Even a father and his son, a teacher and his student, who are studying Torah together in one gate, become enemies to each other but do not leave there until they love each other. (BT Kiddushin 30b)

This aphorism, the end of which is more properly translated as “do not leave there until their love for each other increases,” seems counterintuitive to someone whose academic experience lies exclusively in the world of secular academia. The Torah, however, is studied in a Beit Midrash that inheres an intense environment of passionate study, often in the dyad format of havruta study. Two people, young or old, engage in reading and understanding a text together. Since they are different people, each with a unique perspective and experience, their interpretative perception is almost assuredly going to differ with that of the partner. One might think that, given the emphasis that our tradition places on manners, on respect for a fellow—especially for a parent and teacher—that intellectual fire would be stilled by reverent acquiescence. Yet, as any member of a serious Beit Midrash can attest, the opposite is the case. Indeed, the more revered the sage, the more likely the students are to challenge him in a nearly uninhibited, vociferous manner. This has the potential—at least to the outside observer—to create enmity between these study partners, with the intense frustration of the partner (or student—or teacher) to see what is obvious to the other. A casual observer would be surprised by this intensity. This can be cured by spending a few days in a Beit Midrash, engaging in study. If nothing else is gained (and much can be gained from every Beit Midrash session), this experience will make it clear that to a serious student of Torah, study is lifeblood and the intellectual battle over its truth, its meaning and its application to our lives is a fight “to the death,” as it were—“take no survivors.” What true study partners, even be they of inequal status, background and knowledge, find when they conclude their study session is that the intensity of this battle over the truth has, miraculously, brought them closer together. 

In this article, I hope to explore this unusual phenomenon which has been a blessed reality of traditional Jewish scholarly life[1] for at least 1,500 years. It is my contention that in these contentious times, where political alliances are exclusive, where friendships and even families are threatened by party alliances and by demagogic positioning, the Western world has much to gain from learning about how mahloket—dispute—can be not only healthy but may be the source of a great blessing of healing these rifts. 

Before doing so, I’d like to explore several modes of “unity” as proposed, sometimes urgently, both in the national political arena as well as in the religious world—where we call it ahdut. 

            Calls for unity usually come in three variations. I will term them “Unity of Compromise,” “Unity of Emptiness,” and “Unity of Resignation.” No leader would propose a healing process using any of these monikers, but we will see that at the essence of each mode these descriptions are accurate. 

Some call for unity by identifying the testiest areas of disagreement and trying to convince the two sides to remove that particular position from their platform. This is a valuable and laudable method in the political arena and is at the heart of most bipartisan attempts to pass legislation. It has proven to work—with two willing sides—but for legislative purposes only. In other words, it does nothing to bring the two sides together on the national (or local) scene in any meaningful way. In other words, this is a successful model for promoting the common good. However, on the social plane, it avoids the most critical issues which sit at the heart of the national divide. 

The second type of unity is not of a legislative or political context and is usually found in social or religious settings. The idea proposed is that all sides agree to disabuse themselves of those positions and beliefs which are unique and opposed to by any of the other groups. This can be found in some of the large social movements of the last few decades, where anyone who wishes to participate must relinquish—at least publicly—any position or belief that is not acceptable to the rest of the group (or, more accurately, the leadership). An example of this is a group of Jews committed to the welfare of the State of Israel who agree to not bring religious sentiments into the discussion—thus allowing Orthodox and non-Orthodox to work together. These approaches are temporarily successful in meeting the needs of the organization but do nothing to bring people together in anything but a fragile and inherently temporary manner. 

The third type of call for unity is what I term “Unity of Resignation.” One position has become dominant in the given social or political group and its leaders try to prevail upon their ideological opponents to admit defeat, so to speak, and join the majority (to become a “supermajority”). This type of call is usually met with derisive opposition from the minority group, who is convinced that its relatively unpopular stance represents a non-negotiable truth. In those cases where the embattled few agree to join the broader group, if their iconoclastic positions have any merit, this abandonment can be viewed as a shame—or it may fester and cause further dissension within the newly broadened ranks of the majority. We have seen this happen with several political splinter groups which were corralled into one of the two major parties in the United States. The resentment felt among those who acquiesced inevitably finds its expression in internal strife and, in some cases, leads to a repeat of the original divide. 

Note that in the observant Jewish world, each of these has been proposed in a call for the much needed “ahdut” (unity). Examples of each abound—usually a call for ahdut means that everyone should agree to follow the direction laid out by the one calling for such unity—in other words, a Unity of Resignation. 

What all three of these methods have in common is not what they are but what they are not. In every case, the differences between the groups are ignored, avoided, or (theoretically) discarded. Practically, this may be the only way to get groups to work together, to march together or to vote together. But it sidesteps the real issue that, I suggest, sits at the heart of our current social crisis—both in the United States and in Israel. Put simply, people are unable to tolerate, much less debate, those who hold opinions with which they disagree. Stereotyping, vilification, and shaming become the knee-jerk reaction to dissent. 

But the Beit Midrash may hold a golden key to the current crisis of polarization. Entering the Beit Midrash is a glorious way to luxuriate in the passionate combativeness over the meaning of a common text, a common concept or common practice. I would like to take you into the Beit Midrash and see how the method of dispute can shine a salvific light on our current moment of dissent and division. But to do so would mean that the various players would have to agree that there is, indeed, a common text, a common concept or a common practice which is to be examined and to set some basic ground rules for how that analytic inquiry is to take place. This is, I believe, well within our reach once we admit that we are all interested in the same outcome—for instance, a society governed by norms of fairness, common human rights for all—but informed by an overall sense of morality. Numerous descriptions of the beauty of hard-fought disputes in the Academies of Yavne, Sura, Mainz, and Volozhin—to name just a few—have the potential to launch an era of passionate dispute and debate that can pit side against side as “enemies” but that ultimately will bring them together in a majestic “real” unity which embraces the whole person, dissent and all. 

I would like to suggest that in spite of the vociferous and well-documented disputes between the schools of Shamai and Hillel in the first half of the first century, the type of healthy and nurturing disputatious academy environment was launched in the shadow of destruction, at Yavne. 

One prefatory note. There is a well-known story, reported in B. Berakhot (27b–28a) as well as in Y. Berakhot (4:1) and Taanit (4:1) about the ouster of Rabban Gamliel and the installation of R. Elazar b. Azariah as head of the Sanhedrin. According to the report in the Bavli, the accommodation made with Rabban Gamliel after he was returned to a position of leadership, was that he and R. Elazar b. Azariah would split the leadership—one week a month for R. Elazar and three weeks to Rabban Gamliel. This background is vital for understanding not only an odd phrase at the beginning of the story, but also the entire thrust of the series of homilies presented by our protagonist, R. Elazar b. Azariah. The Yerushalmi’s conclusion, that each of them held leadership roles simultaneously, is an equally compelling backdrop to the story and its ultimate message. 

The Tosefta (Sotah 7:8–11) shares the following rather long anecdote about that first generation of post-Hurban teaching: 

It so happened with Rabbi Yohanan ben Berokah and Rabbi Elazar ben Hisma, that they were traveling from Yavneh to Lod, [and they stopped] to pay a visit to Rabbi Yehoshua in Peki'in. Rabbi Yehoshua said to them, "What news do you have from the house of study today?" They said to him, "Rabbi, we are your students, and from your waters we drink." He said to them, "It is impossible that there nothing new was discussed in the house of study. Whose week was it?[2]" They said to him, "Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah." He said to them, "What did he discuss?" 

1. They said to him, "[He discussed the commandment of Hakhel, to] 'Gather the people, the men, the women, and the little children'" (Deuteronomy 31:10–12). He said to them, "What did he expound about it?" They said to him, "He expounded thus: If men came to learn [and] women came to listen, why did the little children come? In order to bestow a reward upon those who brought them. 

2. And another thing that he expounded (Deuteronomy 26:17–18), 'You have declared today for Hashem [to be your God] ... [and] God has declared today for you [to be his treasured people].' The Holy One Blessed be He said to Israel, just as you have made me your only object of love in this world, so too I will make you my only object of love in the World to Come." 

3. And he (i.e., Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah) also expounded (Ecclesiastes 12:11), "The sayings of the wise are like goads, like nails fixed in prodding sticks. They were given by one Shepherd." Just as the goad directs the cow so as to bring life to the world, so too words of Torah are only life for the world, as it is said, “It is a tree of life . . .” [Proverbs 3:18]. Or, just as the goad is movable, might it be so for words of Torah? Scripture says, “And like nails firmly planted.” [Or, might (words of Torah like nails) neither diminish nor increase? Scripture says, “firmly planted.”] Just as a plant flourishes and grows, so too words of Torah flourish and grow. 'Masters of Assemblies' these are students of the wise that enter into multiple assemblies and declare what is impure [to be] impure, and what is pure [to be] pure; what is impure [to be] in its place and what is pure [to be] in its place. Perhaps it will arise in one's mind that since Beit Shammai [declares] impure and Beit Hillel [declares] pure, so-and-so prohibits and so-and-so permits, [Why] should I henceforth study Torah? Scripture teaches "words" "the words" "these are the words" [see Exodus 19:6–7] all of these words were given by "one Shepherd" [Ecclesiastes 12:11]. One God created them, one Benefactor gave them, the Master of all deeds, blessed be He, said them. Now make for your heart chambers within chambers and bring into it the words of Beit Shammai and the words of Beit Hillel, the words of those who declare impure and the words of those who declare pure. [After hearing what had been expounded in the house of study, Rabbi Yehoshua] said, "There is no generation that [can be considered] orphaned, if Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah dwells in its midst."

    

According to this report, Rabbi Elazar b. Azariah presented three homilies (marked “a,” “b” and “c” above), concluding with his charge to his audience to learn how to hear both sides of a dispute. This Tosefta is quoted in the Talmud Yerushalmi (Sotah 3:4; Hagigah 1:1) but only the first homily is brought; in Avot d’Rabbi Natan (version A, chapter 18), the middle homily is elided, but the adjuration to his audience is included. The Bavli (Hagigah 3a–b) has all three homilies in this sequence, with added supporting verses. 

I would like to suggest that the entire story as recorded in the Tosefta, which is evidently the original report with all three homilies in sequence, provides a pedagogic and anthropo-theological weltanschauung that not only allows for dispute, but elevates it to a desired and potentially sanctified state of study. 

It is prudent to note, before examining this text, that R. Elazar b. Azariah’s approach to dispute is not the only voice heard. R. Yossi is famous for his nostalgic and wistful recall of the day when there were no disputes—and lays the blame for the amplification and proliferation of Halakhic disputes at the feet of the students of Shamai and Hillel, “who did not serve their masters diligently” (i.e., did not apply themselves to their study with the requisite commitment and focus).[3] But that is as it should be—what would a position glorifying dispute mean if someone didn’t challenge it?

 To put this series of d’rashot into their proper context, we must keep in mind that, per the report of the Bavli,[4] the newly inaugurated Beit Midrash at Yavneh was an exclusive academy. R. Gamliel, the Patriarch and undisputed (for a while) head of the yeshiva, maintained a policy of only allowing the finest and purest students to participate in the discussions and deliberations in the Beit Midrash. R. Elazar b. Azariah, according to the report in the Bavli, opened the doors and “popularized” the study of Torah. He engineered a revolution in which the value—not just the toleration—of dissent would play a central role. 

Before examining the homilies, we ought to note that the setting for this conversation is already one of dispute. R. Yehoshua wants his students to share the new teachings that they undoubtedly heard in the Beit Midrash—but they protest that they have come to learn from him, their master. His insistence is rewarded, per the expanded report in B. Hagigah 3, with a “jewel” of a homily, that they had conspired to keep from him. In other words, the dispute itself led to greater intellectual wealth on his part. At the conclusion of the students’ retelling, their master exclaims that this generation, which had every reason to feel abandoned and forlorn (having just experienced the destruction of Jerusalem, the loss of any semblance of sovereignty and the burning of the Mikdash), could not be considered an “orphaned generation” due to the personality of R. Elazar b. Azariah. Although this consoling coda may be read as expressing the extent of R. Yehoshua’s regard for his younger colleague’s rhetorical brilliance, I believe that this approbation reflects a more profound message which emerges from this series of homilies. And it is to those homilies that we now turn our attention. 

The first homily is anchored in the commandment of Hakhel (Deuteronomy 31:10–13), wherein the entire nation is commanded to gather once every seven years on Sukkot, as they all come to be seen before God. While gathered, they are to hear the reading of (select sections from) the Torah. Note that the Torah identifies three distinct groups among the assembled—“men, women and children” and provides two related purposes—“in order that they may hear and they may learn” but the text continues with what they are to learn and what those lessons ought to lead to: “and will fear Hashem your God and will observe to fulfill all of this Torah.” R. Elazar seems to pick up on the specificative wording of the text—“the men, the women, and the children” and matches that with the doubled goal “in order that they may hear and that they will learn” and understands that the text is directing us to what we, in our modern era, refer to as “differentiated learning.” In other words, a single educational experience can operate simultaneously in various modes and on various levels in order to meet the pedagogic needs of all of the target audience. 

The use of Hakhel as the inspiration for his homily speaks to his programmatic upheaval in the tenor of the Beit Midrash. For anyone who has come into the newly opened study hall, who was not welcome before this due to their lack of experience (or other limitations), must be struck by the theme of the great rabbi’s talk. Everyone must gather, and there will be a modality for each that will allow young and old, experienced and neophyte, to participate in the exciting life of this newly revamped Beit Midrash. 

