National Scholar Updates

Maimonides (d. 1204) tolerated no idea that failed the test of reason. An ancient and robust tradition of superstition among the Jews did not deter him. Maimonides either ignored or rationalized scores of Talmudic halachot based on astrology, demonology, and magic.

Maimonides denounced astrology passionately, despite its popularity, calling the belief “stupidity” and its practitioners “fools.” His argument bears emphasis: Maimonides opposed astrology primarily on scientific rather than religious grounds. The Torah prohibits divination from the sky, he ruled, not because it displays a lack of faith in God, but simply because it is false.

But Nahmanides (d. 1270), pointing to Talmudic sources and consistent with his intellectual milieu, wrote a correspondent that it would be halachically unacceptable to ignore an inauspicious horoscope, because “one should not rely on miracles.”

Though a student of Kabbalah, Nahmanides also worked within the framework of Aristotelian philosophy. He was no anti-rationalist. He was worlds apart from today’s magic-remedy-dispensing “mekubalim” (miracle workers).

Medieval philosophers relied on reason to explain nature, but reason had practical limitations. Even the most confident rationalist could not explain all natural phenomena. Philosophers were forced to distinguish between “manifest” qualities — clearly understood properties such as size, shape, and color — and an “occult” or hidden property unique to a particular object (“segula” in medieval philosophical Hebrew).
The attractive force of the lodestone, a naturally occurring magnet, was the most commonly cited example of an occult quality.

The ancients knew that a magnet draws iron, but the cause of the attraction eluded explanation. Medieval scholastics viewed such “action at a distance” as an occult property; no manifest quality of the lodestone could explain its power. Likewise, the stars and planets were thought to influence the daily affairs of human life by means of emanations penetrating the cosmos — an even more impressive example of action at a distance.

Occult remedies were a problem for halachists and Jewish philosophers. The issue came into sharp focus in the early fourteenth century, during the Maimonidean Controversy.

Rabbi Shlomo Ben Aderet (“Rashba,” d. 1310), a student of Nahmanides, played a major role in this episode. Like many of his contemporaries, Rashba revered both Maimonides and Nahmanides.

Rashba was asked for his decision: Was it permissible to use a medallion engraved with the image of a lion — after the zodiac constellation Leo — to treat kidney stones? (Ironically, the radical Maimonidean rationalists were using this talisman; the anti-Maimonideans objected).

Rashba deliberates carefully, and takes great pains to address Maimonides’ broad prohibition of magic. He notes that Maimonides himself, following the Talmud, allowed for an exception: He permitted any empirically effective remedy, even if it was poorly understood and attributed to an occult virtue. Does this exception, Rashba wonders, cover the Leo medallion?

Rashba ultimately allows the practice. He skillfully argues that the medallion’s healing property, though occult, is as natural as magnetism (the following is the earliest description of a magnetic compass in Hebrew literature):

“Consider the occult property of the magnet, at which iron leaps, and furthermore, the common practice of sailors: They insert a needle into a floating piece of wood and magnetize the needle, which navigates on the water’s surface until it points to the pole. Not a single philosopher comprehends this in terms of natural philosophy. Likewise, all occult properties are natural — in the manner of drugs and herbs — and include no element of paganism.”

This chapter in the history of three intersecting fields — philosophy, science, and halacha — remains relevant today. How should a modern traditional Jew respond to magical cures, astrology, and the variety of “segulot” (talismans, in its current usage) increasingly promoted by Jewish charismatics?

We may be tempted to fall back on the old debate between Maimonides and Nahmanides and decline to take a stand. It would be presumptuous, so the argument goes, to come down on either side.

But there is a better approach, which takes historical context into account. An example from another area of halacha may help disentangle the issue.

Centuries ago, several prominent halachists permitted smoking on non-Sabbath holidays, based on its presumed health benefits. The rationale was that smoking fell into the halachic category of kindling for a universally appreciated pleasure (e.g., a healthful activity), which is permitted on holidays.

No halachist today would tout the health benefits of smoking simply because this (erroneous) idea is part of the halachic record. Thankfully, scientific progress makes such a prospect laughable.

Needless to say, science has evolved considerably since the fourteenth century: The Renaissance, Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, and the Enlightenment; not to mention Darwin and Einstein.

We have known for some time that magnetism is not an occult force. We also know that astrology is a pseudo-scientific fantasy (on this score, Maimonides was far ahead of his time). Much of what was fact to the medievals may be of interest to historians of science, but is no longer scientific reality.

Nahmanides and Rashba were no fools. If they were active today, they no doubt would mock practitioners of magical cures and those who would read fortunes from molten lead or coffee grinds. Maimonides likewise would abandon his own outdated science.
On scientific questions, religion must follow the very latest science. To settle for anything less is to invite a return to a darker, occult age.

Good morning. I would like to thank Tom Severson, Michael Davis, David Nelson for inviting me to speak to you this morning and the many of you for allowing me to talk with you today.

"It's 2:00 in the morning. We are at Hackensack University Medical Center in Northern Jersey and are grieving beyond tears and words. Our younger son, Daniel, hasn't been feeling well for a couple of days, complaining of back pain and shortness of breath.

“Two hours ago, what we thought was perhaps a virus or something tied to the heat and humidity was something much worse. Our little boy has cancer.

“Just two days ago, Daniel had scored two goals in a street hockey game at camp, a performance more impressive when realizing he was playing with a collapsed left lung.

“For whatever reason, we have been hit with a challenge we never sought. But with God's help and the strength of friends and family and a terrific medical team, we fully expect Daniel to celebrate his Bar-Mitzvah in three years and hopefully to marry and raise a family.”

I wrote this for CSP Daily News on July 5, 2013 – 9 days after Daniel fell ill -- as I prepared to take a short leave of absence.

Today, nearly 2 ½ years later, I am speaking publicly for the first time about the trials, challenges and the profound appreciation of a faith that had to transcend its routine.

For much of my life I have prayed every day. I grew up in Boston – and as many of you know I’m a devout Red Sox fans. I was raised with an Orthodox Jewish upbringing, one imbued with a sincere pride in our religious faith, coupled with a deep love of people of all backgrounds.

More recently, I have come to appreciate a certain insight. It is one thing to go to Church or Temple or a Mosque and recite the daily or weekly prayers when there is little at stake. Oftentimes, in this scenario, it is we who define God – what He means to us, the role He plays in our daily lives.

It is another thing to cry in our prayers, to wonder if God is truly listening and whether we will receive the favorable answer that we seek. In this relationship it is God defining who we are, who I am and the relationship that God and I share.

This has been my life over the past two years. I pray three times a day, every day. Prayer has always served as my spiritual food much as breakfast, lunch and dinner provide the nutritional source to empower us through our day and evening.

With Daniel’s cancer, prayer took on an additional role – that of medicine, my cure, my hope.

There is a beautiful and yet complex story in the Bible. It occurs in Chapter 20 of Genesis. We have just completed the story of Lot and his two daughters and how after the destruction of Sodom and Gemorra. Thinking that the world had been destroyed, Lot’s two daughters intoxicate their father and have relations with him in order to bring new life. That’s the last we read about Lot and his life.

The story now moves to Abraham and Sarah. He is 99 and she is 89. For decades they try to have a child but without success. Time is certainly NOT on their side.
Living in the Near East, they travel South to the city of Gerar and as they do, Abraham notices that Sarah is still attractive. He suddenly fears that the people of this community may kill him if he is truthful about his marriage. So he tells Sarah to “lie,” to reply that she is his sister if asked about their relationship.

And indeed, such happens. The King – known as Abimelekh – literally “takes” Sarah. But before any hanky panky can happen, God appears to Abimelekh in a dream and says Sarah is married and that her husband Abraham is a Prophet.

God then punishes not only Abimelekh but his entire palace by blocking their orifices. After Abimelekh apologizes to Abraham and returns Sarah to him, Abraham prays for the King and his Court to be healed. God answers and Abimelekh and his crew are able to conceive and bear children.

It is this prayer of Abraham – of praying for others for the very thing that he and Sarah lacked – a child – that prompts God in the following chapter to reveal that he has remembered Sarah and that he’ll restore her youthfulness – V’HaShem Pakad et Sarah.
Interestingly, the Hebrew root PKD means more than just “remember,” it suggests that God took an accounting of the lives of Abraham and Sarah and affirmed their worthiness to be blessed with a child. Only then does Sarah bear her first and only child -- Isaac.

[Parenthetically, it is striking that the 3 vignettes of Lot, Abimelekh and Abraham/Sarah all deal with fertility and perpetuating or obstructing life.]
In the stories of Abimelekh and then Abraham/Sarah, there are inspiring lessons. The first is the power of prayer, of Abraham’s ability to intercede on behalf of Abimelekh and his Palace. The second is the altruism to place someone’s needs ahead of your own even when you share that very need. [Rashi]

This is where you come in. In the days after our discovery, you extended yourself and embraced me and my family. In less than one week after we learned of Daniel’s cancer, I received more than 150 emails from you – the leaders who make up our convenience-store industry.

Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Hindus and Jews, as well as many who do not associate with a particular denomination, prayed for my son. And some of you – nearly 2 ½ years later – continue to pray for Daniel. How amazing. In the depths of my greatest pain you have been a source of salvation.

I’m happy to share that the daily medications of Mercaptuperine, the scheduled intake of Prednisone, Pentamadine, Methotrexate and countless other multi-syllabic, tongue-twisting drugs ? are nearly over. By next month, Daniel’s regular treatment ends.
We then embark on what is basically a six-month wait with intermittent treatment. If he is cancer-free, that portends well for his future. If cancer is found…

The shift from daily doses of medications to a certain hiatus is personally very frightening. The idea of meticulously preparing his medication has given us a sense of empowerment, a partnership between medicine and prayer; Man and God.

In just weeks, our partnership will change. In lieu of pills, prayer will be our sole representative, faith our lone agent. Truly the next six months will rest in the Hands of God.

One stage is nearly done, another soon to follow. What I know is what we all know –
Life truly is a Gift from God and it’s our mission to appreciate it each and every day.
When I wake up in the morning I recite a little prayer as soon as I open my eyes. It is called the Modeh Ani. It is a prayer of gratitude to God for restoring our soul – for giving us a new day. It is up to us to make each and every day a worthy gift from God.

Thank you so much and Bless you.

Jewish Holiday Companion
By Rabbi Hayyim Angel
Published originally by the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, and then by Kodesh Press

Rabbi Hayyim Angel has rightly earned a reputation as being one of the great teachers on Tanach in our time. He has authored a handful of books and hundreds of articles on biblical and religious themes, and has garnered a huge following based on his 17 years at Spanish-Portuguese Synagogue and 20 years at Yeshiva University, where he has even taught classes on how to teach Tanach. His new book, Jewish Holiday Companion, is a gem. In a time of year when we are pulled in every direction at once, Rabbi Angel offers guidance and clarity in how to approach the holidays, both intellectually and spiritually.

Jewish Holiday Companion is comprised of brief and insightful essays, each focusing on one specific religious issue. Rabbi Angel is known for his mastery of classical Jewish texts: the Tanach, Talmud, Midrashim, Rishonim and Achronim, but he also freely draws from diverse sources such as ancient Near Eastern literature and classic Chasidic writings. In each article, Rabbi Angel is able to zero in on one discussion at a time for a focused and deep exploration of the religious themes that permeate the different festivals.

One article explores the symbolism of the shofar. He quotes from Saadiah Gaon that “there are no fewer than 10 purposes of the shofar” (p. 20): coronating God as Creator, the Akeidah, the giving of the Torah, heeding the prophets (whose words are compared to a shofar), the wars that exiled the Jewish people, the messianic era, the future Day of Judgment, the resurrection of the dead, inspiring awe, and inspiring repentance. Rabbi Angel then explores, within the theme of the shofar, the presence of silence, and the importance of silence in the context of sounding the shofar. Abraham travelled three days to sacrifice his son Isaac. This journey must have been a time of introspection and quietude; there is no dialogue recorded between the two during their journey. It was said that the jazz pianist Thelonious Monk was a master at getting “in between the notes” and making the audience focus on the silence contained in the melody. The same is true of the shofar: we focus on what is absent as much as we focus on what is there. The tekiah represents fullness while the teru’ah symbolizes brokenness. Both elements are present on Rosh Hashanah.

Another discussion compares the concept of repentance in the thought of Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook and Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik. For these two great twentieth-century luminaries, teshuvah represents two different processes. For Rabbi Kook, teshuvah is a return to self. Each person is created as a tzelem Elokim, but loses himself in the snares of this world, and grows distant from the image of God within him, from his own soul, from his own Godliness. Thus teshuvah – which in Hebrew really means “return” – is when the individual restores himself to his own internal Godliness.

For Rabbi Solovetchik, however, teshuvah is about creation. Through the process of teshuvah, “we create ourselves and our relationship with God” (p. 29). Rabbi Soloveitchik’s thought has some strong existentialist tendencies in it, and this is a powerful example; can we harness the gift of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur to recreate ourselves, not with our own divinity but our own humanity?

The Jewish Holiday Companion has articles for every Jewish holiday, and even contains entries for Yom HaShoah, Yom HaAtzma’ut, and Thanksgiving. It is a pleasure to have Rabbi Angel’s writings available for the Jewish holidays. His new work is sure to be a source of wisdom, guidance, and inspiration, for the coming year.

Devil in Jerusalem
By Naomi Ragen

This is a very well-written, gripping, and suspenseful novel that is based on true horrendous events among Jews, Christians, Muslims, Atheists, and indeed all people. Although depressing, the story needs to be told to protect vulnerable and insecure people from falling into the grip of cult leaders who lead innocent victims into believing that the cult leader is a “messiah,” a “god-like” figure, a man or woman who knows the ultimate truth, who is in conversation with angels and God, who is defending his gullible flock from demons, and aiding them to climb to loftier heights, to become what he or she claims God desires them to become.

Some of these cult leaders milk their followers of their wealth or part of it, leaving them to live in harsh conditions that is “better for them,” which “helps clean them,” while the cult leaders live in huge mansions in luxury, even flying in multi-million dollar planes.

Many of these leaders are sick psychopaths who derive unnatural pleasure from being able to control and manipulate people. Some, as the “messiah” in this tale enjoy hurting their followers and getting others to hurt people as they watch, or, as an American cult figure did, he poisoned hundreds of his flock.

While this book does not address it, there are many, too many, “ultra-religious” leaders, who although not reaching the level of a cult leader, also take advantage of insecure, often insufficiently educated people leading them to think that what they are teaching is true religion, while what they are saying is untrue. They attract many followers, even well-educated men and women, and cash in on them by taking donations and ego-bursts. They demand the observance of practices that reasonable religious leaders consider absurd and demeaning, even demonic, behaviors that cut off their congregants from friends and neighbors.

Naomi Ragen’s tale of a Jewish cult leader in Jerusalem is based on some true events that occurred in Israel, but while Jewish it is an unfortunate universal tale. Irony is too weak a word to describe the striking similarities of the Jerusalem cult leader to what occurred in ancient times in Jerusalem’s Valley of Hinnom, called Gehinnom in Hebrew, which came to be the word for “hell,” where pagan priest were able to convince their followers to deliver their children to burn them as sacrifices to their god.

Ragen’s tale is the story of a loving couple, an educated woman and her loving husband who is not as educated as his wife, who is a well-meaning luftmensch, a man with his head in the clouds, who does not like to work. They are Americans from good families who moved to and settled in Israel because of their love of Judaism. He thinks that he should spend as much time as possible studying Talmud for he was told that this is what God wants. However, he soon becomes attracted to the study of Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism, which he really does not understand, and falls under the influence of the “messiah,” a charismatic, bearded, highly disturbed rabbi with a restricted group of followers who teaches practical Kabbalah. Although the husband spends time “studying,” he finds time to produce children. Soon, with half a dozen kids, and with little or no help from her husband, tired, feeling lost, and confused, she also falls under the “messiah’s” control.

What follows is bizarre, cruel, and unbelievable. She is led to do things no rational person would do. Brainwashed and convinced that what she is watching is good for her and her children, she looks on as her children are tortured, beaten, burned, forced to eat vomit and feces. She allows the “messiah” to do tormenting things to her and to her husband, and to cause her to afflict her husband, and he her.

This is a powerful tale, a story well-worth one’s time to read and enjoy, for Naomi Ragen is a superb writer. But it is also a reminder that there are many in society today, even in Israel, who take advantage of people, and we must beware and not passively and naively trust all that we hear and see even when the words and acts are spoken and performed by a black garbed saintly-appearing rabbi.

Religious mis-education engendered an egregious handicap for second-generation survivors. Theological implications of the Holocaust were typically ignored in yeshiva curricula and teacher-student discussions. Religious instruction consistently disregarded, and even censored, aspects of scripture that could have been utilized to reconcile some negative Holocaust experiences with religious doctrine. Instead, second-generation survivors were subjected to an idealistic religious perspective where God is consistently a just, kind, merciful micromanager, where human suffering is attributed to transgression and guilt. Whereas such an educational stance may be functional for children growing up in a relatively just world, it is definitely inadequate for youngsters from families who had just rebounded from the Holocaust and who confront its traumatic reverberations daily. Coupled with the negativity that permeated their home environments, this lapse in education resulted in disturbing—and often insurmountable—dissonance in many second-generation survivors. Utilizing developmental theory to inform the quality of relationship one has with God, the dissonance of second-generation survivors coming of age is annotated by discordant religious, moral, and psychological worldviews that were not ameliorated by proper education
A Jewish Modern Orthodox second-generation survivor who is a research clinician in trauma, the author highlights clinical insights from the perspective of the psychopathology of trauma and abuse. Paralleling this effort, he charts his own trials and tribulations as a student—juggling a heritage of despair with disparate teachings at home and yeshiva as he trekked through the ruins of his people in search of a kind God.

Introduction

Philosophy is not a central topic in formal education. Viewed as somewhat esoteric and less relevant than other disciplines in modern society, it is rarely offered in secondary schools (even as an elective) and is not in the core curriculum of higher education. Religious colleges and seminaries, of course, do feature philosophy as a required course.
However, religion and philosophy are less central to Judaism than conduct and behavior. Scholars across the Jewish denominations concur that Judaism is primarily a religion of deed, not of creed (Bleich, 1992; Borowitz, 2014). As such, theology and deliberations about the nature of God are not part of the typical discourse among Jews, even in synagogues and institutions of higher learning. Jewish religious instruction is primarily task- or behavior-oriented. Thus, the topics that are seen as “relevant” in religious schools usually relate to daily behavior and religious practices. Theology and religious philosophy are hardly of interest to elementary and high school students. It is therefore not surprising that typical yeshiva curricula paid little attention to theology or philosophy, other than frequent references to a kind, merciful God.
For the post-Holocaust generation, however, The Question of God was a burningly relevant issue. God’s nature was at the crux of the junction of its history and its religion. Religious education magnified The Question to the level of an enigma, since this generation of yeshiva students was exposed to scriptures featuring a host of references to a hostile and vengeful God, all the while being taught that God was merciful.
This educational conundrum left the instruction about God to parents, to the community, and to the media. Since second-generation survivors had parents who were survivors—by definition, a good amount of their theological “home education” was informed by the open sores of recent Holocaust experiences. The “street education” they received from the community at large—typically consisting of Holocaust survivors—echoed and reinforced the discordant perspective they absorbed at home about an unjust world managed by an unreliable God. Rounding out the circle, Yiddish-language media they were exposed to—newspapers, radio, contemporary lyrical music recordings, and library books—cemented the very same unhelpful understanding of God’s role in the world. Absent contravening corrective education in school, this orientation is what second-generation survivors internalized and took with them into adulthood. This internalization was a constant counterpoint to the merciful God icon championed by the religious education establishment.
Yeshiva students were also exposed to scripture references to God as Father. This complicated the internalization of God in this cohort. For many survivors and their families, their understanding of God’s role did not coincide with the imagery of a kind caring father. In another vein, second-generation survivors often had a non-idealized “father image” because of the perceived weakness of their parents during the Holocaust. Developmental theory posits that the God concept that children internalize is very much linked to their formative experience with parental figures. As such, the God-father contextualization negatively affected the ability of their children to establish a secure relationship with God. God as Father is an effective religious educational parallel only when Father is an idealized icon. It is not a functional parallel for those with a weak father image.
In the following sections, each of the above noted factors are detailed and discussed, from social, religious, and educational perspectives. Scriptural inconsistencies, variations in perspectives about God, providence (especially divine micromanagement), and trauma are elaborated, elucidating the plight of second-generation Holocaust survivors as they contended with religious inconsistencies within the context of their education. The cognitive and psychological coping modes of this cohort are elaborated and evaluated. Their challenges in establishing an adaptive relationship with God are explored, in light of an educational system that failed to address—and even exacerbated—the dilemmas and contradictions they faced.

