

throughout the world and would be a harbinger of the ultimate redemption. [8]

 

     Rabbi Uziel was troubled by a schism among the Jews in Israel.

One group stressed the study of Torah to the exclusion of building the

land and organizing the people, while the other group emphasized

action while negating the need to study Torah. Both groups were

wrong. "Action without study--even action is lacking, since it is a

branch without roots. And study without action is a root without a

branch." [9]

 

     According to the Torah, work is obligatory. It is forbidden for a

person to be supported by the labor of others without providing his

own productive labor. A parent is obligated to teach his child Torah and

an occupation. A child who does not learn how to support himself

through his own labor is compared to a thief who steals the labor of

others without exerting any effort of his own. Each individual must be

engaged in productive labor to support himself, to share in the building

of the world and the advancement of humanity. Labor is not only an

obligatory commandment, but also gives the individual a sense of

honor and dignity. The laws of the Torah go hand in hand with productive

forms of labor and business. By working, one learns not only the

knowledge of one's profession, but also compassion, love and responsibility

for others.[10]  These spiritual and moral qualities are learned by

engaging in productive labor, not merely by abstract study.

 

     During the War of Independence in 1948, a number of yeshiva

students came to Rabbi Uziel to obtain exemptions from military service.

He rejected their requests and said that if he were not already an

old man himself, he would be holding a gun and hand grenade, fighting

to defend the Old City of Jerusalem where he was born and raised.

This was a battle of life and death for the people of Israel. How could

anyone want to be exempted from fighting this great battle? On the

contrary, each person should rise to the occasion and give strength to

his fellow soldiers. He told the yeshiva students that it was a mitsvah for

them to join in the defense of their people, to risk their lives alongside

their brothers, to defend the Jewish people and the Jewish land. [11]

 

     In Rabbi Uziel's view, religious leadership entailed a total commitment

to participate in all aspects of the life of the nation. Religious people

were not to live on hand-outs or to seek exemptions. Only by a

thoroughgoing involvement in all aspects of national life could the religious

community bring its values and ideals to all the people of Israel.

To retreat into self-enclosed religious enclaves was to surrender Torah

leadership. It was to reduce Judaism to a small, self-contained cult. This

position was absolutely untenable to Rabbi Uziel, who viewed Judaism

as a grand way of life which must shape the entire society, serving as a

model for the world.

 

     Rabbi Uziel believed that Torah study and observance should

make the religious Jew into a model human being.[12] But exactly what

are we to study and do in order to attain the highest standards of Torah

ideals? Obviously, we must study and observe Torah in as thorough and

profound a way as possible. In Rabbi Uziel’s view, the Torah is not simply

a book of laws and commandments; it encompasses all knowledge.

"It is impossible to understand it--certainly to plumb its depths--without

a profound and broad knowledge of all worldly wisdoms and sciences"

which are hidden in the depths of creation. [13] The Torah itself is

interested in cosmology, philosophy, theology, human history. To be

well-versed in Torah involves knowledge of astronomy and mathematics

in order to set the calendar. Torah law includes comprehensive knowledge

of weights and measures. It entails agronomical and zoological

knowledge in order to observe properly the laws of mixed species

(kilayim). Likewise, the laws of terefòt demand a thorough knowledge

of animal anatomy. Jewish law requires a knowledge of human psychology,

so that the judge can determine whether or not a witness is

attempting to deceive him. Halakha includes political and economic

principles, as well as laws governing the relationships between different

peoples. In short, Torah--being a total way of life--necessitates understanding

life in its fullness.[14]

 

     The Torah tradition teaches Jews to be engaged in the development

of society (yishuvo shel olam) in the broadest sense of the term.

This entails not only populating and settling the world, but studying

the ways of nature (science) in order to advance human civilization.

Yishuvo shel olam involves knowledge of how to establish a system of

justice and how to develop a harmonious and ethical society. Involve-

ment in yishuvo shel olam is a necessary condition to fulfilling our specific

Jewish way of life. The settlement and building of society increases

knowledge, widens our intellectual and scientific horizons. This very

process awakens within us a more profound appreciation of the wonders

of God, His creative powers and His providence. [15]

 

     Rabbi Uziel did not see Torah and mada as conflicting. He believed,

rather, that in order to be a Torah personality with full Torah

knowledge, one must study worldly wisdom. But when one studies

such subjects as philosophy, science, psychology, history and literature,

one does not do so for the sake of academic knowledge, but rather as a

means through which one gains a deeper understanding of God's ways.

"Talmud Torah" is a general term referring to the attainment of wisdom;

it includes Torah study as well as all the studies and sciences

which deepen our understanding. [16] It is Talmud Torah in this broad

sense which raises a person from ignorance to wisdom. Secular knowledge

by itself provides knowledge, but only within the context of Talmud

Torah does secular knowledge have ultimate meaning, leading the

student closer to God.

 

     In his address upon assuming the position of Chief Rabbi of

Salonika (9 Adar, 5681), Rabbi Uziel stated: "It is true that scientific

knowledge (mada) raises a person, gives him wings to soar to great

heights, enlightens his eyes to discover the secrets of nature and to uti-

1ize its powers, to make life more pleasant and to increase longevity;

general knowledge also endows a person with spiritual powers. But all

the acquisitions of general knowledge are vessels which help one to

live--and are not life itself. . . . The goal (of life) is . . . to know the

God of the universe, to walk in His ways and to cling to Him. [I7]

 

     Rabbi Uziel saw Maimonides as the classic example of the Jewish

ideal. In the Mishne Torah, Maimonides presents the spiritual inheritance

of the people of Israel from Moses to his own time. In addition,

he draws on the best of worldly knowledge. Rabbi Uziel believed that

Jewish sages were well aware of the philosophical, scientific and theological

insights propounded by non-Jewish sages. Indeed, Jewish sages

had to have knowledge of the world in order to fully understand the

Torah itself. After all, the Torah, Talmud and rabbinic literature include

references to all branches of human knowledge. Maimonides advocated

the principle: receive the truth from whoever states it. Maimonides

studied philosophy and science, gathering the best of what he found; in

this way he enriched his own thoughts in depth and breadth. [18]

 

     In his book on the laws of guardianship (apotropos), Rabbi Uziel

noted that our sages were fully cognizant of the legal thought and prac-

tice of the non-Jewish nations with whom they had contact. Our rabbis

of all generations "did not limit themselves to their four cubits and to the

walls of the study hall. Rather, they learned and knew al which transpired

in the world of science and justice." They did not hesitate to admit the

truth of the words of non-Jewish sages when the truth was with them. [19]

 

     In a letter he wrote to the leadership of the Alliance Israelite Universelle,

Rabbi Uziel recognized the importance of Jewish students

learning both religious subjects and general studies. He stressed the

need to learn Hebrew and said that Jewish students in the diaspora

should learn the language of the land in which they lived as well as at

least one European language. But the goal of Jewish education should

be clear: to raise children faithful to their people and to their Torah,

people who would be useful to their families, their people, and society.

Rabbi Uziel insisted that general subjects be taught by religious teachers.

Otherwise, a spirit of secularism would enter the children's hearts,

leading them away from the very goals for which Jewish schools stood.

In every generation, he said, the Jewish people have produced learned

doctors, authors, and business people. We have not lacked giants in science

and worldly wisdom. And we have been able to attain this while

retaining total loyalty to the Torah tradition. If modern-day Jews think

that their children can achieve success only by receiving an exclusively

secular education, they are in fact sacrificing their children's spiritual

lives. There is no necessity to do so, since one can attain worldly success

while remaining deeply steeped in Torah tradition. The ideal can be

attained only when general studies are taught within the context of the

Jewish religious tradition. [20]

 

     Jews throughout history have not allowed themselves to be cut off

from the intellectual currents of the world. Rather, they have been at

the forefront in all areas of human knowledge and scientific advancement.

In spite of the attempts by anti-Semites to confine Jews to ghettos

and to limit their educational opportunities, Jews have made

remarkable contributions to human knowledge. As active and knowledgeable

participants in world civilization, our goal is to lead humanity

in the paths of proper ethics and social harmony.[21]

 

     Rabbi Uziel saw Abraham, our forefather, as his model for outreach

to general society. Abraham's teachings brought people closer to

a proper understanding of God; indeed, he was successful in converting

many to his beliefs. By lovingly guiding people in the ways of God, he

set a pattern for his descendants to emulate. A basic responsibility of the

Jewish people is to teach monotheism and ethical behavior to the peoples

of the world. [22]

 

Unlike some other religions, Judaism does not claim a monopoly

on the world to come. All people--Jewish or not--have access to God,

and will be rewarded for a life of righteousness. [23]

 

     Judaism teaches responsibility towards each human being and

every nation. The ultimate redemption of Israel is not the success of

one people, but rather the redemption of all humanity. The entire

world will become free of war, rid of false beliefs and ideologies; it will

be free of political, military and religious coercion.[24]  A cornerstone of

Jewish religiosity is the recognition of the "image of God" found in all

human beings. This insight leads to the love of individuals and to the

love of humanity. [25]

 

     Since all human beings are created in the "image of God," all are

entitled to loving concern and respect. Rabbi Uziel’s commitment to

this principle is evident in a halakhic controversy which erupted concerning

autopsies. Already in the early 1930's in Erets Yisrael, the issue of

autopsies arose in connection with training Jewish doctors in emerging

Jewish medical schools. Medical training necessitated performing autopsies,

but how could this take place under halakhically correct conditions?

Rabbi Kook ruled in 1931 that it was not permissible to perform autopsies

on Jewish bodies for the sake of medical education. He recommended

that non-Jewish bodies be purchased for the sake of scientific

research. In sharp contrast, Rabbi Uziel theorized (le-halakha ve-lo lema'ase)

that autopsies could be permitted according to Jewish law if

conducted with proper respect. "In a situation of great benefit to everyone,

where there is an issue of saving lives, we have not found any reason

to prohibit (autopsies), and on the contrary, there are proofs to permit

them." In considering whether it would be preferable to obtain non-

Jewish bodies for autopsies, Rabbi Uziel’s response was unequivocal:

"Certainly this should not even be said, and more certainly should not

be written, since the prohibition of nivul stems from the humiliation

caused to all humans. That is to say, it is a humiliation to cause the body

of a human being--created in the image of God and graced with knowledge

and understanding to master and rule over all creation--to be left

disgraced and rotting in public." According to Rabbi Uziel, if one were

to prohibit autopsies, then no autopsies could be performed on anyone,

Jewish or non-Jewish. The result of this policy would be that no doctors

could be trained. [26]

 

     Rabbi Uziel’s appreciation of the “image of God" in everyone was

manifested in his abhorrence of discrimination based on religion or race.

In the early days of British rule over Erets Yisrael, Rabbi Uziel was

already imagining how halakha would be implemented in a new Jewish

state. He posed the theoretical question: may the testimony of non-Jews

be accepted in Jewish courts according to the rules of the Torah? "It is

impossible to answer this question negatively, because it would not be

civil justice to disqualify as witnesses those who live among us and deal

with us honestly and fairly. Weren't we ourselves embittered when the

lands of our exile invalidated us as witnesses? If in the entire enlightened

world the law has been accepted to receive the testimony of every person

without consideration of religion or race, how then may we make such a

separation?" He then went on to write a comprehensive responsum in

which he demonstrated the propriety of establishing a regulation allowing

testimony from non-Jews. [27] This responsum demonstrates Rabbi Uziel's

concern for creating ajust Jewish society which respected the rights and needs

of the non-Jewish population.

 

     In his speech to the rabbis of Erets Yisrael (1919), he stated that

the Jewish nation was a people of peace, never wanting to advance itself

by causing destruction to others. Non-Jews should not feel threatened

by the emergence of a Jewish state, since a Jewish government would be

a source of peace and blessing.[28]  In his address at his installation as Chief

Rabbi of Israel (1939), Rabbi Uziel stressed the need to forge links of

peace and fellowship among all segments of society in Erets Yisrael. [29] In

his radio address in honor of his installation as Chief Rabbi, he made a

special appeal to the non-Jewish population in the land of Israel: "We

stretch out to you a hand of peace, true and trustworthy. We say to you:

The land is spread out before us and we will work it with joined hands.

We will uncover its treasures and will live in it as brothers together." [30]

 

Rabbi Uziel, who spoke Arabic fluently, felt it was vital for Jews to

establish good relations with their Arab neighbors. He strenuously criti-

cized those individuals who, in the name of Judaism, fomented anti-

Arab attitudes. This was a perversion of Judaism. "The Torah of Israel,

all of whose paths are ways of peace, calls for the peace and love of its

people and all who are created in the image ofGod."[31]  It was up to rabbis

to decry negative attitudes towards the Arabs. In 1927, Rabbi Uziel

visited Baghdad and spoke to the Jewish community there, inspiring

them with his message from Zion. In his speech, which he delivered

both in Hebrew and Arabic, he called on the Jews of Baghdad to share

in the religious Zionist ideals, to settle in Israel, to maintain their religious

traditions in the land of Israel. The Arabic newspapers of Baghdad

praised Rabbi Uziel’s speech, and lauded his call for peace and

friendship between the two great nations (Jews and Arabs), both peoples

being descendants of our forefather Abraham.[32]

 

     In 1921, a battle erupted between Jews and Arabs in the outskirts

of Tel Aviv. When Rabbi Uziel learned that both sides were shooting at

each other, he went out to the battleground in his rabbinical garb. Fearlessly,

he walked between the two camps. The gunfire stopped. Rabbi

Uziel spoke to the Arabs with emotion. He reminded them that Jews

and Arabs are cousins, descendants of Abraham. "We say to you that

the land can bear all of us, can sustain all of us. Let us stop the battles

among ourselves, for we are brothers."

 

     Rabbi Uziel fully believed that peace and harmony were achievable

if goodwill could prevail. He was faithful to this vision throughout his

life, even though it was rejected by political and religious leadership on

both sides.

 

     When Rabbi Uziel died in 1953, hundreds of thousands of people

mourned his passing. All the people of Israel, Sephardim and Ashkenazim,

Jews and non-Jews, had lost a religious leader of the highest

stature. The motto of his life had been the words of the prophet Zekharya:

"Love truth and peace." The grandeur of his life and his religious

vision were an inspiration to his generation, and will stand as a

lasting monument for generations to come.

 

NOTES

 

[1] R. Benzion Uziel, Mikhmanei Uziel, Tel Aviv, 5699, p.328.