Note that his explanation of the value of bringing little children—“to give reward to those who bring them” suffers from reification. If the only reason that the Torah commanded parents to bring their children was to give those parents a reward for following this command, this all begs the question, and we are still left wondering what the reason behind the command is. (After all, if the reason for the command is merely to give them a reward for fulfilling it, any random act could have been commanded with the same outcome). I’d like to suggest that latet sakhar le-mevi’eihem should not be seen as a purely technical explanation. Rather, the parents indeed are rewarded by exposing their children—from their earliest days—to the environment of the Beit Midrash. Knowing that they always can find a home there and gaining a nearly inborn familiarity with the air of learning and inquiry is itself a great guarantor to their richer future as denizens of the Academy.[5] This observation also increases the types of value that the Beit Midrash can confer on its participants. The men come to study—i.e., to engage in the exchange of information. The women come to hear, to gain from the experiential and spiritual benefits that the Beit Midrash offers.[6] The children come and at whatever age they are not yet ready for either of these, are enriched by “just being there.” 

Thus, R. Elazar b. Azariah’s first homily serves as a welcome to all those assembled to join in the exhilarating experience of this newly fully opened academy. 

A priori, it is difficult to see the connection between the Hakhel lesson and the one that follows. R. Elazar expounded on a difficult word which appears twice in sequential verses: he’emarta/he’eimirkha. The simplest reading of this word is “to raise up”[7]—to wit, “you have raised up Hashem today, to be your God…and Hashem has raised you up today to be His treasured nation….” For homiletic purposes, however, the master reads that hapax legomenon (it only appears in this form in these two related verses) as a form of amar—say. He interprets the verse as “You have declared regarding Hashem…and Hashem has declared regarding you.” He then goes on to read a symbiotic pair of declarations—that just as we declare God’s unity in this world, so does God affirm our unity. The expanded version of the Baraita in BT Hagigah adds markers for each. We declare God to be one when we vocalize the “Shema Yisrael…” and He affirms our unity (or uniqueness) when He states “Mi ke-amkha Yisrael, goy ehad ba-aretz”—“who is like Your people, Yisrael, a singular nation in the land.”[8]

I’d like to suggest that this second homily is part of a larger argument that R. Elazar is formulating. We affirm that God, despite the multitudinous and differentiated manifestations of His power and grace that we experience, is One. The thunder, the gentle rain, the sunset and the sunrise are distinct phenomena. Yet we see in those distinct miracles One God, understood as all the more glorious for His multi-faceted modes of interaction with His world. In the same way, the master teaches us, the unity of the Jewish people, not in spite of but on account of the many differences that distinguish us from each other, is worthy of God’s affirmation. 

At this point, the essential message which the new “Rosh Yeshiva” is formulating is not yet apparent. The final homily will bring that home. 

This odd verse towards the end of Kohelet (12:11) reads: “The words of the wise are like goads, and like nails firmly fixed are the collected sayings; they are given by one shepherd” (ESV).

This reading, like any of the other versions, is cryptic. However, we might work with the peshat, R. Elazar b. Azariah uses these disparate descriptors of the Law to put the final prong in his argument. 

The words of the wise are compared to a painful instrument, used to goad the cattle in their work, to plow the field, which enables planting, reaping, and…eating. As such, the counsel of the sages, while painful (?) are the necessary vehicle for sustaining life. 

But these words are not, like a cattle prod, something light that can be used or disposed of—they are “like nails”—firmly planted. In other words, the teaching of the sages have a fixed property and are reliable and, essentially, eternal. 

Yet, the comparison to “nails” implies not only a fixedness, but also a rigidity and an inherent limitation of growth. To that end, he reads the word netu’im—which is contextually translated as “fixed,” as the opposite—“planted,” implying something that grows, develops and, again, nurtures. The metaphor is not only wildly mixed, it also presents seemingly contradictory messages about the words of the Sages—they are fixed and firm, yet they have the organic ability to grow and develop. At this point in his derashah, R. Elazar shifts his interpretative scheme from the words of Torah to those self-same sages whose words are the focus of the verse—and the homily. In peshat, we may read ba’alei asuppot as a synonym for divrei hakhamim—the words of the wise. But in his derashah, he reads it as a unique descriptor of the wise men themselves—the sages of this newly (re-)opened communal Beit Midrash. They are the rabbis and their students who gather there and discuss and debate the law, coming to diametrically opposed conclusions—“pure” vs. “impure,” “owing” vs. “exempt,” “permitted” vs. “prohibited.” This is where the larger program of his derashah becomes evident. He turns directly to his audience, those who until Rabban Gamliel was ousted, were not privy to these exciting and confusing debates:

Perhaps it will arise in one's mind that since Beit Shammai [declares] impure and Beit Hillel[9] [declares] pure, so-and-so prohibits and so-and-so permits, [Why] should I henceforth study Torah?[10]

He is addressing the understandable confusion that anyone who is uninitiated in the ways of the Beit Midrash would feel when first encountering the spirited, passionate and intellectually dizzying arguments pro and con on an infinitely broad range of issues. This new audience is adjured to: 

Now make for your heart chambers within chambers and bring into it the words of Beit Shammai and the words of Beit Hillel, the words of those who declare impure and the words of those who declare pure.

Or, in the words of the Bavli tradition of this homily: 

So too, you (the student), make your ears like a funnel and acquire for yourself an understanding heart to hear both the statements of those who render objects ritually impure and the statements of those who render them pure; the statements of those who prohibit actions and the statements of those who permit them; the statements of those who deem items invalid and the statements of those who deem them valid. (B. Hagigah 3b)

And he anchors his argument in the end of the verse: nittenu me-ro’eh ehad—given by one shepherd. One God gave us the Torah, one shepherd (Moshe) taught it to us. In other words, the Law, in its essence, is a pure light, radiating Divine knowledge which, by definition, must be unitary and of a single truth. Yet, as happens when pure light is refracted through a prism, it becomes differentiated and takes on the appearance of various colors and shades, at odds with each other. Behind the opinion of Beit Shammai is the same essential light as informs Beit Hillel. It is the student’s job to hear the opposing opinions and applications - the refractions of that light—and to learn how to recognize the validity of each side and, ultimately, to discover the unified light which informs it all. 

We can now revisit the entire homily and detect a deeper message, one which not only empowers the new students and provides some initiative guidance for them in the ways of the Beit Midrash but makes a larger point about the inherent value of dispute and of the opening of those hallowed doors. 

R. Elazar b. Azariah, presenting his new public policy platform, begins by invoking the great gathering of all—men, women and children—to the central place of worship as a valuable addendum to the pilgrimage festival of Sukkot. At that gathering, when all of the people have come to appear before God and to be seen by Him, part of that monumental event is the public reading of the Torah—the source of that great light—at which a deliberately differentiated audience participates, each in his or her own way. He underscores even the value of “just being there,” for the infants and the great reward that that brings to the parents. 

He continues by highlighting the reciprocal and—if it can be said—symbiotic relationship between the Jewish people and God, each with infinite expressions yet all anchored in a singularity and Oneness. His derashah may be understood on a deeper plane. Not only is there a parallel between these “Ones”—but it is the task of Yisrael to reflect, through their ultimate unity, the Unity of God. 

R. Elazar’s denouement is the hard-hitting description of the disputatious nature of the study of the Law and the opportunity and obligation that all must enter into the Beit Midrash, to accept the nature of the Law as arguable and to discover the intellectual ability to wrestle with both sides of an issue. This is not only an invitation, but also an exhortation. Now that the Beit Midrash doors have been flung wide open, no one has an excuse to avoid engagement. And that engagement takes place at the transformed “place where Hashem chooses to place His Name”—and it is here, right here, that we hear the historic calling to create a society that will reflect, in its unity of purpose arising from the passionate disagreements about how to achieve that unity, the Unity of God. 

We live in highly disputatious times. We have seen friendship, work relationships and even families broken apart over severe differences in opinion. If society around us can take a clue from this great homily—one which gave the aged R. Yehoshua comfort that the generation after the destruction was, indeed, not orphaned—we may be able to go back to basics. We can start with what we agree on and then, vociferously and passionately, disagree about how to get there. If we keep the bigger picture not only in mind, but also as part of the conversation, we can end up as greater friends and co-seekers:

Even a father and his son, a teacher and his student, who are studying Torah together in one gate, become enemies to each other but do not leave there until they love each other.

Notes

Thoughts for Pessah

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

At the Seder, we ate the “Hillel Sandwich,” Korekh, which includes both matsa and maror. Rabbi Benzion Uziel, late Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel, pointed out that matsa—eaten as the Israelites left Egypt—symbolizes freedom. Maror—bitter herb—symbolizes the bitterness of slavery. We combine these two symbols to remind us that freedom and slavery are intertwined. Even when we are enslaved, we have our inner freedom. Even when we are free, we have to worry about falling back into slavery.

Until Mashiah arrives, we are always experiencing a mixture of matsa and maror, freedom and suffering. Sometimes things are better and sometimes worse…but we are constantly engaged in personal and national struggle.

We are currently living in very challenging times for Israel and the Jewish People. We all feel the taste of maror, the bitterness of war, death, anti-Semitism, ugly anti-Israel hatred. But we also have the taste of matsa…freedom. The State of Israel is strong, vibrant, and courageous. The Jewish People worldwide are standing up for our rights and for the honor of Israel. We are literally eating “korekh”, matsa and maror together, simultaneously. 

If the first days of Pessah highlight the mixed feelings symbolized by matsa and maror, the last days of Pessah stress redemption. On the Seventh Day of Pessah, the Torah reading features the song sung by Moses and the Israelites upon crossing the Sea of Reeds and escaping from their Egyptian oppressors. The focus is on the past redemption. On the Eighth Day of Pessah, the Haftara is drawn from the prophecies of Isaiah concerning the future redemption. “Cry aloud and sing for joy, Zion resettled, for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel.”

It has been noted that the redemption from Egypt is attributed entirely to the Almighty. The Israelites themselves were relatively passive in the process of gaining their freedom. But the ultimate redemption will require us to participate actively. While Hashem will be the guarantor, we will need to assume personal responsibility.

Along with our prayers, we each must stand with Am Yisrael in every way possible. We need action—communal, political, financial etc.—in support of Medinat Yisrael. We need to stand up against anti-Semites and anti-Zionists with fortitude…and we must prevail.

Isaiah’s words resonate: “Behold, God is my salvation, I trust and am not afraid; For God the Lord is my strength and my song and He is become my salvation…Cry aloud and sing for joy, Zion resettled, for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel.”

Devarim 4:5–8 paints an idyllic word-picture of how Gentiles will perceive Torah-observant Jews:

Behold, I have taught you statutes and regulations, as Hashem my God commanded me, for you to do them in the midst of the land which you are coming to inherit. You will preserve them and do them, because they are your wisdom and discernment in the view of the nations, who will hear all these statutes and say: “Indeed this great nation is wise and discerning.”

History has rarely corresponded to this picture. Moreover, rabbinic literature is fully aware that some biblical commandments arouse mockery or disdain among many non-Jews. Dismissing those non-Jews as shallow does not resolve the problem that the Torah seems descriptively false. Claiming that the Torah’s description applies only to a perfectly observant community, and thus blaming Jews for incomplete observance, seems disingenuous and victim-blaming.

And yet there was an exception. American Jews in the late twentieth century could reasonably perceive themselves as living mostly in the Torah’s world. The phrase “Judeo-Christian values,” however problematic historically and fraught politically, amounted to Gentile recognition and endorsement of what they perceived as the values of the Torah. Laws such as kashruth were seen as legitimate and praiseworthy means of preserving identity while expressing universal values, rather than as illegitimate and blameworthy separatism. Even the ban on intermarriage was tolerated by the broader society, although I suspect only because it was honored mostly in the breach.

Nonetheless, the logically inescapable truth is that on any issue that is controversial in Gentile society, Jews and Judaism cannot take a firm position without earning praise from the Gentiles on one side and criticism from those on the other. The substance of Torah can be universally admired only in a consensus society, or else if Torah refracts into multiple and mutually exclusive positions corresponding to the broader society’s moral/ideological factions. 

If America was a consensus society, it is no longer; and of course, one can argue that the supposed consensus was always an illusion fostered by an elite. Political data suggests that we are consciously or unconsciously adopting the refraction strategy to meet the new polarized reality. Orthodox Jews are increasingly going with Republicans or MAGAism, and non-Orthodox Jews with Democrats or progressivism. Anecdotally, this sorting is self-reinforcing, as Jews are also switching or dropping out of denominational life because of political discomfort. 

It's entirely reasonable for the Jewish community overall to have roughly the same political spectrum as the society around it, and for Orthodoxy and non-Orthodoxy to favor different sides of a major cultural conflict. And it is natural that some Orthodox Jews will have different sympathies than most of their peers and as a result feel isolated. But I think what particularly troubles sincere, idealistic Orthodox Jews is when the moral positions of their shulmates or religious institutions seem to be changing to justify their political affiliation rather than developing autonomously out of the tradition. They want to belong to a Torah community that serves as a light rather than as a mirror to the nations. 

How can we best create such a community?

Because Jewish tradition is genuinely multivocal and legitimately responsive to changes in the world, I don’t think that drawing objective red lines, i.e., trying to rule specific positions out of bounds, is likely to be an effective strategy for preventing moral followership. 

It’s also important to recognize that reaction can be as inauthentic as conformity. If anti-Semitism continues to become more prevalent and more socially acceptable, there may be a natural internal Jewish reaction to ascribe greatest Jewish authenticity to those aspects of Torah most criticized by anti-Semites, especially to those who are on the other side of a polarized political space. Similarly, where the Torah can be interpreted in multiple ways, there may be pressure to demonstrate authenticity by adopting the interpretations that most annoy the anti-Semites on the other side. These pressures may manifest on both sides in areas as diverse as Middle East politics, gender/sexuality, public health policy, and more.

