National Scholar Updates

(reprinted from Aish.com)

Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was one of America’s most eloquent voices for civil rights, for humanity and for peace. Here are memorable quotes about Jews and Israel that contain King’s stirring calls to live up to our potential and to look at others with fairness and warmth.

Jews and African-Americans:

When King was invited to address the American Jewish Committee convention in 1958, he noted the great similarities between Jews and African Americans, who both experienced hatred and prejudice and who worked to overcome that hatred:

My people were brought to America in chains. Your people were driven here to escape the chains fashioned for them in Europe. Our unity is born of our common struggle for centuries, not only to rid ourselves of bondage, but to make oppression of any people by others an impossibility.

Anti-Semitism and racism:

There are Hitlers loose in America today, both in high and low places… As the tensions and bewilderment of economic problems become more severe, history(‘s) scapegoats, the Jews, will be joined by new scapegoats, the Negroes. The Hitlers will seek to divert people’s minds and turn their frustration and anger to the helpless, to the outnumbered. Then whether the Negro and Jew shall live in peace will depend upon how firmly they resist, how effectively they reach the minds of the decent Americans to halt this deadly diversion…. (May 14, 1958 address to the National Biennial Convention of the American Jewish Congress)

Probably more than any other ethnic group, the Jewish community has been sympathetic and has stood as an ally to the Negro in his struggle for justice. (March 26, 1968 address to the 68th annual convention of the Rabbinical Assembly)

Learning from Jewish history:

Oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever. The yearning for freedom eventually manifests itself. The Bible tells the thrilling story of how Moses stood in the Pharaoh’s court centuries ago and cried, ‘Let my people go’. This is a kind of opening chapter in a continuing story. The present struggle in our country is a later chapter in the same unfolding story. Something within has reminded the Negro of his birthright of freedom, and something without has reminded him that it can be gained. (Letter from a Birmingham Jail, 1963)

It was ‘illegal’ to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s Germany. But I am sure that if I had lived in Germany during that time, I would have aided and comforted my Jewish brothers even though it was illegal. (Letter from a Birmingham Jail, 1963)

Zionism and Anti-Semitism:

On October 27, 1967, just a few months after the Six Day War, King had dinner with students from Harvard University in Boston. Professor Seymour Martin Lipset was present and recalls how one of the students criticized Zionists. King was incensed, saying “Don’t talk like that!” - and continuing:

When people criticize Zionists, they mean Jews. You’re talking anti-Semitism!

The following year, just days before his tragic murder, King addressed an annual Jewish assembly and explained his pro-Israel feelings at greater length. He explained that Israel and Arab states had different conceptions of what constitutes “peace”. Arab states are consumed with inequality and require fundamental changes in their societies before they can feel secure. Israel, in contrast, desires only secure borders and for the world to recognize its right to exist.

Peace for Israel means security, and we must stand with all of our might to protect its right to exist, its territorial integrity and the right to use whatever sea lanes it needs. I see Israel, and never mind saying it, as one of the great outposts of democracy in the world, and a marvelous example of what can be done, how desert land can be transformed into an oasis of brotherhood and democracy. Peace for Israel means security and that security must be a reality. (March 26, 1968 address to the 68th annual convention of the Rabbinical Assembly)

Fighting for Soviet Jews:

On December 11, 1966, King addressed 50,000 people in 32 states at demonstrations for Soviet Jews via a telephone hookup. His eloquent words reminded the crowds that they all had a vital responsibility to work to help their fellow Jews who were trapped in the Soviet Union. Here are three quotes from that stirring speech:

We cannot sit complacently by the wayside while our Jewish brothers in the Soviet Union face the possible extinction of their cultural and spiritual life. Those that sit at rest, while others take pains, are tender turtles and buy their quite with disgrace.

The denial of human rights anywhere is a threat to the affirmation of human rights everywhere.

Jewish history and culture are a part of everyone’s heritage, whether he be Jewish, Christian or Muslim.

Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated on April 4, 1968 at the age of 39. His stirring words continue to live on, inspiring us to work towards his vision of a world without hatred, without prejudice. His palpable affection and respect for Israel and the Jewish people can inspire us today.

The Literary, Social and Cultural Life of the Judeo-Spanish
Sephardim During the Immigrant Generation (Early 1900's)

By Marc D. Angel

Proceedings of a Conference in NYC April 5, 1981

In his book, THE PROMISED CITY, Moses Rischin describes New York's Jews during the period from 1870 until 1914. This was an amazing period in American-Jewish history, with hundreds of thousands of Jews pouring into New York. The lower East Side became the most densely populated section of the city, with many thousands of Jews peopling its tenements and staffing its industry.

This book, as could be expected, focuses almost entirely on the Yiddish-speaking Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe. There are a few scattered references to "Levantine Jews", and these references are quite superficial and contain inaccuracies. Rischin's book is a valuable study of Jewish life on the lower East Side and it is also a valuable reflection of the general ignorance concerning the Sephardic dimension of the Jewish life of the lower East Side.

Historians have not taken the time to study the experience of the Sephardic immigrants of the early 20th century. This is not very surprising. Even at the time when thousands of Sephardim were arriving in New York, the general non-Sephardic community was relatively unaware of their existence. Since they did not speak Yiddish, since they did not fit into the "normal" Jewish patterns of life, for the most part they were either ignored or misunderstood.

Over 25,000 Sephardic Jews from Turkey, the Balkan countries, Syria and elsewhere migrated to the United States during the first two decades of the 20th century. The vast majority settled in New York mostly on the lower East Side. The largest group of these immigrants spoke Judeo-Spanish. There were also smaller groups of Sephardim who spoke Arabic or Greek. Our concern in this paper is with the Jews of Judeo-Spanish background.

Some of my research on these Sephardim appeared in an article in the American Jewish Year Book of 1973. That article included a historical background of Sephardic life in the United States, the reasons for their migration here, some of the early communal and cultural efforts; the article also includes a sociological survey of American-born Sephardim which attempts to describe the effects of the Americanization process on this group. I have also written a book, published by the Jewish Publication Society, based on the Judeo-Spanish newspaper, La America, which appeared during the years of 1910 through 1925. These works provide a comprehensive picture of the Sephardic experience in New York -- and indeed in the United States -- and this paper will only touch on some of the major points.

The Judeo-Spanish speaking Jews formed their own unique society in the lower East Side. They brought with them their cultural heritage from the Sephardic communities of Turkey and the Balkan countries. They were quick to establish restaurants and coffee houses to cater to their culinary tastes. They established their own self-help groups, their own synagogue services, their own burial societies, and their own communal organizations. Sephardim naturally gravitated to streets and buildings which were already inhabited by other of their countrymen. There were buildings and streets which were populated almost exclusively by Sephardim. By living in these enclaves, the new immigrants could feel as if their social context had not been completely uprooted, that they were still living among their own people. In particular, Sephardim were concentrated on Chrystie Street, Forsythe Street, Allen Street, Broome Street, Orchard Street, Eldridge Street and the streets in the general vicinity.

The lower East Side was hardly a beautiful place to live. Jack Farhi, writing in the summer of 1912 in La America, described the situation of the Sephardim of the lower East Side: "We live in New York! In an oven of fire, in the midst of dirt and filth. We live in dark and narrow dwellings which inspire disgust. We work from morning to night without giving ourselves even one day a week for rest. We sleep badly, eat badly, dress ourselves badly..... We are very frugal, saving our money to send to our relatives in the old country or just hoarding it for a rainy day. We are losing the best days of our lives, the time of our youth..."

