National Scholar Updates

Re’eh:

Not Cooking a Kid in Its Mother's Milk: 

Pagan Ritual, Compassion, or Covenantal Discipline?

The prohibition against cooking a kid in its mother’s milk appears three times in the Torah (Exodus 23:19; 34:26; Deuteronomy 14:21), a repetition that already suggests its significance. Yet despite its prominence, the Torah offers no explanation for the commandment. Classical commentators and modern scholars have proposed markedly different understandings of its rationale, while exegetes have also debated whether its plain meaning coincides with the halakhic interpretation preserved by the Oral Law.

In the Guide of the Perplexed (III:48), Rambam proposes that the prohibition originated as a rejection of pagan agricultural ritual. Since the command appears in Exodus immediately following the laws of bikkurim (bringing the first fruits to the Temple), Rambam conjectures that boiling a kid in its mother’s milk formed part of an idolatrous fertility ceremony associated with harvest celebrations. Abarbanel and Sforno adopt similar approaches.

Remarkably, Rambam anticipated what many scholars later believed had been discovered. In 1929, excavations at Ras Shamra uncovered the Ugaritic texts, including a fragment reconstructed as tb[h g] bhlb annh bhmat, translated by many as, “Cook a kid in milk, a lamb in butter.” This reconstruction was widely accepted and was heralded as striking confirmation of Rambam’s hypothesis.

By the 1970s, however, scholars returned to the original fragment and challenged the reconstruction. The text is badly damaged, and the restoration was shown to be speculative. K. Lawson Younger Jr., in The Context of Scripture III, translates the preserved portion instead as “Coriander in milk, mint in butter.”

Jacob Milgrom (Anchor Bible) sharply criticized the earlier interpretation: “In sum, the Ugaritic text in question is a broken one, its suggested reconstruction is palpably wrong, its clearer portion has been misconstrued, and a key word of the biblical prohibition, ‘mother,’ is not there. In recent memory, nothing matches this example of the hazards of interpreting broken texts on the basis of a purported biblical echo.”

Nevertheless, the collapse of the Ugaritic evidence does not necessarily invalidate Rambam’s theory. Even if such a ritual were explicitly attested, that would not prove that the Torah’s rationale is anti-pagan. Conversely, the absence of corroborating evidence does not disprove Rambam’s interpretation. A ritual may once have existed without leaving surviving textual evidence, or future discoveries may yet vindicate his conjecture.

Other commentators sought a more ethical explanation. Rashbam, Ibn Ezra, and Ramban understand the command as part of a larger pattern of laws designed to cultivate compassion toward animals. They compare it to the prohibitions against slaughtering an animal and its offspring on the same day (Leviticus 22:28), sacrificing an animal during its first week of life (Leviticus 22:27; Exodus 22:29), and taking a mother bird together with its young (Deuteronomy 22:6–7). The image of cooking a young animal in the very substance intended to sustain its life is viewed as especially cruel.

A different approach appears in Philo (On the Virtues, 142–144). He interprets the prohibition symbolically as a rejection of mixing life and death. Milk represents nourishment and vitality, while the slaughtered animal represents death. Combining the two is therefore spiritually inappropriate. Milgrom finds this explanation compelling and extends it to many of the Torah’s other animal-related restrictions, seeing them as expressions of a broader biblical resistance to confusing the boundaries between life and death.

Beyond questions of rationale lies another issue: what does the verse mean in its immediate context?

The prohibition appears three times, yet in Exodus it is embedded within laws concerning bikkurim. The Mishnah (Hullin 8:4) and Talmud (Hullin 113a) famously derive from the threefold repetition three distinct prohibitions: cooking meat and milk together, eating such a mixture, and deriving benefit from it. Most medieval commentators simply cite this halakhic tradition.

Rabbi Yosef Bekhor Shor, however, offers a strikingly different reading. He proposes that in its Exodus contexts the phrase does not refer to cooking at all. Drawing on Genesis 40:10, where bishul can denote ripening, he argues that the verse means that one should not allow a young animal to mature on its mother’s milk, but rather bring it promptly to the Temple. This interpretation accords well with the surrounding injunctions not to delay sacrificial obligations and not to leave sacrificial fat until morning. The broader message is one of punctuality in divine service.

It is important to emphasize that Rabbi Yosef Bekhor Shor advances this interpretation exclusively at the level of peshat. Like other medieval exegetes who distinguished contextual meaning from halakhic meaning, he fully accepted the authority and binding force of the Oral Law.

His interpretation remains difficult, however, since the verse speaks of a gedi (kid) generally and not specifically of a firstborn animal.

An even more daring proposal appears in Menahem ben Saruk. He suggests that gedi refers not to a young goat but to berries, and that halev immo denotes the juice or sap from which the fruit emerges. The command would then mean that one should not bring bikkurim (first fruits) to the Temple before the produce has fully ripened. While ingenious, this interpretation won little acceptance among later exegetes.

These debates highlight a broader methodological divide. Should the plain meaning of the verse always coincide with its halakhic interpretation, or may peshat diverge from the legal tradition and teach an additional religious dimension? This question separates figures who insisted that the Oral Law reflected the true meaning of the peshat in the Torah, and those who were willing to distinguish between a verse’s contextual meaning and its normative halakhic application.

