The Torah rooted out many ancient pagan superstitions. Professor Yehezkel Kaufmann (1889–1963) pinpointed several critical features that fundamentally distinguish Tanakh from ancient Near Eastern literature. There is one supreme God above who is the Creator of all nature, and there are no forces competing with God. God is absolutely free. God is timeless, ageless, nonphysical, and eternal. Nature is a stage on which God expresses His will in history. Rituals do not harness independent magical powers and do not work automatically. Endowed with free will, people can defy God and even drive God’s Presence away. Evil does not inhere in universe but rather is a product of people sinning, and it undermines creation. Absolute standards of good and justice exist, and people may use their free will to build an ideal society.[1]

The overwhelming majority of Tanakh fits this description perfectly. God and the religious-moral behavior of humanity are explicitly responsible for nearly all events. This premise is so self-evident that one Mishnah dismisses any possibility of a “magical” reading of two Torah narratives that could have been read that way: Moses’ raised arms assisting Israel in the battle against Amalek (Exodus 17:8–16); and Moses’ using a divinely-commanded brass serpent to heal serpent-bitten Israelites in the wilderness (Numbers 21:4–9):

Is it Moses’ hands that make or break success in war? Rather, this comes to tell you, that whenever Israel looked upward and subjugated their hearts to their Father in heaven, they would prevail. If not, they would fall. Similarly, you can say concerning the verse, “Make a [graven] snake and place it on a pole, and everyone bitten who sees it will live.” Is it the snake that kills or revives? Rather, whenever Israel looked upward and subjugated their hearts to their Father in heaven, they would be healed. If not, they would be harmed. (Mishnah Rosh HaShanah 3:8)

There are instances, however, where some commentators interpret biblical narratives and laws in ways that differ from the above principles. This essay focuses on biblical passages that could be interpreted as reflecting powers that do not directly emanate from God. Among traditional commentators, there is diversity of opinion regarding the existence of forces beyond the divine. In most cases, Tanakh does not exhibit evidence of forces beyond God’s realm, but there are a few occasions where it might.[2] Religious educators must be particularly sensitive when teaching these passages with classical commentary, so that their students do not become superstitious.

Do Human Blessings and Curses Work Automatically?

Isaac’s Blessing to Jacob

            Isaac’s bestowal of the birthright is the central theme of Genesis chapters 25 and 27. Jacob successfully obtains the blessing through deception. Isaac upholds his blessing even after learning that he had mistakenly blessed Jacob:

Isaac was seized with very violent trembling. “Who was it then,” he demanded, “that hunted game and brought it to me? Moreover, I ate of it before you came, and I blessed him; now he must remain blessed!” When Esau heard his father’s words, he burst into wild and bitter sobbing, and said to his father, “Bless me too, Father!” But he answered, “Your brother came with guile and took away your blessing.” [Esau] said, “Was he, then, named Jacob that he might supplant me these two times? First he took away my birthright and now he has taken away my blessing!” (Genesis 27:33–36)

Given his knowledge of Jacob’s deception, why does Isaac conclude that “now he must remain blessed” (verse 33)?

            Following a Midrash (Genesis Rabbah 67:2), Rashi suggests that Isaac said “now he must remain blessed” (verse 33) only after hearing that Esau had sold the birthright years earlier (verse 36). Isaac thereby made a rational decision upon learning previously unknown (to Isaac) vital information. Of course, Rashi’s interpretation requires reading the verses out of sequence. In the text, Isaac appears to uphold the blessing immediately after learning that he was speaking with Esau. Most commentators therefore reject Rashi’s reading.

According to Rabbi Joseph Bekhor Shor and Ramban, Isaac’s blessing was prophetic and therefore could not be retracted. Ralbag and Abarbanel disagree and suggest that the blessing was not “automatic.” Rather, Isaac concluded that since Jacob had deceived him successfully, it must have been God’s will that Jacob should be blessed.

To summarize: Rashi, Ralbag, and Abarbanel interpret Isaac’s upholding the blessing as Isaac’s rational decision. Rabbi Joseph Bekhor Shor and Ramban maintain that Isaac’s blessing was an unretractable prophecy. In this latter reading, Isaac was powerless to annul even a misdirected blessing.

Regardless of the aforementioned debate, there is one other critical detail. Although Isaac was unaware (as far as we know), Rebekah received a prophecy during her pregnancy suggesting that Jacob would prevail over Esau:

The Lord answered her, “Two nations are in your womb, two separate peoples shall issue from your body; one people shall be mightier than the other, and the older shall serve the younger.” (Genesis 25:23)

            Moreover, several Midrashim and later commentators understand “the older shall serve the younger” (ve-rav ya’avod tza’ir) as ambiguous. It could mean “the older shall serve the younger,” but it also can mean “the older shall have the younger work for him” (Genesis Rabbah 63:7, Radak, Abarbanel). According to the Midrash, God stated the prophecy ambiguously since its favorable fulfillment for Jacob would occur only when Jacob and his descendants are faithful to God and the Torah. In the broader birthright narrative, then, Isaac’s human blessing also fulfills God’s prophetic plan. Even then, it does not work automatically but appears to be conditional on the future righteous behavior of Jacob and his descendants. According to all of the aforementioned readings, then, Isaac’s blessing reflected God’s will, and did not invoke some independent power that would bring blessing to Jacob and his descendants regardless.

In this spirit, Malbim (on Genesis 27:1) asserts that Isaac did not have the power to bestow divine blessings of chosenness. Rather, he had power over inheritance. The blessing to be God’s nation is solely in God’s hands, and that blessing depends on the religious worthiness of Jacob and Esau. Nehama Leibowitz agrees with this approach, and insists that Esau’s intermarriage to Canaanites (Genesis 26:34), rather than his sale of the birthright, forfeited his worthiness of the divine blessing. Isaac’s blessing of Esau could not have created the third Patriarch of the chosen nation.[3]

Noah’s Blessings and Curses

            After Ham’s shameful behavior toward his drunk and naked father Noah, Shem and Japeth respectfully covered their father. When Noah realized what had happened, he cursed Ham’s son Canaan and blessed Shem and Japheth:

He said, “Cursed be Canaan; the lowest of slaves shall he be to his brothers.” And he said, “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Shem; let Canaan be a slave to them. May God enlarge Japheth, and let him dwell in the tents of Shem; and let Canaan be a slave to them.” (Genesis 9:25–27)

These blessings are fulfilled when the Canaanites—the descendants of Ham—are dispossessed by the Israelites—the descendants of Shem. Did Noah’s blessing and curse cause this critical event in Israel’s history?

            The answer is negative. God dispossesses the Canaanites because they were wicked (for example, Genesis 15:16; Leviticus 18:24–30; Deuteronomy 9:1–5). The Israelites receive the Land because of God’s covenant with the Patriarchs (Deuteronomy 9:1–5). The Israelites also do not retain the Land of Israel automatically. If they are wicked, God will dispossess them from their land as well (see, for example, Leviticus 26:31–33; Deuteronomy 4:25–28; 11:16–17; 28:64–68). Righteous behavior allows a nation to merit the Land of Israel, and wicked behavior leads God to expel a nation from the Land of Israel.

Like Isaac’s blessing to Jacob, then, Noah’s blessings and curses reflect the divine will, and play no independent role in the dispossession of the Canaanites nor in God’s awarding the Land of Israel to Abraham and his descendants.