The Environmental Influence

Yeshiva education was particularly crucial to second-generation survivors who immigrated to major American urban centers. In the characteristic absence of discussions with parents about theological/religious significance of the Holocaust, the pervasive input these children were exposed to came from Yiddish media. In a sense, these media became primary transmitters of the Holocaust legacy to our generation.
A number of Yiddish newspapers thrived in the post-war era, and they featured a continuous diet of pieces saturated with interpretations of Holocaust experiences. Needless to say, the content of these pieces, which were usually reactive rather than educational or reflective, shaped the orientation of its young readers in a manner that was not conducive to developing an adaptive perspective.
The public library was an important resource for the immigrant family. With traditional values for the “written word” and minimal expendable income, families took full advantage of the library. My childhood family of four usually checked out seven or eight books each Friday.
The libraries in Jewish neighborhoods offered a large number of Yiddish-language books. In our local branch, the stacks for the Yiddish collection numbered well over a thousand, and the collection was second in size only to English-language fiction. By the time I was in ninth grade, I had to search each Friday for books I had not read yet. I estimate that more than 75 percent of these books were depictions of Holocaust experiences.
As early as I can recall, our radio was always on during waking hours, and it was tuned to WEVD, the Yiddish-language radio station. A good percentage of the programming consisted of songs and lyrics that found resonance among Holocaust survivors. Late evenings, when WEVD stopped broadcasting, the air was filled with the sound of phonograph recordings of contemporary Yiddish music. In retrospect, it seems that radio and records gave voice to the feelings that our parents could not verbalize to us. Indeed, many of my generation were given to humming the tunes of these compositions habitually, perhaps as a confirmation of the message conveyed by the lyrics.
With the limited venue of contemporary Jewish music, it is not surprising that the children soon knew all of the songs and lyrics by heart. One gets a poignant feeling of the mentality of the era in the song Eyli, Eyli (My God, My God; Heskes, 1992, No., 1194; Nulman, 1972, No. 74), written at the turn of the twentieth century, and popularized in the Warsaw Ghetto. The lyrics were disseminated widely when they were recorded by major cantors, especially Yossele Rosenblatt, and played regularly on New York Yiddish radio, rendering it the anthem of suffering of the contemporary Jew. I surely knew all the words of this piece and hummed its tune frequently as a child:

My God, my God, why have You abandoned me?
My God, my God, why have You abandoned me?
In fire and flames we have been burnt
Everywhere they shamed and mocked us
But no one could turn us away from You, my God
And from Your Holy Torah
From Your commandments, My God.
Day and night, I only think of You, my God.
I keep Your Torah and Your commandments with awe.
Save me, oh save me from danger
Like You once saved our fathers from an angry czar
Only You can help.
Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.

The tune left us all with in an atmosphere of confusion: If God helped in the past, why did he not help during the Holocaust? Why did God abandon his people?

Exposure to Confusing Scriptures

Seeking to inculcate us with compassion and kindness toward others, our teachers extolled us to emulate God (Deuteronomy 28:9: “You shall walk in His ways") using two general guidelines:
• You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy (Leviticus 19:2).
• For the Lord your God ... loves the stranger, providing him with food and clothing; and you too must love the stranger… (Deuteronomy 10:17–19).

These guidelines are elaborated by the Talmud into specifics:

Just as God is gracious and compassionate, you also should be gracious and compassionate (Talmud Shabbat 133b). Just as He is called “righteous,” so should you be righteous ... Just as He is called “pious,” so should you be pious (Sifri, Deuteronomy 11:22). Just as He clothes the naked ... visits the sick ... comforts the mourners ... and buries the dead ... so should you (Talmud, Sota 14a). [1]

But, the elaborations ignored verses that pull in the other direction, exemplified by the following:

• The Lord is a man of war (Exodus 15:3).
• The Lord is a jealous and avenging God (Nahum 2:6).
• The Lord is a God who avenges (Psalms 94:1).
• He will by no means leave the guilty unpunished, visiting the iniquity of fathers on the children and on the grandchildren to the third and fourth generations (Exodus 34:6–7).
• Thou hast slain, and thou hast not pitied (Lamentations 3:43).

There are many other biblical passages that feature harsh attributions to a vengeful God (who metes out punishment), passages that hardly coincide with the idealization of a loving God. A straightforward reading of the Bible may well instill within a child a hostile image of God. Indeed, some contemporary authors who take an unfettered look at scriptures have concluded that God, as he is represented in the Bible, is savage and sadistic (Armstrong, 1972). Moreover, there is a distinct Jewish liturgical theme accusing God of atrocities in Jewish liturgy dating back to the Book of Lamentations. While one might expect these discrepancies to be addressed directly in Bible classes, the fact is that students are often put into an untenable position that implicitly coaxes them to ignore any biblical passages that do not coincide with the selective portrayal of God as just and merciful.
It is fairly commonplace for a child in the traditional yeshiva system to be familiar with the entire Pentatuchal text at an early age. Contradiction and implausibility in biblical text are often “explained away” by commentators homiletically by interpreting some texts as being figurative. However, children are not used to allegories, making it likely that children, with their concrete tendencies, will have a hard time disregarding the literal meaning of scripture.
As the Bible was our main focus of study and reading, we were generally raised with the notion of a divine system with rules of fair play. Punishment for misdeed was part of this system, of course. Hence, the dictum we learned in Deuteronomy 24:16, “Fathers shall not be put to death for children, neither shall the children be put to death for fathers: every man shall be put to death for his own sin” made perfect sense. However, we were also taught about God’s reactions that did not conform to such standards. Take, for example, Exodus 20:5: “For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me.” Sadly, such discrepancies were never acknowledged, far less addressed, by our teachers.
Familiar with the Pentateuch in grade school, I remember being particularly struck by Moses’ admonition to the Jews of Egypt, to visibly mark their doors in anticipation of the plague of the slaying of the Egyptian first-borns, so that their children not get caught up in the destruction aimed at the Egyptians. This was explained to us using constructs that imply God’s loss of control over the fury he unleashes: “Once permission has been granted to the Destroyer, he does not distinguish between the righteous and wicked” (Talmud Baba Kama 60a).
The Talmud tells us that when Moses asked God, “Teach me your ways” (Exodus 33:13), he was actually formulating the age-old question: “Why do the righteous suffer?” Various talmudic narratives (e.g., Sanhedrin 27b, Kiddushin 39b) suggest alternate explanations. These include suggestions that wicked parents cause suffering of their righteous offspring, that suffering purifies the soul, and that suffering serves to remove the slightest of sin residues to enable increased rewards in the afterlife.
Another approach in the scared literature is to see God as functioning in two alternative modes: Judgment and Mercy. Rashi, the primary biblical commentator, applies this dichotomy to a dual approach in conceptualizing God’s management of the world: Elohim stands for the God of judgment who judges and punishes the evil of the world, while Jehovah symbolizes kindness and is the chief attribute that was extant at creation (Yitzhaki, 1090, Exodus 20:1). However, these explanations did not clarify my understanding of God nor his role during the Holocaust.

The Enigma of Providence: God as a Micromanager

There are divergent views within the Jewish literature about the degree of God’s involvement in the details of nature (Flavius Josephus, 75, 94). The scope of divine providence (hashgaha peratit in Hebrew; literally, “individual oversight”) ranges from a Personal God, who has detailed oversight of all human events (Talmud Hullin 7b), to the variable oversight of humans based on their level of righteousness (Maimonides, 1180), to the notion that there is oversight of the species but not of the individual (Nahmanides, 1230), to the disavowal of any divine control of human conduct, since it would negate free will (Ben Joseph, 925). The orientation accepted by contemporary mainstream Orthodoxy, however, favors the perspective of God’s detailed control of all human activity. Its essence is encapsulated in the following aphorism:

Know what is above you: an eye that sees and an ear that hears. All of your
activities are written in the book, and there is a reckoning for everything you do (Avot 2:1).

This is the view favored by the yeshiva system, and this is what was taught to the children of Holocaust survivors.
In his interpretation of providence during the Holocaust, Rabbi Soloveitchik views the Holocaust as a period when God actually removed himself from managing world events (Besdin, 1993). Labeled Hester Panim (literally, “Hiding the Face”), this theological maneuver does “explain” horrors of mass extermination, if one can accommodate a God who is absent from world events. [2]
Paralleling God’s judging role and merciful role, there is yet another persona of God in the hearts of Holocaust survivors that seems startling: one of capricious hostility. Analyzing the internal religious icons of survivors, we sometimes encounter a volatile figure with a bad temper—a mercurial God who can get “carried away” in his vengeance. This is a God who regrets his mistakes at times (Lawliss, 1994). Yet, during times of harsh judgment, He seems unapproachable. Consider the yearly liturgy recited by Jews for centuries during the Ashkenazic High Holiday service, depicting the torture and murder of Israel’s sages some 2,000 years ago. Addressing the complaints of Israeli leaders about His actions, God responds:

If I hear another sound, I will transform the universe to water, I will turn the earth to astonishing emptiness—this is a decree from My Presence! (Yom Kippur Prayer Book, p. 643).

The Holocaust, in particular, is easily construed by some survivors—as it surely was perceived by many of my cohort—as an instance where the destructive forces unleashed by God “simply got out of control.” As children, the notion that the Jews needed to protect themselves from God’s wrath which was directed at their Egyptian oppressors seemed ungodly, leaving us with the unspoken understanding that our benevolent God sometimes gets “carried away” and overreacts in an unfair fashion—hardly a God one would be inclined to trust.
As one means of reconciling perceived divine harshness with the image of the benevolent God, I have been stunned to hear survivors (when they let their guard down) referring to God as “crazy” for instigating horrors. I am reminded of the adaptive attribution I see in the family members of Alzheimer’s patients who become uncharacteristically violent toward loved ones. “This is not the husband I know,” I often hear. “He has changed into another person. It’s as if he were possessed!” The tenor of this “explanation” resonates starkly with the various “excuses” by family members of a molesting parent: “It wasn’t his fault;” “He was under horrible pressure;” “He was not himself;” “It’s the drugs that made him do it.”
It has been suggested that an inconsistent God may be easier for people to relate to than a God with strict standards. Interpreting Cain’s understanding that God favored his brother Abel inappropriately, Goldin (2007) elaborates:

The reality of a thinking God, who demands compliance to His will, is too frightening to [Cain]. It is easier to believe in a Deity Who chooses favorites
by whim than to deal with the burden of God’s true demands. (p. 20)

Perhaps, then, it is not surprising that children growing up in the shadow of the Holocaust, given no rationalization of the horrors while being exposed to inconsistent depictions of God in the daily biblical studies, might revert to viewing God as willful, capricious, or apt to lose control.
There is a poignant finale to the Selihot (forgiveness prayers) of Ne’ilah (the concluding Yom Kippur service):

May it be your will, You who hears the sound of weeping,
That you place our tears, in your vial permanently.

As a person for whom the Holocaust is alive and current in my conscience, I have—at times—felt that this prayer adds insult to injury, so to speak. In my mind, it evokes the following excerpt from the analytic protocol of a patient with a history of childhood emotional neglect:

I cried, and my Mother did not come to help. I thought it was because she was
an evil mother. Then I found out it was because she could not hear me. That felt better….I always explained away the fact that my father failed to protect me or rescue me when it all happened. I thought to myself: He probably does not know, he does not realize what is really going on. It’s like he was deaf, maybe even dead. But when I finally realize that he was there all along, hearing me cry, and he did nothing—that really hurts!

Coping with Divine Dissonance

Left with a subjectively palpable presence of a dissonant God, the child is forced to grapple with a perceived discrepant duality. The viable options are to try to reconcile them or to take the perspective that they are inherently irreconcilable and resign oneself to an unsettled stance.
De-synthesizing is common in early childhood (when the child has not yet learned to reconcile behaviors that seem incompatible). However, it is also utilized by older children and adults as a regressive defense mechanism when faced by betrayal or extreme interpersonal disappointment. Referred to clinically as splitting, it can engender a pathological condition when it manifests in adulthood and results in two different inconsistent relationship styles toward the same person, with no attempt to reconcile them.
Viewed logistically, splitting is the most expedient approach to deal with incompatible representations of God. Consider the similar circumstance in which a child finds himself at the mercy of an all-powerful parent who behaves inconsistently toward the child—at times kind and understanding, and at other times vicious and harsh. In cases where the child has not had an opportunity to experience this parent previously in a consistent manner, splitting will be invoked by the ego. The child essentially learns to relate to the parent as if there actually were two parent figures here—a good parent and a bad parent. This orientation frees the child from dealing with contradictions. The parent is thus experienced as “wholly” benevolent when he or she is behaving in a kind manner, and “wholly” terrible when behaving poorly. I propose that this is exactly how the Orthodox Jewish child of Holocaust survivors—and survivors themselves—first related to God.
Survivors split God into two antithetical motifs. The split, engendered by the introduction to God in their early Bible studies as two different personas, was originally synthesized by positing that God is vengeful toward those who violate his commands and merciful to those who heed his rules. Yet, various scriptures and prayer texts contradicted this simplistic explanation.
Children, especially those who recognize inconsistency despite apologetics, manage to relate to God by splitting Him into two entities. Especially from the perspective of Holocaust survivors and their families, the God who perpetrated the Holocaust is not the merciful God they have known since childhood (and still cling to as damaged adults). [4]
Along with others in my cohort of second-generation survivors, I interpreted these “god variants” in a literal sense—with a distinct polytheistic flavor. Our “working model” of theology resembled Greek mythology. God existed as a good force competing with negative God-forces, based on our literal readings of biblical citations in the Prayer Book, which describe God as being “above all gods” (Psalms 135:5) or as punishing other gods (Jeremiah 46:25). As I saw it, the god of horrors actually had a different persona—and even a different name—than my God. Our God needed to be distanced from the divine aberration that brought indiscriminate destruction upon our families.[5]
It is noteworthy that de-synthesis actually has been posited as an intrinsic Jewish solution to eternal suffering. Some scholars elaborate a dialectic perspective, suggesting that the splitting mode adopted by children to deal with parental discrepancies is the preferred Jewish response to cope with the chronic societal oppression. From an adaptive perspective, the oppressive conditions of Jews in various European communities gave rise to distinct brand of humor, which was predicated on the promotion of illogic as a means of dealing with circumstances that were objectively insurmountable. In their brand of adaptive humor, Jews “defend” their future and their hope of survival by renouncing logic; as such, they refuse to be over-powered by the implications of a harsh reality (Juni & Katz, 1988; Juni, Katz, & Hamburger, 1996; Juni, & Katz, 2001). And that is no joke!

Our God, Our Father: Parallels and Repercussions

God was a constant part of the daily life of the Orthodox European Jew for many centuries. Yiddish vocabulary is permeated by direct references to God as a familiar player in all events, from the mundane to the colossal. In the Yiddish of Orthodox Jews, statements about the future are always qualified by the phrase “If God wills it.” When responding to a question about one’s welfare, the usual response is an unelaborated “Thank God,” with an occasional variation of “Thank God, well.” [6]
Developmentally, young children have a difficult time dealing with a parent who must, by definition, assume supportive and disciplinary roles at different times. Lacking the sophistication of adult reasoning and contextualizing, the child sometimes deals with this perceived contradiction by utilizing the aforementioned defense mechanism of splitting (Klein, 1935); this entails the effective de-synthesizing the parent as having two irreconcilable personas: one supportive, the other hostile. Klein posits that unless (and until) the child learns to synthesize different aspects of a parent into a meaningful whole, his or her internal world literally contains two separate representations of the same individual—a good Mother and the bad Mother, for example. Though they are, in truth, part objects (i.e., different aspects of the same object), these “mothers” are seen as distinct entities. [7]
Only if the child is fortunate enough to have a secure and supportive childhood, can he or she learn to synthesize these part objects and come to relate to a parent as a single entity whose characteristics vary based on situational contexts. This process and its challenges form the crux of the child’s assimilation of a healthy and positive ability to relate to others. [8]
If we recognize the relationship to God as a developmental process, it is reasonable to assume that the template of child-parent relations is relevant here as well. [9] For the child who is raised with God as a real feature of daily life, notions of a compassionate God must seem inherently incompatible with those of a vengeful and destructive God. Clearly, the God the child idealizes is the omnipotent benevolent God. The vengeful and punishing God is the one who deals with evil-doers and sinners. But, can the child deal with these intuitive incompatibilities any better than he or she can deal with the incompatibilities of the good mother and bad mother?
Fostering the notion of God as a kind father may seem disingenuous at the rudimentary level. At the very least, it deserves elaboration and qualification. I wish my High School administrators and staff, who included eminent masters of Jewish philosophy, had been forthright enough to discuss this imagery with us at a basic and honest level. While the image of kind father might be reconciled with harsh punishment, it certainly is incompatible with vindictiveness.[10] The intent of vengeance is not to help the one who is being punished; instead it is designed for the motive of the punisher. Mercy implies that punishment is withheld precisely in instances where it would be warranted. Not punishing, when punishment is unwarranted is not kindness—it is fairness. From a Western perspective, punishing children is not a means for a father to vent his rage; rather it is intended “for the good of the child” (i.e., educating, a lesson for the future.) Although the Western orientation may not be totally applicable to traditional Jewish culture, it seems that we, as children of the Holocaust, certainly deserved an honest discussion of the incongruity that this imagery engendered within us. Furthermore, coupled with a weak father image who was unable to help his family, and was himself brutalized during the Holocaust, this image of God resulted in an unwholesome conceptualization of God as well.

The Educational Failure

What are the cognitive options for an individual who is faced by a seemingly unkind God? The most salient option is disbelief:

It seems obvious that an omnipotent, omniscient, moral God would not allow injustice. Upon witnessing inequity, it is therefore perfectly natural to doubt God’s existence. (Kelemen, 1990, p. 91)

I wish to take issue with Kelemen’s conceptual formulation of the predicament of dealing with an apparently unjust God. For the child who was raised with God as a virtual feature of his formative environment, doubting God’s existence is not an option.
One might suggest that, unlike parents who constitute an undeniable concrete feature of the child’s world, and unlike the blatant anti-Semitism that Jews slammed into repeatedly—God’s relevance to the world of the child is unobservable and therefore dispensable, particularly when the role of God becomes so problematic to the child. How much simpler would it be to simply negate the entire god construct, and be rid of philosophical quandaries and emotional misgivings? Alas, the child who has been raised in a household where religion is part of daily life has no freedom of religion—at the functional level. Belief in God is part of his or her developmental paradigm. For one who was raised in the social crucible of Orthodox Judaism who is faced by this dilemma, the belief in God is imprinted indelibly on his or her soul.
In families identifying as Orthodox Jews, the icon of God is fixed in early childhood. It is part of the emotional structure that is socialized into the child by his parents as agents of the Orthodox Jewish culture. Children raised in this environment can no more easily disbelieve in God than they can disbelieve in Mother. It certainly becomes a major portion of his relationship repertoire with significant others, as the child is taught that his actions always entail a virtual interaction with an ever-present God. While a child may isolate from others when necessary, one can never escape the presence of God.
Although the child will certainly have the option of deciding whether to follow the dictates of religion at the behavioral level, he or she can no easier excise his beliefs in God than he or she can excise other basic tenets of reality that were inculcated in his formative years. Belief in God is essentially an emotionally implanted construct. To posit a cognitive rationale that can be utilized in choosing not to believe in a God who has been part of one’s life in early childhood is an oxymoron. Religious belief is not exclusively a logical operation. Rather, it is an orientation toward the world that is closer to emotion than it is to cognition. As a rational human being, one can certainly liberate oneself from the behavioral repercussions or dictates of childhood religious beliefs. However, emancipation from behavioral dictates does not incur freedom from an ingrained religious mindset that features an omniscient deity. [11]

It is interesting to note, in this context, the cultural connotations of the apostate, as the construct is formulated in the traditional orthodox Jewish literature. The Talmud (e.g., Avoda Zara 6b) divides apostasy into two categories: Those who violate Jewish law because they are tempted (by greed or desire), and those who do so for spite (where the spite is directed against religious authority figures—and perhaps even at God!). A blatant omission here is the option of one who rejects the very belief in God.
This omission, we argue, entails a cultural testimony that such rejection was not at all a viable option for children who are raised with the God construct as a household reality.
For those who are unwilling (or unable) to react to perceived divine injustice by relinquishing their belief in God, Keleman (1990) encourages them to consider the likelihood that there exists an explanation that we cannot comprehend:

Any rational person will admit that, in theory, the ways of God could be so complex that they defy human understanding. Man might simply be incapable of comprehending and morally evaluating the behavior of an omniscient, omnipotent Being. Just as appropriate actions taken by a parent can sometimes seem unjustified to young children, God’s actions might sometimes strike us as indefensible, despite their absolute righteousness. Our occasional inability to discern God’s goodness is not a repudiation of His existence as much as a confession of our own intellectual finitude. (p. 95)

As plausible as this option may be, it is a fact that it generally gets a poor reception among survivor families whose hurt is scarcely ameliorated by such a non-specific formulation. The same can be said of the approach to interpret biblical text non-literally, as is often seen in theological justifications of divine wrath.
The yeshiva curriculum has traditionally focused on Hebrew language skills,[12] transitioning toward the mastery of biblical texts after grade 2 or 3, shifting toward talmudic text mastery as students progress from elementary school to high school. As a rule, mastery of Talmud was the ultimate purpose of the traditional yeshiva.[13] While some schools also incorporated character development into the curriculum during high school (and this has endured through current practices), theology is noticeably absent.[14] This was the rule, rather than the exception, and was definitely the norm until the late 1960s, which was the period when second-generation survivors were educated.[15] At the least, this absence yielded students unequipped to deal with religious challenges they might encounter. However, for students who faced profound questions and theological contradictions in their own lives, this lack was resounding and profound.
As second-generation survivors, we experienced acute dissonance in the ethics classes we endured in high school. Although theology was not addressed directly, a “proper” concept of God was clearly intended to be internalized in the course of our education.[16] Values were taught as a form of Godliness, in accordance with the principle of imitatio dei (the imitation of God), by citing verses that exemplified the positive characteristics of God. For years, it baffled me that none of my classmates ever challenged the selectivity of these characteristics. We were all well versed in the scriptures cited in the Standard Prayer Book, and could enumerate alternate divine attributes that surely would not be idealized as models for our behaviors and traits. Furthermore, as a second-generation survivor, my immediate associations veered toward the horrific abuse my family had suffered (as we were taught—it was by the ever-present hand of God), and a host of biblical citations in the Prayer Book that championed another side of God’s path.
Unfortunately, the standard of accepted theology in yeshiva tends toward a micromanaging God. While only a few philosophically minded students inevitably become troubled reconciling divine control with the postulate of free will, this radical interpretation of Providence induces acute distress in those who come from a heritage of horrors—Holocaust survivors and their families. If God is posited to micromanage all human history and events, then the Holocaust is clearly not only condoned—but actually perpetrated by God. One can question whether the educational decision of yeshivas to adopt this version of providence made sense when second-generation Holocaust survivor students were cornered into seeing God as actually having perpetrated the Holocaust. [17]

Summary

The yeshiva education system failed second-generation Holocaust survivors by failing to address the theological implications of the Holocaust and by its selective teaching of concepts that preempted religious understanding of the Holocaust by the students. An inadequacy of commission featured the unequivocal presentation of God’s providence manifesting total causality for all human actions, which inevitably engendered negativity toward God by some of these students. Remarkable was the consistent inattention to textual descriptions of God as vengeful and angry, which may have been useful to the students in their coming to grips with a Jewish perspective of the heritage of suffering and injustice they were born into. To a child who was raised in the shadow of the death camps, God’s role during the Holocaust resonated with the censored “unkind” references to God in the scriptures. Many second-generation Holocaust survivors thus emerged from their educational experience with de-synthesized views of God, which yielded unwholesome religious functioning.

