National Scholar Updates

Rabbi Hayyim Angel made a podcast on the Haftarah for Korah with Dr. Yosefa Wruble of Matan in Israel.

Here is the link to the podcast:

Shelah:

The Spies in Numbers and Deuteronomy

The spies narrative (Numbers 13-14) is among the most familiar and devastating stories in the Torah. In its presentation in the Book of Numbers, the narrative appears straightforward. God commands Moses to send spies to survey the Land of Israel. Moses agrees and instructs the spies regarding their mission. The spies themselves are distinguished leaders, divinely sanctioned representatives of the tribes. Everything about the mission initially appears legitimate and proper.

The catastrophe emerges only afterward. Ten spies return with a demoralizing report, the nation loses faith, and God decrees that the generation of the wilderness will perish before entering the land. In the plain sense of Numbers, the sin lies in the people’s faithlessness and despair after hearing the spies’ report.

However, the Book of Deuteronomy dramatically complicates this picture.

Moses’s retelling of the spies narrative in Deuteronomy chapter 1 is not an independent account. It plainly assumes familiarity with the original story in Numbers. Yet the retelling systematically shifts the emphasis of the narrative and redistributes responsibility in striking ways.

In Numbers, God appears to initiate the mission: “Send men for yourself, and let them spy out the land of Canaan” (Numbers 13:2).

In Deuteronomy, however, the initiative comes from the people: “Then all of you approached me and said: Let us send men before us” (Deuteronomy 1:22). Moses then states: “The matter was good in my eyes” (1:23).

Remarkably, God is not mentioned at all in connection with authorizing the mission until after the disaster unfolds and the decree is issued. In the plain sense of Deuteronomy, the mission appears to have originated with the people and to have been approved by Moses himself. 

This shift is not merely technical. It fundamentally alters the theological atmosphere of the episode.

Even the language of Moses’s rebuke differs sharply from Numbers. In Deuteronomy, Moses emphasizes the nation’s initiative: va-tikrevun elai kullekhem (1:22). The phrase can be translated neutrally as “you approached me,” though some commentators hear a more accusatory tone: “you pressed upon me” or “you demanded of me.” Either way, the emphasis falls upon the people’s initiative rather than upon divine command.

How, then, can Deuteronomy’s retelling coexist with Numbers’s original presentation?

Drawing on Midrashic tradition, Rashi argues that Deuteronomy reveals the hidden truth behind the story all along. The request to send spies was itself sinful from the outset. According to Rashi, the demand for reconnaissance reflected a lack of trust in God immediately after Moses had enthusiastically promised that God would give them the land. For Rashi, the very desire to investigate and verify the land after God’s promise already betrayed deficient faith.

Accordingly, Rashi reads Moses’s words in Deuteronomy sharply. Va-tikrevun elai kullekhem does not mean merely “you approached me,” but carries a critical tone: despite Moses’s encouragement and God’s promise, the people pressed for spies anyway.

Even more strikingly, Rashi explains “the matter was good in my eyes” (1:23) to mean that Moses only pretended to approve of the request. Rashi compares Moses to a salesman displaying confidence in a used donkey to discourage further inquiry. Moses hoped that by expressing confidence, the people would abandon the desire to investigate the land altogether.

When they persisted, however, God acceded reluctantly: shelah lekha anashim—send for yourself (Numbers 13:2). According to Rashi, the phrase implies divine disapproval: “I am not commanding this; if you wish, send them.”

In this reading, the downfall occurred before the spies even departed. The actual mission merely exposed the people’s already defective faith.

Rashi’s interpretation is powerful and coherent, but it comes at a significant textual cost. In Deuteronomy, Moses’s statement that “the matter was good in my eyes” sounds like genuine approval, not strategic pretense. Likewise, Numbers presents the mission as divinely sanctioned. God speaks directly to Moses, and the spies depart “by the word of the Lord” (Numbers 13:3). Nothing in the narrative overtly conveys reluctant divine concession.

Ramban therefore rejects Rashi’s reinterpretation. Although Ramban agrees that the people initiated the request and that God responded afterward, he insists that the request itself was entirely legitimate.

For Ramban, prudent military reconnaissance does not contradict faith. Moses himself later sends spies, and Joshua does so as well before the conquest of Jericho. Gathering intelligence is normal military behavior, not religious betrayal.

Accordingly, Ramban reads va-tikrevun elai kullekhem (Deuteronomy 1:22) neutrally: “Then you approached me.”

Likewise, shelah lekhah anashim (Numbers 13:2) is simply standard biblical idiom meaning “send.” The sin occurred only later, when the spies abused their mission and the people succumbed to panic and rebellion.

Ramban thus harmonizes the two narratives without fundamentally reinterpreting either one. The people requested spies, Moses approved, and God endorsed the plan. The catastrophe emerged only afterward through the spies’ panic-inducing report and the people’s loss of faith.

Ramban’s approach resolves the major textual difficulties raised by Rashi’s interpretation. It preserves Moses’s straightforward approval in Deuteronomy while also maintaining Numbers’s clear presentation of divine sanction. At the same time, Ramban preserves a broader theological principle: responsible human effort and strategic planning coexist with faith rather than undermine it.

Thus, while Rashi sees Deuteronomy as uncovering the hidden failure already present at the beginning of the episode, Ramban views Deuteronomy as supplementing—but not overturning—the original presentation in Numbers. At stake in the debate between Rashi and Ramban is not merely how to read one biblical episode, but a larger question about the relationship between faith and human initiative in religious life.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Shelah Lekha

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Moses sent twelve spies, the leaders of each of the tribes of Israel, to go into the Promised Land and come back with a report. All twelve agreed that the land was wonderful but ten of them thought the inhabitants were too powerful to overcome. Caleb and Joshua called on the people to trust the Almighty who would help them conquer the opponents.

Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz describes the controversy between the two groups of spies. Ten of them thought the people were better off in the wilderness. Entering the land, after all, would entail war. Settling the land would require hard work—agriculture, building, creating infrastructure etc. In the wilderness, the people were provided with manna from heaven; they had no material responsibilities; they could devote themselves entirely to spiritual matters. 

Caleb and Joshua contended that the people could not fulfill their earthly mission unless they took responsibility for establishing their own country. God had freed them from Egypt so that they would become a self-respecting nation. The Torah is meant to be lived in this world, with all its challenges and opportunities.

Rabbi Steinsaltz points out that the argument of the spies can be heard frequently even today. “Why should we lose our abstract spiritual essence, our Torah, and our manna, solely in order to go to the Land of Isreal? It is better to remain in the wilderness.” (Talks on the Parasha, p. 306).

The error of the ten spies was that they wanted an other-worldly spiritual perfection, free of the responsibilities of nation-building. Let God provide everything and let us avoid the nitty-gritty of running a society with all the challenges that entails.

Their error is echoed by many today—Jewish and non-Jewish—who expect the people of Israel to be absolutely pure, and who feel that Israel is tainted by having to deal with the everyday issues of war, economics, politics etc.  Wouldn’t things be better if Jews stayed in the wilderness seeking spiritual perfection, rather than getting their hands dirty in the real world?

Although Jewish critics of Israel are diverse, they seem to have one thing in common. They insist that the Jewish state be inhumanly perfect. For them, a Jewish state will never be satisfactory as long as Jews have to wage wars, kill enemies, rule over non-Jews, engage in political infighting, deal with social inequalities etc.  

Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook (1865-1935) noted that “the great idealists seek an order so noble, so firm and pure, beyond what may be found in the world of reality, and thus they destroy what has been fashioned in conformity to the norms of the world.”  Such people, through their unrealistic religiosity or idealism, in fact are part of what Rav Kook called “the world of chaos” rather than “the world of order.”  Misguided idealism is destructive. Insisting that Jews be “angels” rather than real human beings is also a form of antisemitism.

Already in the 19th century, Rabbi Yehuda Alkalai (1798-1878) lamented that rabbis of his time opposed resettlement of Jews in Israel until Messianic times. He rebuked those “who say with full mouth that Jerusalem was only created for the sake of Torah study. While their intention is acceptable, their deeds are unacceptable. It is impossible to conduct life in this world as though it were the world-to-come, where there is no need to eat or drink.”

The approach of the ten spies is still espoused by many today. But just as their error caused massive suffering to the people then, it can cause serious harm to us today. We need to hear the courageous and faithful voices of Caleb and Joshua. Reality is difficult; escapism is far worse.

The future of Israel and the Jewish People will be secured by those who share the dream of a Jewish homeland that strives to be a “light unto the nations.”  The goal is to make Israel as great as humanly possible, not to demand absolute perfection.

To demand the impossible is not only unrealistic: it is dangerous and self-destructive.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks on Difference and Human Dignity

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks was undoubtedly one of the greatest Jewish leaders and thinkers of the last generation. Born in London in 1948, Rabbi Sacks studied philosophy at Cambridge and Oxford and was awarded a PhD in philosophy from King’s College London in 1981. In 1976, Rabbi Sacks received rabbinic ordination from Jews’ College and Yeshiva Etz Chaim, London. Rabbi Sacks went on to serve as Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the British Commonwealth from 1991 until 2013. Throughout his illustrious career, Sacks wrote elegantly and compellingly on all manner of Jewish topics, including the relationship between science and religion, religious violence, morality, and much more. 

I want to discuss Rabbi Sacks’ emphasis on what he called “the dignity of difference.” In response to increasing tribalism and parochialism, Rabbi Sacks warned against the other extreme: universalism. Articulated brilliantly in his book The Dignity of Difference, which was written in the wake of 9/11, Rabbi Sacks makes the case for a model of engagement with others that both recognizes and prioritizes the shared humanity across difference, without simultaneously insisting on a hegemonic sameness that, just like tribalism, easily shifts into violence and conflict. It is worth noting in passing the extent to which this view of Sacks’ parallels that of Bernard Williams, one of his teachers at Cambridge.

One of the preeminent moral philosophers of the twentieth century, Williams harbored a deep skepticism toward moral theories that claimed to provide a comprehensive and universal account of how all people ought to live. In a famous 1979 essay, “Internal and External Reasons,” Williams challenged the assumption that there are reasons for action that apply to all rational people regardless of their particular desires, commitments, and projects. Philosophers often speak as though moral obligations are simply there to be recognized, and that anyone who fails to recognize them is not merely mistaken, but irrational. Williams argued that this picture obscures an important truth: human beings act on the basis of particular histories, motivations, and ways of seeing the world. Appeals to supposedly universal reasons can therefore become a kind of moral bluff, allowing us to express disapproval of other’s actions while presenting that disapproval as if it were simply the necessary conclusion of “rational thinking.” The idea is that there is something wrong with you if you do not see the world as I do. 

Rabbi Sacks, like Williams, recognized that appeals to universality can easily become dehumanizing, particularly toward those whose identity and way of life differ from that of the dominant culture. If failure to respond to the “truth” of some claim indicates a fundamental deficiency—or worse, wickedness—then it is perhaps unsurprising that Jews, among others, have so often been persecuted for refusing to conform to a supposedly universal truth. 

Rabbi Sacks argues that is precisely the genius of our tradition. The Torah, he points out, moves in a counterintuitive direction. In considering the evolution of a society we tend to move from part to whole: we consider isolated man and his needs, on the basis of which he forms a family, which, in order to coordinate its thriving, joins with other families to form a town, and so on. We assume that the direction of development is ever extending outwards. But Genesis does the opposite. It proceeds from God’s creation of the cosmos to the creation of man, the world-wide catastrophe of the flood and then to the dispersing at Babel, all of which builds up to God’s covenantal relationship with one particular person, Abraham, and his family. While we must not forget the unity of God, and therefore the commonality of our origins, we learn how to live not through the contemplation of humanity in the abstract, but through the narrative of a particular family. It is precisely the transcendent unity of God, argues Rabbi Sacks, that sets God beyond any way of describing or being in the world. The difference manifest in the world reflects, perhaps paradoxically, the unity of the divine. 