Balaam’s Blessings and Curses

            A similar discussion arises over Balaam’s power to curse Israel. The premise of the narrative in Numbers chapters 22–24 is that Balaam’s powers were perceived as genuine, and God’s intervention on Israel’s behalf rescued Israel from the deleterious effects of the curse. Tanakh repeatedly invokes this story to demonstrate God’s love of Israel (see Deuteronomy 23:5–6; Joshua 24:9–10; Micah 6:5; Nehemiah 13:1–2).

            However, traditional commentators debate the “what if” of the narrative. Had Balaam actually cursed Israel, would that have harmed Israel? Several talmudic passages and later commentators take the premise of the narrative as factual, that is, Balaam indeed would have harmed Israel were it not for God’s intervention. However, other commentators maintain that Balaam was a charlatan. Moabites and Israelites alike believed in his powers, but they were objectively mistaken. Balaam could not arouse metaphysical powers to harm Israel against God’s will to bless Israel.[4]

Rachel’s Death in Childbirth

Rachel’s tragic death as she gave birth to Benjamin is heart-wrenching (Genesis 35:16–20). The Torah does not explain why she died. Following one Midrash (Genesis Rabbah 74:4, 9), Rashi (on Genesis 31:32) ascribes Rachel’s death to a curse uttered by Jacob when he proclaimed his innocence in stealing Laban’s terafim (household idols) several chapters earlier. Jacob did not know that Rachel had stolen the terafim and hidden them in her saddle bag (Genesis 31:19, 34–35):

“But anyone with whom you find your gods shall not remain alive! In the presence of our kinsmen, point out what I have of yours and take it.” Jacob, of course, did not know that Rachel had stolen them. (Genesis 31:32)

In this reading, Rachel tragically dies as a result of Jacob’s unwitting curse.

            However, most commentators do not link Jacob’s declaration of innocence to Rachel’s death. First, some do not think Jacob’s statement is a curse at all, but rather an exaggerated statement that Jacob would kill anyone who stole the idols (Ibn Ezra), or that Laban would have his permission to kill the thief (Radak).

            There also is no reason to think that human curses work automatically. When Joseph’s brothers emphatically denied stealing Joseph’s silver goblet, they stated:

Whichever of your servants it is found with shall die; the rest of us, moreover, shall become slaves to my lord. (Genesis 44:9)

Benjamin did not die prematurely as a result of this declaration.

            Rejecting Rashi’s approach, Ibn Ezra (on Genesis 31:32) observes that childbirth is dangerous. The only other recorded biblical childbirth death is that of the High Priest Eli’s son Pinehas’ wife (I Samuel 4:19–22). Nobody cursed her, and yet she died. There is no reason to believe from within the text that Jacob’s unwitting curse (if it was a curse at all) should be considered a reason for Rachel’s death.[5]

Do Head Counts Bring Plagues?

            During the commandment to build the Tabernacle, God commands that every Israelite man contribute one half-shekel toward a census:

When you take a census of the Israelite people according to their enrollment, each shall pay the Lord a ransom for himself on being enrolled, that no plague may come upon them through their being enrolled…the rich shall not pay more and the poor shall not pay less than half a shekel when giving the Lord’s offering as expiation for your persons. You shall take the expiation money from the Israelites and assign it to the service of the Tent of Meeting; it shall serve the Israelites as a reminder before the Lord, as expiation for your persons. (Exodus 30:12–16)

Regardless of one’s means, every man is required to give exactly the prescribed amount “to atone for your lives.” The silver from the original census was used to make sockets for the Tabernacle and hooks to connect the boards (Exodus 38:25–28). Every Israelite, rich or poor, thereby contributes equally to this aspect of the Tabernacle.

            Why, however, are people threatened with a plague if they do not give a half-shekel?

            Rashi submits that counting Israelites by head triggers the “evil eye” and brings a plague. Therefore, they must conduct every census using objects such as half-shekels and then count the objects. Rashi adopts the reading of the talmudic Sage Rabbi Eleazar: “Whosoever counts Israel violates a negative precept” (Yoma 22b).[6]

            To support his reading, Rashi invokes the narrative of King David’s census of Israel in II Samuel 24. Despite Joab’s protests, David insisted on counting. The census incurred God’s wrath, eliciting a devastating plague that claimed the lives of 70,000 Israelites:

The king said to Joab, his army commander, “Make the rounds of all the tribes of Israel, from Dan to Beer-sheba, and take a census of the people, so that I may know the size of the population.” Joab answered the king, “May the Lord your God increase the number of the people a hundredfold, while your own eyes see it! But why should my lord king want this?” However, the king’s command to Joab and to the officers of the army remained firm; and Joab and the officers of the army set out, at the instance of the king, to take a census of the people of Israel… The Lord sent a pestilence upon Israel from morning until the set time; and 70,000 of the people died, from Dan to Beer-sheba. (II Samuel 24:2–15)

Rashi asserts that David sinned by not counting with half-shekels or other objects, but instead counted heads.

            Ramban (on Numbers 1:2) rejects Rashi’s interpretation. Joab opposed the very census, and not its method (of not using half-shekels). There are other legitimate military censuses in Tanakh (see, for example, Numbers 31:4–5; Joshua 8:10; I Samuel 11:8, 13:15, 15:4; II Samuel 18:1). To explain the plague in David’s time, Ramban observes that David’s is the only military census in Tanakh taken during peace time, rather than at war time. It was unnecessary and displayed arrogance and a lack of trust in God. God plagued Israel as a consequence of a sin in faith, rather than because of the method of the census (see also Ralbag and Rabbi Isaiah of Trani on II Samuel 24).[7]

            It appears that Ramban’s objection to Rashi is compelling, and there is no connection between the commandment to take half-shekels in Exodus 30 and David’s sin in II Samuel chapter 24. How, then, should we understand the threat of plague in Exodus 30:12?

Rabbi Saadyah Gaon (quoted in Ibn Ezra) submits that the annual half-shekel commanded in Exodus 30 is for support of the Tabernacle and the daily sacrifices. A plague results from laxity in contributing to the building fund and to the nation’s sacrifices, and not from conducting a head count. In this approach, there is nothing wrong with counting people by head. There is a problem with people refusing to contribute a minimal amount to participate in the Tabernacle and its service of the nation.

Alternatively, Rabbi Samuel D. Luzzatto (Shadal) maintains that Rashi has the best reading of Exodus 30:12, that there is a threat of a plague for conducting any census without half-shekels. However, the Torah reflects a popular superstitious belief that counting people can lead to a plague, rather than an objective reality.[8] This approach traces back at least as far as Rabbi David Kimhi (1160–1235) and Rabbi Joseph ibn Caspi (1279–1340), who explain several passages in the Torah as reflective of popular superstitions that are not objectively true.[9]

In either reading, the Torah does not teach that head counts elicit divine plagues. Religious sins such as arrogance, lack of faith, and non-participation in the national religious service incur God’s wrath.

Is There Black Magic?

            The Torah prohibits witchcraft as a capital offense (Exodus 22:17; Leviticus 20:27; Deuteronomy 18:9–13). Our commentators debate whether witchcraft exists, or whether witchcraft does not exist but the Torah prohibits its practice since many pagans believed in its efficacy and used magic in their idolatrous systems. Two biblical narratives bring this question to the fore: The Egyptian magicians in the Torah, and the Witch of Endor in I Samuel chapter 28.

The Egyptian Magicians

            Pharaoh’s magicians turn their staffs into serpents (Exodus 7:8–13), produce blood (Exodus 7:22), and produce frogs (Exodus 8:3). They are defeated during the plague of lice, which they could not replicate (Exodus 8:14–15), and the plague of boils which kept them from being able to appear before Pharaoh (Exodus 9:11).