Because the setting of their lives was so dismal and so disorienting, Sephardim sought opportunities to meet their co-religionists in order to reminisce or just to pass the time of day. The Sephardic coffee houses and restaurants mirrored the hopes of the immigrants and also their frustrations. They would pass the time playing cards, drinking Turkish coffee, and discussing topics of concern to them. Because of their popularity, coffee houses not only served as recreational centers but also as intellectual and political centers. Any cause or movement which needed to win adherents would seek them in the coffee houses. Orators would make their speeches. Publicists would post their flyers and circulars on the walls. Yet the coffee houses also mirrored problems within the community. They became hangouts for idle and unemployed people, many of whom had become despondent. Also, some of the customers were short-tempered. It was not uncommon for disputes and even fistfights to break out for one reason or another.

In 1910, Mr. Moise Gadol -- a Bulgarian Sephardic Jew -- came to New York to visit relatives. He visited a coffee house and was surprised to find so many young people frequenting it when he thought they should have been at work. When he learned that they were unemployed, he was shocked. Gadol himself was a man of great culture, an active businessman in Europe, and a master of eleven languages. The poverty and despair which he saw among his Sephardic co-religionist on the lower East Side stirred him. So many of them seemed helpless. They did not know where to turn to find jobs. The programs of the Jewish community to help immigrants learn English were geared to Yiddish-speaking immigrants. The Sephardim could not benefit from these programs at all. Jewish organizations which attempted to assist immigrants often did not even recognize that the Sephardim were Jews. Many a Sephardic immigrant would complain that they were believed to be Italians, Greeks or Turks by Jewish officials. Life on the lower East Side was difficult even for the many thousands of Yiddish-speaking Jews; how much more so for the Sephardic Jews who were left almost entirely on their own.

Gadol decided to remain in New York and publish a Judeo-Spanish newspaper, La America. He felt by doing this he would be able to provide practical advice to his readers as well as to give them general enlightenment and intellectual guidance. Moreover, Gadol convinced the leaders of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society to establish an Oriental Bureau in order to help the "Oriental" Jews -- those who were coming from Levantine countries. Gadol himself served as the secretary of the Oriental Bureau, initially as a volunteer, and spent many hours helping newly arrived Sephardic immigrants -- that others would have ignored -- to get through the immigration procedures. He also helped many people find jobs and gave advice on how to keep their jobs. In the pages of La America, he printed a glossary in order to teach Sephardim English. Interestingly, he also included Yiddish definitions, believing that since many Sephardim worked for Yiddish-speaking employers, Sephardim needed to know Yiddish in order to advance in America.

The pages of La America are a fascinating reflection of the literary, cultural and social life of the immigrant generation of Sephardim. Gadol was a brilliant journalist. Even when reading his editorials now, so many years after they were written, one senses the energy and vitality of the author. The newspaper included news items about Sephardic communities in the United States and abroad. It included poetry and some literary work. It was a forceful spokesman for Zionism, for the advancement of workers, for individual initiative. Gadol printed several articles by a person who signed her name simply as Miss A, which argued for the equality of women.

But for all the good he intended, Gadol did not achieve notable financial success with his newspaper. Quite the contrary. The paper was constantly plagued by financial problems and he would work at other jobs in order to subsidize his newspaper. None of his partnerships lasted very long, because his partners did not share his dedication to La America. They preferred to make money.

There were other Judeo-Spanish publications that appeared among the Sephardic community. The most well-known is the successor of La America, La Vara. La Vara continued publishing until the late 1940's.

The Judeo-Spanish press in New York deserves special attention. These journalistic achievements must be counted among the most important cultural ventures of American Sephardim and are testimony to the literary and creative impulses within the immigrant Sephardic community. The newspapers provided a medium for articulate Sephardic thinkers, for poets and essayists, for political activists, for religious teachers. The newspapers brought to the Sephardic masses a world of ideas and imagination and helped lift them from the dreariness of their everyday lives. Both La America and La Vara had subscribers throughout the United States and even in foreign countries. The Judeo-Spanish newspapers are clearly the most important literary productions of the immigrant Sephardic generation.

But it was not always easy to find appreciative readers and subscribers. Due to their poverty and lack of formal education in the old country, many Sephardic immigrants had little interest in the newspapers. Enlightened and dedicated Sephardic leaders exerted great effort to stimulate the minds of the Sephardic community. One such man, Mr. Albert Amateau, noted his frustrations in an article in La America, November 29, 1912. He stated that he tried very hard to assist the Sephardim to advance. "But I found myself isolated on all sides and it was impossible for me to work against this apathy alone, without help from anywhere." This sentiment is echoed many times by Moise Gadol and by others. Professor Mair Jose Benardete, who was then a young man, accompanied the venerable Mr. Nessim Behar who sought to encourage Sephardim to attend English classes. Benardete recalls: "We went up and down the malodorous tenements, knocking at the doors of those humble, temporary homes of the new arrivals at the very hour when the men were having their supper after working long hours at very unhealthy and unremunerative jobs. Nessim Behar, the apostle, expected these bodies, whose energies had been squeezed out of them, to have enough physical stamina to respond to the appeal of the spirit." And, Behar was successful in a great many cases.

Along with these efforts to educate and enlighten the Sephardic masses, there were also efforts to organize the community into a cohesive unit. The Sephardim of Judeo-Spanish background spoke the same language; yet they too were divided into many small groups. Usually, Sephardim tended to form societies based on their city of origin. Instead of uniting into large organizations or congregations, the Sephardic immigrant, sponsored a host of small self-help groups, synagogues, and religious schools. A number of Sephardic leaders called for a united community, and one of the outspoken advocates of this idea was Moise Gadol. In 1912, the Federation of Oriental Jews was established. It served as an umbrella organization for a number of Sephardic societies which affiliated with it. While it had some success, it was a short-lived venture. None of the societies wanted to give up any of its autonomy to a more general organization. There were a variety of subsequent efforts to form a central Sephardic community, none of which had lasting success. Yet, the efforts themselves are noteworthy and testify to the progressive and broad-visioned leadership that did exist within the community. Unfortunately, this leadership could not completely succeed among the immigrants.

The individual societies -- and there were many of them -- attempted to provide a number of services to their members. Usually, the major benefit was burial. Gadol frequently argued that the Sephardim needed an organization that would take care of them while they were alive, not just societies to care for them once they were dead. As time went on, the various societies did try to expand their services to include such things as medical care and legal advice. The societies also sponsored picnics and social events to bring their members together. Most also sponsored religious services for the High Holy Days. Some of the societies had literary groups associated with them.

It should be noted here that the Sisterhood of the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue had a settlement house on the Lower East Side to assist the Sephardic immigrants. It was first located at 86 Orchard Street, but ultimately moved to larger quarters at 133 Eldridge Street. This building housed a synagogue, Berith Shalom, as well as a Talmud Torah, clubs for children, classes for adults, social services and much more. It became a beehive of activity. While relations between the new Sephardic immigrants and the old established Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue were not always cordial, there was much to be proud of in the relationship.

No discussion of Sephardic life would be complete without mention of the dramatic productions in Judeo-Spanish. There were virtually hundreds of performances of plays sponsored by Sephardic societies in New York, and the enthusiasm for drama was also evident in other cities of Sephardic settlement. Often enough, the plays would be of Biblical themes; some would be translations of French plays; others would be original works by Sephardim in Turkey or even the United States. Dramatic productions were put on to large and enthusiastic audiences. The pages of La America report that plays drew capacity crowds, some numbering over a thousand people. Since the Yiddish theatre and English theatre were not comprehensible to the Sephardim, they developed their own dramatic programs and catered to their own interests.

These productions are significant because they provided creative outlets for Sephardic producers and actors, as well as writers. While the quality of the productions was mixed, individuals could aspire to play important roles before large audiences. Some of the plays were quite elaborate, with rented costumes and special theatrical effects.

