National Scholar Updates

Interpreting and Analyzing the Five Megillot: Review of R. Hayyim Angel's New Book

 

The Heart of the Five Megillot by Rabbi Hayyim Angel; independently published; (c) 2026; ISBN 9798184-265094; $21.95

 

This book is a compact yet intellectually generous collection of 15 essays that open the Five Scrolls—Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, Ecclesiastes, and Esther—with unusual clarity and depth. At roughly 162 pages, this is Angel’s 17th book. Despite its modest size, the work is exceptionally scholarly. The National Scholar of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals and longtime Tanakh instructor at Yeshiva University offers two essays on Esther, two on Shir Ha-Shirim, one on Eikhah, three on Ruth, six on Kohelet, and an appendix.

The result is not a verse-by-verse commentary but a series of focused probes that refuse the false choice between classical rabbinic midrash and modern literary-critical methods. Angel’s signature “literary-theological” approach lets the texts speak religiously while remaining attentive to form, historical context, and the best available scholarship.

This stance already distinguishes the volume from many popular English treatments of the Megillot, including the more traditional, midrash-forward productions associated with publishers such as Artscroll. Where those often prioritize edifying readings that smooth tensions, Angel keeps the texts’ complexities alive and productive.

One of the two essays on the Song of Songs—“Blurring the Boundaries Between Divine and Human Love: The Sanctification of the Song of Songs”—is the volume’s centerpiece.

Angel begins from Rabbi Akiva’s declaration in Mishnah Yadayim 3:5 that the Song is the Holy of Holies. The organizing question follows: Can a biblical text simultaneously express human erotic love and the love of God, and be sanctified in the process?

Angel surveys the long history of allegorical interpretation. By the second and third centuries the Song was already being read as a symbolic account of the relationship between God and Israel, a reading crystallized in the Targum and developed by Saadiah Gaon, Rashi,
Rashbam, and Ibn Ezra into a coherent historical narrative.

Parallel to this national-historical allegory stands the more individualistic reading championed by Bahya Ibn Pakuda and especially Rambam, in which the Song depicts the
intimate longing between God and the righteous soul.

Against the common modern claim—exemplified by James Kugel—that early sages imposed an allegory upon what they knew to be a secular love poem in order to make it Bible-worthy, Angel marshals counter-arguments from Gabriel Cohn, Gerson Cohen, and others. Why would the sages have needed to “save” a secular poem when they could simply have excluded it? The more plausible conclusion is that they regarded the Song as sacred from the outset. Once that premise is accepted, the interpretive task becomes one of discerning how layers of meaning—literal human love and symbolic divine love—coexist and mutually illuminate one another.

Angel carefully maps several positions on the relationship between the literal and the allegorical. Some (Ibn Ezra, Cohn) argue that an allegorical dimension already inheres in the text itself. Others insist that the primary authorial intent is the celebration of human conjugal love as itself a sacred value; the allegorical readings then belong to tradition or midrash rather than peshat. A middle position treats the literal human love as essential while also functioning as a symbol of divine love.

Classical commentators themselves display a spectrum of attitudes toward the literal sense, ranging from those who see the Song as originally a human love poem later elevated to those who regard the literal reading as a necessary gateway to the primary allegory. The resulting ambiguity—where original intent ends and interpretive tradition begins—is not a defect but the source of the book’s enduring richness.

As a reviewer, I would only add that the sole possible exception to the absence of the divine name in the Song of Songs occurs in 8:6 with the unique term shalhevetyāh (שַׁלְהֶבֶתְיָה). The majority of modern critical scholars view the final suffix -yāh as a linguistic device expressing the superlative (“a mighty flame”), while a minority interpret it as a shortened form of YHWH; even then, the term functions merely as a metaphor for the intensity of human love.

The heart of the essay is devoted to “building bridges” among these layers through three modern religious thinkers. Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik synthesizes Rashi’s collective God–Israel reading with Rambam’s individual God–soul reading: the lovers’ perpetual quest mirrors both humanity’s universal longing for God and Israel’s unique covenantal relationship. Rabbi Shalom Carmy extends this insight to the ordinary Jew who recites the Song on Friday nights, experiencing it as the soul’s intimate search for the divine presence. Finally, Rabbi Yuval Cherlow treats the literal relationship between the king and the vineyard-tending woman as a profound pedagogical model: the lovers must learn each other’s languages across an immense gulf, just as Israel must learn the language of Torah while God accommodates human concerns.

For Cherlow, as for Rabbi Akiva, the love of neighbor is not secondary to the love of God; it is the path that leads to it.

Angel’s concluding argument is that the Song’s refusal to draw sharp boundaries is precisely its strength. Human love is not a secular distraction from religion; it is an essential and sanctifiable dimension of religious life. The Torah does not seek to eradicate bodily drives but to refine and direct them.

The Song, by speaking the language of human passion that ordinary people understand, becomes a “handle” that makes the rest of Torah accessible. Jewish tradition was fully aware of the risks of vulgarization, yet judged those risks worth taking. The Song is the Holy of Holies not despite its evocation of human passion but because of it.

What makes Angel’s insights especially valuable is the combination of intellectual honesty, theological generosity, and pastoral sensitivity. He refuses both the reduction of the Song to pure allegory that erases its erotic power and the opposite reduction that treats the allegory as a later pious fiction. Instead he models a method that holds the layers in creative tension. By drawing equally on Rashi and Rambam, Soloveitchik and Cherlow, classical midrash and careful literary observation, he offers contemporary readers a way to inhabit the book without embarrassment or forced spiritualization.

The single essay on Megillat Eikhah continues the same project of reading with scholarly rigor and religious seriousness. Angel integrates classical sources with careful attention to the book’s five interrelated poems, their alphabetic acrostics, the qinah meter of lament, the shifting voices, and the theological tensions that run through the text.

The opening cry “Eikhah”—“How?”—is less a request for information than an expression of bewildered protest. Classical sources read the destruction as a consequence of sin; modern literary readings note that only chapter 3 fully embraces that theodicy. Angel’s hallmark is to hold both layers without forcing resolution: the text itself models the struggle rather than offering easy answers.

Chapter 3, the structural and theological center, moves from despair through memory of God’s hesed to a hard-won affirmation that “the Lord’s mercies are not spent.” This movement does not erase the surrounding agony but anchors it. Angel neither spiritualizes away the raw horror nor treats the text as merely a historical relic. Instead, he shows how Lamentations legitimates protest, insists on the reality of loss, and still refuses to abandon the covenantal relationship. Its poetry continues to give language to successive generations of Jewish catastrophe while pointing, however tentatively, toward resilience.

The remaining essays on Ruth, Esther, and especially Kohelet display the same disciplined openness. In Ruth, Angel highlights deliberate ambiguities that dignify human complexity. In Kohelet, he refuses the common traditional strategy of neutralizing the book’s more unsettling claims about wisdom, mortality, and meaning. The appendix notes that Tanakh’s relative silence on the afterlife is not an oversight but a theological choice: the ideal is communal perfection and a just society in this world.

The Heart of the Five Megillot is a model of what responsible, religiously serious Tanakh study can look like in our time. It is compact enough to be read with pleasure yet rich enough to reward repeated return. Readers accustomed to more uniformly traditional treatments will find Angel’s willingness to hold tensions—between peshat and derash, between human passion and divine love, between protest and faith—both challenging and liberating.

For those seeking a guide that honors the classical tradition while remaining fully attentive to the literary and historical dimensions of the text, this volume is an outstanding contribution.

 

(Review ends here.)


Rabbi Angel's commentary is the first in a new series he is creating, The Heart of Tanakh. It is available at amazon.com here:

https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Five-Megillot-Tradition-Complexity/dp/B0H7VZKZ6M/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2FN80M3NQ0FOY&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.q0arA6CaCmMbB40iF0pBS02k5uD3hTCZCV2J-lLJRf2-FVhgLvbTv6ImCntYCti5oOa3VxRugKfvJUs1twSotbLrns8pQe68iMsri-3efqJIiauj8SWWb6bhIBkkrgif_QcIMSOB4Z42Fkf-mF4K5QS5uZ1PTR5i1mTx94Y9w9XCuvUoAWszpfsBuTCjJfM-5nSSIC9u8DmTjYH7u291qD6DBXcmvqtwgEuaBtrJgv4.RUNlsGLDLTQzF07x4pKaND__RNiy39fisnNyn0UnZUs&dib_tag=se&keywords=Hayyim+Angel&qid=1785421592&sprefix=hayyim+angel%2Caps%2C126&sr=8-1

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

 

Faith in Humanity?--Thoughts for Parashat Shofetim

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Shofetim

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

 

As a fifteen year old prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp, Elie Wiesel witnessed three Jewish scholars convene a Beth Din one night in the barracks. The defendant was: God! The men accused the Almighty of abandonment and cruelty, breaking the ancient covenant with the People of Israel. After due deliberations, they pronounced God chayav, guilty. God owes His people an apology. He must intervene on their behalf.

After this solemn verdict and tearful silence, the three men began to chant the evening prayers! They were upset with God, but they did not renounce their faith. They prayed.