References

Ainsworth, M. D. S., & Bowlby, J. (1991). An ethological approach to personality development. American Psychologist, 46, 331–341.

Bell, M. (1991). An Introduction to the Bell Object Relations and Reality Testing Inventory. Los Angeles, CA: Western Psychological Services.

Besdin, A. R. (1993). Reflections of the Rav. Hoboken, NJ: Ktav Pub. Co.

Bleich, B. (1992). Understanding Judaism: The Basics of Deed and Creed. Northvale NJ: Jason Aronson.

Borowitz , E. B. (2014). Rethinking God and Ethics. H. Tirosh-Samuelson and A. W. Hughes (Eds.) Boston: Brill. Quote in “The need for Jewish philosophy,” p. 43.

Fairbairn, W. R. D. (1954). An Object-Relations Theory of Personality. New York: Basic Books.

Freud, S. (1910). Leonardo da Vinci and a memory of his childhood. Standard Edition of the Complete Work of Sigmund Freud, Vol 11. J. Strachey (Ed. and Trans.). London: Hogarth 1957, pp. 59–137.

Hall, T. W., & Edwards, K. J. (2002). The Spiritual Assessment Inventory: A theistic model and measure for assessing spiritual development. Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, 41, 341–357.

Juni, S., Katz, B., & Hamburger, M. (1996). Identification with the aggressor vs. turning against the self: An empirical study of turn-of-the-century European Jewish humor. Current Psychology, 14, 313–327.

Juni, S., & Katz, B. (1998). Creative pseudo-reality as a defensive factor in Jewish wit: A dialectical perspective. Journal of Psychology and Judaism, 22, 289–300.

Juni, S., & Katz, B. (2001). Self-effacing wit as a response to oppression: Dynamics in ethnic humor. Journal of General Psychology, 128, 119–142.

Klein, M. (1935). A contribution to the psychogenesis of manic-depressive states. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, 16:145–174.

Kernberg, O. F. (1976). Object Relations Theory and Clinical Psychoanalysis. New York: Jason Aronson.

Mahler, M. S. (1963). Thoughts about development and individualism. Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, 18, 307–324.

Modell, A. H. (1975). A narcissistic defense against affects and the illusion of self-sufficiency. International Journal of Psycho-analysis, 56, 275–282.

Piaget, J., & Inhendler, B. (1966). The Psychology of the Child. New York: Basic Books.

Yitzhaki, S. (1090). Rashi’s commentary on the Bible. In D. Bromberg (Ed. & Trans.), The Great Scriptures [Mikra’ot Gedolot] [Biblia Rabbinica]. Venice: Daniel Bromberg Press.

Notes

[1] There are numerous similar references to God’s benevolence throughout Psalms; e.g., “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalms 34:18);
“Call upon Me in the day of trouble; I shall rescue you (Psalms 50: 15). When I recited these Psalms in the past, I sometimes sensed an inner voice that forced its way into my consciousness with a sardonic rejoinder: Why not tell it to the folks crying out for help in the crammed cattle cars on the way to Auschwitz?
[2] A crucial requisite to developing a trusting relationship with the caregiving parent is to realize that the parent continues to care for the child, and that the parent-child relationship can continue, even when the parent is absent. This reflects the principle of object permanence (Piaget & Inhendler, 1966) as it is accommodated within the general rubric of Attachment Theory (Ainsworth & Bowlby, 1991). The construct of Hester Panim (Besdin, 1993), represented by “I will hide my face from them; I will see what their end will be…, Deuteronomy 32:20), disrupts the sense of object permanence and mitigates the development of secure attachment with God.
[3] It should be noted that splitting is adaptive in early childhood but becomes more problematic if it is not gradually abandoned in favor of a synthetic understanding of others. I offer the following familial illustration of de-synthesis in normal development: My wife and I were exploring with our boys (a third and fifth grader, respectively) how they felt when we used to leave them in earlier years in the care of au pairs while we were off at work. When I asked specifically about Jeanine (a young woman who had worked with us for a number of years), both children spoke up simultaneously, asking “Which one?” It emerged that this imaginative young lady apparently had an effective method of dealing with child discipline. When the children misbehaved, she would announce that she was leaving, and that Mean Jeanine would be coming instead; she would then say Goodbye and leave the house. Moments later, the bell would ring, and Mean Jeanine—wearing her cap backwards and speaking in a high pitched voice—would appear. The children remembered Mean Jeanine as a no-nonsense woman who was a strict disciplinarian. In fact, Jeanine (the kinder version) would often warn the children not to push limits, because she would only take “so much” before she would get Mean Jeanine to take over. It was fascinating to watch the amazement of these two, rather intelligent and usually insightful youngsters, as reality dawned upon them. “You mean to say that there was only one Jeanine?!” the eleven-year-old exclaimed? “Wow, she really had us fooled,” was the reaction of the nine-year-old.”
It is posited that in situations where the children were actively encouraged to view a caregiver as consisting of two different caregivers, de-synthesis would remain a feature of object relations for some time. If, for example, a mother would inadvisably “explain” to the child that there are actually two mothers—a good mother and a bad mother—and that their personalities are separate and distinct from each other, that the child would have a hard time synthesizing the two significantly beyond the age (where part objects are typically united into realistic object representations). Similarly, in terms of Theistic Object Relations, it is suggested that the “theological diet,” where two distinct God personas (a kind God vs. a vindictive God) are used differentially in daily lessons, prayer, and liturgy, militates against their synthesis into a unified object representation of God.
[4] Those of us who have a considerable patient population of Holocaust survivors have been referring informally to the stance of coming to terms with irreconcilable God aspects as Theological Schizophrenia.
[5] Splitting of God into kind and vicious entities was reinforced, for us, by the references
in scripture and prayers to Satan as a separate force. For example: the first two chapters of Job, for example, quote interchanges between God and Satan; in the quintessential prayer of the cantor on Yom Kippur (Hineni), there is a direct plea to God to banish Satan from impeding with the prayers.
[6] While the dynamic relationship with God is also emphasized in Fundamental Christianity, the author has found in his work with patients that the construct is far more entrenched in the formative psyche of individuals raised in the Orthodox Jewish milieu.
[7] This view of development is the basis of modern day conceptualization of interpersonal relationships. It conceptualization represents the confluence of Attachment Theory and Object Relations Theory (Bell, 1991; Bowlby, 1969; Fairbairn; 1954; Kernberg, 1976; Mahler, 1963; Modell, 1975).
[8] This reflects the general understanding of the development of interpersonal relations as formulated in Object Relations Theory.
[9] Developmental theorists have argued that—for religious people—an entire facet of the developing ego becomes devoted to a template of man-God relationship which is an intrinsic to personality structure as interpersonal (Hall and Edwards, 2002). In our work with religious patients who are conflicted about their relationships with God, we coined the term Theistic Object Relations to elaborate the contradictory valences of trust and fear that typify the developmental process of religious identity formation, as it parallels the development of secure interpersonal attachments in general Object Relations Theory.
[10] E.g., “God is jealous, and the Lord revenges; the Lord revenges, and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserves wrath for his enemies (Nahum 1:2).
[11] I have met many survivors who became non-observant due to their Holocaust
experiences, but still showed strong beliefs in, and relationships with, God.
[12] See http://chinuchathome.info/index.php/Homeschool/Curriculum/Limudei-Kodesh- Curriculum.html.
[13] See http://www.yivoencyclopedia.org/article.aspx/yeshiva/The_yeshiva_before_1800
[14] See, for example, the high school curriculum of a current American yeshiva high school that champions talmudic proficiency and personal ethics (http://ftiyeshiva.org/education/judiac-studies-curriculum/).
[15] Particularly egregious for second-generation survivors was the explicit sanction we often heard about some questions which may not be asked, where children’s requests for explanation were viewed as heretical and subversive in nature. Subsequently, however, some schools did begin to include opportunities for students to have discussions with staff about Hashkafah (a construct that can encompass theological ideas), as exemplified in http://www.ohryisrael.com/curriculum/.
[16] The crucial need for theological input in the religious education of second-generation survivors is particularly crucial from the perspective of Developmental Theory. Using this lens, children gradually transfer (with understandable modifications) aspects of their naive image of reliable all-powerful parents (or father, in traditional cultures) to a developing image of a reliable all-powerful God (Freud, 1910). Many children of survivors, however, attribute weakness and frailty—and often incompetence—to their parents, and certainly do not see them as supports to be relied upon under duress. The assimilation or internalization of God as a source of strength and stability in second-generation survivors is therefore totally dependent on the educational institution.
[17] It is suggested that dissonance may have been minimized had we been indoctrinated with the idea that God’s ways are mysterious and unfathomable. I would argue that such a position would have little traction for young adults who are intent on clear formulations of God’s role in negative world events rather than a seemingly vague deflection of God’s accountability (or even culpability).

Change is necessary

Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks published “Lessons in Leadership” in 2015. Professor Ronald Heifetz who wrote the Forward points out that the rabbi is stressing that people of all religions and cultures should not sit passively and rely on the decisions of authorities and even God, and that Sacks encourages “a change of people’s attitude, values, and behavior.” This requires thought, action, and perseverance. “One has to sift through what to keep (as part of their lives), what to discard and which innovations will enable (them) to survive.” Progress “demands not just someone who provides answers from on high, but changes …. As Sacks put it… (we need to) become God’s partner in the ongoing work of creation.” God, or we might say the Torah, also changes. “Sacks suggests that since the partnership between God and humankind is real, perspectives flow both ways. Deliberation takes place – top down, bottom up. God (wants us to change and) changes the (divine) plan based on dialogue (between humans and the divine). We must learn to listen; God listens too.”

Jonathan Sacks is one of the great leaders of Jewry today. He served as Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregation and the Commonwealth for twenty-two years from 1991 until 2013. While this recent book focuses on the lessons that each of the 54 biblical portions teach about leadership, he writes that he is speaking about a general ongoing approach to life. He speaks of all kinds of leaders, of countries, communities, families, parents, as well as leadership of one’s personal life, becoming what the Torah wants individuals to become. “The Lord may be our shepherd, but no Jew was ever a sheep.” He writes: “Applying inflexible rules to a constantly shifting political landscape destroys societies,” and to do so in our personal lives, destroys our lives and makes it impossible to be all that we can be. He notes that “the Torah does not contain a word that means “obey” because blind obedience is not a virtue in Judaism.”

Maimonides

This stress on change and not authority may appear to be an improper view, especially of a religious leader. But the wisest Jew Maimonides said the same thing in the twelfth century. He wrote that this is why God placed eyes in front of our faces, not in back. While the term “tradition” is used frequently in discussions about Jewish values and practices usually in a praiseworthy fashion, Maimonides warns us to be skeptical of traditions, no matter what their source and no matter how many people insist that the tradition is correct. He writes in his Commentary on the Aphorisms of Hippocrates that people must test all traditions, whether they are medical treatments taught by the famed physicians Hippocrates (c.460-c.370 BCE) and Galen (129-c.200 CE) or Jewish values by learned rabbis, and examine whether these traditions are logical, help improve people and society, and conform to science. No one would rely on medical advice that is over two thousand years old without examining modern scientific findings; other traditions are no different.

Reliance on God is wrong

Sacks warns us not to “leave everything to divine intervention…. It is not what God does for us that changes the human situation. It is what we do for God.” People need leaders, who are “unafraid to face the challenges of today and build for tomorrow instead of, as so often happens, fighting the battles of yesterday.” One cannot rely on yesterday’s decision; “no two generations are alike.”

We dare not sit passively while alive and seek God in a realm beyond life. We must seek God in life and in how we live. God gave us a mind, a body, and society, and we must treasure them and constantly seek to improve them. We are not defined by what happens to us but by how we respond to what happens to us.

What do the Bible and others say?

The failure of leadership, whether of others or of oneself results from a failure to act, “Judaism is God’s call to human responsibility.” According to the Bible commentator Rashi to Genesis 6:9, God whispered to the patriarch Abraham, “Don’t wait for me. Go on ahead.” When God called out to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, after they ate the forbidden fruit, “Where are you,” it was a call “not directed only to the first humans. It echoes in every generation.” Righteousness is not leadership.” True leaders have “the courage not to conform…. They have a vision (of the future), not what is, but what might be. They think outside the box. They march to a different tune…. Dead fish go with the flow. Live fish swim against the current.”

Rather than repeating ancient mistakes, following the traditional practices of old, people need to change. Israel’s first prime minister, David Ben-Gurion, said, “since the world never stops for a moment, and the pattern of power changes like the movement of a kaleidoscope, you must constantly reassess chosen policies towards the achievement of your aims.” The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote that his aim in philosophy is “to show the fly the way out of the fly-bottle.” Sacks explained: “The fly is trapped in the bottle. It searches for a way out. Repeatedly it bangs its head against the glass until at last, exhausted, it dies. Yet the bottle has been open all the time. The one thing the fly forgets to do is to look up. So, sometimes, do we.”

“Why did God call on Abraham to challenge Him (regarding God’s decision to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah in Genesis 18)? Was there anything Abraham knew that God did not know? The idea is absurd. The answer is surely this: Abraham was to become the role model and initiator of a new faith, one that would not defend the human status quo but challenge it.” Exceptional as many societies were, one of the most remarkable phenomena in history is that, according to the Torah, God chose the very people who challenge heaven itself.

“What is it that made Jacob – not Abraham or Isaac or Moses – the true father of the Jewish people?” Jews are called “Children of Israel,” one of Jacob’s names. Because more than the others, Jacob faced repeated crises, stumbled at times, and suffered. “But Jacob endured and persisted…. To try, to fall, to fear, and yet keep going: that is what it takes” to grow.” Winston Churchill wrote: “success is going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” The Lubavitcher Rebbe said, we need to recognize that a descent can lead to an ascent.

Women

Unlike many of his Orthodox rabbinic contemporaries, Jonathan Sacks emphasizes that women should, like men, be leaders, not just acquiescent wives. The Torah teaches that there were “six courageous women without whom there would not have been a Moses”: Moses’ mother, his sister, two midwives, Moses’ wife, and Pharaoh’s daughter who adopted Moses. Four of these women were not Abraham’s descendants. Leviticus Rabba 1:3 states that Pharaoh’s daughter acted so well “that (she, among nine others) entered paradise in their lifetime.” There were also seven female prophetesses: Sarah, Miriam, Deborah, Hannah, Abigail, Huldah, and Esther (Megilla 14a) and great female Torah scholars “from the Mishnaic period (Beruriah, Ima Shalom) until today.” Without women there would have been no Moses and no Abrahamic faiths. Women changed the world in the past and should do so today.

This is a great book that opens the mind and frees individuals from improper stultifying traditions. It is filled with wisdom, and generally contains more than one wise statement on every page that encourages us how to live.

One of the very serious questions that faces every posek is what degree of flexibility does he have in determining his decisions, whether in the direction of stringency or that of leniency. Is he inexorably bound by the rulings of the Shulhan Arukh, for example? Or may he take a position which is more stringent than that of the Mehaber ? (It is generally agreed that he may add stringencies to his own private practices.) Conversely, can he take a position of leniency, which would seem to contradict the standard rulings?

We know that there are certain well-defined areas of halakha where the posek is given considerable leeway and personal freedom, and may even be encouraged in the direction of koah de-heteira adif (favoring the position of leniency). For example, the Talmud declared that mi-shum igun akilu Rabbanan, i.e., in the case of agunot one should lean toward a permissive path. So too, bi-khdei hayyav, mi-pnei kevod ha-beriyot, hefsed merubbeh, shaat ha-dehak, mi-shum tzaara, etc. On the other hand, in certain cases one may rule more stringently, in accordance with the principle of lifnim mi-shurat ha-din.

This is obviously a very broad subject, on which there is a very considerable literature, and clearly we cannot even begin to cover it systematically within the framework of this study. However, what we shall attempt to do here, is to limit ourselves to a discussion of some of the halakhic methodologies available to the posek, who, when he feels the circumstances demand or merit it, wishes to achieve a position of leniency. Indeed this was the main thrust of my two books, Darkah shel Halakha, Jerusalem 2007, and Netivot Pesikah, Jerusalem 2008.

One of the methodologies that may be employed, when there are issues such as severe loss of income, welfare of the community, tragic situations, etc., is to have resort to minority opinions, despite the general normative principle that we follow the majority opinion. This methodology is well-founded in our early sources. Thus the Mishnayot in Eduyot 1:5–6 teach us the following:

5. And why do they [the Masters of the Mishna] record the opinion of the individual against that of the majority, whereas the halakha [ruling] may only be according to the opinion of the majority? That, if a court approves the opinion of the individual, it may rely upon him…
6. R. Yehudah said: If so, why do they record the opinion of the individual against that of the majority when it does not prevail? That, if one shall say [i.e., at a later date], "I have received such a tradition," another may answer, "You did not hear it [except] as the opinion of such a one.”

To this we should add the text found in the Tosefta (Eduyot 1:4), where we read:

The halakha is always in accordance with the opinion (divrei) of the majority; the opinion of the individual as opposed to that of the majority is only cited to be rejected. R. Yehudah says: The opinion of the individual as opposed to that of the majority is cited lest there be an hour of need, and they can rely upon it. The Rabbis said: The opinion of the individual as opposed to that of the majority is cited so that when one says “it is pure” and the other says “it is impure,” this says “it is impure in accordance with the view of R. Eliezer,” they reply to him, “the ruling is in accordance with the tradition of R. Eliezer.”

The Mishnah rules that the minority view can be used by a more senior beit din, while the Tosefta says that it can be used to make changes in the law when there is an hour of need.

The Mishna text has been the source of considerable discussion in recent times. See, e.g., Y. Blidstein, Samhut u-Meri be-Hilkhot ha-Rambam: Perush Nirhav le-Hilkhot Mamrim (chapter 1–4), Tel-Aviv 2002, pp. 83–84; K. Albeck, Mavo la-Mishnah, Jerusalem 1999, Nezikin pp. 475–476; Y.M. Epstein, Arukh ha-Shulhan be-Atid, Jerusalem 1969. Hilkhot Mmmrim 5:5; M. Fisch, "Parshanut Dehukah ve-Textim Mehaivim: Ha-Okimta ha-Amorait ve-ha-Filosofiah shel ha-Talmud," and Iyyunim Hadashim be-Filosofiah shel ha-Halakhah, eds. A. Ravitzky, A. Rosenak, Jerusalem 2008, p. 265; M. Rorth, Orthodoxiah Humanit: Mahshevet ha-Halakhah Shel ha-Rav Professor Eliezer Berkovitz, Tel-Aviv 2013, pp. 41–54, referring to Berkovitz's Ha-Halakha Kohah ve-Tafkidah, Jerusalem 1981 pass., and other of his writings.