A vital part of the cultural life of the Sephardic community was oratory. In those days, before the emergence of television, people were entertained and enlightened by gifted orators who could stir their emotions and give them ideas. The Sephardic community could boast of a number of individuals who earned distinction as notable orators. One of the best known was Mr. Albert Matarasso, who came to the United States from Salonika. Matarasso was well-educated in his native city, and brought with him substantial rabbinic and general knowledge. He spoke with force and enthusiasm. People still remember him as an orator "with a silver tongue", a man who was invited to speak at many a communal gathering. We should also recall the name of Mr. David N. Barocas who spoke with eloquence and precision. For these men, oratory was an art form.

The Sephardim created their own literary, social and cultural institutions as manifestations of their own unique cultural background. They were Spanish-speaking -- but did not come from a Spanish-speaking land; they came from countries in the Levant -- but they were separated by religion from others who had come from the same lands; they were Jews -- but were culturally far different from the overwhelming majority of Jews in the United States. Consequently, they were a separate and, to a certain extent, isolated entity.

New Areas of Religious Responsibility: An Essay[1]

By Daniel Sperber

(Dr. Sperber is President of the Makhon haGavoah leTorah at Bar Ilan University. Author of numerous works in Jewish law, custom, and theology, he was awarded the Israel Prize by the State of Israel for his monumental contributions to Jewish scholarship.)

I would like to call attention to some new fields with which the contemporary rabbi has to acquaint himself and to learn their challenges and the possible approaches to giving them solutions. The obvious one is, of course, technology, which progresses with startling speed, presenting situations that never before confronted us. There is a huge literature on this subject, as is the case with medical ethics, business ethics, and so forth. But one area that I feel has been largely neglected is that of ecology. It may not really be new, but has hitherto been too little emphasized. In 2002, I wrote a short article in The Edah Journal 21, 2002, entitled “Jewish Environmental Ethics.” I began with a personal recollection based on changes that I had seen during a short part of my own lifetime. I wrote as follows:

A little more than thirty-five years ago, I served as a rabbi in India. When one went to India at that time, of course, one went to Nepal. So I took a week off and went to Katmandu. It was an absolute paradise. From this ancient, beautiful city, one could see the Himalayas covered in snow against pure azure skies. Running through the city was a pristine river called the Bagmati. It is a holy river, where people bathed. The waters were so limpid and pure, you could drink directly from them. The city was small and you could take a bicycle and ride eight or ten kilometers out to the surrounding, even smaller townships. These were ancient townships with gorgeous temples such as Badgaon. I thought then that if there is a Gan Eden Alei Adamot—a garden of Eden on Earth—this would be it. Had I wished to live in a land or city outside of Israel, it would have been Katmandu. I was offered very attractive jobs there. At that time, very few Europeans came to this part of the world.

A little over a month ago, my wife and I were invited to an international conference in Katmandu on conservation. It was planned by two organizations, the World Wildlife Fund, which is a massive well-known global organization, and the Alliance of Religions for Conservation (ARC), which consisted of representatives of twelve major religions, each trying to demonstrate that his respective religion had a clear interest in conservation and ecology. It was not the sort of conference in which participants tried to persuade one another of the higher ethical principles inherent in their respective religions. Instead, we were united in our goal of dealing with the challenges and dangers to the planet that we all inhabit.

The Earth is, at least so far, the only home we have. I am reminded of the midrash about a ship in which many people were sailing. When one of the passengers started to drill a hole underneath his seat, the others began to protest: “What are you doing? You are making a hole in the bottom of the ship.” He replied, “Well, it's only under my seat.” And so when I came to Katmandu, I came back to a completely different place. You couldn't see the sky. It was overcast, darkened by dirty, smelly clouds. The Bagmati was a cesspool and very much smaller that I had known it to be previously. It had shrunk to a size smaller than the Jordan, and it reeked. When you walked through the streets, you could smell the kerosene being used for cheap fuels in cars. My wife bought a pashmina—which is apparently what one has to get when one goes to this part of the world—and it smelled of paraffin. It had to be rinsed out. You couldn't see the mountains at all. You didn't realize that you were in the valley of Katmandu, surrounded by the highest and the most beautiful mountains in the world. You had to go out of the valley and climb another thousand meters or so in order to be able to see the actual mountains.

The city is now a huge, sprawling metropolis of over two and one-half million souls. Over a quarter of the population of Nepal is now concentrated in this urban sprawl. Those little townships ten miles away that I used to visit on a bicycle are all a part of the same city. They are linked up with no boundaries to demarcate borders. The roads are rutted. People walk around with cloth masks around their faces. If there was an ideal venue for an international conference to discuss conservation and ecology, this was it. Katmandu is now an example of how you can ruin the house in which you live, the garden you are meant to be enjoying.

I returned to this issue in a short article published in Bar-Ilan University's BIU Today, June 2008, pp. 8–9, entitled “The Jewish Mandate to Preserve and Conserve.” And finally in the journal Milin Havivin: Beloved Words, 5, 2010–2011, I revisited this subject in an essay entitled “Baal Tash’hit: Waste Not Want Not,” pp. 85–92, which I wish here to reprint as an introduction to the field. I would like to reintroduce some of its possible halakhic implications.

*****************

The biblical prohibition against wanton destruction is mentioned in two verses in Deuteronomy (20:19–20):
 

When thou shalt besiege a city a long time, in making war against it to take it, thou shalt not destroy the trees thereof by forcing an ax against them; for thou mayest eat of them, and thou shalt not cut them down, for the tree of the field is a man ('s) life to employ them in a siege.

Only the trees which thou knowest that they be not trees for food destroy and cut them down: and thou shalt build bulwarks against the city that maketh war with thee until it be subdued.

While this biblical prohibition of ba'al tash’hit—”not to destroy,” is quite limited, for it refers explicitly only to trees the fruits of which are edible but not to fruitless ones, and this within the framework of siege warfare. It makes no mention of scorched-earth policies, blocking off water sources, and wanton destruction in general. However, the rabbis broadened the application of this prohibition. Thus, in the Sifre to Deuteronomy, ibid., sect. 203[2] we read:

“Thou shalt not destroy the trees thereof by forcing an ax against them” (Deut., ibid.)—Are we speaking merely of “an ax,” or perhaps also [that one may not] draw away [from them their] water channel? Therefore we learn, “thou shalt not destroy the trees thereof—[meaning] in any way.[3]

Maimonides (in Hilkhot Melakhim 6:8) explains that they wish to cut off the water supply in order to dry up the trees, and his explanation is borne out by the reading in the Sifre Ms. London ad loc., “in order to dry up its trees.”[4]

However, this expansion still remains within the context of siege activities. The rabbis further broadened its application to apply to all sorts of situations, not merely during a military siege. Thus, Maimonides (ibid.)[5] applies this not just to whole trees but to fruit in general, and not only to trees and fruit but to all manner of food, utensils, clothes, etc. (ibid. 10).[6] And, indeed, this is surely the thrust of the biblical commandment. For if in times of war, and during an extended siege—“When thou shalt besiege a city a long time”—when the cutting down of trees serves a clear military purpose, such activity is forbidden, how much more so when there is less urgent a need, or no real need at all. Furthermore, even the barren trees may be cut down in order to serve as siege-engines to subdue the enemy, and presumably reduce potential loss of life on the part of the besieging army—from which we may logically and persuasively infer that the wanton destruction of barren trees, serving no real purpose, would also be forbidden. A further extension of the extended application of this principle is to be found in Sefer haHinukh (sect. 529). The author writes as follows:

… So too [there comes] under [the category of] this [prohibition] not to cause any sort of damage, such as burning or tearing a garment or breaking a utensil, and any similar kind of destructive activity…. And this was the way of the righteous and the men of [good] deeds… who would not even destroy a single mustard seed, and who would feel grief over any kind of waste and destruction they saw, and if they were able to save anything from destruction, they would do so with all the strength…..