[2] For more on the life and career and Rabbi Uziel, see Shabbetai Don Yahye,

HaRav Benzion Meir Hai Uziel: Hayav uMishnato, Jerusalem, 5715. See

also Yaacov Hadani, "HaRav Benzion Uziel keManhig Medini,” Hamidrashia,

Vol.. 20-21, 1987, pp. 239-266. [See also Marc D. Angel, Loving Truth and Peace: The Grand Religious Worldview of Rabbi Benzion Uziel, Jason Aronson, Northvale, 1999.]

[3] R. Benzion Uziel, Hegyonei Uziel, VoL. 1, Jerusalem, 5713, p. 99; and

Hegyonei Uziel, Vol. 2, Jerusalem) 5714, p. 120.

[4] Hegyonei Uziel, VoL. 2, pp. 121-125. See also, Mikhmanei Uziel, p.460.

[5] Mikhmanei Uziel, p.324.

[6] Mikhmanei Uziel, p.331.

[7] Mikhmanei Uziel, pp. 364-365.

[8] Mikhmanei Uziel, p.391; Mishpetei Uziel, Yore De'a 3, Vol. 2 Addendum

No.3; Sha'arei Uziel, Jerusalem, 5751, p.l0. See also Marc D. Angel, Rhythms

of Jewish Living, New York, 1986, pp. 70-72; and Marc D. Angel,

Voices in Exile, Hoboken, 1991, pp. 194-196.

[9] Mikhmanei Uziel, p. 557.

[10] Mikhmanei Uziel, pp. 456 and 458.

[11]  Quoted in Shabbetai Don Yahye, pp. 227-228.

[12] Hegyonei Uziel, Vol. 2, pp. 96-97.

[13] Mikhmanei Uziel, p. 405.

[14] Mikhmanei Uziel, pp. 406-407.

[15] Hegyonei Uziel, Vol. 2, p. 98.

[16] Mikhmanei Uziel, pp. 552-553.

[17] Mikhmanei Uziel, p. 345.

[18] Mikhmanei Uziel, pp. 382-383; 393.

[19] Sha'arei Uziel, introduction, pp. 35 and 37.

[20] Mikhmanei Uziel, pp. 516-517.

[21] Mikhmanei Uziel, p. 120.

[22] Hegyonei Uziel, Vol. 1, pp. 98-99.

[23] Hegyonei Uziel, Vol. 1, p. 176.

[24] Hegyonei Uziel, Vol. 2, pp. 146-147.

[25] Mikhmanei Uziel, p. 344.

[26] For Rabbi Kook's opinion, see Da’at Cohen, Jerusalem, 5745, No. 199.

Rabbi Uziel's opinion is found in Piskei Uziel, Jerusalem, 5737, No. 32, especially

pp. 178-179. See also my article, "A Discussion of the Nature of

Jewishness in the Teachings of Rabbi Kook and Rabbi Uziel," in Seeking Good, Speaking Peace,

edited by Hayyim J. Angel, Hoboken, 1994, pp.112-123.

[27] For a discussion of Rabbi Uziel’s position, see Rabbi Haim David Halevy,

"The Love of Israel as a Factor in Halakhic Decision Making in the Works

of Rabbi Benzion Uziel," Tradition, Vol. 24, Spring 1989, pp. 17-19.

[28] Mikhmanei Uziel, p. 330.

[29] Mikhmanei Uziel, p. 424.

[30] Mikhmanei Uziel, p. 429.

[31] Mikhmanei Uziel, p. 523.

[32] Shabbetai Don Yahye, pp. 107-108.

[33] Shabbetai Don Yahye, p. 77.

 

 

Paired Perspectives on the Parashah: Naso

Naso:

The Nazir — Restraint or Crown?

 

The Torah’s presentation of the Nazir (Numbers 6:1–21) invites a fundamental question: is nezirut primarily a discipline of restraint, or an ascent to a higher, crowned sanctity? The answer emerges from the Torah’s own language, which points simultaneously in two directions.

 

On the one hand, as Ibn Ezra observes, nazir is cognate with neder—a vow of abstention. The Nazir is one who refrains, most prominently from wine (Numbers 6:3–4). This aligns with a broader biblical pattern in which separation functions as a boundary against excess or impurity (cf. Leviticus 15:31). From this perspective, the Nazir is defined by deliberate restraint.

 

On the other hand, the very same root yields a different meaning. In Deuteronomy 33:16, nezir ehav refers to one “set apart,” even “elect,” among his brothers. Likewise, the Torah describes the Nazir’s hair as a nezer, a “crown” (Numbers 6:7–8). As Jacob Milgrom notes, the term also appears in the laws of the sabbatical year to describe an untrimmed vine (Leviticus 25:5, 11), suggesting that the Nazir’s uncut hair is not incidental but central. It is a visible, organic sign of consecration. Indeed, in Jeremiah 7:29, the term nezer itself denotes hair, reinforcing the centrality of the Nazir’s uncut growth. The Nazir, then, is not only one who abstains, but one who is “crowned” through that abstention.

 

These two meanings—withdrawal and elevation—generate two distinct perspectives on nezirut.

 

I. The Nazir as a Discipline of Restraint

 

Rambam, in the Guide of the Perplexed (III:48), emphasizes the dimension of restraint. For Rambam, the prohibition of wine is the primary feature of nezirut. The Torah introduces wine first (Numbers 6:3) and then extends the prohibition to all grape products (6:4), before turning to hair and corpse impurity. The structure suggests that wine is the axis around which the institution revolves.

 

This reading is reinforced by the rabbinic linkage between Nazir and Sotah, the suspected adulteress whose laws immediately precede this passage (Numbers 5:11–31). One who witnesses the degradation of the Sotah is moved to accept nezirut, abstaining from wine (Sotah 2a). Wine, in this view, leads to loosened inhibitions and potential moral failure; nezirut serves as a corrective discipline. It is a framework for regaining control.

 

From this vantage point, the Nazir is not primarily ascending to a new level of sanctity, but rather guarding against human weakness. Nezirut is temporary, reactive, and therapeutic. It addresses a moral danger by imposing structured limits. The Nazir withdraws in order to stabilize.

 

II. The Nazir as a Crowned Figure of Holiness

 

In contrast, Ibn Ezra and Abarbanel emphasize the nezer—the crown. Here, the Nazir is not merely avoiding sin, but entering a heightened state of sanctity, one that parallels the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest.

 

The textual parallels are striking. Like the High Priest, the Nazir may not become impure even for close relatives (Numbers 6:7–8; cf. Leviticus 21:11). The Torah explains this prohibition with the phrase, “for the crown of his God is upon his head” (Numbers 6:7), echoing the language of the High Priest’s consecration (Leviticus 21:12). Even the High Priest’s golden frontlet, the tzitz, is called a nezer (Exodus 29:6–7).

 

In this light, nezirut emerges as a voluntary assumption of priestly-like holiness. The Nazir becomes, for a limited time, a kind of private High Priest. His uncut hair serves as his crown, marking him as consecrated. He lives in a state of continuous sanctity, not merely during moments of ritual service.

 

This perspective also sheds light on a halakhic nuance. The Mishnah (Nazir 6:5) teaches that violations of corpse impurity or hair restrictions disrupt the Nazir’s status, whereas drinking wine, though prohibited, does not terminate the nezirut in the same way. This suggests that the defining core of nezirut lies not only in abstention from wine, but in the sustained state of consecration symbolized by the nezer.

 

III. Institution and Spontaneity

 

The comparison to the Kohen Gadol highlights a deeper distinction. The High Priest’s sanctity is institutional: it derives from his role, is regulated by precise norms, and serves the entire nation. The Nazir’s sanctity, by contrast, is voluntary and personal. It is an individual’s decision to enter a heightened religious state.

 

This contrast is reflected in their respective treatments of hair. The High Priest must remain meticulously groomed; the Talmud even prescribes a regular haircut schedule to maintain an appearance appropriate for Temple service (Ta’anit 17a). His sanctity is expressed through order and formality.

 

The Nazir, however, grows his hair pera, untrimmed and natural (Numbers 6:5). His sanctity is not institutional but organic. It emerges from within, through an act of personal commitment. As Rabbi Avia HaCohen suggests, nezirut represents a form of religious spontaneity—where an individual reaches beyond the baseline obligations of halakhah toward a self-chosen ideal.

 

IV. The Nazir Between Sotah and the Priestly Blessing

 

The placement of the Nazir passage sharpens its meaning. It appears immediately after the laws of Sotah (Numbers 5:11-31) and before the Priestly Blessing (Numbers 6:22–27).

 

In the Sotah ritual, the woman’s hair is loosened (u-para et rosh ha-ishah, Numbers 5:18), symbolizing disgrace and moral breakdown. Hair here becomes a sign of degradation. The Nazir, by contrast, grows his hair as a sign of sanctity. The same physical feature—hair—can express either degradation or elevation. The Nazir transforms wild hair into a crown.

 

Immediately following, the Priests are commanded to bless the people. Their holiness is institutional, conferred from above. The Nazir stands between these two poles: he shares with the Sotah the centrality of hair, but redirects it toward sanctity; he shares with the Priests the quality of holiness, but achieves it through personal initiative rather than office.

 

As Ibn Ezra notes, the juxtaposition underscores that the Nazir, too, participates in holiness. But his path is distinct: it is chosen, not assigned.

 

V. Toward a Synthesis

 

These two perspectives—restraint and crown—need not be mutually exclusive. They may instead describe a progression.

 

Nezirut may begin as an act of restraint, a withdrawal from excess and a safeguard against moral failure. Yet that very withdrawal creates the conditions for transformation. The individual who separates from indulgence may come to experience a new form of sanctity. What begins as discipline becomes consecration.

 

In this sense, the Nazir embodies a broader religious possibility. Not everyone is called to the institutional holiness of the Kohen Gadol, and not everyone requires the corrective discipline of nezirut. Yet the Torah introduces nezirut to suggest that beyond the baseline demands of halakhah lies a space for voluntary ascent.

 

The Nazir is one who, for a time, lives as if crowned—set apart not only from what is forbidden, but for what is holy.

Maimonides: Pioneer of Positive Psychology

 

 

For more than 800 years, Moses Maimonides has been a towering figure in Judaism. Not only did he become the leader of world Jewry in a tumultuous era, but his religious works, including the monumental Mishneh Torah and the Introduction to the Mishnah, remain avidly studied today. His Guide of the Perplexed, seeking to integrate classic Greek thought with Hebraic monotheism, has exerted an enduring influence on Western philosophy. And yet, Maimonides’ extensive writings are both important and relevant for another, rapidly growing field of knowledge: namely, positive psychology. Why? Many people are seeking to gain a greater sense of spirituality in their lives by applying its seemingly contemporary insights. In this article, I’d like to highlight Maimonides’ teachings related to this important new specialty, what its originators have called “the study of character strengths and virtues.”

 

The Science of Positive Psychology

 

The mental health field today is rightfully accepting “character strengths and virtues” as vital to understanding human nature. This development is long overdue; more than a century ago, the founding American psychologist William James urged that the new science of psychology explore the heights of human attainment, including altruism and transcendental experience, rather than focus on laboratory studies involving the sensory sensations of average people. Unfortunately, James’ declaration was largely ignored for nearly a half-century, until Abraham Maslow in the 1950s and 1960s co-founded the field of humanistic psychology. Maslow’s 25-year emphasis on studying emotionally healthy and high-achieving persons—those whom he termed self-actualizing—had great impact on academia and popular culture, but lessened significantly after his death in 1970.

 About a decade ago, Martin Seligman and his American colleagues launched the field of positive psychology, drawing partly upon growth-oriented conceptions of personality—but stressing empirical research to validate their viewpoint. Since then, positive psychology has grown tremendously around the world, with courses offered at more than 200 American universities, several new academic journals established, including The Journal of Happiness Studies and The Journal of Positive Psychology, and popular books such as Seligman’s Authentic Happiness and Happier by Israeli psychologist Tal Ben-Shahar gaining wide media attention.

 Central to such works has been a focus on such topics as hope and optimism, flourishing, gratitude and wisdom, love of learning, friendship and harmonious marriage, the mind-body relationship, courage, resilience, and happiness. Though the leaders of positive psychology are generally secularists from both Jewish and non-Jewish backgrounds, they have recently—and astutely—turned their attention to the writings of history’s great religious thinkers for insights into character-building and the attainment of life-meaning and direction.

In this regard, a major figure in Judaism is highly relevant: Moses Maimonides. Though he lived long ago, Maimonides can be viewed as a pioneer in this domain—as both a brilliant rabbinic thinker and esteemed physician. Throughout his voluminous writings, Maimonides highlighted the importance of emotional and physical wellness for leading an upright, spiritual life. Let me highlight five aspects of Maimonides’ teachings that are especially relevant to positive psychology today.

 

  1. Human beings are creatures of habit.

 

The notion that habit plays a key role in molding personality was first advanced by William James in the 1890s. He famously described habit as “the enormous fly-wheel of society”—propelling our lives in ways that lie outside our conscious awareness. Consistent with this longstanding view, positive psychology today has affirmed the utility of making habitual various forms of character-building activity, such as daily writing in a gratitude journal to “count one’s blessings” or maintaining a diary to strengthen “learned optimism.”   

Maimonides repeatedly stressed the importance of habit in fostering ethical and altruistic behavior. It’s fascinating to note that he specifically highlighted the importance of repetition in building positive habits. For example, in his influential formulation on charity, he observed that performing many small acts over time is more conductive to building character than if we perform one tremendous act with the same philanthropic value. Why? Because we are inwardly changed by our own behavior and thereby become more compassionate.

Maimonides’ emphasis on the psychological significance of “small-act repetition” is precisely consistent with recent research in marriage and couples counseling—revealing that marriages collapse mainly due to many small acts of hurtfulness or neglect between spouses, not one huge calamitous event.        

 

  1.  We are powerfully affected by our social milieu.

 

Since Alfred Bandura advanced social learning theory in the 1970s, developmental psychologists have known that in childhood our attitudes and behaviors are shaped by our social milieu: specifically, by those with power to dispense rewards and punishments, namely our parents. We imitate what they do, not what they say, in order to gain their approval and affection.

     Based on this viewpoint, positive psychology has begun to unravel how desirable behaviors of kindness, altruism, and empathy arise in certain social settings but rarely so in others.

Consistent with talmudic thought, Maimonides stressed the role of social surroundings in affecting individual behavior. Though readily acknowledging the influence of heredity, he contended that its impact on human conduct was much less than our daily social milieu. Maimonides recommended that we seek teachers, mentors, and friends in order to uplift our daily conduct—even paying for the opportunity, if necessary, to be positively influenced by moral exemplars.