The perspective of unified truth is limited to God, and any appeal to it from within God’s world fails to recognize the manifest particularity of God’s creations. As Rabbi Sacks puts it, “There is no universal language. There is no way we can speak, communicate, or even think without placing ourselves within the constraints of a particular language whose contours were shaped by hundreds of generations of speakers, storytellers, artists and visionaries who came before us, whose legacy we inherit and of whose story we become a part” (The Dignity of Difference, 54). We do not transcend our particularity in order to understand others; rather, it is through inhabiting a particular tradition that we become capable of appreciating those of our neighbors.

For Rabbi Sacks, then, the alternative to tribalism is not universalism but covenantal particularity. The universality of moral concern emerges not from abstracting our concrete commitments but from them. As Rabbi Sacks explains, “The universality of moral concerns is not something we learn by being universal but by being particular. Because we know what it is to be a parent, loving our children, not children in general, we understand what it is for someone else, somewhere else, to be a parent, loving his or her children, not ours” (The Dignity of Difference, 55). We come to recognize the humanity of others not by denying the significance of family, community, and tradition, but by understanding that others are attached to their own families, communities, and traditions in much the same way that we are attached to ours.

In light of this argument, it is notable that Rabbi Sacks, in his reflections on “the other” and how Jews ought to relate to non-Jews, turns first inward, back to the texts that comprise our language. In Not in God's Name, Sacks argues that the book of Genesis repeatedly returns to the theme of sibling rivalry: Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and his brothers. These narratives, he contends, are not merely family dramas, but meditations on the rivalry that naturally arises between siblings when paternal love (from their fathers or from God) is perceived to be scarce.

The story of Isaac and Ishmael occupies a central place in this argument. The Torah is unequivocal about Isaac’s status as heir to the Abrahamic covenant. Yet, Sacks observes, this does not mean that Ishmael is rejected. God hears Ishmael's cries in the wilderness, promises that he too will become a great nation, and remains present in his life. Sacks notes that Ishmael is portrayed with remarkable sympathy. His near-death scene in the wilderness is narrated with considerably more pathos than Isaac's binding, inviting readers to identify with his suffering.  While it is often overlooked, the biblical text actually hints at a relationship between Isaac and Ishmael. Isaac, we know from the biblical text, lives at beer lahai roi after the Akedah (Gen. 24:62, 25:11), which is precisely the location at which God intervened to save Ishmael and Hagar earlier in the narrative (Gen. 16:13-14). To Sacks, this hints at a reconciliation between Isaac and Hagar and Ishmael. In fact, there is a midrash, quoted by Sacks, which not only identifies Hagar with Keturah, Abraham’s second wife, but has Isaac act as their go-between. Finally, Isaac and Ishmael bury their father together.

These narrative clues (among others, not recounted here) indicate that, despite its central importance to the Torah, election is not the same thing as exclusion. To choose one path is not to condemn all others. The God who enters into covenant with Isaac is also the God who saves and blesses Ishmael. God's love exceeds the zero-sum calculations that characterize human rivalry. The covenant with one family does not imply the abandonment of all others.

This reading exemplifies the larger argument of The Dignity of Difference. Judaism does not ask us to abandon our particular commitments in the name of a universal humanity. Rather, it teaches us to see that the God who calls us into covenant is also the creator of those who stand outside that covenant. In recognizing the limits of universality, we return to our own language and our own texts. There we discover not a mandate to erase difference, but a model for honoring it—a way of engaging others that preserves the dignity of other ways of life without compromising our own covenantal commitments. 

Maimonides, Spinoza and Us: Toward an Intellectually Vibrant Judaism, by Marc D. Angel, Jewish Lights Publishing, Woodstock, 2009

Reviewed by Francis Idris

Rabbi Dr Marc D Angel’s Maimonides, Spinoza and Us sits in a very specific intellectual tension that most books avoid on purpose. Published in 2009 by Jewish Lights Publishing, it does something slightly risky in plain sight. It puts Maimonides and Spinoza in the same room and refuses to let either behave like a museum piece. One is the rationalist inside tradition. The other is the excommunicated heretic who still somehow keeps influencing modern religious thought. That pairing alone already feels like a conversation that should not be polite.

And yet the tone is not academic distance. It reads more like a living argument that refuses to end. Reason and revelation are not treated as opposing camps to be safely labeled. They are treated like two people who keep interrupting each other mid-sentence. There is a quiet insistence underneath it all, that a thinking Jew should not have to amputate intellect to remain faithful. That line alone. It lands hard. Especially in rooms where questioning is already frowned upon.

What stands out, almost uncomfortably, is how direct the book is about superstition and authority. It does not whisper around the edges of religious discomfort. It names the problem of blind veneration and irrational belief without flinching. And coming from Rabbi Marc D Angel, Rabbi Emeritus of Congregation Shearith Israel in New York, founder of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, that critique carries weight that is not theoretical. It comes from inside the system it is questioning. That is not a safe position. It never was.

There is something almost ironic here. A Sephardic rabbinic leader born in Seattle, with nearly forty books behind him, writes one of the clearest defenses of intellectual honesty in modern Judaism, and yet the book itself ends up living in a very narrow corridor. Too philosophical for casual religious readers. Too religious for pure academic philosophy shelves. It ends up in that strange middle space where thinking people quietly find it, and quietly pass it to someone else. No noise. Just transfer.

