National Scholar Updates

I must admit that I was taken aback when called upon to argue the case of the Bible. It has always seemed patently obvious. The Book of Books has stood the test of time for thousands of years, continuing to inspire multitudes irrespective of race, color or creed.

The inherent universal messages are conveyed with literary artistry and religious sensitivity. Words, the very rubrics of communication, discourse and understanding, contain fugues of meaning and cascades of nuances. Figures of speech dance before readers, igniting intellectual curiosity and evoking creative interpretation. The impressive collection of genres addresses fundamental questions of human existence including prayer, theology, philosophy, ethics, concern for others, and personal development. By confronting challenges, heroes and heroines in the narratives demarcate between good and evil. Whether they succeed or fail their decisions and behavior serve as powerful object lessons.

The Bible, a magnum opus like no other, directs the course of human history and provides the foundation of faith and inspiration for billions. It is both larger than life and a book to live by. It celebrates life and teaches us how to mourn. It fosters wonder and amazement. The Bible welcomes our endless questions and our search for answers. It helps us navigate our individual and collective quests for truth, inviting us to internalize ideas and make them our own. Soren Kierkegaard, in a journal entry encapsulates the significance of this endeavor:

“Truth that matters is truth that edifies for otherwise how near man is to madness in spite all his knowledge. What is truth but to live for an idea?” ( Journals of Kierkegaard (1835), pg. 45)

Professor Shalom Carmy has contributed invaluable insights on the religious directives and goals of Bible study. He provides the bottom line: “The aim of Jewish Tanakh study is to encounter the word of God.” (Shalom Carmy, “Always Connect”,Conversations 15 (Winter,2013), p. 1)

Bible is my passion. I have had the privilege of teaching women Tanakh for 40 years. My area is biblical interpretation, a field which spans thousands of years. Intriguingly, biblical interpretation demonstrates the ability of Scripture to address contemporary issues of relevance, while shedding light upon perspectives which transcend time and place. I have taught in a vast array of contexts from Scotland to Vilna, New York to London, Troyes to Amsterdam, Stockholm to Portland, Moscow to Berkley. Today I teach Tanakh in the city of Jerusalem in Israel --the Land of the Bible. Many of my students, women from diverse cultures and walks of life, have trained as teachers in the Joan and Shael Bellows Graduate Program in Bible and Biblical Interpretation at Matan: The Women’s Institute for Torah Study. I have the ongoing pleasure of seeing the far-reaching ramifications of biblical education, and its awe-inspiring impact on communities, families and individuals.

Of late, women’s interest in exploring and mastering the study of Talmud and halakha has gained momentum. While I applaud advancement in every field, it saddens me to hear people relate to Bible study as “démodé”. Alfred North Whitehead once said that all philosophy is a series of footnotes to Plato. In like fashion, the rich legacy of Jewish literature is a series of footnotes to the Bible.

This article is directed to those who cherish Bible. It is for the curious and the scholarly. The challenge for those who teach Bible is to make the Tanakh accessible to all so that its influence radiates through concentric circles and women and men think, live and labor in its light .The enduring essence of the Bible presents a wealth of potentiality. Yet the task is far from simple. Mastering the art of the Bible is a spiritual, intellectual, and experiential endeavor requiring academic rigor, spiritual momentum, boundless creativity and discipline. The experience is a collaborative effort and a personal responsibility.

Professor. Nechama Leibowitz, perhaps the greatest woman Bible teacher of all times, notes in her article "How to Read a Chapter of Bible":

“When contemplating the title of this essay, I realize that it reflects a degree of foolishness, not merely because it is not my place to teach others how to read a chapter of the Bible since the keys to this book were not given to me. Rather, because it is highly doubtful whether any individual can determine for others how to read the book. Each and every individual much delve into their own reading, a reading that is compatible with his singular spirit and her unique soul. For their essence has never before been and will never again be. Therefore, their reading and understanding of the Bible is unique, totally their own, not mimicking anything that has ever been thought before.” ( Lilmod ulilamed Tanakh, 1998, p.1)

The Rabbis portray the challenge of mastering the Torah as difficult even for Moses our teacher:

“R. Abbahu said the entire forty days that Moses spent on high, he learned Torah and forgot it. After forty days he said, ’Master of the Universe, I spent forty days and I know nothing!” What did God do? He gave the Torah to him as a gift.”(Shemot Rabbah 41:6)

Forty years later, in a moving poetic passage in the Book of Deuteronomy (30:11-14) Moses declares the clarity and accessibility of Torah even when it appears beyond our grasp.

“Surely, this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day
is not too difficult for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in
heaven, that you should say, "Who among us can ascend into heaven
and get it for us, and impart it to us, that we may observe it?" Neither
is it beyond the sea, that you should say, "Who among us can
cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us,
that we may observe it?" No, the thing is very close to you, in your
mouth and in your heart, to perform it.”

In effect, Moses is saying that Torah is not an esoteric teaching intended exclusively for prophets, priests, and scholars. The words “lo bashamayim hi” have generated centuries of discussion about truth, authority, and interpretation. (We will return to that discussion later). Simply stated, the verses neutralize the daunting challenge of learning, 0understanding and upholding Torah - Lo bashamayim hi…ki karov eilecha hadavar meod bficha ublvavcha lasoto . It is not in heaven - No, it is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to perform it.

I would like to suggest that as true as that may be, one can argue the opposite -- ‘kein bashamayim hi’ “it is in Heaven”. The study of Torah is a lofty enterprise, which elevates us heavenward.

The following stories illustrate this interpretation of Moses’ poignant and compelling words and implicitly and explicitly reflect passages from the Book of Books.

On January 16, 2003, Ilan Ramon became the first and only Israeli astronaut to enter outer space. He decided to take several treasured items on the Columbia Space .Shuttle. Among them was a miniature Torah scroll. He explained:
"Being the first Israeli astronaut -- I feel I am representing all Jews and all Israelis. I am the son of Holocaust survivors (his mother and grandmother both survived Auschwitz). I carry the suffering of the Holocaust generation, and I am proof that despite all the horror they went through, we continue to move forward."

The small Torah scroll, merely four and a half inches high, represented a giant step for mankind. It was given on loan to Ilan Ramon by his professor of astrophysics, Yehoyachin Yosef. This Torah scroll had already embarked upon an amazing journey. Rabbi Shimon Dasberg, the chief rabbi of Groningen and Amsterdam, had brought it to Bergen Belsen and used it to prepare Yehoyachin for his Bar Mitzva. Yehoyachin celebrated his Bar Mitzva clandestinely before dawn on Monday March 31, 1944. After the ceremony, Rabbi Dasberg gave the Torah as a gift to Yehoyachin who protested, asking what he would do with a Torah. The Rabbi feared that he himself would not survive the war and requested of the young boy to share its story with the world.
Rabbi Dasberg died in Bergen Belsen. Yehoyachin Yosef was liberated in February 1945. He was 14 years old and weighed 42 lbs. Months later, he was reunited with his family and sailed to Palestine to become part of the a generation of refugees determined to build the Jewish state.

The Torah too survived the war and was kept in a small wooden ark in Yehoyachin’s office. During one of their many meetings, Ilan Ramon inquired as to the ark’s contents. Upon hearing the story, he fell silent and subsequently asked if he could take it into space, thereby illustrating the Bible’s ability to raise humanity from the abyss of despair to the pinnacle of hope. Yehoyachin consented. His family expressed their profound sense of joy in that the Torah had traveled the road to eternity. Yehoyachin exclaimed, ”I never could have imagined that I would be able to uphold my vow to Rabbi Dasberg to such an extent in this world and in worlds beyond.”

On January 2l, 2003, Ilan Ramon, the first Israeli astronaut, held the scroll aloft during a live teleconference aboard Space Shuttle Columbia,let it float, then took hold of it again and shared its transcendental message:

"This Torah scroll was given by a rabbi to a young, scared, scrawny, thirteen-year-old boy in Bergen Belsen. It represents more than anything else the ability of the Jewish people to survive and go from periods of darkness to periods of hope and faith in the future."

This moving statement was .Ramon’s testimonial to kein bashamayim hi. For sixteen days he united the Jewish people and made them proud. He could have done it with the Israeli flag or his air force insignia. However, he chose something of universal value, an item of monumental significance, to communicate the message of unity: “We have to find a way to bring our people closer together, to show more patience and understanding," Ramon said.

The tragic end of the Space Shuttle Columbia took place eleven days later. The shuttle disintegrated on its reentry to the Earth’s atmosphere, and Ilan Ramon and the other members of that crew did not return. Neither did the Torah. However, the story does not end there. Physics professor Henry Fenichel heard the news and immediately contacted Rona Ramon. A miniature Torah written by the same scribe had accompanied him throughout his horrific incarceration in Bergen Belsen. Fenichel offered the Torah to Rona Ramon who asked astronaut Steve MacLean to take it with him on Space Shuttle Atlantis, the next shuttle sent by NASA. MacLean’s connection to the Bible stemmed from his Christian upbringing. He wholeheartedly agreed. For him, taking the Torah and returning it safely was completing Ramon’s mission of hope.
. .
As astounding as the survival of the diary pages is, their content is even more remarkable. One page contained two biblical passages – one from the Book of Genesis, the second from the Book of Deuteronomy. Both are prayers which Ilan copied into his diary to recite in heaven. The first is the Friday evening Kiddush that ushers in the Shabbat:

“Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array. By the seventh day God had finished the work He had been doing; so on the seventh day He rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it He rested from all the work of creating that He had done.” (Gen.2:1-3)

In the biblical context these verses are God’s summation of creation. The Almighty surveys all His works that were completed in six days and arriving at day seven, “blesses and sanctifies it as the day of rest. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel in The Sabbath its meaning for modern man (1995) explains the significance of the sanctification of time:

“Unlike the space-minded man to whom time is unvaried, iterative, homogeneous, to whom all hours are alike, quality-less, empty shells, the Bible senses the diversified character of time. There are no two hours alike. Every hour is unique and the only one given at the moment, exclusive and endlessly precious. Judaism teaches us to be attached to holiness in time, to be attached to sacred events, to learn how to consecrate sanctuaries that emerge from the magnificent stream of a year… One of the most distinguished words in the Bible is the word kadosh, holy; a word which more than any other is representative of the mystery and majesty of the divine. Now what was the first holy object in the history of the world? Was it a mountain? Was it an altar?

“It is, indeed, a unique occasion at which the distinguished word kadosh is used for the first time: in the Book of Genesis at the end of the story of creation. How extremely significant is the fact that it is applied to time: "And God blessed the seventh day and made it holy." There is no reference in the record of creation to any object in space that would be endowed with the quality of holiness.” (ibid.pp.3-9)

“One must be overawed by the marvel of time to be ready to perceive the presence of eternity in a single moment.” (ibid.p 76) Through reciting the Kiddush, Ilan Ramon blessed Divine creation, sanctified the day and all that is holy. The triumph of his spirit filled outer space. (Challal in Hebrew, the word for outer space, also means void). Ramon understood that Sabbath is the touchstone between man and the Creator. “The six days stand in need of space; the seventh day stands in need of man. “.(ibid. p. 52)

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel concludes his treatise with a soul-stirring passage:
“There are few ideas in the world of thought which contain such spiritual power as the idea of the Sabbath. Aeons hence, when of many of our cherished theories only shreds will remain, that cosmic tapestry will continue to shine. Eternity utters a day. “(ibid. p.101)

The visceral shock of the sudden disappearance of Ilan Ramon and the crew of Columbia is palpable eleven years later. As a student of Bible I find solace in biblical text, in the unforgettable story of Elijah and the fiery chariot. It offers us yet another image of “kein ba-shamayim hi.” That is, although Moshe assured us that it is readily accessible to each of us it contains additional registers that reach exalted heights.

“As they kept on walking and talking, a fiery chariot with fiery horses suddenly appeared and separated one from the other; and Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind”. (2 Kings 2:11)

In his last hours on this earth, Elijah strolls with Elisha and passes on his mantle to him. They walk engrossed in discussion. What were they were discussing? The Rabbis (Yerushalmi Berachot 5:1) use the expression “walking and talking” (haloch vedaber) as an exegetical springboard and offer a variety of answers. They were talking Tanakh.
One suggestion in the Yerushalmi is that they were discussing the Creation; another view suggests they were discussing the vision of the throned Chariot of God. (Maaseh merkabah - Ezekiel Chapter 1) Very possibly, they were exploring the most sublime secrets of the universe – mysteries of the creation and the Creator. Before departing, the master disclosed these supernal notions to his protégé.

Yet another position is that the two were pondering prophecies of consolation, post-destruction (nechamot yerushalayim) .of Jerusalem. Elijah was sharing. a far-reaching vision of the end of days and the assurance that ultimately things would be right with the world.

The final midrashic opinion is that they were studying the Shema. The recitation of Shema Yisrael is the last religious act performed before death. The Rabbis cleverly interpreted the phrase “Veshinantem Levanecha VeDibarta Bam….Uvlechticha VaDerech“. (You shall teach them diligently to your children, and you shall speak of them when…you go on a journey). Indeed the two, teacher and student, were deep in discussion as they traveled on their journey - Elijah’s last mile.

Perhaps there is a deeper meaning. At this critical juncture, Elijah was unpacking the fundamentals of religious dogma contained in the Shema. Elijah the master teacher reviewed with his student the new young leader these essential values.

Into his diary, on the same page as the Kiddush , Ilan Ramon copied the verse from Deuteronomy 6:4 and as the Columbia passed over Israel, he recited the declaration of Jewish faith: "Shema Yisrael – Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one”.
Why did Ilan Ramon recite the Shema at that moment of utmost solemnity? We will never know, however the prayer will reverberate forever.

“It is not in Heaven” (lo ba-shamayim hi), (Deuteronomy 30:12), refers to the cogent and accessible nature of Torah. It takes on additional significance in rabbinic Judaism in the celebrated story of "The Oven of Achnai" (tanur.shel achnai), found in the Talmud Bava Metzi'a 59a-b. The story makes a number of salient points about the nature of the Jewish legal system. For students of biblical interpretation, it is a wondrous demonstration of the outer -limits of the discipline.

The Talmudic dispute concerns Rabbi Eliezer ben Horkanus whose illustrious status as a rabbinic sage won him the title of Rabbi Eliezer HaGadol. He is in the beit midrash arguing over the purity of an oven with his rabbinic colleagues. Ovens and vessels generally transmit impurity. Broken vessels do not. The oven of Akhnai is made of broken pieces cemented together. Is it an oven, or is it a broken vessel? Is it pure or impure? R. Eliezer says it is pure. The rabbis disagree.

On that day R. Eliezer made all the arguments in the world which, however, the rabbis did not accept. He performs miracle after miracle without succeeding to win his case. Finally, logic and miracles having failed, R. Eliezer appeals directly to Heaven. And the Bat Kol -- a voice from Heaven declares: “Why are you disputing with R. Eliezer, for the Halakhah is in accordance with him everywhere”. Rabbi Yehoshua rose to his feet and said, “It is not in Heaven!”

That is the main story. There are several addenda. One explains R. Yehoshua’s retort: “Torah was already given on Mt. Sinai as it says; “Follow the majority ruling.”(Exod.23:2) Therefore, we do not obey voices from Heaven. Another reports that R. Natan met Elijah and asked what happened in Heaven at that time: God, he is told, smiled and said, “My children have defeated Me, my children have defeated Me.”

R. Yehoshua’s ruling was adopted; a public demonstration of the impurity of the food cooked in the oven was made, and R. Eliezer, despite his stature, was excommunicated for rebelling against the elders. The authority that promulgated the law had spoken. The text does not question the authenticity of the Bat Kol. which establishes unequivocally that R. Eliezar is right.

But the Oven of Akhnai case takes the opposite view. The biblical
verse, “it is not in Heaven” is transposed rabbinically to mean that interpretation of Torah is by majority rule. R. Eliezer is deemed wrong because he insists on a particular result in violation of the basic procedural principle. This recognition causes God to smile. His children have understood that the process is more important than the result. Maintaining the integrity of the interpretive system grounded in the Bible and cultivated through methodological debate and persuasion is far more important that whether or not the oven is kosher.

Interestingly, in a fascinating midrashic passage, the rabbis sketch a dynamic portrait of R. Eliezer and his reputation. By divine affirmation the claim of ‘lo bashamayim hi’ which brought calumny upon him is essentially rescinded:

“Rabbi Yossi the son of Rabbi Hanina said, when Moses ascended to heaven he saw the Holy One Blessed be He studying the portion of the red heifer quoting halakha in the name of R Eliezer…He said Master of the Universe all of the worlds [celestial and terrestrial life] belong to you and You are quoting halakha in the name of a mortal! He said to him “ In the future there will arise a zaddik in my world whose name will be Eliezer and he will [solve the riddle] of the red heifer. .. Moses responded , “May it be Thy will that he issue forth from my loins, to which God responded indeed he will issue from your loins as it says “and the name of the one is Eliezer – the unique one is Eliezer.”( Tanhuma B Hukkat 25)

On a simple level the midrash is predicated upon the verse relating to Moses’ son Eliezer “and the name of the one .was Eliezer. for he said, “My father’s God was my helper; he saved me from the sword of Pharaoh.(Exod. 18:4).”

Digging deeper it is noteworthy that the theme is the study of purity and impurity, the very issue that did Rabbi Eliezer in. God Himself is, as it were, studying the ultimate conundrum of purity and impurity of the red heifer, whose ashes purify the defiled and defile the pure. God employs the Torah of R. Eliezer to decipher the mystery. Moses is aghast until God affords Rabbi Eliezer unsolicited testimonial. Moses wishes that Rabbi Eliezer be his descendent. Playing on the words of the verse relating to Moses’ son Eliezer, God tells Moses that his wish has been granted. A beautiful message emanates from this midrash – we are all Moses’ spiritual children. Even the greatest of rabbis draw their spiritual grandeur from Moses, our teacher.

However, there is more. In the midrashic theater Rabbi Eliezer is vindicated. A tikkun takes place. The midrash makes a powerful statement “kein bashamayim hi!” The Torah is in Heaven. In the Yeshiva shel ma’ala, Rabbi Eliezer is right. There is absolute truth. It may be reserved only for a select few like Moses and Rabbi Eliezer. But there can be no denying it. The Holy One Himself confirms it.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik writes:

“ … Judaism considered the study of Torah as the most sublime kind of worship, a way of meeting God, of breaking through the barrier separating the Absolute from the contingent and relative. Human intellectual engagement in the exploration of God’s word, thought and law is a great religious experience, an activity bordering on the miraculous, a paradoxical bridge spanning the chasm that separates the world of vanity from infinity”. ( Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik,Worship of the Heart :Essays on Jewish Prayer, ( 2003 ), p.5).

In a fascinating article about the oven of Akhnai, “The Coiled Serpent of Argument: Reason, Authority, and Law in a Talmudic Tale” [(2004), Georgetown Law Faculty Publications and Other Works. Paper 151, pp. 1-40)], Law Prof. David Luban analyzes the story from legal, humanistic, and philosophical vantage points and concludes with candor and humility:

“I cannot understand the Oven of Akhnai story at all. It is not written for me. It is written for readers within a tradition that I merely peer at from outside. I never studied Gemara or experienced the intellectual rigors of the cheder…To grasp the story is to realize that it concerns the impossibility of grasping it merely through reading. Akhnai tells us to disregard the bat kol and follow the majority. Those within the tradition understand that the story's real meaning is for members only. It does not disclose itself to modernist readers who privilege their own one-on-one relationship to the printed text over the many-on-many relationship between text and readers that makes up the form of life the text itself celebrates.”

Luban’s incisive comment on rabbinic literature can relate to the Bible as well. The study of Bible is an awe-inspiring enterprise of theological reflection and textual analysis that does not happen in a cultural vacuum. We develop a “one-on-one relationship” to the Bible, as well as a “the many-on-many relationship” We become part of the continuum of biblical interpretation linked through an unbroken chain to Moses. The challenge is overwhelming. The more we learn the more we are aware of what we know not.

We are humbled and encouraged by Moses’ reassurance that ‘lo bashamayim hi’, and urged toward due diligence by his student Joshua: “This book of Torah shall not depart out of your mouth; but you shall meditate therein day and night, that you may observe to do according to all that is written therein: for then you shall be prosperous, and then you shall have good success.” (Josh. 1:8). Still and all, there is much cause for pause before undertaking such an overwhelming endeavor because, as we have tried to argue, “kein ba-shamayim hi”;

Prof Shalom Carmy offers us perspective. He eloquently explains, in the context of Torah study, the following lines from T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets.

“For language with which to speak of the daunting challenge of how to articulate authentically, in one’s own voice, the dimensions of human existence in the face of a seemingly overwhelming burden of tradition, we again quote Eliot:

“And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”

“The thinker of whom we speak is embarked on a spiritual quest, the search for a way of seeing and living, that can never be fully expressed, a Truth that cannot be mastered, a Love whose Name we cannot utter, though He possesses ours from Eternity.” (Shalom Carmy, “To Get the Better of Words, An Apology for Yir’at Shamayim in Academic Jewish Studies" Torah Umadda Journal 2, (1990), pp 7-24).

Both in Israel and in the world at large there is serious need for outstanding teachers of Bible. Teachers, who not only transmit information, but also inspire by probing the mystique of Bible and teaching its lessons and values.

It is my hope that this article communicates my passion for Tanakh and encourages worthy students to enter the field and become inspirational teachers. The formidable task of teaching Tanakh requires embracing both courage and modesty- oz v’anava.
Courage will spur us to mine Scripture, again and again, to discover the many gems still waiting to be unearthed. It will enable us to develop a sincere, coherent and sophisticated approach to the content and contours of the Bible. Modesty will help guide us in how to share our spiritual odyssey with others.

Lest we despair that “kein bashamayim hi” we need only remember - “Ah but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for?” (Robert Browning, Andrea del Sarto)

1 My sincere thanks to Rabbi David Shapiro for his valuable insights.

When I graduated Rambam Torah Institute, a Los Angeles Orthodox High School, in 1978 (Rambam closed in 1979, giving way to the opening of YULA and the Simon Wiesenthal Center), I was about to enter UCLA with a schizophrenic approach to my own Jewish identity. On the one hand, I had grown up in the Sephardic-Ladino community where I was about the only one to receive a formal Jewish education from middle school on. Being “shomer shabbat” was very old-country and unheard of in “Rodesli-L.A.” (the community of Jews descended from the Island of Rhodes who established the Sephardic Hebrew Center in L.A., where we were members). The only ones who admired or understood why I chose a more traditional path for myself were the senior citizens born in Rhodes, toward whom I tended to gravitate.

Being an only child to a mother who was an only child, and having lost my father when I was a baby, my “playdates” typically were in the living rooms of elderly Rodesli immigrants, who told stories and jokes in Ladino, entertained with dulce (homemade preserves) served in beautiful silver bowls with silver spoons along with coffee, biskochos (round sesame or cinnamon covered cookies), and assortments of burekas or pastelikos (savory turnovers), reshas (homemade pretzels), hard cheese, olives, and abidahu (dried, wax-covered fish roe that was a delicacy), or salado (salted, cured mackerel or tuna). There were no chicken nuggets or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at these afternoon gatherings! These visits often took place on Shabbat afternoons; most of the community lived either on the same block or within a few minutes’ walk or drive of each other. This was South Central L.A.—or Leimert Park or the Crenshaw District—where I could go trick or treating on Halloween night and ask for burekas instead of candy, and get them!

Today this neighborhood is mostly African American with not a Jew in sight for miles. The synagogues have long been sold and converted to churches, still displaying the original stained glass Stars of David in the windows. The lifestyle has also disappeared; no one lives near each other anymore in “Rodesli-L.A.,” and the community has dissipated and spread to the four corners of the Greater Los Angeles Basin. Most of those special people from my “playdates” have gone to the next world, and their children or grandchildren may have remembered a few words in Ladino, have kept a few of their mother’s or grandmother’s recipes, and have for the most part sadly strayed from what was once a tight-knit and traditional community.

