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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                         *     *     *

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

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

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

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

References

Amerika, Schocken Books, New York, 2008.

The Castle, Schocken Books, New York, 1974

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

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

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

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

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

The Trial, Schocken Books, News York, 1998.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do Human Blessings and Curses Work Automatically?

Isaac’s Blessing to Jacob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Noah’s Blessings and Curses

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

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

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

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

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

Balaam’s Blessings and Curses

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

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

Rachel’s Death in Childbirth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do Head Counts Bring Plagues?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is There Black Magic?

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

The Egyptian Magicians

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

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

The Witch of Endor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can One Divine the Future with Signs?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusion

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

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

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

Notes

Relationship Between Ideals and Commandments in Judaism

By Pinchas Polonsky (Ariel University, Israel), Galina Zolotusky, Gregory Yashgur, and Raphael BenLevi (Bar-Ilan University, Israel)

(Thanks to Lise Brody, Rivka Efremenko, and Lilian Mellech for translation and editing, and

to Prof. Michael Sherman for corrections and helpful discussions.)

Introduction

For many hundreds of years, Judaism has been defending its ideals against those of Christianity. In the Medieval Era everybody knew which religion they belonged to, and conversion from one religion to another was more of an exception than the rule. In the modern era, however, an overwhelmingly large proportion of Jews and Gentiles have become indecisive about which religion they belong to. This has caused the relationship between Judaism and Christianity to change drastically: Judaism is now in a constant state of competition with Christianity for the souls of these uncertain individuals.

So far, Judaism has been losing, and the reason is clear: While Christianity has always revolved around ideals, Judaism has evolved to be a religion of commandments. This is, of course, very disturbing because original and authentic Judaism is very clearly a religion of ideals. If Judaism were to return to its ideals, more and more Jews would find meaning in identifying with and practicing it. However, Judaism must win this contest for another, much broader reason: for the sake of the general advancement of the world through the acceptance of Jewish values. Even if this proves to be too vast a goal, then Judaism must win for the sake of these assimilated Jews.

These two goals are intertwined. The only way to develop the world and to bring the assimilated Jews back to their roots is to restore Judaism to what it used to be in the times of the Tanakh—namely a religion of ideals and morals; the commandments function as a tool to express its values. Once this transformation occurs, both Jews and Gentiles will understand the truth of Judaism, and that in itself will be a great achievement for all of humanity.

Part 1: A Problem in the Orthodox World Today: Jewish Religious Consciousness Lacks the Concept of “Ideals”

            Historically, Judaism has come to be seen as a religion of commandments and laws. If someone unfamiliar with Judaism approaches many contemporary rabbis with queries, they would likely briefly be told about faith in God and the Bible, but then would immediately be encountered by an enumeration of commandments and laws. Similarly, in the library of any Orthodox synagogue or yeshiva, we would find a huge number of books under the general category of halakha (Jewish law), with the laws of everyday life, the holidays, Shabbat, kashruth, and so forth. What we are unlikely to find in this collection is a book called The Ideals of Judaism. We may find bits and pieces in different places, but a systematic exploration of ideals in Judaism is lacking. For this reason, the Judaism that has evolved in the Diaspora, at least outwardly, creates an impression of being a religion that is devoid of ideals.

            This tendency to reduce Judaism to a system of law and observances is not a recent development, however. Beginning with early Christianity this charge was being made, most famously by Paul of Tarsus, who argued for the abolition of the Mosaic Law, at least in any obligatory sense, identifying the law itself as the cause of sin. The charge was that Rabbinical Judaism, and the very institution of the law, was associated with the neglect of higher divine ideals. This motif continued to be echoed almost two millennia later among German Idealist philosophers, particularly Kant and Hegel. In their understanding of Judaism, the Torah is, above all, law. Kant held that if the Torah was given by a deity external to reason, then the Mosaic Law could not represent morality based on autonomous reason. Hegel also believed that, for this reason, Judaism had been superseded by Christianity, and therefore become irrelevant to history’s march toward absolute universal religion, which, he said, was on the horizon in his day. Many contemporary thinkers continue to give voice to this view today.