And that detail matters. Because the book is not abstract theory. It is aimed directly at the kind of reader who feels spiritually homeless while still wanting to remain inside tradition. That specific tension, loving Torah but refusing to turn off the mind, is not a broad audience. It is a very particular kind of discomfort. The kind that does not advertise itself. It just sits there. Quiet. Persistent.

There is a line in the work that essentially exposes the entire paradox. The idea that the Torah path is narrow, with fire on one side and ice on the other. That image is almost too precise for modern religious discourse. Not poetic decoration. A warning about balance that assumes constant intellectual pressure. Most readers do not realize how rare it is to see Spinoza and Maimonides used together without one being treated as an enemy of the other. Here they are collaborators in argument. Strange alliance. It works.

But here is the part that feels almost absurd. A book that explicitly validates the thinking religious reader, the one who refuses both extremism and silence, is still largely discovered by accident. Even though it is already praised by scholars like Menachem Kellner and Neil Gillman, it does not consistently reach the very people it describes. The ones sitting inside congregations thinking privately, am I allowed to think like this. Yes. But they never see the answer sitting nearby.

That gap is where my attention goes. Not changing the argument. Not reshaping the theology. Just making sure the book is not waiting in the wrong shelf space while the exact readers it was written for keep assuming they are alone in the question. Because right now, intellectual honesty in Judaism is being searched for in fragments, while this text already holds it in a structured form that feels almost unreasonably calm about difficult questions.

And there is something unfinished about that. A book about ideas that transcend time and space, still sitting slightly outside the line of sight of the very minds it was written to steady… almost like it is waiting for someone to notice it is already speaking their language before they even finish forming the question.

(The book can be ordered from Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/maimonides-spinoza-and-us-turner-publishing-company/1126846314?ean=9781683361848)

1. Do you sense that Orthodoxy has been moving to the right? To the left? Other?

I think it’s helpful to understand why we often discuss “rightward” and “leftward” movements within American Orthodox Judaism. In 2006, the sociologist Samuel Heilman coined the term, “sliding to the right.” It was the title of his important tome that, as the subtitle indicated, explored the “contest for the future of American Jewish Orthodoxy.” Heilman’s book studied everyday life: for example, college enrollment, yeshiva study in Israel, and attitudes toward culture and technology. His conclusion was that the rising generation of traditional-leaning Jews had moved the boundary lines of what is and what isn’t Orthodox Judaism. In each case, those lines “slid” further to the right, shrinking the acceptability of so-described Modern Orthodox practices and placing greater power in the hands of those who subscribed to the values and beliefs of the “rightward” yeshiva world. 

            Five years later, Yehuda Turetsky and Chaim Waxman authored an article that questioned Heilman’s findings. The pair interviewed 50 women and men who described their religious beliefs as in concert with Modern Orthodox Judaism. The interviewees expressed to Turetsky and Waxman a concern for how Hareidi (Israel) and Yeshivish (U.S.) rabbis had banned books and people; most notably, the “excommunicated” Rabbi Natan Slifkin. Those interviewed also expressed an openness for advanced Torah study for women, as well as some inclusion for women in synagogue rituals. They therefore found, in opposition to Heilman, a competing “slide to the left.” 

            Both approaches are compelling, making it difficult to easily plot the trajectory of Orthodox Judaism in the United States. Simply put, it seems a mistake to suggest that Orthodox practice (and belief) has moved from a “left-leaning” liberal attitude to a “right-pulling” conservatism and rigidness. This narrow view of history is too simple when we account for the variety of forces weighing upon Orthodox observance. The history of “change” is rarely binary. Change, I’d say, does not move two-dimensionally along an x-axis. Change moves in oft-unchartable strides. It does this because change doesn’t occur in a vacuum. It sometimes moves unconsciously, reacting to indigenous extratextual conditions. For Orthodox Judaism, a list of those external forces include culture, politics, technology, as well as legal and economic variables. 

Orthodox Judaism has bargained, to borrow a term from scholars of the American Amish, with modernity in complicated ways. Take, for instance, the gray areas of Jewish jurisprudence, as I have argued, from the rise and fall of peanut oil in Ashkenazic-practicing homes on Passover (it has been labeled “kitniyot”) to the emergence of bat mitzvah ceremonies in Orthodox spaces. Peanut oil was “the Passover oil” in the immediate postwar period, approved by all kosher certification agencies. There were no audible grumblings from more stringent Hungarian Jews until the 1960s. Bat mitzvah, on the other hand, was a decidedly Conservative Jewish practice in the 1950s and rarely done in Orthodox circles. In the case of peanut oil, the Orthodox community banned it and moved to the “right,” while in the latter instance, bat mitzvah rituals, we have moved very far to the “left.” Factor in consumerism (Passover vacations, boutique toys, and other Orthodox products), dating practices, and women in the workforce, and you will further bollix notions of linear movements to one direction or another.

Consider, as well, the uneven reception of Torah study and leadership opportunities for women. It is probably a fair assessment to conclude that most Orthodox communities have not warmed to women clergy but have expanded the scope of learning available to Orthodox women. But the notion of “clergy” is curious; and it is absolutely the case that women have been made leaders in some of the most ardently Orthodox communities, even if it hasn’t taken place on a pulpit. In 2015, two rebbetzins—rabbis’ wives—successfully argued in a courtroom in Portland, Oregon, that they were not required to testify in a divorce trial because they ought to enjoy “clergy privilege” and exempt from sharing conversations held in confidence with members of their community. The representatives of these women, belonging to what might be described as a “rightwing” segment of the Orthodox community, claimed that “it was reasonable to argue that despite Orthodoxy’s position that women cannot be ordained rabbis, the kollel wives were in fact officially hired by the Kollel to ‘minister’ to the community in vital ways that overlapped with the duties of clergy.” In all these instances, it is apparent that modernity has posed challenges and opportunities for Orthodox Jews to grapple with their own red lines and develop creative responses to how this community engages with their American environs. In some cases, change can be interpreted as a movement to the right. In others, it is altogether clear that change shifted things leftward. Upon observing this phenomenon, I argued in my recent book, that all American tradition-bound faiths, Orthodox Judaism included, are in search for “authenticity.” The quest for authenticity, a hard-to-describe sentiment, takes a group in a myriad of directions. 