Rather, I suggest that we need to collectively develop a procedural/epistemological checklist that lets us challenge ourselves and each other whether we are making a sincere attempt to authentically represent Jewish tradition, and to meaningfully discuss across party lines whether a position of ours meets that challenge. 

For example: If you are making a claim about Jewish tradition, do you know the most common traditional sources used to challenge your position, and can you convincingly explain them? If your application of Jewish tradition rests on a claim of fact, have you seriously engaged with scholars who reject that claim? If you are arguing from contemporary authority, have you discussed these issues with respected scholars who are not public figures and/or are politically uninvolved, to make sure that you are not just listening to the loudest voices or aiding a campaign of intimidation?[1]

Let’s suppose—a huge if—that we can accomplish this. I want to be clear that this is not enough to meet our Torah obligation vis-a-vis the human societies we participate in. In fact, my use of autonomy and authenticity as lodestars for developing positions might create the false impression that we are indifferent to what non-Jews think of Torah.

One standard Jewish expression of an obligation to care about what non-Jews think is or laGoyim, “light unto the nations.” I have trouble using this phrase because it seems to result from what is known as a Mandela effect, a collective false memory. That expression does not appear in Tanakh. Rather, Yeshayahu 42:6 and 49:6 each say that God will make the Jewish people l’or goyim. It’s possible that the meaning remains the same, but I have heard various efforts to argue for fundamental differences.

My preference instead is to use the categories kiddush Hashem (sanctification of the Name) and hillul Hashem (desecration of the Name). My argument is that these categories legitimately place pressure to make halakhic choices and interpretations that inspire non-Jews to value Torah. My argument is grounded in the following two texts from the Jerusalem Talmud.

1. Yerushalmi Bava Metzia 2:5 (translation modified from Guggenheimer)

Simeon ben Shetacḥ was in the linen trade. His students said to him: Rebbe, to make it easier for you, we will buy you a donkey so you won’t have to work so hard. They went and bought him a donkey from a Saracen; a pearl was hanging on its neck. They came to him and said: From now on you will not have to work anymore. He said to them: Why? They told him: We bought a donkey for you from a Saracen and a pearl is hanging on its neck. He asked them: Did its owner know about this? They answered: No. He told them: Go return it! 

But did not Rav Huna Bibi bar Gozlan in the name of Rav say: 

“They objected before Rebbe: ‘Even according to the position that an object robbed from a Gentile is forbidden, everybody agrees that his lost object is permitted!?’” 

What do you think, that Simeon ben Shetacḥ was a barbarian? Simeon ben Shetacḥ wanted to hear: “Praised be the God of the Jews” more than any gain in this world.

It’s not clear whether the last two elements of the passage are an editorial reflection on the story, or rather an anachronistic recreation of the dialogue between Shimon ben Shetach and his students (they quote rabbis who lived many centuries after their time). Regardless, the text is explicit that only a barbarian would keep a Gentile’s lost object, even though all halakhic positions are understood to permit keeping it. 

This implies that the permission can be kept on the halakhic books as-is only because Gentiles don’t know about it. I contend that Shimon ben Shetach fundamentally argues that the permission codifies a lost opportunity to make Gentiles think well of the Torah of the Jews—for kiddush Hashem—and therefore cannot be sustained as practical law. 

It makes little sense to say that our interest is in having Gentiles think well of Torah that is not actually Torah. That might even be a violation of the prohibition of geneyvat daat, which includes gaining goodwill under false pretenses). Possibly, however, the law would remain on the books for hypothetical societies (think Sodom and Gomorrah) so stuck in selfishness that people returning valuable lost objects would be regarded as fools rather than as moral heroes. Nonetheless, that context would have to be provided whenever the law was taught.

2. Yerushalmi Bava Kamma 4:3 (Translation mine)

A story: The government sent two investigators to learn Torah from Rabban Gamliel. They learned from him Scripture, Mishnah, Talmud, Halakha, and Aggada. In the end they said to him: “Your entire Torah is attractive and praiseworthy except . . . that you say . . . “objects stolen from a Jew are forbidden, but objects stolen from a Gentile are permitted.”

Immediately Rabban Gamliel decreed that objects stolen from a non-Jew would be prohibited to prevent desecration of the Name. 

This text explicitly endorses a change in halakha for the purpose of preventing non-Jews from thinking badly of Torah, which is termed “desecration of the Name,” or hillul Hashem.

My bottom line is that Gentile moral evaluation is a legitimate factor to consider when deciding halakha. 

            Readers are strongly encouraged to challenge my argument via the procedural/epistemological checklist above. I fervently hope this will lead to a conversation in which we together seek to figure out the limits of this principle, and which opinions in which societies we honor and which we proudly flout. Only in that way can our Torah become a genuine source of light for the world. 

Note

Torah versus Prejudice

To the sacred memory of those driven by societal prejudice to take their own lives.

©

Rabbi Isaac Sassoon[1]

            Potiphar was no muggins. The trust he places in Joseph bespeaks a man possessed of astute discrimination and sound instincts. If he sized up the newcomer Joseph, his wife he must have known like a book. It is therefore highly doubtful that Potiphar fell for her ladyship’s concoction. To be sure, Genesis 39:19 reports Potiphar’s anger; but significantly, Joseph is not said to have been its butt. “When his [Joseph’s] master heard the words of his wife which she spoke to him saying such and such has your servant done to me he became angry”. We are then told that his master ‘took Joseph and put him’ in prison. Not sentenced to death nor shoved into a pit (as he was by his brothers; Gen 37:22, 24), Joseph is taken and put like the Testimony. For the identical pair of verbs – taking and putting - describes the depositing of the ‘edut (Testimony) in the Ark (Exod 40:20). Commentators interpret the ‘edut’s taking and putting as deferential, kid-glove handling. The phrase’s presence at Genesis 39:20 adds to the picture of a Potiphar skeptical of his wife’s slander. But if Potiphar doubts Joseph’s guilt, why jail? The answer is a single, tyrannical word: respectability. Potiphar dreads the obloquy that awaits a man seen to believe his servant above his wife. It could cost him his prestige; not a pretty prospect for anyone whose self-esteem hangs on the establishment’s approval. 

            Today honor and respectability may have lost their former leverage, but public opinion still counts, and people are still blacklisted for failing to toe the line. This holds even in the arena of Torah. Thus, non-partisan Torah students, unwilling to play to the gallery, must be prepared for criticism all round. The charges may range from obscurantism and fuddy-duddyism, hurled by so-called progressives, all the way to heresy and schism thundered forth by the anachronistically grandiloquent. Speaking from personal experience, a well-intentioned friend tried hard to discourage the present essay. “It will come back to haunt you” he warned. “People with a reputation to sustain, do not touch this kind of taboo with a barge pole”. 

            Taboo, of course, loomed large once upon a time. That was prior to the demythologizing process begun in the Bible and carried forward by hazal. But though taboo waned, its congener, bias, especially ingrained bias, persisted. Unconscionably, biases invaded Torah, infesting it like a maggot that, once inside, would turn Torah into its home and sanctuary. Most notorious, is the infestation that parasitized Genesis 9:22-27. As recently as 1861 a leading Orthodox Rabbi by the name of Morris Jacob Raphall, preached in defense of slavery quoting, among other scriptures, Genesis 9’s Curse of Ham. Having cited the texts that allegedly sanctioned slavery, the rabbi went on “I find, and I am sorry to find, that I am delivering a pro-slavery discourse. I am no friend to slavery in the abstract, and still less friendly to the practical workings of slavery. But I stand here as a teacher in Israel, not to place before you my own feelings and opinions, but to propound to you the word of G-d, the Bible view of slavery ….”. Rabbi Raphall was declaring his hands to be tied; his commitment to Torah, as he understood it, did not give him leave to condemn slavery outright.

        Parallel to racism’s appalling exploitation of Ham’s story, homophobia found to‘ebah at Leviticus 18:22 and hijacked it. While bigotry got away with profaning Torah, many of us sat idly by instead of toppling homophobia from its Torah perch. And make no mistake: in select circles it retains its dominion. Exodus 23:13 deters mentioning the names of idols. Yet one comes across people who treat homosexuality as if it were an idol, referring to it only by epithets such as perversion or toeivah. Their purpose, they claim, is to instill revulsion and horror for something unmentionable.[2] The connotation of to‘ebah (or to‘abat hashem) in its varied Torah contexts is clearly negative; but the very diversity of those contexts precludes a narrow definition. Let’s see what light the sources can shed on to‘ebah; we all probably agree that hazal’s ideas deserve more attention than the bigots’. 

R. El‘azar ben Azaryah taught: a person should not say Wearing kil’ayim [linsey-woolsey] is repugnant to me, eating swine’s flesh is repugnant to me, the ‘arayoth [incest; illicit relationships in general] are repugnant to me. Rather should one say: These things are not distasteful to me, but I avoid them in obedience to the commandment that my Father in heaven has laid upon me ... .[3]   

            R. El‘azar can be seen to replace disgust with submission to the divine will as the proper motivation for eschewing kil’ayim, swine’s flesh and ‘arayoth.  Whether these three precepts were picked by way of illustration or by virtue of some intrinsic peculiarity, in either case, their very linkage speaks volumes. ‘Arayoth are classified as to‘eboth (Lev 18:26-30; Yeb. 21a, etc.) and non-kosher foods (of which swine’s flesh is the standard exemplar) are generically labeled to‘ebah (Deut 14:3; Hul.114b, etc.). Kil’ayim, never characterized to‘ebah, is the odd man out. Yet, for purposes of right motivation, rather than distinguish the two to‘ebah categories from non-to‘ebah kil’ayim, R. El‘azar equates them. Thus we learn that whatever the Torah’s objective in attaching to‘ebah to certain prohibitions, it was not the enshrinement of primitive aversions. After R. El‘azar, it comes as no surprise to find the Talmud endowing Leviticus 18:22’s to‘ebah with moral and reasoned purport, rather than treating it as code for ‘go ahead and indulge your homophobia’. 

“Bar Qappara asked Ribbi [Judah the Patriarch] ‘What does to‘ebah mean?’ Every explanation that Ribbi offered he refuted. So Ribbi said to him, ‘You explain it!’. He [Bar Qappara] replied... ‘This is the meaning of the Torah. To‘ebah means: You stray by this [to‘eh-attah-bah]’ …” . The commentary attributed to Rashi[4] elaborates: “such a man leaves his wife who is permitted and takes hold of that which is zenuth [harlotry, any illegitimate relationship]” (Ned.51a). Inserting a wife into the scenario, reminds us that the addressees of Leviticus 18 are men of, ostensibly, heterosexual proclivities - insofar as the ‘arayoth listed are mostly relations with women. Verse 22 is directed at that selfsame adult, male, heterosexual audience; not a few of whose members are likely to be married. Could one say, then, that for Bar Qappara the chief concern of Lev 18:22, is the wife’s humiliation caused by her husband’s ‘straying’? Or did Bar Qappara perceive homosexuality as posing a threat to married life and, ultimately, to human reproduction; a top priority both instinctively and halakhically?[5] Some extrapolate from this טעמא דקרא,[6] that since the risk to human survival from lower birthrates is no longer as dire as in bygone ages, homosexuality’s threat-level might drop concomitantly. Moreover, gay-oriented people tend not to marry spouses of the opposite gender or to reproduce biological offspring; making their impact on population size inconsequential. However, one has to wonder whether such individuals were even within the purview of former generations. A theory has been floated that Jews of gay orientation were unknown, or at any rate unacknowledged, by halakhah. This theory might explain legislation such as the following: “A man who has passed the age of twenty and does not want to marry, the authorities force him to marry in order to fulfill the mitsvah of פריה ורביה”.[7] Had gay orientation been recognized, the suffering of a wife trapped in marriage to a man thus oriented, would surely have given pause before coercing all and every reluctant male.[8] Firmer evidence for the ‘floated theory’ would appear to transpire from the teshuvah of a foremost twentieth century halakhist: 

It is incomprehensible that this thing could involve desire. For in the creation of the human being [or: man] there was no desire in his nature to lust after mishkav zakhur.[9]  That is why Bar Qappara said to Ribbi that it means to‘eh-attah-bah… It is G-d’s scriptural admonition to the wicked: For this transgression behold there is no lust whatsoever, as the lust I created in them was for women because without it human continuity would be impossible as taught at Yoma 69b and San. 64a… But for mishkav zakhur there is no lust whatsoever … Only because it is something prohibited does he do it as an act of defiance … In any event, lust for mishkav zakhur goes against the very nature of lust itself. Therefore any desire for this is only because it is forbidden and the evil inclination entices him to disobey G-d’s will.[10]

Obviously, gay orientation does not exist for this responsum. If such a construct served as a working premise in halakhic deliberations, it opens the door to the application of a classic strategy, or legal fiction, called  הטבעים השתנות. Recognizing changes in nature (and possibly in culture), that strategy re-examines views that may have rested upon an earlier state of affairs before the change – whether real or fictive. In the case of homosexual orientation, it is contended, that since it formerly had no halakhic existence, Providence must have seen fit to intervene by granting many contemporary human beings an unprecedented kind of orientation. And if so, it may be time to revisit judgments based on a reality (or perceived reality) that predated the ‘intervention’.

All the above theories, however cogent, are extraneous to the beth midrash, inside whose walls students seek guidance from the extant talmudic corpus. In that corpus Lev 18:22 is understood to prohibit categorically a specific act between two men. No rationales are formally offered in that literature other than incidental ones of which two have already been noticed – namely, R. Elazar’s concept of blind obedience to a peremptory fiat and Bar Qappara’s תועה אתה בה. 