Elie Wiesel saw this episode as characteristic of the anguished faith of the Jewish People. They expected so much more from God; and yet, they did not waiver in their faith. Somehow, Jews could still pray to their Heavenly Parent in spite of all the sufferings they endured.

But if we reflect a bit more, we will come to a different consideration. God, after all, was not rounding up Jews, torturing them, murdering them by the millions. These horrific acts were committed entirely by fellow human beings. Although God did not intervene miraculously to stop the suffering and carnage, God was not the primary guilty party: Nazis and their collaborators were the ruthless perpetrators.  The Holocaust was not caused by God, but by people.  If we were to call together a Beth Din today, the defendant should be Humanity, not God.

Strange as it may seem, it may be easier to have faith in God than faith in humanity. The Holocaust is a notorious example of how bad human beings can be. But if we look at humanity today, we still see hatred, violence, anti-Semitism/anti-Zionism, terrorism, vicious conspiracy theories, lies, crimes large and small. Although there are so many good people in the world, there are also so many who perpetrate evil; and there are so many “sheep” who either go along with the forces of evil or simply stay silent.

This week’s Torah portion calls for a righteous justice system—honest judges, proper enforcement, civic responsibility. It reminds us how the system is compromised when dishonesty creeps in. “Justice, justice you shall pursue.” The Torah’s admonition is included among the Noahide laws applicable to all the nations of the world. If hatred, lies and violence prevail, it is humanity that is on trial…not God.

Let us pray to God…for the sake of a troubled Humanity.

 

Mitchell First's book review of Rabbi Hayyim Angel's The Heart of the Five Megillot

Mitchell First, an accomplished scholar in his own right, has published a review of Rabbi Hayyim Angel's new commentary, The Heart of the Five Megillot. It appeared in The Jewish Link, July 30, 2026, page 127.

Reviewing: “The Heart of the Five Megillot” by Rabbi Hayyim Angel (2026)
 

Rabbi Angel has just come out with his seventeenth book. The book consists of 15 articles on the five Megillot: Two on Esther, two on Shir HaShirim, one on Eichah, three on Ruth, six on Kohelet, and anappendix. The article in the appendix is also related to Kohelet, as I will explain.


A little background on Rabbi Angel: He is the National Scholar of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and
Ideals. He has taught advanced Bible courses at Yeshiva University since 1996. He lectures widely
throughout the U.S. on Tanach-related topics. He has authored over 150 articles, primarily Tanach-
related.
 

As always the case with Rabbi Angel, his articles all draw on classical rabbinical interpretation and the
best of contemporary scholarship.
 

I will briefly discuss a few of them.
 

One of the two Shir HaShirim articles is an extensive survey of the different approaches over the
centuries to the issue of the validity of a literal approach to Shir HaShirim.
 

Rabbi Angel phrases the question as: “Can a biblical text simultaneously express human erotic love
and the love of God- and be sanctified in doing so?” He explores the wide range of opinions found in
classical rabbinic commentary, modern Jewish thought, and contemporary academic scholarship.


Here is a summary of the various views among classic rabbinical commentaries:


1. The Song was initially composed as a human love poem and it was elevated to the sacred when
being edited into a biblical book. (That the poem was initially composed as a human love poem is the
view of most modern scholars.)


2. The song is an allegory in a general sense, but the interpreter must focus on the details of the
human love song.


3. The literal reading is necessary to understand the allegory, and the allegory is primary. (Rashi is one
who holds this view.)


4. Even where the simple meaning seems evident, we must interpret only the allegory. (This is the
view of Rabbi Ovadiah Seforno.)


As to the allegory, in traditional rabbinic literature most understand the Song as symbolizing the
relationship between God and Israel. (But he does cite other midrashic views as to the second party.)
Rabbi Angel then discusses some of the various views in modern times. Of the many he discusses, I
liked the view of Rabbi Yuval Cherlow. In this view (unlike many others), there is one underlying story
being told. Rabbi Angel summarizes this view: “The man-whom he identifies as a king-and the woman-
who he identifies as a peasant who tends vineyards-must learn each other’s language and overcome the
staggering gulf between them to develop their loving relationship. Similarly, there is an infinite gulf 

between God and people, leading to inherent religious challenges. Over the course of the Song, the
woman must learn the world of the king and its language rather than attempting to impose her world
onto her lover. So too Israel must learn God’s language in the Torah to develop a proper religious
relationship with God. The king must also learn the language and concerns of his beloved, and by
addressing them he gives her the opportunity to develop the relationship further. Rabbi Cherlow
maintains that the Song teaches that the key to developing one’s love of God is through an
understanding of human love.”


Rabbi Angel concludes his survey of the sources: “The Song of Songs is the Holy of Holies- not despite
its evocation of human passion, but because through it, we draw near to the deepest sanctuaries of
divine love.”


Rabbi Angel liked Rabbi Cherlow’s approach as well. His approach is set forth in a book Aharekha
Narutzah (2003) and Rabbi Angel’s second article on Shir HaShirim is entirely devoted to discussing
Rabbi Cherlow’s approach.
------
Of the three articles on the book of Ruth, one of them discusses the tremendous ambiguity we find in
the book, which he feels is deliberate.


His first example of ambiguity is the first five verses. There is a juxtaposition of Elimelech’s departure
and his death, and a juxtaposition of the sons’ marriages to Moabite women and their deaths. At first
glance this suggests that the deaths are punishment for sins. As to the sons, their sin was intermarriage.
As to Elimelech, his sin was either leaving Eretz Yisrael or being a leader who left a starving community.
However, there is a ten-year gap between the sons marrying Moabites and their deaths. By including the
lengthy time separating the two events, the text appears to exclude intermarriage as a direct cause of
their deaths. We are also not told how long Elimelech remained in Moab before he died. These
uncertainties yield at least three possible lines of interpretation.


1. Elimelech, Machlon and Chilion died after leaving Eretz Yisrael for legitimate reasons.(Ibn Ezra
insists that Ruth and Orpah converted prior to their marriages.) The introductory verses are not
describing punishment for sins. They are just giving background to the story.


2. The story is similar to the story of Job. The deaths and suffering at the outset of the book are
theologically significant, but the reader is not told why.


3. This is a story of God giving just recompense. Elimelech, and Machlon and Chilion are being
punished for their sins.


Rabbi Angel writes that reading #3 is possible but no more compelling than the other readings.
What about Naomi? Was she a passive follower of her husband, or an active participant in the
abandonment of a community (assuming there was one)? What about her motivations in attempting to

persuade Ruth and Orpah to stay in Moab? Were they totally unselfish? He concludes that she too can
be viewed in various ways: 1) a paragon of chesed, 2) self-serving, or 3) similar to Job.
He concludes that the deliberate ambiguities are precisely the vehicles through which the short
narrative captures so many subtleties. In holding multiple truths in tension, the narrative dignifies
human complexity.


(He writes that Ruth is the only character who is unambiguously described positively.)
-----
There are many insights throughout his six articles on Kohelet. For example verse 1:18 reads: “For as
wisdom grows, vexation grows; to increase learning is to increase heartache.” How is anyone supposed
to interpret this verse? Seforno is forced to say: It refers to learning the wisdom of heretics! Rabbi Angel
views this comment as an example of a reinterpretation of the plain sense to avoid the consequences of
the meaning of the verse in the peshat—that Kohelet finds difficulty with genuine wisdom!"
The article in the Appendix is: “Afterlife in Jewish Thought.” It is relevant to Kohelet because that
work focuses on mortality, meaning and divine justice in this world alone and we might have expected
some mention of the afterlife here.


Rabbi Angel explains that the first explicit reference to a bodily resurrection in Tanach is in
the book of Daniel. But the ideas underlying the afterlife can be traced back to the earliest texts in
Tanach. For example. at Genesis 25:8, we are told that Avraham was “gathered to his kin.”
Rabbi Angel further suggests that there is a good reason why the Torah and the Nach barely refer to
the afterlife. He writes: “The Torah and the prophets emphasize communal perfection. The ideal of
Tanakh is the messianic age, a perfected society and world harmony.” The ideal for an individual is not
his individual perfection so that he can obtain the afterlife. (Rambam perhaps held such a view but many
would disagree.) “The prophets always lived among the people…. They longed for Israel to become a
model nation that would inspire all humanity to serve God …We return to the Tanakh’s foundational
vision- not only of personal growth, but of a just and sacred society grounded in this world.”
We can all learn tremendous amounts from Rabbi’s Angel’s writings!

(Review ends here.)


Rabbi Angel's commentary is the first in a new series he is creating, The Heart of Tanakh. It is available at amazon.com here:

https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Five-Megillot-Tradition-Complexity/dp/B0H7VZKZ6M/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2FN80M3NQ0FOY&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.q0arA6CaCmMbB40iF0pBS02k5uD3hTCZCV2J-lLJRf2-FVhgLvbTv6ImCntYCti5oOa3VxRugKfvJUs1twSotbLrns8pQe68iMsri-3efqJIiauj8SWWb6bhIBkkrgif_QcIMSOB4Z42Fkf-mF4K5QS5uZ1PTR5i1mTx94Y9w9XCuvUoAWszpfsBuTCjJfM-5nSSIC9u8DmTjYH7u291qD6DBXcmvqtwgEuaBtrJgv4.RUNlsGLDLTQzF07x4pKaND__RNiy39fisnNyn0UnZUs&dib_tag=se&keywords=Hayyim+Angel&qid=1785421592&sprefix=hayyim+angel%2Caps%2C126&sr=8-1

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

 

What do we expect from our synagogues?