Conversely, he repeatedly warned against associating with unethical companions due to their harmful impact on our character. If there are no ethical people with whom to

associate, Maimonides advised, then dwell alone in a cave rather than succumb to bad social influence.         

 

  1. Develop good social skills.

 

Among the main interests of positive psychology today is the development of what are known as social competencies, or collectively, as social intelligence. Recent research in organizational psychology has shown that socially oriented traits such as conscientiousness and extroversion are predictive of workplace achievement as well as job satisfaction. Clinical studies, too, have revealed a strong relationship between mental health and the presence of friends and confidants in one’s life. Conversely, social isolation is an important indicator of depression at virtually all ages. In Maimonides’ relevant view, the cultivation of such social attributes as cheerfulness, friendliness, helpfulness, generosity, and kindness is not only ethically important, but also represents a true path for success in life. Thus, Maimonides endorsed the teachings of Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers) that positive social relations are the hallmark of the sage.

        

  1.  Avoid negative emotions, especially anger.

 

To maximize mental health, positive psychology is concerned with strengthening such life-enhancing emotions as optimism, gratitude, and admiration—and lessening the force of our negative emotions. This view is consistent with increasing evidence from behavioral medicine that chronic anger exerts severe strain on the body and causes premature aging and reduced longevity. Here, too, Maimonides was a pioneering thinker, for throughout his Judaic and medical writings, he repeated warned against negative emotions for their destructive effects.

For example, in the Mishneh Torah (Book II, chapter 3), Maimonides asserted that “Anger is a most evil quality. One should keep aloof from it to the opposite extreme, and train oneself not to be upset even by a thing over which it would be legitimate to be annoyed.” In the same volume, he stated that “The life of an angry person is not truly life. The sages have therefore advised that one keep far from anger until being accustomed not to take notice even of things that provoke annoyance. This is a good way.”

 

  1.  Cultivate mindfulness.

 

The fields of positive psychology and behavioral medicine today are increasingly recommending mindfulness training (that is, learning to stay focused in the present moment) for its therapeutic value. The scientific evidence is clear that such training is effective not only in reducing harmful emotions like anger and fear, but also in strengthening the body—by lowering blood pressure and heart-rate, for example. In this regard, it’s fascinating to learn that Maimonides addressed this topic in his influential Guide of the Perplexed (volume 1, chapter 60): “If we pray with the motion of our lips and our face toward the wall, but simultaneously think of business; if we read the Torah with our tongue while our heart is occupied with the building of our house, and we do not think of what we are reading; if we perform the commandments only with our limbs; then we are like those who are engaged in digging the ground or hewing wood in the forest without reflecting on the nature of those acts, or by whom they are commanded, or what is their purpose.”

Indeed, Maimonides attributed so much importance to mindfulness for establishing a healthful lifestyle that he even provided specific advice on how his fellow Jews could cultivate this trait: “The first thing you must do is turn your thoughts away from everything while you say the Shema or other daily prayers. Do not content yourself with being pious when you read merely the first verse of Shema or the first paragraph of the Amidah prayer. When you have successfully practiced this for many years, try when reading or listening to the Torah to have all your heart and thoughts occupied with understanding what you read or hear… After some time, when you have mastered this, accustom yourself to have your mind free from all other thoughts when you read any portion of the other books of the prophets, or when you say any blessing…direct your mind exclusively to what you are doing.” 

Maimonides’ career as a rabbinic scholar, communal leader, and physician spanned decades. His legacy has been profound and enduring. His psychological insights can enrich the new scientific specialty known as positive psychology with its important emphasis on fostering individual character strengths and virtues. In this regard, Maimonides’ teachings also provide specific ways to advance Jewish spirituality in everyday life.

 

Toward an Orthodox Community that is More Responsive to People with Special Needs

 

 

Ilana is a good natured, caring, religiously observant high-school student who enjoys reading, baking hallah with her mother, and spending time with her peers at school and in her synagogue. When it became clear in pre-kindergarten that Ilana had a learning disability, her parents made the difficult decision to transfer her from the local Jewish Day School to a private school that specializes in teaching children with learning issues. Although this was a difficult decision, they knew it was necessary for Ilana’s academic growth and development. They reasoned that Ilana would have plenty of time to socialize with her Jewish friends on Shabbat and on playdates. They knew they could count on her continued involvement in their large Modern Orthodox synagogue.

 

Ilana’s mother was shocked and disappointed when one mother at their synagogue stopped inviting Ilana to participate in weekly playdates with her child. Invitations to birthday parties and other social activities began to stop as well. Even a B’nei Akiva dinner, designed for children to socialize with other synagogue members, felt “closed” to children who did not attend Day School. Ilana’s mother feels that no attempt was made to facilitate interactions between the Day School students and those from other schools. She finds it ironic that the same synagogue that graciously and compassionately hosts adults with moderate to severe disabilities at its yearly Yachad Shabbaton is unable to successfully include children, such as her daughter, with milder disabilities. She wants genuine acceptance and inclusion—and not compassion or pity. She wonders why some people act as though Ilana is “contagious” and that others can “catch” a learning disability or other impairment by socializing with children with special needs. She laments, “The social isolation is worse than the academic isolation.”

 

The Jewish tradition has always been aware of differences among God’s creatures, who are all considered to be created in the “image of God.” The Bible and rabbinic texts detail laws about treating people with special needs. We are taught, “Do not curse the deaf or put a stumbling block before the blind,” (Vayikra 19:14), and there is much discussion in various codes regarding the status of the heresh (deaf person), and the shoteh (possibly a developmentally delayed person). Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah (Hilkhot Berakhot, 10:12, based on Berakhot 58b) has a detailed discussion on which berakha to recite upon seeing people who are “different.”And the Mishna in Sanhedrin 4:5 teaches, “Although a person stamps many coins from a single die, and they are all alike—the King of Kings has stamped every person with the die of Adam, yet not one of them is like his fellow man.” These sensitively crafted sources suggest that each person is unique and worthy of respect and inclusion in the community—regardless of appearance or level of ability to walk, speak, hear, or learn. Additionally, these sources suggest that the Jewish community has a moral and even halakhic obligation to create programs to meet the needs of all people within our communities—regardless of special need or circumstance. How accepting and accommodating are our synagogues, schools, and community institutions? What can we do to better include and support those with special needs?

 

[H1] Synagogues

The synagogue is central to the daily life of most observant Jews—as a Bet Tefilla (a house of prayer), a Bet Midrash (a house of study), and perhaps most importantly, as a Bet Kenesset (a place of gathering). The synagogue is potentially the most important religious institution in the lives of families of children with special needs. Sadly, many families like Ilana’s feel that their synagogues lack a genuinely accepting attitude toward their children. Shabbat morning children’s services and afternoon Shabbat groups are often unable to meet the needs of children with special needs. Many parents feel that their children would benefit greatly from weekly Shabbat services and social activities, even if they sometimes need redirection and gentle reminders from patient, experienced group leaders. Children and their parents often receive uncomfortable looks, “shushing,” and requests to leave the sanctuary when a child is “making noise.” While parents recognize that fellow congregants have a right to pray and listen to the rabbi’s sermon in peace, they are often struck by the lack of understanding in their synagogue. This reception in their own synagogue stands in sharp contrast to the genuine acceptance they receive outside of their own synagogues.

 

There are Modern Orthodox synagogues and rabbis who have taken the lead in meeting the needs of congregants with special needs. In my work teaching children with special needs for bar and bat mitzvah, several rabbis have suggested sensitive, creative options for members with special needs. For example, families may choose to have a non-Shabbat bar mitzvah, where fewer members would be in attendance, the length of service is shorter, there is no haftarah, and there are no Shabbat-related issues when it comes to microphones, adaptive technology, or computers.

 

In one Boston area synagogue, a bat-mitzvah girl gave a devar Torah and “announced pages” using Power Point slides during a Sunday morning service. One Modern Orthodox rabbi suggested that a particular child with learning disabilities celebrate his bar mitzvah on the Sunday of Hanukkah because the Torah reading, from Parshat Naso, is repetitive and predictable and therefore less difficult for this child to learn. Another rabbi found a halakhically acceptable way for a non-verbal boy to celebrate his bar mitzvah on Shabbat morning. The boy had a very large brain tumor removed when he was two years old, and has unfortunately never been able to speak. He uses a Dynavox Dynamo augmented communication device seven days a week. He pulls down screens by topic and depresses buttons to communicate his needs. His very dedicated parents worked with the rabbi, so that their son could be called to the Torah on Shabbat morning. He essentially activated his father’s voice to recite the Torah blessing, lead Adon Olam, and deliver a devar Torah.

 

Despite these success stories, there remain unmet needs for people with disabilities in Modern Orthodox synagogues. Parents express frustration that they do not feel comfortable taking their children with special needs to Shabbat groups or children’s services. Orthodox parents who have made the painful decision to educate their children outside of the Jewish Day School system feel that such groups and prayer experiences are precisely what their children need to fully experience synagogue and Jewish communal life.

 

One Modern Orthodox rabbi, a parent of children with special needs, feels uncomfortable bringing his children to his own synagogue; yet, he and his children have been warmly welcomed and embraced “outside” of his community. He feels the neighborhood Hassidishe shtiebel understands and accepts his son—even if he is disruptive during the sermon or the repetition of the amidah. The Conservative Movement’s Ramah camping movement, through its CampYofi Program at Ramah Darom, has been similarly accepting and inclusive. Yofi offers a week-long camp for children with autism and their families. Similarly, Ilana and her family have been warmly embraced by a smaller, more traditional Orthodox synagogue in their neighborhood; each Shabbat afternoon the rabbi and his wife invite Ilana to their home, where she socializes with and even babysits for their children. Modern Orthodox synagogues should similarly embrace differences and work toward accommodating children with special needs.

 

[H1] Al Pi Darko—According to His or Her Way: Jewish Education for Children with Special Needs

 

Most parents in the Orthodox community accept as a given that their children will receive a Jewish Day School education. When it comes to providing an appropriate Jewish education for children with special needs, families often find that choices are limited. There are many reasons for this. First, the term “special needs” encompasses diverse impairments, including learning issues, physical disabilities, mental retardation, autism, psychiatric disorders, and other genetic and acquired conditions. Approaches and philosophies toward education, even within the special needs communities, can vary widely—from those advocating full inclusion to those promoting separate classrooms.

A second reason that choices are limited is that schools lack the staffing and expertise to consider implementing special-needs programs. Teachers and therapists with training in special education, speech and language therapy, psychology, physical therapy, and occupational therapy are required to support students with special needs.

 

Third, schools typically lack the financial resources for starting and running such specialized programs. The costs of providing a Day School education—even for “typical learners”—are never covered by tuition costs alone and can be prohibitive. Dr. Jed Luchow, Director of Special Education/Project SIR for the Board of Jewish Education of Greater New York, notes how complex and expensive providing such services can be. “When public schools need more money for services, they can raise taxes,” remarks Luchow. Yeshivot and Day Schools cannot.

 

Families specifically seeking a Modern Orthodox approach to educating a child with special needs find that few programs exist. Some turn to Hareidi schools, where there is more general acceptance of all learners who are viewed as created in God’s image. The recent movie, Praying With Lior, portrays the warm acceptance experienced by Lior Liebling, a young man with Down syndrome (and the son of two Reconstructionist rabbis) in a Philadelphia-area Hareidi yeshiva. Modern Orthodox parents of children with special needs have reported similar acceptance by the Hareidi world.

 

Some families feel that private special-needs schools (and in some cases, even Catholic schools) are better equipped to provide services to children with special needs. In the Northeast, for example, observant families sometimes opt for well-regarded schools such as Churchill and Gateway in Manhattan, Mary McDowell in Brooklyn, Windward in White Plains, New York, Eagle Hill in Greenwich, Connecticut, and the Cardinal Cushing School in Hanover, Massachussetts. This “trade off” means that families need to seek other avenues for providing Jewish education and Jewish socialization environments.

 

Fortunately, some Jewish community Day School programs do exist for educating children with special needs, and there are some successful initiatives supporting Jewish special education throughout the United States. Although specifically Orthodox-affiliated programs exist, families of children with special needs are more likely to cross denominational lines than they might for their other typically developing children.

 

Although it is impossible to highlight all such programs, I will mention some programs, mainly in the Northeast, in order to illustrate the various models and approaches currently offered. Many of the descriptions below are provided by the program; ability to live up to their claims are difficult to assess and are beyond the scope of this article.

 

In 1985, Rabbi Dr. Martin Schloss, currently the director of the Division of Day School Education for the Board of Jewish Education, and Dr. Sara Rubinow Simon founded the Consortium of Special Educators in Central Agencies for Jewish Education. The purpose of this group is to support special education programs in North American Jewish communities as well as to provide resources to Jewish special educators through professional networks. Members meet once a year to share ideas and materials to enhance and expand special education in Jewish educational settings.

 

Parents for Torah for All Children (PTACH) has supported children with learning differences from elementary school through high school for more than thirty years. PTACH programs exist at such schools as the Yeshiva University School for Girls and Chaim Berlin High School. Strides have also been made to sensitize and train teachers. PTACH’s educational director, Dr. Judah Weller, has created the “Jewish Day Schools Attuned Program,” based on the Schools Attuned Program, a nationally recognized professional development and service program, created by Dr. Mel Levine, Director of the Clinical Center for the Study of Development and Learning at the University of North Carolina School of Medicine at Chapel Hill. The Schools Attuned program covers eight neurodevelopmental constructs that affect learning—including attention, memory, language, motor skills, and social cognition. Several years ago, The Nash Family Foundation of New York City funded a grant to train 125 Jewish Day School educators in New York, Los Angeles, and other cities in the Schools Attuned program.

 

Kulanu Torah Academy in Long Island, New York, is a program dedicated for Jewish students with special needs, including students with Asperger syndrome, autism, cerebral palsy, Down syndrome, dyslexia, and Tourette’s syndrome, as well as developmental disorders, attention disorders, learning disabilities, and physical challenges. Students receive educational services within the yeshiva environment from middle school through high school. In addition, Kulanu’s Gesher Program is a three-year program initiative for 18- to 21-year-old students with special needs, which serves as a “bridge” from school to the world of work.

 

The Sinai Program in New Jersey offers schools for children with developmental disabilities and learning disabilities. According to their website, Sinai is sometimes referred to as a “school within a school. Although Sinai is independently operated and funded and each school has its own administration and staff, all of Sinai’s schools are comprised of self-contained classes set within larger, typical community Jewish Day Schools, including the Joseph Kushner Hebrew Academy and Yavneh Academy. This structure increases opportunities for mainstreaming within the host schools.