That said, we must not overlook the amply documented resource whereby the rabbis appealed to one scripture in order to override the literal sense of another scripture. Take, for instance, Leviticus 11:8. Referring to the four animals itemized in verses 4 through 7, verse 8 continues: “Their flesh you shall not eat and their carcasses you shall not touch they are unclean unto you.” Logically, the two - eating and touching - demand parity; either both are absolutely proscribed or else neither is. But the Rabbis on confronting this text, whose literal meaning forbids touching the cadavers of the camel, cony, hare and pig, responded as follows. “Can lay Israelites really be prohibited to touch carrion? Scripture says [Lev 21:1] ‘Speak unto the priests, the sons of Aaron, and say unto them, none shall defile himself for a dead person among his kin.’ It is Aaron’s sons that are prohibited, not the children of Israel. If a potent generator of defilement [i.e., a human corpse] had to be avoided by priests alone but not by lay Israelites, a fortiori a lesser generator of defilement [i.e., dead animals]. So what is the meaning [of ‘their carcasses you shall not touch’]? Its meaning is Do not touch the carcasses on the festival.” (Rosh Hashanah 16b; cf. Sifra). 

More famous is the fate of the lex talionis: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth etc. (Exod 21:24-25 cf. Lev 24:19-20, Deut 19:21). At Numbers 35:31 the rabbis uncovered their cue for commuting these corporal penalties to monetary restitution. Numbers 35:31 ordains “You shall not take a ransom for the life of a murderer” - whence the Talmud deduced “For a murderer’s life you may not take ransom but you may take ransom for limbs” (BQ 83b).         

Where is the counter scripture with the potential to mitigate Lev 18:22? Actually we believe such a scripture to exist; but neither the text we have in mind nor, for that matter, any alternative is brought to bear by the Talmud. Therefore, unless - or until - the Talmud-faithful can be persuaded otherwise, received meanings stand. When it comes to Lev 18:22, the received meaning of that verse is unequivocal and precise. As noted, it names a very specific act which it outlaws; neither more nor less. Thus, there seems little leeway for the conscientious stalwart of traditional halakhah.

            Those whose view of halakhah is less than sanguine, may feel that view reinforced by our last, unapologetic, paragraph. Yet, how can one apologize for reporting a straightforward reading of the relevant texts? By the same token, one is duty-bound to show the other side of the coin. Because the Talmud, that proscribes a particular behavior, does not doom anyone to a life of enforced desolation. Quite the contrary: it leaves room, as we are about to see, for two individuals of the same gender to experience intimacy with one another without having to infringe Lev 18:22. 

            The crucial text occurs in Yerushalmi Sanhedrin. It deals with the question of why forbidding an integral act between men requires two scriptural sources - one each for the active and passive roles. The Talmud knows R. Ishmael and R. Aqiba to have deemed Lev 18:22’s wording (as masoretically vocalized), inadequate to take care of both. To appreciate the anomaly of requiring twofold scriptural authority, one must remember how the rabbis approached the other ‘arayoth injunctions of Leviticus 18. Although those injunctions also address a single party, invariably the male, the rabbis read them as targeting both male and female partners. The clearest enunciation of this principle - that the ‘arayoth laws in general are intended for the absent woman no less than for the directly addressed man - occurs in Sifra.

            Leviticus 18:6 launches its ‘arayoth laws as follows: “Man, man! ye shall not draw near to any sh’er basar (near of kin; literally, flesh of flesh) of his to uncover nakedness...”.  Sifra notes that the mention of man might suggest that women are not being charged to keep these laws. Such an inference, Sifra continues, would be erroneous “because plural ‘ye’ (in lo tikrevu, 'ye shall not draw near') indicates that both men and women are being addressed”. This teaching of Sifra is axiomatic to all rabbinic discussions of ‘arayoth, and underlies the question of R. Bun bar Hiyya. 

R. Bun bar Hiyya asked R. Zera “Why did R. Ishmael and R. Aqiba treat relations between two males and relations between a person and a beast differently from all other illicit relations [for in all other illicit relations both parties are made liable by a single scripture]?”  He [R. Zera] said to him “In regard to all other illicit relations there is a general and inclusive reference to sh’er basar (Lev 18:6) while in the present cases there is no such reference to sh’er basar”. An objection was raised: “Lo, there is the case of relations with a niddah which is not a sh’er basar relationship [and therefore not covered by Lev 18:6]. Yet, did they [Rabbis Ishmael and Aqiba] treat them [the man who has relations with a niddah and the niddah] as liable [without any additional verse]?” R. Jeremiah [said] in the name of R. Abhu: “Since it is written ‘drawing near’ [at Lev 18:6] and ‘drawing near’ [at Lev 18:19] it is as if all the rules pertaining to the one apply to the other”.[11]

            As so often, the Talmud astounds by the closeness of its reading. In this instance, R. Abhu notes that ‘drawing near’ in combination with ‘to uncover nakedness’ occurs but twice in Lev 18 - once in the preamble (v.6) and again in connection with niddah (v.19). Individually, neither ‘drawing near’ nor ‘uncovering nakedness’ is unattested.[12] But conjoined to form a single phrase קרב+גלות ערוה appears nowhere else. R. Abhu further implies, that the phrase’s distribution is not random. Its first occurrence governs the sh’er basar ‘arayoth; its second is called for by niddah. The latter stands apart from sh’er basar ‘arayoth inasmuch as it is not incestuous (i.e., not ‘flesh of flesh’). Indeed, niddah applies to parties that are lawful husband and wife. That would appear to leave the rest of the pericope’s prohibitions outside the ‘drawing near’ loop. In any event, as regards the prohibition of verse 22 the Yerushalmi is unambiguous: neither the first nor the second ‘do not draw near’ extends to verse 22. Now the meaning of ‘drawing near’ in Lev 18 is disputed by rishonim. Maimonides defines it as any physical contact of an intimate kind that leads to carnal knowledge.[13] For Nahmanides, on the other hand, the phrase is a euphemism for actual cohabitation between man and woman.[14] But irrespective of its meaning, the Yerushalmi sets the parameters of לא תקרבו, and 18:22 falls outside those parameters.[15]

            As an Orthodox Rabbi, one would be remiss not to give prominence to a source as weighty as this Yerushalmi, especially when its conclusions are so demonstrably rooted in the Written Torah. Furthermore, it is a source that corroborates the Talmud’s assertion: “Everything that the Merciful One has forbidden us, He has permitted us its counterpart” (Hul. 109b). Being able to advise people of homosexual orientation about the counterpart that the Merciful One allows them, adds credence to halakhah’s interdiction. For what it interdicts is precisely and graphically demarcated by Rabbis Ishmael and Aqiba as an act whose performance involves an active and a passive partner. Delineating so exactly the prohibited conduct, hazal exclude by implication interaction short of penetration. To be sure, Rambam - as we have seen - derives fromלא תקרבו  a ban on lesser degrees of interaction. But this is where the Yerushalmi comes in: תקרבו  לא does not apply to Lev 18:22. So to reiterate, the Torah relegates no human being to a life of loveless solitude. This information may relieve the pressure from rabbis and religious counselors; they who agonize over “Vainly paining the heart of the righteous when I had not pained it…” (Ezek 13:22). If, as hypothesized above, halakhists of yore were oblivious of gay orientation, they could discourage, as they often did, all bonding between men without compunction about causing pain. Today we know: and that knowledge deprives us of the luxury to insouciantly condemn fellow Jews to a monastic life on the pretext of ‘being on the safe side’.[16] 

       Acquaintance with the complementary rulings, and with where halakhah draws the line, could also empower the decision-making of homosexually inclined women and men who cherish halakhah. In turn, their peers will have to ask themselves: What right have we to be חושד בכשרים or במי שמעשיו סתומים? For once R. Abhu’s Yerushalmi teaching is out there, the mere fact two gay individuals live together will not license an honest bystander to automatically assume that they are in breach of halakhah. Because as Jews familiar with this nuanced halakhah, they will have the presumption of faithfulness to its guidelines. The Talmud depicts a marriage, albeit a heterosexual one, in which the two parties lived together as a couple in all respects except cohabitation, on account of halakhic qualms (San.19b). Huge praise is heaped upon the couple for their heroic abstinence. But how did the rabbis know what went on in the couple’s bedchamber? Either the couple revealed it or, more likely, the rabbis relied on the assumption that observant Jews make every effort to adhere to halakhah.

Are these assumptions compromised when two men publicly proclaim their partnership a marriage? While prying is abhorrent, recent debates have brought the question into the limelight. Surely it depends whether or notבלשון בני אדם  ‘marriage’ is, by definition, a relationship that flouts halakhic boundaries. In other words, if society recognizes in a declaration of marriage the conscious intent of the parties to engage in the specific conduct disapproved by halakhah, then that declaration would tacitly seem to fall under the strictures of ‘writing a ketubah for males’ (see Hullin 92a-b). The ketubah, of course, includes the pledge למיעל... כאורח כל ארעא ; and if a comparable pledge were implicit in ‘marriage’ it would be tantamount to the writing of a ketubah. On the other hand, if ‘marriage’ is adopted to denote sincere commitment, then notwithstanding the public announcement, the presumption (explained above) need not necessarily be undermined.[17] Mutatis mutandis, halakhically-educated heterosexual couples are assumed to observe niddah separation, even though the wife neither moves out of the house for the duration nor is she expected to wear distinctive niddah clothing as was customary among certain Jews in the distant past. Needless to say, we do not venture to advise any individual how to live her or his life. Our mandate is strictly academic; setting forth as best we can the germane texts. 

            “R. Qatina said When the pilgrims came [to the Temple] on the festivals, they [those in charge] would roll back the veil to let them see the cherubim intertwined with one another.  They would say to them: ‘Behold your endearment before G-d is like the endearment of a man and a woman’” (Yoma 54a). But were the cherubim male and female? Elsewhere the Talmud portrays them as having the faces of young lads (Suk. 5b; Hag. 13b; cf. Torah Temimah on Exod 25:18). So as it turns out, the divine love towards Israel was symbolized by two lads locked in a tight hug as if husband and wife. The image of this aggadah speaks for itself. Like the halakhic passage we saw in Yerushalmi Sanhedrin, it reminds us that love is not condemned, but only its expression in the one way interdicted by Torah. Is it naive to find a modicum of healing in such a message?

            Some day, more reverential and prayerful study will perhaps yield unforeseen results. When Esther and Mordecai sought to institute the new feast of Purim, the Elders were greatly perturbed. “Moses said to us no other prophet is going to innovate anything henceforth. Yet Mordecai and Esther seek to innovate. They did not stop debating until the Holy One blessed be He lit up their eyes and they discovered it written in the Torah, in the Prophets and in the Writings”.[18] 

Rabbi Akiva said, “…No one in Israel ever disputed that the Song of Songs renders the

hands impure, since nothing in the entire world is worthy but for that day on which the

Song of Songs was given to Israel. For all the Scriptures are holy, but the Song of Songs

is the Holy of Holies! (Mishnah Yadayim 3:5)

Introduction

One of the ways we seek holiness is through communion with God through the

study of Holy Writ, but that that idea is easier to toss around glibly than actually to define.

The Song of Songs is the context in which our greatest commentators and thinkers expressed

themselves the most directly in that regard. The question at the heart of our discussion is:

Can a biblical text be physical and spiritual, openly erotic and about the love of God, all at

the same time? In this essay, we explore the wide range of opinions found in classical

rabbinic commentary, modern Jewish Thought, and contemporary academic scholarship.

These scholars provide critical means of building bridges between the realms of the loving

relationships between God and humankind, and the loving relationships between people.

The Song of Songs contains some of the most tender expressions of love and

intimacy in the Bible. On its literal level, the Song expresses the mutual love of a man and a

woman. From ancient times, traditional interpreters have almost universally agreed that there

is an allegorical or symbolic layer of meaning as well. In both traditional rabbinic circles and

contemporary academic circles, some scholars attempt to deny one level of meaning or the

other by insisting that the author cannot possibly have meant both. However, others allow for

the possibility of attributing both layers of meaning to the author. In this essay, we argue that

the dismissal of either layer of meaning does a disservice to the Song and its interpretation.

The blurring in interpretation unlocks the full sacred potential of the Song, which bridges the

love of people and the love of God into its exalted poetry.

From Literal to Allegorical

The allegorical mode of interpretation can be traced as least as far back as the

second and third centuries C.E., and possibly even to the first century C.E. 1 It also is plausible

that the written evidence is long preceded by an oral tradition, possibly going back all the

way to the original composition of the Song. The most prevalent allegorical interpretation in

Jewish tradition (as exemplified by the Targum, and the commentaries by Rabbi Saadiah

Gaon [882–942], Rashi [1040–1105], Rashbam [Rabbi Samuel ben Meir, 1080–1160], and

Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra [1089–1164]) understands the Song as symbolizing the historical

relationship between God and Israel. 2 The ancient Aramaic translation called the Targum was

the first to present a coherent historical narrative based on earlier midrashim. 3 Following

Rabbeinu Baḥya Ibn Pakuda (first half of the eleventh century), Maimonides (1138–1204)

maintained that the Song is an allegory representing the love between God and the righteous

individual. 4 Many allegorical, poetic, philosophical, mystical, and other interpretations of the

Song also have been part of the Jewish landscape over the past two millennia. 5

How did this allegorical interpretation come to be? Many contemporary scholars

maintain that it is superimposed onto what was originally a secular love poem. Representing

this widespread position, James Kugel imagines that the first generation of allegorical

interpreters knew full well that the Song is nothing more than a secular love poem between a

man and a woman. These original Sages fancifully interpreted the Song to reflect the love

between God and Israel, all the time winking at one another. Subsequent generations lost

those winks in translation, and erroneously concluded that this interpretation reflected the

true meaning of the Song. In Kugel’s view, Sages such as Rabbi Akiva simply were “misled”

by the allegorical interpretation. However, contemporary scholars “know” that the Song is

part of a “great ancient Near Eastern tradition of love poetry, with its conventional

descriptions of the lovers’ physical beauty and its frank exaltation of eroticism.” 6 The

religious allegorical interpretation made the book Bible-worthy. However, the original

meaning of the Song is indeed irrelevant for inclusion in the Bible. 7

Gabriel Cohn flatly rejects this explanation: Why would the Sages take a secular

love poem and completely reinterpret it to refer to the love between God and Israel? They did

not need to include the Song in the Bible at all! Evidently, they believed the Song was sacred

from its inception. 8 Gerson Cohen expresses the matter more bluntly:

The rabbis of the first and second century, like the intelligent ancients generally, were as

sensitive to words and the meaning of poetry as we are. How, then, could they have been

duped—or better yet, have deluded themselves and others—into regarding a piece of

erotica as genuine religious literature, as the holy of holies! Should not the requirements

of elementary common sense give us reason for pause and doubt? 9

The assumption that the Song was a secular love poem that early Sages reworked into a

religious allegory to make it Bible-worthy does a disservice both to the Song and to the

Sages. Once we can accept that the Sages always understood the Song as sacred, we can find

layers of sanctification of divine and human love within the Song.