However, let us go back to the classical commentators to the Mishnah, such as R. Yisrael Lifschitz, who in his Tiferet Yisrael ad loc., explains:

It should seem to me that he wishes to say that one can rely on the individual opinion at times of need, as it is stated, "R. Shimon is worthy to be relied upon in times of need.” (B. Gittin 19a, B. Berakhot 9a, B. Shabbat 45a, B. Nidah 6a, 9b)

Similarly, R. Shelomoh ha-Adani, in his Melekhet Shelomoh ad loc., writes:

For were it not for the opinion of the individual it would be impossible to annul the opinion of the majority, even in times of need…. But if there was a difference of opinion on a certain issue, then a different court, even of lesser status, can rely on the minority view….

He adds further proof for this assertion from a statement by R. Saadiah Gaon to B. Ketubot 93a, (cited in Otzar ha-Geonim, by B. M. Lewin, Jerusalem 1939, p. 310 no.721). There is a difference of opinion as to whether this methodology applies also to biblical laws or merely to rulings of rabbinic status, the Siftei Cohen, Shah, (Shabbetai ben Meir ha-Cohen, 1621–1661) (to Yoreh Deah 242 ad fin.) taking the former position, and the Turei Zahav by R. David ha-Levi (1586–1667) (Yoreh Deah 293) the latter.

R. Menasheh of Ilya (Lithuania 1767–1831) clarified the Eduyot statement as follows:

We thus learn that a court may rely on an individual and, at its discretion, change a law from the one that had bound their ancestors…. (Alfei Menasheh vol.1, Jerusalem 1979, p. 44)

This, too, is the view of the Raavad (as against that of the Rambam), and also of Tosafot to Megilah 5b, as explicated by R. Mosheh Tzvi Neriah, in his article "Yahid ve-Rabim,” Or Hamizrah VIII, 1961, (3/33), pp. 9–11.

Indeed, it could well be that both dissenting views are actually correct. So we read in B. Eruvin 13b and B. Gittin 6b that:

R. Abba stated in the name of Samuel: For three years there was a dispute between Beit Shamai and Beit Hillel, with these claiming "the halakha is as we say." Then a heavenly voice declared, "These and these are the words of the living God, but the halakha follows the rulings of Beit Hillel.”

And see Ritba to Eruvin ibid. ed. M. Goldstein Jerusalem 1974, p. 107, who writes as follows:

They asked the Rabbis of France, of blessed memory: How is it possible that both [opinions] be the words of the Living God, when they forbid and they permit? And they replied, When Moses went up to the heavens to receive the Torah, they [the angels] showed him for every single detail 49 facets to forbid and 49 facets to permit. And he questioned the Holy One blessed be He concerning this. And He said that it would be given to the Sages of Israel in each generation [to make a determination], and that determination would be according to their ruling. And this is correct according to the homily, but in truth there is a secret [explanation], (i.e., an esoteric one).

(See Moshe Halbertal's analysis in People of the Book: Canon, Meaning, and Authority, Cambridge Mass. London 1997, pp. 63–72, on what he calls "The Constitutive View").

Compare this to Midrash Psalms 12:4, ed. Buber, pp. 107–108:

Said R. Yannai: The Torah was not given "cut and dried" (hatikhin), but for each word that God gave to Moses He gave 49 facets for [declaring] purity and 49 for impurity. Said Moses before Him, "Master of the Universe, how then will we be able to clarify the issues?" He replied to Him, "We follow the majority; if the majority declare impurity, it is impure, if purity, it is pure."

(This text is derived from Y. Sanhedrin 4:2, 22a.) See further B. Eruvin 6b. See further, R. Hayyim Vital, Shaar ha-Kavanot: Inyanei Tefilin, Derush 6, 11a, ed. Yeshivat-ha-Mekubalim, Jerusalem n.d. but c. 2005, vol.1, p. 199.)

Similarly, we read in B. Hagigah 3b:

"The masters of the assemblies" (Ecclesiastes 12:11)—these are the scholars who gather together in assemblies and study Torah, some ruling pure and others ruling impure, some prohibiting and others permitting, some rejecting and others accepting. Were one to say, "How, then, can I learn Torah from now on?" The Scripture says, "They are given from our Shepherd" (Ecclesiastes 12:11). One God gave them, and One Leader attended them.” [1]

R. Menahem Recanati, in his commentary on the verse "And God spoke all these words saying,” (Exodus 20:1), writes as follows:

The Rabbis said in B. Hagigah 3b: "[The words of the wise are as goads and as rails fastened] by the masters of the assemblies…" (Ecclesiastes 12:11)—these are the learned Sages; "assemblies," they who are studying Torah; these declare pure and these declare impure, these declare kosher and these declare not kosher, these permit and these forbid. Should a person say: How can I now learn [i.e., what is correct]? For this we learn, "And God spoke all these words saying" (Exodus ibid.):—they all have one father, all were given by one Master, they were spoken by the Lord of all acts. And they said: R. Meir had one pupil who could prove the insect to be pure in 49 ways (B. Eruvin 13b). [And, of course, insects, vermin, are impure.] And all this is because the words spoken [by God] were [in] "a great voice which did not end" (Deuteronomy 5:19)—[a voice] which had all the facets which change and turn over from impure to pure, to forbidding and permitting, to not kosher and to kosher. Because we cannot possibly believe that that voice lacked anything. Therefore in the greatness of the voice were things that could turn in all directions. And each of the Sages received his own ["voice"], for not only the prophets received from Mount Sinai, but all Sages in every generation, each of them receives his own [message]. And this is what the verse (ibid.) tells us, "these words the Lord spoke unto all your assembly [in the mount out of the midst of the fire, of the cloud, and of the thick darkness." [My emphasis] And in relation to this it is stated that "Both these and these are the words of the living God.” For if one of them was mistaken, they would not have made this statement. And these are the 70 facets that the Torah has, which turn to all sides, for that "voice" split up into seventy branches, as we have explained in our commentary to Psalms. Our Sages, of blessed memory taught that God gives to a great host of exponents the "word" which splits up into seven times seven voices, i.e., seventy tongues. And R. Yehoshua ha Levi explained it, like a man who strikes the anvil and numerous sparks fly out in all directions. So too the great host of exponents. The hammer is but one single thing, and it splits up a stone [which it smites] into many fragments. So too is "the voice" in which the Torah was given. And if you think about it, this clears up all the uncertainties.

R. Shelomoh Luria, Maharshal, in his introduction to his Yam Shel Shelomoh, formulates this notion as follows:

Everything that is found in the words of the Sages of the Torah, from the time of Moses up to the present day, these are the Sages concerning whom is it said, "The words of the wise are as goads" (Ecclesiastes 12:11)—they were all given by one shepherd (B. Hagigah 3b). And be not surprised by the various differences of opinion, which are so very distant one from the other, if these opinions are directed to heaven…. But all are the words of the living God, as though each one of them received [his tradition] from God and from Moses, even though what came out of Moses' mouth could never be two opposite statements on one single issue. And the kabbalists explained that all souls were present at Sinai and received [the words] through 49 channels (tzinorot), seven times seven purified (cf. Psalms 12:7). And these are the voices (or sounds) which they heard and saw. [cf. Exodus 20:18, "And all the people saw the thunderings (kolot, voices) and the lightning….” These are the opinions that were transferred through the channels (or conduits), each one seeing through his channel in according with his own understanding. So each one receives in accordance with the strength of his soul… such that one reaches one conclusion, declaring impure, and the other another one, declaring pure…and all are true. And you may understand this. And for this reason the Torah was given to the Sages of each and every generation, each according to the source of his understanding… and in accordance with that which is shown to them from the heavens. [My emphasis]

This seems to express the view of continued revelation, and this indeed is the view of R. Mosheh Alsheich in his commentary to Proverbs 21:17. There, he has an extended discussion on what clearly for him was a very vexing provocative question, as to how two conflicting views can both be correct. His solution is also based on his Kabbalistic views. (See below. See also Abraham J. Heschel, Prophetic Inspiration of the Prophets: Maimonides and other Mediaeval Authorities, Hoboken, NJ, 1996.)

Similarly, R. Mosheh Feinstein, in his Igrot Mosheh, Yoreh Deah 3:92, writes:

Our Sages describe the opposing views of halakhic debate as both being "the words of the living God." This means that Torah study of the diverse views of Sages inherently does not contain something which is not true. Thus the opposing views of Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel are both true. This rule applies also to the disputes of R. Eliezer and all the Tannaim and Amoraim. All of them were given from One Shepherd. Thus it was not untrue when the Heavenly Bat Kol announced that the halakha was in accord with R. Eliezer. His words were inherently true—even though in this world we decide practical halakha on the basis of majority decision. Because of the inherent truth of all views of our sages, we say the blessing "Who gave to us the Torah of truth" even if we are only learning the views that have been rejected from practical halakha such as those of Beit Shammai or minority opinions.

And in Igrot Mosheh, introduction to Orah Hayyim, we read:

It is correct and obligatory for the sages of the latter generations to decide halakha—even if they are not qualified according to the standards of the sages of the Gemara. Therefore there is definitely a concern that their halakhic determinations are not in accord with the view of Heaven. However, in truth, we are guided by the principle that Torah is not in Heaven. Rather it is determined according to what appears correct to the rabbi after proper study of the issue to clarify the halakha according to the Talmud, and the writings of posekim. He is to use his full abilities to seriously deliberate with fear of Heaven—in order to determine what appears to be the correct halakha. Such a pesak is viewed as true and he is obligated to issue his conclusion. This obligation exists even if in fact his ruling is contrary to the halakha in Heaven. His ruling is also considered the "word of the living God" as long as he is convinced he is correct and it is internally consistent. He will receive reward for his rulings even if the truth is not in accord with his position. Proof for this is found in B. Shabbat 130a: A certain city in Israel that followed the halakha according to R. Eliezer—even though this was not the accepted halakha—received great reward in terms of long life… Thus, the ruling which a rabbi is obligated to teach and receive reward for it, is that which he decides after studying the issue with his full ability. This obligation and the receiving of reward exists even if the ruling is not in accord with the truth. This is the nature of all disputes of the Rishonim and Aharonim concerning what is permitted and what is prohibited. As long as a universal ruling has not been determined—each rabbi can make decisions for his followers according to that which he thinks is correct—even though the objective halakha is only in accordance with one of them. Both will also receive reward for their rulings. Because of this we find much dispute also in the most severe prohibitions—with variations between places that rule like the Rambam and Beit Yosef and those that rule like Tosafot and the Rema. Both of the opposing views are "the words of the living God even though the actual truth as understood by Heaven is only like one of them.

This almost mystical view is echoed in a statement by the Shlah ha-Kadosh, (Toledot ha-Adam: Beit Hokhmah sect. 8):

How do we understand the concept that all the words of our sages are the words of the living God? We read in Eruvin 13b: For three and a half years Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel argued concerning whose views were actually halakha. A Bat Kol announced from Heaven that both views were the words of the living God, but the halakha was in accord with Beit Hillel. The Ritba writes in the name of the rabbis of France that the halakha was given in 49 different ways of prohibition and 49 different ways of permission—it was left up to the rabbis of each generation to determine what was the correct halakha for their generation. There is a problem with this explanation. Only when both sides can be right is it reasonable to say, "Both are the words of the living God." For example, in B. Gittin 6b, concerning the concubine of Givah, the views are not mutually exclusive and both could be correct. However in a dispute where one side says it is prohibited and the other side says it is permitted—then surely both cannot be correct! Therefore, if we choose one side, how can we say about the rejected view that it is "the word of the living God"? The rational mind is simply not satisfied with the words of the French rabbis. In fact, the resolution of this problem is dependent—as the Ritba alluded—upon kabbalistic reasoning and secrets… The explanation of this issue, in my humble opinion, is found in B. Bava Metzia 59b concerning the dispute between R. Eliezer and R. Yehoshua whether Heaven can decide the halakha. I already have explained that every single mitzvah has a source in Heaven. According to one's attachment in Heaven, that is how the mitzvah manifests itself in the physical world. The carrying out of the actual mitzvah is directly related to the nature of the attachment. However not everyone has the same level of attachment. Therefore, each rabbi will decide the halakha based upon his personal attachment and consequently they will not necessarily agree. The final halakha is decided by the majority which indicates the most representative means of attachment to Heaven… This is so even though a particular individual might have a much higher type of attachment in Heaven. The halakha is determined by what is the most appropriate way that the mitzvah performed physically for the majority. Thus, we can see why two mutually opposing views can both be the "words of the living God." For example, in the dispute concerning tefilin between Rashi and Rabbeinu Tam, each holds that the tefilin of the other is invalid. Would you think that one side never fulfilled the mitzvah of tefilin during his entire life?! The answer is that each side had a unique attachment to Heaven which determined their ruling about tefilin. However, the final halakha is determined by the majority…

Indeed, throughout the generations scholars struggled with the concept of multiple truths—"eilu ve-eilu…,” seeking kabbalistic explanations, or finally admitting that such is beyond human comprehension. Thus R. Tzadok ha-Cohen of Lublin, in his Dover Tzedek, Pietrokov 1911, p. 4, writes:

The expression eilu ve-eilu refers to the fact that… all the aspects and parts are in fact a unity, and they all are the words of the living God. However, this concept is truly beyond rational comprehension. How is it possible that complete opposites are both true? We know that it is impossible that truth is anything other than one. How can diverse and conflicting things all be a unity? … Therefore, this concept of eilu ve-eilu is beyond the material intellect of man. That is also, why there is no absolutely clear halakha in the Oral Law that is beyond dispute—except for halakha le-Moshe, which is not disputed, as the Rambam states…

And similarly in R. Abdallah Somech's Zivhei Tzedek, Bagdad (1813–1829), Yoreh Deah sect. 26:

Question: How could the conflicting opinions of our sages—where one asserts that something is prohibited and another claims that it is permitted—all be given to Moshe on Mount Sinai? Answer: The answer to this question is extremely deep, and we are not able to answer it properly. Even the Rishonim did not have a full response to it….

He then quotes the Ritba (cited above), the Shlah, the Hida, etc. finally admitting that:

Even the Ritba indicated that the genuine answer is from the mysteries of Kabbalah. Therefore, the bottom line is that this question is beyond our ability to understand. We see the many answers that were to give a little comfort—especially to the masses. Thus, they will have to suffice because the real answer is found in Kabbalah, which is not appropriate for either of us.

Each of these authorities seeks to explain how two contradictory views can, in a sense, both be correct. And we for our part can hardly know which is the "more correct.” For us, then, we are left with a situation of continued uncertainty—safek.

And moving into modern times R. Yitzhak Hutner, in his Pahad Yitzhak: Quntras Ve-Zot Hanukah, Brooklyn 5624 (=1964), p. 18, wrote as follows:

Our perception of the power of Torah she-be'al Peh as revealed through disagreements is greater than when there is agreement. For within the principle that "these and those are the Word of the Living God" is included the essential principle that even the shittah that is rejected as practical halakha is nevertheless a Torah view, when it is expressed according to the norms of the discourse of Torah she-be'al Peh. This is because the Torah was given by the da'at of the Sages of the Torah (as enunciated by the Ramban). And if they then vote and decide according to the rejected view, the halakha then changes in a true sense (aliba' de-emet)… The result is that in disagreement the power of Torah she-be'al Peh is revealed to a greater extent than by [the Sages'] agreement. The "war of Torah" (milhamtah shel Torah—Torah debate is thus not merely one mode of divrei Torah among others, but rather "the war of Torah" is a positive creation of new Torah values, whose like is not to be found in ordinary words of Torah [where there is no disagreement].

And indeed this is the opinion of R. Yaakov Hagiz (1620–1674) in his Halakhot Ketanot, Jerusalem 1974, part 1, no.146 (p. 18), where he was asked if a controversy between the decisors is regarded as a safek (uncertainty), and he replies in the affirmative, (or in his formulation, "so it seems most likely").

Furthermore, it is a generally accepted view that even though we have accepted the rulings of Maran, R. Yosef Karo, this is not because we are certain that his views are correct (ain zeh mi-torat vadai), but only as a pragmatic means to get out of the area of uncertainty (mi-torat safek). So we learn from Shut Nediv Lev, by R. Hayyim David Hazan, Saloniki-Jerusalem (1862–1866), vol. 2 sect. 63. Likewise in Rav Poalim, by R. Yosef Hayyim, Jerusalem (1901–1913), vol. 4, Yoreh Deah sect. 4 ad fin.; Penei Yitzhak, by R. Yitzhak Abulafia, Aram Tzovah, Livorno, Izmir (1871–1888), vol. 1 Yoreh Deah sect. 9, 13; vol. 2, 28c, vol. 5, 162d, etc. See R. Ovadiah Yosef, Halikhot Olam vol.7, Jerusalem 2002, p. 32, who cited additional sources.

And again, ibid. p. 259, R. Yosef writes:

But it seems… that in a difference of opinions among the posekim, the [ruling] never leaves the area of uncertainty (safek),even though the Torah ruled to follow the majority, this is only in certain cases—here he lists them—but this is not the case in a mahloket posekim, which always remains within the area of uncertainty….

R. Yosef brings numerous sources, early and late, to prove his contention. R. Asher Weiss, in his Minhat Asher vol. 2, Jerusalem 2014, p. 171 expresses much the same opinion, namely that to follow the majority is not clearly a biblical injunction (referring to B. Eruvin 46a).

We find a similar sevarah (reasoning) much earlier in the Shitah Mekubetzet to Baba Metzia 6b, in the name of Rosh that even the view of a majority remains a safek, but that the Torah ruled that we should follow such an opinion; (cited by R. Shlomoh Kluger, in his U-Baharta ba-Hayyim, Budapest 1934, sect. 12, and discussed by R. Ovadia Yosef in Yabia Omer vol. 10, no. 60:3, p. 198; likewise by my sainted grandfather, R. David Sperber, in his Afrakasta de-Anya, vol. 1, Brooklyn N.Y. 2002, no. 91, pp. 237–239). However, see Peri Megadim to Yoreh Deah 100, sect. 37, who calls this principle into doubt. And see, in brief, Mosheh Avigdor Haikin, Kelalei ha-Posekim, London 1923, p. 70:10. (Indeed, the whole notion of "the majority,” rov, is by no means clear and is exceeding by complex. See Hazon Ish to Kilaim 1:1.)

The great early-twentieth-century authority, R. Avraham Yitzhak ha-Cohen Kook (1865–1935), in his Shabbat ha-Aretz, Jerusalem 1985, p. 42, writes as follows:

We find, that even when a number of mishnayot rule stringently and this was the practice for many generations, nonetheless, when [some Rabbis] relied upon an individual view to rule leniently, [other] Rabbis did not object…. Even when they had always ruled stringently in accordance with the view of the majority, when later, in times of need and necessity for the sake of the community, they ruled on a rejected view, the Rabbis leveled no objections.

Indeed, there are times and situations when it is incumbent upon us to resort to minority opinions. When the gravity of the situation demands it, great authorities made lenient decisions based on such minority positions. This is especially the situation in the case of the "enchained woman"—agunah, a woman whose husband has vanished and is not known to be dead, so that she cannot be divorced, but neither can she remarry. This was well summed up in a passage by the great sixteenth-century rabbi, Avraham ha-Levi, who lived in Egypt, in his response Ginat Veradim, Even ha-Ezer Part 3, sect. 20 (Jerusalem 1951), (cited above note 53):

If we were to examine the opinions of the sages of ancient times—in order to fulfill what they obligate us to do and as we do in all other areas of law—and follow the majority rule so that there would never be any challenges to our decisions, then there would never be freedom for the agunah from any rabbinic teacher. And it is our fault that there are terrible situations which result in the daughters of our father Abraham remaining as widows with living husbands. And there is none to be gracious or kind to them, and they are left starving and thirsty and destitute. And we shall also be concerned lest they follow paths of immorality: Great poverty can lead one to such a path. Moreover, these women are young and active (and will not be able to wait with restraint.) Yet, if we want to follow the lenient decisions, the seriousness of the issue holds us back. Therefore, we have no alternative but to follow the path that was firmly established by our earliest rabbis—to follow the path of straight thinking even if it is against the consensus of the gedolim from whose waters we drink, as it is written in the Talmud, "It is sufficient to rely on (the minority opinion) of Rabbi X, even though it is not the accepted halakha. And it has already been stated at the end of B. Yevamot 122a, "We allow a woman to marry on the authority of an echo," i.e., that they were lenient with her because of her iggun, [enchainment].

Admittedly, this is a somewhat special halakhic category; but we may learn from it that in cases of what may be regarded as a form of necessity, we do have recourse to minority opinions. Indeed, there are numerous examples in rabbinic literature of recourse to the use of minority opinions, such, for example, R. Mosheh Feinstein, Igrot Mosheh, Orah Hayyim 4, sect. 66, idem, Orah Hayyim 2, sect. 18.