In Rhodes, it was the norm to keep the laws of kashruth, observe Shabbat and holidays, and keep close to our Jewish traditions. The members of the community didn’t, however, identify as “Orthodox” Jews, nor did other Sephardic communities in the Mediterranean Basin or the Middle East identify as such. Some families were known to be more religious and knowledgeable, others much less. All, however, went to the same synagogue and followed basically the same customs and practices. This lifestyle was reproduced to an extent in America, when these immigrants established their community in Los Angeles. But the forces of assimilation and acculturation meant English first, American culture first, and work first, even on Shabbat.

The traditions of the “old country” began to fade with the next generation, especially given the choices that America offered, including meat and chicken that looked much cleaner and cheaper than the products from the kosher butcher. That’s why it was unusual for me to wind up in a Jewish Orthodox school, eventually keeping kasher and observing Shabbat. And it wasn’t because my mother was predisposed to that direction. My maternal grandfather was born in Bulgaria, and in the late 1800s emigrated to Palestine, where he was religiously educated and spoke many languages, including Hebrew and Arabic, before coming to the United States in 1920. He met my Rhodes-born grandmother in Seattle, the motherland of Ladino immigrants on the West Coast. My grandmother kept kasher, as did most of her contemporaries. When she was hospitalized, our community rabbi, Solomon Mizrahi, who was revered by all, went to visit and admonish her that she could not refrain from eating in the hospital because the food was not kasher, insisting that her health came first.

But the immigrant generation did not instill a religious lifestyle in the new generation of Americans. There was too much at stake in “making it in America” to have religion hold them back. No, the reason I landed in an Orthodox Day School in the seventh grade in 1972 was that my working single mother who had put me in private grammar school through the sixth grade could not have me to go to a public school that would dismiss the students at 3:00 P.M.—when she didn’t get home until after 5:00. And in the L.A. public schools of the 1970s, there were stories of knifings in the bathrooms and tough characters to deal with. Remember, I just grew up hanging around a group of sweet old ladies and had no training in self-defense against the ruffians roaming the halls of John Burrows Jr. High or L.A. High. “Leshos!” (Keep it far away!), as we would say. Hence, my introduction to the Orthodox Day School system was more for my protection than my religious education, and it developed into my personal road back to my religious roots.

So I did not grow up in an Orthodox family. Such a word was never even familiar to Sephardim. They could be kasher, pray regularly, adhere to all the holiday rituals, and not know what “Orthodox” meant, or if they did, it didn’t refer to them. I grew up in a “traditional” Los Angeles Sephardic family—what we considered traditional in the 1960s and 1970s, that is. (I add Los Angeles because the community was less observant than those Ladino communities in Seattle, New York, even Atlanta). The difference was that while we did have our large extended family Shabbat and holiday dinners, always with one or two “old-timers” who knew how to lead the Kiddush or the Rosh haShana “Yehi Ratsones” (in Hebrew and Ladino) or the Passover “Haggada” (in Hebrew and Ladino), I still enjoyed my pizza with pepperoni just as much as I loved my burekas. We still went to homes for a very different kind of American dinner on Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving.

That doesn’t mean we would think of missing out on celebrating Jewish holidays with all the prayers, whether Rosh haShana, Yom Kippur, or Simhat Torah with the honored “hattanim”—and our services would surely be considered “Orthodox” by any observer familiar with the various Ashkenazic Jewish movements. English translations eventually crept into the services, but the prayer books never changed, nor did the patterns of traditional Sephardic services.

When I had my first Orthodox exposure entering Hillel Hebrew Academy in seventh grade, I came home yelling and complaining that I had to wear a kippah all day and pray so often and at a speed I could not keep up with. My mother thought I wouldn’t last a week. I had to “fake” pray that first year since I couldn’t possibly make it through the entire Amida with my limited Hebrew knowledge. My prior formal Jewish education consisted of Talmud Torah afternoon school (at an Ashkenazic synagogue because our Sephardic synagogue was too far and offered little in terms of Jewish education). I made (Orthodox) friends, and soon I was tolerating this “super Jewish” environment I had been thrown into.

When I started being invited to bar mitzvas almost weekly and didn’t want my friends to know that I drove on Shabbat, I would have my mother drive me up nearby alleys, crouching under the glove compartment so that no one would see me in a car, and when the coast was clear, I’d jump out and walk the last block to the Orthodox Synagogue, Beth Jacob, in Beverly Hills where all the bar mitzvas of my classmates took place. This was a regular paranoid ritual that I practiced, for I feared what my friends or rabbis would think if they only knew! In time, I learned to appreciate the Jewish education I was receiving and the Orthodox Jewish lifestyle of my friends to the point where I soon started my own journey toward what would be considered an Orthodox lifestyle.

I started by giving up pork products around the age of 14. After controlling my taste buds in that category (though my mom thought there was definitely something emotionally wrong with me to give up something I loved so much!), I moved on to eliminate shellfish, then milk and meat, and so forth. It was a gradual process of several years until I eventually stopped driving on Shabbat and holidays and took up the Orthodox lifestyle being taught in my school. I figured that this was the way my grandparents or great-grandparents lived their Judaism, and I could reconnect that chain of tradition, which likely went back generations from what I learned about Sephardic history. I continued my communal connection to my Rodesli synagogue, the Sephardic Hebrew Center, where I became the youngest board member and was part of the small youth group established. I learned to take part in the religious services as a “junior hazzan” on Shabbat and High Holidays.

In my high school, though, I was one of maybe two or three Sephardic students (none of whom came from a Ladino-Sephardic background), and I was the only one with a strong Sephardic identity, having become active in the local Sephardic youth groups that also participated in the national American Sephardic Federation youth conventions of the 1970s. (In 1977, when I was in the twelfth grade, and my Talmud teacher, whom I really liked, made one of his typical anti-Sephardic remarks in class like “Sephardim remind me of Arabs,” that was the last straw. I stormed out of my class, slamming the door behind me, and marched to the school office with the rabbi running behind me promising he was “just joking.” I called the director of the American Sephardi Federation in New York (a “toll call” no less), whom I had met recently on an ASF youth convention and asked if he could come on his next visit to L.A. and speak to my school about Sephardic history and contribution to Judaism. He gladly agreed. I informed my principal in a stern tone that there would be an assembly for the entire school and “every rabbi and student better be there!” They indeed all attended a very interesting lecture, and I was transformed into the Sephardic poster child for the school.)

As I went through four years of Orthodox Yeshiva High School, I was developing two distinct personas, one the Orthodox student who was a member of the Bnei Akiva youth movement, a counselor at the summer and winter Bnei Akiva camps, and the founder of the first chapter of Bnei Akiva at a Sephardic grade school in L.A.; the other a “non-kippah wearing” member of the Sephardic community. By the time I graduated high school and went to UCLA, where I knew both friends from my Sephardic community as well as from my Yeshiva High School, I didn’t know whether to wear a kippah or not and was ashamed and conflicted either way. I ended up wearing a cap for my entire freshman year! I was worried about what my Orthodox friends would think of me if they saw me sans kippah and what kind of fanatic my Sephardic friends would think I’d become if they saw me with one.

This is where I started to appreciate the difference between an Orthodox approach to Judaism and a Sephardic approach to Judaism. I started to attend Magen David Congregation, the Syrian synagogue in L.A. (since I could no longer drive to the Sephardic Hebrew Center with its mixed seating and a microphone, which I now felt uncomfortable with). The walk to Magen David was 45 minutes, but I did it weekly. I started to make friends who were typical of the Syrian Sephardic communities: Shabbat- and kashruth-observant, but not kippah-wearing and not hung up on the “Orthodox look.” They blended into the non-Jewish world just fine, but still kept a very strong Jewish identity. They may have kept strictly kasher at home but felt comfortable eating in non-kasher restaurants, just keeping away from the meat and shellfish. To some, they wouldn’t be considered Orthodox at all; to others they would be considered very Orthodox, based on their regular synagogue attendance, men praying every morning with their tefillin and not driving on Shabbat. And mixed dancing?something that was taboo in those days at any Orthodox event, whether for young or old was never an issue! That was my “aha” moment; the point where I had the realization that Sephardim did not easily fit into a category of Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform. We were all over the place, and everyone was fine with it.

As I became more observant, my Sephardic community embraced me as “hahamiko,” a young learned person. I wasn’t denigrated as a religious fanatic, nor was I looked down upon for not wearing a kippah all the time or not fitting the “Orthodox” compartment perfectly. My Sephardic community didn’t judge me; I think they admired me or at least that is how I felt, even though they didn’t always understand why I could no longer attend services at the synagogue I grew up in. I was able to break away from the stigma of fitting the look and practice of Orthodox Judaism, even though I admired and related to their level of observance. While I tried to parlay my activism in the Orthodox Bnei Akiva youth movement, which I still admire to this day, I realized that Sephardic kids, as different as they were in their religious backgrounds, just couldn’t be form-fitted to an Orthodox Jewish youth movement where every boy was expected to wear a kippah, every girl a skirt, act a certain way, dress a certain way, pray three times a day plus birkat haMazon (grace after meals), refrain from attending mixed dances, and basically fit the mold.

But Sephardim didn’t fit such a mold. We were all unique and different to certain extents, even though we generally felt comfortable praying under the same roof. And no one judged us; no one looked at us funny for wearing or not wearing a kippah in the street; women could be very religious and still wear pants or what the Orthodox would call “immodest” clothing; no one felt uncomfortable whether we ate strictly kasher or “pseudo” kasher; no one really minded if you got to synagogue by foot or by car, as long as you got there. And if you didn’t go to synagogue regularly, that was also fine. Shabbat dinner was still to be shared with the family, and major Jewish holidays were spent in synagogue from start to finish, if you could make it.

This Sephardic Jewish identity really created a wider tent for all of us to fit under, and it felt good to be together and not critical of others who observed more or less than we did. The summer of 1980 found me half way through my UCLA career and I decided to join my Orthodox friends from high school who made study in Israel either after high school or during college a commonplace rite of passage. I signed up too and ended up in Jerusalem at Hebrew University with a group of friends, where we immediately gravitated to the other Yeshiva high school grads from across the United States who were also on their Junior year abroad program, coordinating Shabbat dinners together and living the “Orthodox” life in Jerusalem. I wore a kippah all the time, and it felt okay. After all, I was in Israel. The summer of 1980 also happened to be the first summer of the Sephardic Educational Center (SEC) program, founded by Dr. Jose Nessim (z”l) from L.A., who had told me before I left to make sure and visit the program once I got to Jerusalem. I did, and it was life-altering—not because of the experience to be with Sephardic young adults my age from five different countries, but to see rabbis leading the program who were what we would consider “Orthodox,” yet not forcing anyone to wear a kippah or dress in a certain way, other than out of respect for holy places visited or during meals or prayers or classes.

Rabbis Moshe Shamah and Sam Kassin of the Syrian Sephardic community of Brooklyn, and Rabbi Benito Garzon of Spain, forever changed my attitude toward religious life, opened my eyes to Sephardic halakha, and the “live and let live” approach that made all feel comfortable while studying and believing in the same approach to Judaism, just at every individual’s own pace.

In the past 35 years, my Jewish identity has been shaped more by my involvement with the SEC than my Orthodox high school education, with exposure to those Sephardic rabbis and others I met subsequently who with moderation and tolerance kept alive the spirit of the Classical Sephardic approach to Judaism and opened my eyes to a non-denominational approach that echoed the lives of my ancestors who lived in places like Rhodes or Bulgaria and back to the Iberian Peninsula. Theirs was a Judaism that was a natural part of their everyday lives, with one basic approach that centered on a fervent belief in God, traditions that were celebrated by all, synagogues where the entire community worshiped without “membership ID’s” that distinguished what kind of Jew you were.

There were some weak links in the chain of tradition as Sephardic Jews relocated from the Old World to the new but there is certainly hope for a renaissance in Sephardic life as many find that this classic approach to Jewish life is far more comfortable and meaningful that what is offered by choosing an identity that just doesn’t always form fit among Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Hasidic, or Hareidi approaches to Judaism. At our annual SEC Shavuot Retreat for young families in Palm Desert, CA, last May, we held a town hall discussion as part of our Shavuot night study program, entitled “What's Wrong with Organized Religion, and How Can We Fix It?” It was led by another product of the Orthodox educational system, Rabbi Daniel Bouskila, who has also come to embrace and symbolize the Classical Sephardic approach to Judaism. The young families present attend Sephardic synagogues across the L.A. community, synagogues that would appear “Orthodox” but for the fact that not all attendees walk to synagogue, and not all keep strictly kasher, and not all wear kippot outside the synagogue—but all feel a common cause and belief in God and the Torah, along with the centrality of the State of Israel. Suggestions ranged from how to balance the old traditions with the needs of the younger generation and how to attract and hold the attention of synagogue goers. Here were the young leaders who have or will occupy the positions of leadership in our Sephardic communities, and none were shy about introducing changes and suggesting approaches within our traditional halakhic approach that would ensure the survival of these synagogues and communities.

I felt proud as a Sephardic Jew to be able to discuss these issues without fear of backlash or judgment, and proud that I am not judged nor do I feel the need to judge others on their observance. We are all in the same boat and recognize that some will always be more observant and some less and our jobs as Jews are to make all feel comfortable and welcome, maintain a common set of beliefs, and not check ID’s at the door of Judaism. That is the Sephardic approach; it is the vision and identity I gained from many years of following Dr. Nessim’s philosophy: Only God can judge us. This is why I have shied away from identifying myself with the “O” word. I just don’t fit into a denominational compartment and if you feel the same way, you might want to join a Classical Sephardic community—regardless of your bloodline!

Did I mention that my father was Ashkenazic? If you ask an Orthodox Jew, I should “halakhically” follow the tradition of my father. But I don’t, not as an insult to him but as a way of life that I was raised with and came to love and connect to. I don’t find the unity, warmth, and “big tent” feel in the Orthodox world that I do in the Sephardic world. But that’s just me, and I respect and admire you if you are Orthodox or Modern Orthodox or any other Jewish identity as long as it works to bring you closer to God, Israel, and the Jewish People. That’s just the Sephardic way.

Now a look at the next generation. I have two sons and a daughter. My oldest son (20) went through middle school and high school at a Modern Orthodox school in L.A. My middle son (17), only attended Middle School there, and then went to public high school along with my daughter for a number of reasons, not the least being the high cost. I appreciated the Modern Orthodox education and great social bonds that the school offered. I also appreciated the love for Israel that the school incorporated into its curriculum. The alternative Yeshiva high schools in our area have a more right-wing reputation, which wasn’t the direction I wanted for my family. However I did not see a passion for Judaism or the practice of mitzvoth develop in my sons or their friends that I had once experienced myself. My children’s religious connection still came from home, and the example we tried to create of a traditional Sephardic family, not from school, which surprised me.

The feeling I had when I went to high school was that we had a “religious contract” to keep Shabbat, kashruth, etc., even after we graduated. The students I observed in my sons’ classes over the past few years didn’t seem to have that commitment. University life poses challenges to keeping Shabbat and kashruth, praying every day, and taking off class for holiday observance that, for me, went without question but today seems to be a different story. While I never retreated in my religious observance, nor did most of my classmates, the graduates of today’s Modern Orthodox high school, if my own sons are an example, do not seem to feel the same religious obligation we did upon graduation, and that’s a problem. University and the “outside world” appear to have overtaken whatever commitment for practicing a level of Orthodox Judaism they were taught in high school.

Luckily for my children, they have their connections to the SEC, whether through trips to Israel or local holiday celebrations like our Shavuot Retreat to keep them excited about Judaism and Israel. Otherwise, they would be left empty-handed without any follow up from their high school rabbis, which is a shame. My wife and I wonder whether the financial investment in their Jewish education was worth it and if it will keep them committed as observant Jews. We took the approach more typical of Sephardic families of trying not to force them to practice their Judaism, though I try to continuously prod and plead that they pray, come to synagogue, remember kashruth when they are away from home. It is not easy, though. I often wonder if they would have been more passionate about their Judaism if we went down a more strictly Orthodox path than a moderate Sephardic one. Hopefully we did make the spiritually healthy decision in the long run.

But knowing what Jewish path is best for today and tomorrow is not necessarily what worked for my generation. There is no question that there needs to be a shakeup in the Modern Orthodox educational system to bring back the passion of Judaism, and there also needs to be more emphasis on Jewish commitment in the Sephardic world if that branch of Judaism is to be strengthened in the Diaspora. For the achievement of a moderate and observant next Jewish generation, there will need to be a synthesis of all the best qualities and approaches of these and other Jewish like-minded approaches, from Modern Orthodox to Sephardic and beyond, creating a Jewish lifestyle that is neither extremely stringent or oppressive nor exceedingly indifferent to religious observance. I hope our religious leaders are up to the task.

It was only a short while ago in America that there were those predicting the death of Orthodox Judaism in this country. A large segment of Orthodoxy included the generation of survivors ravaged by the trauma of a Holocaust they had barely survived. They were learning to adapt to a new society, a new language, and a new culture. The children of those survivors, Baby Boomers of today, were opting out of Orthodox Judaism in droves to join the fast-growing Conservative and Reform movements. The more liberal movements offered much to attract first-generation native-born Jews: services in regal and refined English, a rabbi whose only accent inflecting his sermons was a
Northeastern one, pews that allowed families to sit together, lively social programming with regular dances and parties, and much more. It is no wonder then that some of the greatest Orthodox authorities of the first half of the twentieth century spent much time and a lot of spilled ink in defining borders between Orthodoxy and the rest of the denominational world.

Chief among those busy with the task of separating Orthodoxy from the other movements was the great halakhic decisor, haRav Moshe Feinstein. Rav Moshe was one of the most creative, insightful, and brilliant rabbinic minds of his generation. His genius and erudition were widely acknowledged. He also lived, taught, and offered rulings in the heart of the American immigrant Jewish experience: the Lower East Side neighborhood of Manhattan. When Rav Moshe offered his halakhic rulings, he did so not from a safe and comfortable distance inside a Bet Midrash removed from the ordinary person; he was very much a part of his community and understood intimately the challenges of the day.

Rav Moshe worked tirelessly to free agunot from abusive relationships (E”H 1:43; 1:48; 1:79, et cetera). He grasped the new socio-political reality that American Jews found themselves in and urged people to vote and take part in the civic process (in a letter from 1984), and recognized the government of the United States as a trustworthy and reliable source for oversight so that he permitted halav stam (Y”D 1:47). He perceived the value of the labor movement that was advancing the rights of working Americans and he permitted strikes and negotiations (H”M 1:59). He also forbade any official recognition, interaction with, or participation together with the Reform and Conservative movements (Y”D 1:160; E”H 1:76: E”H 4:13; O”H 2:50; O”H 3:21; O”H 4:91, et cetera).

Furthermore, not only did he draw a clear line in the sand when it came to the non-Orthodox religious Jewish community, he also utilized their practices and customs as a proof and source for what Orthodoxy ought not to do. If the Conservative movement sanctioned a practice then it must be forbidden, even if it was permitted on purely halakhic grounds. A striking example of this is his ruling on the impermissibility of conducting a Bat Mitzvah ceremony inside a synagogue. In his ruling he states: “The ceremony of the Bat Mitzvah is definitely only an optional matter (divrei reshut) and only vanity (hevel), and there is no way to permit such a thing in the synagogue; and all the more so since its root is in the Reform and Conservative movements” (O”H 1:104).
One need only to contrast Rav Moshe’s ruling on Bat Mitzvah to that of haRav Ovadiah Yosef to see the difference between a posek who is occupied with waging a battle against the denominations and one who is not. Rav Ovadiah rules (Yabia Omer, O”H 6:29) that the Bat Mitzvah festivities are a seudat mitzvah, a meal infused with religious significance. Furthermore, he offers the opinion that a parent may recite the traditional blessing recited by Ashkenazim of Barukh shePetarani, albeit without shem malkhut, upon a young woman reaching the age of Bat Mitzvah. Nowhere does Rav Ovadiah reference the Reform or Conservative movements in this ruling. He only states briefly that he was aware of Rav Moshe’s strident opinion against Bat Mitzvah but did not find it compelling.

The denominational war for the heart and soul of American Judaism is over. The struggle of the early generation of Eastern European Jewish immigrants to instill a love of traditional Judaism to their American-born children enchanted with the more American milieu of the other denominations is over. This is not our central struggle, and this is not our battlefield.

We live in a different zeitgeist than Rav Moshe Feinstein. Our struggle is not with the other streams of religious Jewish expression in America. While the predictions in the first half of the twentieth century foresaw an America without Orthodox Jews, this proved dramatically false. The youngest movement in Judaism is Orthodoxy. The only movement in Judaism not experiencing massive rates of assimilation and intermarriage is Orthodoxy. (This is not to say that an intermarried family ceases to connect with the Jewish community, but by definition it will be an attenuated connection with competing religious interests.)

One need only attend the convention of any major Jewish communal organization to witness the sea change. Whereas it was only a decade or so ago that if you kept kosher at most of these large gatherings you were served your food in a plastic box triple wrapped; now almost all of these gatherings are completely kosher with dedicated room for each tefillah. A professional at an organization whose major annual convention I recently attended remarked to me how her organization has had to make major changes to adjust to the influx of Orthodox attendees and lay leaders. The unfortunate reality is that this does not mean a net growth in attendance; rather, this is occurring at the same time the rate of participation and lay leadership of the non-Orthodox continues to decline.

What then is the great challenge of our era? Where should our attention, our communal energy, our rabbinic leaders, our thinkers and activists be focused? I believe it comes down to one distinct issue: We are no longer merely the chosen nation, but rather the nation that chooses. This has been true for some time, but has not been felt as intensely than in the millennial generation (and perhaps will be felt even more so in the generations to come).

As Modern Orthodox Jews, we invest hundreds of thousands of dollars in the formal Jewish education of our children. A year of kindergarten can cost upwards of $20,000 alone in a Jewish day school in a major metropolitan area. With the rise of the Orthodox Day Schools in America combined with the nearly universal year or more in Israel studying in yeshivot or seminaries prior to college we are experiencing one of the most well-educated and well-versed Jewish populations in Jewish history. Countless Modern Orthodox young men and women in their 20s and 30s can turn to a daf of Gemara and translate it and work through the accompanying commentaries of Rashi and the Tosafot. How many of them experience a passion in their daily tefillah? How many of them relate to the teachings of Hazal and can distill the wisdom within? Orthodox Judaism today is not struggling against the allure of a more Protestant Americanized ethos. It is struggling with the great challenge of relativism and postmodernism.

Postmodern influence on the religious worldview of today’s Modern Orthodox millennial generation is profound. Whether it is deconstructing previously held core theological tenets such as a belief in God, the theophany at Sinai, or the election of Israel as a chosen people; or being unconvinced that there are any truth claims, the postmodernist critique of society, culture, and literature has shaken up the Modern Orthodox community in ways we are only beginning to recognize.

How can one become passionate about something that is no more or less true than any other competing value and belief system? How can one find inspiration in the narrative of one’s people if it has been deconstructed through literary criticism and voids in the archeological record? What relevance does Jewish peoplehood have in an era of universalism and global solidarity?

These are the most monumental challenges facing our community now and in the years to come. In a similar vein to the breathtaking life work of Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik to bridge the world of Torah with the world of twentieth century modernism, we need today intellectual religious leaders who can stake out intellectual and theological positions that resonate with the millennial Orthodox generation. Just as Lonely Man of Faith inspired a generation of Orthodox Jews, a new Lonely Person of Critical Doubt could have the potential to bring about a similar process in today’s generation.

From my time as an Orthodox rabbi on a college campus, I saw firsthand the impact of the postmodernist approach on Modern Orthodox young people. The intellectually curious young person finds little guidance to help resolve the tensions arising from a deconstructionist method, or to confront more nuanced definitions of truth in a world of competing truth claims. More often than not, they are told that their questions are without merit or their struggles are a test of their faith in God. It does not take long for that young person to opt out of active engagement and to maintain, at most, only an external fidelity to the rituals and lifestyle of Orthodoxy.

Where do we start in addressing this challenge? The first step is to acknowledge that young people today choose their lifestyle, their religious commitments, and their beliefs. People today feel less of a need to maintain what previous generations believed or felt than perhaps in any generation prior. The tremendous growth of the “nones” in the American religious landscape is testament to this fact. If we internalize the reality that people today choose to affiliate, to identify and to practice their faith, then we have an obligation to respond with integrity and thoughtfulness to the critiques people in their 20s and 30s are bringing to the communal table.