            Some Sages in Sanhedrin 67b, followed by Ramban, maintain that black magic exists and that the magicians successfully used it. Other Sages in Sanhedrin 67b, followed by Abarbanel, assert that there is no magic and the magicians used illusion (ahizat enayim). Similarly, some Midrashim (Exodus Rabbah 9:10; 10:6) maintain that the magicians used black magic to produce blood and frogs, while others (Mishnat Rabbi Eliezer 19, Midrash HaGadol, quoted in Torah Shelemah Exodus 8:7) assert that the magicians cleverly found areas not yet afflicted, invoked their “magic”, and then the blood and frogs spread entirely from the divine plague.[10] In this instance, the Torah may be read either way.

The Witch of Endor

            Nearing the end of his tragic demise, King Saul turned to a necromanceress out of desperation to ascertain God’s will:

Saul disguised himself; he put on different clothes and set out with two men. They came to the woman by night, and he said, “Please divine for me by a ghost”…At that, the woman asked, “Whom shall I bring up for you?” He answered, “Bring up Samuel for me.” Then the woman recognized Samuel, and she shrieked loudly…“What does he look like?” he asked her. “It is an old man coming up,” she said, “and he is wrapped in a robe.” Then Saul knew that it was Samuel; and he bowed low in homage with his face to the ground. Samuel said to Saul, “Why have you disturbed me and brought me up?” And Saul answered, “I am in great trouble. The Philistines are attacking me and God has turned away from me; He no longer answers me, either by prophets or in dreams. So I have called you to tell me what I am to do.” Samuel said, “Why do you ask me, seeing that the Lord has turned away from you and has become your adversary? The Lord has done for Himself as He foretold through me: The Lord has torn the kingship out of your hands and has given it to your fellow, to David, because you did not obey the Lord and did not execute His wrath upon the Amalekites. That is why the Lord has done this to you today. Further, the Lord will deliver the Israelites who are with you into the hands of the Philistines. Tomorrow your sons and you will be with me; and the Lord will also deliver the Israelite forces into the hands of the Philistines.” (I Samuel 28:8–19)

            It appears that the witch successfully conjures up the deceased prophet Samuel’s spirit, and the characters saw and heard his spirit. This is the only biblical narrative that reflects a connection between the worlds of the living and the dead.

            Radak surveys several rationalist positions which reinterpret the story in light of their belief that witchcraft does not exist. Rabbi Saadyah and Rabbi Hai Gaon maintain that on this singular occasion, God miraculously brought Samuel’s spirit down. Alternatively, Rabbi Samuel ben Hofni Gaon maintains that the entire episode was fraudulent and Samuel’s spirit never appeared. The witch recognized Saul immediately but hid that fact so that she could fool him into thinking that she learned it through her magic. She made an educated guess that Saul would die, since the Philistines were powerful.[11] Ibn Ezra (on Exodus 20:3; Leviticus 19:31) also denies the existence of black magic and maintains that the narrative reflects the mistaken perception of the characters rather than objective reality. Rambam (Hilkhot Avodah Zarah 11:16) states more generally that all forms of witchcraft are both forbidden by the Torah and absolute nonsense derived from the pagan world. Only a fool would believe something so patently irrational (see also his discussion in Guide 2:46). This debate relates to the much broader discussion of how literally traditional interpreters understand biblical texts when confronting conflicts with reason.[12]

            Radak (on I Samuel 28:24) rejects the aforementioned readings. The narrative suggests that the witch really conjured up Samuel’s spirit, and there is no mention of divine intervention. Ramban (on Exodus 7:11; Leviticus 18:21; Deuteronomy 18:9) also adopts the literal reading of the narrative and agrees that the witch successfully conjured up Samuel’s spirit using black magic. These commentators maintain that black magic is prohibited by the Torah, and most of its alleged practitioners are frauds. However, in principle black magic does exist and the Witch of Endor was a true practitioner.

Moshe Garsiel[13] adopts a position similar to Rabbi Saadyah Gaon cited above. The narrative clearly depicts the event as genuine, that is, Samuel’s spirit really appeared and communicated a prophetic message to Saul. According to Garsiel (like Rabbi Saadyah Gaon), Tanakh generally portrays witchcraft as fraudulent. In this unique occurrence, however, God miraculously sent Samuel’s spirit to communicate with Saul. The witch was shocked herself, and therefore screamed. She also immediately understood that only Saul would merit such a miracle, which is how she knew he was the king: “Then the woman recognized Samuel, and she shrieked loudly, and said to Saul, ‘Why have you deceived me? You are Saul!’” (I Samuel 28:12). This revelation was part of God’s punishment of Saul, and God specifically refused to answer Saul through legitimate means.[14]

To summarize, the plain sense of the text suggests that Samuel’s spirit genuinely appeared to Saul. However, there is no reason to conclude that black magic exists. Rather, this may have been a one-time miraculous occurrence, shocking even the witch herself who was used to deceiving her customers.

Can One Divine the Future with Signs?

The Torah prohibits divination of the future with signs (Leviticus 19:26). Nevertheless, two biblical narratives present ostensibly righteous figures divining the future with signs and they are successful, suggesting God’s providential approval.

Seeking a wife for Isaac, Abraham’s servant (midrashically identified as Eliezer, Abraham’s servant in Genesis 15:2) prays to God and creates a sign to ascertain God’s approval:

And he said, “O Lord, God of my master Abraham, grant me good fortune this day, and deal graciously with my master Abraham: Here I stand by the spring as the daughters of the townsmen come out to draw water; let the maiden to whom I say, ‘Please, lower your jar that I may drink,’ and who replies, ‘Drink, and I will also water your camels’—let her be the one whom You have decreed for Your servant Isaac. Thereby shall I know that You have dealt graciously with my master.” (Genesis 24:12–14)

After the servant prayed, Rebekah appeared, drew water for the people and the camels, and clearly was the perfect fit for Isaac. It appears that the servant’s divination of the future through this sign receives divine approval in the narrative.

            Similarly, King Saul’s son Jonathan boldly decides to attack a vast enemy Philistine camp accompanied only by his arms-bearer. He creates a sign that he interprets as signaling divine approval:

Jonathan said, “We’ll cross over to those men and let them see us. If they say to us, ‘Wait until we get to you,’ then we’ll stay where we are, and not go up to them. But if they say, ‘Come up to us,’ then we will go up, for the Lord is delivering them into our hands. That shall be our sign.” (I Samuel 14:8–10)

Jonathan goes on to win a spectacular victory and is the hero of the narrative.

            Despite their resounding successes, did Abraham’s servant and Jonathan violate the Torah’s prohibition against divination? Commentators debate the meaning of a talmudic passage:

Rab himself has said: An omen that is not after the form pronounced by Eliezer, Abraham’s servant, or by Jonathan the son of Saul, is not considered a divination. (Hullin 95b)

Rambam (Hilkhot Avodah Zarah 11:4) interprets this passage to mean that the divination of Abraham’s servant and Jonathan is forbidden divination.