In view of the above it becomes clear that one is permitted to take a minority position in pesak. This is evident in the writings of the great Baghdadi posek, R. Yosef Hayyim (author of the famous Ben Ish Hai) in his introduction to his major responsa Shut Rav Poalim, vol. 1, Jerusalem 2001. For there, when analyzing the different kinds of responders (meshivim), he writes:

There is one who is nimble and effective in knocking on the doors of the books of all the responders, early and late ones, and even the latest, minor and major up to our times, even of authors who are still alive, and his intention is to search in order to see and understand the opinion of each and every scholar who was involved in the specific issue, and this is certainly an admirable approach. For one thing, because, if he finds an author who examined the issue in depth, and he agrees with his conclusion, then his ruling to the question posed before him and for which he has to give a practical solution, will not be his alone, but also on the basis of this other opinion, and he will not be a "lone judge,” (referring to the first Mishna in Sanhedrin, and cf. B. Sanhedrin 5a).

Clearly then, the posek who has examined numerous sources may legitimately rule in accordance with his own conclusions (see below Appendix 3 and see Shut ha-Rashba, vol. 1, no. 253, Jerusalem 1997, p. 108), but it is preferable that he couples his adjudication with yet another opinion, even if this be a minority position.

In my extensive study of this issue, in Darkah Shel Halakhah, I brought a variety of additional sources to support this contention.[2] Furthermore, in my Netivot Pesikah, Jerusalem 2008, pp. 32–35,[3] I discussed the status of sources discovered more recently that may have the effect of changing accepted halakhic practice, and the degree of legitimacy to making use of them in order to bring about such change. [4]

To the above we should now add the following related issue, namely that the fact that the majority hold a given opinion does not necessarily means that that opinion is truly the correct one, as is evident from the Mishna in Eduyot cited above. [5]

Thus some commentators ad loc. explain that the rejected opinion could become the correct halakhic approach. We already noted that this is the opinion of R. Menashe of Ilya, cited above.

Indeed, it could well be that both dissenting views are actually correct, as we have already pointed out above, and so we learn from B. Eruvin 13b and B. Gittin 6b that the views of Beit Shamai and Beit Hilllel actually were both correct. And there are kabbalistic statements that in the time of the Messiah the halakha will be according to Beit Shamai, and also that its dominant view on the form of the tefilin will be that of Rabbeinu Tam.

To the above we may add the remarks of R. Yisrael Zeev Gustman, in his Kuntresei Shiyurim to Kiddushin, Brooklyn 1970, 24/2, that only when there is an absolutely certain ruling is this binding, but where there is a difference of opinion between the authorities this is not an absolute ruling, and hence in a safek de-Rabbanan, in a point of uncertainty in an issue of rabbinic status, we rule leniently.[6]

We quote the very beautifully formulated statement of Isidore Twersky, in his Introduction to the Code of Maimonides (Mishneh Torah), New Haven and London 1980, in a section entitled "The Impossibility of Absolute Finality" (p. 139):

Many of these categories converge upon one overriding fact: Maimonides' realization that law has immanent uncertainties, that the legist regularly and unavoidably faces unimagined contingencies and new hesitations. Absolute finality is a utopian construct. Like the historical process or personal experience, law can never be purified of its mutations and individuality. A code is a rational construction which captures and freezes as much as possible of a fluid, unpredictable, sometimes recalcitrant reality, but there is always a fluctuating residuum which must be confronted openly and freshly. Maimonides was well aware of this and indicated it in various ways.

And on p. 142 he adds:

…. All his desires for finality, objectivity, and universality notwithstanding, Maimonides was sophisticated and realistic, sensitized by the very Rabbinic tradition which he was codifying. He knew that despite his major contribution to condensation and consolidation the vitality and effervescence of halakha could not be fully contained or compressed. The logic of law and the contingencies of life have always to be aligned. Halakha and reality are both multifaceted realities.

To the above we may add the view that even the rulings of R. Yosef Karo in his Shulhan Arukh, which are so widely accepted, at least in the Sephardic communities, are not accepted because they are "certainly correct,” but out of a level of uncertainty, or as formulated by R. Yaakov Hayyim Sofer, in his article "Hakhraot u-Piskei ha-Gaon Erech ha-Shulhan,” which appeared in Zekhor le-Avraham, ed. A. Berger, 1993, p. 233: “That we accepted the rulings of Maran [Yosef Karo] was not from certainty [that he is always correct] but only from doubt.”

This is also the position of R. Yosef Hayyim, in his Rav Poalim vol. 4, Yoreh Deah sect. 5 ad fin.; R. Ben Tziyyon Aba Shaul, Or Tziyyon, vol. 2, introduction sect. 1:2; R. Mosheh ha-Levi, Yosef Daat sect. 12:3; R. Hayyim David Kazan, Nediv Lev, vol. 2, Hoshen Mishpat sect. 63; R. Raphael Yosef Hazan, Hikrei Lev, vol. 1, Yoreh Deah sect. 127; R. Meir ….. , in his introduction to the Ben Ish Hai p. 12; perhaps also R. Ovadiah Yosef Yabia Omer vol. 9 no. 17:21, p…… , and no. 105, p. 225 sect. 3 ad fin., and many additional sources cited by R. Yaakov Hayyim Sofer, etc.

Admittedly, this view is not universally accepted, and is the subject of considerable controversy, such that other authorities claim the Shulhan Arukh's rulings are absolute, containing no uncertainty. To refute the above authors, see, e.g., R. Neriah Gafni, Magen Yosef, vol. 1, Jerusalem 2011, pp. 117–132, and R. Yitzhak Yosef, Ein Yitzhak vol. 3, Jerusalem 2009, pp. 95–99, for extensive polemic discussions upon the interpretation of a passage in his introduction to his Beit Yosef. Nonetheless the views of these great authorities cannot be summarily discarded.

Thus, in addition to all that has been stated above, there is an innate element of uncertainty in all aspects of halakha, and this element does not weaken it, but rather strengthens it by admitting of greater flexibility and resilience.[7]

Samuel Morell, in his Studies in the Judicial Methodology of Rabbi David Ibn Abi Zimra, New York, 2004, pp. 177–209, discusses ben Zimra’s unique way of ruling according to the "Middle Way,” and he summarizes his findings (ibid. p. 208) that:

The message of the "middle way" is that there is no substantive preference for one opinion over another.

Is this not what R. Yitzhak Colon (d. 1480) wrote in his Sheelot u-Teshuvot Maharik, Warsaw 1884, no. 163, p. 176:

In my humble opinion it would appear that wherever the Talmud notes that so and so, the ruling is like this, the talmudic authorities did not plumb the depths of each and every controversy, deciding that the halakha should be in accordance with him whom they stated to be the authoritative one, because it was not possible for the talmudic Sages to examine in depth every single difference of opinion of the Tannaim and Amoraim and to determine according to whom is the halakha in detail. Rather they followed the majority view, [especially] when they saw that a certain Tanna was sharper or more accepted than his fellow Sages. And so too with the Amoraim. And they relied on this approach to determine that the halakha be in accordance with this opinion, except in certain exceptional cases where they knew that the halakha is in accordance with the dissenting view. And the Sages of the Talmud had the authority to determine the halakha as they saw fit, and [saw their ruling] as beyond doubt. And this was the case until the period of Rav Ashi and Ravina, who end the period of horaah—decision-making. And in this way they determined the laws. And I have many proofs that this is the case, but I have no time at the present to elaborate on this…

So these rulings in accordance with the majority were for the most part pragmatic rather than minutely reasoned decisions.

On the other hand there may be a considerable danger in consistently taking the stringent path, as we have already indicated above. See, for example, the very harsh statement of the Radbaz, R. David ben Zimra, in his Responsa, part 4, no. 1368:

…But in any case if he wishes to take upon himself stringencies [he may do so], and he should close himself off in his own house, [but he should not do so for others], for [in so doing] he leads to conflicts, and to vain hatred, and the desecration of the Name, God forfend, and may the Good Lord pardon him, Amen.

Indeed, the superior status of leniency is a guiding principle in many of his rulings. So writes Israel M. Goldman, in his The Life and Times of Rabbi David Ibn Abi ben Zimra, New York, 1970, p. 23:

To those scholars who would pile on stringency upon stringency, he expressed himself in terms such as follows: "Leave our people Israel alone! It is enough for them if they are careful about that which the Torah has forbidden, and about that which the Rabbis have forbidden, and still you come along and add doubt upon doubt.” [Responsa of RDBZ vol.2, Venice 1749, no. 637]. Again, "I do not deem it necessary to add such stringencies for Israel which the earlier authorities have not instituted. Would that Israel would observe that which has already been placed upon them, for if you grasp for too much you may grasp nothing, with the result that nothing is left in the hand” [ibid. vol.1, no.163]. And in an impatient tone to one writer: "You come to create new forbidden foods out of your own head!” [ibid. no.145].

Goldman (ibid. pp. 23–24) continues to give some concrete examples of the Radbaz' approach. He writes:

To illustrate: A Jew was sick and it was deemed necessary to violate the Sabbath in his behalf. But because of his piety he refused to allow them to violate the Sabbath on his account. R. David, maintaining the traditionally humane Jewish views in such matters, calls this man "a pious fool who will have to give account for his life to God. The Torah taught 'You shall live by them' and not die by them [ibid. vol. 4, Livorno 1652, 67]. Even in a case where the doctor does not think it necessary to make a medicine which would cause a violation of the Sabbath but the patient feels that such a medicine will help him, R. David decides that the principle, "a man's own heart feels the bitterness of his soul the most," applies in such a case and the medicine should be procured, [ibid. 66]. Further, the great authorities differ on the point whether it is permitted to do anything for a sick person which would cause Sabbath violation if those things are not absolutely necessary. R. David clearly takes his stand with the words: "There is a difference of opinion on this among the legal authorities, but I am among the lenient interpreters" [ibid. 130]. In the same spirit, when a man was sick during the Passover week and he needed barley water as a medicine, R. David gives careful instructions how it can be prepared with the least possibility of leaven cereal being spread and adds: "I see fit to permit this for a sick man even if he is not in danger." Should a Jew who is in prison on the Sabbath and who has no food, be allowed to tell the jailer to buy and bring him food on the Sabbath? Or, shall he fast till the next day, since the prison is locked at night? R. David decides that it is permitted to send the jailer on the Sabbath day [ibid. vol.3, Fürth 1781, 576].

A more detailed analysis of Ben Zimra's halakhic approach and his tendency to leniency, (most especially in the case of Agunot, but not solely), may be found in Samuel Morell's Studies in the Judicial Methodology of Rabbi David Ibn Abi Zimra, New York, 2004, pp. 58–75, 87–90, 170–171.

Even harsher and more forceful against those "who put stringency upon stringency" are the words of R. Yaakov Emden (1697–1776) in his Sheilot Yaavetz vol. 2, Lemberg 1884, no.150 (fol. 48); where he rails against the Ashkenazic humrot, which he says are observed even more than biblical laws (gufei Torah), and which he claims leads to very serious errors in clearly prohibited laws, stating that he who prohibits the permitted in the end will permit the prohibited. He accuses them of blindness and having lost any sort of wisdom, making the insignificant essential, leading to great loss.

One could greatly multiply such statements, (see e.g., Maharatz Chajes to B. Niddah 34a, or responsa of the Mabit R. Mosheh Mi-Trani, vol. 3, sect. 68, Brooklyn 1961, 13ab, who wrote: "Do not be very pious (hassidim harbei) [for] it is sufficient for you [to accept] that which the Torah prohibited,” (cf. Y. Nedarim 9:1), i.e., you need not add new prohibitions), but the above should suffice to underscore the dangers of excessive stringencies. (And cf. above note 42.)

And here I would like to recall a wonderful story (that I cited in my On the Relationship of Mitzvot between Man and His Neighbor and Man and His Maker, Jerusalem, 2014, pp. 40–43) that R. Yehudah Leib Maimon records in his Toledot ha-Gra (Jerusalem: 1970, 7), concerning the rabbi of Frankfurt, R. Avraham-Abush, a contemporary of the Gaon of Vilna:

They relate that once the shohahtim (slaughterers) of Frankfurt came before him with a query concerning [the kashrut of] a lung, a matter on which the Rema and the rest of the Polish authorities ruled most stringently. The incident took place on the eve of a festival, and the matter was one which potentially involved a very considerable monetary loss for the impoverished slaughterer. The members of the Beit Din wished to rule stringently and declare the meat not kosher (in accordance with the view of the Rema), but R. Avraham-Abush began to search for ways of finding it kosher. The judges of the Beit Din insisted on their position that it is impossible to rule leniently against the view of the Rema and his colleagues, but R. Avraham-Abush argued with them, discussing the halakhic issues involved, and finally ruled that the meat was kosher. The members of the Beit Din were astonished, asking him: How could one possibly rule leniently declaring it kosher against the ruling of the Rema and the great authorities of Poland who held the same opinion?!

R. Avraham-Abush replied to them as follows: I prefer at the end of my days when I come [before the Heavenly Court] to argue my case with the Rema and his colleagues, rather than with this poor slaughterer. The slaughterer is a simple man, and it will be very difficult for me to argue my case with him before the Heavenly Court, if he brings me to court claiming that I declared his animal tareif, and that in doing so I caused him great monetary loss,[8] and that I damaged his business on the eve of the festival. But I am sure that when I lay out my arguments before the Rema and his colleagues, we will reach an agreement…

The logic in R. Avraham Abush's position is clarified in a similar tale told by Yaakov Rimon and Yosef Zundel Wasserman in the book, Shemuel be-Doro: R. Shemuel Salant z"l, Rabbah shel Yerushalayim 1841–1909, Hayyav u-Poalav, Tel-Aviv: 1961, 122–126:

Once upon a time some learned rabbis were arguing with him (R. Shemuel Salanter) on a case where he had ruled "kosher," and needless to say he refuted their counter-arguments. One of them turned to him and said to him: "You have refuted our arguments, but what will happen when you come before the Heavenly Court and have to argue with the Beit Yosef and the Rema?" He replied as follows: "Surely you will agree with me that it will be better for me to argue my case with them, since I believe that I understood in depth their opinion, rather than having a claim against me on the part of the ox [i.e., on the part of the owner of the ox] that I incorrectly declared tareif… [9]

Both these tales have a common denominator: namely that if the rabbi ruled incorrectly, declaring tareif meat kosher, he has sinned against God, and Yom ha-Kippur will atone for this sin. But should he have ruled kosher meat as tareif, he will have caused damage, hurt and monetary loss to the slaughterer, and this is a sin against his fellow-man for which Yom ha-Kippur does not automatically atone; and hence he preferred to err on the side of leniency rather than risk erring on the side of stringency.[10]

Indeed, much the same concept is to be found in a responsum of R. Eliezer Fleckles, Teshuvah me-Ahavah vol. 1, Prague 1806, no. 181. There we read:

He was wont to say to his disciples, "Go and see who is more severely punished: he who is overly stringent (she-lo ke-din) or he who is overly lenient. And you will understand that he who is overly stringent is more severely punished. For he who is overly lenient sins a sin between man and his Maker, and he will be repentant and be forgiven. But he who is overly stringent must appease his neighbour. And this is hinted at in the statement , 'Your donkey (hamorkha) is gone, Tarfon' (B. Sanhedrin 33a)—a double word-play on hamor- donkey, and humra- stringency,[11] for that is a hint at one who rules with excessive stringency and declares everything as forbidden [i.e., to be eaten]. See Rashi and Tosafot to tractate Beitzah 2b, (de-heteira) on the (koah de-heteira adif).

Let us further take note of the very explicit instructions formulated by the Shlah ha-Kadosh (R. Yishaya Horowitz, author of Shnei Luhot ha-Berit, Amsterdam 1698), and aimed at rabbinic decisors. He writes (ibid. 184b, in Masekhet Shevuot, ed. M. Katz, vol. 2, Haifa 2002, p. 266 nos. 89–91):

89: The goal of study is to study and to teach, to keep [the law] and carry it out. You, my children, may the Lord guard over you, if you are asked to give a ruling, and have the privilege to be decisors, take great care in your decisions, that you stumble not, God forfend… And before you give your judgment, make sure that the law is as clear as daylight in your heart, without any hint of uncertainty… And if there is any uncertainty, be not ashamed to discuss this with other students. Who was greater than Rav Huna, who when he had to rule in matters of tereifot (non-kosher foods), would gather others [to join in the decisions], so that 'each would carry a chip off the beam' (i.e., share the responsibility), (B. Sanhedrin 7b). [Cf. the Shlah's son, R. Sheftel's instruction in Hanhagot ha-Tzadikim, vol. 1, Jerusalem 1988, p. 109, no. 22.] And may the fear of God be in your hearts.

90: In any case, do not say, if that is the case, let us be stringent in most cases. For this is not called a (decision of a) decisor, to rule stringently for others not in accordance with the law, though he may do so for himself, should he so wish. And in Masekhet Berakhot in the first chapter (4a), it talks of the generation of King David, when their hands were soiled with foetus and placenta… in order to declare a wife pure to her husband. It does not say whether they wished to purify or declare impure; only that they toiled so much not to declare the pure to be completely certain impure, thus keeping them from the mitzvah of procreation. So the decisor is cautioned not to cause others to err, God forfend, but we should learn of the power of leniency. And this is the law in all rulings, even one for himself (i.e., when the decisor decides for himself), that the measure of piety is that he be stringent for himself, if there is place for stringency; but if there is not, but he merely wishes to take upon himself a stringent position because of his lack of knowledge, had he studied and gone more deeply into clarifying the issue, he would see that there is no place for stringency, and if he nonetheless rules stringently, he is a pious fool (hassid shoteh).

91: … But greater is he who toils [in his learning of] Torah, and studies until it is clear to him that it is permitted… Then, praise be he in this world… and it will be good for him in the world to come that he steeped himself in Torah….

I would like to add a further consideration: For there is a well-established rule in Jewish law, that we find formulated by the Shakh [Sifrei Cohen, by Shabtai Cohen, 1621–1663, he being a major commentator to a part of the Shulhan Arukh], in his Kitzur Hanhagot Issur ve-Heter 9, Yoreh Deah 245, thus, “Just as it is forbidden to permit that which is forbidden, so it is forbidden to forbid that which is permitted.”

This principle is already found reflected in the prayer of R. Nehuniah ben ha-Kanah (flor. Erets Yisrael c.80–110 CE), found in the Talmud (B. Berakhot 28b), where he expresses the hope that he will not err in his judgments: “That I do not declare the impure pure, neither the pure impure…”

See the parallel in Y. Terumot 5 ad fin., a statement of the 3 cent. C.E. R. [E]liezer; Y. Hagigah 1:8; Y. Sotah 8:2, cited in medieval sources such as, Semag Asin 111, Hagahot Maimoniyot, Mamrim 1:5. And see also Teshuvot Maimoniyot to Maakhalot Asurot 15, in the name of the Yerushalmi.

Cf. B. Berakhot 28b, and Rokeah sect.28 who wrote, "The sin of permitting things that are prohibited is just as the sin of prohibiting things that are permitted." And see further R. Ovadiah mi-Bertinoro to Avot 5:8, and Yitzhak Yosef, Shulhan ha-Maarekhet, vol.2, Jerusalem 2010, pp. 409–411. We may further recall the words of R. Dimi in the name of R. Yitzhak in Y. Nedarim 9:1, that the judges exhort him who took upon himself a prohibitive oath, saying, "Is it not sufficient for you that which the Torah prohibited, but that you wish to prohibit other things!" (See Barukh ha Levi Epstein, Barukh she-Amar to Avot, second ed, Tel Aviv 1905, pp. 72–73.) Of course, this principle also has its parameters, and the Rabbis frequently imposed prohibitions to distance and prevent people from sinning, le-afrishei me-Issura. However, this subject is beyond the scope of our present study.

This clearly places a great degree of responsibility upon the decisor, requiring him to examine most intensively any issue before declaring it prohibited. For it is always easier to say "No, it is forbidden,” than to say "Yes, it is permitted.” But the easy way is not the way of halakha, but rather one must attempt to reach a clarification of the truth. (See my Netivot Pesikah, Jerusalem 2009, pp. 173–176.)

There may be an exception to this rule in the case of a repentant who has to take upon himself additional stringencies in order to counteract his natural tendency to give in to his evil inclinations. For him, writes R. Yona Girondi, in his commentary to Avot 3, 16, that the "baalei teshuvah" should distance themselves from that which is permissible in the area in which he sinned….But this is a special situation. (See also his Shaarei Teshuvah 1:2, N. Rakover, Takanat ha-Shavim, Jerusalem 2007, p. 676.)

This principle is discussed in numerous rabbinic sources, and is the subject of an extensive responsum on the part of R. Menashe Klein, in his Mishne Halakhot vol. 5, Tel-Aviv 1973 no.104, pp. 150–153, and cf. idem, vol. 4, Brooklyn 1977, no. 105 p. 172, etc., and the many additional references collected by Lior Silber, in his Milei de-Hassiduta 2nd edition (n.d., but c. 2014) pass.