 

 

In light of the new Pew study on Jewish affiliation, there will be a lot of hand-wringing about what the Jewish community can do to get people more engaged. My revolutionary
suggestion? Get to synagogue.

People are always telling me that they’d love to come to shul more often, but they’re just not as religious as I am. Its one of the hazards of being married to a rabbi. Strangers think they know my exact level of religiosity, whatever that means. So here’s what I’ll say. You have no idea what goes on inside my head. And I have no idea what you’re thinking, either. Even more blasphemous, I don’t care.

Prayer is a funny thing. Many of us, if pressed, would say that we’ve had our most transformative moments, our most intimate experiences with the divine, when we were alone. When I’m on top of a mountain and see a breathtaking vista, I marvel at the brilliance of the creator. In the moments my children were born, and the pain magically stopped, I looked into their eyes and saw God working, literally through me.
Now let’s get real. I’ve had four children, and I don’t plan on having another one every time I long for a connection with the divine. And who has time to climb mountains on a regular basis!

Any onewho expects those kind of moments continuously, spontaneously erupting out of daily or weekly prayer, is, to put it bluntly, deluded.

Here’s what coming to shul on a regular basis has the power to deliver:

Entertainment

For those of us with children at home, shabbat services provide friends and activities, a free playdate without screens which you need only minimally supervise.
We grownups also get an opportunity to socialize without 12 emails back and forth planning a dinner date/ securing a sitter/ making reservations. Just show up Saturday morning.

Real live community

During the week we focus on friends who tend to fall within a few years of our own age. We get lost in the priorities of those micro communities and forget about the real needs of everyone else. On shabbat at services we are part of a community of all ages/ backgrounds/ experiences. Children chat with elderly couples, empty nesters give new moms a break and bounce cranky babies. You notice someone newly saying Kaddish, and ask about her loss.

Cultural Fluency

Rather than sitting through dry classes on liturgy in school or adult ed, people who regularly attend services attain fluency with the service simply by being there. Children and adults who have achieved mastery over the service feel at home in shul rather than feeling alienated. Circular logic, to be sure, but true nonetheless. These people are more likely to become leaders in all aspects of the Jewish world.

A Wider Focus

There will be many who suggest that the answer to engagement is individualized programming –Torah yoga, shabbat biking clubs, kabbalah for teens. These focused programs may bring people in the building, but they do little for the goal of creating long term connection and community. On the contrary, they send a message that in order for Judaism to be meaningful it must constantly be tailored to your specific needs. Real community is a place where we learn to care about people with decidedly different experiences and perspectives. The more we fracture our programming to
reflect the perceived needs of the few, the more we send the message that Judaism is only interesting to me inasmuch as it confirms the beliefs I already have.

Holiness

Judaism is not a religion based solely on belief. We do not police the thoughts of the souls who walk through our doors. But the ancient requirement that certain prayers need a minyan means that there is holiness embedded in the connection between Jews. It doesn’t come from the unwavering belief in God held by the people in the room. It comes from our connections with one another.

Holiness is in the interactions between the generations. Its in the 15 year old helping the 9 year old find the page. In the inherently selfish middle schooler giving an arm to an elderly man not quite ready to give in to a walker. In the whispers in the pews between a newly unemployed single mother and the business owner who might be able to help her land on her feet. In the collective groan from the room when the Rabbi uses an embarrassingly bad pun. In the unmitigated joy we feel the first time the couple long struggling with infertility brings their new baby to services. In the very act of choosing to be a part of something bigger than ourselves.

One of the questions in the Pew survey was whether anyone in your household is a member of a synagogue. Of the people the survey identified, 60% responded “no.” While a few of the children in these households will undoubtedly become future leaders, most of our leaders will come from the 40%. It is a countercultural choice to be part of a group less concerned with rugged individualism and more with the (gasp!) collective. And those who come to leadership in the next generation will be the beneficiaries of today’s old fashioned joiners, keeping the seats warm and the lights on and the spark alive.

Mountaintops can be transformative. But Jewish community is built by delivering shiva meals and learning a last minute torah reading and even the kvetchers in the back of the room. By looking someone else in the eye. Is there something of the divine there? I literally do not know. Faith is ever changing and intensely personal. Your belief has no effect on me. Your choice to throw your lot in with the rest of the Jewish people? That makes my life holy, every day.

Why No Tent Protests for Sudan?

WHY NO TENT PROTESTS FOR SUDAN?

by Rafael Medoff

 

     A major editorial in the New York Times last Sunday was headlined “The World Must Wake Up to the Horror in Sudan.” The week is now almost over, and the world is still sleeping.

     The Sudanese group known as the Rapid Support Forces already has “committed acts of genocide” and is now besieging the city of El Obeid, where 600,000 civilians are suffering from “severe shortages of food, water and medicine,” the editors of the Times wrote.

     To the Times’s credit, its editorial acknowledged that the RSF is “a predominantly Arab group,” and its atrocities are genocidal because it specifically targets “members of non-Arab ethnic groups.” That is a crucial fact which Times news articles in the past often buried or even omitted.

     Sunday’s Times editorial called on “the world” to “make a bigger effort to halt the killing and mass displacement in Sudan.” It urged “the world” to “urgently take action” to protest the genocide.

     The Times didn’t say so, but the most obvious part of “the world” that should be protesting is the community of activists who were so vocal in recent years when they thought genocide was being committed in Gaza. Now that there is a real genocide going on in Sudan, why aren’t angry protesters marching in America’s streets and taking over university campuses?

     Where are all the idealistic student protesters gone? Why are their tents folded up and their bullhorns silent?

     Where are the humanitarians with their placards demanding “Stop the Arab Genocide” and “Free Sudan”?

     Where are the passionate op-eds and the politicians pointing accusing fingers?

     Sudan is a test. If the Gaza protesters were genuinely concerned about genocide, they will now raise their voices against the actual genocide in Sudan. If they remain silent about Sudan, that will suggest the only time they genuinely care about human suffering is when they can blame it on Israel.

#    #    #

(Dr. Medoff is director of The David S. Wyman Institute for Holocaust Studies, and the author of more than 20 books about Jewish history, Zionism, and the Holocaust. Follow him on Facebook to read his daily commentaries on the news.)

 

American Jews and the Transformation of Israeli Judaism: Book Review

 

Agents of Change: American Jews and the Transformation of Israeli Judaism, Adam S. Ferziger. New York: NYU Press, 2025. 455 pp.

Ordinarily, a title claiming that a phenomenon is transformative sounds hyperbolic. In the case of this fascinating study by Bar-Ilan University professor Adam Ferziger, however, the claim is entirely justified.

This impeccably researched study, co-winner of the Shapiro Award for Best Book in Israel Studies, traces the immigration to Israel of a number of Modern Orthodox rabbis and their families. Most were trained at the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary (RIETS) of Yeshiva University under the tutelage of Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik. Beginning in the early 1970s, the talent, vision, and learning these rabbis and their families brought to Israel helped reshape the country's religious landscape in significant ways. What Ferziger calls Israeli Moderate Orthodoxy dramatically altered the religious scene in Israel. How?

This highly readable history answers that question by telling a series of fascinating stories. Consider Aharon Lichtenstein. Rav Soloveitchik's son-in-law (married to Tovah, an accomplished educator in her own right), Lichtenstein arrived in Israel with impeccable Jewish intellectual credentials. A brilliant Talmudist, he also earned a Ph.D. in English literature from Harvard University, writing a dissertation entitled Henry More: The Rational Theology of a Cambridge Platonist, later published by Harvard University Press.

That achievement points to a defining feature of Lichtenstein's intellectual identity. He was not only a great Torah scholar but also someone who believed that wisdom could be found beyond the walls of the yeshiva. His willingness to engage deeply with Western thought reflected an intellectual openness that distinguished him from many of his Israeli contemporaries.

This openness was hardly unique to Lichtenstein. Of the principal male figures Ferziger profiles, all but one earned doctorates, several from major North American universities. As noted, Lichtenstein studied English literature at Harvard; Nachum Rabinovitch studied the history and philosophy of science at the University of Toronto; David Hartman studied philosophy at McGill; Daniel Tropper earned a doctorate in education at Yeshiva University; and Chaim Brovender studied Semitic languages at the Hebrew University. Of the figures Ferziger studies, only Shlomo Riskin did not pursue an earned doctorate. The point is not simply that these men were highly educated. Rather, they embodied a form of Orthodoxy in which advanced secular scholarship and uncompromising Torah learning were seen as mutually enriching rather than mutually exclusive. That intellectual synthesis became one of the defining characteristics of the movement they helped transplant to Israel.

The influence of this cohort extended far beyond the classroom and synagogue.