            Rabad of Posquieres sharply rejects Rambam’s reading and insists that Abraham’s servant and Jonathan were righteous and acted appropriately, as is evident from the narratives. He concludes by saying that if Abraham’s servant and Jonathan were alive, they would whip Rambam with fiery lashes. Radak and Ralbag agree with Rabad and maintain that the signs of Abraham’s servant and Jonathan were permissible. Rabbi Elhanan Samet explains that Rabad, Radak, and Ralbag interpret the Talmud to mean that unlike the other signs discussed in that passage, which are considered unreliable forms of divination, the signs of Abraham’s servant and Jonathan were reliable. The Talmud is giving advice on appropriate divination.[15]

            Alternatively, Ran (Rabbenu Nissim on Hullin 95b) and Rabbi Joseph Karo (Kesef Mishneh on Rambam, Hilkhot Avodah Zarah 11:4) agree that the signs of Abraham’s servant and Jonathan were appropriate because they are rational. Abraham’s servant sought a hospitable wife for Isaac, and Jonathan interpreted the Philistines’ summoning him as giving him a military advantage. The Torah prohibits making decisions based on signs that have no rational basis, such as seeing a black cat.

            According to Rambam, the Torah outlaws all divination signs, rational or not. For the others, Abraham’s servant and Jonathan sought signs of divine providence using rational means and prayer. The plain sense of the narratives supports the majority opinion against Rambam, that Abraham’s servant and Jonathan acted appropriately and were blessed with divine assistance.[16]

Conclusion

            The plain sense of the biblical texts we have considered does not support the notion that human blessings or curses work automatically without divine support. There also is no evidence that a head count automatically elicits a plague. The plain sense of the narrative in I Samuel 28 (and possibly also the Egyptian magicians) might suggest the existence of black magic, but a number of commentators exclude that possibility and provide a fair alternative reading of the text. Regardless, the Torah outlaws sorcery as a capital offense. It appears from the plain sense of the text that the signs of Abraham’s servant and Jonathan are acceptable in the context of faith in God and rationality. Rambam rules otherwise, and prohibits all forms of divination.

            While some Midrashim and later commentators ascribe some of these events to automatically triggered forces, it appears that Tanakh indeed attempts to eradicate superstitions at their roots. God rules the entire universe, and people’s righteous or wicked behavior, not magic, determines God’s providential relationship with humanity.

            A final note to educators: While Rashi often is the exclusive commentator taught to children throughout much of Elementary School, educators of young children should give serious pause before teaching Rashi’s comments about the issues discussed in this essay. Since it is difficult to present complex and conflicting views on these subjects to young children, Elementary School students will necessarily adopt the view that Rachel died because of Jacob’s unwitting curse and that head counts invoke the “evil eye.” It is preferable to defer these discussions at least until High School, when children are old enough to learn the different sides of these debates.

Notes

   Franz Kafka (1883-1924) was a Prague-born Jew, one of the outstanding figures of modern world literature. His name has become an adjective: Kafkaesque. His writings feature eerie situations, disconnected characters, labyrinthine story lines.

     Kafka was raised in a moderately assimilated, German-speaking family, and was not given much of a Jewish education. Trained as a lawyer, he worked full time for an insurance company.  His great ambition was to be a writer, but during the course of his short lifetime he published very little. When he died, he left numerous manuscripts—diaries, stories, novels-- to his closest friend Max Brod, with the instruction that Brod burn all Kafka’s papers! Fortunately, Brod did not heed Kafka’s last wish. He devoted years to organizing Kafka’s papers and getting them published. Great fame came to Kafka…but only after he had died. During his lifetime, he mostly considered himself to be a failure.

     Kafka sensed that he could be a great writer; but he was a perfectionist who never seemed to be satisfied with his own work. In an entry in his diary, June 21, 1913, he wrote: “The tremendous world I have in my head. But how free myself and free it without being torn to pieces. And a thousand times rather to be torn to pieces than retain it in me or bury it. That, indeed, is why I am here, that is quite clear to me” (The Diaries of Franz Kafka, 1910-1913, p. 288). His day job prevented him from devoting himself to his writing. In his diary (August 21, 1913) he complained: “My job is unbearable to me because it conflicts with my only desire and my only calling, which is literature. Since I am nothing but literature and can and want to be nothing else, my job will never take possession of me, it may, however, shatter me completely, and this is by no means a remote possibility….I am, not only because of my external circumstances but even much more because of my essential nature, a reserved, silent, unsocial, dissatisfied person…” (Ibid., p. 299). His diary entry for November 10, 1919 lamented: “I haven’t yet written down the decisive thing. I am still going in two directions. The work awaiting me is enormous” (Franz Kafka, Diaries 1914-1923, p. 190).

     For Kafka, writing was the essence of who he was; and yet he was unhappy with his writing…and with himself. In a letter (November 5, 1912) to his beloved Felice Bauer, he spelled out his dilemma: “Shouldn’t I stake all I have on the one thing I can do?  What a hopeless fool I should be if I didn’t! My writing may be worthless, in which case, I am definitely and without doubt utterly worthless” (Letters to Felice, p. 38). Kafka’s internal life was linked inextricably to his writing, as he explained to Felice (January 14/15, 1913):  “For writing means revealing oneself to excess; that utmost of self-revelation and surrender, in which a human being, when involved with others, would feel he was losing himself, and from which, therefore, he will always shrink as long as he is in his right mind….Writing that springs from the surface of existence—when there is no other way and the deeper wells have dried up—is nothing, and collapses the moment a truer emotion makes that surface shake. That is why one can never be alone enough when one writes, why there can never be enough silence around one when one writes, why even night is not night enough. This is why there is never enough time at one’s disposal, for the roads are long and it is easy to go astray” (Ibid., p. 156). He confided in Felice (March 4/5, 1913): “The trouble is, I am not at peace with myself; I am not always ‘something,’ and if for once I am ‘something,’ I pay for it by ‘being nothing’ for months on end” (Ibid., p. 213).

   Kafka’s life was peppered with failure. He had a very negative relationship with his father. Although he had several lovers, and was actually engaged to be married, he never did marry. He was unhappy with his office work. He wasn’t satisfied with his writing. He suffered from tuberculosis and died while just forty one years old. If it were not for the devoted efforts of Max Brod, Kafka would have been just another forgotten scribbler who made no perceptible impact on the world of literature. But as it happened, Franz Kafka, the Prague-born Jew who suffered so much and died so young, became a leading light in modern literature.

     Kafka’s works are characterized by unexpected and inexplicable events. In Amerika, an early unfinished novel, the main character is a European young man who has to flee to America; he befriends the ship’s stoker and they decide to work together once they arrive in the new land. But when the young man and the stoker go to the captain’s office, they find the captain speaking with a senator—who happens to be the young man’s uncle! The senator immediately takes responsibility for the young man and treats him very well. But at some point the nephew offends his uncle, who immediately disowns him. Left to his own devices, the young man has various adventures, most of which end badly.