The Allegorical Meaning Inheres in the Text

Some scholars maintain that an allegorical meaning of divine love can be

demonstrated from a careful text analysis. In his introduction to the Song, Ibn Ezra observes

that the prophets frequently apply the metaphor of a marriage to the relationship between

God and Israel. Therefore, the allegorical interpretation of the Song as a metaphor of the love

between God and Israel is reasonable within its biblical setting. 10

Gabriel Cohn adds that the emphasis on the Land of Israel seems to have greater

meaning than simply the natural setting of the relationship. Israel seems to be a vehicle for

promoting the relationship. The Song mentions several cities in Israel (1:14; 2:1; 4:1; 6:4;

7:5–6). The lovers also liken one another to places in Israel (4:1 [6:4]; 4:4; 7:6. 4:11). In 5:1,

milk and honey appear together. Cohn lists additional features of the Song that also have no

parallels in other Near Eastern love poetry. 11

Of course, these points hardly create a compelling case for an intended allegorical

reading. After all, the book never reveals an allegorical meaning. This is unlike the prophetic

metaphors of a God-Israel marriage, where the meaning always is made explicit. However,

the above evidence makes allegory a comfortable possibility as part of the author’s original

intent.

The Literal Meaning Is the Intended Meaning and Is Sacred, and the Allegorical

Meaning Is Ascribed to It by Tradition

Another approach is to understand the literal reading of human love as the

primary intent of the book. The symbolic interpretive approach that takes the Song as

being about God and Israel or about God and the religious individual would then belong

to the category of “tradition,” or “midrash” rather than the peshat.

Alon Goshen-Gottstein summarizes the view of those contemporary scholars who

accept the literal reading as the primary intent of the Song. In their reading, the Song

speaks of the sanctity of human love:

The Song celebrates human love for what it is. Scripture would be incomplete if it

did not have in it an expression of an aspect of life so germane to humanity, its

pursuits and its happiness. What could be more natural, beautiful, and even

spiritual, than the inclusion of human conjugal love as a value to be admired,

praised and celebrated? 12

Within this reading, the inclusion of this remarkable book into the Bible is the

strongest vote for the supreme religious value of interpersonal love—especially the love

between a man and a woman—in Jewish tradition. Scholars who would distinguish

between a “secular” human love interpretation and a “religious” God-Israel interpretation

fail to recognize that love and human relationships themselves are essential aspects of

biblical religion. Precisely because both are sacred, tradition could express itself

regarding the nature of the relationship between God and Israel, or between God and the

religious individual, within the descriptions of human love and intimacy.

From this vantage point, the rabbinic concern with the literal reading of the Song

does not stem primarily from its biblically unparalled expressions of physical human love

and sexuality, but rather from the potential to treat those physical expressions as secular

or vulgar:

Our Rabbis taught: One who recites a verse of the Song of Songs and treats it as a

mere ditty and one who recites a verse at the banqueting table unseasonably [that

is, in an inappropriate or secular manner, HA], brings evil upon the world.

Because the Torah girds itself in sackcloth, and stands before the blessed Holy

One and laments in God’s presence, “Sovereign of the Universe! Your children

have made me as a harp upon which they frivolously play.” (Sanhedrin 101a)

Rabbi Akiva says: One who sings the Song of Songs with a tremulous voice at

banquets and treats it as a mere song has no share in the World to Come. (Tosefta

Sanhedrin 12:10)

Of course, there is no way to disprove that there also is an allegorical dimension intended

by the author of the Song.

Human Love Is a Symbol of the Love between God and Israel

A middle approach based on the above evidence is to view the literal element of

human love as essential to the author’s intent, and that the author also intended that

human love serve as a symbol of divine love. Gabriel Cohn maintains that for an

allegory, an interpreter must set each detail into a larger allegorical framework. In

contrast, if the Song is a symbol, then one must interpret every detail of the literal love

poem, and then more generally understand this human love as a symbol of divine love. 13

In this approach, the literal human love is part of the original intent of the Song, as is the

symbolic meaning of the God-Israel relationship.

To summarize: Either the Song is sacred because it was always intended as an

allegory describing divine love; or it is sacred because it celebrates the sanctity of human

love and tradition sees in that human love a symbol of the love of the divine. Or perhaps

it is a human love poem with built-in symbolism intended by the author to point to the

mutual love between God and Israel or between God and the religious individual.

The Literal Reading as an Essential Aspect of Tradition

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik asserts that unlike the case with respect to any other

biblical book, the midrashic-allegorical reading has come totally to supplant the literal

meaning of the Song. Not only does the Song contain a layer of divine love, but it is

exclusively about divine love. He maintains that one who adopts the literal reading of the

Song denies the sanctity of the Oral Law, since there is rabbinic consensus that the

symbolic meaning is the sole acceptable one. To bolster his point, he notes that the

halakha codifies that the name Shelomo (the Hebrew version of Solomon) that appears

seven times in the Song is mostly to be taken as a sacred name of God, reading Shelomo

to mean, “The Song to Him whose is the peace (le-Mi sheha-Shalom shelo).” That word

must not be erased in the Song, since it does not refer to the earthly King Solomon, but

rather to God. Thus, halakha itself shows that the literal meaning (King Solomon) is

supplanted by the symbolic meaning (God): 14

Every “Solomon” mentioned in the Song of Songs is sacred… except for this one

verse: My vineyard, which is mine, is before me; you, O Solomon, shalt have the

thousand (Song 8:12)—Solomon for himself [shall have a thousand]…And there

are some who say this also is secular: Behold it is the bed of Solomon (Song 3:7).

(B. Shevuot 35b)

Although Rabbi Soloveitchik is correct that there is near-universal acceptance of an

allegorical meaning within tradition, there is a range of opinion pertaining to the value of

the literal reading of human love. In the introduction to his commentary, Malbim (Meir

Leibush ben Yehiel Michel, 1809–1879) criticizes rabbinic commentaries on the Song

who altogether ignore its literal meaning. While he maintains that there is a symbolic

meaning as well, one first must understand the literal meaning to attain other layers of

meaning:

Most interpretations [of Song of Songs]… are in the realm of allusion and

homiletical interpretation distant from the establishment of the peshat.… Of

course we affirm that divine words have seventy facets and one thousand

dimensions. Nonetheless, the peshat interpretation is the beginning of knowledge;

it is the key to open the gates, before we can enter the sacred inner chambers of

the King.

Most earlier rabbinic commentators find value in the literal reading, while they

simultaneously insist that the Song contains an allegorical level of meaning as well. Elie

Assis surveys classical commentators and determines that their opinions fall into several

larger categories.

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 (Rabbi Joseph Kara

[1050–1125], Rabbi Isaac Arama [1420–1494]).

2. The Song is an allegory in a general sense, but the interpreter must focus on

the details of the human love song (Rashbam, Rabbi Joseph Kara, Rabbi

Isaiah of Trani [c. 1180–c. 1250]).

3. The literal reading is necessary to understand the allegory, and the allegory is

primary (Rashi, Ibn Ezra).

4. Despite what we suppose the simple meaning to be, we must interpret only the

allegory (Rabbi Obadiah Sforno [1470–1550]). 15

Tzvi Yehudah further observes that only in the nineteenth century do we begin to find

rabbis who deny the value of the literal reading of the Song. Prior to that, the Sages and

commentators generally embraced the literal and symbolic meanings of the Song. 16

It should be noted further that although the halakha rules that most references to

the name Shelomo in the Song are sacred because they refer to God, the classical sages

and the later commentators never allowed that ruling to supplant the literal meaning in

their minds. Shelomo also could refer to King Solomon. They still maintained, for

example, that when the opening verse states, “The Song of Songs of Solomon,” this

means that King Solomon authored or played a significant role in the composition of the

book. Despite the halakhic ruling of the Talmud that this reference to “Shelomo” is a

sacred name of God, the word continues to refer to the human king as well. It is difficult

to conclude that the halakhic-symbolic-allegorical meanings of the Song altogether

supplant the literal meaning within tradition.

In the final analysis, it is impossible to ascertain where original authorial intent

ends and where added meaning begins. As Rabbi Saadiah Gaon says in the introduction

to his commentary, “Know, my brother, that you will find great differences in

interpretation of the Song of Songs. The Song of Songs is likened to locks whose keys

have been lost.” However, it is precisely this uncertainty that unlocks the potential of

connecting human love and divine love.

Building Bridges

The blurring of the boundaries in the layers of interpretation of the Song is

singularly valuable. Without knowing the precise primary intent of the author of the

Song, several contemporary religious thinkers exploit the potential literal and allegorical

layers of interpretation to speak about the Song’s contribution to religious experience.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik and his student Rabbi Shalom Carmy bridge the two

allegorical readings of God-Israel and God-religious individual. Rabbi Yuval Cherlow

bridges the literal and allegorical readings.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik

As discussed above, Rashi champions the position that the Song should be read

allegorically as a continuous narrative of the historical relationship between God and Israel.

Maimonides espouses a different reading, that the Song should be read allegorically as reflecting

the intimate relationship between God and the religious individual. Rashi’s reading pertains to

the collective, particularistic relationship between God and Israel. Maimonides’ reading, in

contrast, pertains to every religious individual, a universalistic perspective.

Despite these significant differences, Rabbi Soloveitchik considers the approaches of

Rashi and Maimonides to be compatible. The lovers’ quest for one another in the Song

symbolizes the human quest for God and for God’s revelation to humans. All people long to

transcend their natural state and find God and meaning. Additionally, Israel uniquely receives

divine revelation through the Torah. God longs for a relationship with each individual, and also

for a relationship with a unique nation. At the same time, the lovers in the Song constantly

pursue and long for one another, but never consummate the sexual relationship in the Song itself.

Similarly, God never is revealed fully to people, and people retreat from God at the moment of a

potential encounter. The two readings of Rashi and Maimonides thus are two aspects of this

relationship. The Song speaks to the entire world, and simultaneously in a unique manner also to

Israel. 17

Rabbi Shalom Carmy 18

Many Jews customarily recite the Song on Friday night prior to the evening prayers. The

ordinary Jew’s reading of the Song has little to do with the elitist reading of Rashi. Most people

reciting the Song are not likely to attempt a systematic allegorical reading of the historical

relationship between God and Israel.

Rabbi Carmy notes that an adequate reading of the Song cannot ignore ordinary readers

even as it also addresses erudite theologians. The ordinary worshipper can relate more to

Maimonides’ concept of the man in the Song as God, and the woman as the religious individual

who senses God’s closeness. The Song gives far more expression to the woman than to the man,

so that one can find therein one’s religious voice seeking God. 19

Rabbi Carmy explains that people never can fully connect to God, just as the desired

rendezvous of the lovers in the Song never explicitly occurs. The God we seek is the God who

corresponds to our needs and desires, our loves and our fears. Yet God also is wholly other,

expressed most poignantly through revelation to humanity, and makes demands that do not

correspond to our perceived needs. In the context of revelation, people must obey; but obedience

necessarily leads to estrangement, since it is not a freedom-seeking person’s natural way. God

therefore is both approachable and completely apart. Rabbi Soloveitchik’s reading that combines

the approaches of Rashi and Maimonides thereby bridges the gap between the ordinary Friday

evening worshipper, engaged in an intimate personal spiritual encounter with God, and the elite

theologian and philosopher, who encounters God through revelation.

Rabbi Yuval Cherlow 20

Rabbi Yuval Cherlow builds important bridges between the literal and allegorical

layers of meaning in the Song. In Rabbi Cherlow’s interpretation of the Song’s literal

layer, the man—whom he identifies as a king—and the woman—whom who he identifies

as a peasant who tends vineyards—must learn each other’s language and overcome the

staggering gulf between them. 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 also must 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. As cited in the Mishnah, Rabbi

Akiva declares that the Song is the most sacred of all biblical works, calling it the Holy

of Holies, which was in its day the most sacred inner sanctum of the Temple in Jerusalem

(M. Yadayim 3:5). He considers “love your neighbor as yourself” to be the central axiom

of the Torah (Sifra Kedoshim 4:12). Rabbi Akiva teaches that the love of God is not what

leads to the love of people; rather, the love of people ultimately leads to the love of God.