            However, this view of Judaism is incorrect and represents merely a reduction of the authentic Hebraic system in which moral ideals are in a dynamic interaction with the law. It is correct, however, that, unfortunately, as a result of the long exile where the Jewish people could not manifest the original idea of a sovereign and independent society, there arose a tendency within Judaism to emphasize the laws and commandments over moral ideals. This tendency is still prevalent today and permeates much of the discourse in Jewish Orthodoxy.

            Judaism, in fact, has a two-fold approach to the issue: It recognizes that people generally dislike laws, mainly because laws evoke a sense of obligation. Even if a person agrees with the necessity of obligations, he would still prefer that ideals, goals, and meaning stand behind these obligations. It is no coincidence that Christianity focuses precisely on this issue and accuses Judaism of being a religion of duties, laws, and formalities, devoid of freedom and flight of the soul. On the other hand, the need for laws is also defended: After all, everything falls apart without the laws; the laws are the basis of life. Without self-restraint, spirituality would greatly suffer. Thus, laws have a clear dichotomy: Although they push some away from Judaism, others find Judaism meaningless without them. We claim that while laws are an important part of Judaism, an obsession with, or imbalanced over-emphasis on them, destroys the spiritual content of Judaism.

            Some think that what drives people away from observing commandments is the external secular influence of our day. The problem, however, is much deeper; the divine nature of humanity resists seeing the commandments, the laws, and the duties as the main focus of Judaism. Freedom is a divine quality. It is intrinsic to human nature to strive to emulate God, and everything that creates a distinction from God makes us feel uncomfortable. Therefore, seeing Judaism as merely a set of commandments creates a negative view of the human soul. The commandments are necessary, but only after a person moves freely in the direction of ideals. Self-restraint must stem from freedom, and not the other way around.

The Source of Morality

            There are two levels to this topic that should be differentiated. The first question is that of the source of morality: Is God the exclusive source of moral knowledge for humans, meaning that an act is good solely because God has declared it to be so—and if He were to declare otherwise any act would become moral or immoral accordingly? Or is moral knowledge, from the human perspective, something that can be engaged with independently of revelation by God—and that God, in fact, cannot or will not change it?

            We argue that the Jewish answer to this question is that it is actually a false dichotomy. The truth is that God is, on the one hand, the source of everything, including the moral conscience of humanity. On the other hand, because God endowed humans with the capability for moral thought, it is incumbent upon humanity to use it.

            The most classic source that illustrates this is Genesis (18:25), where Abraham is described as arguing with God. God informs Abraham of his intention to destroy Sodom, but Abraham resists, asserting that God must do justice. Beyond the obvious implication arising from the text that Abraham has the ability to engage in a debate over morality with God, none of the classic Jewish commentators criticize Abraham for asserting his opinion.

            Of course, the account of the Binding of Isaac (the Akeidah) is often raised as the ultimate example that proves that God’s will must be obeyed even in the face of morality. This is also, we argue, a simplistic and inaccurate reading of the story. A thorough treatment of this story is beyond the scope of this article but it can be explained as follows: The most important point to note, here, is that at the end, Abraham does not actually slaughter his son. And it is clear from passages throughout the Tanakh[1] that God is not interested in child sacrifice. In fact, God forbids it in the strongest terms.

            The message of the Akeidah can be understood thus: to clarify once and for all that, by definition, there cannot be a situation where God will command something that is immoral—not because God’s command defines morality, but because God wants to promote moral behavior. The Akeidah story is a dramatic way of driving this point home. Rabbi Avraham Yitchak Kook relates to the Akeidah in his commentary on the Siddur, Olat Hara’ayah (I, p. 92):

…the ultimate [moral] command, whether the imperative to not engage in the evil of murder, or from the natural avoidance of anything that undermines the feelings of love of a father for his child, stands stridently in its place. The clarity, that is natural and holy, which is engraved in the spiritual and material nature, does not lose its high stature at all, by the encounter with the higher vision of God’s word…. Do not think that there is any inherent contradiction between the pure love of a father for his son, and the higher love of God.

            R. Kook is saying that the natural moral conscience—that rejects hurting Isaac—is not in contradiction to the divine command. Any apparent contradiction between humanity’s moral conscience and God’s command will always be superficial. This is because both the feelings of love of a father for his son and the moral conscience that rejects murder are both integral parts of the system of God’s command. Accordingly, Kant’s mistake is that he saw autonomous morality and heteronomous morality as being contradictory to begin with. In Judaism they are not and cannot be so.