     In his most famous novel, The Trial, the main character is simply identified as Josef  K. He seems to be a perfectly respectable man, but is one day confronted by officials who place him under arrest. K. asks: “But why?’ The men reply: “We weren’t sent to tell you that. Go to your room and wait. Proceedings are under way and you’ll learn everything in due course” (The Trial, p. 5). K. is outraged and wants to defend himself, even though he does not know what charges have been brought against him. K. is advised: “You can’t defend yourself against this court, all you can do is confess. Confess the first chance you get. That’s the only chance you have to escape, the only one. However, even that is impossible without help from others…” (p. 106). K. seeks help from others, to no avail. He thinks about submitting a petition in his defense, but that turns out to be another hopeless approach. The “court” itself is in a nondescript building, with a confusing group of officials and defendants scattered here and there. K.’s situation is a nightmare…but it is not a dream. It is reality, and his life depends on getting acquitted. He is told:  “Our judges, then, lack the higher power to free a person from the charge, but they do have the power to release them from it. When you are acquitted in this sense, it means the charge against you is dropped for the moment but continues to hover over you, and can be reinstated the moment an order comes from above” (p. 158). In other words, the accused is always condemned to live under threat of arrest. He does not know his crime. He does not know who is making charges against him. He does not have the opportunity to defend himself before a responsible panel of judges. He is guilty, and will forever be guilty, without knowing why, and without any defense.  The novel ends with two men coming to K. to execute him. “But the hands of one man were right at K.’s throat, while the other thrust the knife into his heart and turned it there twice. With failing sight K. saw how the men drew near his face, leaning cheek-to-cheek to observe the verdict. ‘Like a dog!’ he said; it seemed as though the shame was to outlive him” (p. 231).

     What was the shame that was to outlive K.’s execution? Perhaps it was the very shame of being human, of living in an unjust and unforgiving world, of suffering perpetual guilt even when one is innocent. The shame was not just K.’s. The executioners are shameful individuals; they are nameless and faceless bureaucrats who follow orders even when those orders are wicked and cruel. They commit cold-blooded murder under the guise of obeying the prevailing legal system. Did Kafka eerily foresee the Nazi era when Jews, innocent like K., were simply arrested, accused, imprisoned, murdered…all in the name of the Nazi legal system?

     Kafka’s sense of human helplessness is a theme in his novel, The Castle. K. is a land surveyor who receives an order to do some work for “the castle.” When he arrives, he is not at the castle, but in the village. A vast maze separates the castle and the village, and K. has a frustrating time trying to find his way to the castle. He seeks advice; he tries different strategies…all to no avail. As he remains in the village, he is ominously told:  “You are not from the Castle, you are not from the village, you aren’t anything. Or rather, unfortunately, you are something, a stranger, a man who isn’t wanted and is in everybody’s way, a man who’s always causing trouble…” (pp. 63-64). This is a classic Kafka dilemma. K. seems to be an honorable person with a respectable profession, a land surveyor; and yet, he is totally at a loss in the face of a massively complicated system he cannot negotiate. He doesn’t belong, he can’t belong, he will never belong. K. is the eternal misfit, the condemned stranger.

     The signature Kafka feelings of alienation fill his stories. In “Investigations of a Dog,” the dog complains: “But where, then, are my real colleagues? Yes, that is the burden of my complaint; that is the kernel of it. Where are they? Everywhere and nowhere” (The Great Wall, p. 23). In “The Burrow,” the mole digs a maze of holes in which it can feel safe from predators. But it never feels safe. “There have been happy periods in which I could almost assure myself that the enmity of the world towards me had ceased or been assuaged, or that the strength of the burrow had raised me above the destructive struggle of former times” (Ibid, p. 55). In his story, “He,” Kafka poignantly describes his dilemma: “He has the feeling that merely by being alive he is blocking his own way. From this sense of hindrance, in turn, he deduces the proof that he is alive” (Ibid., p. 154). In his most famous story, “Metamorphosis,” the “hero” turns into a despicable cockroach, unable to function within his family, at work, or anywhere else. Ultimately, he dies without ever having fulfilled his role as a human being.

     Some students of Kafka have viewed him primarily as an alienated and estranged Jew. Yet, his characters have no distinctive identifying qualities, and some don’t even have full names. Even if the characters may reflect the classic dilemma of alienated Jews in Western society, they obviously relate to the general human predicament in modern times: the growth of bureaucracies, the insignificance of individuals, the feeling of powerlessness against the “establishment,” the loss of traditional religious and sociological moorings. Kafka is widely read and widely respected because his writing touches moderns in a unique and piercing fashion.

     But Kafka’s Jewishness was an essential part of who he was. Even if he was not devoutly religious in a traditional sense, he identified as a Jew, he studied Hebrew, he attended Yiddish language dramatic presentations, and he felt a connection with the national Jewish aspirations connected with Zionism. In his diary (December 25, 1911) Kafka noted his Jewish roots: “In Hebrew [actually Yiddish] my name is Amschel, like my mother’s maternal grandfather, whom my mother, who was six years old when he died, can remember as a very pious and learned man with a long, white beard” (The Diaries of Franz Kafka, 1910-1913), p. 197).  A few years later (December 17, 2013), he has the following entry in his diary: “The good strong way in which Judaism separates things. There is room there for a person. One sees oneself better, one judges oneself better” (p. 324).

     Kafka was not impressed with the “churchly” qualities of Germanic synagogues that attempted to be modern and dignified. He was drawn more closely to Eastern European Jewish immigrants who seemed to be genuinely religious. On Yom Kippur in 1911, he attended the Altneu Synagogue of Prague, which he described as having the “suppressed murmur of the stock market.” By contrast, though, he noted three pious, apparently Eastern Jews, in socks, bowed over their prayer books. They were praying humbly; two of them were crying (Ibid., p. 72). Kafka saw these Eastern Jews as more sincere religiously, more authentic.

     His sympathetic view of Eastern Jews was evidenced in a letter to Milena Jesenska (September 7, 1920). He described a hall where over one hundred Russian-Jewish emigrants were waiting for American visas, in a crowded, uncomfortable situation. Kafka wrote that “if someone had told me last night I could be whatever I wanted, I would have chosen to be a small Jewish boy from the East, standing there in the corner without a trace of worry, his father talking with the men in the middle of the hall” (Letters to Milena, p. 197).

     In a letter to Felice Bauer (January 10/11, 1913), Kafka reflects on the sad state of Jewish life. “Because the Jewish public in general, here at any rate, have limited the religious ceremonies to weddings and funerals, these two occasions have drawn grimly close to each other, and one can virtually see the reproachful glances of a withering faith” (Letters to Felice, p. 151). The loss of religious vitality was not restricted to Jews, but was a phenomenon of modernity. “Today there is no sin and no longing for God. Everything is completely mundane and utilitarian. God lies outside our existence. And therefore all of us suffer a universal paralysis of conscience” (Conversations with Kafka, p. 51).

     But the Jews faced greater insecurity and self-doubt than others. “Their insecure position, insecure within themselves, insecure among people, would above all explain why Jews believe they possess only whatever they hold in their hands or grip between their teeth, that furthermore only tangible possessions give them a right to live, and that finally they will never again acquire what they once have lost—which swims happily away from them, gone forever. Jews are threatened by dangers from the most improbably sides, or, to be more precise, let’s leave the dangers aside and say: ‘They are threatened by threats’” (Letters to Milena, p. 20).

     Kafka’s first-hand experience with anti-Semitism led him to wonder about the Jewish future. Writing in Prague (November 8, 1920), he made his concerns clear:  “I’ve been spending every afternoon outside on the streets, wallowing in anti-Semitic hate….Isn’t it natural to leave a place where one is so hated?...I just looked out the window: mounted police, gendarmes with fixed bayonets, a screaming mob dispersing, and up here in the window the unsavory shame of living under constant protection” (Ibid., p. 219). Like K. in The Trial, Kafka stood accused by people he did not even know, and who did not know him. He was oppressed, without knowing why, and without any satisfactory recourse to justice.

     Zionism was a logical answer for Jews who were in search of a safe space of their own, a place where they could shape their own lives and destinies. “The Jews today are no longer satisfied with history, with an heroic home in time. They yearn for a modest ordinary home in space. More and more young Jews are returning to Palestine. That is a return to oneself, to one’s roots, to growth. The national home in Palestine is for the Jews a necessary goal” (Conversations with Kafka, p. 105).