The planes of interpersonal love and the love that may exist between God and Israel or

the religious individual intersect in the most sacred of dialogic spaces, the relational

equivalent of the ancient Holy of Holies. 21

Conclusion

Our inability to define the boundaries between the author’s intended meaning and later

layers of interpretation is one of the Song’s most exciting features. The dynamic possibilities,

coupled with the efforts of ancient and contemporary thinkers, offer fertile ground to explore the

love of people and the love of God. There are three commandments to love in the Torah: One’s

neighbor (Lev. 19:18), the stranger (Lev. 19:34), and God (Deut. 6:5). The Song and its

interpretations develop and invigorate these three loves. Both forms of love require a leap of

faith from the uncertain, and that leap and endless pursuit creates the dynamic and ever-burning

love depicted by the Song.

In his essay on the Song of Songs, “U-vikkashtem Mi-sham,” Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik

discusses a central pillar of the Torah, which elevates the physical aspects of humanity to a life

of holiness. In the summary words of Rabbi Reuven Ziegler:

Judaism does not view the natural, biological aspect of the human being with disdain or

despair. Therefore, the revelatory commands do not come to deny and repress man’s

physical existence. Judaism instead declares that the body’s instinctual biological drives

must be refined, redeemed, and sanctified, but not extirpated. Through the imposition of

the mitzvot that make demands of the body, those drives are stamped with “direction and

purposefulness.” The Torah thus allows man to experience pleasure, even as it prevents

him from being enslaved to desire and from indulging in pleasure to excess. 22

This approach appears apt to explain the dynamism in the literal-metaphorical relationship of the

Song. The Song speaks to the sanctity of human love, and intimates the love of the divine. Like

the Torah, what sanctifies the Song is not “only” its divine aspect, but also the elevation of

human love to the realm of the sacred.

The strands of rabbinic analysis warn that the literal reading of the Song is susceptible to

secularization and vulgarization, just like human love and intimacy today. And also just like

today the connection between love and religion can be viewed with excessive cynicism. Some

would separate between human love which is “secular,” and a relationship with God which is

“religious”; but biblical tradition repudiates this view and considers human love and

interpersonal relationships to be essential and sacred aspects of the service of God.

The language of love in the Song of Songs has a unique potential to speak to the heart of

many contemporary Jews. One midrash suggests that King Solomon made the Torah accessible in a

manner that nobody had done since the Torah was revealed:

He listened and tested the soundness (izzein v’ḥikkeir) of many maxims (Kohelet

12:9)—[this means that] he made handles (oznayim, a word similar to izzein) to the

Torah…. Rabbi Yosei said: Imagine a big basket full of produce without any handle, so

that it could not be lifted, until one clever man came and made handles to it, and then it

began to be carried by the handles. So until Solomon arose, no one could properly

understand the words of the Torah, but when Solomon arose, all began to comprehend the

Torah. (Shir Ha-shirim Rabbah 1:8)

Precisely through the language of human love that most people can understand, the Song enables

people to approach God and revelation.

The Song sanctifies and exalts human love, and it infuses with intense passion the love

between God and Israel and the love between God and every religious individual. Jewish

tradition understood the potential religious pitfalls that could result from the inclusion of the

Song into the Bible, but concluded that it was well worth those risks to promote a singular level

of sanctification through the fusion of human and divine love. It remains to the readers of the

Song to take that leap of faith.

At the outset of this essay, we asked: Can a biblical text be physical and spiritual, openly

erotic and about the love of God, all at the same time? By blurring the boundaries between

human and divine love, the Song and its interpretations provide a strikingly positive, and sacred,

answer.

Notes

1 Based on intertextual references between the Song of Songs, 4 Ezra, and Revelation, Jonathan

Kaplan argues that the first allegorical interpretations of the Song of Songs can be traced to the

close of the first century CE. See his “The Song of Songs from the Bible to the Mishnah,”

Hebrew Union College Annual 81 (2010), pp. 43–66.

2 This was not the only midrashic understanding, however. In the summary words of David M.

Carr (with minor transliteration changes): “While we see the male fairly consistently linked to

God, we find the female of the Song of Songs related to the house of study (B. Eruvin 21b, Bava

Batra 7b), an individual sage (T. Ḥagigah 2:3), Moses (Mekhilta, Beshallaḥ, Shirah §9), Joshua

the son of Nun (Sifrei D’varim §305 and parallels), local court (B. Sanhedrin 36b, Yevamot

101a, Kiddushin 49b and Sanhedrin 24a; cf. also B. Pesaḥim 87a), or the community of Israel as

a whole (M Taanit 4:8; T. Sotah 9:8; B. Shabbat 88, Yoma 75a, Sukkot 49b, Eruvin 21b, Taanit

4a; Mekhilta Beshallaḥ Shirah §3).” See his “The Song of Songs as a Microcosm of the

Canonization and Decanonization Process,” in Canonization and Decanonization, eds. A. van

der Kooij and K. van der Toorn (Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 175–176.

3 See Philip S. Alexander, “Tradition and Originality in the Targum of the Song of Songs,” in

The Aramaic Bible: Targums in Their Historical Context, ed. D. R. G. Beattie and M. J.

McNamara (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), pp. 318–339; Isaac B. Gottlieb, “The Jewish Allegory

of Love: Change and Constancy,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 2 (1992), pp. 1–17.

For a more detailed analysis of Targum’s reading, see Esther M. Menn, “Targum of the Song of

Songs and the Dynamics of Historical Allegory,” in The Interpretation of Scripture in Early

Judaism and Christianity: Studies in Language and Tradition, ed. Craig A. Evans (Sheffield:

Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), pp. 423–445.

4 See M.T. Hilkhot Teshuvah 10:3; Guide of the Perplexed 3:51. And see also Yosef Murciano,

“Maimonides and the Interpretation of the Song of Songs” (Hebrew), in Teshurah L’Amos: A

Collection of Studies in Biblical Interpretation Presented in Honor of Amos Hakham, eds. Moshe

BarAsher et al. (Alon Shevut: Tevunot, 2007), pp. 85–108; James A. Diamond, Maimonides and

the Shaping of the Jewish Canon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. 26–68).

For an analysis of medieval philosophical readings of the Song of Songs, and how Malbim (Meir

Leibush ben Yehiel Michel, 1809–1879) and Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik (in U-vikkashtem Mi-

sham) adopted variations of that approach, see Shalom Rosenberg, “Philosophical Interpretations

of the Song of Songs: Preliminary Observations” (Hebrew), Tarbiz 59 (1990), pp. 133–151.

5 For a survey, see Michael Fishbane, Song of Songs (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society,

2015), pp. 245–310.

6 For critique of this widely-held scholarly position, see Hector Patmore, “‘The Plain and Literal

Sense’: On Contemporary Assumptions about the Song of Songs,” Vetus Testamentum 56

(2006), pp. 239–250.

7 James L. Kugel, How to Read the Bible: A Guide to Scripture, Then and Now (New York: Free

Press, 2007), pp. 514–518. For criticism of the cynical excesses of Kugel’s book, see Yitzchak

Blau, “Reading Morality Out of the Bible,” Bekhol Derakhakha Daehu 29 (2014), pp. 7–13.

8 Gabriel H. Cohn, Textual Tapestries: Explorations of the Five Megillot (Jerusalem: Maggid,

2016), p. 7.

9 Gerson D. Cohen, “The Song of Songs and the Jewish Religious Mentality,” in The Canon and

Masorah of the Hebrew Bible: An Introductory Reader, ed. Sid Z. Leiman (New York: Ktav,

1974), p. 263. See also Mark Giszczak, “The Canonical Status of Song of Songs in m. Yadayim

3:5,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 41:2 (2016), pp. 205–220.

10 These include: Isaiah 50:1; 54:4–7; 62:4–5; Jeremiah 2:1–2; 3:1; Ezekiel 16:7–8; Hosea 1–3.

11 Gabriel H. Cohn, Textual Tapestries, pp. 11–12.

12 Alon Goshen-Gottstein, “Thinking of/With Scripture: Struggling for the Religious Significance

of the Song of Songs,” Journal of Scriptural Reasoning 3:2 (2003), at

http://jsr.shanti.virginia.edu/back-issues/vol-3-no-2-august-2003-healing-words-the-song-of-

songs-and-the-path-of-love/thinking-ofwith-scripture-struggling-for-the-religious-significance-

of-the-song-of-songs/. Accessed July 11, 2017.

13 Gabriel H. Cohn, Textual Tapestries, pp. 22–23.

14 Joseph Soloveitchik, “U-vikkashtem Mi-sham,” in Ish Ha-halakhah: Galui V’nistar,

(Jerusalem: Histadrut, 1992), pp. 119–120.

15 Elie Assis, Ahavat Olam Ahavtikh: Keriah Hadashah BeShir HaShirim (Hebrew) (Tel-Aviv:

Yediot Aharonot-Hemed, 2009), pp. 211–231.

16 Tzvi Yehudah, “The Song of Songs: The Sanctity of the Megillah and Its Exegesis”

(Hebrew), in Sinai: Jubilee Volume, ed. Yitzhak Rafael (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav

Kook, 1987), pp. 471–486.

17 “U-vikkashtem Mi-sham,” pp. 119–120. For discussions of this essay by Rabbi Soloveitchik,

see especially Shalom Carmy, “On Cleaving as Identification: Rabbi Soloveitchik’s Account of

Devekut in U-Vikkashtem Mi-Sham,” Tradition 41:2 (Summer 2008), pp. 100–112; and see also

Reuven Ziegler, Majesty and Humility: The Thought of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (Jerusalem-

New York: Urim-OU Press, 2012), pp. 344–389.

18 The section on Rabbi Carmy is adapted from my article, “The Literary-Theological Study of

Tanakh,” published as an afterword to Moshe Sokolow’s Tanakh: An Owner’s Manual:

Authorship, Canonization, Masoretic Text, Exegesis, Modern Scholarship and Pedagogy

(Brooklyn, NY: Ktav, 2015), pp. 192–207. My essay draws from Rabbi Carmy’s article, “Perfect

Harmony,” First Things (December, 2010), at

https://www.firstthings.com/article/2010/12/perfect-harmony. Accessed July 11, 2017.

19 Of the 117 verses in the Song of Songs, some 61 are spoken by the woman, and only 33 by the

man. She initiates their encounters more frequently than he, and she gets the last word in all but

two dialogues. The woman takes to the streets alone at night to search for her beloved (3:1–4;

5:6–7), and even the secondary characters marvel at her unusual behavior (cf. Yair Zakovitch,

Mikra LeYisrael: Song of Songs [Hebrew] [Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1992], pp. 11–14).

20 Yuval Cherlow, Aharekha Narutzah: Peirush al Shir Ha-Shirim Be-Tosefet Mavo U-Perek

Siyyum al Mashmaut Shir Ha-Shirim Le-Yameinu (Hebrew) (Tel Aviv: Miskal-Yediot Aharonot

and Hemed Books, 2003).

21 For further discussion of his work, see my review essay, “Rabbi Yuval Cherlow’s

Interpretation of the Song of Songs: Its Critical Role in Contemporary Religious Experience,” in

my Vision from the Prophet and Counsel from the Elders: A Survey of Nevi’im and Ketuvim

(New York: OU Press, 2013), pp. 258–271.

22 Reuven Ziegler, Majesty and Humility, p. 377. See further discussion of this theme in Rabbi

Soloveitchik’s thought in Ziegler, pp. 72-78.

I am happy to be a Jewish Israeli who prefers to be liked by others, but I know that a healthy person ought not to overly worry whether they are liked by others. As my friend Eli Schonfeld says, “The ‘Jewish Question’ is not a Jewish question.” Let non-Jews worry about it. As a Jew, I think I should worry about philogoyyism. How ought I relate to non-Jews?[1]

The question is new. For at least two millennia Jews indeed had to worry about what non-Jews thought of them. Even today Jewry’s enemies force themselves upon our attention, be it through plain old-fashioned Jew-hatred, widespread Muslim antisemitism, or the immoral stupidity of so-called progressive forces that identify with Hamas. Anti-Zionists (Jewish and non-Jewish), unless they reject all nationalisms, are culpably ignorant and thus immoral. In practical terms they must be opposed and resisted, of course, but they do not represent a threat to Judaism.

The real threat to Judaism today comes from within, from circles that take advantage of current recrudescent Jew-hatred to justify disdain for and often hatred of goyyim (Gentiles).[2] There are, of course other internal threats: “Gedolim” who urge their followers to reject army service in Israel is one that particularly outrages me, but I see it as a temporary problem. As soon as our government stops underwriting draft evasion more and more young haredim will choose to get a modern education and to serve Israeli society in a variety of ways, including through enlistment.

What do I mean by “philogoyyism”? Historically, as the old Jewish joke has it, antisemitism has meant disliking Jews more than is really necessary. Its opposite, philosemitism, has not meant liking Jews more than is really necessary. For me, philosemitism need not mean admiring or loving Jews more than other people. Ideally, it should mean treating Jews no differently than one treats other people. That is what I mean by “philogoyyism”: treating goyyim the way the Torah treats them—as human beings created in the image of God. Some goyyim (like some Jews) are likeable, some (like some Jews) are impossible, both without respect to their Jewishness or their goyyism.

What does the Torah teach us about the nature of Jews vis-à-vis the nature of goyyim? Nothing. There are no passages in the Torah that impute to the Jews as such characteristics missing in other peoples. The Torah is careful to delineate family trees, of course, but that may be only to emphasize, as R. Josef Kafih pointed out, that we are all descended from the same antecedents (Adam and Eve, Noah and Mrs. Noah), and are all of us are thus cousins.[3] Before Sinai, all human beings are Noahides, including the Patriarchs and their descendants. Indeed, the Torah seems to go out of its way to emphasize that the future messiah would descend from two non-Jewish women (Tamar and Ruth). 