Furthermore, the Pithei Teshuva to Yoreh Deah 116:10, ad fin., cited the Solet le-Minhah (that is the Solet le-Minhah ve-Shemen le-Minhah, which is the second ed. Of R. Yaakov Reischer's Minhat Yaakov, Dessau 1696) , Kelal 76, Din 8, that "one who is stringent in those laws where there was no stringency mentioned among the Amoraim (such as 'annulment in sixty', (bitul be-Shishim) or a "secondary vessel,” (keli sheni) is, as it were, practicing epikorsut, heresy, and there is no benefit in his action only loss…."

We may add the observation of Zvi Zohar, in his Heiru Penei ha-Mizrah: Halakha
ve-Hagut etzel Hakhmei Yisrael ba-Mizrah ha-Tikhon,Tel-Aviv 2001, p. 343, that R. Ovadia Yosef stresses the preference for leniency in pesak, wherever it is possible. And (ibid. pp. 79–80 note 79) he notes that this principle is explicitly spelled out in R. Yosef's article "Mishnato shel Yisa Berakhah,” Shevet Ve-Am, second series 1/6, 1971, pp. 95–103. He further points out that in R. Yosef's volumes of responsa, Yabia Omer and Yehaveh Daat, the phrase Koha de-heteira appears 118 times (!), giving a sampling of references.

The great burden of responsibility upon the decisor, that we mentioned above, is very revealingly reflected in a passage by Rav Avraham Yitzhak ha-Cohen Kook, which with singular clarity expresses his personal concern as to when to rule stringently and when leniently, and what are the implications of the two alternatives:

…For I know clearly the nature of the people of our generation, that it is just when they see that we permit all that is permissible according to the depth of the law, they will understand that whatever we do not permit is because this is the true law of the Torah. Consequently the masses will follow the rulings of halakhic decisors—which is not the case if it becomes evident that there are things which, from the point of view of the halakha, are permitted, and the Rabbis, neglecting to taking note of the troubles and distresses of Israel, leave the situation as prohibited. For then, the result, God forbid, will be to bring about a great desecration of God's name, (Orah Mishpat, Jaffa 1985, sect. 112, fol. 126b), and cf. Mishpat Cohen no.76). [12]

It is precisely this kind of concern that demands the careful pursuit of halakhic clarification and determination. [13]

[1] See on this whole subject the comprehensive and penetrating analytical study of Avi Sagi, in his The Open Canon: On the Meaning of Halakhic Discourse, New York 2007, pass.; Eliezer Berkovitz, Not in Heaven: The Nature and Function of Halakha, New York 1983, pp. 50–53. See further Yitzhak Yosef, Maarekhet ha-Shulhan vol. 2, Jerusalem 2010, on the rationale for ruling according to a minority opinion where there is great loss—hefsed merubeh, or in special circumstances—shaat ha-dehak, and ibid. p. 642, as to whether the rulings in the Shulhan Arukh are final and certain or remain in the area of uncertainty—mi-koah safek, (citing as examples, Hayyim David Hazan, Responsa Nediv Lev, Salonica-Jerusalem 1862–1866, Hoshen Mishpat sect.50, and his father Rephael Yosef Hazan, in his Hikrei Lev vol. 3, Salonica 1787, Yoreh Deah sect.127, and others). See further Hanina Ben Menahem, Judicial Deviation in Talmudic Law: Governed by Men, not by Rules, London Paris etc. 1991, pp. 158–165, on using minority views, and pp. 173–182, on horaat shah.

[2] And see also ibid. pp. 104–109. See also above note 109. And here we may add the following references: R. Ovadiah Yosef, Yabia Omer vol. 10, Jerusalem 2004, Yoreh Deah sect. 43; R. Meir Sigron, Or Torah 44/2 (532). 2012, pp. 153–156; Meiri to Sanhedrin 32b, p. 144, that one should always try to find compromise and rule mercifully, i.e., leniently; Y. Porat, in Or ha-Mizrach 12/1, 540 1963, pp. 6, 8, on R. Naftali Tzvi Berlin's (Netziv) position on relying on alternative positions which are more lenient, etc.
[3] And see also my discussion in my Legitimacy and Necessity: Scientific Disciplines and the Learning of Talmud, Jerusalem 2006, pp. 23–25, and also pp. 60–63. On the Rema's use of minority opinions, see Asher Ziv, Rabbenu Mosheh Isserles (Rema), New York 1972, pp. 109–110.
[4] Here I may add that the standard rule is that when there is a difference of opinion between an earlier and a later authority, we usually follow the later one, for even though he may be a lesser scholar, he is, as it were, a dwarf on the shoulders of a giant, who has a broader horizon. (On this phrase, see Shmuel Ashkenazi, Alfa Beta Kadmaita de-Shmuel Zeira, Jerusalem 2000, pp. 322–327.) The Meiri was intimately acquainted with the Rambam's writings, but still took an independent position. (See on this principle of Halakha ke-Batrai, in my Darkah shel Halakha, Jerusalem 2007, p. 9, and most recently the remarks of R. Yaakov Hayyim Sofer, in Or Israel 17/1 (63), 2011, pp. 240–242, where he also brings a variety of sources proving that one follows the later authority, even when he is single opinion against many. He also draws the parameters within which this rule may be applied.) See above note 67.

On the very important issue of how we act or react when discovering new sources (or readings) that were unknown to earlier posekim and might change the halakha, I wrote extensively in my Legitimacy and Necessity: Scientific Disciplines and the Learning of Talmud, Jerusalem 2006, pp. 22–25, 58–63, and again in my Netivot Pesikah, Jerusalem 2008, pp. 31–41. We showed there that the Hazon Ish believed that "new data" cannot change established halakha. (See S. Leiman, Tradition 19, 1981, pp. 301–310, for a full discussion of the Hazon Ish's view see further S.Z. Havlin, Ha-Maayan 8:2, 1968, pp. 35–37; M. Bleich, Tradition 27, 1993, pp. 22–55; Y. Tzvi Halevi Lehrer, Tzefunot 16, 1992, pp. 68–73; S. Spiegel, Amudim be-Toledot ha-Sefer ha-Ivri: Hagahot u-Megihim , Ramat-Gan 1993, pp. 495, 508–513, and finally, Benjamin Brown, Ha-Hazon Ish, Jerusalem 2001, pp. 392–395.)

In his opinion information that was not known to the Beit-Yosef, for instance, such as that found in the Meiri, was hidden from him by divine providence, so that the halakha be crystallized as is was. The later discovery of the Meiri cannot change that crystallized halakha of the Beit-Yosef.
A similar view is voiced by R. Aharon David Deitsch (cited in the introduction to Y.N. Stern's edition of Hiddushei ha-Hatam Sofer al Sugyot ve-Perek Shevuat ha-Edut, 1929) in the name of the Hatam Sofer as follows:
I heard from our good teacher the author of the Hatam Sofer z"l, who said of himself that when a question comes before him, he reads the question before he examines it in depth, for he has to concentrate his thought so that he only wishes to respond to his questioner, [reading] the truth before Him that gives the Torah, be He blessed. And afterwards, that which occurs to him to reply, he regards as the truth. [And] even if later the questioner raises a difficulty from a gemara or the posekim, one that had he remembered at the time of writing [his response], he would have changed his ruling, and would not have bothered to justify his [earlier] opinion and ruling; even so, since the Holy One blessed be He in the first instance hid this [data] from him, and he was certain of himself that he had searched for the truth, he would put his mind to justifying his first opinion and legitimate it through a deep analysis. [My emphasis]

See Maoz Kahana's M.A. thesis, Hebrew University Jerusalem 2004, p. 107, where he brings further evidence that this indeed was the Hatam Sofer's position, referring us to his responsum, Evan ha-Ezer vol. 2, no.102, from 1809, (which in turn refers to R. Yonatan Eibeschutz' Urim ve-Tumim, Jerusalem 1977, sect.125).

However, we showed that the Rema to Hoshen Mishpat 25:2, wrote:
But if at times there is a responsum of a Gaon which was not mentioned in the books, and we find them (later on) differing from him, we do not have to follow the later authorities, because it is possible that they did not know the view of the Gaon, and had they known it they would have withdrawn their view (Maharik, sect.94).

So too he writes in his responsum no.19 (ed. A. Ziv, Jerusalem 1971, p. 128) concerning minhagim (customs):
But in a place where something was innovated and this was unknown to the earlier authorities… it is certainly the case that it is permitted to enact new enactments… for we can presume that the early authorities would not have make their enactment in such a situation.

And, indeed, this is the majority view, see Kenesset ha-Gedolah to Yoreh Deah 37, Beit Yosef, no.50, 149. See further on this matter, R. Yaakov Hayyim Sofer, Beit Ya'akov (Jerusalem, 1985), p. 19, n.5, 52–53; and his Tiferet Yitzhak (Jerusalem, 1981), pp. 46, 115, and his copious references in his Hadar Yaakov, vol. 6, Jerusalem 2006, pp. 195–197, etc. Hence, discoveries of new early texts of Geonim and Rishonim should certainly be taken into account. A case in point is the Meiri, who was only recently fully discovered, and in whose writings we find numerous pesakim of relevance to our day. (See Beit Ya'akov, p. 52, n.17.) See eg. R. Ovadiah Yosef, Yabia Omer, vol. 4, Orah Hayyim 24:11, who writes that "had the Aharonim, who ruled stringently [on a certain issue] known the words of Meiri (to Rosh ha-Shanah 28b), who plainly holds the opposite view, they would certainly have abandoned their own conclusions in favor of his" (p. 103). And so too in vol. 4, Orah Hayyim 5:1, he writes, "and had the aforementioned Aharonim seen the responsum of R. Abraham son of the Rambam, they would surely not have differed from him" (p. 48). See further his introduction to his volume 5.
A further aspect of this issue may perhaps be seen in the frequently found argument that one does not have to follow a specific early authority because he did not yet know the Zohar, which was only revealed after his time. See, for example, Lewy, Minhag Yisrael Torah,pp.107, 132, etc. See also, other outstanding halakhic sources, such as the response of the Maharam (Rabbi Meir b. Barukh) of Rothenberg, (see, for example, R. Josef Katz, She'erit Yosef, ed. Ziv,(New York, 1984), sec.62, p. 149, etc). The argument is, of course, that had they had known the Zohar, they would have ruled in accordance with it. And the same argument is applied to the rulings of the Ari. Thus, for example, R. Yitzhak Barda (Responsa Yitzhak Yeranen, vol. 3, sec.13) writes, "had the Poskim known what the Ari knew, they would have reversed their opinions." So too, the Hida writes (Birkei Yosef, Orah Hayyim, 421: 1, etc.), "We follow him (the Ari) often even when he rules contrary to Maran (=R. Yosef Karo). For the rabbis maintained (kim le-hu Rabanan), that had Maran heard the words of the Ari, he would have chaged his mind." (See M. Hallamish, Kabbalah in Liturgy, Halakha and Customs [Ramat-Gan, 2000], chapter 5, p. 117–145 [Hebrew].)

We could add many additional sources to bear out our contention, but let us suffice with just one more example, a responsum of the Avnei Nezer, of R. Avraham Bornstein of Sochotchov, Orah Hayyim 362:
And it is known that the second part of the letter was published in our time [Lvov 1860], and in the time of R. Meir of Lublin (16 cent.) and the Magen Avraham (17 cent.), it was not published, and (hence) his words gain no mention. And it is possible that had they known of it they would have changed their opinion, since in an issue of rabbinic status (mi-derabanan) it is advisable to take the lenient position.
Furthermore, see R. Ovadiah Yosef, Halikhot Olam vo.6, Jerusalem 2001, p. 226, where he argues that in a case where the Beit Yosef for some reason was unaware of a Yerushalmi text and a whole range of Rishonim ruled in accordance with that text, had the Beit Yosef been aware of all this material, he surely would have ruled differently. He brings a number of authorities who hold this position (the Hida in his Shut Hayyim Shaal vol. 1, sect.56; idem, Yosef Ometz sect. 80 ad fin.; R. Yehudah Ayash, Shut Benei Yehudah, vol. 2, sect.124, fol. 202.b, etc.). I have been somewhat terse here, and even so have been overly extensive. For this subject requires a full examination in its own right.
[5] See Yitzhak Namni and Tzvi Idles, Samhuyot ha-Rov be-Halakha, Kiryat Arba 2002, p. 16, following on a statement by R. Shimon Shkop, Shaarei Yosher, Shaar 3, chapter 1. In fact, in many cases the Talmud does not adopt the majority view. See Paul Heger, The Pluralistic Halakkah: Legal Innovations in the Late Second Temple and Rabbinic Periods, New York 2003, pp. 187–200, in a section entitled " Preference for Individual Opinion."
[6] See most recently R. Elhanan Wasserman, Kuntres Divrei Sofrim, ed. Daat Sofrim, 2014, p. 78 note 85.
[7] Compare R. Menasheh of Ilya's notion of "relativism in the Talmud" and "The Supressed Minority,” on which see Yitzhak Barzilay, Manasseh of Ilya: Precursor of Modernity Among the Jews of Eastern Europe, Jerusalem 1999, pp. 98–113.
[8] On this halakhic concept, see what I wrote in Darkah shel Halakha (Jerusalem: 2007, 117–118, 140–141, 175–177); Minhagei Yisrael, vol. 3 (Jerusalem: 1994, 53–54); idem vol. 8 (Jerusalem: 2007, 263); Encyclopedia Talmudit, vol. 10 (Jerusalem: 1961, 32–41).

Bension Cohen of New York (in an internet communication from Sept. 15, 2010) would wish that there be here an amplified explanation of R. Avraham-Abush's ruling so that it be more clearly understood. He would interpret it as follows:
….. both the slaughterer and the Rabbi were caring for the poor, they were concerned about Mitzvot she-Bein Adam le-Havero as well as the Mitzvot Bein Adam la-Makom. The lung is one of the least desirable organs for a butcher, generally sold to the poor. The strict rendition of treifa, the slaughterer argued, would make all the poor who rely on this meat not to have the ability to celebrate the holiday with a little meat, causing the poor unnecessary anguish, before Yom Tov. Therefore, … the Rabbi who recognized the potential anguish, of the poor not having cheap meat for Yom Tov as well as the greater monetary loss required of them to purchase clearer portions of the meat, rendered a lenient pesak predicated on the shitah…. Presented in this… (chapter). There is a double consideration of Kevod ha-Kelal and the recognition of the Tzaar. The explanation presented… while very lofty presents an argument made by a true Gadol.

My thanks to Mr. Cohen for this insightful amplification, which is certainly much clearer and more forceful than a mere reference to the concept of hefsed merubeh, which might lead one to the erroneously simplistic conclusion that when it comes to money the Rabbis are ready to be lenient, (as Cohen writes, warning us against such an understanding). This is, indeed, partially true, but requires a detailed understanding of the concept of hefsed merubeh, for which reason I gave some basic references.

Here we may add that there is a general misconception that it is easier to rule stringently—le-humra, thus avoiding the dangers of permitting the forbidden. However, the Rosh, in his response, Klal Bet, sect.17 ad fin., writes, "and he who rules forbidding something must bring clear and strong evidence, for the Torah was concerned for the property of Israel. Further details may be found in R. Yitzhak Yosef's Ein Yitzhak, vol. 3 (Jerusalem: 2009, 298–306, 596).
A different approach to a similar situation is told of R. Yosef Dov Soloveitchik. It was his way to be extremely stringent in cases of kashrut for himself. But when it came to others, he feared to mistakenly declare something not kosher, thus causing damage and as it were stealing other people's property. On one occasion, he felt he had no alternative but to declare some meat non-kosher, "even though according to the Shach it is kosher, I may not cause you monetary loss and be considered a thief according to the view of the Shach." There and then, on the spot he took from his purse the value of the animal and gave it to the butcher, (A. Tobolsky, Hizaharu be-Mamon Haverchem [Bnei Brak: 1981], 249).
[9] On the Relationship between man and his Maker etc., ibid.
[10] See my discussion in Darkah Shel Torah, 140–141. Here we may add the following story brought by Meir Tamari in his Al Chet: Sins in the Marketplace (Northvale, N.J. and London: 1996, 24):
A shohet, "ritual slaughterer," once came to the Chafetz Chaim fo advice, saying, "The laws of shehitah are so many and difficult I am afraid that I may sin and cause others to sin through an infringement of them. I think I will go into business." The Chafetz Chaim's reply was simple and direct: "If your major concern is the safety of your soul, you should remain a shohet. The laws of the marketplace and of money are far more numerous and onerous, while God, your partner, is an ever-present witness and judge to any deviations."

We find much the same idea reflected in the Netziv (R. Naftali Zvi Yehudah Berlin), in his Haamek Davar to Genesis 20:7, "[Now therefore restore the man his wife; for he is a prophet], and he shall pray for thee, and thou shalt live":

According to what we have explained… that the sin was that [Avimelech] caused grief to our forefather Abraham, surely he only needed to appease him, and there was no need for prayer. However, from here we may learn that one who sins against his neighbor also sins against God, and it is not sufficient to appease one's neighbor alone. One must also beg forgiveness from God. And for this reason he needed Abraham's prayer, in order to be completely expiated.

[11] To understand this "hint,” we must see it in its fuller context as recorded in B. Sanhedrin ibid. There we are told that:
…Once a cow whose uterus was missing [was brought before] R. Tarfon who fed it to dogs, (because he regarded it as not kosher). And the case was brought before the Sages at Yavneh and they declared it Kosher… Said R. Tarfon, "Your donkey has gone, Tarfon.” Rashi explains: Namely, I must sell my donkey in order to repay the loss of the cow to its owners.

There may also be a word-play on Tarfon-Tareif.
See continuation of the text, where R. Akiva confronts him that he does not have to pay for the "damage" he did.
[12] On which B. Gelman, in his article in Milin Havivin 3, 2007, p. 90, comments:

Rabbi Kook realized that permissive rulings, when appropriate, increase the public's trust in rabbinic leadership, and with increased trust will come increased levels of observance from a trusting public. Conversely, needless, stringent rulings can lead to distrust, less observance, and a breakdown in rabbinic authority. While Rabbi Kook issued these warnings regarding Passover stringencies, his words can easily and appropriately be applied to other areas of halakha as well.

[13] Finally, we should also take account of the statement in Y. Berakhot 2 ad fin., and Y. Shabbat 1:1, that one who is exempt from something and nonetheless does it is an ignorant person (hediot). I discussed this principle at length in my On the Relationship of Mitzvot Between Man and His Neighbor and Man and His Maker, Jerusalem New York 2014, chapter 10, pp. 69–78, which needs no repetition here. I would only add a reference to R. Yosef Zechariah Stern, Zekher Yehosef vol. 1, Jerusalem 2014, sect.67, pp. 318–320, who, in his usual fashion, gives plentiful pertinent references to the discussion.

The Jewish Ideas Campus Fellowship Spring Semester has begun! We are happy to welcome three new fellows joining us this month. From New York University fellow Danielle Panitch, from University of Texas Elan Kogutt and from Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, Eli Yoggev. Each brings a unique brand of Modern Orthodoxy and we wish them success in their important work.

Before mentioning some of our plans for this semester we have to take a second to look back on the wide range of ways our students expanded the influence of Modern Orthodoxy for their fellow students. Our biggest event was the Shabbaton in the Boston/Cambridge area with special thanks to the Rabbi Arthur A. Jacobovitz Institute. Students also heard from Rabbis Chaim Rapaport and Rabbi Menachem Leibtag at Brandeis University and Queens College respectively. We had various classes, chaburahs and coffee shop discussions and classes ranging from the nature of God to Feminism to the Age of the Universe and the Future of Jewish Education.

Coming up in February we have a few great events already planned

Feb 3-Rabbi Aryeh Klapper will speak at the University of Massachusetts
Feb 8- Rivka Hia and Sarah Robinson will lead a Jewish identity discussion at Stern College
Feb 20-There will be a Pluralism discussion at the University of Texas
Feb 20-University of Maryland will host a Modern Orthodox PartnerUp session

If you would like more information about these programs and updates about others, please email me at [email protected]. University students are encouraged to register for our University Network. It is a free service to students. More information and registration details are available on the bottom right of our homepage at jewishideas.org

In recent years, there has been an attempt in some circles to introduce various aspects of academic Talmud study into the world of the traditional study of Gemara. Not surprisingly, there has been at times vociferous opposition to the introduction of this material. It is worth briefly reviewing some of the academic methodologies and their potential positive contribution to the denizens of the traditional Bet Midrash. We will also consider some of the objections to the introduction of such methodologies, as well as possible responses to those objections.

Three things might commonly differentiate the study of Gemara in the Bet Midrash and the study of Talmud in the academy:

1) The goal of study
2) The attitude toward the authority of the text and the Sages therein
3) The methodologies employed

1. The Goal of Study

Putting aside the question of what might stimulate the academician’s interest in the text in the first place, the academician is typically interested in the text either as a body of literature worthy of study as such, or for its value as a primary source that sheds light on the history or sociology of the context from which the text emerged—the Babylonian Jewish community of the middle of the first millennium CE. The student in the Bet Midrash, however, is generally interested in the text as a foundation for normative halakhic practice and moral instruction; the text is not only the vestige of a bygone era or primary source for the history of the Classical period, but one very much relevant to day-to-day life.