     His beloved Milena Jesenska wrote words of remembrance about Kafka as a posthumous tribute. “He was shy, anxious, meek, and kind, yet the books he wrote are gruesome and painful.  He saw the world as full of invisible demons, tearing apart and destroying defenseless humans. He was too clairvoyant, too intelligent to be capable of living, and too weak to fight….He understood people as only someone of great and nervous sensitivity can, someone who is alone, someone who can recognize others in a flash, almost like a prophet” (Letters to Milena, pp. 273-74).

                                         *     *     *

           I first read Kafka in our freshman English class at Yeshiva College. We were assigned to read “Metamorphosis,” and I was vaguely intrigued and repelled by the story. I went on a “Kafka binge,” reading one book after the other; and then I stopped reading Kafka for many years.

           For college age students, Kafka has a particular appeal. He is original, surprising; he doesn’t follow conventional patterns. His loneliness and alienation, his frustration with the “establishment,” his desire for personal greatness—these qualities resonate in the minds and souls of young aspiring thinkers and writers.  

           But then I came back to Kafka’s books much later in life, when I was well into “middle age.” Surprisingly, I found that Kafka still spoke to me clearly, powerfully, cogently. When I read his novels, I found myself laughing out loud at some of the absurd scenes; but I also found myself shaking within at the pathos, the dread.

           And now, as a man in my late 70s, I still read Kafka and find him powerful and pertinent. The world hasn’t improved much, if at all, from the time that Kafka was writing his ominous stories. He continues to be a prophetic voice. If only humanity would listen!

References

Amerika, Schocken Books, New York, 2008.

The Castle, Schocken Books, New York, 1974

The Diaries of Franz Kafka, 1910-1913, ed. Max Brod, Schocken Books, New York, 1965.

The Diaries of Franz Kafka, 1914-1923, ed. Max Brod, Schocken Books, New York, 1965.

Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice, ed. Erich Heller and Jurgen, Schocken Books, New York, 2016.

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena, ed. Philip Boehm, Schocken Books, New York, 1990.

The Great Wall of China, Schocken Books, New York, 1970.

The Trial, Schocken Books, News York, 1998.

Balint, Benjamin, Kafka’s Last Trial, W. W. Norton Company, New York, 2019.

Brod, Max, Franz Kafka, A Biography, Da Capo Press, New York, 1995.

Janouch, Gustav, Conversations with Kafka, New Directions Books, New York, 2012.

There is probably no sentiment as fundamental to Judaism as recognizing the good that others do for us and expressing our gratitude to them (in Hebrew, “hakarat ha-tov”). God is reputed to have created the world in a burst of loving-kindness for which humanity and all living creatures should intuitively praise Him, and the Jewish people’s special relationship with God is predicated on His kindness in having redeemed the Jews from Egypt. The very word for Jew in Hebrew, Yehudi, comes from the verb le-hodot, to thank, and hearkens back to our foremother Leah thanking God for giving birth to her fourth son. Therefore, I was not surprised to recently come upon a poster in Har Nof (a largely Haredi, Jerusalem suburb) proclaiming that this Jewish calendar year is the year of Hakarat Ha-tov.

Doubtless, we have many things to be thankful for—continued good health, a strong economy, some respite from our enemies--but this poster did not mention any of these issues. It loudly proclaimed that all and sundry should go to the grave of the illustrious Rabbi Yitzhak Ze’ev Soloveitchik (R. Velvel) and ask his forgiveness for not having stringently followed his halakhic ruling that one must recite the guest’s blessing for his host during Grace After Meals. Failure to do so, so the poster claimed, is clearly a lack of gratitude. Furthermore, the poster advised everyone to seek halakhic guidance to determine whether they need to request forgiveness for not having said the host’s blessing at the wedding of a friend or at their yeshiva (with the intent of thanking the donors). In particular, the poster stressed that one should ask forgiveness of one’s parents for not having recited the blessing on their behalf, as even six year old children eating their sandwiches at school should recite the host’s blessing for their parents. Technically speaking, their parents, who are kind enough to feed them and/or pay their tuition, are their hosts (Ketubot 65b). (Indeed, the poster adds, even a husband should thank his wife and a wife her husband—the more gratitude expressed the better in these tough economic times.)

At first I was astounded that this was the hakarat ha-tov the poster was talking about. While the process of mending our ways must begin with the small things that are more likely to touch us personally, effect our psyches, take root, and blossom, making this blessing the sole focus of Hakarat Ha-tov seemed to miss the bigger picture. However, when I re-read the poster, I realized that the crime committed by not reciting this blessing was not merely one of poor manners or of lax moral standards, it was actually a form of theft! R. Velvel, ztz”l, declared that his students should “demand (titba) of them that they recite the host’s blessing” because not doing so actually incurs a monetary loss. The author of the poster deduces this from the fact that the word “demand,” in Hebrew, implies that the host may actually sue the guest in court, and this would only be true if he caused a significant monetary loss by failing to recite the blessing.

The reason for this loss is the fact that the blessing includes a prayer that the host’s “property” or business dealings be successful; the poster explains that failure to make this request causes the host financial loss. In fact, the failure to say Grace in a group of ten men—thus, increasing the power of the prayer as “when the community prays, God does not reject their prayers” (bAvodah Zarah 4b, author’s source)—probably requires a special request for forgiveness for undermining the financial well-being of the yeshiva where one said Grace. Undermining another Jews’ livelihood is certainly a serious crime, so R. Velvel’s ruling makes sense.

However, what is lost in this attention to detail and the laws of damages is the simple matter of saying thank you. As R. Bahya Ibn Paquda writes at the beginning of Duties of the Heart being thankful is a religious duty and desideratum. We do not thank God for creating the world because we owe Him something or because, heaven forbid, He needs us to. We thank God because it is the right thing to do, because we intuitively sense that someone who bestows a kindness on us should be thanked. This is even true of a slave expressing gratitude to his master or a child to a parent, where clearly the giver’s beneficence is not without self-interest. How much more should we thank God or other human beings whose giving is truly selfless or close to it.

This having been said, the true irony of this poster is that the difficult economic times mentioned in this poster as an especially good reason for saying this blessing are the result of the Israeli government cutting back on subsidies and welfare benefits to, among others, the Haredi community. These “economic decrees”—treated by the Haredim like those of the Russian Czars’ of yesteryear—are partially a result of balancing the budget and partially a result of the secular state’s being fed up with sectors of society (particularly, the ultra-Orthodox) that do not produce economically, consume vast resources, and do not even say “thank you.”

When a secular Israeli tax payer who serves in the army looks at Haredi society, he sees a parasitic growth that produces nothing, contributes nothing tangible, and complains about not getting enough subsidies or welfare benefits to prop up its enormous families and enable its men to sit and learn comfortably without having to work. While the Haredim may argue that they have built up many not-for-profit organizations that benefit the entire population and that their learning protects the country, as much if not more than the army does, these arguments do not really hold water, since the secular and religious Zionist sectors of the population, generally speaking, work, serve in the army, study Torah (especially, the religious Zionist), and build up not-for-profits too. Furthermore, the very claim that learning Torah is comparable to giving up one’s life to protect fellow Jews is both inherently absurd and possibly inconsistent with Torah values, as the Talmud itself says, “Why do you think your blood is redder than mine?”