1. What would you consider the proper “center” and how is that center doing?

First, some history. The “center,” as in “Centrist Orthodoxy,” had a short shelf life. In the 1980s, Modern Orthodox Judaism rebranded itself as “Centrist Orthodoxy.” In 1986, Rabbi Norman Lamm, president of Yeshiva University, authored a visionary essay on Centrist Orthodox Judaism in the pages of Tradition. Two decades earlier, Rabbi Lamm had been one of the key figures to popularize the term, “Modern Orthodoxy.” By the mid-1980s, Rabbi Lamm believed that “modern” somehow connoted religious compromise, which was never his intention. Drawing from Rambam’s (and Aristotle’s) Golden Mean, Rabbi Lamm preached his movement’s belief in moderation and nuance in the areas of higher learning and Western culture. Centrist Orthodoxy, like Modern Orthodoxy before it, valued Religious Zionism. 

Others added to Rabbi Lamm’s list. For example, Rabbi Gilbert Klaperman, president of the Rabbinical Council of America, confessed to his colleagues at the rabbinical group’s Midwinter Conference in Upstate New York that he and other “Centrists” were “being drawn to the right by the adamant inflexibility of those who are at the right.” In time, by the end of the 1990s, Rabbi Lamm and others reclassified themselves as Modern Orthodox Jews. Since then, some have preserved “Centrist Orthodox Judaism” as a moniker that represents something a bit more religiously conservative while others have used the term interchangeably with Modern Orthodoxy. Sociologist Sylvia Fishman provided an interesting taxonomy in her Ways into the Varieties of Jewishness.

How is this subgroup of Orthodox Judaism faring? In terms of numbers, it’s clear that it is no longer the dominant community. In 2013, the Pew Research Center published “A Portrait of Jewish Americans.” The report was a landmark population study of Jews in the United States. Among its findings, Pew tabulated about 5 million Jews, about 10 percent of whom belong to the Orthodox group. Within that smaller group, 30 percent self-identify as “Modern Orthodox.” According to my math, this suggests that the Modern Orthodox number just 150,000 women and men. The more recent Pew survey completed in 2020 does not drill down on these figures but the dataset available online confirms that the Modern (or Centrist) Orthodox are no longer the mainstream of Orthodox Jewish life in the United States. 

            Why not? I’d offer that it’s because the tenets of Modern Orthodoxy are no longer all that distinguishable from the yeshiva world. The latter has softened its stance on Israel; the erstwhile anti-Zionists (save for Satmar) are by and large non-Zionists. The yeshiva world visits Israel, champions it, and votes for American politicians who they believe best serve Israel’s interests. In addition, the Modern Orthodox and Orthodox Right are much closer aligned in terms of higher education. The yeshiva world has developed partnerships with universities to help their children earn degrees in “practical” fields such as accounting and the health sciences. Their children enroll in top medical schools and elite law schools. With great ingenuity, the Orthodox Right produces manuals to help young people navigate the higher education system to obtain degrees through online programs. One of the most comprehensive is Reuven Frankel’s The Bochur’s Guide to College.

            Meanwhile, the Modern Orthodox have cooled to the liberal arts and the traditional undergraduate experience. Some (understandably) worry about how their children will do on a secular college campus, amid BDS and rising antisemitism. Even before this, though, about 20 years ago, two Ivy League graduate students, Gil Perl and Yaakov Weinstein, wrote a pamphlet titled, “A Parents’ Guide to Orthodox Assimilation on University Campuses.” The short tract with a Modern Orthodox audience in mind warned about the perils of the campus quad. It received significant attention; it was passed around in yeshivot and seminaries in Israel and discussed at many Hillels throughout the United States. 

It's not just the social and cultural aspects of college life. The Modern Orthodox—like so many Americans—have counseled their youngsters to forsake “impractical” degrees in the humanities in favor of business programs, computer science, and other professional-minded tracks. Consider the case of Yeshiva University. In 1987, YU opened the Sy Syms School of Business in response to student requests for “new areas of interest.” President Norman Lamm anticipated the criticism. Even as a minority of students pleaded for business programs, he was adamant that YU remain a liberal arts school. YU’s business school, therefore, trumpeted Rabbi Lamm, “insists on a liberal dose of the liberal arts.” He remained resolutely opposed to total vocationalism and intended for the business school to retain a small portion of the university’s total undergraduate offerings. Today, Sy Syms’ male student body is larger than (the all-male) Yeshiva College’s (Stern College for Women is still much larger than the women’s cohort at Sy Syms). Withal, and due to a lower birthrate than families belonging to the yeshiva world, it is little wonder that the Modern Orthodox community is not growing, at least not at the same rapid pace of the Orthodox Right.

1. What are the three greatest challenges facing Modern Orthodoxy today?

First, politicization. By this, I do not mean that Modern Orthodox Jews have en bloc taken up a particular political party’s cause or voted in a monolithic way. Modern Orthodox Jews probably vote somewhere in between the GOP-leaning Orthodox Right and the majority of American Jews who have, since FDR, voted for Democrats. By politicization, I have in mind the recent discourse about Modern Orthodox Judaism that has centered on politics rather than faith. This is not new in the history of American religion. For instance, in the decades leading up to the Civil War, politics (slavery) split Baptists and Methodists into “northern” and “southern” sections. The United States’ democratic processes are contentious and deeply meaningful; as a result, they tend to absorb considerable discussion and secrete into other areas of life—education, sports, and popular culture, to list a few. Perhaps, then, it was inevitable that matters such as LGBTQ+ and First Amendment issues would eventually dominate the conversations of Modern Orthodox Jews in the media and around the Shabbat table. Yet, it has come at the expense of Modern Orthodoxy spending time on pressing religious concerns: These include refining its approach to Torah study, revitalizing its synagogues, and forming new agencies and ideas to better support its constituencies. 