R. Eliezer of Metz, writing in twelfth-century Germany, in his Sefer Yeraim (ed. A. A. Schiff, Vilna, 1892–1902, p. 402, sect. 382 ad fin.) goes so far as to say,

And a person should take heed of this prohibition. For we have found that a great man was punished for this transgression, as it is written, “[Now King David was old and stricken in years;] and they covered him with clothes, but he got no heat” (I Kings 1:1), and [concerning this] the rabbis said: For he shamed garments, when he tore Saul's cloak, therefore he had no benefit from them (B. Berakhot 62b). And he who destroys, transgresses two prohibitions, “thou shalt not destroy”—lo tash’hit, and “thou shalt not cut down—lo tikhrot (Deut., ibid.).[7]

There is indeed ample talmudic evidence that the principle of lo tash’hit was applied to all manner of destruction. Thus, in B. Kiddushin 21a we read that Rav Huna tore his clothing in front of his son, and the Gemara asks: Surely he transgressed ba'al tash’hit! And in Shabbat 129a, Rava is said to have broken a bench in order to use it for firewood with which to warm himself, and Abbaye reacted in surprise that surely this constitutes a transgression of ba'al tash’hit.[8]

Thus wanton destruction, or, to use a different formulation, the wasteful use of natural resources, is clearly eschewed by biblical law, expounded and expanded by rabbinic law.

This, however, should be understood within a broader ideological context. For the reason given for not destroying the fruit trees, even for the purpose of optimizing military objectives, is because “thou mayest eat of them,” meaning they constitute a vital resource for the continuity of life. Even during periods of war, one must take into account the basic injunction to preserve the world's resources and its environment for future generations. Indeed, Adam, the prototypical human being, on entering the Garden of Eden, was enjoined “leOvdah u-leShomrah” (Genesis 2:15), “to tend it and to preserve it.” The Hebrew word “leShomrah” bears two meanings: to look after it and to preserve it. These two meanings, which might seem to be almost identical, in actual fact reflect two different though related notions, both of which are alluded to by the use of this biblical term. LeShomrah, looking after something, indicates that the thing does not belong to you, that you are its shomer, its steward. Adam, is being told, as it were, that “the world and all that is in it belongs to God” (Psalms 24:21), but that “haAretz natan li-vnei adam” (Psalms 115:16), that the earth has been given over to human beings to be tended and guarded over. LeShomrah also has the semantic meaning “to preserve” something for its continued use in the future. So we are mandated to preserve the world's natural resources, which are not really ours to waste, for the continuing benefit of future generations.[9]

The Rabbis went even further to warn against overindulgent wastage. Thus, R. Hisda (Babylonia, third century ce) says: Whosoever can eat bread made from barley, and eats bread made from wheat[10] transgresses the prohibition of ba'al tash’hit. And Rav Pappa (two generations later) added: Whosoever can drink beer and drinks wine, transgresses the prohibition of ba'al tash’hit (B. Shabbat 140b).[11] It is true that the Talmud indicates that these opinions are not accepted, for one should not eat inferior food, but rather care more for one's health than one's purse. However, from the above we can deduce that when the foods are equally healthy, we should prefer the cheaper brand. Indeed the rabbis regarded waste of monetary resources as something that the Bible strongly advises to be avoided,[12] and they waged a constant battle against the overindulgent use of luxuries, for “the Torah expressed concern for the financial resources of the individual—“HaTorah hasah al memonam shel Yisrael” (B. Yoma 39a, based on Leviticus 14:36). Hence, Jewish law enjoins us not to make demands that go beyond the means of the individual. And this, too, as we have seen above, comes under the category of ba'al tash’hit, as does excessive and wasteful use of any resources. And on the basis of such a principle Jewish communities throughout the ages instituted bylaws limiting overspending, such as wearing extravagant clothing and jewelry. We find detailed rules of this nature enacted by the heads of Italian Jewish communities at Forli in 1408, and followed by rulings in Spanish Castile in 1432, etc. And already in the period of the Tosafists in the thirteenth century, we learn how the rabbis of the Rhineland limited the extent of feasts and banquets. Limits were placed on the number of invitees to wedding and other celebrations, as well as the fare offered them at such banquets, and these local communal enactments are to be found throughout Europe right up until the Second World War.[13] Such measures were taken to protect the poorer classes from societal pressures as well as to preserve the precious resources of the communities. We see, then, the extent to which this concept has been expanded in its practical applications. And indeed, the great nineteenth-century scholar, Rabbi Samson Rafael Hirsch, saw ba'al tash’hit as “the most wide-ranging warning to man not to abuse the position he has been given in the world for moody, passionate, or mindless destruction of things on Earth” (commentary on Deuteronomy 20:20).

The preservation of our natural resources is a concept that permeates biblical and rabbinic thought. Let us consider one simple example, shemitah, the sabbatical year, as it has much to teach us. On a strictly agricultural level, one may not exploit the earth without pause. The soil cannot generate crops year after year without losing its nutrients. You have to let the earth, the soil, rest—“az tirtzeh haAretz et shabtotehah,” “then shall the land be paid her Sabbaths” (Leviticus, 26:34). We know that in the medieval era, the feudal system divided parcels of land into three fields, one of which was left fallow at any given time. This made for a double shemitah, as it were. Similarly it appears that in the Land of Israel in talmudic times the fields were left fallow once every two or three years, and not merely in the seventh.[14] The earth has to gather its strength, as it were, to recharge its batteries, in order to be able to continue to produce crops and remain fertile.[15]

At times we may argue that immediate short-term benefits—metaphorically the use of fruit trees for siege-engines—may justify long-term diminution of resources. The immediate and urgent necessity to deal with vast amounts of waste products—nuclear or less volatile—and distance them from population centers by dumping them in the sea, or burying them in unpopulated areas, may indeed offer attractive, utilitarian, short-term solutions—and usually politically satisfactory ones! However, the long-term effect of pollution, both of seawater and of fresh-water sources, constitute a threat to future life, and the momentary benefits of our generation—i.e., the immediate “siege benefits”—must in no way jeopardize our progeny's ability to eat “the fruit of the trees.”

Thus, the principle of ba'al tash’hit touches upon the most basic mandate of the conservationist—the absolute prohibition of wasting our natural resources.

One might argue: Surely there are other fruit trees, not in the immediate vicinity of the besieged city. We will use these trees for our immediate needs, and there will be enough elsewhere to satisfy our future requirements. The Bible clearly remonstrates against any such thinking. Ultimately, the planet on which we live has limited resources. We can optimize them to a certain extent, but in the final analysis we live in a “closed system.” Any wanton destruction and irreversible damage reduces these resources and diminishes capabilities of the survival of future generations. Furthermore, in view of the present world population explosion, this has become a far more acute problem. Uncontrolled deforestation for short-term monetary gains, dumping toxic waste into fresh water lakes as a cheap and easy solution for major industrial concerns, irresponsible disposal of nuclear waste, etc., have already done disastrous and irreversible environmental harm, bringing drought, famine, and widespread sickness to millions of Earth's inhabitants. It is against just such practice that the Bible enjoins us, prohibiting and warning us in its characteristically laconic fashion.

One does not have to be a Bible-believer to understand the incontrovertible logic of this argument. One just has to be willing to look slightly farther afield, beyond one's immediate needs and environment, and to think in a broader geographical and temporal context.

But for the believing Jew, on the other hand, saving electricity and fuel,[16] the reduction in the use of non-biodegradable materials, and a hundred other little things of which one is hardly consciously aware, but which reduce wastage—these all may be perceived as coming under the category of a positive mitzvah. Thus, the use of both sides of writing paper, changing to energy-saving devices, lighting systems, air conditioners, washing machines, etc., may all be viewed as the carrying out of a divine commandment. For there are halakhic authorities who regard the words “for thou mayest eat of them” as a separate positive commandment, i.e., eating in such a way as to enable the fruits to be eaten also in the future.[17] Indeed, one who does not take account of such matters, and even thoughtlessly indulges in wanton wastefulness, according to some rabbinic opinions transgresses three biblical prohibitions![18]

How much do we waste in our bar/bat-mitzvah and wedding celebrations, or in our weekly communal kiddushes? Whether it be the food, or the disposable dishes, the sumptuous invitations, and the overabundance of flowers—all of these could well be seen as coming under the possible category of ba'al tash’hit and should be weighed against communal norms and societal conventions.