2. Attitudes

The academician does not necessarily regard the text with reverence. It is not different in its inherent value from any other text from any particular period. The academician does not (again, necessarily) have reverence for the Sages of the Talmud—either as people or as moral guides for his or her life. The traditional student however, regards the text as sacred, and the Sages are major figures in terms of the masorah—the chain of Jewish tradition going back to Sinai. While one can acknowledge that the Sages were human in every sense of the word, the student of the Bet Midrash holds these individuals in the highest of esteem and is reluctant, if not completely unwilling, to cast aspersions upon them or attribute ulterior motivations to their rulings.

3. Methodologies
The academician and the student in the Bet Midrash have different interests, and their methodologies typically reflect those varied concerns. The academician who is interested in history will typically be more interested in historical background, in determining what is fact and what is legend, and in understanding the realia—both physical and cultural—implied in various talmudic passages. And certainly, the history of interpretation of the talmudic text in subsequent eras is generally of little interest, as it does not necessarily reflect on anything about the original context of the Talmud. The student in the Bet Midrash, on the other hand, is more likely to be interested in concepts and values that can be extrapolated from the text and that will be relevant in life; there is a great deal of emphasis on the subsequent interpretation of the Talmud found in the rishonim and aharonim.

Of course, there is frequently a great deal of overlap between the interests of the two individuals. Certainly, the historian will be interested in concepts and values expressed in the texts—at least for the purposes of intellectual history. And the student in the Bet Midrash certainly will (or should) want to understand the talmudic realia so as to able to properly extrapolate to contemporary circumstances. Nonetheless, the differences between the interests of the two are usually fairly obvious. The academician is more likely to be interested in what Rava ate, whereas the student of the Bet Midrash is more likely to be interested in what blessing he recited over the food.

In discussing the relevance of academic talmudic study to the Bet Midrash, it should be obvious that it is only the third area (i.e., that of methodology) that is of interest to me here. Clearly, a student of the Bet Midrash should not have any less reverence for the Sages due to new methodologies in the study of Torah, nor should the broader agenda be any different—even with new methods, one is still interested in bringing the Talmud into life as a religious and spiritual force.

It should also be noted that in the spirit of King Solomon’s observation that there is nothing new under the sun, there is very little truly new in academic Talmud study. That is to say, virtually every tool in the academician’s toolbox was already employed at times by the rishonim. [1] The difference, however, is one of priority or emphasis. While an academician may be focused on splitting the Talmud apart into its historical layers as a matter of course, the rishonim who employ such a methodology do so sporadically, and only because textual problems or difficulties in the sugya, both internal and external, have forced them to do so.

What follows are a number of differences in methodology that typically (or sometimes stereotypically) distinguish between the interests of the academy and that of the Bet Midrash. The list is not meant to be comprehensive, but will focus on those methodologies that are of greatest relevance to the student in the Bet Midrash and often enhance the study of Torah.

1. Girsaot

The question of ascertaining the correct text, logically speaking, is equally relevant to the academic scholar and the talmid hakham. However, both because of the relative difficulty of access to other textual witnesses, as well as the effect of the printed text (especially the Vilna shas) in leaving some with the impression of its fixed and unchanging nature, most students in the Bet Midrash are either unaware of questions of textual accuracy, or not terribly interested. Recent printings of the Talmud have started to bring some of these textual variants in the margins, and the dikdukei soferim has been available for almost a century and a half. Nonetheless, these issues are usually not on the minds of most students in the Bet Midrash. In truth, most of the significant textual variants have already been mined and noted by the rishonim and aharonim—they frequently serve as the basis of dispute between earlier authorities. Certainly there are cases where awareness of alternate texts will solve problems that arise for the student in the Bet Midrash, but most of the unnoted variants are probably more relevant for issues of language and scribal practices.

2. Texts of Interest

Academicians are often interested in a broader set of rabbinic texts than the typical member of the Bet Midrash. Study in the Bet Midrash, in most cases, focuses (or at least until recently has focused) primarily on the Talmud Bavli. To the academician, the other bodies of rabbinic literature often offer alternative perspectives on the same issues, or may hint to the historical development of ideas found in the Bavli. Of course, this interest is not fundamentally new. The eighteenth and nineteenth centuries witnessed a resurgence in interest in the Talmud Yerushalmi as well as the various collections of rabbinic Midrashim. Both of these bodies of literature have been the subjects of many commentaries, especially in the last two to three centuries. Much of this literature was known to the rishonim, and certainly was the subject of study, but very little in the way of commentaries (to the extent that they were even composed) have survived, perhaps a reflection of the peripheral nature of those texts with respect to study in the Bet Midrash.[2] (That peripheral nature of the texts is also indicated by the tendency to harmonize those texts with the Bavli—which generally entails both reading the Bavli’s presentation of ideas into those texts, and reflexively leveling the actual texts themselves to match the parallels found in the Bavli.) There is little doubt, however, that reintroduction of other works of rabbinic literature has served to broaden the horizons of the Bet Midrash and enrich the study of Torah.

3. Layers

One of the major tools of the academician is the parsing of the text into historical layers. In particular, there is an assertion (correct on the whole) that a differentiation can be drawn in the Bavli between the Amoraic layer, or the meimra, and the anonymous material in the Talmud, which usually reflects a later editorial or redactional stage of interpretation. The significance of this assertion is that it raises the possibility that while the anonymous editorial layer of the text offers one understanding of an Amoraic statement, an alternative possible understanding of the statement may exist. (Sometimes this alternative is actually found in the Yerushalmi, or in another sugya in the Bavli.)

This is perhaps the most controversial aspect of academic Talmud study—the assertion that the understanding of the anonymous layer of the Talmud may not reflect the only possible meaning, or perhaps even the original meaning. This possibility presents two kinds of religious problems—the theological and the pragmatic. Theologically speaking, how do we have the audacity to claim greater understanding of what an amora said than the later (anonymous) sages who compiled the Bavli? Pragmatically speaking, what does this mean for normative purposes? If one asserts that the amora meant something different from the explanation offered by the Talmud, what would that imply for contemporary practices?

In truth, neither problem need be regarded as particularly compelling. On the pragmatic level, the impact on halakha is non-existent; legal systems generally do not burrow back into the past to travel paths not taken. Once the law has taken a certain course, it continues on that path. Put differently, we pasken not based upon the rulings of the amoraim but rather by how they were understood and implemented by the redactors of the Bavli, the Mesadrei haShas.

Regarding the question of how we might possess a greater understanding of the words of the amoraim, two points should be considered. First, frequently the editors understood everything that we understand, but may have been taking into account other factors and information in their interpretation (or perhaps better, reinterpretation), including other contradictory texts and alternative versions. Second, we usually have insight into alternatives only because we have information that wasn’t necessarily in front of an individual editor—i.e., we possess either other sugyot in the Bavli, or parallels in the Yerushalmi. The analogue would be to the famous medieval aphorism, “pygmies on the shoulders of giants.” It is also worth noting that instances in which one can assert with any degree of certitude that an interpretation other than the one offered by the editors is more correct are rare—in most cases one can, at best, only speculate.

Most significant, however, is that this methodology was not invented by modern scholars. The Ba`alei HaTosafot in numerous places in their commentary note the distinction between what the amoraim said, and how the Gemara (or a particular Gemara) interpreted their words. Tosafot in a number of places [3] observe that the solution to a contradiction between two sugyot that cite an amoraic statement differently is to distinguish between what the amora actually said and how the Gemara in each place (immediately following the amora’s words, which often looks as if it is actually the end of his statement, rather than an explanation of it[4] ) understands his statement. The actual statements are identical, but the differing explanations reflect a debate between the two sugyot in how to understand the amora.

4. Realia

Understanding the historical and cultural context in which the Bavli was composed is of great interest to academicians, both in terms of the history itself and because it may shed light on the meaning of some texts. The tendency in most contemporary Batei Midrash is to be much more interested in concepts and theory than in any realia. (In its extreme form, consider those who study the laws of shehitah while never having seen a living cow.) Of course, many situations demand an understanding of realia in order to make heads or tails of various statements. Obviously, one cannot understand the passages in Shabbat that deal with weaving or knots without understanding how a loom (from the talmudic era) worked or what sailors knots look like.

But sometimes, lack of appreciation of realia stems from being unaware of how different their world was from ours. Takes for example the practice of vatikin, those who begin shaharit at sunrise, of which the Talmud speaks glowingly. Most contemporary students of Talmud assume that the greatness of those who pray with the sunrise is the fact that they awaken so early in the day. However, such an interpretation is almost certainly incorrect. In the preindustrial world, people generally went to bed shortly after dark and usually woke up well before sunrise.[5] Most people were already at work in the fields by the time the sun rose. (In light of this point we understand the Mishnah in Berakhot [2:4] that speak of workers reading the shema and praying while up on a scaffold or in a tree.) If anything, the greatness of those who prayed with the sunrise was that they delayed going to work until they could say the Shema and pray at the ideal time. Alternatively, one might consider the greatness of vatikin as having the good fortune to be able to time one’s Shema to come out at sunrise—recall that they had no means of telling time the way we do today as there were no watches or clocks. Thus, when attainable, a greater awareness of the realia of the talmudic era is not merely an enhancement of traditional study, but also a sine qua non for a correct understanding of many passages.

Conclusion

Undoubtedly, the bread and butter of study in the Bet Midrash remains the havayot of Abaye and Rava. Whether the study be for the purpose of ascertaining the halakha, or for a more theoretical clarification of talmudic concepts, the traditional approach still will occupy the bulk of the student’s labor. Nonetheless, there are many occasions where methodologies, whose roots are in traditional talmudic interpretation but which have been adopted as the primary tools in the Academy, can prove quite useful in traditional Talmud study. Sometimes they address issues not raised by the traditional commentaries, and on other occasions they offer alternative possibilities to solving problems raised by those commentaries. The question of approach need not be an either/or proposition; new methodologies can supplement the old, without supplanting them. Adopting additional methods serves to enrich our understanding of the Talmud and expand the vistas of students of Torah. When utilized properly by those who dwell in the Bet Midrash, and who possess the appropriate reverence for Hazal and respect for talmudic authority, these tools serve to illuminate and to glorify Torah.

[1] The only obvious exception that comes to mind is the use of literary analysis in the study of aggadah in particular.
[2] This is true not only for the commentaries, but for the texts themselves. The Talmud Yerushalmi survives, more or less, in one manuscript (ms. Leiden). Any chapter in the Yerushalmi not preserved in that manuscript (e.g., the last three chapters of Y. Shabbat, the third chapter of Y. Makkot and the last seven chapters of Y. Niddah) are completely lost to us. Similarly, the Tosefta survives in one complete manuscript (ms. Vienna) and one that covers just beyond the first four orders (ms. Erfurt).
[3] Bava Batra 176a s.v.goveh, Bava Metzi`a 112a s.v. ’uman, Shabbat 10b s.v. sha’ni. Also note the textual instincts of Tosafot Shabbat 4a s.v. de’amrinan.
[4] Usually the simplest way to distinguish is that the meimra is usually in Hebrew whereas the explanation is typically in Aramaic.
[5] For an extensive treatment of night and sleep patterns in the pre-industrial world, see Roger A. Ekirch, At Day’s Close: Night in Times Past, 2005.

June 26th, 2015, marked the triumph of the LGBT community over political detractors in a drawn-out battle for social liberty. This victory was ushered in by what is arguably one of the most consequential decisions of social reform since the Civil Rights Act of 1964. On June 26, 2015, the Supreme Court ruled in favor of the Constitutional right to same-sex marriage. As a 23-year-old observant Jew living in the United States, this ruling has deep ideological implications. A profound paradigmatic conflict has risen to the surface. Torn between two opposing philosophical perspectives, I have become the generational victim of a cognitive dissonance that I cannot simply slough off, and in the absence of an existential ecdysis, I am forced to confront the discord of my beliefs.

As a member of the global community, I support the inherent human right of two consenting adults to concretize a union based on mutual love, unfettered by restrictions imposed by political, legislative, or religious institutions. However, as a member of the observant Jewish community, I fundamentally believe in the restriction of this union, purely on the basis of my acceptance of the didactic value of the Torah. I suspect I am not alone in experiencing this clash of cultural perspectives. This is a dilemma that affects many individuals in the Jewish community; individuals who are caught at the cusp of two conflicting moral codes; one delivered from the firm hands of tradition, and the other by the soft voice of modern culture. This dissonance is by no means a novel phenomenon. In fact, it is a struggle that we as Jews have historically faced throughout the millennia. It involves the challenge of finding equilibrium between modernity and tradition, between progressivism and halakha.

The very perpetuity of this challenge is a testament to our inability to fully and finally address it. Can the observant Jewish community once and for all reconcile modern-day values with its traditional moral standards? How can we, as a constantly evolving Jewish nation, synthesize the immutable words of our sages with the unrelenting force of social reform? In recent years, it seems the chasm between conventional religious wisdom and modern ideology has expanded into a yawning crevasse. This makes the effort to justify traditional Torah values in an ever-changing Western society increasingly difficult. Now, more than ever, it is important that we hold our beliefs at arm’s length and assess them with all the intellectual honesty and objectivity that our age-old value system deserves.

The rift between modern-day values and traditional Jewish beliefs might be far greater than we tend to think. The problem is exemplified by a certain mentality that many modern Jews have adopted. This “pseudo-modernist” worldview is one of shortsightedness that ignores the fundamental issues inherent in seeking harmony between modern and traditional beliefs. In what seems like a desperate effort to find favor in the public eye, pseudo-modernists subscribe to simplistic, short-term solutions to the problem of philosophical dissonance and often skirt tremendous ideological issues that deserve much deeper attention than they are given.

One example of this evasive approach to reconciling philosophical discord pertains to the aforementioned ruling in favor of same-sex marriage. The Supreme Court’s decision to sanction same-sex marriage under the Constitution spurred a great deal of unrest within the more right-leaning national community. In an effort to quell this vexation, some Jewish thinkers have championed a modern, and somewhat disingenuous, interpretation of the biblical restriction against homosexuality.

The interpretation to which I refer is based on the existence of two different types of biblical commandments: hukim and mishpatim. Mishpatim are rational laws that are based on clear moral or practical reasoning. These laws include refraining from stealing, murder, and other antisocial acts. Hukim, on the other hand, are laws that transcend rationality. The genealogy of hukim remains hidden from human understanding.[1] Classic examples of hukim are the laws pertaining to the red heifer (parah adumah) and dietary laws (kashrut). It has recently been suggested that the prohibition against homosexuality is mentioned in the Torah as a hok (singular form of hukim), i.e., to be viewed as a law for which there is no clear moral reasoning presented in the Torah. However, even a cursory glance at the placement and presentation of the Torah prohibition against homosexuality reveals that it is likely not intended to be a hok. It is included among laws against incest, bestiality, and adultery, all of which seem to have clear moral implications. In fact, the inclusion of homosexuality among other capital offenses speaks directly to its status as a morally reprehensible act according to Jewish law. It is a tremendous feat of intellectual self-deception to claim that the Torah presents the restriction against homosexuality as a hok. This type of elusive rhetoric in religious apologetics is found all too frequently today, and it is representative of the disingenuous form of modernism mentioned above.[2]

Pseudo-modernists hope that these tenuous resolutions will endear the disenfranchised and stave off criticisms against traditional Judaism until, one day, Torah values find their home at the forefront of moral philosophy. It is a perspective that touts progressive thinking and denies deeply rooted fundamentalism. Its adherents blindly follow the crowd of progressive thinkers, while holding a philosophical compass that is pointing in the opposite direction. These individuals ignore the fact that, if their position was followed to its logical conclusion, he or she would be exposed for the traditionalist ideologue that popular culture so vehemently condemns. There will inevitably be a point at which the philosophical synthesis they boast will not be sustainable, and a deep divergence will emerge.

So where is this point of divergence? Let us begin with what is possibly the most fundamental divergence, which is political. I do not mean right-wing versus left-wing or liberal versus conservative; these views are far too reductionist (and oversimplify political issues that are vastly more complex than either side acknowledges). Rather, I am asking whether we, as observant Jews, believe in a Constitutional democracy or a biblical theocracy? Furthermore, is the biblical theocracy of the Torah one that is in line with the modern-day values held by many observant Jews? To further explore this question, let us consider a few other examples of philosophical dissonance between Torah and modern values. In order to do so, it may be worthwhile to elucidate the implications of a Messianic age according to Jewish tradition.

A quintessential tenet of Judaism is a belief in the coming of the Messiah. So essential is this belief, in fact, that it is included among the Thirteen Principles of Faith outlined by the Rambam (Maimonides). The relevance of a Messianic age to our conversation is in its far-reaching political implications and its focus, according to Maimonides and many other commentaries, on a restoration of the full scope of Torah observance (much of which is not currently applicable, in the absence of a Temple in Jerusalem and a theocratic Torah-based dominion in Israel). According to many of our sages, the time of Messiah will be an era that ushers in enlightenment, peace, and a restoration of Torah governance to the world. Based on this view, the reinstatement of Torah law is of cardinal importance to the culmination of the Messianic age. The Rambam writes in chapter eleven of Hilkhot Melakhim in his Mishneh Torah,

The Messianic King will arise in the future and restore the Davidic Kingdom to its former state and original sovereignty. He will build the Sanctuary and gather the dispersed of Israel. All the laws will be re-instituted in his days as they had been before; sacrifices will be offered, and the Sabbatical years and Jubilee years will be observed fully as ordained by the Torah.[3]

In the abstract, and in our time, there is little need to acknowledge the disparity or dissonance between our Messianic vision and contemporary reality. A modern, observant Jew can comfortably believe in a Messianic time and maintain his or her current conceptions of Western morality and democracy—that is until the time of the Messiah actually arrives. The real clash arises in exploring the implications of re-installing a Torah government in the state of Israel and in the world. A Torah-based government is essentially theocratic. The laws have been divinely ordained and are upheld by the Sanhedrin, who are the mandated legal body and earthly arbiters of divine law. This means that observant Jews are fundamentally theocratic, as well. If we explore the various laws of a Torah-based theocracy, we begin to run into a series of ideological and legal principles that seem patently undemocratic and clash with our modern conceptions of morality and social justice.

Let us take, for instance, the laws of Shabbat observance. Many observant Jews relish learning the intricacies and complexities of the laws pertaining to Shabbat. However, seldom do we consider the talmudic law in any realm other than the abstract. I introduced the idea of a Messianic age to illustrate that we cannot simply look at these laws in the abstract, since we as a Jewish community are ultimately expected to reestablish Torah law in the time of the Messiah. Let’s compare the more comprehensive dictates of the Torah to our modern-day values and think critically about what we believe. In Jewish law, as transmitted by the Torah and elaborated upon in talmudic texts, the desecration of Shabbat is punishable by death. Many modern-day rabbis reassure us that the circumstances under which one might receive the death penalty upon breaking Shabbat are very limited. In fact, there is a discussion in the Talmud regarding the frequency of capital punishment in general, stating that a Sanhedrin that carried out even one death penalty in seven or 70 years, depending on the opinion, was considered “a bloody Sanhedrin.”[4]

This is certainly reassuring, assuming the death penalty is a legitimate reaction to the desecration of Shabbat. But why assume that the death penalty is a justifiable response to the violation of Shabbat at all? Is it reasonable to believe that such a legal stipulation should be reinstated, even if under such rarely occurring circumstances? The rarity of such a penalty perhaps minimizes, but does not eliminate, the issue. Even the restrictions on the application of capital punishment imposed by the rabbis fall short of reconciling the underlying contradiction with modern social norms. This legal stipulation raises a whole catalogue of questions. Would a re-instituted Sanhedrin have the power to further attenuate the severity of such a punishment in response to Shabbat, if not abolish it altogether, or is this an inexorable component of halakhic legislation? How are we expected to take this law, which is stated explicitly in the Torah, and understand it through the lens of a modern Constitutional Democracy and Western moral standards? And, most importantly, could we ever conceive of a time in the future in which this law is reinstated? By today’s standards, this law would be considered draconian and unconscionable. To punish someone who has broken Shabbat by death is a radical departure from our modern-day conception of moral thinking.

This is not the only example of unsettling applications of capital punishment under biblical Jewish law. Another classic example of a violation of the Torah for which one is expected to receive the death penalty is idolatry. In theory, this means that a Jew under a Torah inspired government who experiences a religious transformation and is convinced of the legitimacy of a human god, for instance, is liable to receive the death penalty under certain legal circumstances. Again, I reiterate that the rabbinic authorities of the Mishnah seemed resistant to the very notion of capital punishment as a whole. For this reason, the rabbis of the Mishnah went to great lengths to limit the application of capital punishment, or believed that the law was intended to be interpreted quite differently than it is presented in the text. There are a number of barriers placed by our sages in tractate Sanhedrin between the applicable crime and the execution of capital punishment. First, there have to be two witnesses, who need to fit a very specific legal criteria of competence and objectivity (which happens to include being a male, another point of contention with modern-day beliefs). They need to have warned the guilty party of the consequences of committing the crime, and the guilty party must have committed the offense immediately following the warning.[5] Again, despite the restrictive parameters placed on the practice of capital punishment, the death penalty imposed by the Torah seems grossly disproportionate to the offense.