Additionally, we have to rethink the way we do business. Michael Perman, the Dean of Global Innovation at Gap, Inc., said it clearly in an interview for Forbes in 2013 when he was Senior Director of Global Marketing at Levi’s: “With Millennials, we have to let go a lot. As a brand, I think we were a company, among others, who felt that tight control of the brand and saying what our voice is was crucial up until probably a couple of years ago. We’re essentially a brand now that is based on co-creation….” Any serious attempt to address the intellectual and theological challenges millennials are grappling with must be done in collaboration and coordination with millennials themselves. There is an expression in special needs inclusion that boldly says “nothing for us without us” and the same is equally true with the millennial population. People in their 20s and 30s have a strong desire to be a part of the conversation and anything that is produced without that joint conversation will not have the same impact and resonance.

If our rabbinic and intellectual luminaries can rise to the time and begin to address the monumental theological and religious challenges posed by this generation, we face the prospect of reinvigorating and infusing a new era of meaning and depth into Jewish discourse and Jewish life. This will take bravery and courage to go where no rabbi has gone before in wrestling with the profound implications of a critical approach to belief in God, in the origins of Torah, in the place of religious obligation in a world of choice and a host of other areas. This conversation must be done with those most directly grappling with these topics. It cannot seek to rebrand and impose twentieth-century solutions on twenty-first-century problems. However, as Calev defiantly declared in the face of overwhelming challenges, “aloh na’aleh,” we can surely accomplish this too if we truly commit ourselves to the task.

One of the great problems any religious person must struggle with is whether or not it is actually possible to be religious. What, after all, is the essence of genuine religiosity?It is no doubt the cognizance that one lives in the presence of God and feels and acts accordingly. To do so, however, is nearly impossible.

Avraham Joshua Heschel once made the profound observation: “Religion depends upon what man does with his ultimate embarrassment” (1). While we may not agree with Heschel that embarrassment lies at the root of religion, we agree it is unpretentiousness combined with deep humility that moves genuine religion. What lies at the root of all religions is the awareness that it is extremely difficult to live up to the awe of the moment. Our ultimate concern should be to grasp – emotionally and intellectually – that we are the contemporaries of God, and to experience this in the most elevated way.

But for the majority of us it is an impossible mission. How can man ever encounter the Divine otherness? It is the task of religion to guide us through this almost desperate situation.

Paradoxically, admitting the impossibility of this undertaking, and responding to it in a responsible way, is what makes our humility a genuine religious experience. How can one live in God’s presence and not be humble? Live in the shadow of greatness and not sense it? Be part of the great miracle of existence and ignore it? Yet, who among us is in fact spiritually uncomfortable? We have become so insensitive that we are not even embarrassed by our lack of self-consciousness. This almost turns the religious lives of millions, including our own, into a farce. We may sincerely convince ourselves that we are religious, while in fact we are guilty of self-deception.

For religious Jews this may be an even greater problem than for those who follow other religions. Judaism’s constant demand to follow Halacha may give the impression that the religion depends solely on the need to “observe,” or carefully perform, all of Halacha with its nearly obsessive requirement to follow all rituals and laws down to the minutiae. How often do religious Jews believe that they are religious because they are observant? This is one of the major pitfalls of Jewish observant life.

In truth, Halacha is not to be observed, but rather experienced as a way to deal with one’s lifelong existential awareness that one lives in the presence of God. It is a response to our question of how to live with spiritual discomfort. A remarkable feature of Halacha is that it often asks us to act as if we are deeply provoked by living in the presence of God, while in reality we aren’t. This begs the question whether such an act can be authentic as opposed to downright hypocritical. It is here that Judaism is not completely comfortable with its own demands. Should it ask the Jew to act as if he is moved and therefore do as if he is filled with the deepest religious feelings? Or, should it ask the Jew to act according to his real feelings and not pretend?Judaism is fully aware that whichever road it suggests, there will be a heavy price to pay. The Jew may feel hypocritical, or he may not even be aware that he lost his dream since there is nothing that reminds him of it.

In a notable discussion (2) between the great mishnaic schools of Beit Shamai and Beit Hillel, the question is posed whether it is better to light all eight candles of the menorah on the first day of Chanukah, or on the last day. Beit Shamai suggests that one should begin with lighting all eight, subtracting a candle every subsequent day until only one is lit on the eighth day. Beit Hillel’s opinion is that we should light only one candle on the first day and slowly build up to eight lights on the eighth day. What is this conflict all about?

I suggest that the disagreement between these two schools is rooted in the question of whether people should express their religious commitment through these acts when they honestly reflect where they stand at that hour, or when these acts express where they would like to be in the future (3). Is Judaism better served by making us act as if we are on a level of high spirituality, while in fact we are not, or does it prefer that we express our religious feelings “ba-asher hu sham” – “where he is at that moment” (4) – reflecting our often middle-of-the-road religious condition?

Beit Shamai’s suggestion that one should light all eight candles on the first night is, for the most part, an honest expression of our feelings. We are more excited on the first day than we are on the last. For most of us, the notion of novelty is felt at the start, never at the end. Hence, eight lights on the first day. But such excitement comes with a price. It does not endure. Like the sexual act that wears off after a moment when not accompanied by the binding of souls – Post coitum omne animal triste est (5) – so all religious acts, when experienced solely as novelty and excitement, lose their impact as the exhilaration slowly dissipates. It is therefore logical that on the second day only seven lights be lit and on the last day only one. It is Beit Shamai’s conviction that we should not put on a show and pretend that we are more than what we are.

Such an approach is thoroughly honest but lacks a dream and vision of what could be. Beit Hillel therefore believes that if we do not inspire man with his potential and give him a taste of what could be, he will not even strive to achieve higher goals. As Robert Browning said, “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp – or what’s a heaven for?” According to Beit Hillel, we should start with only one light on the first day, since this reflects the condition of our soul at the beginning of Chanukah. We need to warm up and slowly strengthen our soul until it bursts with spiritual depth on the eighth day when we reach the fullness of the festival. The lighting of the menorah should be a transforming act, and that can take place only when it is accompanied by an inner experience that touches the deepest dimensions of our souls, step by step. True, we may not feel this way, but we must awaken and educate ourselves toward this goal. The last day should be the greatest. We should act as if, so that one day we may reach this spiritual level. We taste the future in the present.

Novelty is often just a brand new form of mediocrity, while excellence is rooted in the old but revitalized on a higher plain. It is not the honest mediocrity of today that we need, but an exalted dream of tomorrow. It is between these two positions that Judaism operates – a balancing act, as in the case of a tightrope walker. Most of the time, it requires a compromise. Sometimes Jewish law will opt for a realistic understanding of the here and now; other times it will choose the dream. It is a difficult position to be in, not always clear why Halacha will decide a certain way in one case and a different way on another occasion. The problem is that in the end it may not satisfy anyone. But it is the realistic understanding of “you can’t have your cake and eat it too” that seems to move Judaism.

Beit Shamai will sometimes have to agree that there is a need to go for the dream, and Beit Hillel will on occasion have to go by the facts on the ground. Such differences are even found within the Torah, as well as among other Sages and later authorities (6). Judaism cannot survive by opting for only one of these ideals. It would be suicidal. Most interesting is the fact that there is one opinion in the Talmud (7) that says Beit Shamai continued to follow its own view, even after the Halacha was decided in accordance with Beit Hillel. According to this opinion, it seems that Beit Shamai continued to light eight candles on the first day of Chanukah, although everyone else followed the opinion of Beit Hillel (8). This makes us wonder. Tradition tells us that Halacha will only follow Beit Shamai once the messianic times will have begun. There is, however, no source for this in the Talmud (9).Could it mean that for exceptional souls it would be possible to follow the views of Beit Shamai even today?

No two souls are the same. It is this fact that makes religious life a far from easy task. Even if man knows that religion is his response to his ultimate embarrassment, as Heschel would have it, he still will not know how to act. Shall he be honest so as not to pretend, or shall he pretend so that one day he will be honest to his dream?

________________________________________ (1) A.J. Heschel, Who is man? (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1965) p. 112. (2) Shabbat 21b. (3) See also: Rabbi Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler, Michtav Me-Eliyahu, Vol. II (Jerusalem, 1963) pp.120-122. (4) Bereishit 21:17. (5) “Every animal is sad after intercourse.” (6) See for example the Torah’s toleration of slavery (Shemot 21:1-6) and the complete rejection of this institution as the ultimate dream to which it seems to aspire (Vayikra 25:55). See also: Eruvin 65a concerning prayer, and Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chayim, (98:2). (7) Yevamot 14a. (8) See also Shabbat 21b where the story is told that some people followed the custom of Beit Shamai on Chanukah long after a divine voice instructed that the Halacha is according to Beit Hillel (Eruvin 13b). The Biur Halacha in Mishne Berura, Orach Chayim, 671:2, makes an interesting observation that the Halacha is only according to Beit Hillel when it lays down the strict Halacha, not in the case of mehadrin min hamehadrin, the beautification of the Halacha beyond its basic requirements (one light each day of Chanukah). Biur Halacha cautions that such should not be done in practice. This essay, however, argues that such practice may be an actual option. (9) The first source for this is a statement by the Ari z”l, which is quoted by Malbim in Torah Ohr, Bamidbar 19:2.

We are confronted on a daily basis with choices that require us to consult others before making a decision. We may call a lawyer for advice on a legal issue or an accountant for advice on our taxes. We do this because although we may be very good at what we do, no one person knows everything-and it is helpful to be guided by a professional who deals with the issue at hand on a regular basis. If one has a sink that is leaking or an electrical outlet that is malfunctioning, one might ask an electrician or plumber for advice, and will likely follow the advice if it sounds reasonable. When it comes to issues regarding our health-and specifically issues that have significant impact on life-and-death situations-we likely consult with a physician.

Interestingly, in serious medical situations, many observant Jews will seek a consultation with a rabbi for advice as well, to ensure that the medical decision they are making is in accordance with Jewish law and ethics. Jewish law is based on the will of God as transmitted through the Bible and understood by our sages. Therefore, all decisions a Jew makes must be in accordance with this law. The law, however, can at times be ambiguous or difficult to apply to modern medical issues. We try our best to extrapolate from what was written by our sages, which often leads to differing views on what Jewish law would prescribe in different medical situations. It is surprising, however, that even in situations where the vast majority of rabbis are in agreement with what the law should be, the vast majority of laypeople believe otherwise. This is not because they disagree with the rabbinic judgments; rather it is often because they are unaware of them. Rulings on medical issues do not get published in everyday books that are found in the synagogue, and rumor becomes the most efficient medium to spread incorrect concepts.

In my practice, I have noticed three possible causes as to why a patient may receive improper advice from his or her rabbi regarding medical decision-making. It is important to note that I have had many positive experiences with the interaction between rabbi, doctor, and patient; however the cases below are meant to illustrate the times the system fails. Although the current system often does work, and provides an excellent service to both doctors and patients, there are still too many times when it does not. The purpose here is to evaluate why some situations are not handled properly and how we can learn from our past mistakes for the benefit of the Jewish community in the future.

The first issue is simply not knowing the law. Often, what the general public believes to be the law, is not actually the law. Consider the following scenario: A Jewish man is in a car accident and is brought to the hospital and placed on a respirator because he is not breathing on his own after hitting his head. The remainder of the body is intact, his heart is still beating, blood is flowing through the veins, and all organs are functioning well. A neurologist performs an exam and determines the person to be brain dead. The doctor recommends removing the respirator and all intravenous fluids and sustenance, which will inevitably cause the breathing to stop, leading to cardiac arrest and the death of the other organs. If one took a poll of the general community, one would likely find that many people incorrectly believe that according to Jewish law this person is still alive and the machines cannot be turned off. Most rabbis have accepted that brain death is equivalent to death in Jewish law and that in this case the machines should be turned off. The Chief Rabbinate of Israel (both Ashkenazic and Sephardic) has therefore legislated it into Israeli law and once brain death is determined, all medical intervention should cease, despite a continuing heartbeat, and the body should be buried as soon as possible (ASSIA - Jewish Medical Ethics, Vol. I, No. 2, May 1989, pp. 2-10). The only intervention permissible at this point would be to harvest the viable organs. Leaving the brain dead body on a respirator or continuing to manipulate the body with medical intervention is considered disrespectful to the body and is against Jewish Law (Shulhan Arukh, Yoreh Deah 339:1). It is unclear to me why, although the majority of rabbis have ruled one way, many laypeople believe the other. This often leads to a situation when in an attempt to follow Jewish law, one will actually be transgressing the law by simply not knowing the ruling of the Chief Rabbinate and going on assumptions based on what popular opinion says the law is.

A second problem that arises is when we seek a rabbinic consultation and are only presented with one view of the law and are advised accordingly. When seeking a consultation, one not only seeks the opinion of the person they are consulting with but often expects to be informed of different opinions on the matter and then advised based on the personal views of the consultant. This holds true in many fields of consultation. However, when seeking a rabbinic consultation, rabbis often present the law based on one view without presenting the other opinions available. At times this advice may be following only one view of the law while differing from the majority view. In medicine, there are times when there is disagreement among the experts regarding the best treatment. A responsible doctor will present both sides to the patient and may even explain why he personally believes one view to be preferable to the other. But it would not be appropriate to present the case as having only one solution that all agree on. The same holds true for rabbis. If there is more than one acceptable opinion on the matter, the person who is coming for a consultation expects to be given all the information available. This is especially true when a rabbi gives advice based on a sole opinion, which disagrees with that of the majority. Even if the rabbi chooses to follow the view of the minority position, he should at least inform the patient that there is a majority view that disagrees. This situation usually arises when most people know of the minority view and it is therefore easy to accept when told to them by the rabbi as it conforms to what they in any case thought to be the law.
An example of this situation is the issue of abortion. Again, if one were to poll the average Orthodox Jew on the acceptability of abortion in Jewish Law, the majority would plainly state that the fetus is a life and it is therefore forbidden to terminate the pregnancy according to Jewish law. Some may go so far as to state that it may even be tantamount to murder. Although this is the correct Catholic view, it does not accord with Jewish law. There is essentially no sage who suggests that the fetus is considered a life and aborting it would be considered murder. This would mean that if that were the case, then someone would deserve the death penalty for performing an abortion, since there would be no difference in status before or after birth. In actuality, none of the early sources of Judaism from the Bible through the Mishna and Talmud make any mention of forbidding abortion. On the contrary, it seems from the Torah that if one caused another women to abort against her will, he simply pays a fine (Exodus 21:22). This is not to say we encourage wholesale abortions at anytime in pregnancy for any purpose, but the majority of rabbis do allow abortions in early pregnancy (some allow within 40 days of conception which is the equivalent of about the eighth week of pregnancy while others allow up to three months from conception which is about the 15th week of pregnancy) for a host of different reasons including medical or psychological stress and the need to abort after a rape or adulterous union. Again, the Chief Rabbinate of Israel, both Ashkenazic and Sephardic, follow the majority view and have ruled as such in Israel. Interestingly, Rabbi Eliezer Waldenburg, a highly respected Ashkenazic rabbi has allowed abortions even in the seventh to ninth month since there is no real source within Jewish Law for only allowing it up to 40 days or three months (Tzitz Eliezer 13:102). These are arbitrary numbers that do not have any significant biological basis. With this introduction one can understand how problematic this can become should someone get improper advice from her rabbinic consultant. Imagine the young girl who is raped, or the married woman who was raped or had an affair that results in pregnancy and goes to her rabbi for advice. I have seen cases of rabbis who advise her that she must continue the pregnancy since abortion is a transgression of Jewish law and hence the will of God. Without providing all the information, this young girl will now have to care for this child her whole life and will always be a reminder of the horrible way she conceived. The married woman will give birth to a mamzer who will be forbidden to marry an ordinary Jew. All this could have been avoided if the woman simply had received the proper consultation.

We see similar problems when dealing with the issue of abortion for a baby with a genetic malformation. Many rabbis have permitted abortion in these situations; even if it is not assured that the baby will be born with a defect but only has a high probability of that likelihood. Different rabbis have varying opinions about when and under what circumstances an abortion is permissible. The most lenient view is that of Rabbi Shaul Yisraeli (Amud Hayemini 32). He permits abortion to prevent potential psychological stress to the mother or the potential child. He goes so far as to rule that even if the sole problem is a genetic malformation that will only affect his looks, an abortion is permitted as it may cause others to look at him in such a way that would produce psychological stress. He states that there is no greater pain than this and he reminds us that in Jewish law, emotional pain is considered even more serious than physical pain.

This is very different from the view held by Rabbi Moshe Feinstein. Although Rabbi Feinstein recognizes the importance and need for premarital testing for Tay Sachs, he unfortunately, did not go one step further. He does write that when one's health is potentially in danger, and a genetic test can avert or alleviate that danger, the test must be taken. He therefore discourages carrier couples from marrying since this will lead to a 25 percent chance at each pregnancy of having a child with Tay Sachs (a debilitating progressive disorder that gradually leads to loss of mental and physical function, and at the peak of the symptoms the child goes blind, has seizures, and suffers in a hospital bed as the parents look on helplessly). This is why he appropriately supports premarital testing and admits the need to avoid giving birth to a child with Tay Sachs. However, situations have arisen where premarital testing was not done, or where testing may have been done but the couple felt a strong desire and commitment to each other that they decided to get married in any case. In these situations, they must make a choice on how to proceed with childbearing. They can risk having children with Tay Sachs, or they can opt to perform prenatal testing while the mother is in early stages of pregnancy, so that if it's found that the baby has Tay Sachs they can abort the pregnancy, within the appropriate time frame as defined by Jewish law, thus saving the future child and the family from this pain. Rabbi Feinstein ruled that families in this situation must go through with the pregnancy, thereby creating a child that is destined to pain and suffering. This ruling seems to contradict his usual mode of requiring us to use medical technology in order to preserve and improve quality of life. What is most surprising is that according to traditional Judaism there is no law against performing abortions even on a healthy baby found in any of the early sources of Jewish law. Rabbi Feinstein forbade the abortion not on legal grounds, but on philosophical grounds. He felt that we are not in a position to play God, and we can always hope for a miracle that this baby's genes will somehow miraculously change and he will not have the disease. This is again surprising as it seems to contradict what we know from the Talmud, that in general we do not rely on miracles and specifically in pregnancy we are taught by our sages that a baby's genes cannot change and therefore it is improper to pray for the gender of the baby once this has already been determined (Berakhot 60a, Shulhan Arukh Orah Hayyim 230:1). Rabbi Feinstein also allows and even requires one, to "play God" when it comes to other areas of medicine and treatment, but mysteriously not in this situation.

In addition to this philosophical issue, Rabbi Feinstein defends his position based on a mystical tradition. According to one view, a soul cannot achieve complete perfection until it has been placed in a body and has been born. In order to assure that this fetus'; soul (if it has one) is able to enter the world to come, Rabbi Feinstein requires a mother to carry the pregnancy to term. Rabbi Eliezer Waldenberg took issue with Rabbi Feinstein in a heated written debate (Tzitz Eliezer 14:100). He argued that we do not even know if that mystical concept is correct as it is just one opinion, and that even if that were correct, who gave us the obligation to assure that every soul is born and goes to the afterlife, or even the right to purposefully continue a pregnancy that would ultimately lead to the pain and suffering of the future child and the family? It should be noted that although Rabbi Waldenberg allowed abortions in situations such as these even into the ninth month of pregnancy, most rabbis have adopted stances allowing abortions only in the first trimester at various time points. There is no rabbi who has forbidden abortion outright in all circumstances. Although the Catholic religion did forbid abortion in all circumstances as they deemed the fetus a full human life, it is clear that Judaism has never held this approach, as the fetus does not have full human status before delivery. Since the fetus is not an independent human life, and is simply a part of the mother, it should be treated as any other body part that is ill and requires surgical intervention. It is common knowledge that finding the best possible mate is a difficult task. With Rabbi Waldenberg's approach, even if we discourage Tay Sachs carrier couples from marrying, we at least do not have to ban it completely, and in circumstances where the potential marriage is beneficial for the couple, we are able to allow the marriage and still prevent suffering of future offspring. Again, we can now understand the situations that have arisen where a woman was pregnant with a Tay Sachs baby and went to her rabbi for a consultation who only informed her of Rabbi Feinstein's view without disclosing other opinions.

Another common problem is when a rabbi is consulted regarding issues he may not be familiar with and/or may not have full knowledge of. A scenario that has occurred in my practice several times is when a rabbi is consulted and he does not seek out or is not interested in having all the information. As an example, a child has ADHD and has significant difficulty in both his Judaic and secular studies to the point that he is failing and is not progressing academically. This often leads to poor self-esteem and lack of self-confidence. In a situation such as this I have recommended a trial with a stimulant medication that has been found to effectively correct the chemical imbalance, thereby allowing the child to succeed academically. In addition to academic improvement these children typically improve their overall quality of life. This is secondary not only to their improved education but also to improved confidence and self-esteem. These children are sometimes quite impulsive and can often experience physical injury due to their symptoms as well. The decision on whether or not to treat is done only after fully evaluating the child and receiving information from several sources, including the school, on how these symptoms are affecting this particular child. One such patient's mother subsequent to the medical consultation, called a rebbe in Israel for a religious consultation on whether she can administer the medication to her child. Not willing to discuss the situation with the doctor and without personally knowing the family, the rebbe felt comfortable forbidding the woman from using the medication. This is unfortunate for the child who continues to fail in school and to have a dangerous level of impulsivity, and who has poor social interactions and growth due to these symptoms. Had the rabbi understood better how the disorder is affecting this particular child by getting to know him, through interactions and dialogue with the child's teachers, family, and physicians, the rebbe may have been able to come to a more comprehensive ruling that takes into account all the factors involved. In another instance, the same rebbe approved a child in a similar situation to take the same medication. The rebbe did not know or meet either child, and yet made medical decisions on their behalf.

One of the most common medical questions asked of rabbis regards circumcision. One such question pertains to possibly delaying the circumcision due to jaundice. The common decision among rabbis and mohalim is to delay the circumcision based even on moderately elevated levels of bilirubin and jaundice. There is no medical reason to delay the circumcision in these cases and one is therefore delaying the circumcision, in these situations, unnecessarily. Medically, circumcisions are done routinely in these situations without adverse events, and there is therefore no justification to delay the circumcision. Within this category, is also the question of metzitzah. In brief, after the circumcision is complete, there is a tradition that the mohel sucks some blood out from the incision site. For convenience this was done with direct suction from the mohel's mouth without a barrier. This procedure was done for medical reasons that are no longer valid. On the contrary, it is currently medically beneficial not to perform this procedure at all, especially without a barrier, as there is risk of infection from the procedure. This is especially true in situations where the mohel may be infected with the herpes virus and may transmit this to the child. Unfortunately, doctors are rarely consulted prior to the procedure, and rabbis are asked to make the decision on whether this procedure should be performed and how it should be performed. Without the proper precautions, we have seen many cases of children being infected and developing seizures. This is sometimes a permanent condition caused by this procedure. It seems ironic that a procedure that the rabbis instituted to protect our children is now having the opposite effect; yet rabbis who are not trained in the specialty of infectious diseases can not make a sound decision without consultation with an expert in the field.

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In the modern world we are very concerned and are careful regarding who we consult regarding our physical health decisions. When we have a general concern we are comfortable asking our local general practitioner physician for advice. However, when we have a specific concern we would never only consult with a generalist but will make every effort to ask a specialist in the field who deals with those issues often. Even with all that, we will often still seek a third or fourth opinion from other respected specialists in the field who have proven their depth of knowledge in the subject. Unfortunately the vast majority of people do not afford the same importance to their religious and spiritual decisions and well-being. Similar to physicians, we have many generalist rabbis who have made a career around helping the masses. They are available for all general religious needs from attending a circumcision to attending the funeral. These rabbis are much needed and fill an important role in the communities' lives. Some work from the pulpit, some as teachers in our schools, and some simply offer advice in their free time from whatever other career they are simultaneously pursuing. However, these generalist rabbis cannot be expected to be experts in every single area of Jewish Law and ethics. We expect too much from our rabbis. Even in the time of the Talmud, we find statements of rabbis admitting they are expert in the laws of isur v'heter (forbidden and permitted matters) but not hoshen mishpat (financial law) for example. The semikha system developed at that time even incorporated different examinations for the different categories of Jewish law. There were three general categories at the time: laws for daily living, business law, laws regarding permitting first-born animals (these are known as Yoreh Yoreh, Yadin Yadin, and Yatir Yatir). Rabbis would only advise people in areas of law within which they received their certification. Today, just as the body of knowledge in medicine has made it impossible to master every area in depth, the same holds true for the rabbinate.