The world in which we live can no longer be perceived as a place in which communities are disparate and unrelated because of their separate locations. Everything is inextricably interconnected, and what happens in one location can and does affect people who live in other parts of the globe. Sadna de-arah had hu, said the rabbis (B. Kiddushin 27b), “The land is one single block,” and never was this more evident and relevant than in our own “globalized” world. It is, therefore, our religious, as well as our humanistic duty to develop a greater sensitivity to conserving and preserving resources, and to see this as a central mitzvah that regulates all manner of our activities.

We all are acquainted with the famous story of Honi haMa'agel, who saw an old man planting a carob tree, and asked him, “How long does it take until this tree will bear fruit?” “Seventy years,” the old man replied. “But,” he continued,” as I came to the world and found carob trees that were planted by my grandparents, so too I am planting trees for my grandchildren” (B. Taanit 23a).

So we too dare not act merely for our immediate material benefits. We must think ahead precisely because there is a mandate of horashah, of bequeathing: A person must transmit what he has received to coming generations. Because it is not yours, you have no right to decline to pass it on to the next generations. And wasteful destruction of resources in tantamount to denying their continuing benefits to future generations.

It is, therefore, incumbent upon our religious leaders most forcefully to convey this message to their constituent communities, so that all can participate in the primordial mitzvah of leShomrah, and avoid the dire transgression(s) of ba'al tash’hit.[19]

So baal tash’hit is not only a socio-ecological commandment to protect us from the harm we do ourselves, but also a deeply religious mandate, underscoring our status of stewardship on a planet we do not possess and resources which ultimately we do not control.

On the other hand, it is clear that not all acts that might appear to be destructive, come under the category of baal tash’hit. Obviously, we are allowed to pull out weeds or to prune trees because such forms of “destruction” are for useful positive purposes. Thus, for example, when one is unable to access earth for the purposes of fulfilling the mitzvah of kisuy haDam—covering the blood of an undomesticated animal or bird after slaughter,[20] a garment may be burned to provide ashes for this purpose, even though burning a garment would ordinarily be forbidden, coming under the rubric of baal tash’hit.[21] And on this basis, namely that baal tash’hit, by its very definition, does not include “constructive destruction,” R. Shimon Greenfeld (1881–1930), in his Teshuvot Maharshag vol. 2, 1944, no. 243, s.v. veHinei lo, argues that the injunction against hashhatat zera (masturbation),[22] a sin of biblical severity,[23] if it be performed as a preventive measure, in order to avoid transgression, as, for example, on the part of a homosexual to avoid homosexual activity, then his “spilling of seed” is not “in vain,” and “he has not really committed a sin.”[24]

Already the great Kabbalist, R. Mosheh Cordovero (1522–1570) in his Tomer haDevorah (1589) chapter 3, wrote:

And wisdom will give life to all, as it is written, “and the wisdom will give life to its owners” (Eccles. 7:12), so will it teach life to all the world and cause them to have life in this world and the next and give them life…

And his mercies are spread over all creatures, so that they be not dishonored nor destroyed, since the supreme wisdom is spread over all creatures, inanimate, growing, live and articulate, and it is for this reason we have been warned against spoiling food, for on this [too], just as the supreme wisdom does not dishonor (or spoil) any existing object, and all is created from there, as it is written “and all You created is wisdom” (Psalm 104:24), so too should man's mercy be upon all His creatures, may He be blessed… . And accordingly, one should not dishonor anything at all, for all [have their roots] in wisdom, and one should not uproot any plant other than when needed, and not kill any living thing except when required…, [and one may do so] only to elevate them from the status of living creatures to articulate ones [i.e., to humankind] For under such circumstances one may pluck the vegetable and slaughter living [animals] to harm them into order to give them merit.

This, of course, is formulated in mystical terms. But the gist of the statement in halakhic terms is that “constructive destruction” is permissible, and does not come under the category of baal tash’hit.

Some might then argue that industrial pollution, to take a random example, is by no means wanton destruction, since it is normally part of the process of positive industrialization, one which certainly yields immediate or short-term beneficial results to society. Nonetheless, I would argue, on the basis of our earlier analysis, that it most surely comes under the category of baal tash’hit, since its harmful effect to the atmosphere is patently evident, and this negativity certainly outweighs any short-term merit it may profess to have.

This leads us on to yet another area in which I believe contemporary rabbis must develop a degree of competence, in order to be able to advise their constituents and influence them actively to involve themselves in social ethical investment. For irresponsible investment, such as investing in harmful products, for example those that contaminate our planet or impoverish sectors of the population, and even impair their health, is to be firmly and vociferously opposed.

Now there are those who say “Money doesn't smell,” or as the English proverb has it, “Money is welcome though it come in a dirty clout.” What they mean by this is that the source of one's wealth, and the means by which one accrued it, is largely irrelevant. One does with one's possessions whatever one wishes, good deeds or otherwise, without regard to their source.[25]

But this certainly is not the view expressed in the Bible. In Deuteronomy 23:19 we read,

Thou shalt not bring the hire of a whore, or the price of a dog, into the house of the Lord thy God for any vow: for even both these are an abomination unto the Lord thy God.

In other words, money gained by prostitution or other unsavory practices may not be brought to the Temple to fulfill the obligation of a vow. Or to formulate this in more modern terms: “tainted money” has no place in the house of God, even if the intent is to use it for an honorable cause.

However, it is not only inappropriate for “tainted money” to be presented to the house of God (cf. Malachi 1:7–8), but indeed, any God-fearing person should distance himself from such “spoiled goods.” It is for this reason that usury is forbidden by biblical and rabbinic law (Exod. 22:24, Lev. 25:36, Deut. 23:30, etc.), as it is also in Islamic law, although legal fictions were later developed to accommodate these laws to modern society and its economic infrastructure. Indeed, the Hebrew word for usury is neshekh, from the root nashakh, “to bite,” for usury bites into one's possessions as a beast bites into the flesh. And just as one may not extract usury, so too we read in Exodus 22:26–27,

If thou at all take thy neighbor's raiment to pledge, thou shalt deliver it unto him by the time that the sun goes down. For it is his raiment for his skin: Wherein shall he sleep? And it shall come to pass when he crieth unto me, that I will hear, for I am gracious.

And just as He is gracious, so too are we enjoined to be gracious (see B. Shabbat 133b; Y. Pe'ah, chapter I ad init.).

And to much the same end, the Sabbatical year annuls all debts, as we read in Deuteronomy 15:1–2:

At the end of every seven years thou shalt make a release [of debts]. And this is the manner of the release: Every creditor that lendeth unto his neighbor shalt release it; he shalt not extract it of his neighbor, or of his brother, because it is called the Lord's release.

And coming back to the subject of the “Sabbatical year” the rabbis devoted a whole chapter of the talmudic tractate Shevi'it to this issue.

For we have no absolute ownership over that which we possess (or think we possess). Our land, our property, our wealth is God's gift to us, and we are no more than guardians over it, enjoined to watch over it and preserve it for future generations. He bids us give tithes and other forms of charity from our earnings (e.g., Lev. 19:9–10, ibid. 23:22, Num. 18:21–24, 14:22–27, 28–29, 23:19–22), and preserve the sanctity—i.e., moral integrity—of our possessions. The sanctity of our possessions, and indeed the sanctity of the land we live on, is preserved by our judicious and ethical use thereof, and that which is “tainted” carries with it a stigma that bids us distance ourselves from it. As the rabbis have said (Derekh Eretz Zuta 2:8), “Distance yourself from that which leads to sin, and all that is like it;” or again (ibid. 1:12): “Distance yourself from the unsightly and all that is like it.” We have a further obligation to do all within our power to discourage the continuation of such unseemly activities.