David Hartman is a good example. He founded what has become one of Israel's most important centers of Jewish intellectual life, the Shalom Hartman Institute. Today it encompasses a major research think tank, the Kogod Research Center for Contemporary Jewish Thought; the David Hartman Center for Intellectual Excellence, which cultivates emerging scholars; the Center for Israeli and Jewish Identity, devoted to educational reform; the Center for Shared Society, promoting Jewish-Arab civic partnership; the Center for Judaism and State Policy, addressing the relationship between religion and the state; Rabbanut Yisraelit, a pluralistic Israeli rabbinical ordination program; two Jerusalem high schools; and a wide array of educational initiatives for Israeli educators, rabbis, students, and public leaders.

Ferziger's larger point becomes unmistakable: these American-trained rabbis did not merely bring new ideas to Israel. They built enduring institutions through which those ideas could shape Israeli society for generations.

Hartman's influence did not stop at Israel's borders. The Shalom Hartman Institute became a major force in North American Jewish life, offering intensive educational programs for rabbis, educators, lay leaders, college students, and Jewish professionals. Under the leadership of Dr. Yehuda Kurtzer, who serves as president alongside Donniel Hartman, the Institute has become one of the most influential centers of Jewish thought in North America, shaping contemporary conversations about Israel, Zionism, pluralism, Jewish identity, and the moral challenges facing the Jewish people.

One of Ferziger's important through lines, then, is that the movement he describes did not travel in one direction only. American Modern Orthodox ideas were brought to Israel, transformed there, and then returned to North America in new forms. This transnational circulation of ideas, institutions, and religious leadership is one of the book's most illuminating themes. The Hartman Institute is only one of many examples Ferziger points to in showing how developments within Israeli Moderate Orthodoxy came back to influence American Jewish life.

Ferziger further shows the influence of this immigration on women's education. Rabbanit Malka Bina's work, for example, led to the development of the Women's Institute for Torah Studies. Housed in a multi-story building in Jerusalem, the Institute offers a wide array of sophisticated learning opportunities, including a five-year course of study equivalent to rabbinical studies, whose graduates receive the title meshivat halachah ("one who responds to questions of Jewish law").

A related development is the work of Rabbanit Oshra Koren, who teaches at the Sharon Center of MaTaN in Ra'anana. Her programs include the "Mother-Daughter Bat Mitzvah Program," now taught in eighty locations throughout Israel.

The same pattern is evident in Hadran. Founded by Michelle Cohen Farber and Shoshana Baker, Hadran seeks "to make Talmud study accessible to Jewish women at all levels...in a unique way: by providing a wide range of resources...in the voice of women teachers" (p. 268). Hadran's online platform, which includes a women's version of Daf Yomi, extends women's Talmud study to an international audience, further illustrating Ferziger's argument that these Israeli innovations have reshaped Jewish life far beyond Israel's borders.

The book's appendix, "Representative Israel-Based Students and Protégés of the American Immigrant Pioneers for IsMO [Israeli Moderate Orthodoxy]," offers an impressively large roster of figures who have extended the work of their teachers. It reinforces Ferziger's concluding argument that a distinctly Israeli form of Moderate Orthodoxy has emerged. This evolving religious culture is rooted in tradition yet marked by an unusual degree of autonomy, as Israelis selectively embrace Orthodox practices that enrich what Shmuel Rosner and Camil Fuchs describe as Yahadut Yisraelit (Jewish-Israeli identity). Ferziger makes a persuasive case that this development owes much to the generation of American Modern Orthodox rabbis and educators whose immigration transformed Israel's religious landscape.

 

 

Authority and Dissent: A Discussion of Boundaries

 

 

           Diversity of opinion is a reality well recognized in Jewish tradition. The Talmud (Berakhot 58a) records the ruling that one is required to make a blessing upon seeing a huge crowd of Jews, praising God who is hakham haRazim, who understands the root and inner thoughts of each individual.  "Their thoughts are not alike, and their appearance is not alike." Just as no two faces are exactly the same, so no two people think exactly the same. God created each individual to be unique; He expected and wanted diversity of thought.[1]

 

The recognition that each person thinks differently leads to a respect for the right of a person to express his or her opinion. This notion is dramatically underscored in the laws relating to a zaken mamre, a rebellious elder. The elder (rabbinic scholar) is not deemed guilty for teaching opinions contrary to the rulings of the Great Court; he is only punishable if he instructs people to defy those rulings.[2] It is also reflected in the talmudic practice of recording minority opinions, even though the law follows the consensus of the majority.[3] Even rejected opinions are entitled to respect.

 

Yet, although Judaism respects diversity of opinion and allows considerable freedom of expression, it also sets some boundaries beyond which a person may not trespass. One may not believe in the divinity of idols. One must believe that the Torah is from Heaven. Indeed, Maimonides listed 13 principles of faith that a Jew must accept. If not, one forfeits a portion in the world to come.[4] We are not free to follow our intellect if it leads us to incorrect beliefs. Our intellectual freedom, thus, is limited by the authoritative beliefs taught by the Torah and our sages.

 

Within the boundaries of normative Judaism, dissent is respected and even encouraged. But beyond those boundaries, dissent is not tolerated. Intellectual freedom gives way to the authority of tradition. A problem arises: What exactly are the boundaries established by tradition? A variety of attempts have been made over the centuries to establish the principles of Judaism from which one may not dissent.[5] There are certain tenets of faith that may not be denied.

 

Yet, within the framework of Jewish law and thought, there is considerable room for responsible differences of opinion. When the right to express responsible opinions is negated, Judaism suffers. In a fascinating responsum, Rabbi Naftali Tsevi Yehudah Berlin—the Netsiv—reminded his readers that during the time of the Second Temple, the Jewish people was divided between the Perushim and Tsedukim. Competition between the groups was intense. The situation became so bad that Perushim branded as a Tseduki anyone who deviated even slightly from prevailing practice. To dissent from the predominant opinion led to one's being ostracized. The Netsiv applied the lesson to his own time:

 

 

It is not difficult to imagine reaching this situation in our time, Heaven forbid, that if one of the faithful thinks that a certain person does not follow his way in the service of God, then he will judge him as a heretic. He will distance himself from him. People will pursue one another with seeming justification (beHeter dimyon), Heaven forbid, and the people of God will be destroyed, Heaven forfend.[6]

 

 

The Netsiv was concerned that self-righteous individuals were attempting to suppress the opinions of others. In the name of Torah, they sought to discredit others—even branding them as heretics. Yet, Jewish tradition respects the right and responsibility of individuals to express opinions that are fully based on proper Torah authority—even when those opinions differ from those popularly held. Rabbi Yehiel Michel Epstein, author of the Arukh haShulhan, noted that differences of opinion among our sages constitute the glory of the Torah. "The entire Torah is called a song (shirah), and the glory of a song is when the voices differ one from the other. This is the essence of its pleasantness."[7]

 

II

 

The boundaries of dissent and authority are not always obvious. Let us consider several specific issues, one in the realm of halakha and one in the realm of aggada. The Shulhan Arukh rules (Yoreh Deah 242:2, 3) that one who dissents (holek) from his rabbi is as one who dissents from the Shekhinah. The holek al rabbo is defined as one who establishes his own yeshiva and sets himself up as teacher without getting his rabbi's permission. The Rama adds: "but it is permissible for him to dissent from (his rabbi's) ruling or teaching if he has proofs and arguments to uphold his opinion that the law is according to him (rather than his rabbi)."

 

This halakha deals with the balance between authority and dissent. On the one hand, a student must respect the authority of his teacher and not try to establish himself as an authority on his own. This would undermine the status of his teacher. On the other hand, if the student has strong proofs to support a halakhic ruling against his teacher, he may disagree with him. Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai, in his Birkei Yosef, cited the opinion of the Radhaz that a student may disagree with a ruling of his teacher but should not publicize the disagreement nor write a contrary pesak for distribution.[8] The students of each generation had disagreements with their teachers, and did present their proofs and refutations to them. To be sure, students are obligated to present their cases respectfully and reverentially. Their purpose must be to establish the truth, not to aggrandize themselves nor demean their rabbis, Moreover, we are speaking of students who have reached a very high level of Torah learning, and whose opinions deserve serious consideration.

 

Rabbi Hayyim David Halevy has stated:

 

Not only does a judge have the right to rule against his rabbis; he also has an obligation to do so (if he believes their decision to be incorrect, and he has strong proofs to support his own position.) If the decision of those greater than he does not seem right to him, and he is not comfortable following it, and yet he follows that decision (in deference to their authority), then it is almost certain that he has rendered a false judgment (din sheker).[9]

 

Rabbi Yaacov Emden ruled that students should question their rabbis' teachings as best as they can. In this way, truth is clarified.