            R. Kook says this even more clearly in Orot haKodesh (Section 3:12):

The fear of heaven must never be allowed to thrust aside man’s natural morality, because then it would cease to be a pure fear of heaven. A sign of the pure fear of heaven is when the natural morality, rooted in man’s upright nature, is brought to higher and higher heights that he would not otherwise reach, because of it [the fear of heaven].

            But this is not only a position held by R. Kook. The classic sages seem to say the same thing. R. Nissim Goan (990–1062) states that all people, including non-Jews, are beholden to the moral imperative, even if they were not directly commanded by explicit divine revelation. The human conscience is also a source for approaching God’s will, even where God has not spoken. He states: “All the commandments that are dependent on common sense and the hearts’ understanding are obligatory from the day that God created man in this world” (Introduction to Sefer haMafteah).

            Likewise, R. Abraham ibn Ezra in his commentary on the Torah (Exodus 20:1), states:

God forbid that even one of the commandments should contradict common sense, but we must in any case observe everything that God commanded, whether its secret is revealed or not. And if one of them seems to contradict common sense, we must not understand it at face value, and must search our sources for its meaning, possibly as a parable.

            Maimonides, in his Guide to the Perplexed (II:45), argues that humanity’s internal moral compass is itself a form of prophecy:

The first degree of prophecy consists in the divine assistance which is given to a person, and induces and encourages him to do something good and grand, e.g., to deliver a congregation of good men from the hands of evildoers; to save one noble person, or to bring happiness to a large number of people; he finds in himself the cause that moves and urges him to this deed. This degree of divine influence is called “the spirit of the Lord.”

            The nineteenth-century Italian rabbi, Elijah Benamozegh, puts it slightly differently, in what he called the “unity of the law”—the unity of the universal or divine law, and the law of humanity. He explains that the law of the universe and of humanity are one and the same. “God keeps the laws,” as it were, and this is the meaning of the midrashic statements where God is described as observing the commandments such as tefillin and sukkah. R. Benamozegh says that God and humanity are bound to the same moral imperative, in essence. Humans are expected to emulate God because they must both meet the demands of morality. In fact, God observed the mitzvoth [the commandments] before there were humans; and it is because God did so that God commanded humans to do so as well. As he states in his work, Israel and Humanity:[2]

The many biblical passages which declare that the true knowledge of God is moral knowledge, the fear of the Lord, thus become clear… Practical morality or ethics is thus raised to the level of divine knowledge. The law of man and the law of God are but a single identical law…. (p. 226)

…The Torah affirms that the moral life is indispensable to the dignity of all men without distinction… Moses says: “for all the abhorrent things were done by the people who were in the land before you, and the land became defiled” (Lev. 18:27), suggesting that ethical laws are universal, applying to Gentiles as well as Jews…. This text is but a single example… in which we see God approving or condemning, rewarding or punishing the Gentiles—appraising their conduct, whether as Lawgiver or Judge, and doing this with reference to a higher law to which they are held as responsible as the Israelites, which is in fact the same for all men. This universal moral standard is invoked not only in the pagan’s relation to God but also in his relation to Israel, and in a general way in the relations of all men with one another…. Moral values are perhaps assumed to be generally known, whether by a natural instinct of mankind or through a tradition common to all peoples. (p. 279)

The Reasons for the Commandments (Ta’amei haMitzvoth)

            This first level of the fundamental source of morality leads directly to the second level, which is how exactly this morality is related to Judaism’s system of commandments. Should we be occupying ourselves with the details of this relationship at all? And how are we to incorporate general moral considerations when deciding issues of halakha over time and in different contexts?

            Here, there seems to be a certain tension that is built into Judaism even among the classic commentators. All seem to recognize that, in principle, there are deep reasons for all the commandments; but many express great caution over involving ourselves with these reasons out of concern that it will result in a loss of the fear of heaven and lead to neglecting observance. So the obligation to observe the commandments even without directly engaging with their particular moral ideals is a fundamental part of the rabbinic tradition. It is only the over-emphasis, the extreme imbalance that we seek to correct. Let us take note of some of these sources.