In addition to the Bible and Mishna, which the rabbis of the talmudic period had to be experts in, we have 2,000 more years of literature that rabbis need to be knowledgeable about when making their rulings. In addition to this enormous body of religious literature, before rendering a decision, the rabbi needs to fully understand the medical, financial, technological, etc. issues at hand at well. It is almost impossible for one person to be able to master all this in a lifetime, especially with today's rapid advancements in science and technology. How can a rabbi decide laws regarding Internet transactions on Shabbat without a complete understanding of the intricate details of the network and the way the financial transactions occur, even if he were a full expert in Jewish business law? Today that is simply not enough. How can a rabbi decide if a genetically engineered fruit or animal can be kosher without having both a deep understanding of kosher laws, and of genetic engineering? Similarly, how can a rabbi make a decision regarding euthanasia, brain death, organ transplantation, genetics, abortion, medical Shabbat laws, and so forth, without having a full mastery of biology, physiology, and the physics and technology that comprise the respirator, the heart-lung machine, the electroencephalogram? It is simply not reasonable or appropriate to expect all this from every generalist rabbi.

One option is for a rabbi to have available a group of experts he trusts in certain fields who also have a strong understanding of Jewish law and whom he can consult when needed. An ideal option that has emerged is specialist rabbi. Many rabbis have taken upon themselves to become specialists in a particular field. There are rabbis who are particularly knowledgeable about Jewish law regarding end-of-life issues, transplant issues, medicine on Shabbat issues, bankruptcy law, Jewish law regarding technological issues, and so forth. Unfortunately the majority of community members will approach their generalist rabbi with all these questions, leading to an answer, which at times may produce unintended and unfortunate consequences. People would rarely go to their generalist physician for a consultation regarding their advanced-stage brain tumor. It would be inappropriate to expect a complete answer from the generalist. Rather the generalist should refer the patient to a neurosurgeon and/or neuro-oncologist for the proper advice. We should treat our religious health with at least the same level of importance and expectations, and when dealing with a specialized issue, a specialist rabbi should be consulted.

One such example that is often encountered is prenatal testing for Duchene Muscular Dystrophy. Duchene is a devastating disorder in boys who begin as healthy children, but by toddler years have difficulty walking, by teenage years require the use of a wheelchair, and by their late teens require use of a ventilator for respiratory support. This condition leads to death in early adulthood. Throughout this period of motor and physical decline, the patients are cognitively intact and have a full understanding of what is in store for them. This disorder is caused by a genetic mutation on the X chromosome. Every father has one X and one Y chromosome, while every mother has two X chromosomes but no Y chromosome. The sons will all inherit the Y chromosome from their father and either of the mother's two X chromosomes, while daughter with all inherit their father's X chromosome and either of the mother's X chromosomes. When a child has a mutated X chromosome in a certain region, this causes Duchene Muscular dystrophy as described above. These boys rarely have children, as they die so young. Girls however have two X chromosomes, so that even if one is defective the other can almost completely compensate for it. Therefore an adult woman may be a carrier of the disorder, yet can still lead a full healthy life (possibly with some mild weakness). When a couple give birth to a child who is found in early childhood to have Duchene Muscular Dystrophy, she will be counseled that half her male children (the ones that inherit the defective X from her) will have the disease, while the other half will be healthy. In addition, half her daughters will be carriers (the ones that inherit the defective X from her) like she is, and will be in the same situation as she is when they get older. The parents at this point have to make a serious decision that affects the remainder of their life. They can either not have any more children (and this decision is very different for a couple where the first child was found to have Duchene compared to when it is their fourth child) or to continue building their family. If they continue to build their family they have a 25 percent chance of giving birth to another son who will have the disease (and suffer and die young) and a 25 percent chance of having a daughter who is a carrier and will have to make these same decisions in adulthood.

One option available to them is to perform genetic testing during the early stages of pregnancy to determine if the fetus is a boy or a girl and if it has the defective chromosome. This affords the parents the option of aborting the fetus in the early stages of pregnancy and then trying again. This will lead to a healthy family that can continue to grow and fulfill their dreams and religious and spiritual goals. Although this last option appears to be the most obvious choice for many, it is highly underutilized in the Orthodox Jewish community. The main reason for this is the issue described in the prior paragraph. When facing this decision, the family will often ask either their local generalist rabbi or in some communities the rebbe of the entire community for advice and guidance. These rabbis are then expected to make these decisions and rulings without a complete understanding of the situation, the medical information and technology available, all the Jewish laws involved and the overall ramifications of their decisions on the family. Some of the worst cases I have witnessed included a family that was aware of the diagnosis, but was advised by their rabbi that they have a religious obligation to procreate no matter what the situation and must simply have faith in God. This unfortunately left the family with three affected sons, two carrier daughters, and two healthy children. To make matters worse, the eldest sister was not informed of the family genetic condition and was married without informing the groom. They had two affected children before she came to a neurologist, where she was finally informed of the genetic situation, and that all the suffering that her two children would go through over the next 20 years could have been easily avoided, had her mother received the appropriate advice from her spiritual leader. Luckily this young woman was more open to help, and I was able to show her that using current technology, she can be tested in such an early stage of pregnancy that would allow her to abort the affected fetuses within her acceptable window for early abortion.
This true event is only one of dozens in which I have been personally involved, and there are obviously many more in which I have not been involved. It is unclear to me (as the rabbi refused to discuss the issue despite my sincere effort at a respectful discussion) why this particular rabbi, and others make such unfortunate decisions in these life-changing situations. It may be that they are not experts in the laws of abortions, where the vast majority of rabbinic authorities allow at least early (first trimester or 40 days) abortions in these types of situations; it may be that they misunderstood the situation and its ramifications caused by a lack of communication with the physician; it may also be a lack of familiarity with modern medical breakthroughs that are literally occurring daily, that they were not able to come to a more sympathetic decision. How many people have asked their rabbi for advice but were referred to a specialist rabbi instead? It seems to occur very rarely. It is human nature for the rabbi to feel the pressure of coming up with the solution to the problem himself. Many doctors behave the same way and will try to answer a patient's questions to the best of their ability, even if they are not experts in the field. This is simply human nature. What is important is not whom to blame, the laypeople for expecting too much of their rabbi, or the rabbis for not referring the laypeople to a specialist rabbi. Rather, the important issue at hand is how to fix a broken system that doesn't want to be fixed. Rabbi Yosef Caro ruled that someone who is not an expert in a particular field is not permitted to give medical advice or treatment-and if he does he can be considered a murderer (Yoreh Deah 336:1). The Aruh haShulhan adds that according to halakha, one must be licensed in the field of question and approved by the state (in whichever governing body has jurisdiction) to offer such advice. These rules apply to doctors and all the more so to rabbis who may not have such training or certification.

At what point do we decide to stand up to our leadership and demand a better system? How much suffering must continue in vain before we fix this broken system? There is a current concept based on a misunderstood passage in Pirke Avoth that is held in high regard, which is "Ase Lekha Rav," make for yourself a rabbi (Avoth 1:6). This is commonly understood today as stating that every Jew must pick one rabbi and always follow that rabbi. It is considered inappropriate to ask a rabbi other than your own a question of Jewish law. This is absurd and has never been the way our ancestors operated. This new rule, of only asking one rabbi every type of question, is not founded in halakha. Even the rabbis of the Talmud understood that some rabbis had expertise in business law, agricultural law, marital law, etc. and specific rabbis had differing authority based on their area of expertise. Why is it that we expect a rabbi who may have not even studied basic biology to understand the intricacies of complex genetics? The majority of doctors, who went through rigorous medical training, still do not comprehend cutting-edge medical genetics. It wasn't until 1953 that Watson and Crick famously described the structure of DNA and it wasn't until many years later and even until very recently that we are beginning to understand how to test and manipulate genes. My grandfather, Dr. Albert Moghrabi, for example, a first-class physician, studied in medical school in the 1940s, prior to the discoveries of Watson and Crick. Although he is an expert in general medicine and has kept current in his knowledge of genetics, he admits not to be an expert in genetics and would refer to a specialist for genetic counseling.

It is important to realize that there is no one that is "at fault" here. Both the rabbis and the community want what is best for our physical and spiritual health. However, it is the current system that is failing, as it is not structured to keep up with developments of modern life. I believe the best way to address these issues is to have the rabbis, laypeople, and doctors sit down together to openly discuss ways to fix the system. It can't be stressed enough that the problem does not stem from the rabbis, the laypeople, or the doctors. Rather, it stems from the defective interaction between these three groups that leads to the problems mentioned above. As a start, one possible solution may be to publish a book listing both generalist and specialist rabbis in different fields so that one can easily be referred to the appropriate authority who can handle the question for which they are seeking guidance. This is a simple and effective way to help both the community, and the rabbis who are asked questions that are outside their expertise. Doctors can also use this resource to direct their patients to appropriate authorities, and rabbis would also have a resource open to themselves to assure what they are doing is in accord with Jewish law. Many doctors already have a specialist rabbi that they consult; this would provide a list of rabbis in different specialties as well. This may also lead to training programs where rabbis are specifically trained in different fields of medicine so that they can have a better understanding of the situations they are being asked to advise. It would be helpful to have some rabbis attend a neurology clinic, or a cancer clinic, or an intensive care unit once per week or for a six-month training period. We need the appropriate leaders to organize this with our local hospitals and yeshivot. For every case mentioned above where there was inappropriate advice, I can name ten cases where the interaction between the rabbi, the patient, and myself was invaluable. In many of these high-stress situations, open dialogue with rabbis complements the medical treatment by encouraging and supporting the patient from a religious standpoint. This engenders more confidence in the doctor and the treatment, leading to better outcomes for the patient. Without a rabbi's involvement, a religious patient may be scared and untrusting of the modern treatments. A rabbi who has the medical knowledge and spiritual leadership can support the treatment and the patient in ways the doctor never could. It is time that we demand the same level of treatment of our religious and spiritual well being that we demand for our physical and medical well-being. In this time of health-care reform, it is appropriate to look into rabbinic-care refinements as well.

It is axiomatic that Modern Orthodoxy and Modern Orthodox Jews value the academic field of Jewish Studies, which functions as the bridge between the Bet Midrash and the academy, both locations in which we seek to situate ourselves. In articulating the value of such study, proponents often highlight the insights it affords in the realm of Talmud Torah. For example, understanding the ancient Near Eastern context in which Torah was given allows us to understand difficult passages or, perhaps more importantly, enhances our appreciation of the values Torah conveys by placing them in relief against their cultural backdrop. Similarly, enhanced literary sensitivity affords greater insight into both Torah’s artistry and its message. Here I suggest that the field of Jewish Studies as practiced in the academy can contribute in surprising ways not only to our Talmud Torah but to our performance of mitzvoth as well.

My doctoral research examined the experiences of medieval Jewish apostates, Jews who converted to Christianity, a group who had been alternately ignored or excoriated by previous generations of Jewish historians, most of whose study was as deeply rooted in their Jewish identities as is my own. I found myself feeling a stronger sense of empathy than I had anticipated with the typically anonymous figures so often characterized as villains by previous generations of Jewish historians. In exploring the work on religious conversion that emerged out of religious studies and the social sciences, I came to see that while we as a community tend to see apostates and converts as diametric opposites, from a phenomenological perspective, the experience of the ger tzedek (righteous convert) and the meshummad (apostate) is in fact shared: Each is a defector from one religion seeking to join a new religious community.

As Jews, we have minimal experience incorporating converts into our community; there is little in the way of historical models to which we can turn in seeking to address a new reality in which significant numbers of people want to become Jewish. For a variety of reasons, including but not limited to the role of decisions made by rabbinic authorities in the State of Israel vis-à-vis the status of converts in the Diaspora, the question of Jewish communal treatment of converts, or gerei tzedek, in our own American Modern Orthodox Jewish community has moved to the fore. Recent rabbinic improprieties aside, it is abundantly clear that we as a community have not been doing a good job integrating converts into our community.

This reality is not merely a “public relations” problem. There are two mitzvoth d’orayta, Torah commandments, that govern our interactions with converts: the lav (prohibition) of Ona’at haGer, oppressing the convert, and the aseh (positive commandment) of Ahavat haGer, loving the convert.[1] Although rabbinic texts are emphatic in their insistence that these are critically important mitzvoth,[2] they don’t offer much in the way of practical guidance as to what these actually mean. Thus, in discussing what it means to love the convert, only Peri Megadim (to Shulhan Arukh Orah Hayim 156) provides a concrete example of what the mitzvah entails. He describes the case of a convert whose beast of burden’s load has become dislodged. Although it is a general mitzvah to help any Jew in this circumstance, the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer requires that assistance to the convert take priority, as there are two mitzvoth in play here—the same mitzvah of veAhavta leReakha kamokha, loving one’s fellow as oneself, that applies in the case of any Jew, as well as the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer. Just as we know that the mitzvah of veAhavta leReakha kamokha is by no means limited to helping a Jew with his fallen burden, the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer would similarly seem to be necessarily far more encompassing than the specific case mentioned here. But given our limited historical experience with performing or implementing this particular mitzvah, we don’t have a good sense of what its optimal fulfillment should look like. If Peri Megadim emphasizes that the convert is in need of the protection of a special mitzvah because of the vulnerability engendered by his or her lack of connection and support created by extended social and family networks, then the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer would demand that we effectively integrate converts into communities.

Here, given our lack of communal experience at integrating converts, the experiences of medieval Jewish apostates can shed light on what we as a community should—and should not—do to effectively perform the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer. I’d like to first share some of what I’ve learned about the experiences of medieval Jewish converts to Christianity and then turn to consider the implications for our own context.

The story of medieval Jewish conversion to Christianity is mostly a story of failure to integrate former Jews as members of their new religious faith community. As much as medieval Christians theoretically anticipated the conversion of Jews, they didn’t really expect too many Jews to actually convert and weren’t sure what to make of those who did. In part because the goals of church and state were not aligned (much to the frustration of religious figures, kings or local rulers tended to either confiscate the property of Jewish converts or consign it to their Jewish co-religionists so as not to relinquish ultimate control over it), Jewish converts to Christianity were often impoverished. Although Church officials, such as the Pope, worked hard to encourage local officials, such as bishops, or institutions, such as monasteries, to provide for the financial support of converts, these efforts were often met with resistance and skepticism.[3] Poignantly, we have papal letters advocating for the support of a given convert and then, years later, letters to the same address entreating financial aid for the sons of that very convert. It is not surprising that some Jewish converts to Christianity gave up and returned to the Jewish community, nor that something of a vicious cycle developed. Christians were skeptical of the religious sincerity of Jewish converts, whom they feared became Christian more for material than spiritual benefit; inability to achieve support and integration led Jewish converts—or occasionally their children—to return to the Jewish community; this return reinforced the skepticism and suspicion with which subsequent converts were greeted, and so on. It’s worth emphasizing that there are no scoundrels here. Although these responses were undoubtedly intensified by increasing Christian belief in the immutability of Jewishness and the impossibility of conversion from Judaism to Christianity over the course of the twelfth century, concern that Jews converted for material gain and that they were liable to return to Judaism was supported by the evidence of the behavior and choices of many such converts.

Even converts whose conversions “stuck” found themselves in a kind of religious “no man’s land.” One Christian miracle tale depicts the fear of a young Jewish boy seeking conversion to Christianity that he would wind up as a penniless “Jew-Christian” of a sort with which he was all too familiar.[4] In another example that had a monumental impact on the modern Jewish experience, early modern Jewish converts to Christianity in Spain were labeled “New Christians” and subjected to social and economic disadvantages similar to those they had experienced as Jews (not to mention Inquisitional scrutiny). Successful integration into their new religious communities was all too elusive for many medieval and early modern Jewish converts.

Even cases that at first blush appear to have been successful conversions raise questions about how effective the integration achieved by these converts actually was. One child who was forcibly converted during the First Crusade was taken to a monastery and became a monk. In twelfth-century Christian author Guibert of Nogent’s depiction, the young formerly Jewish monk was outstanding among his peers—he composed a work of anti-Jewish polemic, and once, when he was holding a lit candle, the dripping wax miraculously formed the shape of a cross. This young monk was incorporated into a monastic community. But why the need for miracles? Or polemical works against Jews? And why wasn’t it sufficient for this young monk who had been converted from Judaism to simply be “good enough?” [5]

The names of apostates Nicholas Donin and Pablo Christiani are infamous among Jews for the role each played in bringing harm to his former co-religionists. Nicholas Donin is remembered for his role in introducing thirteenth-century Christians to rabbinic literature; he was the primary Christian antagonist at the 1240 Trial of the Talmud that culminated in the burning of the Talmud in the center of Paris two years later. Just over twenty years later, Pablo Christiani pioneered a new Christian missionizing approach using rabbinic literature to prove the truth of Christianity. Furthermore, he inaugurated the method, which would continue to be developed and sharpened over the course of the next century and a half, at the Vikuah HaRamban, Nachmanides’ disputation at Barcelona. These apostates certainly seem to have found a place within their new Christian communities, but their role as “professional converts” begs the question: If one of the only ways that Jewish converts can find a place within their new religious communities is to highlight their status as former Jews, does this really constitute true integration into a new religious community?

Even well-intentioned efforts at ameliorating some of the problems confronted by Jewish converts could backfire. English King Henry III took a personal interest in encouraging Jewish conversion. He founded and supported the London Domus Conversorum, house of converts, to alleviate the plight of impoverished converts and ensure them of a modicum of material aid. As things transpired, for many converts the Domus became a permanent “halfway house” in which Jewish converts to Christianity learned from one another, married one another, and bequeathed their spots in the Domus to their children. Long after the expulsion of Jews from England in 1290, descendants of English Jewish converts to Christianity resided in the Domus, the final relics of Jewish life on that island. [6]

Despite the overall bleak experience of medieval Jewish converts, there were a few bright spots, or contexts in which Jewish converts were able to be incorporated within their new faith communities. Of course, these cases are by definition more difficult to study, as converts who effectively integrate typically disappear from the historical record. There are miracle tales that relate the conversion of young Jewish women to Christianity. These stories focus on the young women’s encounters with Christianity, generally through conversations with young Christian clerics, and their subsequent conversion. Immediately upon conversion, according to these accounts, the young women converts either marry Christian men or enter a convent; after becoming part of a Christian family or “monastic family” we hear no more of them. This is the closest we come to “happily ever after” for medieval Jewish converts.

Jewish apostates, or converts from Judaism, have only recently been incorporated into Jewish historiography [7] and at first blush medieval apostates and early-twenty-first century gerei tzedek may seem to have no apparent connection to one another. I suggest that the largely failed experiences of Jewish renegades from the Middle Ages can provide much needed insight into how to avoid Ona’at haGer and how to properly fulfill the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer. In the absence of much specific halakhic guidance about how to integrate converts into our community due to the relative rarity of conversion to Judaism in the past, the experiences of pre-modern Jewish apostates sensitize us to the distinctive situation of the convert and proffer insight that can productively guide our communal approach to a significant challenge with which we are confronted.

In thinking about our communal approach to converts, or gerim, we have tended to emphasize the importance of ascertaining the suitability of prospective candidates for conversion. We have focused on ensuring that prospective gerim are properly informed of, educated about, and committed to the observance of the mitzvoth in which they will become obligated and that the technical or ritual aspects of conversion are enacted correctly. Appropriately, responsibility for assuring that these important requirements have been met has by and large been assumed by and been communally assigned to rabbis.
Among the things that emerge from my study of medieval Jewish apostates is that there are multiple elements inherent in the experience of joining a new religious community. These different aspects are inherent in the language that we use to talk about “Jews by choice.” We tend to use the terms “convert” and “ger” interchangeably, as direct translations for one another. And in some ways they are. But the different etymologies of these terms highlight different facets of the experience of becoming a member of a new faith community. To convert, from the Latin “conversus,” means “to turn toward,” and the term convert identifies one who has turned toward a new religious faith. The term “ger” by contrast, emphasizes that its subject is an alien, a stranger, not a native. Of course, both “turning toward” and becoming a stranger are elements in joining a new religious community.

Our community has emphasized the “turning toward” aspect of the conversion experience. We have been less attentive, however, to the other, equally significant aspect of the experience of conversion, that of integration of the convert into her or his new community.

We conceive of conversion as a phenomenon of the soul. Yet the experience of joining a new religious community is in many ways similar to the experience of immigration, as sociologist of religion Peter Berger has noted in his classic work The Sacred Canopy. He advises that the convert who wishes to “stay converted” would do well to make choices that immerse her or himself in her or his new community. By the same token, he observes that the receiving community has an obligation to allow the convert to become immersed in his new surroundings and to facilitate such immersion. [8]

As we foster integration of converts into our communities, we should recognize that, like other immigrants, gerim may bring old tastes and habits with them. Having become a convert is an indelible aspect of individual experience; integration into a new community, no matter how effective or embracing, cannot efface its significance in forming a person’s identity, nor should it seek to do so. We are well aware that immigrants, including those who are eager and whole-hearted in their desire to acculturate into their new home, retain aspects of their previous cultural identity. Immigrants may speak with an accent, enjoy their native cuisines, or even keep house in ways that differ from the norms of their adopted home. None of this in any way interferes with or contradicts the ability or desire to be or to become American, for example. In our eagerness to incorporate “new immigrants” into our community, we must be wary of replicating the tendencies of the Spanish Inquisition, which saw in every converso who didn’t like the taste of pork or who changed the linens on Friday evidence of “Judaizing,” or residual belief in and commitment to the Jewish faith. [9] Although for some conversos this may have been the case, for many others, perhaps the vast majority, these represented retained cultural habits, not religious commitments.[10] Assuming that elements of converts’ previous identities don’t conflict with Jewish religious beliefs or practices we should tolerate and even appreciate or celebrate these rather than seek to eradicate them or view all deviation from cultural habits and norms as a religious threat.

What communities can and, according to the Torah, must do, is enable a convert to feel her or himself not a ger—a stranger, an alien—in our community, but at home. This aspect of the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer is highlighted in the pasuk in Parashat Kedoshim (Lev. 19:34) that R. Moshe of Coucy, in his thirteenth-century Sefer Mitzvoth Gadol (Positive Commandment 10) identifies as the source of the commandment to love the convert: “The stranger (ger) who sojourns with you shall be to you as the home-born among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” Part of the Torah’s mandate is to help the ger resemble the ezrakh, the native, to enable her or him to feel at home. This instruction is relevant primarily after the ger has converted and is incumbent not only on rabbinic leaders but on each individual member of the community as well.

This is a new, and welcome, task for our community. Ironically, the experience of medieval Jewish apostates is one of the resources on which we can draw to help us know how to properly and effectively incorporate newcomers into our religious community. Although they may have opted out of membership in medieval Jewish communities, their reception by their new faith community provides us with the tools to rise to the challenge of our own vastly different circumstances. While some of what emerges from their experience is fairly readily apparent, other aspects of what we can learn are not.

We are all aware of the prohibition of Ona’at haGer, which includes reminding the convert of his or her origins. We are less sensitive, though, to the reality that asking a convert to share her or his “story,” whether publicly or privately, impedes integration and singles the convert out as a “ger.” Such requests come with the best of intentions; it’s not only fascinating to hear about someone who has freely chosen to be part of our community, but it’s also deeply reinforcing of our own identity as Jews. It’s no wonder that many converts find themselves asked to share their conversion narrative with Jewish audiences, especially adolescents. As a community we are deeply concerned about attrition among “emerging adults.” Facilitating young people’s encounter with those who have chosen the life into which their audience was born seems like a wonderful educational opportunity. Desire to hear converts’ stories is not limited to young audiences. One major Jewish organization devoted an entire issue of its periodical to the stories of converts; now there’s a YouTube channel (“Kiruv Media”) that posts videos of converts sharing their narratives. Yet the experience of pre-modern converts suggests that asking converts to share their stories for the benefit of their new faith community affects converts in ways that are ambiguous at best.