We do not need to envisage a Messianic age in order to bring light to the chasm between modern-day beliefs and Torah values. There are many other examples in the Torah of divine mandates and laws that directly conflict with egalitarian and humanistic ideals advanced in Western society. One such example comes from Parashat Matot with regard to vows taken by women. The Parashah discusses the legality of vows and oaths in general, as well as the circumstances under which a vow may be annulled. Oaths taken by a woman are expressly limited to the authority of the men in her immediate life. While a woman retains the right to make a vow, it is at the discretion of her husband or father whether the oath will be legally effective. Over the years I have heard many attempts to rationalize what seems to be patent sexism in the Torah and elsewhere in Judaic literature. However, there is clearly an issue of denying a basic human right based on gender alone.

It seems that an air of misogyny looms over the entire narrative of the Torah, specifically the legal discussions therein. From the sexuality of a woman to her marital status, the Torah often contextualizes women within the parameters of property rights. In fact, one of the Asseret haDiberot, or Ten Commandments, is specifically addressed to men in stating that they may not covet their neighbor's house, wife, manservant, maidservant, ox, donkey, or any other of the neighbor’s belongings.[6] Note the striking placement of the neighbor’s wife after the house in a list of his property. The fact that the manservant is also listed as property does not detract from the patent androcentricity of this excerpt. Even the use of grammatical markers in the Torah most often identifies God in the masculine grammatical form, thus promoting a male-oriented worldview.

Last, I would like to discuss what I believe may be the most glaring example of discordance between contemporary ethical thinking and the values championed by the Torah; the conquest of the land of Canaan. In order to explain this dilemma, I will briefly turn to an eye-opening study on Israeli school children conducted by sociologist George Tamarin in 1963. The study that Professor Tamarin conducted—which ultimately cost him his chair at Tel Aviv University—goes as follows: Two groups of Israeli school children were told to read two separate stories of conquest; one group was given the story of Joshua at the city of Jericho, and the other of General Lin, who established the Chinese Kingdom some 3,000 years ago. The two stories were chosen because the features of both are almost identical. In both stories a leader is impelled by God—for General Lin the Chinese god of war—to conquer a land and annihilate its unbelieving inhabitants. Both groups of school children were asked to assess the moral judgement of the characters in the story they had been told, and, despite the stories similarities, the responses of the school children were quite dissimilar. For the story of Joshua at the gates of Jericho, about 60 percent of the school children agreed that the plan implemented to overtake the city was justified. However, for the story of General Lin, about 75 percent of students disapproved of the conquest. [7] The controversy that Tamarin’s study engendered speaks to a whole constellation of psychological phenomena; the categorization of groups of people, the human propensity to draw moralistic lines, and endemic biases that stem from cultural pressures. But most importantly, this study puts two fundamental beliefs in conflict.

As Jews, we believe strongly in a God of Israel and in the historical, religious, and spiritual importance of a national home. However, as a nation that has been the victim of pogroms, historical democides, and the Holocaust, we bear a deep sensitivity to the concept of a mass execution of an entire people. For this reason, we must be mindful that there are places within the Tanakh that feature divinely mandated national exterminations. Events of this nature, as recorded in our religious history, demand our attention, even if they are beyond our powers of understanding.

In 1944, the term genocide was coined by Polish lawyer Raphael Lemkin in a report on Nazi Germany that would later contribute to the prosecution of Nazi’s at the Nuremberg Trials. In 1948, Lemkin influenced the United Nations to approve a Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, which recognized genocide as a crime for the first time in history.[8] The past century features some of the most cataclysmic acts of horror perpetrated against humanity; from the Holocaust, the Armenian genocide, democides carried out by the Soviet Union and China, to genocides in Bangladesh and Rwanda. More deaths were racked up in the twentieth century than any other epoch of human history. Professor emeritus at the University of Hawaii, Rudolph Rummel, puts the estimate at about 262 million in the twentieth century alone.[9] As a result, the global community has gained a disconcerting insight into the destructive capabilities of humanity. This newly acquired sensitivity forces us to assess our history as a nation and as a people. The conquest of the land of Canaan is replete with instances of communal exterminations. Time and again the Jewish people are commanded to leave no trace of a civilization in cities they overtook. In the book of Joshua, Achan was stoned to death for salvaging any remains of the city of Jericho upon its siege and destruction.[10] The same is true when Shaul spared King Agag. [11]

Of course, there is no better justification for these events than that they were commanded by God. But this is a post-hoc rationale that belies the implications of an explicit commandment to wipe out an entire nation; from its women and children, all the way to its livestock. Today, we would call this course of action “genocide” or “ethnic cleansing,” and there is no amount of equivocation that could justify such atrocities. Is it good enough to say that God commanded it? Can this excuse allow us to brush off the ashen debris of countless forgotten civilizations and turn a blind eye to history?

Over the centuries, the global evolution of moral philosophy has forced us to reassess parochial notions of mass extermination. The commandment in book one of Samuel to “utterly destroy” the nation of Amalek has been reinterpreted and stripped of its historical teeth by biblical commentaries and thinkers such as the Rambam. [12] Maimonides interprets the commandment allegorically, stating that we are compelled as a nation to extricate the nature of Amalek from humanity.[13] However, one is forced to ask whether this is a modification of the original commandment in light of our inability to identify individual members of the nation of Amalek, making it an alteration based on convenience as opposed to ethics.

The trend of attenuating fire and brimstone moral philosophies of the Torah is not restricted to the case of destroying Amalek. In addition to the aforementioned cases, namely Amalek and various instances of capital punishment, there are many laws mitigated by rabbinic authorities of talmudic literature. One of the best-known instances of this mitigation is the case of the “ben sorer umoreh,” or “the wayward son,” mentioned in Parashat Ki Tetzei in the Torah. The case of the ben sorer umoreh is an adolescent that is so refractory, the court of the city ratifies his public execution. At face value, the resulting law might implicate a good number of teenagers today. However, the interpretive acrobatics performed by the legal authorities in tractate Sanhedrin make it almost impossible to identify an example of such an adolescent. The Sages limit the application of ben sorer umoreh to such an extent that it is understood purely as a theoretical case from which we may derive homiletic value alone. The circumstances necessary for someone to be categorized as a ben sorer umoreh are so numerous and obscure that it leaves the realm of the possible and enters the realm of the mythological. In order for someone to be considered a ben sorer umoreh the child must commit a certain set of crimes within a specific duration of time, he must be warned multiple times by both parents using the same words, and it must be approved by a governing body.[14]

These instances of rabbinic mitigation display the dynamism of Jewish law and practice. Moreover, they are a demonstration of the great interpretative power granted to the Sages by the Torah.[15] Rabbinic exegesis is encoded into the very DNA of the Pentateuchal genome. Arguably the most fundamental component of Jewish law is human interpretation. Dr. Jose Faur, a prolific writer and Professor of Law at Netanya Academic College in Israel, articulates this point in his essay Law and Hermeneutics in Rabbinic Jurisprudence: A Maimonidean Perspective:

Indeed, Judaism owes its very existence to exegesis. Through exegesis, Judaism was able to grow and develop in the most adverse and diverse circumstances, without having to lose its connection with Scripture...there is purposeful ambiguity in the Law designed to allow for adaptability and development. [16]

The Talmud relates a famous allegory in which Rabbi Eliezer opposed a position held by the majority of other Sages. Rabbi Eliezer attempts to assert the validity of his own position by invoking miraculous events as a form of divine evidence. Despite Rabbi Eliezer’s invocations being met with heavenly approbation, the opposing Sages remained assiduous in their position. Rabbi Yehoshua responded to Rabbi Eliezer’s dissent by saying that the ruling was “not in heaven.” [17] Rabbi Yirmiyahu, a second-generation Babylonian scholar, provides an explanation for this story, stating that we no longer rely on divine providence in order to understand the Torah. Instead, halakha is determined by the majority opinion.[18] The culture fostered by our sages is one that is contingent on the human faculty of interpretation and reason. This is what allows for the fluidity of biblical interpretation, legislation, and the evolution of halakhic practice.

As cultural circumstances change, our Sages are granted the power to deviate from the strict letter of the Law in order to satisfy an evolving social and cultural perspective. An example of this is the Torah principle of ayin tahat ayin, or “an eye for an eye,” which the Sages interpreted to mean monetary compensation.[19] This reframing of the classic notion of ayin tahat ayin reflects a changing moral code that renders certain biblical injunctions incompatible with changing beliefs.[20] Built into the very system of Jewish law is a level of philosophical and legal adaptability that accounts for large-scale cultural shifts. In light of the capacity for the Jewish system of exegesis to accommodate these shifts, it seems reasonable to believe that we can always meet the demands of an ever-changing moral environment. Even the 13 rules of hermeneutics outlined in the Talmud itself are broad enough to allow for a whole spectrum of interpretations and semantic connections.[21]

It seems that the Torah has granted our sages an almost infinitely wide berth for scriptural interpretation. However, this raises an issue that is important to consider. Based on the precedence of rabbinic interpretation as a source for understanding biblical texts, Judaism today has become almost unrecognizable as an extension of its Torah origins. Should we be concerned that rabbinic law has taken on a life of its own, far beyond the Scripture from which it was formed?

Let us consider the broader issue of the factors involved in scriptural hermeneutics. Although the following is conjecture, it is a sound basis for understanding the process of interpretation in general. Often times a commentator will identify an inconsistency emerging from external information that stands in conflict with statements presented in the Torah. The commentator is then faced with the challenge of reconciling contravening pieces of information. This means one of three courses of action: 1) reinterpret the biblical statement in order to align it with the external information; 2) reject the external information and preserve the initial interpretation of the Torah; or 3) investigate further in order to find additional information that eliminates the contradiction altogether. In the absence of additional information, our Sages are typically left with the first two choices. Additionally the often indisputable nature of the external information compels us to accept their implications. As we have seen, many commentators are forced to reinterpret Scripture. Note that I have excluded the option of rejecting Scripture, since rendering biblical text null and void as a function of interpretation is one of the few limitations of biblical hermeneutics.[22]

An example to illustrate the foregoing point comes from the Rambam, who opines that the six days of creation described in Genesis do not represent six calendar days, based on the irreconcilability of this information with astrophysical evidence.[23] To an Orthodox Jew, this might seem like a viable approach to many seemingly flagrant deviations from natural law mentioned in the Torah. However, to the unfamiliar, but capable, lay-reader, this statement seems more like an attempt at whitewashing inconsistencies in ancient, sacred texts.

If our Sages can tamper with the word of God wherever it does not reflect demonstrable, conventional wisdom, one might be led to the conclusion that this dampens the authenticity of scriptural texts. Some might attempt to rationalize these instances of contradiction by saying that the Torah did not intend for these contravening statements to be interpreted literally, that they are rather intended to be interpreted metaphorically. This position, however, assumes that we can know the intent of the Author; that an underlying principle is being communicated via metaphorical representations. How can anyone claim to know the intentions of God, let alone discern between statements that are intended to be taken literally and metaphorically? As Dr. Faur notes, and other scholars agree, this is a patently un-rabbinic approach. Rabbinic interpretation is unconcerned with ‘uncovering’ the word of God, so to speak. Rabbinic hermeneutics is concerned with drawing contextual connections, which give the text interpretational flexibility. In his essay, Dr. Faur refers to this approach as the “stoic” exegesis found in Jewish literature, which assumes knowledge based on interpretation, as opposed to the “platonic” form of exegesis found in Christian literature, which assumes an ideal that is to be uncovered.[24]

This statement has far reaching implications. We, as Jews, view the Torah as a contractual agreement between two parties. Like any legal document, the stipulations contained therein are subject to interpretation. As is true in any contract, one cannot infer the intention of either party, only interpret what is expressly communicated from one party to the other. This, on a fundamental level, reflects the nature of all communication, interaction, and relationships. As subjective beings, we can do no more than interpret the world around us. The many dimensions that constitute our physical, psychological, and spiritual existence limit us to one locus of perception, beyond which we cannot extend our knowledge. To uncover would imply the ability to remove the curtain between one being and another, and this is fundamentally impossible. Therefore, the Torah was delivered with the built-in assumption that its principles are to be interpreted, not uncovered. It seems that to Rabbi Nathan Lopez Cardozo, this is what is meant by the talmudic dictum “Elu ve-elu divre Elo-him hayim”—“these and those are the words of the living God.” [25] As Rabbi Cardozo writes in his article On the Nature of Future Halakha in Relation to Autonomous Religiosity, “Each person receives the Torah individually, according to his or her own personality and exceptional circumstances.” [26] The subjectivity of the Torah is undeniable. The Torah, and the statutes contained therein, are as fluid as they are inviolable, molding to the cultural and historical context in which they are expressed, colored by the lens through which they are seen, and understood by each and every mind independently. The continuity of the Torah is a function of its adaptive and fluid nature.

So what about issues of today? Can we no longer make interpretive inroads in order to address contemporary philosophical and moral questions? It seems as though today we have run up against certain unbridgeable gaps. But why must we draw the line here? Despite the immense interpretive power that we have been granted, there are limitations. One such limitation is our inability to reject statements in the Torah, and there are certain implications carried by biblical assertions that no level of exegetical savvy can ignore. Calling the restriction against homosexuality a hok might assuage our Western conscience, but one would be hard-pressed to find that apologetics such as this do much more than act as a moralistic balm. Rather, the right response to such dissonance is to acknowledge the conflict and accept the facts on the ground. I am inspired by rabbinic leaders who demonstrate an appreciation for the gravity of the issues the Jewish community faces today, while displaying tremendous intellectual honesty. I recall sitting in on the class of a rabbi, for whom I have particularly great respect, and hearing his response to a similar question posed by a student about the struggle of the religious, gay community. He didn’t seem to feel the urge to jump through fiery interpretive hoops and walk an apologetic tightrope to save face. Instead, he gave an honest, simple answer. He made it abundantly clear that the Torah, for whatever unknown reason, moral or otherwise, prohibits homosexuality. He then explained that he nevertheless profoundly admired the courage it takes to adhere to religious authority, despite these Jews harboring a deeply human desire for an intimacy that cannot be realized. And this is truly all that can be said. The negative commandment against homosexuality may be built on moral grounds or it may not be. It might be that our modern Western moral intuitions are simply not in line with the ethical principles presented in the Torah, and we may need to simply accept this. It may even be that to view the Torah through a moral lens at all might be illusory, and we must be prepared to accept this, as well.

Although observant Jews may be obligated to accept these principles and injunctions, it is equally as important that we understand the basis of our acceptance. This is the “nishma” in the classic biblical dictum “na’aseh venishma”—“we will do and we will listen” (Exodus, 24:7). I have heard the notion expressed on many occasions that Judaism is a religion of deed not creed. However, we cannot deny that there are fundamental principles upon which we base our lives that deserve to be explored. In this article I attempted to cast many of these fundamental principles into doubt. In so doing, many questions were raised, and many questions remain unanswered. I do not claim the authority to speak decisively or conclusively on any of the issues touched upon in this article. All I can do is raise what I believe are legitimate inquiries about my own religious ideals. The intention of this piece is not to rabble-rouse, but to urge readers to think more objectively about their beliefs. In recent years, I have been exposed to a battery of anti-religious sentiments in literature, social media, and elsewhere. Prominent scholars such as Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, Daniel Dennett, and others have become increasingly vocal about their distaste for religion and the damage they believe it has done to the global community. It is an affront to our own creed not to take these criticisms seriously. We must weigh the principles of our beliefs on a balanced, objective scale, and draw honest conclusions about our own ideology, whatever they may be.

Having said that, I derive tremendous hope from the fact that every day I see an increasingly inquisitive and thinking Jewish community. There is no doubt that deeply entrenched biases certainly exist among observant Jews, and many choose not to explore their own beliefs with any considerable level of sophistication and impartiality. However, as a whole, the Jewish community seems to be expanding its circle of acceptance, tolerance, and understanding.
Although the first half of the twentieth century marked a time of cataclysmic tumult and unrest, the global community has since seen an unprecedented shift in moral, philosophical, and social attitudes; the expansion of human understanding; and an exponential rate of technological advancement. The magnitude of these changes in societal currents has drastic implications for the Jewish community, implications that we perhaps cannot fully fathom. Judaism in 20 years may look very different from the Judaism we know today. However, over the course of history, Judaism has been evolving, branching, and blooming into a variegated panoply of rich approaches to religious life. From Hasidut and Modern Orthodoxy to the Reform and Conservative movements, history has given birth to a diverse spectrum of worldviews rooted in the Jewish tradition. To envisage a practicing and observant branch of Judaism that captures the complexity of modern beliefs seems to be in the foreseeable future. Based on some of the sources cited herein, this evolutionary progress would appear to be a hallmark of the Jewish faith and a testimony to the adaptive powers of our ideology. One of the quintessential tenets of Jewish thought is to challenge the very pillars upon which our belief stands. In this way, we are a people that is ever-engaged in the pursuit of truth. Now it seems appropriate to reiterate our original question: Will we ever reconcile modern beliefs with traditional values? Progress will always present us with novel challenges. The dissonance we feel today is part and parcel of change and the initial tension that accompanies it. To imagine the absence of these challenges is to eradicate the possibility of religious and communal growth.

I do not believe we will ever totally reconcile the age-old principles of the Torah with the ever-changing values of the society around us. However, I do believe a thriving and burgeoning Judaism will only come through critical investigation of our worldviews. Although the Observant Jewish community, by definition, accepts a basic Torah-prescribed structure within which it operates, our approach to religious life must henceforth be objective, critical, and honest. This is no easy feat; it may mean abandoning old ways of thinking that contemporary knowledge has rendered obsolete, and expunging biases that have been etched into the stones of our beliefs. We should not shun ideological change, but embrace it. There are those who fear that a paradigm shift may cause Judaism to lose its grounding; that adopting an ideology of progressivism places the citadel of Jewish tradition on a foundation of stirring sand. Rabbi Cardozo poetically notes that “one must never forget that one does not discover new lands by losing sight of the shore from which the journey had begun.”[27] The Jewish people are anchored to an historical narrative, a communal memory, a collective thread of consciousness strung through the members of a nation undivided. We are connected by a line that cannot be severed, and it is the rich tradition and culture of our people that has so effectively contributed to our survival. However, while it is our duty to preserve the liturgy of our people, we must not forgot that it is both our strict adherence to tradition as well as our adaptability to a changing milieu that has allowed us to exist over time. Although we must never lose sight of the shore from which our journey began, it is the glimmering sea of progress that draws our gaze in the direction of the future. In this great ocean, bathed by the radiating light of our individual perspective, an eternal truth awaits. We embark on this journey because an indefatigable desire for understanding is woven into the very fabric of our existence, as a Jewish nation and as individuals. In the words of the renowned scholar and philosopher Abraham Joshua Heschel, “We sail because our mind is like a fantastic seashell, and when applying our ear to its lips we hear a perpetual murmur from the waves beyond the shore.”[28]

Notes
[1] Haber, Sender. "Rules and Reasons—Understanding The “Chok”.” TorahLab. N.p., 21 Mar. 2014. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
[2] Boteach, Shmuley. "Gay Marriage and the End of Days." Observer. N.p., 01 July 2015. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
[3] Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Melakhim, 11:1.
[4] Elon, Menachem. "Encyclopedia Judaica: Capital Punishment." Capital Punishment. The Gale Group, 2008. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
[5] Sanhedrin 4:5.
[6] Exodus 20:17.
7] Tamarin, Georges R. "The influence of ethnic and religious prejudice on moral judgement." New Outlook 9.1 (1966): 49–58.
[8] Steven Pinker, The Better Angels of Our Nature (USA: Penguin Books, 2011), 335.
[9] Rummel, R.J. 2002. 20th century democide. http://www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/20th.htm.
[10] Joshua 7:26.
[11] 1 Samuel 15:10.
[12] 1 Samuel 15:3.
[13] Moreh Nevukhim, 3:41
[14] Sanhedrin 70a
[15] Deuteronomy 17:8–11
[16] Jose Faur, Law and Hermeneutics in Rabbinic Jurisprudence: A Maimonidean Perspective (USA; The Cardozo Law Review, 1993), 8.
[17] Sanhedrin 59b.
[18] Ibid.
[19] Baba Kama 84a.
[20] Jose Faur, Law and Hermeneutics in Rabbinic Jurisprudence: A Maimonidean Perspective (USA; The Cardozo Law Review, 1993), 9.
[21] Ibid., 10.
[22] Ibid., 11.
[23] Moreh Nevukhim, 2:29.
[24] Faur, 9.
[25] "Babylonian Talmud: Tractate Eruvin." Babylonian Talmud: Eruvin 13. N.p., n.d. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
[26] Nathan Lopez Cardozo, On the Nature of Future Halakha in Relation to Autonomous Religiosity (USA, The Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, 2015), 4.
[27] Ibid., 11.
[28] Abraham Joshua Heschel, Man Is Not Alone: A Philosophy of Religion (USA, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1976).