Ultimately, the poster makes sense. The Haredim should declare a year devoted to giving thanks. As a sector of society, they have been consistently unwilling to thank the rest of Israeli society for protecting and supporting them. Furthermore, as a group they have been unwilling to recognize that God has created a (secular) Jewish state that supports more yeshivot and Torah learners than have ever existed before in the world at one time! (Indeed, for this very reason the late R. Ovadiah Yosef ruled—unlike most Haredi rabbinic decisors—that it was permissible to say Hallel on Israeli Independence Day in order to thank God for the creation of the state). Most recently Haredim have been attacking the government for having the audacity to lower their welfare payments and have even been physically attacking other Haredim who have joined the army to protect them! Even R. Ovadiah’s Shas Party has recently attacked the state for attempting to destroy the Yeshiva world by considering drafting yeshiva students into the army. Since the government has explicitly stated that it is not attempting to destroy the Yeshiva world, the deliberate use of inflammatory rhetoric to misrepresent the government’s plans is the height of ingratitude. It is definitely time for Haredi society to read this poster and say thank you to those at whose table they dine.

I would suggest that this Hakarat Ha-tov campaign begins by instituting R. Shlomo Goren’s ruling regarding the host’s blessing. R. Goren (the first Chief Rabbi of the Israel Defence Forces and the third Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of the State of Israel) ruled decades ago that a blessing for the Israel Defense Force and the State of Israel should be recited in Grace After Meals at the place where the host is thanked. As he wrote, we are all supping at the table of the IDF and the State of Israel, (for if not for the government and the army we would be annihilated man, women, and child by our enemies and the country would be in a constant state of chaos). [Chief Rabbi Shlomo Goren’s Passover Haggadah, Am Oved, 1974, p. 58] The Haredim would do well not to forget this.

If, ten years ago, someone had told me that I would be a member of the board of a religious, rabbinic organization, that I would attend synagogue services every Shabbat, that I would put on tefillin, and that I would even write an article for a religious publication – I would have laughed and explained how severely mistaken that person was: I, the proud member of Hashomer Hatzair, who is secular in every fiber of his body?! Nevertheless, something no less than a revolution took place in my life, and a substantive change in my worldview. Like many revolutions, the change began with something small. 

But, if I may, I would like to begin at the beginning. I was raised near Haifa, and I was taught the values of secular socialism, the love of Israel, tolerance, social responsibility – and many other values that can also be found in the Torah – as a member of the Kiryat Haim section of Hashomer Hatzair. In my childhood, there was no connection between the religious and secular residents, and no attempt was made to establish such a connection. The two communities lived side-by-side like oil and water, never mixing. In the army, I served in a mostly secular unit, whose members came from backgrounds similar to my own. When a religious soldier would arrive, our mission was to see how long it would take for us to get him to watch television on Shabbat, and to remove his kippah. We had quite a few “successes”. 

After the army, I met my wife, Irit, who had been raised in a traditional Jewish home, and we had four children. Until about a decade ago, a connection ith God was foreign to me, and was always associated with the corrupt religious establishment, on the one hand, and extremist settlers, on the other. I wrongly assumed that there was a part of the Jewish people that had an exclusive license from God. In the meantime, my hard work bore fruit, and I managed to purchase the Israeli Building Center.

 The biggest change in my relationship with religion and Judaism began in that framework, as I came to know several religious people involved in the construction industry. Work-related discussions began to digress to discussions about life, family, children, lifestyle, and we even got together with our wives. Slowly, for the first time in my life, I began to have real friendships with religious people. One day, our friends, Meir and Revital Noga, invited us to their home for Shabbat dinner. Meir gently suggested that I come early and accompany him to the synagogue. What I did not know at the time was that Meir had consulted with his rabbi, and had received what was then a rather innovative rabbinic decision, allowing him to invite me and my family for Shabbat, even though it meant that we might desecrate Shabbat. We went to synagogue together – for me, it was the first time in 30 years – and we sat down together for Shabbat dinner with their beautiful family. 

Back then, we also became very close friends with a family from Givat Shmuel, Michal and Meir Mizrachi, whose children became close friends of our children, and Iris and Dvir Granot from Tzur Yigal. Through those acquaintances with those special people, I learned how beautiful and special Judaism is, and that, wow, some of it suits me. Who would have imagined that one day the rabbi who allowed us to come for Shabbat, and who opened that door, Rabbi Ronen Neuwirth, would become a friend whom I would join in working together to establish the Beit Hillel organization?! 

More than ten years ago, I began putting on tefillin daily, making kiddush and saying birkat hamazon after meals. Two years later, I began attending synagogue services on Friday evenings (in the community center of my moshav, Ramot Hashavim), and a year later, I began attending Saturday morning services, as well, becoming a regular member of the minyan. Due to the small number of worshippers in the synagogue in Ramot Hashavim, Benzi (perhaps the only Orthodox person in the community), began to encourage us to lead services. Slowly, we began to add other “secular” Jews. 

But the turning point came during the Second Lebanon War (2006), when one of the women began attending Friday night services on a regular basis, and other women followed. The women began bringing their children, and their husbands soon followed. Today, twenty-five families are members of the Ramot Hashavim congregation. If you had asked people in Ramot Hashavim five years ago if such a thing were possible, they would have said that you were hallucinating. Every Monday, we study the weekly Torah portion at one of the homes in the community. Because we did not have a kosher Torah scroll, I assumed the responsibility of having one written (when I was told that I was crazy, and that it was very expensive, I replied that, in any case, everything I earn is granted to me from Above, so it really isn’t mine anyway), and two years ago, I brought it to the synagogue in a procession in which hundreds of residents participated, with musical accompaniment that rocked the whole neighborhood. 

This year, we held hakafot shniyot for the first time. We are on the way. We are not (yet) Shabbat observant, and perhaps some of us never will be. But we are now firmly rooted in the world of Torah and tradition, like thousands of other Israelis throughout the country – people with “invisible kippot”. None of this would have occurred had it not been for the Noga family from Kfar Ganim, the Mizrachi family from Givat Shmuel, and the Granot family from Tzur Yigal, who opened their hearts and their homes, and were it not for the invitation to be their Shabbat guests, and having us as guests in their home. They lit the Jewish spark that exists in every Jew. They showed me the beautiful side of Judaism and Jewish tradition. Thanks to their outstretched hands, my children are growing up together with theirs, and when my son joins the army, he will not be motivated to encourage his observant friends to watch television on Shabbat, but the opposite.

 So, what do I ask of the religious community? I ask them to learn from the Noga, Granot and Mizrahi families. Open your hearts and homes to your friends, coworkers and neighbors. Friends, the time is ripe in Heaven and in Israel. You must take advantage of this opportunity to be part of the unification of the Jewish People. That, I believe, is the current mission of Religious Zionism. May we fulfill the statement of the rabbis in the Midrash (Song of Songs, 5:2) - “Open up for me an opening like the eye of a needle and in turn I will enlarge it to be an opening through which wagons can enter.”

Review Article by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

In 2006, Oxford University Press published a book by Chris Lowney, “A Vanished World: Muslims, Christians, and Jews in Medieval Spain.” The author asked me to write a blurb, and it was included on the back cover of the book. Here is what I wrote:

“Chris Lowney has written a meaningful book about interfaith cooperation and interfaith antagonism in medieval Spain. While it points to the many failures of those days, it also suggests important triumphs of the human spirit. Can we learn from this story and shape a better, more harmonious world? Can we afford not to learn from this story?”