 

In regard to legal decisions, not only is the student allowed to reveal his opinion and proofs to refute the words of his rabbi, but he is also obligated to do so. He should not remain silent in such a situation in deference to the honor due his rabbi; the honor due to the Torah is greater.[10]

 

 

The issue of dissent from one's rabbis extends back in time to dissension from the rulings of sages of previous generations. Certainly, the earlier sages are granted greater authority than the later sages. Rabbi Yehiel Yaacov Weinberg wrote that proper Torah methodology involves serious analysis of the writings of the aharonim, including evaluation and criticism of their statements. Yet, in matters of pesak we may not dissent from their rulings. In the areas of opinion and explanation, though, we do have the right to offer new insights "because each Jew whose soul was at the revelation at Sinai received his portion in Torah and in novellae of Torah. One should not quibble against this point."[11]

 

Rabbi Hayyim Palachi wrote that "the Torah gave permission to each person to express his opinion according to his understanding. . . . It is not good for a sage to withhold his words out of deference to the sages who preceded him if he finds in their words a clear contradiction. . . ." Moreover, "a sage who wishes to write his proofs against the kings and giants of Torah should not withhold his words nor suppress his prophecy, but should give his analysis as he has been guided by Heaven. [In this situation,] one does not give honor to the rabbi, for this is Torah and I must study it." Rabbi Palachi noted that even though Maimonides certainly wrote with Divine inspiration, nevertheless many great sages of his generation attacked him and criticized his work. There are numerous examples of students refuting their teachers: Rabbi Yehudah Hanasi disagreed with his father; the Rashba disagreed with the Ramban. The Tosafists disagreed often with Rashi. Respect for authority does not mean that one may not hold opposing opinions.[12]

 

Rabbi Moshch Feinstein, in one of his responsa, expressed disagreement with an opinion of Rabbi Shelomo Kluger. In rejecting that opinion, Rabbi Feinstein wrote: "But it is certain that I am right (ha-tsedek iti) and that the words of Rabbi Shelomo Kluger-with all due respect-are nothing (einam kelum). One must love truth more than anything."[13] In another responsum, Rabbi Feinstein replied to a rabbi in Benei Berak, who worried because he sometimes taught opinions contrary to those of the Hazon Ish, who was the rabbi of that vicinity. Rabbi Feinstein pointed out that it was not at all disrespectful for the rabbi to study and quote the words of the Hazon Ish, even if he disagreed with some of them. On the contrary, that is the honor of Torah—to have words taken seriously and evaluated seriously. It could not have occurred to the Hazon Ish that there would never arise rabbis who would disagree with his teachings. Rabbi Feinstein concluded by saying that one is certainly allowed to question and disagree with the sages of our generation, even the greatest sages, as long as one does so respectfully, and with proper halakhic justification.[14]

 

Rabbi Yosef Hayyim of Bagdad, in the introduction to his Rav Pe-alim, stressed the need to be exceedingly respectful of the sages of previous generations. He opposed attacking the opinions of those sages. But it is obvious that even great sages make errors. Yet, when one offers a critique or correction of the words of sages, he should not do so with any sense of personal pride or vanity. He should be humble, aware that even great sages may overlook a source or miss a particular point.[15]

 

From this discussion, we see that responsible and respectful disagreement is a legitimate and necessary aspect of the halakhic system. Views that can be properly substantiated, even if they conflict with views of greater and earlier authorities, deserve to be heard. One cannot properly be called an apikores simply because he holds a position which differs from others. On the contrary, his position should be carefully evaluated. If it is wrong, it should be criticized and rejected. If it is right, it should be accepted in spite of the greatness of authorities who held a different opinion.

 

The boundary of legitimacy is not what one individual or group defines it to be. Rather, one may offer his insights and opinions as long as they do not go beyond universally accepted principles of Jewish faith, and as long as they are properly and correctly substantiated by authoritative sources. The halakhic system depends on intellectual inquiry, receptivity to the positions of others, devotion to truth, humility, respect for authority. It is not appropriate to outlaw responsible and respectful criticism of authorities nor to discredit those who offer properly substantiated opinions, even when those opinions dissent from leading authorities.

 

III

 

The balance between authority and dissent may also be considered in the realm of aggada. One opinion is that all the words of our talmudic (and even later) sages are true and must be upheld. Another position is that the words of our sages must be treated with respect, but that we are not bound to believe that all their aggadic teachings are without error.

 

Does the authority of our sages preclude the possibility of legitimate disagreement with their aggadic teachings? Is someone who questions or rejects some of those teachings an apikores?

 

In the sixth chapter of Pirkei Avot, we are taught that the Torah is acquired in 48 ways. One of them is emunat hakhamim, trust in the sages. Rabbi Yosef Yaavets, one of the rabbis at the time of the expulsion of Jews from Spain, explained that one must not hasten to criticize the words of our sages. If he does not understand or agree with their words, he should attribute the problem to his own intellectual weakness. "He should suspect his own intelligence, not the intelligence of our sages and their words, which were spoken in truth."[16]

 

Following this attitude in the realm of aggada, Rabbi David Ibn Abi Zimra, a younger contemporary of Rabbi Yaavets, taught that the aggada is true and essential, "given from Heaven like the rest of the Oral Torah. And just as the Oral Torah is interpreted with 13 principles, so the aggada is interpreted with 36 principles. And these principles were transmitted to Moses our teacher at Sinai."[17]

 

Rabbi Moshe Hagiz wrote an important essay on emunat hakhamim, in which he argued forcefully against challenging rabbinic authority by questioning the validity of any of the words of our sages. He believed that an attack on rabbinic dicta would ultimately lead to a rejection of rabbinic authority generally. This would undermine religious observance and belief.[18]

 

Rabbi Hayyim Hizkiyahu Medini, in his Sedei Hemed, stated unequivocally: "We must believe in all that is stated in the aggadot of our sages."[19] Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Chajes followed this assumption when explaining that

 

there are several subjects in the Gemara whose meaning cannot be taken in a literal sense, because the text expounded literally would depict God as a corporeal being, and would also at times involve an act of blasphemy. We should, and we are, indeed, in duty-bound to believe that the transmitters of the true Kabbalah, who are known to us as righteous and saintly men and also as accomplished scholars, would not speak merely in an odd manner. We must therefore believe that their words were uttered with an allegorical or mystical sense and that they point to matters of the most elevated significance, far beyond our mental grasp.[20]

 

 

The demand that one must believe all the words of our sages in the aggada came into question in the famous disputation in Barcelona in 1263. Rabbi Moshe ben Nahman, the Ramban, was challenged by his Christian opponent with an aggada that stated that the Messiah was born on the day that the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed. The Ramban responded: "I do not believe in this aggada at all. . . ." He went on to explain that Jewish religious writings are divided into three traditional categories: Bible, Talmud, and Midrash. "The first we believe entirely. . . ; the second we believe when it explains laws. We have yet a third book which is called Midrash, sermons so to speak . . . ; and this book, if one wishes to believe it he may, and one who does not believe it does not have to. . . . We call it a book of aggada, which is to say discourses, that is to say that it merely consists of stories which people tell one another."[21]

 

This explanation of the Ramban was rejected by those who insisted on maintaining the truth of all the words of our sages. Some argued that the Ramban never meant what he said, that he only said it to deflect the challenge of his opponent. Thc Sedei Hemed wrote that it is forbidden even to think that the Ramban meant what he said. Writing over two centuries after the disputation, Rabbi Yitzhak Abravanel strongly disavowed the statement of the Ramban because "it opens the gates to undermine all rabbinic authority when we consider any of their words as errors or foolishness."[22]

 

The above position assumes that respect for our sages demands that we not dissent from nor find fault in their words. Should we do so, we undermine their authority. If we find some of their aggadic teachings problematic, we should not reject them, but should assume that we have not understood their true meaning.

 

But there is another position, also well rooted in authoritative rabbinic sources. Rabbi Hai Gaon taught that the aggada should not be considered as divinely revealed tradition. The authors of aggada were merely stating their own opinions, and "each one interpreted whatever came to his heart." Therefore, "we do not rely on them (the words of aggada)." Rabbi Hai Gaon maintained that aggadot recorded in the Talmud have more status than those not so recorded—but even these aggadot need not be relied upon.[23] Rabbi Sherira Gaon taught that aggada, Midrash, and homiletical interpretations of biblical verses were in the category of umdena, personal opinion, speculation.[24] Another of the Gaonim, Rabbi Shemuel ben Hofni, stated: "If the words of the ancients contradict reason, we are not obligated to accept them."[25]

 

This position was also expounded by Rabbi Shemuel HaNaggid in his introduction to the Talmud. He wrote that aggada represents the personal opinions and interpretations of our sages. Rabbi Abraham, son of Maimonides, in an important essay concerning aggada, maintained that one may not accept an opinion without first examining it carefully.[26] To accept the truth of a statement simply on the authority of the person who stated it is both against reason and against the method of Torah itself. The Torah forbids us to accept someone's statement based on his status, whether rich or poor, whether prominent or otherwise. Each case must be evaluated by our own reason. Rabbi Abraham stated that this method also applies to the statements of our sages. It is intellectually unsound to accept blindly the teachings of our rabbis in matters of medicine, natural science, astronomy. He noted: "We, and every intelligent and wise person, are obligated to evaluate each idea and each statement, to find the way in which to understand it; to prove the truth and establish that which is worthy of being established, and to annul that which is worthy of being annulled; and to refrain from deciding a law which was not established by one of the two opposing opinions, no matter who the author of the opinion was. We see that our sages themselves said: if it is a halakha (universally accepted legal tradition) we will accept it; but if it is a ruling (based on individual opinion), there is room for discussion."