 

Yeshiva Education for Special Students (YESS!) is the only full-service, professional, special-education yeshiva elementary school in Queens, New York, serving children in grades K through 8 with learning disabilities, attention deficit disorder, and language-processing disorders. According to their website, “It is the philosophy of YESS! that all Jewish children, regardless of their cognitive or physical challenges, have a place in the mainstream of the Jewish community." YESS! espouses individualized special education for general and Judaic studies. Mainstreaming and integration with the typically developing Yeshiva of Central Queens (YCQ) community are integral to the YESS! program.

 

Some Modern Orthodox schools have started programs to support students with a range of learning issues. Manhattan Day School in New York City has been offering support services for students in grades 1 through 8 with learning-based language disabilities since 1984. According to Sharon Miller, Director of Special Education, the program provides self-contained classes for between six and eleven students, who learn with one head teacher and one assistant teacher. Students learn basic skills in both secular and Jewish content areas, including reading, writing, mathematics, social studies, science, computers, organizational skills, Hebrew language, Bible, Talmud, and laws and customs. Students with Individual Education Programs (IEPs) often receive in-school services, such as speech and language therapy, occupational therapy, counseling, and physical therapy. The staff also includes special educators and school psychologists.

 

SAR Academy in Riverdale, New York, offers a program to support elementary and junior high school students with language-based learning disabilities. According to Rebecca Hirschfield, Director of Educational Support Services, the program was started, in part, to help keep students with learning issues in the Jewish Day School system. The SAR program is an inclusive educational initiative, designed to be able to meet the needs of children whose learning needs differ from their typically achieving peers. Children with special needs are placed in "inclusion" classrooms with typically developing children. The class is staffed by an additional teacher, who is a learning specialist. In the high school, students receive support through the Student Learning Center and may participate in a modified program, consisting of fewer periods per week of Talmud and Tanakh, and/or exemption from a foreign language requirement.

 

Ramaz School in Manhattan offers a Learning Center to support students. In the Lower School, students in need of remediation work individually or in small groups in the Learning Center. In the Middle School, students receive one-on-one remediation during the time they would otherwise be attending specialty classes such as music, art, or parashat haShavua. Students who have completed a formal external psychoeducational evaluation to document a learning disability are eligible for Learning Center services. Upper School students seeking the services of the Learning Center also must undergo psychoeducational evaluation; students may then be eligible for certain accommodations, including extended time for test-taking and laptops for use during exams. Based on the recommendations of the tester, students may also receive remediation from the Learning Center faculty.

 

A unique Boston-area program, Gateways: Access to Jewish Education, offers several programs for Jewish students with a wide range of special needs. Gateways provides a Jewish education to children with moderate to severe disabilities who are not able to receive one in a typical classroom setting (for example, children with autism spectrum disorder, hearing and visual impairment, developmental delay, cerebral palsy, and/or genetic disorders). Gateways also works with students in Jewish Day Schools across the denominational spectrum, including the Chabad Day School of Sharon, Maimonides School, JCDS, New England Hebrew Academy, Solomon Schechter Day School of Greater Boston, South Area Solomon Schechter Day School, Striar Hebrew Academy (SHAS), The Rashi School, and Torah Academy. Within each Day School, Gateways staff (comprised of speech-language pathologists, occupational therapists, and reading and learning specialists) provide extra support and assistance. Gateways works with students to help improve their academic and social skills and generalizing strategies in the classroom. In addition, the therapists assist teachers with curriculum modifications and provide teachers with professional development, including weekly coaching. For students who need more intensive instruction to develop reading and writing skills, Gateways provides an intensive alternative language arts curriculum to the classroom. This class focuses on explicit teaching of skills, including reading comprehension and decoding, written language, and word study (phonics, spelling, and vocabulary). Rabbi Mendel Lewitin is pleased with what Gateways has accomplished in his Striar Hebrew Academy. “Gateways has sensitized us to the fact that children have unique needs—from enrichment to remediation—and even helped remove the stigma associated with asking for special-educational services. Now, parents are comfortable seeking support, and all students are developing a deeper understanding of their peers.”

 

Sulam, established in 1998, is the only non-profit Jewish educational organization in the Greater Washington area for children who require specialized services for learning needs. By collaborating with Jewish Day Schools, Sulam educates children with diverse needs alongside their peers in a Jewish Day School setting. Sulam also provides adjunct educational services to high-school students at the Melvin J. Berman Hebrew Academy.

Another non-Day School alternative is MATAN: The Gift of Jewish Learning For Every Child, whose mission is “to give the gift of Jewish learning to every child, regardless of ability.” MATAN provides support to children, teachers, and families through teacher workshops, school consultation, program development, consultation with families, curriculum development and modification, behavior management, community presentations, and neuropsychological assessments. MATAN works with synagogues and provides after-school Talmud Torah-equivalent programs for children with special needs. MATAN also offers teacher training and provides consultation to families and synagogues.

[H1] Youth Groups and Summer Camps

Parents recognize that their child’s Jewish education is comprised of more than the school experience. Opportunities to participate in the richness of Jewish communal and synagogue life are extremely important to a child’s Jewish and social development.

Yachad/National Jewish Council for Disabilities (NJCD) includes individuals with disabilities (ages 8 through senior adult) in Jewish programming across the United States and Canada. Yachad members participate in Shabbatons at various Orthodox synagogues. Yachad Shabbatons are generally staffed by high-school and college-age Orthodox youth, allowing for socialization between typical and disabled peers.

 

The Jewish Community Center of Manhattan and other Jewish Community Centers across the country offer programs that focus on providing Jewish cultural programming for children and young adults with varying needs. Initiatives include programs for school-age children such as after-school or Sunday programs, summer camps, sibling workshops, assistive technology, lectures and support programs for caregivers, and a Special Needs school fair. The JCC in Manhattan also offers a program for young adults featuring Sunday outings, lounges, drama therapy, technology training, and career development.

 

The Friendship Circle, founded in 1994 by the Lubavitch Foundation of Michigan—and now existing in many communities nationwide—offers programs to provide assistance and support to the families of children with special needs as well as to individuals and families struggling with addiction, isolation, and other crises. Teen volunteers are an integral part of their program serving individuals with special needs.

 

According to The Foundation for Jewish Camp, “No experience is more powerful, thrilling, or transformative than Jewish overnight summer camp.” Various Orthodox summer camp programs offer socialization and Jewish immersion experiences for children with special needs. Camp HASC, a summer program of the Hebrew Academy for Special Children, provides a seven-week overnight camping experience to over 300 children with mental and physical handicaps. HASC is specifically dedicated to children with special needs.

 

Yachad b’Nesher is a Yachad/NJCD program within Camp Nesher, a camp for typically developing children. Yachad b'Nesher specializes in mainstreaming boys and girls who are developmentally disabled. There are accessible bunks on each campus set up for these campers, their special needs, and their specially trained staff. Yachad campers participate daily in all activities with different bunks.

Yachad also offers Yad B’Yad travel programs, where typically developing high school students and members of Yachad together tour the East Coast, the West Coast, or Israel.

 

The Tikvah Program was founded nearly forty years ago at Camp Ramah in New England and now runs programs at several Ramah camps throughout the United States and Canada. Although Camp Ramah is the camping arm of the Conservative Movement, the Tikvah Program has historically attracted a significant population of its campers from Orthodox homes. In the Tikvah Program, campers are included in all aspects of the rich Jewish summer camping experience and benefit from the richness of “immersion” in Jewish communal life. Prayers are modified for the needs of the campers and generally involve singing, dancing, and repetition. Following spirited weekday morning prayers, campers begin and end breakfast with the appropriate blessings, return to bunks for nikayon (clean up), and participate in daily activities such as Jewish learning, Hebrew instruction, swimming, sports, arts and crafts, and vocational training. Tikvah campers even take a turn leading the camp in Shabbat evening services, and they perform a Jewish-themed play, partially in Hebrew, for the entire camp.

 

[H1] A Modern Orthodox Action Plan

Clearly, the Modern Orthodox community can do more to help make people with special needs feel more fully included in synagogue and communal life. A move toward full inclusion will require working collaboratively with others in the Jewish community (often across the “denominational divide”), continued education of rabbis, leaders and community members, and ongoing congregation and communal self-assessment.

 

[H2] Working Collaboratively with Others in the Jewish Community

The Jewish disabilities world has been very successful in breaking down denominational barriers. I heard a story of two Philadelphia-area Jewish parents of children with autism speaking very comfortably and openly—one was a Lubavitch rabbi, and the other was a female Reconstructionist rabbi. The chances of these two interacting in another context are slim. This heartwarming anecdote illustrates the potential for Jews of various backgrounds to work together. Successful collaboration already takes place in many communities across the United States.

 

In Westchester, New York, Carol Corbin is the chairperson of the Westchester Special Needs Roundtable. She is also the coordinator of Synagogue Inclusion, which is part of the UJA of New York Caring Commission. In the first year of the Roundtable, nearly forty Westchester area rabbis and parents from across the denominations, as well as directors of special-needs programs, JCCs, and various agencies, came together. They determined that the focus of the initial phase of their work should be on teacher training and congregational sensitivity. As their work has continued, the Roundtable has addressed ways to make congregations sensitive to populations with special needs. They have addressed such topics as building access and the social, emotional, and educational needs of those with special needs.

 

Shelly Christensen, Program Manager for the Jewish Community Inclusion Program for People with Disabilities (a program of Jewish Family and Children’s Service of Minneapolis, Minnesota), is a frequent presenter across the country on the topic of inclusion. Christenson, author of “Jewish Community Guide to Inclusion of People with Disabilities,” has worked with synagogues and agencies to help create awareness and action. Synagogues across the denominations are collaborating in an effort to serve those with special needs, and are taking part in “February 2009 is Jewish Disability Awareness Month.”

 

Following her presentation several years ago, each synagogue appointed a lay leader to a community liaison committee. Each committee meeting takes place at a different synagogue, and committee members tour different synagogues and discuss issues of accessibility. Christensen reports that members of the Orthodox community have been very involved with the committee, and that synagogues and schools have embraced inclusion. Synagogues of all denominations may wish to consider starting inclusion committees, which function much as social action, Israel action, and ritual committees.

 

 The Modern Orthodox community also has numerous opportunities to join the larger Jewish community in workshops and conferences. For example, the Partnership for Jewish Life and Learning in the Washington, D.C., area has a Department of Special Needs and Disability committee, which organizes a yearly conference, “Opening the Gates of Torah: Including People with Disabilities in the Jewish Community.” Their most recent conference featured twelve sessions on inclusion and attracted more than 350 people. In addition, this organization provides information, resources, consultation, and professional development to parents, teachers, and administrators in preschools, congregational schools, and Day Schools in community. Their extensive range of services strives to “help ensure that every member of the Jewish community, children and adults alike, has access to the range of social, educational, and religious opportunities that the Washington area has to offer.”

 

Modern Orthodoxy, with its long, impressive history of collaborating with the larger Jewish community, has an unprecedented opportunity to take the lead in the area of inclusion and accommodation of special needs. This willingness to work collaboratively and diplomatically can be useful in helping the community address sensitive issues such as religious and dietary policy in Jewish group residences.

 

[H2] Education of Rabbis, Leaders, and Community Members

 

Pulpit rabbis are often sensitive to the diverse needs of their membership. Yet each rabbi can point to the moment he was “sensitized” to the needs of a congregant he hadn’t previously “noticed.” These needs frequently come up when a family is considering the bar or bat mitzvah of a child with learning disabilities or physical disabilities. One rabbi sheepishly recalls being asked if there were any people in his congregation with visual impairments. He reported that he didn’t think so. When asked if his synagogue offered Braille siddurim or special seating for members with visual impairments, he reported that it did not. He was then asked if he felt there was any connection between the lack of accommodations and the lack of attendance by those with visual impairments. And, as noted earlier, parents of children with autism are often uncomfortable bringing their children into the sanctuary for fear they will be disruptive.

 

While parents are instrumental in educating rabbis, rabbinical seminaries can offer “disability awareness” as part of the rabbinical school curriculum. Rabbi Dov Linzer, Rosh Yeshiva and Dean of Yeshivat Chovevei Torah Rabbinical School in Manhattan, recently brought the entire rabbinical school graduating class to a community-wide inclusion conference, held at the JCC of the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Linzer reports that the education of rabbinical students was encouraged by Shelly and Reuven Cohen, Manhattan residents, who had spent years seeking and developing educational and camp programs for Nathaniel, their son with special needs. When Nathaniel died, the Cohens approached Rabbi Linzer about possibly funding a program in their son’s memory, with the goal of training rabbis about developmental and physical disabilities. This program is now part of every YCT student’s rabbinical education. These rabbis will surely go out to their respective communities more knowledgeable and more sensitive to people with a wide range of special needs.

 

[H2] Ongoing Congregational and Communal Self-Assessment

 

Each synagogue has an opportunity and a responsibility to determine whether it is doing enough to meet the needs of people with special needs. This may involve surveying members as to their unique needs and assessing accessibility in their synagogues—from entrances, to the women’s section, to the reader’s desk.

 

[H1] Conclusion

Meeting the needs of those in our community with special needs involves a sincere belief that all Jews are created beTselem Elokim, and that each person has a right to respect and full inclusion in our communities. The Modern Orthodox community is in a unique position to champion efforts, within our synagogues and within our communities, to expand educational and socialization efforts. It is not our job to complete the task—but neither are we free to desist from it!

 

 

 

The Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals: Core Values

The Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, founded in 2007, offers a vision of Orthodox Judaism that is intellectually sound, spiritually compelling, and emotionally satisfying. Based on an unwavering commitment to the Torah tradition and to the Jewish people, it fosters an appreciation of legitimate diversity within Orthodoxy. It encourages responsible discussion of issues in Jewish law, philosophy, religious world-view, and communal policy. It sees Judaism as a world religion with a profound message for Jews, and for non-Jews as well. It seeks to apply the ancient wisdom of Judaism to the challenges of contemporary society.

Do you sense that Orthodox Jewish life is

***narrowing its intellectual horizons?

***adopting ever more extreme halakhic positions?

***encouraging undue conformity in dress, behavior and thought?

***fostering an authoritarian system that restricts creative and independent thinking?

***growing more insulated from non-Orthodox Jews and from society in general?

Do you think that Orthodox Jewish life should be

***intellectually alive, creative, inclusive?

***open to responsible discussion and diverse opinions?

***active in the general Jewish community, and in society as a whole?

***engaged in serious and sophisticated Jewish education for children and adults?

***committed to addressing the halakhic and philosophic problems of our times, drawing on the wisdom and experience of diverse Jewish communities throughout history?