            Second, expertise. A dozen years ago, researchers Randall Stephens and Karl Giberson authored a brilliant monograph on expertise in the American evangelical community. Their work, The Anointed, demonstrated how the Christian Right elevated self-taught and self-described experts to champion “Evangelical Truth in a Secular Age.” These men (few of these experts were women) published books, wrote articles and took to other forms of modern media to weigh in on science, politics, and history. Their goal was to provide an alternative and “safer” form of truth that could, in their minds, better jibe with their communities’ religious and social sensibilities. Very often, these evangelical exponents deployed rhetorical apologetics and made statements without the sufficient scholarly scaffolding to make cogent and compelling arguments—at least not the kind that would satisfy the most learned. While some within this group such as the historian Mark Noll, described this phenomenon as the “scandal of the Evangelical Mind,” many pious Protestants have felt more comfortable with internal experts, no matter how these individuals compare to scholars and researchers who had trained and received credentials from American universities.

            In the 1960s, the same was the case for the yeshiva world. Their magazines described “newfangled” research in psychology and education. They also worried about the research produced by women and men who were part of the nascent field of Jewish Studies. They often positioned these flawed disciplines against the flawlessness of Daas Torah, a term that denotes a belief in an unimpeachable form of rabbinic wisdom. 

More subtly and more recently, the Modern Orthodox have revealed the same concerns about elevating experts, even within their own community, who possess top credentials. More often than not, congregational rabbis and yeshiva heads are asked to opine on mental health, dating advice, and lecture in the areas of science, history, and philosophy. In some instances, these rabbis and religious leaders possess relevant credentials. Rarely, however, do they conduct research, write, or, I suspect, generally keep up with their peers in the field. Modern Orthodox communities have become much better about inviting a small (but growing) cluster of women leaders to speak on a myriad of issues. But, like their male counterparts, these women are often asked to speak about areas far beyond their specializations. 

            Confounding this further is social media and the relatively low cost of publication. On the one hand, social media has democratized discourse, permitting many people to obtain a voice on various platforms and podcasts. On the other hand, the phenomenon has short-circuited the vetting process. While it is hardly the case that all articles and books published decades ago were the finest works of scholarship, there are, at present, no controls on material produced for wide consumption and consideration. The result of this and the decline of expertise in the Modern Orthodox fold is that there is no very trustworthy forum for intelligent conversation about Modern Orthodox Judaism.

            Third, economics. It is very expensive to live a Modern Orthodox lifestyle. The cost of education is particularly painful. Day School and college are very expensive. Tuition for families, say, with four children enrolled in Day School and summer camp can run, easily, about $120,000 (and that’s after taxes). Rising mortgage rates and housing costs just add to the high cost of Modern Orthodox living. To be sure, it’s not cheap to live in the yeshiva world. Yet, the Orthodox Right, it is my sense, finds philanthropic and government resources (troubling exposés in the media, notwithstanding), to help subvent some costs. 

1. What positive developments do you sense for contemporary Modern Orthodoxy?

It is too soon to speculate about our post-pandemic Modern Orthodox communities. No doubt, synagogues and their leaders have had to reconsider the needs of their congregants. Likewise, Day Schools, forced to pivot and improvise during the “shutdown” Covid period, have learned a lot about their capacities and their ongoing needs for professional development. As for economics, especially amid rising interest rates and inflation, it is far too soon to prognosticate remedies. However, it is heartening to observe the efforts of the Orthodox Union and other agencies who have worked closely with state-level lawmakers to find funding to support Jewish education. In short, the crisis wrought by the Covid-19 pandemic has forced all types of people to think differently about their communities and organizations. This has, no doubt, extended to the Modern Orthodox.

            There’s another reason for optimism. Even before the coronavirus pandemic, Modern Orthodox Judaism in the United States was the beneficiary of an exciting jolt of energy from their dati-le’umi counterparts in Israel. Israelis have inspired new and more advanced forms of learning for America’s Modern Orthodox women, introduced new thinkers and ideas, thanks in large part to Koren Publishers. Still, there are cultural differences between the Modern Orthodox in the United States and Israel’s dati-le’umi leaders. America’s Modern Orthodox community was fashioned by a Lithuanian rabbinic folkway. 

For this reason, traditional Talmud study (“yeshiva learning”) was the coin of the realm for leadership. Unlike in Israel, non-Eastern European exponents such as Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, did not gain a sturdy foothold in American environs. It’s also the reason that Tanakh scholarship is better appreciated among the dati-le’umi constellation Israel than it has been within the Modern Orthodox communities in the United States. This also may suggest why women’s leadership has developed differently in the two communities. If these realms are changing in the United States, it is probably because of Israel’s influence. Not everything from Israel will “take,” of course. The indigenous Modern Orthodox community will continue to privilege traditional Talmud learning, even as other areas of Torah scholarship gain increased reception. We’ll figure out what works best and redevelop the infrastructure to reimagine and fortify our Modern Orthodox communities in the United States.