The issue of philogoyyism is particularly pressing today in Israel. Our government is dominated by parties that deny that Jews and non-Jews are equally created fully in the image of God and are equally beloved by God. These parties represent a trend in Judaism that clearly exists (sadly), but they present it as the only legitimate form of Judaism. That is false. It is also dangerous to Israeli democracy.

The doctrine of the chosen people, while certainly central to Jewish self-understanding, is not unique to the Jews.[4] The Jews, however, may be the only people to ground their chosenness in a covenant with God.[5] Why did God enter into the covenant with the Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and their descendants? There is surprisingly little discussion of this point in the Torah itself. There are many iterations of the idea that God chose the Jews (“How odd of God to choose the Jews…not so odd, the goyyim annoyed Him”) out of love for their ancestors, but why did God love their ancestors? That is a question that generated an on-going debate between Judah Halevi and his followers and Maimonides and his followers.[6]

The Torah teaches that the Jews were God’s am segulah, treasured (chosen) people. What does it say about the “unchosen”? About the vast run of humanity, the Torah has little to say. There are clearly “others,” first and foremost those who are to be exterminated: the seven Canaanite nations and Amalek.[7] Other others include those with whom Israelites may not marry (Moabites and Amonites). There are other others, of course, about whom the Torah does not have much to say, beyond acknowledging their existence: Edomites and Egyptians primarily. There are also Abraham’s other progeny, Ishmael assuredly, but also those born to him after Sarah’s death by his wife Keturah. Here it is very useful to bring into play Jacob Kaminsky’s distinction between the elect (God’s chosen people), the “anti-elect” (Amalek and the “Seven Nations”), and the vast run of humanity whom Kaminsky calls the “non-elect.”[8]

Alexander  Altmann put this matter well:

[Judaism,] it may be said, in general, is intolerant of Israelites falling away from the God of the Fathers and of the Covenant. It shows no trace of intolerance of heathens following their customs and traditions. Ruth the Moabite is welcomed as a proselyte, but Orpah, her sister-in-law is not reproved because of her return to her native paganism. David and Solomon extended their kingdoms far beyond the Israelite borders, but they did not impose their religion on the subjugated peoples.[9] 

The Biblical story opens, of course, with the creation of all that is. Abraham, the progenitor of those whom we now call Jews, does not show up until 20 generations have passed. For many traditionally oriented Jews today (influenced by R. Judah Halevi and those who follow him), Abraham was literally and specifically chosen by God. For Maimonides and those who follow him, on the other hand, Abraham chose God.[10]

Returning to Halevi, Abraham belonged by descent to a special subset of humanity capable of achieving prophecy. This special subset of humanity continued to develop through Abraham (but not through his brother Haran, or his nephew Lot, or the children of his second wife, Keturah), through Isaac (but not through his brother Ishmael), and through Jacob (but not through his brother Esau) and finally to all of Jacob's descendants, the children of Israel/Jacob.[11]

The Torah itself seems to support a view later to be held by Maimonides rather than that later to be held by Judah Halevi. The clearest expression of this might be Dt. 7:6–8:

For you are a people consecrated to the Lord your God: of all the peoples on earth the Lord your God chose you to be His treasured people. It is not because you are the most numerous of peoples that the Lord set His heart on you and chose you—indeed, you are the smallest of peoples; but it was because the Lord favored you and kept the oath He made to your fathers that the Lord freed you with a mighty hand and rescued you from the house of bondage, from the power of Pharaoh king of Egypt.[12]

God chose Israel as a special treasure for no characteristic of theirs, but, rather, to keep a promise made to the Patriarchs, their ancestors. This and similar verses can be read differently, but this seems to be the simple sense, and it is certainly the way that Maimonides (but not Halevi![13]) read them.

Thus, for example, in Guide iii.51 we find Maimonides stating:

It is also the plane our Patriarchs reached, coming so close to God that He became known to the world through them: The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob…This is my universal name (Ex. 3:15). One result of this union of their minds with thoughts of God is His eternal covenant with each of them: I shall remember my covenant with Jacob [---and also My covenant with Isaac, and My covenant with Abraham shall I remember] (Lev. 26:42). For these four—the Patriarchs and our Teacher Moses—were plainly united with God by love and knowledge of Him, as our texts proclaim. Another result was his Supernal providence over them and their seed after them…[14]

For Maimonides the election of Israel is a consequence of the antecedent covenant made by God with the Patriarchs. This covenant is a consequence of their love and knowledge of God, not a consequence of any special characteristic found in the Jewish people—zekhut avot (ancestral merit) indeed!

So what is the relationship between the efforts of the Patriarchs and the Jewish People? Maimonides continues (p. 521):

For the object of their efforts, lifelong, was to found a nation that knew and served God: For I have know him, that he may charge [his children and his house after him to keep the way of the Lord, by doing right and justice] (Gen. 18:19). Their every endeavor, you can see was devoted to spreading monotheism through the world, guiding people to the love of God. So they earned the rank they reached [emphasis added].

In this crucial passage Maimonides informs us that the object of the Patriarchs was to found a nation that knew and served God, a nation educated to keep the way of the Lord by doing right and justice. The overall aim of the Patriarchs, and one assumes Maimonides held, of the Jewish people also, was to spread monotheism throughout the world. We also learned that the Patriarchs earned their rank; it was not inherited as Halevi would have it. So, too, their descendants have to justify their chosenness by earning it.

This is a doctrine of election far from those of Halevi, Zohar, Kabbalah, and of far too many Jews today.

It turns out that Bible (and rabbinic texts) do not offer clear answers to questions concerning the reason for election and the nature of the Jewish people. This is not surprising: These texts are not overtly theological in nature and rarely address abstract theological issues straightforwardly, if at all. Was the Torah given to Israel in consequence of God’s choice or was the giving of the Torah the mechanism of God’s choosing (as Halevi and Zohar would have it)?  Deuteronomy (7:6–8) as we just saw appears to answer that question by de-linking God’s choice to some quality of the Jewish people. Others could have been chosen but weren’t. On this view, The Torah is a record of what “happened to happen,” not a record of what had to happen.[15]

Election—Torah

The Book of Genesis is largely devoted to the history of God’s relationship with the Patriarchs, but the reason behind that relationship is never made clear. God chooses Abraham by commanding: “Go forth…” (Gen. 12:1) but no explanation for that choice is found.

The ancestral patrimony is not raised in a passage from Deuteronomy dealing with what came to be called the election of Israel, 14:1–2:

You are children of the Lord your God. You shall not gash yourselves or shave the front of your heads because of the dead. For you are a people consecrated to the Lord your God: the Lord your God chose you from among all other peoples on earth to be His treasured people.

That these verses teach that God chose Israel from among all the nations is clear. Why? These verses do not tell us.

Similarly, in a further passage in Deuteronomy (26:16–19):

The Lord your God commands you this day to observe these laws and rules; observe them faithfully with all your heart and soul. You have affirmed this day that the Lord is your God, that you will walk in His ways, that you will observe His laws and commandments and rules, and that you will obey Him. And the Lord has affirmed this day that you are, as He promised you, His treasured people who shall observe all His commandments, and that He will set you, in fame and renown and glory, high above all the nations that He has made; and that you shall be, as He promised, a holy people to the Lord your God.

“High above all the nations (elyon al kol ha-goyyim)”—many will want to read that as a claim of Israel’s inherent superiority. Nevertheless, the verse itself speaks of superiority in fame, renown, and glory, nothing else. Here the connection between election and obedience to the commandments is made clear.

The prophet Amos seemed to be conflicted about the nature of the election of Israel. On the hand one, he wrote (1:1–2):

Hear this word, O people of Israel,
That the Lord has spoken concerning you,
Concerning the whole family that I brought up from the land of Egypt: You alone have I singled out
Of all the families of the earth—
That is why I will call you to account
For all your iniquities.

On the other hand, six chapters on, he states (9:7):

To Me, O Israelites, you are
Just like the Ethiopians
—declares the Lord.
True, I brought Israel up
From the land of Egypt,
But also the Philistines from Caphtor
And the Arameans from Kir.

But the following verse makes clear that unlike the Philistines and Arameans,

Behold, the Lord God has His eye
Upon the sinful kingdom:
I will wipe it off
The face of the earth!
But, I will not wholly wipe out
The House of Jacob
—declares the Lord.

For Amos, being the apple of God’s eye, as it were, can have negative consequences—unique attention and unique punishment—but the House of Jacob will never be wiped out.

One thing is clear from this brief survey: There is no obvious biblical doctrine of election. Given the nature of the Bible itself, this is not surprising, even if it would surprise many Jews today.

Continuing with the issue of theological surprises, there is very little doubt that most Jews raised in a traditional context would be surprised to discover that rabbinic texts contain a variety of positions concerning God’s choice of Israel.[16] Many of them would be even more surprised to discover that many such texts imply the view (later adopted by Maimonides) that God might have chosen other nations, and that the choice of Israel reflects no special qualities found in the Jewish people. 

This may be the message of the following oft-cited passage (AZ 2b): “R. Johanan says: This teaches us that the Holy One, blessed be He, offered the Torah to every nation and every tongue, but none accepted it, until He came to Israel who received it.” The point of this passage is not to teach history, but to praise the ancient Israelites, who accepted the Torah unconditionally.[17] However, the praise makes no sense had the Torah been predestined for the Jews.

Menachem Hirshman has analyzed in detail the many texts that ask why Torah was given in the Wilderness of Sinai as opposed to the Land of Israel. Hirshman demonstrates that these texts teach that God chose to do so in order that the Torah could have been available to all the nations.[18] It should be no surprise that thinkers who hold such a view expect the Torah to be accepted by all nations in the fullness of time.[19]

These few paragraphs do not do justice to the rich variety of rabbinic opinions on the nature of the election of the Jews. What they do indicate is that the variety of opinions available to the post-rabbinic Jewish tradition is certainly more variegated than many Jews today have become accustomed to think. This is particularly true in Israel, among Orthodox religious Zionists who are raised to believe that Halevy, Zohar, Ramban, Maharal, and following them Rav Kook, represent “authentic” Orthodox Judaism. It is equally true among Haredim, whose Judaism is deeply inflected by Kabbalah (obviously in the case of Hasidim, but no less so in the case of non-Hasidim for whom Reb Haim Volozhin’s Nefesh Ha-Hayyim is a core text).

Election—Liturgy

The Jewish liturgy may be no more interested than the Bible in theological consistency, but it surely emphasizes the election of Israel in the context of God’s love for the Jewish people.

A text well known to all Jews who attend traditional services on the three pilgrim festivals and on the High Holy Days states:

You have chosen us from among all nations, loved us, desired us above all other tongues; You have sanctified us with your commandments and brought us close, our King, to your worship; you have called us by your great and holy name…

Here we see God’s love for the Jewish people and the election of Israel directly connected. Sanctification by the commandments,[20] the privilege of worshiping God, and having God’s name (El) made part of the peoples’ name (Israel) all appear to be consequences of that election, even if we are not told why God loved the Jews.

The motif of love finds emphatic expression in a central place in the daily liturgy, the blessing preceding the recitation of the Shema:

With great love have you loved us, our Lord and God, with great and boundless compassion have you been compassionate to us. Our Father and King, because of our ancestors who trusted in you… Blessed are you, Lord, who chooses his people of Israel in love.

Here the motif of ancestral merit takes pride of place. Followers of both Halevi and Maimonides accept this idea. For Halevi the patriarchs of the Jewish people were chosen for God’s special interest because of their descent—no one else could have been chosen. For Maimonides it was the historically contingent fact that Abraham chose God and raised a son and grandson who followed in his footsteps that gained for them the special merit in light of which God promised to elect their progeny.

We have examined examples from the liturgy expressing God’s special love for the Jewish people. However, the liturgy also teaches that God is concerned with the well-being of all human beings, apportioning reward and punishment to them all. Thus, for example, in a hymn traditionally given pride of place in the Ashkenazic liturgy of the High Holy Days (“Unetanah Tokef”) we find:

We acclaim this day's pure sanctity, its awesome power. This day, Lord, Your dominion is deeply felt. Compassion and truth, its foundations, are perceived. In truth do You judge and prosecute, discern motives and bear witness, record and seal, count and measure, remembering all that we have forgotten. You open the Book of Remembrance and it speaks for itself, for every man has signed it with his deeds. The great shofar is sounded. A still, small voice is heard. This day even angels are alarmed, seized with fear and trembling as they declare: "The day of judgment is here!" For even the hosts of heaven are judged. This day all who walk the earth [kol ba'ei olam] pass before You as a flock of sheep. And like a shepherd who gathers his flock, bringing them under his staff, You bring everything that lives before You for review. You determine the life and decree the destiny of every creature.[21]

Despite what many traditionalist Jews mistakenly believe,[22] this hymn means what it says: On Rosh ha-Shanah God examines and judges all human beings, Jew and non-Jew. 

This duality, God’s particular love for the Jewish people, allied with concern for all humanity, finds dramatic expression in one of the core elements of the Jewish liturgy, the aleinu prayer, the first paragraph of which emphasizes the election of Israel while the second anticipates a universalist messianic era.

Election—Judah Halevi and Maimonides

Judah Halevi and Maimonides essayed answers to the question why God chose the Jews, answers that reflect very different understandings of what the Jewish religion actually is.[23] For Halevi, God really had no choice, as it were, in the matter of choosing the Jewish people: The choice of the Patriarchs and their descendants after them was determined by their special qualities. As noted above, for Maimonides God did not choose the Jews; rather, the Jews (or, more precisely, their progenitor, Abraham) chose God. The covenant with Abraham’s descendants was both a fulfillment of a divine promise made to Abraham and a reward to him for having chosen God. As we have seen, the Torah itself offers no conclusive support to either view.