 

This is not to say that the words of our sages should not be taken seriously. On the contrary, statements of great scholars must be carefully weighed and respected. But they may also be disputed, especially in non-halakhic areas. In his introduction to Perek Helek, Maimonides delineates three groups, each having a different approach to the words of our sages. The majority group, according to Rambam, accepts the words of our sages literally, without imagining any deeper meanings. By taking everything literally—even when the words of the sages violate our sense of reason—they actually disparage our rabbis. Intelligent people who are told that they must accept all the midrashim as being literally true will come to reject rabbinic teaching altogether, since no reasonable person could accept all these teachings in their literal sense. "This group of impoverished understanding—one must pity their foolishness. According to their understanding, they are honoring and elevating our sages; in fact they are lowering them to the end of lowliness. They do not even understand this. By Heaven! This group is dissipating the glory of the Torah and clouding its lights, placing the Torah of God opposite of its intention."

 

Maimonides described the second group as also taking the words of the sages literally. But since so many of the statements of the rabbis are not reasonable if taken literally, this group assumes that the rabbis must not have been so great in the first place. This group dismisses rabbinic teachings as being irrelevant, even silly. Rambam rejected this point of view outright.

 

The third group, which is so small that it hardly deserves to be called a group, recognizes the greatness of our sages and seeks the deeper meanings of their teachings. This group realizes that the sages hid profound wisdom in their statements, and often spoke symbolically or in riddles. When one discovers a rabbinic statement that seems irrational, one should seek its deeper meaning. While Rambam argued forcefully for a profound understanding of aggada and Midrash, he did not argue that all rabbinic statements are of divine origin. Rather, they are worthy of serious study because they represent the thinking of great sages. Presumably, his son Abraham carried his argument further. When one found rabbinic statements to be unreasonable or incorrect—even after much thought and investigation—he was not bound to uphold them.

 

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch echoed the opinion of Maimonides and his son. He wrote that "aggadic sayings do not have Sinaitic origin . . . they reflect the independent view of an individual sage."[27] Rabbi Hirsch went on: "Nor must someone whose opinion differs from that of our sages in a matter of aggada be deemed a heretic, especially as the sages themselves frequently differ. . . ." He rejected the opinion that the authority of aggada is equal to the orally transmitted halakha. Indeed, he thought this was "a dangerous view to present to our pupils and could even lead to heresy."

 

Rabbinic tradition, thus, has two valid approaches to the authority/ dissent issue in the realm of aggada. Rabbi Hayyim David Halevy has written a responsum which offers a balance between the two positions.[28] He noted that there are Midrashim where sages disagree with each other. For example, the Torah records that following the death of Yosef, a new Pharaoh arose over Egypt. Rav interpreted this verse to mean that an actual new Pharaoh arose. Shemuel, though, maintained that it was the same Pharaoh who now made new decrees against the Israelites (Sotah lla). It is impossible for both of these opinions to be objectively correct. Obviously, each offered his interpretation, based on his own understanding of the text.

 

Moreover, there are topics about which the sages spoke, not relating specifically to the Torah and its interpretation-in which they expressed their own opinions. The statements of our rabbis concerning natural science, for example, were not divinely revealed traditions. In fact, our sages admitted that the wise men of the non-Jews had greater knowledge than the Torah sages in some scientific matters (Pesahim 94b). Rabbi Halevy wrote: "If it becomes clear through precise scientific methodology that a specific idea expressed by our sages is not entirely correct, this does not mar their greatness, Heaven forbid, and their greatness as sages of Torah. Their words relating to Torah were stated with the power of the holiness of Torah, with a kind of divine inspiration; but their other words on general topics were stated from the depth of their human wisdom only." In non-halakhic matters, we should recognize that the sages spoke with great wisdom, although not necessarily with divine inspiration. Therefore, there were disputes among them such as the one concerning the new Pharaoh, where it is clear that one side is wrong.

 

While respecting the authority and wisdom of our sages, we also must recognize the possibility that some of their non-halakhic statements and interpretations are incorrect. To say this does not make one an apikores. Great sages, as mentioned above, have themselves taught this opinion and have considered it to be correct and authoritative.

 

It is clear, then, that there is room for dissent and criticism within the halakhic and aggadic systems. This dissent and criticism must be based on great reverence for our sages; on properly substantiated and argued positions; on commitment to the honor and divine origin of Torah. Dissent may not go beyond the universally accepted principles of our faith. But within this boundary, freedom of inquiry, analysis and criticism must be respected-and encouraged.

 

Notes


 


[1] See also Bemidhar Rabba, Pinehas 21:2; Tanhuma. Pinehas 10. An excellent discussion of intellectual freedom in Jewish tradition was written by Menahem Elon in Piskei Din Shel Beit Hamishpat Ha-e!yon Le-Yisrael, Vol. 39, section 2, Jerusalem, 1983, pp. 291–304.

[2] Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Mamrim.

[3] See Tosefta on Eduyot 1:4 and 1:5; and Eduyot 5:6.

[4] Maimonides, Introduction to Perek Helek; a good discussion of the medieval understanding of principles of faith is by Menachem Kellner, Dogma in Medieval Jewish Thought, Oxford University Press, New York, 1986.

[5] See Kellner's book, ibid.

[6] Meshiv Davar, Warsaw. 5654, no. 44. A contemporary author, the "Dehrocziner Rav," in his Be-er Mosheh, nos. 3 and 6, has written that it is forbidden to study Torah from a rabbi who is a Zionist or who studied at Yeshiva University. For him, the boundaries of faith are quite limited, and exclude a considerable number of pious and righteous scholars. His responsa reflect the problem which the Netsiv described, and are testimony to the spiritual troubles in which Orthodoxy finds itself.

[7] Arukh Ha-Shulhan, introduction Hoshen Mishpat.

[8] Birkei Yosef on Yoreh Deah 242:3.

[9] R. Haim D. Halevy, Asei Lekha Rav, vol. 2, Tel Aviv, 5738, no. 61.

[10] Sefer She-elot Yaavets, Jerusalem, 5731, vol. 1, no. 5.

[11] Seridei Esh, vol. 3, Jerusalem, 5726, introduction.

[12] Hikekei Lev, vol. 1, Salonika, 5600, Orah Hayyim no. 6 and Yoreh Deah no. 42.

[13] Iggrot Moshe, New York, 5719, Orah Hayyim 1:9.

[14] Iggrot Moshe, Brooklyn, 5742, Yoreh Deah 3:88.

[15] Rav Pe-alim, Jerusalem, 5661.

[16] Kol Sifrei Rabbi Yosef Yaavets, vol. 2, Jerusalem, 5694, p. 149.

[17] Responsa of Radbaz, New York, 5727, vol. 4, no. 232.

[18] Mishnat Hakhamim, Brooklyn, 5624, section 23.

[19] Sedei Hemed Hashalem, vol. 1, New York, 5722, p. 192.

[20] The Student's Guide to the Talmud, London, 1952. p. 201. See also his discussion on pp. 208f.

[21] See C. Chavel’s edition of the Vikuah in Kitvei Rabbeinu Moshe ben Nahman, 1963, vol. 1, pp. 306–308.

[22] Yeshuot Meshiho, 1812, p. 9b.

[23] See Otsar Ha-Geonim, ed. B. M. Lewin. Jerusalem, 5692, vol. 4 (Hagigah), pp. 59–60.

[24] Ibid., p. 60.

[25] Ibid., pp. 4–5.

[26] The Ma-amar Odot Derashot Hazal is printed in the introductory section of the EinYaacov.

[27] See Joseph Munk, "Two Letters of Samson Raphael Hirsch, a Translation," L'Eylah, April, 1989, pp. 30–35.

[28] R. Haim D. Halevy, Asei Lekha Rav, Tel Aviv, 5743, vol. 5, no. 49.

Paired Perspectives on the Parashah: VaEthannan

 

VaEthannan:

Two Tellings of Revelation: 

Why the Decalogue Changes in Deuteronomy

 

One of the most striking phenomena in the Torah is the appearance of the Decalogue in two different versions. The first appears at Sinai in Exodus 20, while the second is presented by Moses to the new generation on the plains of Moab in Deuteronomy 5. Although the two versions are substantially similar, they contain several noteworthy differences.

 

Among the most significant variations are the reasons given for Shabbat observance, the addition of the phrase ka-asher tzivvekha Hashem Elokekha (“as the Lord your God commanded you”) regarding Shabbat and honoring parents, the use of shav instead of sheker in the prohibition against false testimony, and the substitution of titavveh for tahmod in the prohibition against coveting.

 

How are we to understand these variations? Are both texts verbatim divine speech, or does Deuteronomy represent Moses’ own presentation and interpretation of revelation?

 

Rabbi Saadiah Gaon maintained that the version in Exodus was engraved on the first tablets, while the version in Deuteronomy appeared on the second tablets. According to this view, both formulations constitute direct divine speech. However, this position encounters a formidable difficulty. Exodus 34:1 states: “And I shall write upon the tablets the words that were on the first tablets.”

 

Similarly, Deuteronomy 10:1–4 emphasizes that the second tablets contained the same words as the first. If so, how can one maintain that the first tablets contained the Exodus version whereas the second tablets contained the Deuteronomy version?

 

Furthermore, why would God alter the formulation of the Decalogue between the first and second tablets?