            The most famous source that demonstrates a deep skepticism of the attempt to engage with the higher ideals of the mitzvoth is in the Talmud, Sanhedrin 21a:

Why were the reasons in the Torah not revealed? Because the reasons for two commandments were revealed and the great one failed through them. It says: “[The king] must not have many wives, so that they not make his heart go astray” (Deuteronomy 17:17). Solomon said: “I will have many, but I will not go astray.” And it says: “And it was, when Solomon become old, his wives led him astray after foreign gods” (I Kings 11:4). It says: “[The king,] however, must not accumulate many horses, so as not to bring the people back to Egypt to get more horses” (Deuteronomy 17:16). Solomon said: “I will have many, but I will not bring them back.” And it says: “And the horses went up out of Egypt” (I Kings 10:29).

Here, the sages demonstrate that the concern regarding revealing the reasons behind the commandments is justified. If a reason is given, people may come to see the validity of the commandments not as resting in God, but as resting in the supposed reason. In such circumstances, it will be human nature to relate to it in a lax fashion and propose changing it if it seems out of date or inconvenient, as King Solomon demonstrated.

            Rabbi Jacob ben Asher, known as the Ba’al haTurim, writes in his major work of halakha the following: “We need not seek out the reason behind the commandments, because the King’s command is upon us, even if we don’t know the reason” (Tur, Yorah Deah, 171). He expresses the concern that knowing the reason will undermine our recognition of the kingship of God, and we will only observe the commandments with which we identify with and feel attachment. Other sages over the generations have voiced similar opinions. It should be noted, however, that none of them seem to believe that there is no deeper reason behind the Mosaic Law, but only that we, as humans, cannot fully grasp it, and, that pursuing this realm of knowledge will do more harm than good.

            The above quotations notwithstanding, many classic and modern commentators very much believed that we should be engaging ourselves in the pursuit of the meanings, ideals, and reasons behind the Mosaic Laws. In Guide to the Perplexed (III:31), Maimonides writes clearly that the commandments include intelligible logic and that a person can and should understand them:

There are persons who find it difficult to give a reason for any of the commandments, and consider it right to assume that the commandments and prohibitions have no rational basis whatsoever. They are led to adopt this theory by a certain disease in their soul, the existence of which they perceive, but which they are unable to discuss or to describe…. But if no reason could be found for these statutes, if they produced no advantage and removed no evil, why then should he who believes in them and follows them be wise, reasonable, and so excellent as to raise the admiration of all nations? But the truth is undoubtedly as we have said, that every one of the six hundred and thirteen precepts serves to inculcate some truth, to remove some erroneous opinion, to establish proper relations in society, to diminish evil, to train in good manners, or to warn against bad habits.

            Nachmanides presents a similar view in his commentary on the Torah (Deut. 22:6):

…this is one of two possible positions: There is the position that there are no reasons for the commandments beyond God’s desire, but we are of the second position that every commandment has a reason…. The only explanation for cases where we do not know the reason is our own intellectual blindness.

            Often, the commandments are classified into two categories, mishpatim and hukim, meaning commandments that are rationally understandable and ones that are not (Yoma 67b; Maimonides, Guide III:26). However, many sages did not seem to feel that this distinction is so absolute as to preclude finding ideals and meaning even in the commandments that are not readily understandable.

            R. Samson Raphael Hirsch described the commandments as symbols that come to express ideas. In his book The Mitzvot as Symbols, he states that God commanded the observance of practices so that we will be constantly aware of certain concepts and truths and that they will be engraved in our hearts. For him, it is precisely the commandments that are not clearly rational that have symbolic meaning that represent ideas to those who perform them. In justifying his approach, he explains that the reformers of his time claimed that because they identified the higher ideal behind the commandments, actual observance of them was no longer needed. As a reaction to this, he explains, the traditional circles that came to be called “Orthodoxy” insisted that there is no symbolic or expressive meaning at all. Both, however, are wrong in R. Hirsch’s eyes, because there is symbolic meaning in all the mitzvoth.