Maimonides and Halevi et al. all agree that the nation that came to be called Jewish was chosen by God. For Halevi, this is a function of the special nature of the Jewish people, determined from creation. For Maimonides this is basically a function of an historically contingent event; it did not have to be the ancestor of the Jews who rediscovered God.

The Bible is, of course, a complex document, but until the Book of Ezra there appear to be no texts that clearly support Halevi over Maimonides, i.e., that support the claim that the Jewish people are in some inherent fashion innately superior to non-Jews, to the other.[24] Indeed, Christine Hayes, in an important article,[25] opines that

The rabbis seem eager to disassociate themselves from Ezran holy seed rhetoric and related Second Temple traditions that denounced even casual interethnic unions as capital crimes, subject to the vengeance of zealots. They rule that those who read a universal prohibition of intermarriage into the Bible are to be severely suppressed (M. Megillah 4:9). The rabbis' failure to take up Ezra's ban on foreign wives and their children—indeed, their very reversal of this program by allowing conver­sion—is all the more remarkable in light of the rabbis' general perception and presentation of themselves as Ezra’s (indirect) successors.

Assuming that Hayes is correct, we might have here an example of a rabbinic attempt to resist the conversion of universalist aspects of the Bible to a hard-edged particularism. The very fact that the laws of conversion were codified in Talmud and later codes indicates that the Rabbis resisted Ezra’s attempt to harden the distinction between Jew and non-Jew. Non-Jews can become Jews because, in the final analysis, there is no difference between them so far as their humanity is concerned. This is a message which many Jews today would be well advised to learn.

Election Tomorrow—A Modified Maimonideanism

According to the twelfth of Maimonides' Thirteen Principles of Faith, Jews are bid to anticipate the coming of the Messiah, “even though he tarries,” (as the popular Ani Ma’amin poem puts it) and pray for his coming.[26] Why? Not in order to enjoy power and dominion, or this-worldly pleasures, but in order to be free to devote themselves to the Torah and its wisdom.[27] Such devotion will make those wise enough to engage in it "worthy of life in the world to come." In such a well-organized and enlightened world, in which its natural riches are shared among human beings rationally as opposed to selfishly, not only will war disappear, but delicacies will be as common as dust. This is not a function of miracles, but of proper organization and the self-restraint of a population focused on important matters. Is it any wonder that in such a world human beings (not just Jews) will achieve great wisdom? The point of the Messiah's coming is thus to help human beings bring about a peaceful society enjoying the just allocation of resources and devoted to the cultivation of the intellect.[28]

Maimonides brings his most extensive discussion of the messiah to a dramatic summation in “Laws of Kings,” xii.4. With this text, he ends the entire Mishneh Torah:

The Sages and Prophets did not long for the days of the Messiah that they might exercise dominion over the world, or rule over the nations, or be exalted by the peoples, and not in order to eat and drink and rejoice, but so that they be free to devote themselves to the Torah and its wisdom, with no one to oppress or disturb them, and thus be worthy of life in the world to come, as we explained in 'Laws Concerning Repentance'. [29] Then there will be neither famine nor war, neither jealousy nor strife. Good things will be abundant, and delicacies as common as dust. The one preoccupation of the whole world will be only to know the Lord. Hence they[30] will be very wise, knowing things now unknown and will apprehend knowledge of their Creator to the utmost capacity of the human mind, as it is written: For the land shall be full of the knowledge (de'ah) of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea (Isa. 11:9) [emphasis added].[31]

Maimonides provides a parallel description of the messianic world in a very short chapter of the Guide of the Perplexed (iii.11; Pines, 440–441). Zev Harvey has pointed out that this chapter of the Guide is a kind of poetic and philosophical rendition of the last paragraph of the Mishneh Torah, glossing it in the way Maimonides meant it to be read.[32] Here is the chapter in its entirety:

These great evils that come about because the human individuals who inflict them upon one another because of purposes, desires, opinions, and beliefs, are all of them likewise consequent upon privation. For all of them derive from ignorance, I mean from a privation of knowledge. Just as a blind man, because of absence of sight, does not cease stumbling, being wounded and also wounding others, because he has nobody to guide him on the way, the various sects of men—every individual according to the extent of his ignorance—does to himself and to others great evils from which individuals of the species suffer. If there were knowledge, whose relation to the human form is like that of the faculty of sight to the eye, they would refrain from doing any harm to themselves and to others. For through cognition of the truth, enmity and hatred are removed and the inflicting of harm by people on one another is abolished. It holds out this promise, saying: And the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and so on. And the cow and the bear shall feed, and son on (Is. 11:6–8). Then it gives the reason for this, saying that the cause of the abolition of these enmities, these discords, and these tyrannies, will be the knowledge that men [al-nas] will have then concerning the true reality of the deity. For it says: They shall not hurt nor destroy in all My holy mountain; for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea (Is. 11:9). Know this.

There is, of course, much more to be said about Maimonides’ view of the messiah and of the messianic era, but the texts cited here should be enough for me to be able to conclude this essay with the following argument. I assert, following what I learned from Steven Schwarzschild (who always insisted that he was only following Hermann Cohen), if not necessarily from Maimonides himself, that ends should determine means.[33] That being the case, if we can show that Maimonides anticipated a messianic era characterized by enlightenment and (therefore) peace, we can then point out to him (whatever he himself may have thought in the midst of the crusades) that war and discrimination among human beings will never achieve that end. This position is Maimonidean, if not necessarily that of Maimonides himself.[34]

Judaism, Maimonides would insist, has something important and valuable to teach the whole world even for those who deny the truth of the Torah as adumbrated in the rabbinic tradition. I refer to aspects of the messianic hope as expressed by Maimonides, especially as that hope was understood by Hermann Cohen and by Steven Schwarzschild after him.[35]

Two aspects of Maimonides’ messianic teaching are relevant to us here are: universalism and naturalism. This is not the place to defend an interpretation of Maimonides according to which by the time the messianic process reaches its completion all human beings will worship God from a stance of religious equality.[36] In Maimonides’ view, the point of the messianic era is to bring the Torah lekhol ba’ei olam, to all human beings. One can easily derive from Maimonides the understanding that the Torah in question is Abrahamic, not Mosaic; i.e., a Torah of ethics, science, and philosophy.[37] Maimonides’ messianic naturalism is admitted even by those made uncomfortable by it.[38]

This messianic vision offers us a goal at which to aim, an ideal by which to regulate our behavior. That goal is the realization of the opening chapters of the Bible: all human beings are created in the image of God and should be treated, therefore, as Kant would later put it, as ends also, never as means only. Maimonides’ naturalism means that this goal can be achieved by human beings, without divine intervention, miraculous or otherwise.

Kant insisted that ought implies can: if I ought to do something, I must be able to do it. Steven Schwarzschild insisted on a Jewish corollary to that Kantian teaching: If I can achieve some worthwhile goal, then I ought to try to achieve it. Getting ever closer to a messianic world is surely a worthwhile goal. Actually reaching that goal may not be possible, but getting ever closer is.[39] Since we can, we should make every effort to make the world a place in which all human beings are treated as creatures made in the image of God. In effect, Maimonides, Cohen, and Schwarzschild teach us that we ought to devote ourselves to the project of creating a messiah-worthy world.[40]

There is something else that Maimonidean messianic universalism and naturalism teaches us: hope. We can hope for (and work toward) a world in which different nations and cultures can value their own contributions to the human mosaic without diminishing the value of others—without wholly “otherizing” the other. If we can hope, we need not despair; the human condition is not necessarily tragic.[41] That message alone justifies the continued allegiance of the Jewish people to the Torah of Israel and to their destiny.

Notes

On Tuesday, April 8, from 8:00-9:00 pm ET, Rabbi Hayyim Angel will teach a class, "Written and Oral Tradition in the Haggadah."

This class is free and open to the public, and is sponsored by Ben Porat Yeshiva Day School in Paramus, New Jersey.

Here is the Zoom link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/5413950938?pwd=dSszMGFUNEgrQlY3blc2K1hzYzdCUT09#success

On Wednesday, April 9, from 1:00-2:00 pm ET, Rabbi Hayyim Angel will teach a class, "Our Journey in the Haggadah."

This class is sponsored by Torah in Motion. Registration is required. To register, click  here: 

https://torahinmotion.org/programs/e-tim-5785-pesach-learning-series

Rabbi Stanley Davids: In Memoriam

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Rabbi Stanley Davids, a prominent Reform rabbi, passed away on Sunday night March 23, 2025. Although we differed significantly on religious matters, we were good friends for many years.

Stanley served as rabbi of Central Synagogue in Manhattan from 1986-1991, after which he became rabbi of Temple Emanu-El in Atlanta. He was active in many communal endeavors, including years as head of ARZA.

When we were both serving congregations in Manhattan, we found ourselves working together in various communal endeavors. Stanley was always affable, sensible and deeply committed to the wellbeing and unity of the Jewish People. That he was Reform and I was Orthodox did not get in the way of our mutual respect and fellowship. As human beings—and as Jews—we had many shared ideas, ideals and aspirations. 

Stanley regularly made his way from Central Synagogue to Shearith Israel where we studied Rambam together. We kept in touch after he moved from Manhattan, and we even had lunch together in Jerusalem after he and his wife made Aliyah. We published an article by him in our Institute’s journal, Conversations, https://www.jewishideas.org/article/everything-there-time, and he published an article of mine in a book he co-edited, https://www.jewishideas.org/node/3239. We shared significant occasions, professionally and personally.

Yes, it was (and hopefully still is) possible for an Orthodox rabbi and a Reform rabbi to study Torah together, to work together on behalf of the Jewish community and Israel, to enjoy a genuine friendship.  In an increasingly divisive world, we gain from friendships that overcome differences and focus on shared values. 

We extend condolences to Stanley’s wife, Resa, and to the entire Davids family. Min Hashamayim Tenuhamu.

Biography of author 

Dr Daniel Davies PhD is from Manchester, UK. After studying at Yeshivat ha-Kibbutz ha-Dati in Israel, he read Theology and Religious Studies at the University of Birmingham and pursued postgraduate work at Cambridge University. He has written extensively on the history of philosophy and theology.

His first book on Maimonides, Method and Metaphysics in Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed (OUP, 2011), received an honorary mention from the Jordan Schnitzer Book Awards. 

Together with Charles Manekin, he edited Interpreting Maimonides (CUP, 2020). He has worked as a Research Associate in the Taylor-Schechter Genizah Research Unity at Cambridge University Library, at the University of Hamburg, and at Bar-Ilan University. 

At present, he is a visiting researcher with the Averroes Edition project housed at the Thomas Institute of the University of Cologne. He is currently translating Abraham Ibn Daud’s Exalted Faith and preparing an edition and translation of New Heavens by Isaac Abarbanel. 

Review of book

Daniel Davies, Maimonides. Cambridge: Polity, 2024. Hardback £55, Paperback £17.99, ebook £16.99.

Polity’s Classic Thinkers series aims to provide serious introductions to “the greatest thinkers of history.” Daniel Davies’s contribution on Maimonides is a high-level presentation of the Rambam’s treatment of major philosophical themes. 

It focusses mostly on doctrines that are common to the Abrahamic faiths and continue to be discussed today by theologians and by scholars of medieval thought. It is not merely an introduction, however, but a serious contribution to scholarly debates about how to interpret Maimonides, in particular his Guide. 

Davies addresses highly contested questions in ways that are both original and sensibly grounded in Rambam’s text. Studies often divide between layers of the Guide and, inspired by the many works of Leo Strauss, including Persecution and the Art of Writing (The Free Press, 1952; reissued Chicago, 1988), claim that Maimonides’ true beliefs are ‘esoteric’, meaning that they are hidden behind simplistic, ‘exoteric’ religious doctrines. 

Such studies often justify their approaches by noting that Maimonides says he intentionally contradicts himself. They argue that philosophical understandings of things like the creation of the world differ from religious ones. Maimonides’ ‘exoteric’ opinion that the world is created is therefore contradicted by his ‘esoteric’, real opinion that it is eternal. 

Rather than following this well-trodden path seeking out hidden heresies, Davies instead focusses on explaining the arguments that Maimonides sets out. In the final chapter, after an excellent thumbnail sketch of the reception of Maimonides’ work in subsequent centuries, Davies offers a methodological defense. He claims that the contradictions do not hide real philosophical beliefs but are part of the Rambam’s strategy of hiding his interpretation of Ezekiel’s famous chariot vision. Furthermore, Davies’s interpretations of the issues themselves show that Maimonides’s supposedly ‘exoteric’ arguments are not simplistic and dogmatic but are philosophically serious. 

Generally, the book stands out for its philosophical approach. It focusses on explaining the arguments and the assumptions behind them, trying to clarify why Maimonides and others of the period found them compelling. 

For example, why did they speak about parts and faculties of the soul? What questions were they trying to answer when they said that everything in the world is composed of matter and form? 

It also addresses the issues arising from some of Maimonides’ arguments in ways that make them accessible and relevant to philosophers today. For example, Davies is able to explain why talk about ‘possible worlds’, (which is currently a common way of framing the difference between ‘necessary’ and ‘possible’) fails to capture what Maimonides means when he writes that God is a necessary being. 

Furthermore, after explaining how Maimonides presents his negative theology and arguments about religious language, Davies addresses problems that have been raised by philosophical theologians in recent decades to the idea of God’s necessity. In doing so, he is able to clarify and defend it. 

This book is philosophically sophisticated, but its amenable style is attractive for the serious reader, whether specialist or non specialist. It is open and inclusive, and it fully deserves Yitzhak Melamed’s blurb, which states that it is “one of the best works of Jewish philosophy of recent times.”

 https://www.politybooks.com/bookdetail?book_slug=maimonides--9781509522903