If you agree that Orthodoxy can and should create a better intellectual and spiritual climate, the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals is here for you. The Institute works for an intellectually vibrant, compassionate and inclusive Orthodoxy. Together we can reclaim the grand religious world-view of Torah Judaism at its best.

***We have an active and informative website, jewishideas.org, reaching many thousands of readers throughout the world

***Our National Scholar has been giving classes, lectures and programs in many communities and on college campuses

***We have published 47 issues of our journal, Conversations, read by many thousands

***We provide publications and guidance to students free of charge

***Our weekly Angel for Shabbat column reaches thousands of readers worldwide

***Our YouTube channel has attracted thousands of visitors for a wide range of lectures/shiurim/classes

***We are a vital resource for thousands of people seeking guidance on questions of halakha, religious worldview, communal policies, conversion to Judaism… and so much more!!!

As the Institute celebrates its 18th anniversary, your support and partnership enable the Institute to maintain and expand its work in the years ahead. We have come a long way…but there is a long road still ahead. Thank you for being part of the Institute’s growing community of members, friends and supporters.

 

 

Song of Songs: Romance and Religion

SONG OF SONGS

 

ROMANCE AND RELIGION[i]

 

Introduction

 

Rabbi Yuval Cherlow has composed an extraordinary book on the Song of Songs, Aharekha Narutzah: Song of Songs: ‘Let Us Run After You’: A Contemporary Commentary on the Spiritual Significance of King Solomon’s Love Poems. [ii] It not only offers a new interpretation of the text, but also speaks directly to contemporary spiritual challenges. Although the book spans over 500 pages, only sixty are devoted to verse-by-verse commentary. The bulk of the work explores the methodology, interpretive principles, and religious vision that inform Rabbi Cherlow’s reading of the Song. Rabbi Cherlow offers a coherent interpretive framework—rooted in both peshat and derash—that skillfully bridges traditional exegesis with the emotional and religious yearnings of our generation.

Rabbi Cherlow is well positioned to compose such a book. He has written on the thought of Rabbis Avraham Yitzhak Kook and Joseph B. Soloveitchik.[iii] He also answers thousands of halakhic questions on the internet from people from all walks of life in Israel, granting him a unique sensitivity to the religious questions of the broader Israeli public.[iv] At a time when many Jews struggle to relate traditional faith to human emotion and experience, Rabbi Cherlow offers an interpretive bridge between the worlds of Tanakh, Jewish thought, halakhah, Jewish history, and contemporary religious experience. Although the book is lengthy, this chapter highlights some of Rabbi Cherlow’s central arguments to encourage further study.

Following in the footsteps of Targum, Rashi, and especially Ibn Ezra,[v] Rabbi Cherlow maintains that there is one coherent story line underlying the Song of Songs (Song of Songs = the best song). Rabbi Cherlow adopts the methodology of Ibn Ezra by employing the literal reading as a springboard to metaphorical readings, but he is not constrained by Ibn Ezra’s particular interpretations.

Rabbi Cherlow espouses the traditional interpretation of the Song of Songs as a metaphor for the relationship between God and Israel. In his introduction to the Song of Songs, Ibn Ezra bolsters this view by citing examples where prophets liken the relationship between God and Israel to a marriage.[vi] Gabriel H. Cohn marshals internal textual evidence to support the metaphorical reading as part of the original intent of the Song of Songs. These include: praise of the Land of Israel itself; some of the praises of the woman appear too exaggerated to refer to a person (e.g., 7:5, “Your neck is like a tower of ivory … your nose like the Lebanon tower that faces toward Damascus”); and the woman appears to be part of a larger group of people who love the man.[vii] It is difficult to pinpoint the boundary between peshat and derash in the Song of Songs. However, the literal reading lends itself to metaphorical extensions, and both literal and metaphorical readings have played prominent roles in traditional understandings of the Song of Songs.[viii]

Amos Hakham (Da’at Mikra) rejects the single-narrative approach, since it depends too heavily on derash.[ix] Hakham maintains that the Song of Songs is a collection of different poems purposefully assembled by one author (Song of Songs = a song comprised of several smaller songs). Taking advantage of both perspectives, Rabbi Cherlow uses the coherent narrative approach for the literal reading and for the historical metaphorical reading of Israel’s relationship with God. He then adopts the collection of different poems approach for interpreting the Song of Songs as a metaphor for the individual’s relationship with God (as per Rambam’s interpretation explained below).

            To develop a conceptual framework for his ideas, Rabbi Cherlow contrasts Israel’s two great sins in the Torah: the Golden Calf and the Spies. Many consider the Calf to be the greater sin, on the assumption that it was outright idolatry. Rabbi Cherlow espouses the approach of the Kuzari (I:97) who maintains that the Israelites wrongfully sought God by building a Tabernacle-like resting place for God’s Presence without having been commanded to do so. While the Calf was a sin, it still was better than the sin of the Spies who attempted to avoid the challenges of living in the Land altogether. The Calf ultimately led to atonement and a closer relationship with God as the nation built the Tabernacle. In contrast, the sin of the Spies led to aimless wandering and death in the desert. Rabbi Cherlow favors the homiletical interpretations that cast the bad spies as “pietists” who insisted that remaining in the desert was spiritually preferable to entering the Land, where they would have to work for a living and live in the real world. They failed to realize that the Torah requires us to live in this world rather than remaining in isolation. This vision of embodied, this-worldly spirituality becomes a central thread throughout Rabbi Cherlow’s reading of the Song.

 

Literal Interpretation

 

Rabbi Cherlow believes that the literal story describes the love between a king in Jerusalem and a farmer’s daughter from En Gedi. Secondary characters then arise who impact on their relationship:

 

“We have a little sister, whose breasts are not yet formed. What shall we do for our sister when she is spoken for? If she be a wall, we will build upon it a silver battlement; if she be a door, we will panel it in cedar.” I am a wall, my breasts are like towers. So I became in his eyes as one who finds favor (8:8–10).

 

The woman’s siblings do not think she is mature enough for a relationship, but she disagrees. While the woman is fundamentally correct—the king does love her—her brothers are also correct that she is naïve and inexperienced. At the beginning of the story (1:5–6) the daughters of Jerusalem do not think the woman is worthy of the king’s love. The king’s guards and friends also are impediments (5:7). Part of the story is about the couple’s overcoming external impediments to their relationship.           

However, these secondary characters comprise only about twenty percent of the Song of Songs; the remainder describes challenges inherent to their relationship. The woman does not understand the language or lifestyle of the palace, and the king needs to learn to appreciate the world of a farmer. For example, she speaks of vineyards, while he refers to king’s horses:

 

Don’t stare at me because I am swarthy, because the sun has gazed upon me. My mother’s sons quarreled with me, they made me guard the vineyards (1:6).

 

I have likened you, my darling, to a mare in Pharaoh’s chariots (1:9).

 

Additionally, there are other women in the palace, and the royal lifestyle is considerably different from what she was used to on the farm. This reality frightens her back to her mother’s house even after their wedding, as we will see below.

Rabbi Cherlow divides the Song of Songs into four major units, primarily based on the adjuration of the woman to the daughters of Jerusalem not to press her relationship further until it is ready (1:1–2:7; 2:8–3:5; 3:6–6:3; 6:4–8:14). In the first song (1:1–2:7) the woman dreams of his kisses but still feels that she must win his heart. She needs to understand the gaps between their lifestyles. The woman describes herself as a lily waiting to be picked. The king agrees that she is a lily but one that is surrounded by thorns and not yet approachable:

 

I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys. Like a lily among thorns, so is my darling among the maidens (2:1–2).

 

            In the second song (2:8–3:5) the king approaches the woman at her vineyard during the day but she does not respond. She loves him but wants to wait (2:8–17). She then attempts to pursue him at night (3:1–5). In the first song the king is hesitant, whereas at the beginning of the second song it is the woman who delays.

            They get married at the beginning of the third song (3:6–6:3), but the woman is intimidated by the presence of other women and the luxuries of the palace. In chapter 5 she retreats to her mother’s home despite the king’s passionate expressions of love in chapter 4. It is significant that the challenges of their relationship continue into their marriage. Marriage is not a climactic fairy-tale ending, but rather the next stage in a mature loving relationship that requires constant work and development throughout a lifetime.

The king then pursues her, knocking on her door and begging her to let him in. Her prolonged hesitancy generates the great crisis in the relationship. He eventually despairs and leaves. She now must actively seek him out:

 

Hark, my beloved knocks! “Let me in, my own, my darling, my faultless dove! For my head is drenched with dew, my locks with the damp of night.” I had taken off my robe—was I to don it again? I had bathed my feet—was I to soil them again? My beloved took his hand off the latch, and my heart was stirred for him…. I opened the door for my beloved, but my beloved had turned and gone. I was faint because of what he said. I sought, but found him not; I called, but he did not answer (5:2–6).

 

Despite his leaving, the woman remains confident that her beloved has not abandoned her permanently. She again goes out to seek him, enlisting the help of the daughters of Jerusalem (5:8–6:2). These women become convinced that she truly loves the king and therefore cease to be skeptical as they had been at the outset of the story.

            Many of the woman’s problems stem from her misunderstanding of what she saw in the palace after their wedding. In the fourth song (6:4–8:14) the king explains royal life, hoping to assuage her fears. While there are other women in the palace, she is unique to him:

 

There are sixty queens, and eighty concubines, and damsels without number. Only one is my dove, my perfect one, the only one of her mother, the delight of her who bore her. Maidens see and acclaim her; queens and concubines, and praise her (6:8–9).

 

They finally come together, and she invites him to the field for a full expression of their love (7:12–14).

However, her call for him to flee like a deer in the final verse (8:14) indicates that their relationship has not reached a final resolution. Yehudah Feliks explains that when deer go into heat, they do not mate immediately. The males and females first seek each other and flee from one another.[x] Thus the final verse demonstrates that their love is an ongoing story that will continue to develop even after the Song of Songs closes.

 

Historical Metaphor

 

Beyond its literal narrative, Rabbi Cherlow, like many traditional commentators, finds a second layer of meaning by interpreting the Song as a parable of national destiny. There are literary advantages of using metaphor, a technique that can express what words cannot. Metaphor can further accommodate multiple meanings, including national history and individual spirituality. It also transforms an incomprehensible subject, that of the mortal relationship with the divine, into terms that everyone can understand—in this case, human love.

The most prevalent metaphorical interpretation in Jewish tradition casts the Song of Songs as symbolizing the historical relationship between God and Israel (e.g., Targum, Rabbi Saadiah Gaon, Rashi, Rashbam,[xi] and Ibn Ezra).[xii] In his historical-derash interpretation, Rabbi Cherlow generally follows Targum, the first interpreter to present a coherent historical narrative based on earlier midrashim.[xiii] He deviates from Targum when he believes that alternative approaches create a greater correspondence with the literal reading.

As in his literal reading, Rabbi Cherlow identifies four major narrative units in the Song. Rabbi Cherlow correlates the four songs to four periods (1) from the exodus through the end of the Torah; (2) Joshua through David; (3) the building of the Temple through the Return to Zion; and (4) the final redemption. His overall metaphorical reading agrees with Targum that the first song relates to the exodus, but differs from Targum by interpreting the second song as moving ahead to the period of Joshua through David. 

            The first song (1:1–2:7) opens with the revelation at Sinai as a kiss. Israel’s being black yet beautiful (1:5) refers to the Calf. Though it was a sin, Israel had beautiful intentions by attempting to draw closer to God (Kuzari). The sin of the Calf stemmed from Israel’s trying to serve God on her terms rather than on God’s terms. However, the Calf did not lead to the severing of the relationship; God pardoned Israel and they built the Tabernacle. At the end of the first song (2:5) God makes the daughters of Jerusalem swear not to awaken Israel’s love, since she is not yet ready. This lack of readiness refers to the sin of the Spies, which demonstrated that the nation was not yet ready to enter the Land.

            In the second song (2:8–3:5) the king seeks the woman, but she does not initially respond. This episode refers primarily to the period of the Judges, when God could not hear Israel’s voice since there was a general religious decline. In the beginning of the Book of Samuel, the people’s first instinct was to bring the Ark to battle as a magical savior rather than praying to God.

            The marriage in the third song (3:6–6:3) refers to the building of the Temple. The story does not end happily ever after because of King Solomon’s involvement with foreign wives and their idolatry. One could argue that these marriages—like the Golden Calf—were well intentioned since through them Solomon built alliances and sanctified God’s name with the steady flow of foreign visitors to Jerusalem. Ultimately, however, Solomon’s disregard of halakhah brought spiritual harm onto himself and his nation. The woman’s retreat to her mother’s home after the marriage symbolizes the remainder of the history in the Book of Kings, where God and Israel had a more distant relationship.

            The great crisis in the historical narrative arises when God knocked at the time of Cyrus and the Jews failed to respond adequately.[xiv] God encouraged Israel to pursue Him, rather than allowing her to take the relationship for granted. Prophecy ceased. When longing for God in His absence, Jews began to translate their religious experience into words. To connect to God, some employed the language of universal philosophy while others turned to kabbalah. These are manifestations of the woman’s efforts to enlist the daughters of Jerusalem to help her locate her lover (5:8–6:2).

The fourth song (6:4–8:14) represents the current period. Messianic potential exists, but there is no guarantee of ultimate redemption. To achieve redemption, we need to benefit from the accumulated experience of the earlier stages of our relationship with God and approach it with mature wisdom. Rabbi Cherlow’s historical narrative brings us to the open ending of the Song of Songs. It is up to us to determine whether we are sufficiently mature to engage God as a nation of destiny.[xv]

 

Metaphor of Personal Religious Quest

 

While the prevalent historical-metaphorical reading emphasizes Israel’s collective journey, the personal metaphor foregrounds the spiritual odyssey of the individual. Rambam interprets the Song of Songs as a symbol of the love between an individual and God.[xvi] Unlike the national historical metaphor, which follows a continuous storyline, the metaphor of personal spirituality reflects the irregular, nonlinear nature of individual religious growth. While Rabbi Cherlow assumes a coherent sequential narrative both for literal and for the historical-metaphorical reading, he shifts for the personal-metaphorical reading and adopts the approach of multiple songs, since not everyone follows the same path in personal religious development.