Wealth poses numerous problems and challenges, as Meir Tamari, onetime chief economist to the office of the Bank of Israel, in his seminal work With All Your Possessions: Jewish Ethics and Economic Life, (New York/London, 1987, p. 25), wrote,

Ever since the dawn of history, material possessions and wealth have been seen as posing basic ethical and spiritual problems. All religions, therefore, have had to offer some perspective regarding the scope and legitimacy of economic activity. Judaism is no exception in this respect, though it differs radically from all other religions in the answers it provides to the relevant questions.

Two distinct sets of problems within the general issue of material wealth would seem to require a religious perspective: the proper allocation of time between work and spiritual activity (such as prayer, religious study, or the fulfillment of religious obligations), and the challenges to ethics and morality. Inequalities in wealth have given rise to injustice, theft, and often bloodshed, and the accumulation of wealth often looks as though it is linked to human lust. All of these behaviors are inconsistent with the ethical and moral teachings of almost all religions. In Judaism's approach to these and allied issues, we will be able to discover the foundations for a specific ethical framework with respect to economic activity, on the part of both the individual and society.

And indeed, in his 340-page book he attempts to paint a portrait of the vision of Jewish ethical economics.[26]

From a broader viewpoint, at a global level, we may note that “the capitalist free market, perhaps the greatest innovation of the modern economic system, one that has triumphed over its socialist and totalitarian foes, permits the individual to exert a good deal of control over his own private world. But capitalism is ill-equipped to redress injustice and inequity; in fact inequity is front-loaded into the system.”[27]

As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the former Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom, in his The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations, (New York, 2002, p. ii), so eloquently stated:

The liberal democracies of the West are ill-equipped to deal with such problems. That is not because they are heartless—they are not; they care—but because they have adopted mechanisms that marginalize moral conditions. Western politics have become more procedural and managerial. Not completely: Britain still has a National Health Service, and most Western countries have some form of welfare provision. But increasingly, governments are reluctant to enact a vision of the common good because—so libertarian thinkers argue—there is little substance we can give to the idea of the good we share. We differ too greatly. The best that can be done is to deliver the maximum possible freedom to individuals to make their own choices, and the means best suited to this is the unfettered market where we can buy whatever lifestyle suits us, this year, this month. Beyond the freedom to do what we like and can afford, contemporary politics and economics have little to say about the human condition.

And he continues (ibid. p. 32):

Not only has the dominance of the market had a corrosive effect on the social landscape [and, we may add, the physical ecological landscape, too—D.S.], it has also eroded our moral vocabulary, arguably the most important resource in thinking about the future. In one of the most influential books of recent times, After Virtue, Alasdair MacIntyre argued that “We possess indeed simulacra of morality, we continue to use many of the key expressions. But we have—very largely, if not entirely—lost our comprehension, both theoretical and practical, of morality.” The very concept of ethics (Bernard Williams called it “that peculiar institution”) has become incoherent. Increasingly, we have moved to talking about efficiency (how to get what you want) and therapy (how not to feel bad about what you want). What is common to both is that they have more to do with the mentality of marketing (the stimulation and satisfaction of desire) than that of morality (what ought we desire).

And in what may seem to be an obvious statement, but I believe is a very significant formulation, he remarks (ibid. p. 42),

Religion and politics are different enterprises. They arose in response to different needs: in the one case to bind people together in their commonality, in the other to mediate peaceably between their differences.

Economic considerations play a key role in the political process. However, the single greatest risk of the twenty-first century (to paraphrase a Sacksian statement) is that economics become religionized. Religion should guide economics and not the reverse. Hence, ethics and morality should form the foundations of economic policy, whether at governmental or at non-governmental levels.

I therefore believe that it should be our aim, and indeed the universal aim of all faith groups, actively to encourage the socially responsible deployment of our assets and engage in a concerted effort to combat the use of unethical and harmful means to accumulate wealth. And this, of course, includes the use of industrial “short-cuts” with their immediate and very attractively financial returns, but also with their often devastating ecological effects.

What does all of the above mean from a practical Jewish perspective? Maimonides listed eight levels of charity, the highest being to give or loan or go into partnership or give work opportunities to the indigent in such a manner that he will be able to support himself and no longer be in need of charity. According to this criterion, microfinancing, as an example, in poor emerging countries, thus enabling the local population to move toward self-dependency, to improve their economic conditions as well their physical environment, must rank high on our scale of ethical activism. And all such ecological projects, be they in water purification, agriculture, forestry, etc., which will positively benefit local populations are also a clear religious mandate. Judaism sees every individual, irrespective of race or creed, as fashioned in the image of God, and hence, deserving of dignity and respect. Thus, the qualitative status of the individual, his freedom, his physical and economic well-being, and his legally recognized rights must be the concern of us all. The Jewish concept of tikkun olam must therefore address itself both to the amelioration of our environment, as well as to the bodily and socio-economic needs of the individual and, of course, to human rights. Within this broad spectrum of responsibility we should seek to dedicate our energies and our resources, and thus be ensured that we will be fulfilling the will of God.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Pekudei

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Many years ago, a young lady came to my office to discuss the possibility of her conversion to Judaism. She was raised in Saudi Arabia to American parents in the American military. She grew up hating Israel and hating Jews—although she had never met either an Israeli or a Jew.

When she reached college age, she came to the United States to study here. She met Jewish students and found that they were nice people, not at all like the stereotypical Jews she had learned to hate as a child. She began to study Judaism. She learned about Jewish history and about modern Israel. She eventually met, and fell in love with, an Israeli man.

In due course, she converted to Judaism, married the Israeli, established a religiously traditional household, and had children who attended Jewish day schools when they came of age.

We discussed the remarkable transformation of her life…from a hater of Jews and Israel, to an actively religious Jew, married to an Israeli Jew. In one of our conversations, she mused: “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if all haters could suddenly find themselves in the shoes of the ones they hate? If only people really understood the hated victims by actually living as one of them!”

She came to this insight through her personal experiences. She overcame blind hatred by literally becoming one of those she had previously despised. She wished that all haters would at least try to see their victims as fellow human beings rather than as unhuman stereotypes. If only people could replace their hatred with empathy!

While this is an important insight, it obviously eludes many people. Our societies are riddled with racism, anti-Semitism, anti-nationality x or anti-ethnicity y. It seems that many people prefer to hate rather than to empathize. They somehow imagine that they are stronger if they tear others down. In one of his essays, Umberto Eco suggests that human beings need enemies! It is through their enemies that they solidify their own identities.

Yet, if we truly want to be strong individuals, we need to define ourselves by our own values—not by who we hate or who we see as our enemies. A person with inner strength is a person who can empathize with others, can overcome hatred, and can find fellowship even with those of different religion, race or nationality. Hatred is a sign of weakness, a defect in our own souls.

This week's Parasha brings us to the end of the book of Exodus. It is customary in some congregations for congregants to call out at the conclusion of the Torah reading: "Hazak ve-nit-hazak, hizku ve-ya-ametz levavhem kol ha-myahalim la-do-nai." Be strong, and let us strengthen ourselves; be strong and let your heart have courage, all you who hope in the Lord. This is a way of celebrating the completion of a book of the Torah, and encouraging us to continue in the path of Torah study so we may complete other books as well.

I think that a phrase from the above-quoted text can be interpreted as follows: hizku--strengthen yourselves, be resolute; ve- ye-ametz levavhem--and God will give courage to your hearts. First, you need to strengthen yourselves, develop the power of empathy and love. Then, God will give you the added fortitude to fulfill your goals. If we strengthen ourselves, we may trust that the Almighty will give us added strength.

Be strong, unafraid, empathetic; if we hone these values within ourselves and our families, we may be hopeful that the Almighty will grant us the courage to succeed in our efforts.