An underlying theme of Lowney’s book, like so many publications dealing with Islamic Spain, is that Jews and Christians fared reasonably well under enlightened Islamic rule. While life was not always perfect, it was much better for religious minorities in Islamic Spain than in Christian Europe.

Historians refer to a “Golden Age” for Jews of Spain. The Wiki Encyclopedia entry for the Golden Age states: “The nature and length of this ‘Golden Age’ has been a subject of much debate, as there were at least three Golden Ages interrupted by periods of oppression of Jews and non-Jews. A few scholars give the start of the Golden Age as 711–718, the Muslim conquest of Iberia. Others date it from 912, under the rule of Abd-ar-Rahman III. The end of the age is variously given as 1031, when the Caliphate of Cordoba ended, 1066, the date of the Granada massacre, 1090, when the Almoravides invaded, or the mid-12th century, when the Almohades invaded.”

Many authors laud “convivencia”—the generally peaceful co-existence in Medieval Spain that allowed Muslims, Christians and Jews to live in harmony. It is clear that Jewish culture blossomed in Islamic Spain, with the emergence of great poets, grammarians, Bible scholars, talmudists, philosophers, scientists, mathematicians and more.

The blurb I wrote for Chris Lowney’s book reflects my doubts about the extent of Islamic tolerance of Jews and Christians. I wanted to be sure to mention that interfaith antagonism existed and that there were lapses in tolerance. But I also indicated that there were important triumphs of the human spirit, and that we today can learn much of value for maintaining a convivencia in our own times, a respectful and mutually beneficial harmony among people of various religions.

I was right about the failures that occurred under Islamic Spain. But was I right in pointing to that era as a positive model for religious co-existence? Was I too optimistic? Was I engaging in wishful thinking? Was I influenced by the overwhelming praise, by many authors and teachers, of the tolerance of Islamic Spain, and by the ubiquitous lauding of convivencia?

These questions have come to mind as I’ve been reading a newly published book, “The Myth of the Andalusian Paradise: Muslims, Christians, and Jews under Islamic Rule in Medieval Spain,” by Dario Fernandez-Morera, (ISI Books, Wilmington, 2016). The author is Associate Professor in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese at Northwestern University.

While various scholars have pointed to problems and low points during Islamic rule in Spain, Dr. Fernandez-Morera goes much further. His bold argument is that the notion of Islamic tolerance of Jews and Christians is a myth—it is simply not true. The idea of convivencia—the mutual cooperation and harmony among Muslims, Christians and Jews in Medieval Spain—belongs more to the realm of propaganda than to history.

The author quotes numerous scholars who shower praise on Islamic tolerance, on the remarkable “Golden Age” in interreligious cooperation. But he argues that these authors were engaging in “political correctness,” the fashionable presentation of a tolerant and benevolent Islam. He draws on writings of people who lived in Islamic Spain, people who described what life was actually like in their times. He draws on extensive scholarly sources, on archaeological discoveries, as well as on the abundant secondary literature of more recent scholars.

Dr. Fernandez-Morera notes that the famed Umayyad dynasty were followers of the Maliki school of Islam which had little love for non-Muslims. The early Muslim conquerors of Spain and their successors systematically razed churches or turned them into Mosques. They imposed Islamic law on Christians and Jews—known as People of the Book—which made it very clear that the minorities were to be subservient to Muslims. Although granted relative freedom to conduct their communities according to their own religious traditions, Christians and Jews were “dhimmis”—an underclass of “protected people” who had to pay a special tax for the privilege of living under Islamic hegemony.

Dr. Fernandez-Morera writes: “In short, Islamic Spain enjoyed no harmonious convivencia; rather, Muslims, Christians, and Jews had a precarious coexistence. Members of the three communities had to come into contact now and then. Sometimes they did business, or collaborated with one another, or dwelled near one another.” (p. 117) Of course, as in all societies, kinder people interacted more kindly with those of the other groups. And of course, there are examples of periods of relative quiet. And there were individual Jews and Christians who rose to positions of power and influence. Nonetheless, the massive reality was that “dhimmis” were subject to ongoing humiliation, segregation, and violence.

The “dhimmi” regulations imposed a special tax on Christians and Jews. Various rules were intended to humiliate “dhimmis” and remind them of their subservient positions. Writing about restrictions placed on Jews in Islamic Spain, Dr. Fernandez-Morera notes that Jews “must not ride horses. They must show deference to Muslims. They must not give court evidence against a Muslim…They must not proselytize….They must not dress in such an ostentatious manner as to offend poorer Muslims….” (p. 180)

While Jewish communities continued to exist in Islamic Spain, Christian communities declined and ultimately disappeared. “By the end of the twelfth century, as a result of flight (or ‘migration’) to Christian lands, expulsions to North Africa, executions and conversions, the Christian "dhimmi" population had largely disappeared from al-Andalus. When Christians entered Granada in 1492, there were no Christian "dhimmis" in the city.” (p. 208).

Professor Fernandez-Morera’s book has a clear point of view. He is especially interested in highlighting the strengths and virtues of Visigothic Spain before the arrival of the Muslims in 711. He praises the Christian re-conquest of Spain. Had it not been for the “Reconquista,” Islamic rule might not only have prevailed over all of Spain, but might have spread further into Europe. This would have led to the fostering of religious discrimination, the low status of women, the inhibiting of intellectual freedom; it would have precluded the emergence of the Renaissance, and would have left the Western world in the same general condition as the rest of the Muslim world.

While some of the arguments of Dr. Fernandez-Morera seem over-stretched and even polemical, the overall impact of his research and his book must make one stop to think more carefully about the “Andalusian Paradise” and convivencia. Are scholars and politicians perpetuating this myth because it serves a useful purpose, because they—and we—want to believe it? How nice it would be to know that there was a time and place when Muslims, Christians and Jews worked side by side in mutual respect and kindness. How nice to think that it is possible for Islamic rule to be tolerant and benevolent.

President Barack Obama, in a speech at Cairo University, June 4, 2009, stated: “Islam has a proud tradition of tolerance. We see it in the history of Andalusia and Cordoba during the Inquisition [sic].” Prime Minister Tony Blair wrote (“Foreign Affairs, January/February 2007): “The standard-bearers of tolerance in the early Middle Ages were far more likely to be found in Muslim lands than in Christian ones.”

These politicians, relying on wishful and mythological thinking, seek to appease the Muslim countries and to glorify Muslim achievements. Perhaps they think they will thereby convince current day Muslim leaders to embrace the myth of Islamic tolerance, thereby creating bridges between the Muslim world and the West.

Dr. Fernandez-Morera has pointed to the unpleasant and politically incorrect reality that Muslim rule was “tolerant” to Christians and Jews, but only if the "dhimmis" were in a clearly defined inferior position, subservient to Muslims. This is hardly a framework for mutual respect and equal rights.

When I wrote my blurb for Chris Lowney’s book, I wondered: “Can we learn from this story and shape a better, more harmonious world? Can we afford not to learn from this story?” When I wrote those words, I obviously harbored the belief—the hope—that there was a period of convivencia that can be a model for us today. I thought that it would be foolish for us to ignore the positive aspects of life in Medieval Spain.

After reading Dario Fernandez-Morera’s book, I could write these same words, but with a very different meaning. Rephrased, my blurb for today would read: Can we learn from the story of religious persecution and humiliation that characterized Islamic Spain? Can we learn to shape a better, more harmonious world by insisting on genuine respect, equality, decency, and theological humility among all religions? Can we afford not to learn these lessons?