 

Several Midrashim, followed by Rashi and Rambam, adopt a different approach. They assume that both versions are equally divine and that each wording conveys additional religious teachings. The differences are therefore not contradictions but complementary dimensions of revelation.

 

Rashi, citing Sanhedrin 56b, explains that the phrase ka-asher tzivvekha Hashem Elokekha (as the Lord your God commanded you) regarding Shabbat and honoring parents in the Deuteronomy version must refer to a command given before Sinai, at Marah. There, Scripture states: “There He established for them statute and ordinance” (Exodus 15:25).

 

Since Rashi regards the Deuteronomic Decalogue as preserving God’s own speech, the phrase cannot be understood as Moses’ addition. Rather, God must be referring back to an earlier divine command. The Midrashic approach therefore treats the variations as deliberate expressions of multiple dimensions of the divine message. Each formulation reveals an additional aspect of the commandment and enriches our understanding of its meaning.

 

Yet one may still wonder why God did not simply incorporate both formulations into a single version. Why not say, for example, “zakhor ve-shamor et yom ha-Shabbat” (remember and observe the Shabbat day) and include all dimensions simultaneously?

 

A fundamentally different approach emerges from Ibn Ezra, Radak, and Rashbam. They suggest that Moses is not reproducing the Decalogue verbatim in Deuteronomy but rather presenting it anew to a new generation.

 

Radak, commenting on Genesis 24:39, observes that biblical speakers frequently paraphrase earlier statements, preserving their substance while varying their wording. Ibn Ezra similarly argues that the Exodus account of the Decalogue records God’s exact words at Sinai, whereas Deuteronomy presents Moses’ retelling and explanation of revelation.

 

Accordingly, zakhor already implies remembrance expressed through observance, and therefore Moses may legitimately formulate the command as shamor. This approach assumes that several of the linguistic differences are stylistic or synonymous rather than independently significant. Thus, shav and sheker convey essentially the same prohibition, as do tahmod and titavveh. Not every variation is intended to communicate a distinct teaching.

 

This perspective suggests something profound about the nature of Deuteronomy. Moses’ own voice enters the presentation, even within the Decalogue itself. Deuteronomy is not merely a transcript of Sinai but a covenantal reinterpretation addressed to a new generation preparing to enter the Land.

 

The differing versions of the Decalogue thus illuminate one of Deuteronomy’s central themes. Revelation remains authoritative, yet each generation requires renewed explanation and application. Whether one follows Rabbi Saadiah Gaon, Rashi, Rambam, and the Midrashim, who understand both formulations as equally divine speech, or the approaches of Ibn Ezra, Radak, and Rashbam, who see Deuteronomy as Moses’ inspired retelling, the message remains profound.

 

The covenant at Sinai is not merely preserved; it is continually interpreted, taught, and transmitted. Deuteronomy demonstrates that fidelity to revelation does not preclude explanation. Rather, the enduring vitality of Torah depends upon the ability to restate eternal truths in ways that speak meaningfully to new generations.

 

Mourning and Consolation: Thoughts for Shabbat Nahamu

Angel for Shabbat Nahamu

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

On a Tisha B’Av day some years ago, I was leaving my apartment to go to synagogue. I was dressed in a suit but wearing sneakers. One of my neighbors noticed the anomaly of my attire and asked if it was some sort of Jewish holiday.  I told her it was a fast day and that’s why I was wearing sneakers, since we don’t wear leather shoes as a sign of mourning.  She asked: what is the fast day about? I replied: we are fasting because our First Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE and our Second Temple in Jerusalem was razed by the Romans in 70 CE.  She raised her eyebrows: you’re fasting for things that happened thousands of years ago? I replied: yes, we Jews have long memories.

She was amazed that we fasted for things that happened so long ago…but so am I!  It is truly incredible that we have continued to fast and mourn over events that would otherwise be swallowed in the shadows of history. What is it about our national memory that keeps these ancient tragedies so current and so personal?

We of course cry for the many thousands of Jews who were murdered in those years. We weep for the destruction of our national spiritual homes—the Temples in Jerusalem. We mourn the loss of sovereignty over our land and the long exile that ensued.

But we don’t view these things as distant happenings that happened to others. We take these tragedies personally. We see ourselves as inextricably linked to all the Jewish generations that have preceded us, and all the generations that will follow us. We don’t fast on Tisha B’Av as though it’s a historic commemoration; rather it is an expression of our identification with all that transpired to our people in those days. We actually feel pain. These tragedies befell “us.”

Symbolically, the Jewish people are viewed as a united, eternal community—Kenesset Israel. Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, in his “On Repentance,” offers a poignant passage:

“The Jew who believes in Kenesset Israel is the Jew who lives with Kenesset Israel where she may be and is prepared to die for her, who hurts with her pain and rejoices in her joy, who fights her wars, suffers in her defeats, and celebrates her victories. The Jew who believes in Kenesset Israel is the Jew who joins himself as an indestructible link not only to the Jewish people of this generation but to Kenesset Israel of all generations. How? Through Torah, which is and creates the continuity of all the generations of Israel for all time.”

This Shabbat is known as Shabbat Nahamu, the Sabbath of Consolation. We read the beautiful prophecies of Isaiah pronouncing God’s love for the people of Israel. Consolation does not erase the tragedies of the past; it doesn’t bring back any of those who were murdered. But it teaches us to re-focus, not to dwell on crying but to cling to hope for better times.

Yes, we mourn on Tisha B’Av for the destructions of our ancient Temples in Jerusalem. But we then take off our sneakers, dress in our Shabbat clothes, and celebrate God’s consolation for the future peace, security and happiness of Israel…and all humankind.

Kamtsa, Bar Kamtsa--and our Contemporary Parallels

 

The Talmud records a poignant story relating to the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 CE. Although historians describe various political, sociological, and military explanations for the Roman war against the Jews, the Talmud—through the story of Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa—points to a moral/spiritual cause of the destruction:

R. Johanan said: The destruction of Jerusalem came through Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa in this way. A certain man had a friend Kamtsa and an enemy Bar Kamtsa. He once made a party and said to his servant, Go and bring Kamtsa. The man went and brought Bar Kamtsa. When the man [who gave the party] found him there he said, See, you tell tales about me; what are you doing here? Get out. Said the other: Since I am here, let me stay and I will pay you for whatever I eat and drink. He said, I won't. Then let me give you half the cost of the party. No, said the other. Then let me pay for the whole party. He still said, No, and he took him by the hand and put him out. Said the other, Since the rabbis were sitting there and did not stop him, this shows that they agreed with him. I will go and inform against them to the Government. He went and said to the Emperor, The Jews are rebelling against you. He said, How can I tell? He said to him: Send them an offering and see whether they will offer it [on the altar]. So he sent with him a fine calf. While on the way he [Bar Kamtsa] made a blemish on its upper lip, or as some say on the white of its eye, in a place where we [Jews] count it a blemish but they [the Romans] do not. The rabbis were inclined to offer it in order not to offend the Government. Said R. Zechariah b. Abkulas to them: People will say that blemished animals are offered on the altar. They then proposed to kill Bar Kamtsa so that he should not go and inform against them, but R. Zechariah b. Abkulas said to them, Is one who makes a blemish on consecrated animals to be put to death? R. Johanan thereupon remarked: Through the scrupulousness of R. Zechariah b. Abkulas our House has been destroyed, our Temple burnt and we ourselves exiled from our land. (Gittin 55b–56a)

The story tells of a host—apparently a wealthy man—who throws a party and wants his friend Kamtsa to be brought to it. The servant makes a mistake and brings Bar Kamtsa—a person the host despises. When the host sees Bar Kamtsa, he orders him to leave. Even though Bar Kamtsa pleads not to be humiliated by being sent away, the host is unbending. Bar Kamtsa offers to pay for whatever he eats, for half the expenses of the entire party, for the entire party—but the host unceremoniously leads Bar Kamtsa out of his home.

The story reflects a lack of peace among the Jewish community in Jerusalem. The antagonism between the host and Bar Kamtsa is palpable. The unpleasant scene at the party was witnessed by others—including “the rabbis”; obviously, “the rabbis” were included on the party’s guest list. They were part of the host’s social network. When Bar Kamtsa was ejected from the party, he did not express rage at the host. Rather, he was deeply wounded by the fact that rabbis had been silent in the face of the humiliation he had suffered: “Since the rabbis were sitting there and did not stop him, this shows that they agreed with him.” He might have understood the host’s uncouth behavior, since the host hated him. But he could not understand why the rabbis, through their silence, would go along with the host. Why didn’t they stand up and protest on behalf of Bar Kamtsa? Why didn’t they attempt to increase peace? Bar Kamtsa was so disgusted with the rabbis that he decided to stir up the Roman Emperor against the Jewish people. If the rabbinic leadership itself was corrupt, then the entire community had to suffer.

Why didn’t the rabbis speak up on behalf of Bar Kamtsa?

Apparently, the rabbis kept silent because they did not want to offend their host. If the host wanted to expel a mistakenly invited person, that was his business—not theirs. The host seems to have been a wealthy patron of the rabbis; he obviously wanted them included on his invitation list. Why should the rabbis offend their patron, in defense of an enemy of their patron? That might jeopardize their relationship with the host and could cost them future patronage.