The early modern German converts studied by Prof. Elisheva Carlebach found themselves as instructors of Hebrew, teaching rabbinic biblical interpretation to Christians, or authoring quasi-“ethnographic” depictions of Jewish life for interested Christian audiences. Each of these roles advanced important theological or spiritual goals within their new Christian communities. Yet limiting converts to new identities as Christians that demanded continual reference to their status as converts impeded their ability to fully integrate into Christian communities and ensured that they remained, like the title of Carlebach’s work, divided souls. [11]

The lesson for our own situation is clear: While we should not prevent converts who want to share their stories from doing so, we must avoid putting converts in the position of feeling impelled to share their experiences of conversion, no matter how inspiring these may be. Creating a context in which converts to Judaism find a place in our community only as motivational speakers or as “professional” converts is inimical to the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer even when received with great enthusiasm.

We should also be sensitive to the pitfalls of creating a “convert ghetto” or a contemporary “domus conversorum.” Needless to say, no one has suggested that we should establish a “merkaz kelitah” for converts. The contemporary reality is more complicated and the risk more subtle. As individual communities develop a reputation for being particularly embracing of converts, they naturally attract an influx of gerim and prospective gerim. We should be attuned to the perils of creating a community with a distinctively “convert” character. Paradoxically, as in the case of the medieval domus conversorum, the efforts of those most concerned with and committed to meeting the needs of gerim can potentially impede the communal integration of converts that represents the optimal fulfillment of the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer.

In addition to offering guidance about what not to do, the experiences of pre-modern Jewish converts also afford us insight into what we ought to do to help converts feel less like strangers and more at home. As we’ve seen, these converts mostly failed to integrate into their new communities; some even returned to their Jewish former communities in the wake of this unsuccessful integration. But there were some converts who joined religious communities (like monasteries or convents), who were adopted into Christian families or who married Christian young men and then left no further imprint in the historical record. While this invisibility is frustrating for the historian, it also suggests that the convert became effectively incorporated into her or his new community in a way that did not flag her or him as a former Jew or as a convert.

As things stand in our community, rabbis are charged with the responsibility of serving both as gatekeepers and as ushers into our community. The intensive rabbinic relationship with a prospective convert frequently culminates with the candidate’s conversion to Judaism. Yet as we have seen, much of the challenge confronting converts revolves around what happens in the days, months, and years after the technical or ritual aspects of conversion have been completed. In thinking about how to help converts become part of our community we ought to consider how we might emulate the approaches that achieved successful integration.

The mitzvah of Ahavat haGer is predicated on the assumption that the sense of being a “stranger” persists after conversion, not during the process of becoming a Jew. This mitzvah, like all other mitzvoth, is incumbent not just on rabbis, but on all of us. As is often the case, though, that which is “everyone’s” responsibility can become “no one’s” responsibility. The instances of successful integration experienced by medieval Jewish converts suggest that becoming part of a family—either a monastic family or a nuclear, and by extension, extended family—enables the neophyte member to become genuinely part of the community. Re-imagining the process of conversion to include not just rabbinic guidance and oversight but also integration into a family that is willing and eager to “adopt” a new member can lessen the experience of being a stranger and foster the development of actual “belonging.”

Rabbinic thinking about conversion construes the convert as being born anew: Ger sheNitgayer keKatan sheNolad dami (B.Yebamot 97b). This is not merely a homiletic observation but a legal statement with practical implications. Of course, newborns cannot survive in the absence of family or surrogate family; newly-born adult Jews have a hard time doing so as well. The lessons of medieval Jewish apostates suggest effective integration of the convert necessitates carefully matching prospective converts with appropriate families who can serve as “surrogate” families, “adoptive” families, or even “God-families” who will think of the ger as “ours.” This can enable the convert to feel like a “ben/bat bayit”—that is, at home, becoming embedded not only within an individual family but within that family’s broader web or network of relationships within the community. This is a relationship with a person in the process of becoming Jewish that should be entered into with the assumption that it will continue more or less indefinitely, rather than terminating once the process of conversion has been completed. Parenthetically, fostering the development of close relationships with members of the community in addition to the relationship with the rabbi supervising the conversion builds in a safeguard against rabbinic abuse during the process, but that’s not the primary objective here.

Halakhic commentators discuss the extent and duration of the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer. Among the possibilities they entertain are that it is limited to the convert him or herself; that it extends until the tenth generation (!); that it persists until the descendent of the convert has one parent who is a native born Jew; or that it applies only as long as the convert and his/her descendents are known as “converts.”[12] While the range here is astounding, these possibilities all point in the same direction: The mitzvah of Ahavat haGer responds to the unique vulnerability of the convert; once the convert and/or his descendants are fully incorporated into their new community, either by no longer being “known” as a convert or by having one native-born parent and the network of relationships that being born into a Jewish family entails the mitzvah is no longer applicable. Optimal performance of the mitzvah of Ahavat haGer entails helping the convert move from the uniquely vulnerable category of the “stranger” in need of special protection to the more general category of veAhavta leReakha kamokha, that is, to being fully immersed within the community indistinguishable from other communal members.

Becoming a member of a new religious community is an indelible aspect of individual experience. Integration into a new community, no matter how effective or embracing cannot efface that significant aspect of individual experience, nor should it seek to do so. What communities can and, according to the Torah, must do is help the convert feel less like a stranger. The Torah exhorts us to love the stranger “ki gerim heyitem beEretz Mitzrayim,” “for you were strangers in the land of Egypt (Deut. 10:19).” We are enjoined to learn from our mostly negative historical experience in the land of Egypt that treatment of the ger is critically important. In this same spirit, I suggest that we can learn how—and how not—to relate to converts in our community from our own historical experience as converts, (or apostates) in pre-modern Europe. Although they may have opted out of Jewish communal membership, their reception (or lack thereof) by their new faith community provides us with the tools to rise to the challenge of our own vastly different circumstances. Their experience heightens our awareness of the two aspects of becoming part of a new religious community. In the words of Megillat Rut, the convert seeks both “amekh ami—your people is my people” and “Elokayikh Elokai—your God is my God.” While our current approach to conversion is focused on the second of these, academic study of medieval Jewish apostates reveals both the importance of the first and provides guidance about how to help bring about the aspiration of “amekh ami.”

[1] See Minhat Hinukh 63 and 431.
[2] See Rambam, MT Hilkhot Deot 6:4.
[3] See the letters collected in Solomon Grayzel, The Popes and the Jews in the Thirteenth Century, New York: Hermon Press (1966).
[4] See Mary Minty, “Responses to Medieval Ashkenazi Martyrdom (Kiddush ha-Shem) in late Medieval German Christian Sources,” Jahrbuch für Antisemitismusforschung 4 (1995): 13–38.
[5] A Monk’s Confession: The Autobiography of Guibert of Nogent, ed. and trans. Paul Archambault, University Park, PA: Penn State University Press (1995).
[6] On the London Domus, see Robert Stacey, “The Conversion of Jews to Christianity in Thirteenth Century England,” Speculum 67 (1992): 263–283.
[7] See Todd Endelman, Leaving the Jewish Fold: Conversion and Radical Assimilation in Modern Jewish History, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press (2015), “Introduction,” pp. 1–16.
[8] Peter Berger, The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion, New York: Doubleday (1967), pp. 50–51.
[9] For a discussion of the complexity of the experience of first generation conversos see Yirmiyahu Yovel, “Converso Dualities in the First Generation: The Cancioneros,” Jewish Social Studies 4 (1998): 1–28.
[10] The religious identity of conversos, and especially the degree to which crypto-judaizing was a significant or dominant factor in that experience, has been contested. See the discussions of B. Netanyahu, The Marranos of Spain: From the Late 14th to the Early 16th Century According to Contemporary Hebrew Sources, third edition, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press (1999) and The Origins of the Inquisition in Fifteenth Century Spain, New York: Random House (1995); Renee Levine Melammed, Heretics or Daughters of Israel: The Crypto-Jewish Women of Castile, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press (1999); and Henry Kamen, The Spanish Inquisition: A Historical Revision fourth edition, New Haven and London: Yale University Press (2014).
[11] Elisheva Carlebach, Divided Souls: Converts from Judaism in Germany, 1500–1750, New Haven: Yale University Press (2001).
[12] See Minhat Hinukh 431; Pri Megadim to Shulhan Arukh Orah Hayim 156.

On Thursday, July 30, 2015, a Haredi former convict named Yishai Schlissel stabbed six marchers in Jerusalem’s Gay Pride parade; a few days later, one of his victims, 16-year-old Shira Banki died of her wounds. Schlissel had been released from prison only three weeks earlier, having served for 10 years for committing a virtually identical crime in 2005. Although the stabbing made headlines, it was soon overshadowed by the murder of a West Bank Palestinian family, which was quickly attributed to radical settlers.

Much has been written about what has motivated radical settler groups, the rabbis who appear to condone their activities, and the putative halakhic rulings that purportedly justify them. Far less attention has been paid to the halakhic rationalizations that might have justified Schlissel’s actions; it is noteworthy that with a few exceptions, Haredi leaders remained silent in the aftermath of the stabbings—even after Shira Banki’s death.

Schlissel refused legal counsel, saying he did not recognize the legal standing of the court since it was secular, not rabbinical. Appearing in court on August 24, 2015 for his formal indictment, sporting a long unkempt black beard that matched his heavy jet-black eyebrows, black peyot that extended far below his shoulders, handcuffed, and wearing his tallit katan over a long-sleeved prisoner’s shirt, Schlissel reiterated his contempt for the proceedings. Clearly unrepentant, he asserted that "the pride parade must be cancelled to elevate Shira Banki's soul. If you care for her well-being, you must cease this blasphemy against God. The parades bring harsh decrees upon Israel." [1] Schlissel's remarks and attitude mirrored his behavior in 2005, when he refused to stand before the judge who convicted him. And it also reflected the refusal of many Haredi leaders to recognize the validity of the State of Israel’s courts on the grounds that they are arkaot, non-Jewish courts, and that Jews should not bring their cases before them.

Schlissel told the court in 2005 that he was on “a mission from God,” and, as his comments to the court indicated, he no doubt believed the same when he repeated his rampage 10 years later. What, then, was the basis for his assertion, and to what extent does the silence of the Haredi rabbis essentially reflect the same view? It is likely that the answer to both of these questions lies in the concept of kanaim pog’im bo—the right for zealots to attack a violator of major Torah laws.

What Is a Kana’i?

The biblical Pinhas and Elijah are the archetypes of what is now called the kana’i. Pinhas was outraged by the publicly promiscuous behavior of the tribal leader Zimri the son of Salu and his Moabite paramour, Kozbi the daughter of Zur, one of the five Midianite emirs. Without seeking advice or a ruling from Moses, Pinhas grabbed a pike [2] and stabbed and killed them both. For this act of individual vigilantism, which God described as “displaying...his passion for me” (bekan’o et kin’ati), He granted Pinhas His “pact of friendship.” [3]

In contrast to Pinhas, whom the Torah described as a zealot, Elijah identified himself as one. Relating how he slaughtered the false prophets of Baal, Elijah twice told God, in identical language, I have been zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts.[4] Also in contrast to Pinhas, who took on a heroic aura when his act brought an end to the plague that had inflicted on Israel because of their promiscuity before the Midianite god, Baal Pe’or, Elijah was forced to flee after his murder of the priests. It was God who told him to return to civilization, first by crowning Hazael in Damascus as king of Aram and then by anointing Jehu as king of the 10 northern tribes.

The Talmud and Midrash generally approved of both men’s behavior. Rav, the great amora, stated that while Moses could not recall the halakhic ruling regarding intercourse between a Jew and a non-Jewess, Pinhas reminded him that he who cohabits with a gentile woman can be attacked by zealots. R. Isaac said Pinhas did not even have to consult Moses, since the Divine Name was being profaned. R. Elazar further asserted that when the ministering angels prevented Pinhas from attacking Zimri and Kozbi, God ordered them to withdraw, since Pinhas was a “zealot the son of a zealot,” who, like his ancestor Levi (who together with Simeon had killed the residents of Shechem for tolerating the rape of Dinah) “turned away wrath.”[5] When the divine spirit rested on Pinhas, his face “burned like a torch.”[6] Indeed, the Talmud goes so far as to assert that “he who sees Pinhas in a dream will benefit from a miracle.” [7]

As for Elijah, the Talmud ruled that he could act high-handedly in concert with God when a person behaved improperly, for example, when marrying an unsuitable woman. [8] Likewise, he could rout angels if he judged it appropriate to do so.[9] The Talmud depicted him as a student of Moses.[10] The Midrash went even further, claiming that he was equal in stature to the man recognized as the greatest of all prophets. [11] He is also portrayed as a rabbinical scholar, participating in the debates that took place in the both Great Bet Midrash[12] and that of Rabbi Judah the Prince[13] and authoring his own midrashim, Seder Eliyahu Rabba and Seder Eliyahu Zuta. [14]

Not surprisingly, because of the vigilantism that distinguished these characters, various midrashim identified the two men as the same individual.[15] In a similar vein, the Targum of Jonathan ben Uziel, an early Tanna, states that Pinhas, like Elijah, never died.[16] Jonathan asserts that instead he was transformed into an immortal angel, who would be the harbinger of the redemption at the end of days, [17] thereby acting in the identical role that the prophet Malachi ascribed to Elijah.[18]

A kana’i is therefore someone who acts on his own to sanctify God’s name in the face of its desecration. He acts on impulse, rendering his own shorthand judgment of the circumstances that he confronts. He can respond to those circumstances as he sees fit; nothing is out of bounds. He can kill, if necessary. And he will be praised in Heaven.

The Halakha of Kana’im Pog’im Bo

Although both Pinhas and Elijah won rabbinical praise, the rabbis were less than enamored by the entire concept of zealotry (kana’ut) and were far more restrictive concerning anyone who sought to emulate the two biblical figures. Although the Talmud accepted the principle that zealots could act independently of a court judgment, they limited such activity to the case of a Jewish man having intercourse with a non-Jewish woman. No action could be taken against a Jewish woman having relations with a non-Jewish man. Even in the former case, no action could be taken unless the zealot actually struck while the couple was in flagrante, and did so “in public,” that is, before a minimum of 10 male witnesses. Moreover, the rabbis argued that were a zealot actually to consult a religious court, he would be prevented from taking further action prior to a court judgment. Indeed, the rabbis asserted that had Pinhas sought Moses’ approval, he would have been forbidden to act against Zimri. [19]

The rabbis also stressed that despite the fact that Pinhas met all the requirements enabling him to act against Zimri, had Zimri actually turned on him and killed him, he would not have been guilty of murder. For, the rabbis argued, Pinhas, though acting out of zealousness for the sanctity of God’s name, was nevertheless a rodef, an attacker with intent to kill, and, a rodef can himself be killed by the person whose life he threatens.[20] This ruling no doubt was intended to create a chilling deterrent effect on a would-be zealot since it imposes a high degree of risk on any act of zealotry.

Maimonides ascribed the principle of kana’im pog’im bo to the laws handed down by Moses at Sinai (halakha l’Moshe mi’Sinai) noting that “if zealots attacked and killed [the transgressor] they are praiseworthy and energetic.”[21] He adopted in toto the talmudic provisos that the sin take place before 10 or more witnesses; that the act of zealotry could only be undertaken during the transgression; that a court could not authorize such an act; that the zealot would be guilty of a capital crime should he kill the transgressor after having sought the court’s approval; and that should the zealot himself be killed, the transgressor would not be prosecuted for murder. Moreover, Maimonides added a further restriction that had not been articulated in the Talmud: the law permitting a zealot to act on his own did not apply to relations between a Jew and the daughter of a ger toshav, which Maimonides defined as a Gentile who was not an idolator.[22] Rabbi Moses of Coucy adopted Maimonides’ language in his Sefer Mitzvot Gadol but added a key word, laShamayim—for Heaven—indicating that the zealot’s motives had to be pure.[23] If his motives were mixed, R. Moses implied, he was no better than any murderer. R. Yaakov ben Asher, popularly known as Baal Haturim, quoted Maimonides extensively, adding R. Moses of Coucy's caveat. He likewise explicitly stated that the prohibited relations had to take place "in the eyes" of 10 Jews, a position that, as will be seen below, a later decisor reinterpreted. [24]

Rabbi Abraham ben David, known by his acronym Rabad, challenged Maimonides’ ruling in one crucial respect: The transgressor had first to be warned that he was committing a capital sin and he ignored the warning. Later commentators on Maimonides’ code were divided as to whether a warning was indeed called for. Rabbi Vidal of Tolosa was unclear as to whether a warning was necessary, arguing that while it appeared from the biblical text that Zimri received no warning, the Talmud implied that he indeed ignored a warning that he had received regarding his relations with Kozbi.[25] Rabbi Moses Isserlis (known as Ramo) the primary source of most Ashkenazic rulings, followed Rabad's view in his gloss on the Shulhan Arukh, however.[26] On the other hand, Rabbi Shem Tov ben Gaon, argued in that there was no basis for Rabad’s assertion. [27]

Although he had addressed the concept of kana’im pog’im bo in his commentary on the Tur, Rabbi Yosef Karo only stated in his Shulhan Arukh that one who had relations with a Gentile woman, and who had not been assaulted by zealots nor received lashes from a Jewish court would receive a heavenly punishment.[28] His oblique reference to zealots, and his omission of the principle of kana’im pog’im bo puzzled at least one of his commentators, who noted, however, that Rabbi Isserlis identified it explicitly.[29] Later decisors actually expanded the construct of kana’im pog’im bo with respect to illicit relations. In his commentary on the Shulhan Arukh entitled Hokhmat Shlomo, Rabbi Shlomo Luria (colloquially known as Maharshal) actually loosened the rabbinic requirement that the zealot could only take the law into his hands if the violators were caught in the act. That was only the case, Maharshal argued, if the male had no prior record of committing such acts. If, however, this was his third such violation, the zealot was permitted to kill him even after the fact. [30]

On Zealots and Zealotry

In addition to differences over the specific circumstances in which a zealot might be permitted to act independently of a rabbinic court, or Bet Din, there are variations among major decisors as to whether it is only with respect to a Jew having illicit relations with a Gentile woman that the principle of kana’im pog’im bo applies; whether the principle applies only to cases where illicit relations are involved; and whether, in any event, the principle can still be acted upon in modern times.

Rabbi Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg, writing in the middle years of the twentieth century, dealt with several different aspects of zealotry, although without explicitly rejecting the concept of independent action by the zealot in question. In a responsum addressing the question whether one should commit martyrdom when the pressure to commit idolatry, or adultery, or murder was exerted privately, as opposed to before 10 or more people, but 10 persons were aware of that pressure, Rabbi Weinberg stressed inter alia that while public awareness sufficed to justify martyrdom, the act that prompted Pinhas' zealotry actually had taken place before public eyes. In other words, it was only because people actually witnessed Zimri's act that Pinhas was justified in taking the law into his own hands.[31] What prompted Pinhas' behavior, asserted Rabbi Weinberg, was the perpetrators' sheer hutzpah. The couple had no shame when entering a tent together before 10 men. Implicit in R. Weinberg's emphasis on "hutzpah" was that it was not merely the public nature of a sin that justified zealotry, but that it also needed to be one that clearly was outside all the bounds of common decency. [32]

Rabbi Weinberg did not indicate in this responsum whether he condoned or opposed emulation of Pinhas' zealotry. Nor did he do so in a responsum dated 5717 (1957) in which he validated the marriage of an apostate Jew to a Jewess, and noted that the apostate was subject to the law of kana’im pog'im bo.[33] Indeed, in a later portion of what is an exceedingly lengthy responsum, he appeared to accept the notion that kana’im pog'im bo is still applicable. [34]

In a follow-up responsum that same year Rabbi Weinberg challenged the minority position taken by the thirteenth-century decisors, Rabbi Mordechai ben Hillel (colloquially known as The Mordechai) and Rabbi Moshe Mintz, that a woman who has relations with a non-Jew also is subject to attack by zealots. [35] His challenge was based on a ruling by Nachmanides that the principle of kana’im pog'im bo applies only to Jewish males who have relations with non-Jewish females, and not to Jewish females having relations with non-Jewish males. Rabbi Weinberg did not, however, question whether such a ruling, whether with respect to males or females, applies in modern times. [36]

It is possible, of course, that Rabbi Weinberg in all of the aforementioned responsa was addressing the concept of action by zealots in the abstract. His focus was on other issues, namely, what to do about a woman who married an apostate and became "chained" to him, or whether the harshness of the law of zealotry applied to a woman as much as to a man. Nevertheless, a reader could conclude zealotry was not a thing of the past, and that one could still take the law into one's own hands if conditions justified doing so.

On the other hand, zealotry under any circumstances tends to be frowned upon by leading contemporary decisors and commentators. For example, Dr. Itamar Warhaftig, citing Rabbi Reuven Margaliot, argued that the principle of kana’im pog'im bo applies only when there is a Sanhedrin that is sitting in Jerusalem with the power to apply capital punishment.[37] By definition, this is not the case today. [38]

Chief Rabbi R. Avraham Shapira took a similar view. In a 1996 interview he noted the link between acts of kana’ut, which are "enmeshed" (kerukhim) in forbidden practices, and the notion of gedola aveira lishma—the greatness of a sin committed to achieve positive outcomes, in other words, cases where the ends justify the means (more about which below). Specifically, he addressed the question of kana’ut likhvod ha'uma (zealotry to uphold the honor of the people), such as Herschel Grynszpan's 1938 murder of the Nazi diplomat Ernst von Rath in Paris. Rabbi Shapira then pointed out that just as the murder ignited kristallnacht, so similar acts of individual zealotry could have far reaching negative consequences. He therefore posited that an individual could not reach his/her own judgment in such "complicated matters," as he put it, particularly those affecting the Jewish people as a whole, but instead should seek guidance from leading rabbinical authorities. [39]

Rabbi Shapira's recommendation that one seek rabbinical guidance before acting, while certainly compelling, is deficient in one respect, however. The rabbis explicitly asserted that a zealot who was in a position to sanctify God's name should not consult a Bet Din. Indeed, if he did so, he was forbidden to act on his own. Surely, Rabbi Shapira was aware of this proviso. Yet it is arguable that Rabbi Shapira ruled as he did precisely because he had the rabbinical injunction in mind. In other words, by requiring a zealot to seek rabbinical guidance, the Chief Rabbi was ipso facto preventing him from acting. This approach would therefore be consistent with that of Rabbi Reuven Margaliot.

A different example of modern rabbinic reaction to zealotry emerges in the course of a reply to a question that had been put to R. Moshe Feinstein, the foremost Ashkenazic decisor of the second half of the twentieth century. In a discussion regarding the permissibility of a man to kiss his prospective granddaughter-in-law, Reb Moshe, as he was universally known, forcefully rejected the opinion of "zealots" who wanted to force a breakup of the engagement. He asserted that they were "far from being granted the stature of zealots in behalf of the God's name" and that they needed to consider whether they were themselves in violation of several statutes including verbally causing pain (ono'at devarim) and respect for a scholar [presumably the grandfather]. Finally, Reb Moshe stated that “in matters of rebuke and zealotry one must obtain a ruling from a halakhic decisor and not rule on one's own." [40] In this respect his view was similar to, but not congruent with, that of Rabbi Shapira. For whereas the former seemed entirely to rule out acts of zealotry, Reb Moshe, like R. Weinberg, appeared prepared to accept them, although in Reb Moshe's case they needed to be rabbinically approved, which was unlikely to be the case, but not beyond the realm of possibility.

Aveira Lishma

It is possible, though not likely, that Yishai Schlissel conflated the notion of aveira lishma, a transgression with good intent, with kana’im pog'im bo. Aveira lishma is the talmudic version of what today is termed "the ends justify the means," which of course, would have underpinned Schlissel's twisted logic.