Remembering Justice Benjamin Nathan Cardozo
 

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Benjamin Nathan Cardozo (1870-1938) was one of the greatest American jurists. During his distinguished career, he served as Chief Judge of the New York State Court of Appeals from 1926 until his appointment to the United States Supreme Court in 1932. He was known for his calm wisdom, personal dignity, and his commitment to social justice. His speeches and writings were characterized by clear thinking and graceful style.

            Cardozo was born into a Sephardic Jewish family that had roots in America since Colonial days. Among his ancestors were those who fought in the American Revolution. His family was associated with Congregation Shearith Israel, the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue of New York, founded in 1654; he retained his loyalty to Shearith Israel throughout his life, and was buried in the congregation’s cemetery upon his death.

            As a young attorney, recently graduated from the Law School of Columbia University, Cardozo had several interactions at Shearith Israel that reflected his generally traditional worldview. In 1895, as the congregation was planning to build a new synagogue building on Central Park West, a number of leading members were calling for reforms in the synagogue’s customs. For centuries, Shearith Israel had followed the ancient traditions of Western Sephardim, including the separation of men and women during prayer services. The reformers called for various changes, including a seating arrangement in the synagogue that allowed men and women to sit together. The congregation’s religious leader, Dr. Henry Pereira Mendes, strongly opposed the reforms. Tensions within the congregation came to a head at a meeting of congregants on June 5, 1895. A number of reformers put forth their motion to institute changes; Dr. Mendes and another synagogue leader spoke in opposition to their motion. Then the 25 year old Cardozo made “a long address, impressive in ability and eloquence,” in which he argued for the continuity of synagogue tradition. He pointed out that the congregation’s constitution provided for separate seating of men and women, following in the traditional patterns of Spanish and Portuguese congregations. It would be unlawful to violate the constitution. Aside from the legal point, Cardozo stressed the importance of maintaining synagogue traditions that had been established and maintained by generations of congregants. Regardless of one’s personal opinions or level of religious observance, the synagogue is a sacred space that should maintain its integrity.  Following Cardozo’s speech, a vote was taken: the motion to alter the synagogue customs was defeated by a vote of 73 to 7!
 

            In 1898, Cardozo gave a talk at Shearith Israel on Benjamin Disraeli, late Prime Minister of the British Commonwealth. Disraeli was born into the Spanish and Portuguese Jewish community of London, but his father had his children baptized before Benjamin’s Bar Mitzvah. So he was a Jew by birth and by public perception; but was a Christian by formal religious profession. In spite of facing ongoing anti-Semitism, Disraeli rose to the top of the British government, a highly regarded confidant of Queen Victoria.

            The young Cardozo drew a thoughtful portrait of Disraeli’s personal and political life. He could not help but recognize the phenomenal rise to power of a man who was constantly subjected to anti-Semitism in spite of his having been baptized. Although Disraeli presented himself as a Christian, he never flinched from pride in his Jewish background. He described Christianity as a fulfillment of Judaism. Cardozo noted that Disraeli’s position was problematic:  “So we find it to the last—the same union of loyalty to the race and disloyalty to the faith, the same impossible effort to reconcile the irreconcilable and to treat the religious tenets of his manhood as a development of the religion in whose shelter he had been born” (Disraeli, the Jew, Essays by Benjamin Cardozo and Emma Lazarus, ed. Michael Selzer, Selzer and Selzer, Great Barrington, Mass, 1993, p.49). Cardozo noted that Disraeli—in spite of his tremendous successes—was ultimately a conflicted and lonely soul:  “The nation marveled at his wit; it laughed at his sallies; it applauded his intrepid spirit; but all the time, it must have felt within its heart that he was a stranger within its gates.”

            To his credit, Disraeli never apologized for or denied his Jewishness. Quite the contrary. He flaunted his Jewishness and presented the Jews and Judaism in positive lights. Cardozo offered an appreciation of Disraeli’s role vis a vis the Jewish people: “As we look back upon him now, we see, I think, that he affected us for good. He taught us to think worthily of ourselves—that indispensable condition, as men have often said, which must be satisfied before it can be hoped that we shall be thought worthily of by others.  He was himself, before all the world, a living illustration of the powers that are in us, of our resources, of our intellect, of our vigor; of our enthusiasm, of our diplomacy; of our finesse. … He might have stood for many other and perhaps greater things; he might have aided us in many other ways; but these he did stand for an in these he did aid us; and if the aid might have been greater, it none the less was great. It is something to have contributed a little to rousing the self-consciousness of a race, in waking it to a sense of its own dignity, and in waking others to a sense of its latent powers. In these days of Zionism, in these days of Herzl and Nordau, let us remember that we are working upon soil which Disraeli and men like him have helped posterity to till. By his own personality, as well as by his words and deeds, he seemed to weave into the woof of English public life some portion of the Hebraic spirit; to Hebraize the mid of the Protestant and the Puritan; and even to revive in his own day some glimmer of those ancient glories which it was one of the functions of his life to illustrate to the world. For that service at least, let us honor him tonight” ((pp. 65-66).

            In a series of lectures at Yale University in 1921, Cardozo reflected on the nature of the judicial process. “There is in each of us a stream of tendency, whether you choose to call it philosophy or note, which gives coherence and direction to thought and action. Judges cannot escape that current any more than other mortals. All their lives, forces which they do not recognize and cannot name, have been tugging at them—inherited instincts, traditional beliefs, acquired convictions; and the resultant is an outlook on life, a conception of social needs….We may try to see things as objectively as we please. None the less, we can never see them with any eyes except our own” (The Nature of the Judicial Process, Yale University Press, New Haven, 1921, p. 12).

            Cardozo’s own “stream of tendency” included a deep respect for tradition…but a keen awareness of the forces for change. While he understood that judges must not set aside existing rules at pleasure, he also criticized “the demon of formalism.” Judges must balance their decisions, taking into consideration the welfare of society. Cardozo drew on a Talmudic teaching that describes God as offering Himself a prayer: “Be it my will that my justice be ruled by my mercy.” He suggested that judges keep this prayer in mind during their own deliberations (pp. 66-67).

            In a keenly self-revelatory comment, Cardozo reminisced on what he had learned from his experiences as a judge. “I was much troubled in spirit, in my first years upon the bench, to find how trackless was the ocean on which I had embarked. I sought for certainty. I was oppressed and disheartened when I found that the quest for it was futile….As the years have gone by, and as I have reflected more and more upon the nature of the judicial process, I have become reconciled to the uncertainty, because I have grown to see it as inevitable” (p. 166).

            In a subsequent series of lectures at Yale, Cardozo noted that “law must be stable, and yet it cannot stand still….The victory is not for the partisans of an inflexible logic nor yet for the levelers of all rule and all precedent, but the victory is for those who shall know how to fuse these two tendencies together in adaptation to an end as yet imperfectly discerned” (The Growth of the Law,Yale University Press, New Haven, 1924, p. 143).

            Cardozo appreciated the need for balancing various tendencies—the faithfulness to precedents and the drive for change. It is not a simple matter to judge fairly and correctly. “In our worship of certainty, we must distinguish between the sound certainty and the sham, between what is gold and what is tinsel; and then, when certainty is attained, we must remember that it is not the only good; that we can buy it at too high a price; that there is a danger in perpetual quiescence as well as in perpetual motion; and that a compromise must be found in a principle of growth” (pp. 16-17).

            Cardozo’s vast erudition was accompanied with a profound sense of social responsibility, his own personal dignity, and a calm wisdom. He was serenely confident and competent; and at the same time, he was genuinely humble and self-reflective.