The centrality of dietary laws in Judaism was emphasized powerfully by Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (Chumash Mesoras HaRav, 74-75). He observed that although the Torah mentions prayer explicitly only once (Deuteronomy 11:13), it devotes extensive attention to the laws of permitted and forbidden foods. Modern people may readily embrace spirituality expressed through worship, song, or sacred space, yet resist the notion that holiness extends to the discipline of the body. The Torah insists otherwise. Sanctity cannot be achieved through spiritual aspiration alone; it requires concrete habits of restraint and obedience. For nearly two millennia Jews have lived without a Temple, but kashrut has remained one of the principal forces preserving Jewish distinctiveness and continuity. Kashrut thus serves not merely as a dietary system but as a daily discipline through which covenantal identity is embodied and sustained.

Whether understood as a rejection of pagan practice, an expression of compassion, a symbolic affirmation of the distinction between life and death, or a discipline that sanctifies the body, the prohibition against cooking a kid in its mother’s milk exemplifies the richness and depth of Torah interpretation.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Re’eh

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Some years ago, I was walking down the street and saw a teenage boy smoking a cigarette. He looked like a clean-cut young man who should have known that smoking was unhealthy. Usually I would just keep walking and grumble under my breath, but this time I actually stopped the boy. “I know it’s none of my business but you shouldn’t be smoking. It’s a dangerous habit. You think you look cool but when you’re fighting cancer 30 years from now do you think any of your classmates will come to visit you or even care if you live or die?”

I expected him to say something nasty or just walk away from me. But instead, he put out the cigarette and said “Thank you for caring. You’re right.” I complimented him and praised him, and that was the end of the episode.

Offering disciplinary advice, if done properly, is a sign of caring. It is not meant to demean a person but to help him/her live a better life.

This came to mind when I recently read something by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. “Some years ago, while making a television programme about teshuvah - repentance - I visited a rehabilitation centre for young addicts. I asked the head of the centre how they gave these young people the strength to change. I will never forget her answer: ‘We are probably the first people they have met who care for them unconditionally. And we are the first people in their lives who cared enough to say ‘No.’ “No” is the hardest word to hear, but it is also often the most important - and the sign that someone cares.”

In this week’s Parasha, we are told: “You are children of the Lord your God” (Devarim 14:1). The passage reminds us that God is our Parent and wants the best for us. A wise parent guides children on what to do…and what not to do.  A loving parent doesn’t overly coddle or spoil children but teaches them to do what is right and avoid what is wrong. 

This Parasha is filled with many commandments, positive things to perform and negative things to avoid. Since these commandments derive from the All-Wise Parent, God, they are meant to enhance our lives, strengthen us, allow us to reach our human potentials. The commandments are a sign, in a sense, that God cares! 

Too often, people fail at life because no one tells them No. They dress foolishly, act foolishly, eat foolishly, spend foolishly, hate foolishly, waste time foolishly, etc. …and no one corrects them properly. They become steeped in negative patterns and come to resent anyone who criticizes them. 

The Torah reminds us: if you live an upright life, you will be blessed. If you choose unwisely, curses inevitably will follow. The commandments are given as a sign of love and caring; they provide a path to a meaningful, constructive and moral life. The “Thou shalt not”s are as important as the “Thou shalt”s.  "No" sometimes means "Yes, I care about you."

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.

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.)

Rabbi Hayyim Angel has published a new book, the Heart of the Megillot.

The Five Megillot occupy a unique place in Jewish life and thought. Read throughout the liturgical year, these beloved biblical books explore love and longing, loyalty and redemption, grief and faith, wisdom and uncertainty.

In The Heart of the Five Megillot, Rabbi Hayyim Angel draws on classical rabbinic interpretation, literary analysis, and contemporary scholarship to illuminate the enduring power of Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, Ecclesiastes, and Esther.

Written for thoughtful readers, students, educators, clergy, and synagogue study groups, this volume invites readers to engage the Five Megillot with intellectual rigor, spiritual sensitivity, and a deep appreciation for the richness of the Jewish interpretive tradition.

Available here at amazon.com

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H7VZKZ6M/ref=sr_1_1?crid=UGJL2JALY6HR&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.Bl4EkbXIOrivBzGbGTUt0cmBo3apHFhoVImVzDSvVn622_FwBP40Hk3oVNZpiz1xvqfem8XfrVl7GYz5eoiR_wILSk1cpjZmEghUVqf3_JbK4IgE6KpnbnSyHPjHMvlmcuMOxab0Md2ziuL4Nrju8Gs2PBWSMGhc4jGCMkD_LshLyKOqddQdTE7fe6yZzz7MpE8G8PuPaKAR6PXLQ1IwvokzVFlDsL96F0ya3UeHSTo.pQFvQ_rSuFE8y244-TTd8G-PwULLI1rMqZECWKNCEA4&dib_tag=se&keywords=hayyim+angel&qid=1783435824&sprefix=%2Caps%2C102&sr=8-1

If you are a member of the Institute and receive Conversations, you should have received Rabbi Hayyim Angel's book, The Megillot Companion (Conversations 47).

An online commemorative lecture by Anastatios Karababas. Program includes a traditional ‘Hashkavanah’ Memorial prayer for the Sephardic Community of Rhodes, Cos, and throughout Greece and the Balkans during the Holocaust

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.

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.