The common denominator underlying all approaches to God is that an infinite gulf separates God from humanity. There are external impediments to faith, but the internal barriers are far greater. The need for a relationship with God is innate. However, many people misdirect these inclinations and cast God in their own image. Today’s spiritual instinct often manifests as unstructured religiosity—seeking God without commitment or covenant. God also is expected to act instantly during crisis. The Calf serves as the paradigm for jumping into a spiritual relationship with God without following halakhah. One must pursue the love of God using God’s language and norms. The woman’s persistent searching even in divine silence becomes a template for spiritual endurance in the face of doubt.[xvii] People need to build an enduring mature relationship with God.

            Marriage is the ideal form of relationship, but it creates a whole new set of challenges than singlehood. It may become stale, and both partners may experience a loss of freedom. Similarly, some have great faith when they are younger but then lose their enthusiasm as they enter adulthood. Song of Songs represents the ongoing process of seeking God that can keep our religious fire burning and increasing throughout our lifetime.

In his book on Rabbi Soloveitchik, Rabbi Cherlow sets out the central thesis of Aharekha Narutzah by briefly surveying the history of Jewish thought. Rambam roots faith in the philosophical contemplation of God. Rabbi Yehudah Halevi in his Kuzari extrapolates the roots of faith based on an experiential model as is explored in Exodus. Rabbi Soloveitchik, in contrast, sees the roots of faith as stemming from the relationship modeled in the Song of Songs.[xviii] Rabbi Soloveitchik also did not perceive a fundamental difference between the historical-metaphorical and the personal-metaphorical readings of the Song of Songs, since both pertain to the relationship between God and humanity.[xix]

 

Contemporary Relevance: Jewish Thought and the Song’s Relevance Today

 

Medieval Jewish philosophers from Rabbi Saadiah Gaon through Rabbi Hasdai Crescas attempted to translate faith into the universal language of philosophy. They explained Judaism’s paradoxes and systematized its ideas, even though Tanakh and aggadah do not speak in those terms.

Rabbi Yehudah Halevi disagreed with most Jewish thinkers of his era. He maintained that philosophy is rooted in unproven assumptions and axioms. Rabbi Yehudah Halevi used philosophy to demonstrate that human reason does not contradict the Torah, a process that is different from assuming that tenets of faith can be demonstrated rationally. Rabbi Yehudah Halevi was proven correct over time. We cannot fathom all of life’s contradictions, the nature of God, the reasons behind the mitzvot, and other central issues of faith using only reason.

Medieval Jewish philosophy ultimately declined because it failed to answer the questions it presented and instead generated many more. Entering the early modern period, this decline was accompanied by an inward shift in Jewish thought toward mysticism, messianism, and pietism. There was a parallel growth in Talmudic pilpul, which creates an internally coherent system but not one that translates Judaism into a language that outsiders can understand.

Meanwhile, the German philosopher Immanuel Kant demonstrated that philosophy cannot prove the axioms of faith. Many perceived this conclusion as reason to defect from faith altogether. Rabbi Soloveitchik disagreed, asserting that Kant had liberated religious thinkers from some of the unsolvable questions that had bedeviled medieval philosophers. The pendulum of contemporary faith has swung back to the pre-medieval experiential world of Tanakh-aggadah-Jewish thought. We no longer attempt to prove the axioms of religion on rational-philosophical terms but rather generate authentic religious experience. This does not mean that intellectual endeavors are obsolete, only that reason alone cannot serve as the foundation of faith. Contemporary Jewish thinkers need a language that can speak to this new perception.

Maskilim were dissatisfied with rabbinic responses (or lack thereof) to the new intellectual-spiritual trends that emerged in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Some Jews concluded that religion is a personal choice and people should accept God and Torah on their own terms. In the Song of Songs, the woman made that fundamental mistake at the outset (= the Golden Calf). Others refuse to acknowledge that today’s world is any different from previous ages, so they erect barriers to isolate themselves from the world (= the Spies). While this group might survive as an independent religious culture, their philosophy violates the basic principle that the Torah is eternal and relevant to all social realities.

Rabbi Kook called on rabbis to restore aggadah to its rightful place joined with halakhah. He believed that this potent combination would provide a language for an intellectually and spiritually compelling approach to Judaism. Rabbi Cherlow is answering Rabbi Kook’s call to reconnect halakhah and aggadah so that they form an organic unity in our religious experience.[xx]

Once we understand our history as an ongoing love encounter with God, we become part of that experience. If we ignore God’s knocks, we will miss a golden historical opportunity. If we assume that today is the beginning of a guaranteed redemption because we now have the Land of Israel, it should be remembered that the struggles of the couple in the Song of Songs continued into their marriage. On both literal and metaphorical planes, love must never be taken for granted.

 The Song of Songs teaches that the infinite gulf between God and humanity is deepened—and bridged—through the ongoing struggle of love and relationship. In our world, the tendency for instant gratification prevails. In contrast, true love may be judged by its ability to weather crisis and grow into mature adulthood. In brief, our ability to relate to God is measured by our ability to love as people.

Rabbi Akiva proclaimed that the Song of Songs was kodesh kodashim, Holy of Holies (Mishnah Yadayim 3:5). He considered ve-ahavta le-re’akha kamokha (love your neighbor as yourself) to be the central axiom of the Torah (Sifra Kedoshim 4:12). He also was famous for his exceptional love of his wife. Rabbi Akiva also successfully entered pardes:

 

Hagigah 14b: Four men entered the Garden (pardes) namely, Ben Azzai and Ben Zoma, Aher, and Rabbi Akiva…. Ben Azzai cast a look and died…. Ben Zoma looked and became demented…. Aher mutilated the shoots. Rabbi Akiva departed unhurt.

 

Hagigah 16a: Rabbi Akiva went up unhurt and went down unhurt; and of him Scripture says: Draw me, we will run after you (aharekha narutzah) (Song of Songs 1:4).

 

The very phrase Aharekha Narutzah—‘Let us run after You’—invokes this model of pursuit. Rabbi Cherlow’s title thus captures the dual motion of religious longing: both a personal journey and a national destiny. Rabbi Akiva teaches that the love of God is not what leads to the love of people; rather, the love of people ultimately leads to the love of God. The planes of interpersonal love and love of God fuse into the Holy of Holies. By understanding these connections, Rabbi Akiva was able to enter pardes and grow from the experience. Rabbi Akiva models the very fusion of human and divine love that the Song invites. By loving others deeply and navigating spiritual danger with maturity, he became the exemplar of loving God in a world of complexity and imperfection.

    

Rabbi Cherlow’s book is a penetrating analysis and diagnosis of the spiritual needs of our age. Despite its formidable length, it is well worth the effort for rabbis and educators, as well as anyone interested in peshat-derash methodology, Jewish thought, and the Song of Songs itself. In this manner, we can extend our understanding of human love to make the love of God accessible to all Jews. Rabbi Cherlow reclaims the Song of Songs as a sacred text that speaks directly to the modern soul—personal, historical, and eternal.

 


[i] An earlier version of this essay appeared in Hayyim Angel, Vision from the Prophet and Counsel from the Elders: A Survey of Nevi’im and Ketuvim (New York: OU Press, 2013), 258–271.

[ii] Tel Aviv: Miskal-Yediot Aharonot and Hemed Books, 2003.

[iii] VeErastikh Li LeOlam: Demuto HaDatit shel HaAdam Be’Et Tehiyyah BeMishnato shel HaRav Kook (Hebrew) (Petah Tikvah: Yeshivat HaHesder Petah Tikvah, 2003); VeHayu LaAhadim BeYadekha: MeDialektikah LeHarmoniyah BeMishnato shel HaRav Yosef Dov HaLevi Soloveitchik (Hebrew) (Alon Shevut: Hegyonot, 2000).

[iv] Four collections of his internet responsa have been published by Yeshivat ha-Hesder Petah Tikvah as: Reshut HaRabbim: Teshuvot Sh-Nitnu BaInternet BeInyanei Emunah, Halakhah VeShe’elot Mithadshot (2002); Reshut HaYahid: Teshuvot SheNitnu BaInternet BeInyanei Tseni’ut, Zugiyut U-Mishpahah (2003); Reshut HaTzibur: Teshuvot SheNitnu BaInternet BeInyanei Hevrah, Medinah VeGe’ulah (2005); Reshut LeHahamir: Teshuvot SheNitnu BaInternet BeInyanei Humrot, Kulot VaAvodat Hashem (2007).

[v] For a discussion of the differences between the approaches of Rashi and Ibn Ezra, see Eliyahu Assis, “The Differences between the Commentaries of Rashi and Ibn Ezra on the Song of Songs” (Hebrew), in Teshurah LeAmos: A Collection of Studies in Biblical Interpretation Presented in Honor of Amos Hakham, ed. Moshe Bar-Asher et al. (Alon Shevut: Tevunot, 2007), 61–69.

[vi] These include: Isaiah 5:1 (this also having a parable to a vineyard, a central element in the Song of Songs); 62:5; Ezekiel 16:7; Hosea 1–3. Gerson Cohen observes further that no other culture likened its relationship with its gods to marriage. Tanakh could do so precisely because it eradicated mythology and cultic prostitution (“The Song of Songs and the Jewish Religious Mentality,” in The Canon and Masorah of the Hebrew Bible: An Introductory Reader, ed. Sid Z. Leiman [New York: Ktav, 1974], 262–282).

[vii] Gabriel H. Cohn, Iyyunim BaHamesh HaMegillot (Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Eliner Library, 2006), 27–35.

[viii] See discussion of the range of opinions in the previous chapter of this volume.

[ix] Amos Hakham, Da’at Mikra: Song of Songs, in Five Megillot (Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1973), introduction, 5. He observes that Rashi must resort to flashbacks on several occasions because of the peshat difficulties inherent in his approach. For a survey of traditional and academic approaches regarding the unity and structure of the Song of Songs, see Gavriel H. Cohn, Iyyunim BaHamesh HaMegillot, 54–65.

 

[x] Da’at Mikra: Song of Songs, introduction, 16.

[xi] Regarding the attribution of the medieval commentary of “Rabbi Shemuel” on the Song of Songs to Rashbam, see Sara Japhet, “The Commentary of Rabbi Shemuel ben Meir (Rashbam) on the Song of Songs” (Hebrew), Tarbiz 75 (2006), 239–275. For further discussions of Rashi, Rashbam, and other northern French approaches to the Song of Songs, see Japhet, “Peshat in the Song of Songs: the Approaches of Rashi and his Followers among the Peshat Commentators” (Hebrew), in Dor VaDor U-Parshanav (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2008), 135–156; “Interpretation and Polemic in Rashbam’s Commentary on the Song of Songs” (Hebrew), Iyyunei Mikra U-Parshanut vol. 8, ed. Shemuel Vargon et al. (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2008), 481–499; and “‘The Lovers’ Way’: Cultural Symbiosis in a Medieval Commentary on the Song of Songs,” in Birkat Shalom: S. M. Paul Jubilee Volume, ed. A. Hurvitz et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 863–880.

[xii] This was not the only midrashic understanding, however. In the summary words of David M. Carr (with minor transliteration changes): “While we see the male fairly consistently linked to God, we find the female of the Song of Songs related to the house of study (Eruvin 21b; b. Bava Batra 7b), an individual sage (Tosefta Hagigah 2:3), Moses (Mekhilta Beshallah Shirah 9), Joshua the son of Nun (Sifrei Nitzavim 305 and parallels), local court (Sanhedrin 36b; Yevamot 101a; Kiddushin 49b and Sanhedrin 24a; cf. Pesahim 87a), or the community of Israel as a whole (Mishnah Ta’anit 4:8; Tosefta Sotah 9:8; Shabbat 88; Yoma 75a; Sukkot 49b; Eruvin 21b; Ta’anit 4a; Mekhilta Beshallah Shirah 3)” (“The Song of Songs as a Microcosm of the Canonization and Decanonization Process,” in Canonization and Decanonization, ed. A. van der Kooij and K. van der Toorn [Leiden: Brill, 1998], 175–176).

[xiii] See Philip S. Alexander, “Tradition and Originality in the Targum of the Song of Songs,” in The Aramaic Bible: Targums in Their Historical Context, ed. D. R. G. Beattie and M. J. McNamara (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 318–339; Isaac B. Gottlieb, “The Jewish Allegory of Love: Change and Constancy,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 2 (1992), 1–17. For a more detailed analysis of Targum’s reading, see Esther M. Menn, “Targum of the Song of Songs and the Dynamics of Historical Allegory,” in The Interpretation of Scripture in Early Judaism and Christianity: Studies in Language and Tradition, ed. Craig A. Evans (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 423–445.

[xiv] See, e.g., Berakhot 4a; Yoma 9b; Kuzari II:24; Malbim on Haggai 1:1. For further discussion, see Hayyim Angel, “Prophecy as Potential: The Consolations of Isaiah 1–12 in Context,” in Angel, Revealed Texts, Hidden Meanings: Finding the Religious Significance in Tanakh (Jersey City, NJ: Ktav-Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2009), 117–126.

[xv] Rabbi Cherlow cites the parallel to the thought of Rabbi Soloveitchik in Kol Dodi Dofek. Rabbi Soloveitchik also turned to the Song of Songs as the call of destiny to our generation.

[xvi] See Hilkhot Teshuvah 10:3; Guide for the Perplexed 3:51. See Yosef Murciano, “Rambam and the Interpretation of the Song of Songs” (Hebrew), in Teshurah LeAmos: A Collection of Studies in Biblical Interpretation Presented in Honor of Amos Hakham, ed. Moshe Bar-Asher et al. (Alon Shevut: Tevunot, 2007), 85–108. For an analysis of medieval philosophical readings of the Song of Songs, and how Malbim and Rabbi Soloveitchik (in U-Vikkashtem mi-Sham) adopted variations of that approach, see Shalom Rosenberg, “Philosophical Interpretations of the Song of Songs: Preliminary Observations” (Hebrew), Tarbiz 59 (1990), 133–151.

[xvii] It is striking that of the 117 verses in the Song of Songs, some 61 are spoken by the woman, with only 33 in the man’s mouth. She initiates their encounters more frequently than he, and she gets the last word except for two dialogues. The woman takes to the streets alone at night to search for her beloved (3:1–4; 5:6–7), and even the secondary characters marvel at her unusual behavior (Yair Zakovitch, Mikra LeYisrael: Song of Songs [Hebrew] [Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1992], 11–14).