It is undeniable that Talmud speaks of aveira lishma in positive terms. Tractates Horayot and Nazir both record: “R. Nahman bar Yitzhak said: A transgression with good intent is more meritorious than the performance of a commandment with no intent.” It then modifies the statement to read “A transgression with good intent is like the meaningless performance of a commandment.” R. Nahman bar Yitzhak cites the behavior of Yael the wife of Heber the Kenite, who, according to R. Yohanan had sexual relations with Sisera seven times in order to weaken him. Once thus weakened, the fearsome Hazorite general was in no position to resist her when she drilled a tent peg into his skull and thereby helped liberate the Israelites from Hazor's domination.[41] Commentators on the Talmud uniformly praise her otherwise criminal action because she “saved all of Israel.”[42] Schlissel may well have concluded that just as adultery is a capital crime, yet, as Deborah and Barak sang, Yael should be "blessed above women” [43] so too might his murderous act be justified as a transgression with good intent, since in his mind he too was “rescuing” the Jewish people.

As with kana’im pog'im bo, however, any such interpretation is actually wide of the mark in contemporary circumstances and even in the talmudic context. To begin with, as R. Johanan himself said in the name of R. Simeon b. Yohai: "Even the favors of the wicked are distasteful to the righteous.”[44] Moreover, in a long discussion on the subject, Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin (known as Netziv) argued that two conditions had to be fulfilled in order to justify aveira lishma. First, the person committing the sin should receive absolutely no benefit or pleasure from his act. Second, that the negative consequences of the act would outweigh any good that it brought about; Netziv explicitly points to the communal discord that such an act could bring about as invalidating its legitimacy.[45] Rabbi Haim of Volozhin, whom Rabbi Shapira quotes, went further. He asserted unequivocally that aveira lishma no longer applied in modern times.[46] At the end of the day, therefore, there is simply no halakhic basis for Schlissel's violent and ultimately deadly behavior.

What Motivated Schlissel: Misreading Hashkafa for Halakha

It is difficult to know what exactly was going through Yishai Schlissel's mind either in 2005 or 10 years later when he attacked marchers in a gay pride parade. There is no evidence that he is particularly scholarly, much less an expert in halakha. His refusal to recognize the authority of the State of Israel, even more than his dress and demeanor, mark him out as more extreme than the ordinary Israeli Haredi.

Schlissel certainly has delusions of grandeur. He clearly sees himself as a latter-day Pinhas, taking the law into his own hands, avoiding seeking a ruling from a rabbinical court, and stabbing his victims with a knife, much as Pinhas stabbed Zimri and Kozbi with a short-bladed romah. He probably sees gay behavior as no better than that of Zimri. By avoiding a rabbinical ruling, he no doubt justified his actions as being against those who committed the equivalent of Zimri's sin.

Yet Schlissel may have had some sense that what he was doing was halakhically tolerable. After all, not all decisors ruled out the validity of the principle of kana’im pog'im bo in modern times. Were he aware of Rabbi Weinberg's views, he might have misinterpreted R. Weinberg's position. He may have concluded that extra judicial action by zealots was permissible as long as it could safely be assumed that 10 or more men who would have witnessed the parade marchers would have surmised that the marchers engaged in what the Torah considers to be an abomination. As noted above, Rabbi Weinberg does not provide clear guidance on this matter. On the other hand, his well-known objections to the positions of radical Haredim, the group with which Schlissel clearly identifies, renders it unlikely that he would have condoned the practical implementation of kana’im pog'im bo.

It is also possible that Schlissel might have acted upon Reb Moshe's ruling that kana’ut requires the approbation of a leading rabbinical decisor. Certainly, no such rabbi has publicly condoned Schlissel's murderous behavior. On the other hand, few Haredi rabbis have condemned it. Might Schlissel have obtained a green light from a radical rabbi? Such men are not unknown in contemporary Israel, though they are more often identified with those who have written tracts condoning violence against Palestinians.

Most likely, however, Schlissel may simply have interpreted, or have had interpreted for him, the well-known writings of Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, the Satmar Rebbe, as justifying his behavior. The Satmar Rebbe "famously linked the Holocaust to the sin of Zionism."[47] To the Rebbe's mind, the state was nothing more than "apostasy...[that had] called down the Divine wrath upon the Jewish people."[48] More than that, the Rebbe considered the State to be nothing less than the work of Samael, the evil archangel, also identified as the angel of death. As he wrote in his tract, Al HaGeula v'al HaTemura, which sought to explain Israel's victory in the Six Day War in light of his negative perspective on the Jewish State,

just as in the case of the sin of the Golden Calf, for which the people exchanged His blessed glory due to the false miracles of Samael...and by virtue of this frightening sin they undermined our redemption and prolonged our exile due to our transgressions until the flaw will be repaired and the sin eradicated...so too as a result of our many transgressions it now again occurred that Samael and the Sitra Ahara ( the realm of evil) are empowered to create strange images appearing as miracles and salvation in order to blind the eyes of the children of Israel so that they should follow the apostates and blasphemers and imagine them to be saviors. [49]

Schlissel has given no indication that he has read the Rebbe's volume. But certainly is likely to have been familiar with its contents, which are central to the views of Satmar-linked groups like the Neturei Karta. He may also have been made aware of the fact that the Rebbe specifically referred to Pinhas' zealotry in his critique of Israel's victory the Six Day War.

As the Rebbe wrote, contemporary Jewry needed to absorb the lesson of Pinhas' action. The Torah tells us that God stressed that had it not been for Pinhas’ action, He would have wiped out the entire nation over what was but one man's sin was that no one had protested his action. But because, the Rebbe wrote, Pinhas acted "with such powerful commitment" he inspired the people to "great zealotry" which in turn led them to repent that they too had not acted as he did. The Rebbe then postulated the need for "our lowly generation" to draw the correct inference from Pinhas' zealotry at a time when the government of apostasy (minut) ...continues to battle with all sorts of stratagems against the Torah." [50]

That Schlissel acted as he did should therefore have come as no surprise. To his mind, he was violating the laws of a government he considered to be a tool of the devil. Instead, he had taken up Pinhas' cudgels, zealously sanctifying God's name by killing those who to his mind were no less public in their blasphemous behavior than Zimri had been.

It is ironic that the Satmar Rebbe himself not only never condoned such violence but often spoke out against any manifestations of outrageous behavior that would undermine the cause he championed. As one of his close colleagues has written, "The Rebbe abhorred sensationalism...He didn't allow wild pranks, and condemned in the strongest of words those who engaged in such reckless and reprehensible behavior." [51]Unfortunately, many of the Rebbe's followers have been far more circumspect in denouncing abusive behavior or outright violence, be it the burning of tires that endangers children with smoke inhalation or the habitual rock throwing at Haredi demonstrations that only miraculously has thus far not resulted in a fatal injury. From there it is, perhaps, a far smaller leap to the murderous behavior of a Yishai Schlissel than might otherwise be the case.

It is equally ironic that Pinhas himself did not end his career in a blaze of glory. The Midrash teaches that he lived to an advanced age, so that he was a contemporary of the judge Yiftah. The latter had foolishly vowed to sacrifice the first being he saw after returning home the victor over the Ammonites. When the first to greet him was his daughter, he could have had his vow annulled had he sought an annulment from Pinhas. He was too proud to approach the priest, but Pinhas was too proud to journey to Yiftah to save the child by absolving the vow. As a result, Yiftah suffered his loss, and also died a horrible death. But, the Rabbis tell us, Pinhas, the archetypical zealot, who acted to defend God’s name, was punished as well. He lost the power of prophecy and the Shekhinah departed from him. [52]

Pinhas’ ultimate fate incorporates a lesson that Yishai Schlissel may have forgotten, or may never have learned. Far more worrying is that in the absence of forceful admonitions by Haredi rabbis, there may be other Yishai Schlissels lurking in the background, taking the law into their own hands, while grotesquely fantasizing that they are sanctifying God's holy name.

[1] Jas Chana, "Jerusalem Pride Parade Stabber Charged With Murder, Attempted Murder," Tablet, August 25, 2015, http://www.tabletmag.com/scroll/193046/jerusalem-pride-parade-stabber-charged-with-murder-attempted-murder.
[2] The Hebrew term is romah, which connotes a short-bladed weapon used with both hands. It is not a spear. See Jacob Milgrom, The JPS Torah Commentary: Numbers (Philadelphia: JPS, 5750/1990), 215.
[3] Numbers 25:6–12.
[4] I Kings 19:10, 14.
[5] BT Sanhedrin 82a–b.
[6] Vayikra Rabba, 1.
[7] BT Berakhot 56b.
[8] BT Kiddushin 70a.
[9] BT Bava Metzia 85b.
[10] BT Sota 13a.
[11] Pesikta Rabba 4:12; see also Midrash Shochar Tov, 90.
[12] Tanna D’Vei Eliyahu Rabba, 9, 16, 18.
[13] BT Bava Metzia 85b.
[14] BT Ketubot 106a.
[15] Yalkut Shimoni , Pinhas 771; Pirkei D’Rabbi Eliezer, 29,47.
[16] Numbers 25:12; TB Moed Katan 26a.
[17] Numbers 25:12.
[18] Malachi 3:23.
[19] BT Sanhedrin 82a. Later decisors did permit beating someone who was violating the law without first obtaining permission to do so (see, for example, R. Israel Isserlein, Terumat Hadeshen, 218 and Ramo on Shulhan Arukh Hoshen Mishpat 421:13). Beating an offender is materially different from taking a life, or even putting it at risk, however. Indeed, halakha specifically enjoins a Bet Din from beating a criminal to death.
[20] It is significant that even though the sinner could have prevented an attack by the zealot simply by ceasing to sin, the Rabbis nevertheless accorded the sinner the right to defend himself to the point of killing the zealot. See R. Dr. Michael Avraham, (Harigat Ganav LTzorech Hagana Al Rechush," ("Killing a thief to protect one's property") Techumin, 28 (5768/2008), 179, f.n. 13).
[21] Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, Mishne Torah/Yad haHazaka: Hilkhot Issurei Bi’ah, 12:4.
[22] Ibid., 12:5, 14:7 and see Maggid Mishna, ad. loc. s.v. V’Haba).
[23] Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, negative commandment 112. See also and R. Shlomo Luria, Yam Shel Shlomo, Bava Kamma, ch. 3:9, who also applies this standard to beatings; see note 19 above.
[24] Tur Shulhan Arukh: Even Ha’ezer 17. See also Rabbi Shmuel Eidels (Maharsha) on Horayot 10b, s.v. Tamar.
[25] Maggid Mishna, Hilkhot Issurei Bi’ah, loc. cit.., s.v. Kol Habo’el; see also R. Yosef Karo, Beit Yosef: Even Ha'ezer 16, s.v. U’Ma Shkatav D’Pharhesia).
[26] Hoshen Mishpat 425: 4.
[27] Migdal Oz, ad. loc., s.v. katav.
[28] Even Ha’ezer 16:2.
[29] Rabbi Moses ben Isaac Judah Lima, Helkat Mehokek, ibid. 16:4.
[30] Hokhmat Shlomo ad.loc., s.v. sham.
[31] It is noteworthy that Orhot Haim wrote in the name of Nachmanides that the sin of having relations with a non-Jewess was equivalent to adultery and called for martyrdom; see Beit Yosef: Even Ha’ezer 16, s.v. U’Ma Shekatav Vehu.
[32] Rabbi Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg, Sridei Eish vol. 1, Orach Haim, 29 (Jerusalem, 5759/1999), 73; see also ibid., Yoreh De’ah 8, 357, wherein R. Weinberg defines "public" for the purposes of kana’im pog'im bo as doing the obvious, as he put it, "entering the tent and not leaving it."
[33] Ibid., Even Ha'ezer 90:35, 268. The issues of whether a Jew who has relations with an apostate Jewess, or even one who is not an apostate, but is a major violator of the law (mumeret), and, in a similar vein, whether a Jewess who has relations with an apostate, or even with a Jew who is a major violator of the law (Yisrael Mumar) are all subject to the principle of kana’im pog'im bo are the subject of a dispute among numerous decisors. See Rabbi Isaac Halevy Herzog et. al, Otzar Haposkim rev. ed. vol. 2 Even Ha'ezer 16 (Jerusalem 5738/1978), s.v. Haba).
[34] Sridei Aish, vol. 1, Even Ha’ezer, 90:38, 269.
[35] This position was actually taken by numerous other decisors, all basing themselves on Rabbi Avraham Hagadol, including Rabbi Israel Isserlein, in his Trumat Hadeshen; Rabbi Jacob Moelin, known as Maharil; and Rabbi Eliyahu Mizrahi, known as R'eym. But others still, ranging from Rav Hai Gaon to Rabbi Moses Sofer—Hatam Sofer—took the same position as Rabbi Weinberg. See Herzog, et. al, loc. cit.
[36] Sridei Eish, vol. 1, 115:10.
[37] Rabbi Reuven Margaliot, Margaliot Hayam/Sanhedrin vol. 1 (Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 5718/1958), 14.
[38] Dr Itamar Warhaftig, "Go'el Hadam" (The Blood Avenger), Techumin 11(5750/1990), 354.
[39] Interview with Rabbi Abraham Kahane Shapira, “Geula uMikdash” (“Redemption and The Temple,” Techumin 5 (5756/1996), 432).
[40] Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, Sh'eylot U'teshuvot Igrot Moshe: Even Ha'ezer vol. 4, 63 (B'nai Berak: Yeshiva Ohel Yosef, 5745/1985), 124).
[41] BT Horayot 10b and Rashi s,v, nitkavna; see also BT Nazir 23b; BT Yevamot 103a and Tosefot s.v. V'ha).
[42] See Bereishit Rabba 68:18; Tosefot, loc. cit.; Rabbi Yaakov Emden, Hagahot V’hiddushim l/Masechet Nazir, Nazir 23b, s.v. Sham amar: Rabbi Yitzhak Bernstein, “Issur He’arel La’asot V’le’echol Korban Pesah,” in Etz Chaim (Jerusalem: Abelson, 5745/1985).
[43] Judges 5:24, and see BT Horayot, loc. cit.
[44] Ibid.
[45] Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, Sh’eylot U’teshuvot Meishiv Davar, vol. 2, no. 9.
[46] Interview with Rabbi Abraham Kahane Shapira, “Geula uMikdash,” 432.
[47] Rabbi Hertz Frankel, The Satmar Rebbe and his English Principal: Reflections on the Struggle to Build Yiddishkeit in America (Brooklyn, NY: Menucha, 2015), 281).
[48] Ibid., 282.
[49] Rabbi Y. Teitelbaum, Al Ha'geulah v'al Ha'Temurah, Brooklyn, NY: Jerusalem Publishing, 5727/1967), 179.
[50] Ibid.,175.
[51] Frankel, The Satmar Rebbe, p. 278.
[52] Bereishit Rabba 60:3; Vayikra Rabba 37:4; Rashi, Judges 11:39, s.v. Va’Tehi; Rashi, I Chronicles 9:20, s.v. U’Pinhas.

Preface

This article was inspired by the critical work of Jacobs on the halakhic process, A Tree of
Life (2000). His attention to the influences of social, economic, and political factors in
halakha coincided with my interests in the sociology of pesika, halakhic decision-making, and in the development of Orthodox Judaism in the United States. In an earlier work, Jacobs asserted that “the Torah did not simply drop down from heaven but is the result of the divine-human encounter through the ages” (1995, 3). That is a statement that strongly lends itself to rejection by traditionalists, especially the Orthodox.

In A Tree of Life, Jacobs appears to have modified his earlier assertion in such a way as to be more acceptable to some Orthodox thinkers. He writes that, when he uses the termTorah, he includes the Written Law, Oral Law, and halakha, which “has grown through the tender care and skill of responsible gardeners instead of, as in the view of many fundamentalists, growing of its own accord solely by divine command” (Jacobs 2000, xv).

There are those, typically ultra-Orthodox, or “Hareidi” Jews who insist that both the
Written and Oral Laws as we know them were given at Sinai, and any mention of
halakhic development is heresy. Jacobs goes even further and asserts that
the very notion that the halakha has a history and that it developed is anathema to
the traditional halakhist, who operates on the massive assumption that the Torah,
both in its written form, the Pentateuch, and its oral form, as found in the talmudic
literature, was directly conveyed by God to Moses either at Sinai or during the forty
years of wandering through the wilderness. Furthermore, the traditional halakhists
accept implicitly that the talmudic literature contains the whole of the Oral Torah,
that even those laws and ordinances called rabbinic are eternally binding, and that,
as we have seen, the Talmud is the final authority and can never be countermanded.
(2000, 222)

This article modifies Jacobs’s assertion through an examination of changes in American
Orthodox Judaism from the end of the nineteenth to the beginning of the twenty-first centuries. It first summarizes cultural change within American Orthodoxy (Waxman 2003, 2010, 2012) and then examines change in the halakha-related sphere, that is, what is deemed to be religiously acceptable within the halakha-observant community. The article concludes with a consideration of how the American model offers insight in the discussion of Louis Jacobs and his notorious departure from the British Orthodox rabbinate.

Cultural Change within American Orthodoxy

The denominational designation “Orthodox” did not exist in the United States until the mass immigration of Jews from Eastern Europe. Thus, when we speak of American Orthodox Judaism, we are essentially referring to Orthodox Judaism that was transplanted from Eastern Europe. Some prominent Eastern European Orthodox rabbis, such as Israel Meir Hacohen Kagan (1838–1933), popularly known as the “Chafetz Chaim,” opposed immigration to the Unites States. Some Eastern European Orthodox rabbis who immigrated were highly critical of American society and culture and saw little future for “authentic” Judaism there. Moses Weinberger, for example, wrote a broad and stinging critique of the deplorable condition of traditional Judaism in New York, in which, among many others, he lambasted the Constitutional notion of separation of religion and state. Another, Jacob David Wilowsky (1845–1913), who was the Rabbi of Slutzk (now Belarus) and was commonly known as “the Ridvaz,” is alleged to have condemned anyone who came to America because Judaism was stepped upon there, and anyone who left Europe left not only their home but their Torah, Talmud, yeshivas, and sages.

Less than 50 years later, Moshe Feinstein (1895–1986), Rabbi of Luban (now Belarus) until his emigration to the United States in 1937, headed a yeshiva in New York and became a leading authority of Jewish religious law within Orthodox circles. He gave a sermon in which he lauded America’s separation of religion of state. Contra Weinberger, he asserted that in enforcing separation of religion and state, the government of the Unites States is following the will of God, and that is the reason the country flourished. Consequently, Jews are obligated to pray that the government will succeed in all of its undertakings.

In contrast to the dismal state of Jewish education described by both Weinberger
and Wilowsky, and their pessimism about the future of Judaism in America, a number of high-level yeshiva seminaries, most transplanted from Eastern Europe, were established during the 1930s and 1940s. A movement of primary- and secondary-level yeshiva Day Schools was also formed in the 1940s. These sparked the founding of Day Schools that provide intensive Jewish education along with a quality secular curriculum, and there was a boom in the growth of the Day School movement from the Second World War to the mid-1970s in cities and neighborhoods across the country. These Day Schools often became feeder-schools for higher-level yeshivas and, by the fourth quarter of the twentieth century, the number of Jews learning in post-high school yeshiva seminaries was greater in the United States than it had been during the heyday of Jewish Eastern Europe.

Ironically, this type of Day School, which combined both sacred and secular education,
was anathema to the Orthodox rabbinic leadership in Eastern Europe—and still is to the Hareidi rabbinic leadership in Israel. Many of the same rabbinic leaders who inspired the Day School movement had previously adamantly opposed it. As it turned out, the Day School movement is perhaps the most significant innovation enabling the survival and growth of Orthodox Judaism in America.

The Americanization of Orthodox Judaism stands out in the approach of the rabbinic
leadership to language, especially in sacred learning. Initially, English was deemed “goyish,” a non-Jewish language contributing to an assimilation process. There had been even stronger opposition to English in sacred settings, and calls were issued for the exclusive use of Yiddish in rabbinic sermons and in Jewish education. In contrast, the contemporary generation of even “Hareidi” Jews in the United States not only speaks English, their sacred learning is also in English—more properly, “Yinglish” or “Yeshivish” (Weiser 1995; Benor 2012)—and an increasing number of sacred texts are published in English, mostly but not exclusively by the ultra-Orthodox ArtScroll Publishers. At the celebration of the completion of the Talmud cycle, Siyum HaShas, at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey in the summer of 2012, which was the world’s largest gathering of Jews, sponsored by Agudath Israel of the United States, most of the speeches, lectures, and salutations were in English.

Ultra-Orthodox Judaism was traditionally opposed to secular higher education, and fiction was alien to it. Today, American ultra-Orthodoxy utilizes cutting-edge psychology and counseling terminology and techniques in its popular literature, and a new genre of ultra-Orthodox fiction has emerged (Finkelman 2011). Likewise, sport was shunned as being part of Greek, that is, pagan culture. Today, American Orthodox Jews of all variations engage in sports both as observers and as consumers of sports salons perceiving the benefits and importance of physical fitness (Gross 2004; Gurock 2005; Fineblum Raub 2012). Finally, whereas popular music was previously viewed as non-Jewish and was avoided, contemporary American Orthodoxy has enthusiastically adapted popular music by giving it a Jewish bent (Kligman 1996, 2001, 2005).

Equally interesting, if not even more so, is the impact that social change has had on
traditional Jewish religious practice. A series of American Orthodox halakhic innovations
will now be briefly indicated. An extensive analysis and discussion of them await book-length treatment.

Decorum in Shul

The first major attempt at reforming Jewish religious services in the United States took place in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1824. Forty-seven members of Congregation Beth Elohim, who were unhappy with synagogue services, organized and attempted to reform the service by abbreviating it, having parts of the service read in both Hebrew and English, eliminating the practice of auctioning synagogue honors, and having a weekly discourse, or sermon, in English. These reforms were radical at that time, and the leadership of Beth Elohim rejected them. This led to the group splitting from the parent congregation and forming their own community, which then introduced more radical reforms (Waxman 1983, 12–13). Ironically, the group’s initial demands are quite compatible with contemporary centrist Orthodox synagogue
services in America.

Talmud for Women

Until the twentieth century, it was axiomatic that females were not to be taught, or engage in, Torah study. This was based on the opinion of Rabbi Eliezer, in the BabylonianTalmud (Sotah 21b) and reiterated by Maimonides (Laws of Talmud Torah 1:17). During the first half of the twentieth century, Rabbi Israel Meir Hacohen Kagan [1] and the Lubavitcher Rebbe asserted that, in these days, women are obligated to study the Written Law and those laws that specifically pertain to them. The Maimonides School, a Day School in Boston founded by Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, was the first Orthodox Day School in America to provide co-education, including Talmud study, through high school (Farber 2003). Soloveitchik was widely revered as an outstanding Talmud scholar and halakhic authority, and in 1977 he gave the inaugural lecture at the opening of the Beit Midrash program at Yeshiva University’s Stern College for Women, thereby indicating his support of educational equality at the highest levels (Helfgot 2005, xxi). Subsequently, Yeshiva University established a Graduate Program for Women in Advanced Talmudic Studies, and several other Orthodox institutions of higher Jewish learning for women have been established.

Bat Mitzvah

In his first responsum dealing with the issue of Bat Mitzvah, written in 1956, Rabbi
Moshe Feinstein—widely known as “Reb Moshe”—asserted that there is no source for celebration and it is in fact simple nonsense (“hevel bèalma”); the meal in honor of the Bat Mitzvah is not a “decreed dinner” (“sèudat mitzvah”) and has no religious significance; and it is a violation of the sanctity of the synagogue to hold the ceremony there (Feinstein 1959a, 170). A quarter century later, he retained his opposition to holding the ceremony in the sanctuary of the synagogue but relented somewhat and permitted, albeit warily, having a kiddush in honor of a Bat Mitzvah in the social hall of the synagogue (Feinstein 1981, 47–48).

A careful reading of his responsa on Bat Mitzvah suggests that his basic opposition was to having the ceremony in the synagogue because of his opposition to changes in synagogue ritual and practice, alongside his steadfast opposition to Conservative and Reform Judaism. If the Bat Mitzvah celebration was to be held within the home, he did not object. Indeed, a number of his elders and colleagues are reported to have held such celebrations even in Lithuania (Baumel Joseph 2002; Pensak 2004). Be that as it may, increasing numbers of Orthodox now celebrate Bat Mitzvah in a communal setting, most typically in a social hall and frequently as a women-only ceremony. Some are also finding ways to hold the ceremony in the sanctuary in ways that are now deemed to be halakhically approved.