            R. Kook agrees that all the mitzvoth have meaning beyond the simple fulfillment of God’s will. However, he disagrees with R. Hirsch’s position that the mitzvoth only represent philosophical ideas, that they are symbols of the idea. Instead, R. Kook says that the mitzvoth are not just philosophical symbols but are organically related to the world. They act on the world independently of our understanding of the ideas behind them. He states,

When one penetrates to the depths of knowledge it is clear that the commandments are not symbols, that come merely to remind us and to emulate a depth on the imagination. Rather, they are the substance that make up the human and cosmic reality. (Igrot Hara’ayah II, letter 378)

            R. Kook proposed a synthesis whereby he rejected the clear distinction between hukim and mishpatim altogether. We can’t say any of the commandments are merely rational, but they’re certainly not irrational either. He proposed that within each category of commandment, both hukim and mishpatim, there is both a rational quality and irrational quality. We understand somewhat, but we can never understand them in the totality of their depth. Both aspects must be felt when observing the commandments and, in doing so, we can connect to their higher meaning without coming to devalue the divine authority vested in them.[3]

            The above sources are but a sample of the numerous classic and modern Torah scholars who state clearly that the commandments do hold within them moral ideas and ideals. Despite this, much of Jewish practice has become imbalanced, where the emphasis was put heavily on the side of the irrational and blind commitment at the expense of the substantive ideals. Furthermore, the focus of the engagement with ideals that has existed was on the personal, individual realm, mainly in character development and not the national societal level.

            The reasons often discussed are of two types: hidur mitzvah (the enhanced performance of a commandment) and tikkun haMiddot (a person’s continual struggle to improve his personality traits). Some of the few classical ideals discussed in books like Mesilat Yesharim are zerizut, haste in the performance of the commandments; zehirut, prudence, carefulness not to sin; tseniut, modesty; teshuva, repentance; and so forth. Hovot haLevavot speaks mainly about one’s obligation to believe in God’s existence, unity, and eternity, in His wondrous wisdom and His providence.

            The problem with placing middot (character traits) at the center of Judaism is that they are not ideals toward which society as a whole can strive; they do not provide a direction for national development. Ideals, on the other hand, are not limited to personal goals but rather they transcend the boundaries of neighborhoods, communities, and countries. A system of middot played an essential role in the closed Jewish communal life in exile. Being part of the “national life” was not an option for individual Jews due to external factors and internal self-censorship. Today, with the creation of the State of Israel and the exposure of the Jews to the larger world, Jews can no longer progress without adapting the broader view of Jewish ideals. Middot, therefore, are only a part of a system of ideals and must be viewed as such. Perfecting one’s middot is a worthy cause for an individual, but a system built only on middot is insufficient for the end purposes of a community or society or, all the more so, a government.

            As such, much of the discussion of the reasons behind the commandments focused on providing interpretations for the various commandments, and not necessarily presenting a coherent, overarching system of ideals and how they interact with each other. It seems, that during the exile period, it was natural that legalistic concerns and the individual realm became the focus of scholars’ attention. However, with the return to a national existence we must refocus our attention precisely on clarifying the system of ideals. This is not just because we live in modern times but also because of the universal meaning expressed by the Jews’ national existence as a holy nation.

            We believe that the very essence of Judaism is the integration of laws and ideals, where ideals are placed before the commandments. To become a leading force in promoting Judaism, the ideals should not be derived from commandments, but on the contrary, commandments should be derived from Torah ideals, and serve to protect and preserve these ideals.

            Developing the ideals into a well-formulated logical system will promote Judaism as a world religion, and consequently provide the motivation for increased observance of the commandments by Jews, as people are willing to do what is meaningful to them. Indeed, the non-observant Jews do not keep the mitzvoth not because they are difficult to observe, but because these Jews do not see the rationale behind the commandments.

            It is vital that the true rapport that exists between the ideals and the commandments enters into the public conscience. To achieve this, it would be necessary to write an entire book that will organize and promote the ideals of Judaism as an essential part of our spiritual horizon. To make things clear: We certainly have no intention of creating a new religious system. On the contrary, we seek only to return to Judaism in its original form. This article is only a preliminary sketch that outlines the general direction of our work. To give a wider picture of the ideals in Judaism, it would be necessary to give a detailed analysis of each of the ideals rooted in the Talmud and the Rabbinic and contemporary Jewish philosophy literature. Our immediate goal in this article is only to define a specific problem in the Jewish Orthodox worldview and to outline a way of solving it.