[xviii] See Rabbi Yuval Cherlow, VeHayu LaAhadim BeYadekha: MeDialektikah LeHarmoniyah BeMishnato shel HaRav Yosef Dov HaLevi Soloveitchik, 33–41. See also Rabbi Shalom Carmy, “On Cleaving and Identification: Rabbi Soloveitchik’s Account of Devekut in U-Vikkashtem Mi-Sham,” Tradition 41:2 (Summer 2008), 100–112.

[xix] See Rabbi Soloveitchik, U-Vikkashtem mi-Sham, in Ish ha-Halakhah: Galui VeNistar (Jerusalem: World Zionist Organization, 1992), 119–120, n. 1. Rabbi Shalom Carmy adds nuance to the idea of both historical and philosophical metaphorical readings. Allegory brings the human perspective to the fore in the Song of Songs since the woman (who represents Israel in the historical reading; and the religious individual in the philosophical reading) is the predominant speaker. The prophets, in contrast, told the love story between God and Israel primarily from God’s perspective. Rabbi Carmy suggests that the Sabbath eve reading transcends the division between historical and philosophical approaches because it belongs to the liturgical and implicitly communal setting, rather than as a lonely philosopher (“Perfect Harmony: Examining the Theories that Explain the Hebrew Bible’s Holiest of Holies: Song of Songs,” First Things 208 [December 2010], 33-37).

[xx] Rabbi Haim David Halevi (1924–1998, the late Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv-Jaffa) similarly composed his five-volume halakhic work Mekor Hayyim HaShalem—a comprehensive guide to halakhah that meshes with aggadah—in response to Rabbi Kook’s call (see his introduction in vol. 1, 9–20).

--

Paired Perspectives on the Parashah: Behar

Behar:

Land, Cities, and the Illusion of Permanence

 

Parashat Behar presents a striking vision of property and ownership that challenges basic assumptions. Land in Israel may be sold—but never permanently. With the arrival of the Jubilee year, it returns to its ancestral owners: “The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is Mine; for you are strangers and sojourners with Me” (Leviticus 25:23). At the same time, however, the Torah makes a surprising exception: houses in walled cities may be sold permanently, without reversion in the Jubilee year (25:29–30).

 

The Torah’s distinction between land and urban property reflects a deeper principle: land represents a divinely ordered reality that resists permanent human ownership, whereas cities represent human-created environments that lend themselves to the illusion of permanence.

 

The Land Belongs to God

 

At the heart of the Jubilee system lies a foundational principle: the land of Israel ultimately belongs to God. Israelites are not absolute owners of their land, but temporary stewards. The cyclical return of land in the Jubilee year serves as a constant reminder that no claim to permanence is final. 

 

Ramban notes a practical dimension to this law. Agricultural land is tied to livelihood and inheritance; its permanent loss would uproot families across generations. By contrast, houses—especially in cities—are less essential to long-term identity. A person may sell one home and relocate without losing a fundamental connection to livelihood or inheritance.

 

Yet the distinction runs deeper than practicality. As Amnon Bazak observes, the Torah restores land to the divinely ordained order established at the time of Israel’s settlement. Land reflects God’s structure; it must periodically return to its original framework. Houses in cities, by contrast, are entirely human constructs—built, modified, and rebuilt according to changing needs. Their permanence is not anchored in divine order in the same way.

 

The Torah thus distinguishes between what is fundamentally given by God and what is primarily created by human beings.

 

Three Models of Human Existence

 

This tension between divine order and human construction is already embedded in the earliest chapters of Genesis. The story of Cain and Abel introduces two archetypal modes of life: the farmer and the shepherd. Abel, the shepherd, lives lightly upon the land, moving with his flocks. Cain, the farmer, works the soil, cultivating and developing it.

 

After murdering his brother, Cain is condemned to a life of wandering, cut off from stable connection to the land. Yet his response is telling: he builds the first city, naming it after his son (Genesis 4:17). In doing so, he establishes a third model—urban life—defined not by dependence on the land, but by human construction and permanence.

 

We thus encounter three fundamental patterns of existence, each reflecting a different relationship between human beings, the land, and God. These three models—shepherd, farmer, and city-dweller—form a conceptual framework that will illuminate the laws of Behar.

 

• The shepherd, who lives with mobility and dependence, without fixed ownership;
• The farmer, who partners with the land through cultivation, yet is tempted to claim it as his own;
• The city-dweller, who constructs an environment increasingly independent of nature, fostering a sense of autonomy and permanence.

 

Each carries its own religious possibilities and dangers.

 

Egypt and the Culture of Permanence

 

These models help illuminate the Torah’s portrayal of Egypt. Egyptian society is marked by an intense investment in permanence—monumental cities, pyramids, and elaborate preparations for the afterlife. It is a civilization that seeks to control time, nature, and even death itself.

 

Significantly, the Torah emphasizes that Egyptians despise shepherds (Genesis 46:34). When they enslave the Israelites, they compel them to build cities and work the land—imposing upon them a civilization rooted in control, production, and permanence.

 

In this light, Egypt represents more than political oppression. It embodies a worldview in which human beings seek to establish enduring structures that obscure dependence on God. Egypt represents the full development of the agricultural and urban impulses taken to their extreme.

 

The Ambivalence of Agriculture

 

R. Samson Raphael Hirsch offers a nuanced analysis of these modes of life. Agriculture, he observes, has been the engine of human civilization. It demands strength, ingenuity, and sustained effort, driving technological and cultural development. At the same time, it fosters a powerful sense of ownership and control. The farmer is deeply tied to the land—dependent on it, yet tempted to view it as his own domain.

 

This dynamic can lead in opposite directions. Agriculture can elevate human society, but it can also degrade it, reducing people to laborers and enabling systems of domination and slavery. It may even give rise to forms of nature-worship, as the forces that govern agricultural success become objects of reverence.

 

The shepherd, by contrast, lacks the stability and sophistication of agricultural life. Yet this very detachment from land and property can foster humility and spiritual openness. It is no accident that the patriarchs, Moses, and David are all shepherds before assuming leadership.

 

The Torah does not idealize one model at the expense of the others. Rather, it recognizes their positive features alongside their spiritual risks.

 

Correcting the Illusion of Ownership

 

We can now understand why the Torah treats land and urban property differently. Land represents a divinely ordered reality that precedes human ownership and therefore cannot be held permanently; it must return to its original framework. Cities, by contrast, are primarily human constructions, shaped and reshaped over time, and therefore more readily subject to permanent transfer.

 

The laws of Behar emerge as a corrective to the risks inherent in agrarian and urban life. When Israel enters its land, it becomes an agricultural society, developing fields, building homes, and establishing communities. With this development comes the danger of forgetting that the land—and life itself—ultimately belongs to God.

 

Shemittah and Yovel—the Sabbatical and Jubilee years—address this danger directly. By mandating periodic cessation of agricultural activity and the return of land to its original owners, the Torah disrupts the illusion of permanent human ownership. These institutions remind Israel that its prosperity is not self-generated, and that its relationship to the land is covenantal, not absolute.

 

Even the distinction between fields and walled cities reflects this tension. Fields revert, reaffirming divine ownership. Houses in cities may remain permanently sold, acknowledging the reality of human construction—but only within limits. 

 

Cities in the Vision of Redemption

 

This ambivalence toward cities continues in prophetic literature. The prophet Zephaniah describes a purified people who live with simplicity and humility, while Micah speaks of the removal of fortified cities, which Radak interprets as a shift toward a more open and expansive mode of living (Micah 5:10; cf. Ketubot 110b).

 

Yet the prophet Isaiah offers a different vision. In his prophecy, Jerusalem becomes the religious center of the world, a city that draws all nations toward the service of God (Isaiah 2:2–4). Unlike the Tower of Babel—a human attempt to construct a self-sufficient world that excludes God—Jerusalem represents a sanctified city, one that integrates human society with divine purpose.

 

These contrasting visions reflect not a contradiction, but a productive tension. The Torah does not reject the city; it seeks to transform it.

 

Conclusion: Living Without Illusions

 

The laws of Behar challenge a deeply ingrained human instinct: the desire for permanence. Whether through land, buildings, or institutions, people seek to establish lasting control over their environment. The Torah, however, insists that such control is always partial and provisional.

 

By distinguishing between land and urban property, instituting cycles of release and return, and embedding these laws within a broader vision of covenant, the Torah teaches that human beings must live in the world without mistaking it for ultimate reality.

 

Holiness in this context is not withdrawal from society, but a disciplined engagement with it—one that resists the illusion of absolute ownership and continually reorients life toward God.

 

Book Review: Shemot in Context: A Scientific and Kabbalistic Commentary of Exodus by Rabbi Elia Benamozegh

BOOK REVIEW

Shemot in Context: A Scientific and Kabbalistic Commentary of Exodus by Rabbi Elia Benamozegh

By Sina Kahen and Ben Rothstein (Da’at Press, 2026), 302 pages

 

Since its founding in 2020, The Habura and its affiliated Da’at Press have distinguished themselves by producing original scholarship and translations that reflect the classical Geonic and Andalusian worldview. Committed to the highest values of Jewish tradition and scholarship, they make many previously obscure and inaccessible works available to the wider English-reading public.

 

Rabbi Elia Benamozegh (1823–1900, Leghorn, Italy) was a remarkable and wide-ranging thinker. He was deeply steeped in classical Jewish texts and mysticism, while simultaneously being up to date with the best of archaeological and linguistic scholarship which expanded dramatically in his time. In his Em LaMikra commentary on the Torah, he approached Torah interpretation by bringing every tool he knew to bear, engaging in pagan myths and culture to demonstrate similarities and profound differences with the Torah in its context. 

 

Rambam demonstrated the value of situating Torah within the intellectual world of antiquity. Rabbi Benamozegh advanced this methodology with the plethora of findings Rambam wished he could have accessed (Guide of the Perplexed III:48). Of course, Rabbi Benamozegh was limited to nineteenth-century scholarship, just as Rambam was limited to that of the twelfth century. However, while many of his theses have become obsolete with updates in scholarly knowledge over the past two centuries, his pursuit of truth using the best available learning tools remains as relevant and as illuminating as ever. 

 

Rabbi Benamozegh is an independent scholar who critically evaluates the opinions of his predecessors and peers, and who sees an overarching unity from the many available sources of tradition and scientific knowledge. Kahen and Rothstein ably summarize and paraphrase many of Rabbi Benamozegh’s analyses of the Book of Exodus.

 

To cite one particularly striking example of this unusual methodology, Rabbi Benamozegh explores the meaning of the unusual name of God, Shaddai. Exodus 6:3 reads, “I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name GOD” (the four-letter personal name of God). Rabbi Benamozegh’s extended discussion (see pp. 118-138) exemplifies many of the methodological tools evidenced throughout his comments in Em LaMikra.

 

Rabbi Benamozegh places singular importance on understanding the meaning of God’s various names in the Torah. Such analysis enables us to comprehend the Torah better, but also helps us ascertain layers of pure monotheistic faith which spread throughout humanity from the most ancient times. Rabbi Benamozegh considers ancient languages and mythology as repositories of traces of true faith in God.

 

He begins his analysis of Shaddai by surveying and evaluating the views of the classical peshat commentators. Rashi understands the name as compound, she-daishe-yesh dai. God is sufficient for all creatures, and supplies their needs. Many other medieval commentators—including Rambam, Ralbag, and Sforno—similarly understand Shaddai as compound, even as they offer different nuances to its precise meaning.

 

In contrast, Ibn Ezra and Ramban interpret Shaddai as deriving from shadad, victorious, mighty. Rabbi Benamozegh, however, rejects their interpretation, insisting that ancient Jewish tradition unanimously understands Shaddai as compound. To bolster his claim, he cites numerous Midrashim that indeed understand Shaddai as referring to God’s sufficiency. He observes that nearly all the ancient translations—including Symmachus, Theodotion, and the Septuagint—similarly interpret Shaddai as compound. Similarly, the Zohar understands Shaddai as compound. To “prove” his thesis, Rabbi Benamozegh observes that even the heretic Benedict Spinoza adopted this view, even though he had no allegiance to rabbinic tradition!

 

Rabbi Benamozegh offers a philological analysis of related words and phrases in Tanakh, which he claims also supports the dominant rabbinic reading against that of Ibn Ezra and Ramban. Thus far, he develops a traditional framework of interpretation to support his understanding that Shaddai is a compound name that derives from she-dai, sufficiency. His citation of biblical verses, Midrashim, and classical commentary is nothing out of the ordinary. His knowledge of ancient translations, the Zohar, and even Spinoza, makes him considerably more unusual among traditional commentators.

 

Yet none of the above compares with the next layer of Rabbi Benamozegh’s analysis. He turns to ancient India and China, where the word Tao or Dao is a seminal theological concept (the authors note that Taoism is indigenous to China, and perhaps Rabbi Benamozegh links this philosophy to India based on a legend that Laozi—the founder of Taoism—traveled to India). Rabbi Benamozegh links this Tao or Dao to Egypt (Teos), Greek (Theos), Latin (Deus), and French (Dieu), among other cultures.

 

Rabbi Benamozegh maintains that the dai in Shaddai is related to Dao. The etymological link might appear strained, since the Hebrew dai refers to sufficiency and Tao refers to “the way,” and represents the underlying unity within the created universe. However, Rabbi Benamozegh cites Kabbalah, which links Shaddai with the sefirah of Yesod, which kabbalists call derekh, the way.

 

The book’s authors conclude, “Rabbi Benamozegh shows how philology, Rabbinic tradition, comparative religion, and Kabbalah all converge in the name Shaddai, revealing it as a profound symbol of divine sufficiency, providence, and the sustaining power of creation. It is a name rooted in Israel’s ancient tradition yet echoed in the languages, myths, and symbols of other nations.” 

 

It is difficult to accept all of Rabbi Benamozegh’s analysis, but it may be viewed as creative theology rather than rigorous historical philology. It also reflects the sweeping comparative enthusiasm characteristic of the 19th century. Yet such sweeping convergence invites scrutiny.

 

Rabbi Benamozegh’s enduring value lies not in the precision of every historical or philological claim, but in his expansive theological imagination and his confidence that all genuine wisdom ultimately converges in divine truth. His work reflects the sweeping comparative enthusiasm of the nineteenth century, and modern scholarship may question many of his linguistic connections. Yet his intellectual audacity remains deeply instructive. He models a Torah scholarship unafraid of engagement, willing to test its claims against the widest available horizons of knowledge. Reading him today is also a salutary reminder that our own scholarly certainties may one day prove provisional or obsolete. Sina Kahen and Ben Rothstein have rendered a significant service in making this daring and erudite interpreter accessible to the English-speaking world.