Introduction
These opening chapters introduce Kohelet’s central preoccupations: the tension
between wisdom and futility, the fleeting nature of pleasure, and the yearning for
meaning in a world that offers no permanence.
Kohelet begins with a name, or rather a title. The word appears seven times in the
book, most notably at the beginning: Divrei Kohelet ben David melekh bi-
Yerushalayim—“The words of Kohelet son of David, king in Jerusalem” (1:1).
Traditionally identified with King Solomon, the title Kohelet seems to derive from kahal,
to assemble. He is either one who gathers wisdom or one who gathers people to share
it—an ancient preacher-philosopher. The Greek translation, Ecclesiastes, reflects this
notion: one who addresses the assembled.
But why does Solomon speak through a nickname? As one midrash
(Deuteronomy Rabbah 1:5) observes, if anyone else had declared “havel havalim,” we
might dismiss him as bitter or impoverished. Only someone who had everything—wealth,
wisdom, success—could credibly proclaim the futility of it all. Kohelet becomes not
merely Solomon, but a stand-in for every person who reflects deeply on life, death, and
the search for meaning.
Though the persona is royal, the voice shifts. The early chapters describe kingly
accomplishments, but by the end of chapter 2 the royal framing fades. The epilogue refers
to Kohelet not as king but as a sage. This suggests a deliberate transition: from historical
monarch to timeless teacher. What begins as a personal account becomes a universal
meditation on the human condition.
“Havel Havalim”: The Motto of the Sefer (1:2–3)
The book’s opening declaration—Havel havalim…ha-kol havel—resounds as its
central motif. The word hevel appears 38 times in Kohelet (out of 73 in all of Tanakh),
often translated as “vanity” or “futility.” In biblical Hebrew, it literally means “breath” or
“vapor.” This metaphor, developed in Kohelet Rabbah and drawing from a related
meaning in Job 7:16, evokes ephemerality—life as a puff of air, hevel marks the
dissolution of coherence under suffering.
But the tone is more than ephemeral—it’s often painful. Hevel is paired with
ra’ah (evil), holi ra (grievous sickness), and inyan ra (troubling occupation). The theme
isn’t simply that life is short; it is incomprehensible, even unjust. This view emerges
sharply in 2:21–23 and 6:1–2: people labor with wisdom and skill only to have their
portion go to someone unworthy.
Michael V. Fox describes hevel as “absurdity”: not nihilism, but the intrusion of
the irrational into a world we expect to make sense. 129 Rashi and Rashbam (on
Ecclesiastes 8:14) adopt a similar interpretation. Yet critics like Mark Sneed push back,
noting that hevel in Tanakh typically means “worthless” or “futile,” not absurd. 130 Samuel
Goh suggests a mediating view: Vapor is vague, amorphous. Wisdom, enjoyment, and
divine justice—much like hevel—resist absolute definition. Life defies either/or

meaning, and is filled with contradictions. Goh affirms Fox’s insight into the ambiguity
of life, while preserving the word’s more traditional connotations of vapor, futility, and
impermanence. 131
Hevel thus marks the boundary between human longing and the ungraspable
nature of reality—a motif Kohelet returns to again and again.
The Quest for Yitron (1:3)
Kohelet’s great question is: Mah yitron la-adam be-khol amalo?—“What profit
does a person have from all his toil under the sun?” The term yitron, “lasting benefit,” is
key. While there may be helek, momentary portion or joy, yitron implies
permanence—and that is what eludes us.
Amal, “toil,” appears frequently—13 times as a verb in Kohelet and 22 more
times as a noun. It captures both the effort and its fruit. But everything “under the
sun”—a phrase unique to Kohelet (29 times)—is bounded by human experience.
Yonatan Grossman and Asael Abelman distinguish between tahat ha-shemesh
(human activity) and tahat ha-shamayim (a broader, divine vantage point, which appears
three times in Kohelet). Kohelet’s perspective is human, grounded in the temporal
world. 132
Nature, Memory, and Meaning (1:4–11)
Nature’s cycles—sun, wind, rivers—are described with rhythmic beauty in 1:4–7.
Yet for Kohelet, their endless repetition signals futility. As Ibn Ezra and Mordechai Zer-
Kavod note, nature’s constancy contrasts with human transience: the earth endures, but
people vanish. Rashbam, however, reads the passage as showing that even nature exhibits
no progress, only cycles.
Grossman and Abelman 133 add a subtle point: Unlike Psalm 104, which celebrates
the cyclical order of nature as divine providence, Kohelet sees these cycles as
oppressive—a beautiful machine that ultimately goes nowhere.
Everything is in motion, yet nothing advances. Just as the ocean is never full, the
human appetite is never satisfied (1:8). The prose in 1:9–11 reinforces the poem’s
message: everything that seems new has happened before, and human memory is
unreliable. People—and their deeds—are forgotten. History offers no redemptive
progress.
The Futility of Knowing (1:12–18)
Kohelet presents himself as a seeker: ani Kohelet hayiti melekh—“I, Kohelet, was
king.” His quest for wisdom becomes a burden. La’anot bo, refers both to pursuit and
affliction. The Targum and several later commentators, including Mordechai Zer-Kavod,
connect this phrase to inuy, suffering. Wisdom does not ease frustration—it intensifies it
(1:18).
The phrase re’ut ru’ah—“a chasing after wind”—appears seven times. Like trying
to shepherd the wind (Hosea 12:2), it is futile and maddening. Fox distinguishes between