Non-Observant Jews

Feinstein’s opposition to non-Orthodox Judaism was steadfast. He considered both Conservative and Reform Judaism heretical. Reform Judaism does not even merit much discussion in his work, and he merely dismissed its rabbis as heretics. For example, in a
responsum on whether it is proper to honor Reform and Conservative rabbis with blessings at Jewish organizational banquets, he asserts that even if they pronounced the blessing properly, since they are (obviously) heretics their blessings are invalid. Their heretical nature was deemed to need no elaboration (Feinstein 1963, 237–238). He addressed Conservative Judaism in greater detail. In a number of responsa, he consistently emphasized its heretical nature. For example, in a responsum on the question of whether one can organize a minyan, a quorum, to pray in a room within a synagogue whose sanctuary does not conform with Orthodox standards, he distinguished between Orthodox and Conservative synagogues. In a Conservative synagogue, he asserted, one should not make a minyan in any room, “because they have announced that they are a group of heretics who reject a number of Torah laws” (Feinstein 1981, 174). One should keep apart from them, “because those who deny even one item from the Torah are considered deniers of the Torah,” and one must distance oneself from heretics. However, in an Orthodox synagogue which is ritually unfit—for example, it has no mehitza, separation between men and women, or uses a microphone—the members “are not heretics, Heaven forbid; they treat the laws lightly but they do not deny them,” and thus there is no obligation to distance oneself from them.

With respect to non-observant Jews, Feinstein adopted a more conciliatory position and ruled in direct opposition to Israel Meir Hacohen Kagan, whose multi-volume halakhic work, Mishna Berura, is widely viewed as authoritative. Whereas the latter cites precedents and suggests that Sabbath violators cannot be counted as one of the minimum10 adult males necessary for a minyan (Kagan 1952, Vol. 1, 174), Feinstein allows them to be counted (1959a, 66–67). In addition, he allows them to be called up to the Torah, unless they are overt heretics (Feinstein 1973a, 311). He also allows suspected Sabbath desecraters to be appointed President of a synagogue; only those who publicly and brazenly do so are barred (Feinstein 1973a, 310–311). Likewise, he ruled that a kohen who is not a Sabbath observer may be permitted to go up and bless the congregation (Feinstein 1959a, 89–90). In each case, Feinstein, the foremost halakhic authority in twentieth-century American Orthodoxy, was apparently influenced by the social and cultural, including religious, patterns of American Orthodox Jewry. He was willing to accommodate nonobservant Jews who did not challenge the authority of Orthodoxy. Those who did challenge the boundaries of Orthodoxy and its authority were deemed to be beyond the pale.

Eruv

The phenomenon of the eruv (pl. eruvin), a symbolic enclosure of a neighborhood or community to allow Jews to carry on the Sabbath within its perimeters in cities across the United States, is another example of the impact of social change on traditional Jewish religious practice and halakha. Many who are familiar with Orthodox amenities in American cities today might be very surprised to learn that until 1970, there were only two cities throughout the United States that had an eruv, and both were highly controversial. The first, established in 1894, was in St. Louis, Missouri. New York City had two eruv controversies. The first, on Manhattan’s East side, in 1905, ended with it being widely dismissed as unacceptable. The second stirred up controversy from 1949 to 1962 over the idea of an eruv around the entire island of Manhattan (Mintz 2011). By 2011, there were more than 150 eruvin in communities across the United States. A variety of sociological factors, perhaps most significant among them being the social and geographic mobility of the Orthodox—with many of them moving to the suburbs in the 1970s and 1980s—contributed to the increased halakhic validity and spread of eruvin.

Electric Timers (“Shabbos Clocks”)

When electric timers were first introduced, there was resistance in the Orthodox community, based on several halakhic issues related to their use in controlling electrical
appliances on the Sabbath. In the 1970s, Feinstein wrote two responsa in which he emphatically prohibited the use of timers because they distort the objective and desecrate the sanctity of the Sabbath. He did, however, reluctantly permit their use for setting lights to go on and off on the Sabbath, because there was precedent for it in synagogues, and it contributes to the enjoyment, and thus the sanctity, of the Sabbath. For all other appliances, however, he categorically prohibited them (Feinstein 1981, 61, 91–93). Today, however, it appears that such timers are widely used within the Orthodox community for a variety of other appliances, such as home heating, air conditioning, and warming food, as well as a variety of others that strain the intellect to consider within the category of actions that contribute to the sanctity of the Sabbath.

Halav Yisrael

According to halakha, milk must be under supervision by an observant Jewish adult to
assure that it is indeed cow’s milk, halav yisrael, and not the milk of a non-kosher animal. In a number of responsa during 1954, Feinstein ruled that, in the United States, milk that is under government supervision is surely cow’s milk, because the dairy would be severely penalized for violating the law. Therefore, all milk under the label of a reputable company is kosher (Feinstein 1959b, 82–89). In 1970, Feinstein reiterated his lenient ruling. However, he also added that it is proper for one who is punctiliously observant to be strict and use only halav yisrael. Principals in yeshiva Day Schools, he asserted, should certainly provide only halav yisrael to their students, even if it costs the yeshivot more money, because there is an educational lesson that the students will learn, namely, that Torah Jews should be stringent even if an action entails only a slight chance of involving something prohibited (Feinstein 1973b, 46). This is an example of Feinstein himself taking a lenient position but bowing to growing social pressure for greater stringency, namely, there were already a number of dairies selling halav yisrael, and there was an increasing population of consumers for it.

It is commonplace to assume that the influence of American society and culture is toward greater leniency in religious practice. Indeed, this is often the case, as the above examples indicate. In fact, however, the impact of the American experience cuts both ways, at times towards greater leniency but at times toward greater stringency. The last case cited, halav yisrael, is just such an example of greater stringency. Another interesting one is found in one of the posthumously published volumes of Feinstein’s responsa. When asked if prayer in a place not designated as a synagogue requires a mehitza between men and women, Feinstein relates that in all the generations it was typical that occasionally a poor woman entered the
study hall to receive charity, or a women mourner to say Kaddish, and the actual
halakha in this matter needs consideration and depends on many factors.
(1996, 20)

In most American Orthodox study halls, let alone synagogues, not only would a woman not be permitted to enter, she would also be discouraged, if not prohibited, from saying Kaddish.[2] The phenomenon of “the hareidization of American Orthodox Judaism,” including a number of other examples of such stringencies, has been analyzed elsewhere (Waxman 1998; Heilman 2006). What is now called for is an analysis identifying and explaining the criteria under which stringency emerges and those under which there are moves to leniency.[3]

Halakha and Meta-Halakha

In the Introduction to the second edition of his book, A Tree of Life, Louis Jacobs reiterates his argument of human involvement in halakha. He contrasts two “exemplars of opposite approaches to the halakhic process—respectively, the dynamic and subjective versus the static and objective” (Jacobs 2000, xvii). The latter he portrays as the Orthodox approach and the former as that of Conservative Judaism. In point of fact, there is variety in Orthodox approaches with respect to the relationship between the decisor and his halakhic decision.

Jacobs cites David Bleich as the exemplar of “the static and objective” approach. Indeed, Bleich does portray halakha as a science, in which “there is no room for subjectivity” (1995, xiii). More recently, Bleich has elaborated and clarified his position:

[H]alakhic decision-making is indeed an art as well as a science. Its kunst lies precisely in the ability to make judgment calls in evaluating citations, precedents, arguments, etc. It is not sufficient for a halakhic decisor to have a full command of relevant sources. If so, in theory at least, the decisor par excellence would be a computer rather than a person. The decisor must have a keen understanding of the underlying principles and postulates of Halakha as well as of their applicable ramifications and must be capable of applying them with fidelity to matters placed before him. No amount of book learning can compensate for inadequacy in what may be termed the “artistic” component. The epithet “a donkey carrying books” is the derisive reference employed in rabbinic literature to describe such a person. (2006, 88)

Soloveitchik presented his conception somewhat differently:

[T]he mutual connection between law and event does not take place within the realm of pure halakhic thought, but rather within the depths of the halakhic man’s soul. The event is a psychological impetus, prodding pure thought into its track. However, once pure thought begins to move in its specific track, it performs its movement not in surrender to the event, but rather in obedience to the normative-ideal lawfulness particular to it. … To what is this comparable? To a satellite that was launched into a particular orbit. Although the launching of the satellite into orbit is dependent on the force of the thrust. Once the object arrived at its particular orbit, it begins to move with amazing precision according to the speed unique to that orbit, and the force of the thrust cannot increase or decrease it at all. (1982, 77–78)

Soloveitchik’s approach is reminiscent of Max Weber’s thought with respect to the place of values and emotions in sociological research; that is, that the sociologist’s values clearly influence the areas and topics he or she selects to study. However, once the research actually begins, the rules of scientific research dominate, and all evaluations are made solely on the basis of empirical evidence. The researchers must be value free and ignore their personal thoughts and prejudices (Weber 1949, 49–112).[4] Of course, as anyone who has engaged in social research knows, neutrality of values and emotions is very difficult, if not impossible, to achieve. Humans are influenced in many ways of which we are frequently unaware. Along these lines Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein points to the distinction his father-in-law, Soloveitchik, drew between psychosocial elements and pure thought in the halakhic process, and declares, “It is a nice distinction, and I confess that I am not certain it can be readily sustained in practice” (2003, 173).[5]

Dr. Haym Soloveitchik suggests other influences on halakha. He avers that until the era of the Crusades, there was no known religious permission (heter) to commit suicide in the face of forced conversion to Christianity and, indeed, “[t]he magnitude of this halakhic breach is enormous.” However, with time and events, the notion that such suicide is actually murder became untenable, and the sages of Ashkenaz developed,
in the course of time, a doctrine of the permissibility of voluntary martyrdom, and even one allowing suicide. They did this by scrounging all the canonized and semi-canonized literature for supportive tales and hortatory aggadah, all of dubious legal worth. But by massing them together, Ashkenazic scholars produced, with a few deft twists, a tenable, if not quite persuasive, case for the permissibility of suicide in times of religious persecution. (Soloveitchik 1987, 209–210)

Soloveitchik does not claim that the sages of Ashkenaz completely redefined the halakha. He argues that the experiences, trials and tribulations, and perspectives guided them and influenced them in their studies and explanations of the Talmud in ways that legitimated existing practices, the status quo.[6 ]He does not indicate whether this is what his father, Joseph B. Soloveitchik, meant by “the launching of the satellite into orbit,” or whether it is “once the object arrived at its particular orbit,” but it does appear that Haym Soloveitchik attributes greater halakhic legitimacy to the roles of experience and perspective than did his father. As a student of Jacob Katz, who emphasized the impact of the economy on halakha (e.g., Katz 1989), Soloveitchik’s works on usury and wine are examples of that (1985, 2003, 2008).[7]

There are few today in the fields of philosophy and the social sciences who think that it is possible to draw lines and actually be ethically and value-free. Israel Lipkin of Salant, known as Israel Salanter (1810–1883), who initially headed a yeshiva and subsequently was the father of the Musar Movement,[8] agreed. As he explained,

Man, inasmuch as he is man, even though it is within his capacity and power to strip [le-hafshit] his intellect from the arousal of his soul-forces until these soul-forces are quiescent and resting (unaroused, so that they do not breach the intellectual faculty and pervert it), nonetheless man is human, his soul-forces are in him, it is not within his power to separate them [lehafrisham] from his intellect. Thus it is not within man’s capacity to arrive at True Intellect [sekhel amitti] wholly separated [ha-mufrash] and disembodied [ha-muvdal] from soul-forces, and the Torah is given to man to be adjudicated according to human intellect (it being purified as much as possible; see Bekhorot 17b: “Divine Law said: Do it, and in whatever way you are able to do it, it will be satisfactory”).… (Goldberg 1982, 119)

Indeed, it appears that the sages of the Talmud recognized the inability to separate subjective forces from adjudication and, therefore, the Beraita declared that certain people should not be appointed as judges to the Sanhedrin, or supreme court: “We do not appoint to the Sanhedrin an old man, a eunuch or one who is childless” (Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 36b). Maimonides suggested the reasoning involved: “We should not appoint to any Sanhedrin a very old man or a eunuch, for they possess the trait of cruelty, nor one who is childless, so that the judge should be merciful” (Yad Hahazakah, Judges, Laws of Sanhedrin 2:3).

Between Change in American Orthodoxy and the Rejection of Jacobs

In 1961, Chief Rabbi Israel Brodie caused a storm in British Jewry when he vetoed
Jacobs’s appointment as Principal of Jews’ College and then, in 1963, refused to authorize his (re)appointment as rabbi (“minister”) of London’s New West End Synagogue.[9] Brodie claimed that, although Jacobs had earlier expressed unorthodox ideas, he allowed Jacobs’ appointment as Tutor at Jews College as “an act of faith” (1969, 348). Brodie’s “faith” in Jacobs was probably based, in part, on the fact that, as a youth, he studied in the Gateshead yeshiva, and its head, Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler,[10 ]extolled him as a “genius.”[11] Although Jacobs did not agree with all of Dessler’s hareidism, he had a warm relationship with him and spoke fondly of him throughout his life (1989, 40–59). Nevertheless, Brodie asserted, his subsequent rejection of Jacobs was caused by the latter’s increasingly public expression of ideas that are “incompatible … with the most fundamental principles of Judaism” (1969, 349–350).

Jacobs eventually left the United Synagogue framework as well as Jews College and founded the New London Synagogue, which later developed Britain’s Masorti Movement. He remained an observant Jew throughout his lifetime, and he frequently stressed that his radical ideas concerning revelation and halakhic development should have no impact on halakhic observance. As he put it, “the Jewish rituals are still mitzvot and serve the same purpose as prayer. They link our individual strivings to the strivings of the Jewish people towards the fullest realization of the Jewish spirit” (Jacobs 1990, 6).

However, he admitted that once the “mitzvot” are defined as human products, the probabilities of their being observed are substantially decreased. As he himself wrote, “Psychologically, it is undeniable that a clear recognition of the human development of Jewish practice and observance is bound to produce a somewhat weaker sense of allegiance to the minutiae of Jewish law” (Jacobs 2004, 53). Empirical studies of Jewish ritual observance in the United States indicate that it is not only allegiance to “the minutiae of Jewish law” that is severely weakened when they do not have religious legitimation of being divinely ordained. Sociological theory likewise recognizes the power of religious legitimation (Berger 1967, 33). It should, therefore, have been no surprise that the Chief Rabbi would not allow someone who would undermine religious allegiance to serve as a rabbi in an institution under the auspices of the Orthodox—even if nominally—rabbinate and synagogue organization.

That said, and in the light of the discussion of American Orthodoxy, one factor that may have sparked strong reaction to Jacobs’s work was the terminology he used. Although he repeatedly indicated that he used the term objectively, his constant reference to the more traditional Orthodox approach as “fundamentalism,” and those who disagreed with his conception of the halakhic process as “fundamentalists,” was taken as offensive. Jacobs’s intentions aside, the term “fundamentalist” is now widely viewed as derogatory.[12] Mark Juergensmeyer indicates several reasons for the term’s contemporary inappropriateness, among them,

the term is pejorative. It refers, as one Muslim scholar observed, to those who hold “an intolerant, self-righteous, and narrowly dogmatic religious literalism.” … The term is less descriptive than it is accusatory: it reflects our attitude toward other people more than it describes them. (1993, 2008, 4)

In addition to the specific terminology he used, Jacobs presents perspectives in a black–white/true–false manner. In some of his work he appears to argue that there is only scientific truth or “fundamentalist” falseness, and the possibility of multiple truths does not exist. This exclusivist conception of truth, coupled with his loaded terminology, may well have triggered the strong reaction.[13]

Jacobs rejected the notion that it is “only the application of the halakha which changes under changing conditions,” but “halakha itself is never determined or even influenced by environmental or sociological factors” (2000, xi). It is a notion presented by some Orthodox when confronted with the reality of change.[14 ] What that notion ignores/hides is a vast diversity within halakha. There are varieties of circumstances, varieties of halakhic principles, varieties of halakhic precedents, and varieties of earlier authoritative decisors with which the contemporary decisor can and must reckon. The decision of which to adopt in the contemporary situation is influenced not only by the decisor’s knowledge but by his own values. Had Jacobs framed his argument in a manner that would have remained true to the notion of halakhic development without explicitly rejecting the Heavenly authority of halakha, as did those in the United States who advocated changes but remained securely within the Orthodox orbit, perhaps his own career and the subsequent history of the British rabbinate would have been very different. On the other hand, given the growing tide of hareidization, he nonetheless might have been rejected. The Hareidi sector of Orthodoxy is growing at a higher rate than any other sector of British Jewry (Graham 2011); its leaders are as self-confident as ever and see no reason to budge from their traditional approach. Here there is a confluence between American and British Jewries. All the same, the more moderate elements of American Orthodoxy seem to have been more successful than their British counterparts at establishing rigorous and well-regarded intellectual and institutional frameworks that can sustain their worldviews and lifestyles.

*Acknowledgements

This is an expanded version of my article, “Halakhic Change vs. Demographic Change: American Orthodoxy, British Orthodoxy, and the Plight of Louis Jacobs,” Journal of Modern Jewish Studies, Vol. 14, No. 1, March 2015, pp. 58–71, 2015, the research for which began when I was a Dorset Fellow at the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies, in Yarnton, UK, during January–March 2013, as part of a seminar on “Orthodoxy, Theological Debate, and Contemporary Judaism: Exploring Questions Raised in the Thought of Louis Jacobs,” convened by Prof. Adam Ferziger and Dr. Miri Freud-Kandel. I benefited from discussions with all of the seminar members, especially Adam Ferziger and Dr. Yehuda Galinsky. I also gratefully acknowledge the valuable criticisms and suggestions of Prof. Menachem Kellner on an early draft of this article and to Dr. Roberta Rosenberg Farber for her critical reading of the previous version of it.

Notes

1. Known as “the Chafetz Chaim,” he was highly revered as a model of piety and an outstanding
halakhic authority in Orthodox Ashkenazi circles.

2. In Modern Orthodox synagogues it is now increasingly acceptable for women to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish, but it is still frowned upon in most American Orthodox synagogues.

3. It should be noted that increased stringency itself can lead to a countermove toward leniency. As Yehuda Turetsky and I have indicated, there has been a “sliding toward the left” in American Orthodoxy (Turetsky and Waxman 2001). Whereas in the past, such moves resulted in breaking away from Orthodoxy, for example, the formation of Conservative Judaism in the United States and Louis Jacobs’s formation of Masorti Judaism in England following the “Jacobs Affair,” it is still unclear where such institutions and groups as Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, Yeshivat Maharat, and the International Rabbinical Fellowship, among others, are going. Perhaps contemporary American Orthodoxy is, and will continue to be, considerably broader and more flexible than its established spokespersons wish to admit.

4. Joshua Berman suggested that perhaps the parallel between the two “is not accidental; that something about the climate of German thought at the beginning of the century is what lies behind each one’s statement; the endeavor of converting the humanities into science; the ideal of the mechanical and the efficient.” (Personal communication, Dec. 15, 2013).

5. Interestingly, Soloveitchik himself was apparently aware of this. In a letter to the President of Yeshiva University, in 1951, he wrote,

The halakhic inquiry, like any other cognitive theoretical performance, does not start out from the point of absolute zero as to sentimental attitudes and value judgments. There always exists in the mind of the researcher an ethico-axiological background against which the contours of the subject matter in question stand out more clearly. In all fields of human intellectual endeavor there is always an intuitive approach which determines the course and method of the analysis. Not even in exact sciences (particularly in their interpretive phase) is it possible to divorce the human element from the formal aspect. Hence this investigation was also undertaken in a similar subjective mood. From the very outset I was prejudiced in favor of the project of the Rabbinical Council of America and I could not imagine any halakhic authority rendering a decision against it. My inquiry consisted only in translating a vague intuitive feeling into fixed terms of halakhic discursive thinking. (Helfgot 2005, 24–25).

6. He subsequently said that such instances were the exception and limited to very specific circumstances (Soloveitchik 2013, 258–277).

7. Avraham Grossman (1992), on the other hand, argues that the sages of Ashkenaz relied on midrashic agadot in their halakhic considerations and they found agadot which not only justified but required suicide in similar situations.

8. A nineteenth-century movement among Lithuanian yeshivot that strove for ethical and spiritual self-discipline (Etkes 1993; Mirsky 2008; Brown 2014).

9. There are various and varied accounts of what came to be known as “the Jacobs affair,” and reference will be made to some of them in the analysis that follows.

10. For a hagiographic biography of Dessler, see Rosenblum (2000).

11. Dessler wrote of him,

I would not be exaggerating in the slightest if I were to say that I have never seen a genius with such depth and all the other aptitudes that he possesses, he is a truly a great scholar and it is almost impossible to fathom the depth of his knowledge. (1986, 311)

I thank my son-in-law, Noam Green, who is completing a doctorate on Dessler’s thought, for bringing this reference to my attention.

12. Brodie expressed his indignation at the use of the term when he wrote, “[W]e who hold to the validity of the Torah are called backward, stagnant, mediaeval and fundamentalist” (1969, 344).

13. Terminology and demeanor may also play a significant role within halakhic development. Aviad Hollander (2010) argues that demeanor can be an important variable in the probability of a halakhic decision being accepted within the Orthodox rabbinic community.

14. Jacobs specifically referred to my claim (Waxman 1993, 223–224) that many earlier halakhic authorities would have asserted that notion. A more recent version of that notion is presented by Broyde and Wagner (2000), who argue that although results provided by halakha can change in response to changed social and/or technological conditions, there can never be any changes in the principles used by halakha.

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I began my Orthodox conversion process when I was 21 years old. I was a junior at New York University studying Jewish Studies and History and had just returned to Manhattan after a transformative semester abroad in Tel Aviv. But my journey with Judaism doesn’t begin there; it begins with my parents.

My parents, Mike and Tisha Thornhill, grew up, met, and were married in southern Oklahoma. Having grown up in the Bible belt, it’s no surprise that they were very active in their church, leading the youth group while my father was studying to be a minister and getting his master’s degree. Their church sent them to Israel on a 10-day trip in the late 1980s, during the First Intifada, to learn about Jesus and Christianity’s roots in the Holy Land. They discovered an authentic tradition, something they felt they’d been missing, in the places where the so-called “Old Testament” tales took place. They felt resentment toward the people and the movement that raised them to believe in Jesus, himself a Jew, without attributing any of his practice or their own to its Jewish roots. They were taken by the beauty of the land, fascinated by the people they encountered, and couldn’t wait to learn more.

Upon returning to Oklahoma, they left their church and my dad left his seminary. A year later, I was born. A year after that, my sister, Hannah, joined us, and we moved to Austin, Texas. My parents searched for conversion resources and only found a small Chabad that was not interested in helping them. But that didn’t stop my parents. They did their own learning and connected with like-minded folks in the area, people who felt like they connected more with Judaism than any other religious or spiritual tradition. They raised my siblings and me celebrating Jewish traditions and holidays, and we visited the Reform temple some years on Yom Kippur. I even missed school for haggim.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt a strong connection to Israel and begged my dad to take me with him when he took his second trip there in 1995. He didn’t, but he brought me back a painting, which hung on a wall in my bedroom until I moved to New York in 2007. I didn’t connect to Jewish life on campus at NYU for the first couple of years but not for lack of trying. I did attend one event at the Bronfman Center, the Hillel on campus and my current employer, during Welcome Week of my freshmen year but was discouraged and didn’t return for another two years. I looked for a community and found it in the dance team at NYU. Growing up, I was a classically trained dancer, and while I decided not to pursue dance as a career, I missed it a lot, so auditioning for the dance team seemed like a good substitute. I made wonderful friends while pursuing my passion for dance. Yet, I still felt like something was missing. Midway through my sophomore year, I applied to transfer to the University of Texas thinking that being close to my family again would help. But as the Yiddish saying goes, “man plans and God laughs,” and about that time, NYU announced that it was opening its campus in Tel Aviv the following autumn. They were offering travel stipends and scholarships to incentivize applicants. Since I had always wanted to go, I figured now was my chance. After submitting my application, it was as if the choice was made for me. I was supposed to go there.