The rabbis kept silent because they thought it socially and economically prudent for their own interests. They could not muster the courage to confront the host and try to intervene on behalf of Bar Kamtsa. By looking out for their own selfish interests, the rabbis chose to look the other way when Bar Kamtsa was publicly humiliated.

Rabbi Binyamin Lau, in his review of the rabbinical and historical sources of that period, came to the inescapable conclusion that “the rabbis were supported by the wealthy [members of the community], and consequently were unable to oppose their deeds. There is here a situation of economic pressure that enslaved the elders of the generation to the officials and the wealthy….The Torah infrastructure depended on the generosity of the rich.”

When rabbis lost the spirit of independence, they also lost their moral compass. They were beholden to the rich, and could not afford to antagonize their patrons. They remained silent even when their patrons behaved badly, even when their silence allowed their patrons to humiliate others. Bar Kamtsa was outraged by the moral cowardice of the rabbis to such an extent that he turned traitor against the entire Jewish people.

The story goes on to say that Bar Kamtsa told the Emperor that the Jews were rebelling. To verify this, the Emperor sent an offering to be sacrificed in the Temple. If the Jews offered it up, that proved they were not rebelling. If the Jews refused to offer it up, this meant that they were defying the Emperor and were rising in rebellion. Bar Kamtsa took a fine calf on behalf of the Emperor, and put a slight blemish on it. He was learned enough to know that this blemish—while of no consequence to the Romans—would disqualify the animal from being offered according to Jewish law.

When Bar Kamtsa presented the offering at the Temple, the rabbis were inclined to allow it to be offered. They fully realized that if they rejected it, this would be construed by the Emperor as a sign of disloyalty and rebellion. Since there was so much at stake, the rabbis preferred to offer a blemished animal rather than incur the Emperor’s wrath. This was a sound, prudent course of action. But one of the rabbis, Zecharyah b, Abkulas, objected. He insisted that the rabbis follow the letter of the law and not allow the offering of a blemished animal. He cited public opinion (“people will say”) that the rabbis did not adhere to the law and therefore allowed a forbidden offering. The rabbis then considered the extreme possibility of murdering Bar Kamtsa, so that this traitor would not be able to return to the Emperor to report that the offering had been refused. Again, Zecharyah b. Abkulas objected. The halakha does not allow the death penalty for one who brings a blemished offering for sacrifice in the Temple. Murdering Bar Kamtsa, thus, would be unjustified and illegal. This was “check mate.” The rabbis offered no further ideas on how to avoid antagonizing the Emperor. The offering was rejected, and Bar Kamtsa reported this to the Emperor. The result was the Roman destruction of Jerusalem and razing of the Temple. “R. Johanan thereupon remarked: Through the scrupulousness of R. Zechariah b. Abkulas our House has been destroyed, our Temple burnt and we ourselves exiled from our land.”

Rabbi Johanan casts R. Zecharyah b. Abkulas as the villain of the story. R. Zecharyah was overly scrupulous in insisting on the letter of the law, and he lost sight of the larger issues involved. He did not factor in the consequences of his halakhic ruling; or if he did, he thought it was better to suffer the consequences rather than to violate the halakha. Rabbi Johanan blames R. Zecharyah’s “scrupulousness” for the destruction of Jerusalem, the razing of the Temple, and the exile of the Jewish people. The moral of the story, according to Rabbi Johanan, is that rabbis need to have a grander vision when making halakhic decisions. It is not proper—and can be very dangerous—to rule purely on the basis of the letter of the law, without taking into consideration the larger issues and the consequences of these decisions. Technical correctness does not always make a halakhic ruling correct. On the contrary, technical correctness can lead to catastrophic results. To follow the precedent of Rabbi Zecharyah b. Abkulas is a dangerous mistake.

Yes, Rabbi Zecharyah b. Abkulas was overly scrupulous in his application of halakha, when other larger considerations should have been factored in. His narrow commitment to legal technicalities caused inexpressible suffering and destruction for the Jewish people. But is he the real villain of the story?

Rabbi Zecharyah was only one man. The other rabbis formed the majority. Why didn’t they overrule Rabbi Zecharyah? The rabbis surely realized the implications of rejecting the Emperor’s offering. They were even willing to commit murder to keep Bar Kamtsa from returning to the Emperor with a negative report. Why did the majority of the rabbis submit to Rabbi Zecharyah’s “scrupulousness”?

The story is teaching not only about the mistaken attitude of Rabbi Zecharyah b. Abkulas, but about the weakness and cowardice of the rest of the rabbis. The other rabbis were intimidated by Rabbi Zecharyah. They were afraid that people would accuse them of being laxer in halakha than Rabbi Zecharyah. They worried lest their halakhic credibility would be called into question. Rabbi Zecharyah might be perceived by the public as the “really religious” rabbi, or the “fervently religious” rabbi; the other rabbis would be perceived as compromisers, as religiously defective. They recognized that Rabbi Zecharyah, after all, had technical halakhic justification for his positions. On the other hand, they would have to be innovative and utilize meta-halakhic considerations to justify their rulings. That approach—even if ultimately correct—requires considerable confidence in one’s ability to make rulings that go beyond the letter of the law. Rabbi Zecharyah’s position was safe: it had support in the halakhic texts and traditions. The rabbis’ position was risky: it required breaking new ground, making innovative rulings based on extreme circumstances. The rabbis simply were not up to the challenge. They deferred to Rabbi Zecharyah because they lacked the courage and confidence to take responsibility for bold halakhic decision-making.

When Rabbis Do Not Increase Peace in the World

When rabbis lose sight of their core responsibility to bring peace into the world, the consequences are profoundly troubling. The public’s respect for religion and religious leadership decreases. The rabbis themselves become narrower in outlook, more authoritarian, more identified with a rabbinic/political bureaucracy than with idealistic rabbinic service. They become agents of the status quo, curriers of favor from the rich and politically well-connected.
When rabbis lack independence and moral courage, the tendencies toward conformity and extremism arise. They adopt the strictest and most fundamentalist positions, because they do not want to appear “less fervent” than the extremist rabbinic authorities.

When rabbis fear to express moral indignation so as not to jeopardize their financial or political situation, then the forces of injustice and disharmony increase. When rabbis adopt the narrow halakhic vision of Rabbi Zecharyah b. Abkulas, they invite catastrophe on the community. When the “silent majority” of rabbis allow the R. Zecharyahs to prevail, they forfeit their responsibility as religious leaders.

The contemporary Hareidization of Orthodox Judaism, both in Israel and the Diaspora, has tended to foster a narrow and extreme approach to halakha. This phenomenon has been accompanied by a widespread acquiescence on the part of Orthodox rabbis who are afraid to stand up against the growing extremism.

In the summer of 1984, I met with Rabbi Haim David Halevy, then Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv. He was a particularly independent thinker, who much regretted the narrowness and extremism that had arisen within Orthodox rabbinic circles. He lamented what he called the rabbinic “mafia” that served as a thought police, rooting out and ostracizing rabbis who did not go along with the official policies of a small group of “gedolim,” rabbinic authorities who are thought to have the ultimate power to decide halakhic policies. When honest discussion and diversity of opinion are quashed, the religious enterprise suffers.

The Orthodox rabbinic establishment in Israel, through the offices of the Chief Rabbinate, has had the sole official religious authority to determine matters relating to Jewish identity, conversion, marriage, and divorce. It has also wielded its authority in kashruth supervision and other areas of religious law relating to Jewish life in the State of Israel. This religious “monopoly” has been in place since the State of Israel was established in 1948. With so much power at their disposal, one would have expected—and might have hoped—that the rabbinate would have won a warm and respectful attitude among the population at large. The rabbis, after all, are charged with increasing peace between the people of Israel and their God; with applying halakha in a spirit of love, compassion, and understanding; with creating within the Jewish public a recognition that the rabbis are public servants working in the public’s interest.

Regrettably, these things have not transpired. Although the Chief Rabbinate began with the creative leadership of Rabbis Benzion Uziel and Yitzchak Herzog, it gradually sank into a bureaucratic mire, in which rabbis struggled to gain political power and financial reward for themselves and/or for the institutions they represent. The Chief Rabbinate is not held as the ultimate religious authority in Israel by the Hareidi population. It is not respected by the non-Orthodox public. It has scant support within the Religious Zionist camp, since the Chief Rabbinate seems more interested in pandering to Hareidi interests than in promoting a genuine Religious Zionist vision and program for the Jewish State.

Recent polls in Israel have reflected a growing backlash against the Hareidization of religious life and against the political/social/religious coercion that has been fostered by Hareidi leadership. Seventy percent of Jewish Israelis are opposed to new religious legislation. Fifty-three pecert oppose all religiously coercive legislation. Forty-two percent believe that the tension between the Hareidim and the general public is the most serious internal schism in Israeli Jewish society—nearly twice as many as those who think the most serious tension is between the political left and political right. Sixty-five percent think the tensions between Hareidim and the general public are the most serious, or second most serious, problem facing the Israeli Jewish community. An increasing number of Israelis are in favor of a complete separation of religion and State, reflecting growing frustration with the religious status quo.