re’ut ru’ah and ra’ayon ru’ah (1:17): the pursuit of wisdom may succeed, but it still
brings vexation.
The Limits of Pleasure and Achievement (Chapter 2)
Finding wisdom vexing, Kohelet turns to another domain—pleasure—but finds it
similarly fleeting. Kohelet turns from wisdom to pleasure: wine, gardens, wealth, music,
and concubines. He builds palaces and orchards, amassing more than any before him
(2:4–10). The repeated root asah (“to make”) underscores the scale of his
accomplishments.
Yet none of it endures. Though his wisdom remains intact (2:9), it offers no
ultimate advantage. The final verdict: ha-kol hevel u-re’ut ru’ah, it was all futile and
pursuit of wind (2:11). Kohelet’s unprecedented success becomes his proof text for the
futility of even the best-case scenario.
Notably, even wisdom itself contains complexity. It is certainly better than folly
(2:13), yet it cannot prevent death (2:16). The wise and the fool share the same fate.
Worse, one’s legacy may fall into the hands of a fool (2:18–23).
A Theology of Gratitude (2:24–26)
In response to life’s unpredictability, Kohelet begins to emphasize a more modest
joy: enjoying one’s portion. En tov ba-adam… ki im le-ekhol ve-lishtot—there is nothing
better than to eat, drink, and find satisfaction in one’s toil. This is not hedonism, but a
theology of helek, of recognizing the gifts that come from God, not from our own merit.
Kohelet Rabbah and Rashi spiritualize this verse—interpreting food and drink as
Torah and commandments. But the peshat, as Rashbam, Mordechai Zer-Kavod, and
others note, emphasizes the fleeting joys of life as God’s gift. Work hard, live
decently—but recognize that control is limited. The difference between the wise and the
fool lies in how they respond to life’s challenges and limitations. This shift recurs
throughout the book in similar refrains (e.g., 3:12–13, 5:17–19), reinforcing its role as a
kind of “practical theology.”
Time and Eternity (Chapter 3)
The famous poem in 3:1–8—“a time for every purpose”—underscores human
limitations. We do not control time. Kohelet recognizes that God “placed eternity in the
human heart” (3:11), yet withheld the ability to grasp it fully.
Ibn Ezra and Zer-Kavod interpret ha-olam as a yearning for eternity. We desire
permanence, but live in a fleeting world of change. This too, Kohelet says, is God’s
design: that we should be humbled, stand in awe, and learn our limits (3:14).
While some verses affirm divine justice (3:15–17), others question it. Kohelet
compares humans to animals—both die, both return to dust. The refrain mi
yode’a—“who knows?”—signals humility. He does not deny afterlife, but rather cannot
appeal to it to resolve the moral dilemmas of this world.

Kohelet 1–3 lays bare the soul’s aching tension: the yearning for permanence
amid life’s transience. In this opening meditation, Kohelet teaches not to resolve the
tension, but to live honestly within it.
Kohelet deliberately avoids any appeal to afterlife or resurrection in his account of
divine justice. His theological vision is entirely this-worldly. For a broader discussion of
afterlife in Jewish thought, and how later Jewish texts grappled with the same tensions
Kohelet raises, see the appendix essay, “Afterlife in Jewish Thought.”
Kohelet 1–3 sets the tone for a book that never settles for easy answers. In the
face of toil, impermanence, and uncertainty, Kohelet urges not despair, but
attentiveness—to fleeting joy, to moral humility, and to the awe of God that arises from
honest limitation.

The Battle for the Jewish Mind

Book Review by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Sina Kahen, the Founder of Da’at Press, has recently published a very important volume: “The Battle for the Jewish Mind: The Maimonidean Controversies and Why They Matter Today.” Sina works in the Medical Tech and AI industries, and has been publishing a series of books that foster a grand religious vision. Born in Iran, Sina lives in London with his wife and two children. He is one of the leaders in Habura, a group that promotes a Judaism based on the “Geonic-Sepharadi tradition,” and even more specifically the “Geonic-Andalusian tradition.”

Maimonides (1138-1204) is the great exemplar of this tradition. He was a brilliant Talmudist and halakhist, and his Mishneh Torah continues to be a foundational work in Jewish law.  Aside from his mastery of rabbinic sources, he was highly regarded for his medical and scientific works. Like others in the Geonic-Andalusian tradition, he valued philosophy and general knowledge. His classic Guide for the Perplexed offered an intellectually rigorous approach to Judaism: how to read the Bible,  how to reconcile biblical texts with philosophic and scientific truths, how to seek reasons for the commandments, how to understand revelation, prophecy, messianism etc.  In short, Maimonides was a proponent of a thinking Judaism that drew on the best teachings of our rabbis and the best wisdom available from beyond Jewish sources.

Maimonides’ commitment to philosophy was so great, he included basic philosophic principles about God in the opening chapters of his code of Jewish law. He stressed that a knowledge of physics and metaphysics was essential to a proper religious life. 

While his approach was well within the Geonic-Andalusian tradition, many religious traditionalists advocated a very different view of things. They sought all truth in the Torah and rabbinic texts; they thought that philosophical inquiry could lead the masses away from religious observance. They taught a kabbalistic/midrashic Judaism that demanded emunat hakhamim, reliance on the opinions of sages who were not tainted by wisdom from the general world. They not only denigrated the philosophical approach of Maimonides, they strove to ban his books. What emerged was a century and more of “the Maimonidean controversies.” The anti-Maimonides group went so far as to denounce Maimonides heresies to Dominican monks who set fire to Maimonides’ books in a public demonstration in Paris in 1233.  The horror of this event caused some anti-Maimonists to repent their ways.

But the basic controversies did not disappear…and are still raging in religious Jewish life today. The Maimonidean approach to philosophical quest is highly discouraged among much of Orthodoxy today. Sina Kahen asks: “Why is the worldly tradition—the one that treated the sciences as servants of Torah, that saw rigorous and rational inquiry as a form of worship—not the mainstream?” (p. 75).  Why is so much of Orthodoxy today steeped in kabbalistic/midrashic Judaism, rather than the intellectually sophisticated Judaism espoused by Rambam and the Geonic/Andalusian tradition?

Sina Kahen pointedly notes: “The question is not whether Jews “should” engage with the sciences—as though one were choosing between a safe path and a risky one. The question is whether a Jew who refuses to look at the world God made can be said to know the God who made it. The tradition we have followed through these pages answered: he cannot. Not fully. Not with the depth that Torah demands” (p. 80).

Sina Kahen has written a remarkable volume that not only provides the historical context of “the Maimonidean controversies,” but demonstrates how those controversies persist today. While, happily, there are those within modern Jewry espousing an intellectually vibrant Judaism open to the sciences, humanities and arts—there are others who strive to narrow intellectual pursuits to the four cubits of Torah as they understand it.

Sina Kahen’s book is available through Da’at Press: https://www.daat.press/product-page/the-battle-for-the-jewish-mind-the-maimonidean-controversies-sina-kahen

I recommend it very highly.