            He was a proud Jew. He was moderately observant of religious rituals, although not strictly so. He expressed his views on religion on various occasions. In 1927, he spoke at a dinner in honor of the 75th birthday of his rabbi at Shearith Israel, Dr. H. P. Mendes. In praising Dr. Mendes, he underscored the values of doing justice, loving mercy and walking humbly with the Lord. That same year, Cardozo spoke at a dinner in honor of his friend, Rabbi Stephen Wise. He again stressed the role of religion as an agent of social justice. “Religion is worthless if it is not translated into conduct. Creeds are snares and hypocrisies if they are not adapted to the needs of life….Has there been some social wrong, some oppression of the people, some grinding of the poor? That is a matter for religion. Has there been cruelty to Jews abroad or to colored men at home?....That is a matter for religion. Has the sacred name of liberty, which should stand for equal opportunity for all, been made a pretext and a cover for special privileges for a few? That is a matter for religion. (quoted in Andrew L. Kaufman, Cardozo, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1998, p. 190).

            But religion was more than social justice. At its best, religion must be marked by a selfless idealism and commitment to transcendent ideas. In 1931, Cardozo gave the commencement address at the Jewish Institute of Religion, and referred to Tycho Brahe, the 16th century Danish astronomer, who devoted long years to mark and register the stars, when people mocked him for this seemingly useless endeavor.  “The submergence of self in the pursuit of an ideal, the readiness to spend oneself without measure, prodigally, almost ecstatically, for something intuitively apprehended as great and noble, spend oneself one knows not why—some of us like to believe that is what religion means” (Kaufman, p. 190).

                             *     *     *

            When I began serving Congregation Shearith Israel in 1969, and for many years thereafter, the rabbis’ gowning room was the old office of the late Rabbi Dr. David de Sola Pool. Several photographs hung on the walls, including one of Justice Benjamin Nathan Cardozo which he presented to the Congregation in 1932 upon being appointed to the United States Supreme Court. He inscribed it: “To the historic Congregation Shearith Israel in the City of New York, with the affectionate greetings of its member.”   

            Thus, every morning and evening before synagogue services, I was greeted by the handsome visage of Justice Cardozo. Although he died before I was even born, so that I did not know him personally, I somehow felt a friendship and kinship with him. He was, for me, an entry way into the past of my congregation and community. His photograph conveyed the confidence and the judgment, challenging us to be faithful to the past and yet open to the needs of the present…and future.      

References:

Cardozo, Benjamin N., The Growth of the Law, Yale University Press, New Haven, 1924.

__________________, The Nature of the Judicial Process, Yale University Press, New Haven, 1921.

Kaufman, Andrew L., Cardozo, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1998.

Selzer, Michael, Disraeli, the Jew, Selzer and Selzer, Great Barrington, 1993.

The Jewish Press newspaper has a feature in which questions are posed to a group of rabbis. I am one of the respondents.

A past question (February 12, 2021) struck me as particularly strange: “Should a frum Jew believe the sun goes around earth if the Rambam says it does?” My immediate reaction: how could anyone today, including a frum Jew, think that the sun goes around the earth? Science has advanced prodigiously since the 12^th century, and Rambam himself taught that “a person should never cast reason behind, for the eyes are set in front, not in back.” Rambam relied on the best science of his time. And there can be no doubt at all that he would call on us to rely on the best science available in our time. He would be highly embarrassed by those who, basing themselves on Rambam’s own writings, posit that the sun revolves around the earth, rejecting the advanced science of today.

I concluded my response with these words:  “One of the great dangers for religion—and for human progress in general—is for people to cling to discredited theories and outdated knowledge. Those who cast reason behind thereby cast truth behind. And truth is the seal of the Almighty.”

What I took to be so obvious was apparently not so obvious to the other rabbinic respondents. One of them wrote that “it makes more sense to side with Rambam than it does with Copernicus.” Another respondent asserted that Rambam was not giving a lesson in physics but “was explaining the world according to the Torah.” And the final respondent thought it was “likely” that Rambam would agree with the findings of modern astronomy—likely, but apparently not certain.

How disappointing to realize that there are “frum” people today who feel comfortable denying modern astronomy based on words of a medieval sage. How sad for Rambam’s reputation!

Rambam was one of the greatest luminaries in Jewish history.  A pre-eminent halakhist, philosopher and medical doctor, he was also a brilliant and clear writer. Yet, in spite of his voluminous writings, he still remains misunderstood and misrepresented.

So while I was lamenting the column in the Jewish Press, I was simultaneously pleased to be reading a new book by Menachem Kellner and David Gillis, “Maimonides the Universalist: The Ethical Horizons of the Mishneh Torah,” (Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, London, 2020). Both of these authors have written important works exploring the genuine teachings of Rambam based on a careful reading of Rambam’s own words in his various writings.

This new book offers an important approach to understanding Rambam’s Mishneh Torah—and the Rambam’s general religious worldview as well. By studying the concluding sections of each of the 14 books of the Mishneh Torah, the authors have demonstrated an ethical framework for this halakhic work. Rambam was not only concerned with presenting the laws; he was concerned with inculcating the ethical/spiritual foundations of the laws.

In his Guide of the Perplexed (3:51), Rambam pointed out that all of the Torah’s commandments exist “with a view to communicating a correct opinion, or to putting an end to an unhealthy opinion, or to communicating a rule of justice, or to warding off an injustice, or to endowing men with a noble moral quality, or to warning them against an evil moral quality. Thus all are bound up with three things: opinions, moral qualities, and political civic actions.” In the Mishneh Torah, Rambam applied this insight when presenting the halakhot.

In offering his ethical insights, Rambam does so in what Kellner and Gillis describe as a universalistic manner. Rambam often points to Abraham as a model human being…and Abraham discovered and served God long before the Torah was given. Abraham was not “Jewish;” he was a human being who longed to transmit proper beliefs and behaviors to society. At the precise midpoint of the Mishneh Torah, Rambam teaches “that each and every single human being can be as sanctified as the Holy of Holies” (p. 143). Jews and non-Jews can achieve true piety and spiritual perfection. Being “sanctified” does not depend on genetics but on one’s personal strivings.

In closing his chapter on the “Laws of Slaves,” Rambam notes that the halakha permits working a non-Jewish slave “with rigor.” But he goes on to offer an impassioned call for sensitive and considerate treatment of such slaves.  “Out of halakhah and aggadah, Maimonides constructs a halakhah that moves smoothly but pointedly from seeing the non-Jewish slave as an alien who can be treated as an inferior to seeing him as an equal fellow human being. The upshot is a statement of thoroughgoing universalism, as Maimonides builds towards the establishment of a truly Abrahamic society at the very end of the Mishneh Torah” (p.266).

The Torah offers Jews a distinctive way to understand and serve the Almighty. But Jews do not have a monopoly on God. All human beings, created in God’s image, have access to the Almighty…just as Abraham himself had access long before the time of Moses. Kellner and Gillis note: “The point of the Mishneh Torah as a whole is the creation of a society which gives its members the greatest chance of achieving their perfection as human beings. In this way, the end of the Mishneh Torah comes round to its beginning: just as the beginning of the work deals with matters that relate to all human beings, so do the last chapters” (p. 308).

The authors have produced a remarkable book that allows us to see Rambam not merely as a codifier of laws, but as a promoter of an ethical, universalistic humanitarianism. They have shown the ethical component in Rambam’s ending sections of each of the books of the Mishneh Torah. These ending sections “adjust the tendency of each individual book, generally in a universalist direction, and compose a balanced and integrated picture of halakhah, oriented towards universal conceptions of individual and social perfection. They guide the reader towards an understanding of all the ceremonial commandments as intellectually and morally purposive, and of the social commandments as infused with the divine, creating a sense of reciprocity between intellectual virtue and moral virtue” (p. 319).

Kellner and Gillis have written an impressive book that enables readers to enter more deeply into Rambam’s religious worldview. At a time when Rambam is subject to so much misrepresentation and misunderstanding, it is heartening to read a book that seeks to present Rambam’s teachings in a clear, genuine and convincing manner. Bravo and thank you to the authors.