I arrived in Tel Aviv at the end of August 2009 and instantly bonded with a Syrian Jew from Brooklyn who is still my best friend. In the days that followed, I learned a lot about the complexities of Israeli society, made valuable friendships that I still cherish and enjoy today, and began my love affair with Tel Aviv. I felt at home in a way that I never had in New York, and I couldn’t quite explain why. I knew that my affinity for Am Israel wasn’t a phase or simply a fascination. I belonged in Israel, and I was welcomed as such by every Israeli I came in contact with, no questions asked. I knew I had to convert in order to officially be able to participate fully in Jewish life in America and Israel, and while I didn’t know what that would take, I knew I was ready for it.

When I arrived back in New York, I made the decision to begin a conversion process. I was fortunate that one of my friends from NYU Tel Aviv was in the middle of an Orthodox conversion process through the Rabbinical Council of America. She connected me to Rabbi Dan Smokler, the then Senior Jewish Educator at the Bronfman Center for Jewish Student Life at NYU. He graciously met me for coffee and outlined what the steps of the process would be and what my options were. He then connected me to Rabbi Yehuda Sarna, the then University Chaplain and Orthodox rabbi at the Bronfman Center (now my boss and the Executive Director there) who talked me through it further and suggested I read Rabbi Marc Angel’s book, Choosing to be Jewish: The Orthodox Road to Conversion. I decided to begin a process with the RCA, and shortly after that, I met with Rabbi Romm, the head of the Bet Din of New York. He recommended a couple more books to me, and I began my formal learning at the Bronfman Center.

Because I was a Jewish Studies major, Hebrew language courses were a requirement for my degree. Additionally, my time spent in Israel exposed me to Israeli and Jewish culture in a deep way. I enrolled in a class at the Bronfman Center and began learning one-on-one with an Orthodox Jewish student who not only taught me tefillah and berakhot but also took me with her to countless Shabbat meals and accompanied me to davening. The Orthodox community at NYU welcomed me with open arms. I could understand Hebrew (a little) and read (pretty well), which helped me keep up with services and gave me a lot of confidence. That summer, I returned to Israel to volunteer, intern, and take ulpan at Tel Aviv University. I lived in Tel Aviv with three of my friends from study abroad and journeyed nearly every Shabbat to Har Nof to spend Shabbat with an Orthodox family from America who treated me like one of their own family members.

I returned to campus for my senior year and applied to participate in two more formal classes, one with Chabad and one through the Bronfman Center, in addition to my undergraduate work in Jewish Studies. I also continued my one-on-one learning with an educator and peer of Rabbi Sarna’s who was working at the Bronfman Center at the time. We focused primarily on hilkhot shabbat and kashruth. He not only ensured that I had a firm grasp on halakhic concepts but he checked in with me and made sure that I was doing okay as a human being. Throughout my entire process I felt supported by educators and peers and by Rabbi Romm. I met with him once every four to five months and even spent a Shabbat evening with him and his family.

I engaged in formal Jewish education as well as informal and immersive experiences. Dr. Michelle Sarna welcomed me into her home every week not only as a babysitter but also to help her with weekly Shabbat prep on Fridays. I learned how to take hallah, recite berakhot over food with her then-toddlers, and was able to practice my learned knowledge of bishul b’shabbat and kashruth. Rabbi Dan and Dr. Erin Smokler invited me into their home for Shabbat and holiday celebrations, and I learned the holiness of hospitality and hakhnasat orhim, welcoming guests. I participated in Jewish service trips with the Joint and the American Jewish World Service, traveled to Israel, spent hours learning on the phone with a remote hevruta, kept kosher, kept Shabbat, built up a hevre who are still my good friends today. I graduated, moved to the Upper West Side, and took a job at an Orthodox Day School.

Finally, days before Rosh haShanah in 2011, I dunked in the mikveh. I was told on a Friday that my mikveh would be on the following Sunday. My mom bought a ticket immediately and flew up so that she could be there. My friend and then-roommate had her mikveh the same day and our families and close friends celebrated with us afterward at a kosher restaurant on the Upper West Side. Rabbi Dan was at the mikveh, too, and helped make us feel safe and cared for. While I had hoped for the mikveh to be a meaningful, spiritual experience, I remember thinking how much I couldn’t wait to get out of the water and just be accepted as a Jew already. Shortly thereafter, I began working at the Bronfman Center and am now the assistant director there. I have mentored and learned from hundreds of Jewish college students, nearly completed an MA in Jewish Education, started a young adult Jewish learning circle, and founded the Orthodox Converts Network.

My story isn’t unique. Many people decide to convert to Judaism and increasingly, young women are choosing to do so through Orthodox Batei Din. In October of last year, I was about to celebrate Sukkot in Florence, Italy when I learned about Barry Freundel’s despicable behavior. I struggled internally with the desire to just be a Jew, not drawing attention to the fact that I converted, and the feeling of responsibility that I had toward people like me, born with a yiddishe neshama but not coming from a Jewish womb. I knew I had to do something. I’m not capable of easing the pain of Freundel’s victims or anyone who has been harmed in this process. But I have an obligation to use my knowledge of what the process should and shouldn’t look like and to help others find their way along this journey.

Lack of clarity and exclusion of female leaders from the process led me to create the Orthodox Converts Network in December 2014. Through the network, we hope to make the process more accessible, transparent, and meaningful by:

1) Providing and publicizing resources
2) Mentoring conversion candidates
3) Working with communal leaders and existing infrastructure to create change and improve the process
4) Meeting regularly to activate a previously unheard but critically important voice
5) Empowering female Orthodox leadership to take on a more significant role in the process

Since our initial meeting in December, we’ve also activated a Facebook page, begun work on a website, and I’ve connected several people who feel stuck in their process to individuals who can help them through it. I’ve created a suggested curriculum using the RCA’s book list and based on my own process and learnings, and I continue to learn with conversion candidates. I work to welcome them into communities that are open to those going through the process and make them feel as comfortable as possible. I hope to take it even further by launching materials and programs that can be utilized in Day Schools and communities to educate young people and community members about conversion and de-stigmatize the process. I spoke on a panel with Rabbi Riskin, the chief rabbi of Efrat, and Rabbi Angel, founder and director of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, and was so encouraged by their passion for the issue and sense of urgency around improving things for and protecting conversion candidates. That we have leaders like this in our corner is a huge win.

In late October, the RCA formed a GPS Review Committee,[1] which conducted surveys and later convened focus groups to assess their Geirus Policies and Standards (GPS) procedure. Since then, much has happened in the Orthodox world: alternative Batei Din have been formed in Israel,[2] rabbis associated with the International Rabbinic Fellowship (IRF) are performing conversions, Yeshivat Maharat has ordained three classes of women,[3] and the RCA report[4] has been publicized.

The data from the report is fascinating, although not surprising to those of us intimately connected with the process. I want to highlight a few points, all taken from page 7 the report: [5]

? 78% of conversion participants in the RCA-Beth Din of America network are women.
? 45% of the sample entered the conversion process between the ages of 20 and 29 and 27% were 30–39. These two age groups encompass 70% of all conversion candidates.
? Most survey participants (80%) cited “spiritual-intellectual search” as the factor that prompted their interest in conversion.
? 45% of all respondents said they have “Jewish ancestry.”

Seventy-Eight percent of conversion participants in the RCA-Beth Din of America network are women, and most of these women are under 40 when they begin the process. I want us to sit with that for a moment. Conversion in the Orthodox community in America is a women’s issue. Yet we continue to uphold a system that not only prevents women from playing a leadership role but also allows for an unhealthy power dynamic between middle-aged men, seen as the gatekeepers of our tradition, and most often, young women in a state of increased vulnerability. The GPS Review Committee, in their recommendations to the RCA, “encourage[s] Sponsoring Rabbis to facilitate relationships between female conversion candidates and female teachers, mentors, or scholars to assist them in the conversion process in the hope that such relationships will assist the conversion candidate to face the many challenges faced by observant Jewish women.” [6] While it goes on to address the power dynamic by making important recommendations that will help conversion candidates feel affirmed in their experience and perhaps more comfortable, none of these recommendations explicitly call for women to be included beyond certain “rare” conversations around “issues of a personal nature.”[7] I would argue that including learned, observant, female women in the learning process is a wonderful start. I would like us to take it a step further and insist that female conversion candidates need a yoetzet halakha or other pious, female community leader to

? be present for all meetings with the Bet Din,
? be included in all decisions and discussions as they relate to the candidate,
? be the only person (aside from the mikveh attendant) anywhere near the mikveh at the time of immersion, and
? continue as a spiritual guide for the candidate post-immersion.

There are hundreds of knowledgeable women in our communities who must be given the
opportunity to take on a leadership role within this process, both within the RCA and outside of it.

Conversion is also very clearly an issue facing emerging adults. What happens during emerging adulthood? We begin making important life decisions, decisions that will indeed have a huge impact on the direction we take our adult existence: career, higher education, and perhaps most importantly, marriage. Converts have told me that the time it takes to convert (sometimes the unreasonable length and sometimes the uncertainty of the timeline) make forming relationships, romantic or otherwise, nearly impossible. We must enable conversion candidates to go through the process within a reasonable period of time so that they may be fully integrated into our communities and begin making lives and families of their own. There are many challenges Jews by choice face socially; we must educate our communities about conversion so that integration into communities is seamless. And we must do our part by destigmatizing conversion and encouraging our youth to date and marry those who have chosen to join us.

Along these lines, we know that Jews do not live in a bubble and as a result, may end up dating outside of the Jewish community. When this happens, rather than cutting these people out, we should work with them to determine the best method by which their significant other can join the Jewish people. It is important to note, however, that the majority of conversion candidates through the RCA do not cite marriage or relationship with a Jew as their main reason for choosing to convert to Judaism through an Orthodox Bet Din. This is a common misconception in the Orthodox community and one that I want to fight to change. Conversion candidates undergo tremendous scrutiny throughout the process. I can cite from my own experience and from others that we feel our integrity is called into question by many strangers for the most ambiguous reasons. We do not need community members to enforce what they believe are proper ways to treat a convert or conversion candidate by treating us with skepticism, questioning our reasons for converting, and wondering if we will continue to be Jewish or observant beyond our immersion in the mikveh. First, it’s none of their business. Second, after immersion, converts are to be treated like any other Jew with the exception of their ability to marry a kohen. We have a long way to go in educating communities around the halakha of conversion. In the meantime, we should all do our best to welcome people into our communities with kindness and openness as a rule. After all, Pirkei Avot tells us to judge others favorably,[8] which can be interpreted as giving others the benefit of the doubt.

While “conversion for marriage” is not the main reason RCA conversion candidates choose to convert, I think it’s important to celebrate those who do convert to Judaism so that they may enjoy a halakhically Jewish life with their Jewish spouse. It is halakhically acceptable to convert to Judaism if you are in a relationship with a Jew. It is a practice in many communities to discourage this and frown upon it. Knowing many people who deal with this, I feel comfortable saying that they do not “convert for marriage” only. They have found meaning enough in the Jewish tradition that they want to make it a central part of their lives, with their Jewish spouse. It is not black and white. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks reminds us often that Jews are a tiny people by quoting Milton Himmelfarb, “The number of Jews in the world is smaller than a small statistical error in the Chinese census.”[9] It is not in our interest to alienate members of our community. Rather than shunning those who “convert for marriage,” we must guide them through the conversion process and celebrate their desire to join the Jewish people.

The GPS Review Committee’s report highlights several areas that require examination by the RCA and makes suggestions for improvement in these areas. I feel that most of the suggested changes are very much in line with feedback I have heard from Jews by choice and conversion candidates. In my conversations with conversion candidates and based on my own experience, people simply want to be treated with dignity and respect.

They want the expectations to be clearly outlined for them. They want to know about how long the process will take and exactly what they should learn and with what frequency. They want to be able to trust that the leaders who are guiding them through the process and the members of the Bet Din will have their best interest in mind and treat the process with a certain level of seriousness and reverence. I remember feeling so many different things during my process. I remember just starting out and wondering, “Who do I learn with? And what do I learn?” And when I immersed myself in studying Hebrew, tefillah, Jewish history, kashruth, Shabbat, I remember thinking “Okay, so when do I know it’s enough to go to the mikveh?” I remember feeling like I had no control; that the most important decision of my life was in the hands of three men who didn’t know me at all, and all I had was 45 minutes to convince them that I was ready to be a Jew. That I was 21 and like all of my Modern Orthodox friends on the Upper West Side, I really wanted to start dating, hosting meals on Shabbat, putting roots down in a community, and to just be treated like everyone else.

I am encouraged by the GPS Review Committee’s recommendations and hopeful that the RCA will be receptive. I am thrilled that rabbis like Rabbi Angel, Rabbi Riskin, Rabbi David Stav, and Rabbi Nahum Rabinovitch are working hard to improve the Orthodox conversion process; and I am the first to say there are wonderful aspects to the process, too. I also believe that it will only improve if converts and conversion candidates are consulted and helping to lead this charge. I appreciate the allies and friends that I and the OCN have made along the way: We need you. And we need also to know that our testimony is being taken seriously. It is in our interest to make the Orthodox conversion process better and more user-friendly. That does not mean compromising on halakhic observance and standards nor does it mean compromising justice and morality. The Rambam, at the same time that he admits that converts are a challenge for the Jewish people, acknowledges that conversion will happen and so we must both be careful not to be too stringent and to love the convert. Conversion has always been a part of the Jewish communal landscape. We must, as our ancestors did, accept this and celebrate it. After all, we believe that Judaism is a compelling way to live one’s life—why should we be skeptical or discouraging of someone who wants to take that on?

I’ve learned so much not only from my own conversion process but from the women and men I’ve met through the Orthodox Converts Network and in my own learning with conversion candidates. Many are greeted with openness and encouragement and therefore thrive in the process and fit seamlessly into a community once they complete it. Others find it less welcoming and unclear and describe the process as painful and unnecessarily difficult. The way that each person experiences conversion is and should continue to be different. But that does not mean that each process should be different. At the most basic level, each process should be straightforward, accessible, encouraging, affirming, meaningful, and positively life-changing. Every conversion candidate should engage with rabbis, teachers, mentors, and community members who help facilitate that type of experience. And after immersion, all Jews by choice should find a community they genuinely feel they can call home.

[1] http://www.rabbis.org/news/article.cfm?id=105810
[2] http://www.timesofisrael.com/defying-rabbinate-rabbis-set-up-alternative-jewish-conversion-court/
[3] http://www.yeshivatmaharat.org/about-our-scholars/
[4] http://rcarabbis.org/pdf/GPSFINALREPORT_FINAL_June28.pdf
[5] Ibid.
[6] Ibid., p. 18.
[7] Ibid., p. 18.
[8] Pirkei Avot 1:6.
[9] http://www.rabbisacks.org/emor-5774-afraid-greatness/

Racism is an ugly feature of human life, the source of profound misery to untold millions of people. Racism posits that a particular group is inherently superior to other groups. This kind of thinking leads to discrimination—and often to violence--against the victimized groups.

Hate groups throughout the world thrive on racist ideologies. Whether they are white supremacists or black supremacists; whether they foster racial, religious, ethnic or national hatred—such people are a danger to society. Racist ideology inevitably leads to dehumanizing those who are not part of the “in-group.” Even when no actual violence transpires, the ideology itself fosters mistrust, hatred, fear and societal malaise.

Jews have suffered as victims of bigotry, racism, and dehumanization throughout history and in many lands. We know firsthand about the evils of one group claiming innate superiority over others. We know that the arrogance of the haters poisons minds and hearts; and we know that this poison is destructive.

We have all learned from our earliest youth that the Torah teaches that humanity was created in God’s image. The Mishna reminds us that each human life is of inestimable value and is irreplaceable. It would seem to be a foundational principle of Torah Judaism that all human beings are equally created by and beloved by God. Racist attitudes or discriminatory behavior would seem to be antithetical to the core teachings and values of Judaism.

Yet, even though Jewish experience and Jewish teachings are so clearly opposed to racist ideology, the fact is that there is a stream of Jewish tradition that fosters the notion of innate Jewish superiority to non-Jews. This notion is found in the writings of Rabbi Yehuda Halevy and in Kabbalistic literature; and it has found expression in the writings and teachings of contemporary Orthodox rabbis.

Professor Menachem Kellner, who taught Jewish philosophy at Haifa University for many years and who now teaches at Shalem College in Jerusalem, has recently published a book (in Hebrew, Bar Ilan University Press), Gam Hem Keruyim Adam: haNokhri beEinei haRambam (They too are called human: Maimonides’ views on non-Jews). He makes it amply clear that Maimonides rejected the notion that Jews are ontologically different from and superior to non-Jews. The Rambam maintains the classic Jewish teachings that stress the common humanity of all people. Differences among human beings arise not due to innate metaphysical otherness, but due to cultural and sociological factors. In essence, Jews are the same as all other human beings. Jews differ from others (as others differ from Jews) based on beliefs, religious traditions, communal values etc.

Dr. Kellner’s book is a fine and important academic study. But it is also an alarming wake up call to contemporary religious Jews. It points out how deeply the Jewish supremacist views have taken hold among many otherwise pious Jews. It underscores the critical need to reclaim Rambam’s insights not only because they are true to our Torah tradition, but because they can purge contemporary Torah Judaism from highly negative and dangerous attitudes.

Dr. Kellner begins his discussion by citing examples of rabbinic teachers who have articulated supremacist views. Most egregiously, a book was published several years ago entitled Torat haMelekh. Authored by Orthodox rabbis and published by an Orthodox yeshiva, it asserts that non-Jews are not quite human in the same sense that Jews are human. Non-Jews, therefore, are not entitled to the same rights as Jews. This attitude provides justification for discriminatory policies against non-Jews, not excluding acts of violence. Torat haMelekh evoked tremendous negative reaction within Israeli society, and various modern Orthodox and religious Zionist rabbis criticized it soundly. However, other Orthodox rabbis either agreed with the authors of Torat haMelekh, or argued that the authors had the right to express their views even if those views could be construed as incitement to violence.

Dr. Kellner cites the more “moderate” position of a well-known and highly popular religious Zionist rabbi. This rabbi has written: “We are a chosen people not because we have received the Torah; but we received the Torah because we are a chosen people. The Torah is so very appropriate to our inner nature. Our nation has a distinctive nature, character, communal psychology, a unique Godly character….Some argue against us that we are ‘racist.’ Our answer is…if racism is defined in that we are different and more elevated than other nations and therefore we bring blessing to other nations—then, we admit that we are different from all nations, not by color of skin, but by the nature of our souls; and the Torah is the description of our inner content.” According to this view, the Jewish people has a unique spiritual nature, superior to that of other nations. We received the Torah because of our innate spiritual receptivity. Non-Jewish souls are different—and less holy—than Jewish souls.

Dr. Kellner refers to a leading Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshiva University who admits that all humans are created in the image of God, but that Jews are more in the image of God than non-Jews. Although this statement is not at all identical with the views of Torat haMelekh, it shares the underlying notion of Jewish supremacy. Stated simply, Jews are intrinsically holier and closer to God than non-Jews.

Dr. Kellner demonstrates with admirable clarity that the supremacist views of the above-mentioned rabbis are soundly rejected by Rambam. Anyone who recognizes the Oneness of God is considered to be a follower of Abraham our Father. Rambam’s universalism recognized that all people—regardless of ethnic background—could rise to the highest spiritual levels. (p. 57).

Rambam equated the “image of God” with human intellectual capacity. This “image of God” is a latent quality within each person from birth; yet only by actualizing one’s intellect does one achieve the crown of being an “image of God.” Dr. Kellner notes: “According to Rambam, a good non-Jewish philosopher—i.e. a good person who has developed beyond moral perfection to intellectual perfection—is on a higher level than a righteous Talmid Hakham who is ignorant of the sciences. Moreover, the non-Jewish philosopher will merit greater Divine providence than the righteous Torah scholar, and his [the non-Jew’s] portion in the world to come will be greater [than that of a Talmid Hakham unversed in the sciences, and it is questionable] whether such a Talmid Hakham will merit it at all.” (pp. 78-79).

In Rambam’s introduction to his commentary on Pirkei Avot, he writes that he has drawn on the teachings of our rabbinic sages, and also from the words of the non-Jewish philosophers: one must “hear the truth from whoever states it.” The wisdom of our sages and the wisdom of the philosophers aim at ultimate truth, albeit from different vantage points. In the introduction to his commentary on the Mishna, Rambam states that wisdom is present not only in the words of our prophets, but also in the teachings of the non-Jewish philosophers. Our goal is to be wise and good: this goal can be attained by Jews and non-Jews alike. (p. 137) For Rambam, Aristotle was a prime example of a non-Jewish philosopher who attained great wisdom and moral virtue. (141).

In his Hilkhot Shemitah veYovel (13:10) Rambam explicitly states that ultimate knowledge of God is possible for every human being: Each person among all humanity (mikol ba’ei olam), if properly dedicated to wisdom and righteousness, can become the “holy of holies.” While some rabbinic interpreters claim that “kol ba’ei olam” refers only to Torah-observant Jews, this is far from what Rambam in fact has taught. This is an example of how supremacists attempt to re-interpret statements of Rambam that posit a universalist view. (156).

Dr. Kellner reviews various statements of Rambam, drawn from Talmudic and Midrashic sources, in which Jews are described in laudable terms. Jews are said to be modest and compassionate, kind and forgiving. Non-Jews are characterized as having violent and argumentative qualities. We know, though, from personal experience that there are Jews who have negative personal qualities and there are non-Jews who have fine personal qualities. The ancient rabbinic statements in praise of Jews might best be understood as being prescriptive rather than descriptive. In any case, the moral qualities and deficiencies attributed to Jews and non-Jews need not be understood as innate, unchangeable qualities, but rather as the result of environmental and cultural factors. (p. 202).

Rambam’s universalist vision recognizes that although all humanity can achieve great spiritual heights, Jews have a unique blessing in that God gave us the Torah and mitzvoth. The commandments aim at making us finer, wiser, and more virtuous people. But non-Jews of all ethnic backgrounds may convert to Judaism and become part of the Jewish people. There is no intrinsic barrier that would bar a non-Jew from becoming Jewish.

For the supremacists, though, Jewish souls are essentially different from non-Jewish souls. In the words of Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook: “The difference between the Jewish soul, its self, its inner desires, aspirations, character and status, and that of all nations, at all their levels, is greater and deeper than the difference between the human soul and the animal soul; between the latter there is merely a quantitative distinction, but between the former an essential qualitative distinction pertains." (Orot, Jerusalem, 5745, p. 156). This attitude makes it highly difficult for a non-Jew to convert to Judaism. Conversion would involve a sort of “soul transplant” through which the non-Jew attains the intrinsically superior Jewish soul.

Why did the supremacist view emerge in the first place, and why has it gained adherents in our own time? Why haven’t the views of Rambam consistently prevailed throughout Jewish history and into the contemporary era? Dr. Kellner reminds us that the supremacist view was popularized by Rabbi Yehuda Halevy’s Kuzari, which was written as a defense of a despised people. (p. 215). The Muslim and Christian communities were vastly larger and more powerful than the Jews. Indeed, Jews suffered humiliation, violence and expulsion at the hands of the Muslims and Christians. The Kuzari was—and is—a phenomenal Jewish morale booster. In head to head competition with a philosopher, Muslim and Christian, the Jewish sage emerges victorious and convinces the King of the Khazars of the superior truth of Judaism. Although the world despises the Jews, God loves us! We are His chosen people. We are the only ones who have the unique spiritual and Godly nature that connects us with God.

This attitude has an obvious appeal to persecuted Jews. Even though we are being oppressed, we are superior to our oppressors! This was true in the days of Rabbi Yehuda Halevy, and it continues to be true today. Jews who feel threatened by the non-Jewish world feel bolstered by their belief in their own superiority to non-Jews. The supremacist view thrives when Jews lack self-confidence, when they are afraid of the outside world, when they allow their emotions to prevail over their reason.

Dr. Kellner recommends “theological humility,” the ability to accept that other people also have truths and spiritual insights from which we can learn. He calls for Jewish self-confidence in the style of Rambam. He asks that we reclaim the universalist impulse that recognizes the essential humanity of all people, that deplores racist and supremacist views that diminish the humanity of others.

It is truly remarkable that Rambam, who lived in the Middle Ages, should provide a religious worldview that is so modern…and even post-modern. How wonderful it would be if our community could overcome supremacist tendencies, and become spiritually self-confident, intellectually vibrant, compassionate and wise.