Studies in Esther

 

Parallels Between Esther and Joseph: Hidden Identity, Providence, and
Redemption 1


The Megillah is often read as a suspenseful court drama, a tale of unlikely
salvation and national reversal. But many commentators and scholars, both traditional
and academic, have recognized deeper narrative and theological currents beneath the
surface. Among the most striking is the intertextual relationship between Esther and the
Joseph narratives in Genesis. The similarities go beyond passing resemblance—they
suggest a deliberate literary modeling that invites us to read Esther through the lens of
Joseph’s story. These connections frame Esther not merely as a story of political survival,
but as a religious reflection on exile—mirroring Joseph’s arc of hidden providence and
redemptive self-disclosure.


A Shared Arc: From Exile to Elevation


Joseph, Mordecai, and Esther rise to prominence in foreign courts after being
swept into exile by circumstances beyond their control. Joseph is sold into Egypt by his
brothers, and Esther is taken into Ahasuerus’s palace. Neither seeks power, yet both
achieve it, dramatically transformed through their ordeals. Like Joseph, Esther conceals
her Israelite identity and adopts the external trappings of the host culture to thrive in the
royal court.


Each character’s transformation reaches its turning point with a moment of moral
courage: Joseph refuses the advances of Potiphar’s wife; Mordecai refuses to bow to
Haman. Both acts, born of fidelity to Jewish principles, bring danger rather than reward.
Yet they also mark the beginning of the protagonists’ ultimate vindication.


Both Joseph and Mordecai are connected to pivotal moments involving two court
officials—Pharaoh’s butler and baker in Joseph’s case, and Bigtan and Teresh in
Mordecai’s. Their heroic interventions are initially forgotten, then later remembered at
precisely the moment they are needed to change the course of history. Each story features
a sleepless monarch whose introspection opens the path to the heroes’ rise.


Even the details of their honors align. Both are publicly honored by a royal
procession: Joseph by Pharaoh (Genesis 41:43), Mordecai by Ahasuerus (Esther 6:11).
Each is elevated to a position just beneath the throne. The drama in both stories climaxes
when the hero’s true identity is revealed—Joseph to his brothers, Esther to Ahasuerus.


Beyond Conceptual Echoes: Linguistic Parallels


The parallels are not only thematic. The author of Esther appears to weave
linguistic allusions into the narrative structure with literary precision. 2 There are specific

(1 Many scholars have observed parallels between the two narratives. I found the work of
Gabriel H. Cohn (Textual Tapestries: Explorations of the Five Megillot [Jerusalem:
Maggid, 2016], Yonatan Grossman (Esther: Megillat Setarim [Jerusalem: Maggid, 2013],
Moshe Sokolow (Ki En Lah Av VaEm: Essays on Purim and Megillat Esther Presented
on the Yahrzeits of Joseph and Hannah Sokolow, a”h [self-published, 2018], and the
material at alhatorah.org most helpful in summarizing the critical issues.)

 

linguistic echoes that strengthen the argument for intentional literary borrowing. Phrases
such as “day after day” (yom yom) appear in both stories to describe repeated moral tests
(Genesis 39:10; Esther 3:4). The king’s removal of his signet ring appears only in these
two narratives (Genesis 41:42; Esther 3:10; 8:2). The similarity in language and structure
suggests that the author of Esther was intentionally evoking the Joseph narrative, inviting
the reader to compare and contrast the two texts.


Midrashic literature was already sensitive to these connections. Esther Rabbah
(7:7) links Mordecai’s steadfastness to Joseph’s, noting that both were descendants of
Rachel who resisted powerful adversaries on a daily basis. Gabriel H. Cohn and others
suggest that these parallels teach a moral lesson: that true deliverance emerges from
principled resistance to evil.


Providence Behind the Curtain


Joseph famously tells his brothers, “God sent me ahead of you to preserve life”
(Genesis 45:5), acknowledging the hidden hand of Providence in his journey. Even in
Joseph’s account, where God is explicitly mentioned, the divine plan is only gradually
revealed; in Esther, God is not named at all. And yet, the sense of divine orchestration
pervades the story. As Yonatan Grossman observes, this absence is itself a theological
message: we are called to recognize God’s presence even when it is hidden.


A Rematch with Amalek


Another axis of interpretation places Esther within the biblical arc of Israel’s
struggle with Amalek. On five occasions in the Megillah, Haman is called an “Agagite.” 3
Several early traditions consider this appellation a reference to Haman’s descent from
King Agag of Amalek, whom Saul defeated (I Samuel 15). 4


Similarly, several midrashic traditions identify the Kish of Mordecai’s pedigree
(2:5) with Saul’s father (I Samuel 9:1). 5 From this vantage point, Mordecai’s recorded
pedigree spans some five centuries in order to connect him and Esther to Saul. If Haman
is indeed of royal Amalekite stock, and Mordecai and Esther descend from King Saul,
then the Purim story may be viewed as a dramatic rematch of the battle between Saul and
Agag.

(2 See Adele Berlin, The JPS Bible Commentary: Esther (Philadelphia: Jewish
Publication Society, 2001), xlv–lii, who discusses the literary artistry and intertextual
structure of the Megillah, including parallels with the Joseph narrative. See also Michael
V. Fox, Character and Ideology in the Book of Esther (Columbia, SC: University of
South Carolina Press, 1991), 195–200, who explores narrative echoes and the intentional
crafting of Esther’s plot in relation to earlier biblical models.)
(3) See Esther 3:1, 10; 8:3, 5; 9:24.
(4) Mishnah Megillah 3:4 requires that Parashat Zakhor (Deuteronomy 25:17–19) be read
the Shabbat preceding Purim. Mishnah 3:6 mandates that the narrative of Amalek’s attack
on the Israelites in the wilderness (Exodus 17:9–17) be read as the Torah portion of
Purim. Josephus (Antiquities XI:209) similarly asserts that Haman was an Amalekite.
(5) See, for example, Megillah 13b.

 

However, neither assumption is rooted in the text of the Megillah. The etymology
of “Agagite” is uncertain; while it could mean “from King Agag of Amalek,” it may be a
Persian or Elamite name. 6 Had the author wanted to associate Haman with Amalek, he
could have dubbed him “the Amalekite.” The same holds true for Mordecai and Esther’s
descent from King Saul. If the Megillah wished to link them it could have named Saul
instead of Kish in 2:5 (Ibn Ezra). It is possible that the Kish mentioned in the Megillah is
Mordecai’s great-grandfather rather than a distant ancestor. 7


Even if the textual grounding of these identifications is uncertain, the thematic
resonance is undeniable. In this case, the association can be inferred from the text of the
Megillah itself. 8 Thus, the midrashic identification may provide narrative closure to the
Saul-Agag encounter. The conflict between Mordecai and Haman as symbolic of a
greater battle between Israel and Amalek is well taken conceptually, but it is tenuous to
contend that the biological connections are manifest in the text. As the rabbinic maxim
goes: ve-im kabbalah hi, nekabbel—if it is a received tradition, we accept it.


Sinai Revisited


A passage in the Talmud (Shabbat 88a) declares that at Sinai, the Israelites were
compelled to accept the Torah—God suspended the mountain over them like a cask:
And they stood under the mount (Exodus 19:17): Rabbi Avdimi b. Hama b. Hasa
said: This teaches that the Holy One, blessed be He, overturned the mountain
upon them like an [inverted] cask, and said to them, ‘If you accept the Torah, ‘tis
well; if not, there shall be your burial.’ Rabbi Aha b. Yaakov observed: This
furnishes a strong protest against the Torah. Said Rava, Yet even so, they re-
accepted it in the days of Ahasuerus, for it is written, [the Jews] confirmed, and
took upon them [etc.] (Esther 9:27): [i.e.,] they confirmed what they had accepted
long before. (Shabbat 88a)

Only during the days of Ahasuerus, says Rava, did they accept the Torah
willingly, with full freedom. In this reading, the Purim story is not only a national


(6 Yaakov Klein, Mikhael Heltzer, and Yitzhak Avishur et al. (Olam HaTanakh: Megillot
[Tel Aviv: Dodson-Iti, 1996, 217]) note that the names Haman, Hamedata, and Agag all
have Elamite and Persian roots.)
(7 Cf. Amos Hakham’s comments to 2:5 in Da’at Mikra: Esther, in Five Megillot
(Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1973); Aaron Koller, “The Exile of Kish,”
Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 37:1 (2012), 45–56.)
(8 Hakham suggests that “Agagite” may be a typological name, intended to associate
Haman conceptually with “Amalek,” i.e., he acts as one from Amalek (the same way
many contemporary Jews refer to anti-Semites as “Amalek” regardless of their genetic
origins). Jon D. Levenson (Old Testament Library: Esther [Louisville, KY: Westminster
John Knox Press, 1997], 56–57) adds that Saul lost his kingdom to David as a result of
not killing Agag; now Mordecai will reclaim some of Saul’s glory by defeating Haman
the Agagite—although the Davidic kingdom stopped ten years after Jeconiah was exiled
(Esther 2:6).)

 

rescue—it is a spiritual completion of the covenant. What was imposed at Sinai is
embraced during Purim, in the very absence of explicit divine command or overt miracle.
That message resonates powerfully today, in an age where our faith must often flourish
without supernatural proofs.


Esther and the Ethics of Self-Defense 9


Jews generally have interpreted the Megillah in terms of the ongoing problem of
anti-Semitism, and on God’s role in helping the Jews behind the scenes. Jews need to be
faithful, unite, and help one another.


In stark contrast, several Christian interpreters condemned the book’s violence
and lack of overt theology. Martin Luther declared that he wished Esther did not exist: “I
am so hostile to this book that I wish it should not exist, for it Judaizes too much and has
too much heathen naughtiness.”


In later centuries, especially in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Germany,
these critiques were reshaped through scholarly discourse but often retained disturbing
anti-Semitic assumptions. Ignoring how the Jews’ lives were threatened, these scholars
interpreted the book as a celebration of Jewish greed and bloodthirstiness. Elias
Bickerman (Four Strange Books of the Bible, 1967) observed that these despicable types
of interpretation began in Germany, but eventually gained traction in the scholarship of
England and the United States as well.


To cite a couple of examples that reflect the disturbing biases of their time: In
1908, Lewis Paton published the International Critical Commentary, which has been
reprinted many times. Here is an excerpt of his evaluation of the Jews’ behavior:


Esther…is relentless toward a fallen enemy, secures not merely that the Jews
escape from danger, but that they fall upon their enemies, slay their wives and
children, and plunder their property (8:11; 9:2–10). Not satisfied with the
slaughter, she asks that Haman’s ten sons may be hanged, and that the Jews may
be allowed another day for killing their enemies in Susa (9:13–14)…
Mordecai…displays wanton insolence in his refusal to bow to Haman, and helps
Esther in carrying out her schemes of vengeance. All this the author narrates with
interest and approval. He gloats over the wealth and the triumph of his heroes and
is oblivious to their moral shortcomings.


His commentary reveals the degree to which anti-Jewish prejudice distorted interpretive
judgment.


Another scholar named Max Haller wrote (in 1925): “Far more numerous are the
despicable, negative character traits of this people, especially their unrestrained lust for
revenge.” Elsewhere in his commentary, Haller argues that the Jews stirred hatred against
themselves by being socially isolated, stoking jealousy because of their wealth, and
inviting violence because of their political weakness. According to Haller’s logic, the
Jews are to blame for anti-Semitism.

 

( See especially Gabriel H. Cohn, Textual Tapestries, 423–433. The quotations from
Christian commentators are cited by Cohn.)

 

Yet, these critiques often ignore the context: The Jews were marked for
annihilation. The Megillah emphasizes repeatedly that they fought only those who
attacked them, and they refrained from taking spoils (8:11, 13; 9:1–2)—subverting the
logic of vengeance. The parallel phrasing between Haman’s decree and the Jews’
counter-decree (3:13 vs. 8:11) reflects a deliberate undoing, not imitation, of the original
evil decree of Haman.


Post-Holocaust Christian scholarship has, in many quarters, recognized this
misreading. Some now view Esther as a text about justified self-defense and resilience in
the face of genocidal hatred.


One German interpreter named A. Meinhold (1983) reflected on the viciously
anti-Semitic pre-World War II scholars: “From here it follows that the Christian critique
of the use of force in the Megillah is liable to raise the suspicion—in light of what is
related in the book and against the backdrop of the atrocities committed against the Jews
in the twentieth century—that it supports those forces that attempt to destroy the Jewish
people.”


Sadly, and frighteningly, we still see the pre-World War II argument all too often
regarding Israel’s right to self-defense, surrounded by people who publicly promote its
destruction. Disturbingly, similar patterns persist today, as many still frame Jewish self-
defense as aggression and shift blame for anti-Semitism onto its victims. The Purim story,
tragically, remains relevant.


The View from Shushan


What did the broader Persian population think of the Jews? The text offers only
hints. Esther conceals her identity at Mordecai’s urging (2:10, 20), but it is unclear why
Mordecai wanted Esther to retain this secrecy. A debate among our commentators stems
from opposite assumptions about the feelings of the general Persian population toward
the Jews. Perhaps Jews were despised and Mordecai wanted her to be chosen so that she
could help the Jews later on (Kara, Ralbag). Alternatively, Mordecai feared Esther would
be chosen and therefore wanted to conceal Esther’s noble Jewish roots, which would be
admired by Persians (Rashi, Ibn Ezra).


When Haman’s genocidal decree was announced, the city of Shushan was
“confounded” (3:15). Some, including Rashi and Ibn Ezra, read this as limited to Jewish
anguish; others, including Ralbag and Rabbi Yosef Hayyun, as general civic shock. 10
When the Jews are vindicated, the city rejoices (8:15). Was this joy Jewish, or universal?
Opinions vary. We are left unsure of the general feelings most Persians had toward the
Jews.


Conclusion


The narrative of Esther is not simply a tale of palace intrigue. It is a layered
meditation on exile, identity, moral courage, and divine providence. By consciously
drawing on the Joseph story, the author of the Megillah places Purim within a larger

(10 Barry Dov Walfish, Esther in Medieval Garb: Jewish Interpretation of the Book of
Esther in the Middle Ages (Albany: SUNY Press, 1993), 127.)

 

biblical arc of survival and redemption. And by omitting God’s name entirely, the book
invites each reader to discover where God might be found—not in visible miracles, but in
the quiet courage to act with faith and moral resolve.