Particularism versus Universalism in Judaism

            Rabbi Marc. D. Angel, founder and director of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals,[4] claims that Judaism’s main goal is to maintain equilibrium between being both particularistic and universalistic, i.e., be careful about preserving our traditions and rituals, but at the same time maintain the universalistic vision of being “a light unto the nations.” He claims that the current tendency in the Modern Orthodox world has been to lean toward particularism, as manifested by the extreme growth of the Haredi community and its domineering influence throughout all aspects of Jewish thought. The turn inward, which can be explained by centuries of persecution and the negative attitude toward Gentiles that are expressed in rabbinic literature, is the result of a tradition of hateful attitudes toward the Jews. Even today, modern leadership is cautious regarding our acceptance and responsibility toward Gentiles. For example, R. Aharon Soloveitchik argues that our responsibility toward the non-Jews is conditional: If they are decent to us, we are obligated to act decently to them; if they persecute us, however, we have no hiyyuv (obligation) to work for their wellbeing.

            In another article, Rabbi Angel[5] quotes Rabbi Yitzhak Shemuel Reggio, a nineteenth-century Italian Torah commentator, on the verse “love your neighbor as yourself” to mean as follows:

Torah Judaism demands not only a keen commitment to truth, but also a keen sense of responsibility to human beings. Rabbi Reggio’s universalistic understanding of the “golden rule” teaches that all human beings—whatever their race, religion, or nationality—are entitled to be treated “like ourselves.” They too, were created by God. They, too, have the human qualities with which we are endowed. If we can see “them” as being just like “us,” we are more likely to develop a sense of kinship and responsibility to all of humanity.

            R. Angel is echoing here the view expounded greatly by R. Elijah Benamozegh. R. Benamozegh believed that Judaism has an inherently universal dimension and that this is reflected in both the Mosaic and Noahide laws. The Mosaic Law, is incumbent only on the Jewish people, whereas the Noahide law is meant for all humankind. Regarding the relationship between the two codes of law, he writes (Israel and Humanity p. 317),

The eternal truths, practical as well as theoretical, are—like the universal Noachide Law—older than the revelation to Moses. This does not, however, mean that they are not part of it. Indeed, the entire Noachide code is contained in the Mosaic revelation, at the same time that (from a different perspective) the one is independent of the other… From the philosophical point of view, all this may be summed up in the concept of a double law: the rational and the supranational, the knowable and the unknowable, the intelligible and the super intelligible. It is the first of these two dimensions which we find in the Noachide Law; it is the second which corresponds to the Torah.

            As a prime example of the way Judaism’s particularism is itself directed toward a universalist aspiration, R. Benamozegh cites the sages’ comment on the passage in Deuteronomy (11:12): “It is therefore a land constantly under God your Lord’s scrutiny; the eyes of God your Lord are on it at all times, from the beginning of the year until the end of the year.” On this passage, The Midrash Sifrei asks if we are to understand that God is only interested in this corner of the Earth, and answers: No—but through the care that He lavishes on the land of Israel, God extends His providence toward all the other countries. On this R. Benamozegh writes (Israel and Humanity p. 318),

It seems to us that the strikingly universalist idea which the sages derive from this text, which is apparently so exclusive in its implication, beautifully characterizes the authentic spirit of Judaism. A country which finds itself chosen to be a means of grace and blessing for the entire world, but is in no way licensed to hold others in contempt: This is dominating the concept of the entire law, written and oral, beginning with Abraham, in whom all races should be blessed….

Deriving Ideals from the Torah

            We said before that introducing the concept of “ideals” into the social consciousness is essential for a proper structural organization of Judaism. We also discussed at length the correct interrelation between mitzvoth and ideals, but what are these ideals that we are discussing here? Consider two specific examples of ideals: freedom and love of humanity.

            We all know that freedom plays a crucial role in Judaism. It is clear that without freedom of will there can be no true fulfillment of the Torah. Into what category should freedom be included? Obviously freedom is not a commandment enumerated among the 613 mitzvoth, but we do have a mitzvah to remember that we were slaves and then became free. If we were to have a category of ideals, then liberty and freedom would become the most essential parts of Judaism. Jews became a nation when they received the Torah on Mt. Sinai, but first they had to leave Egypt to become a free people. Thus, while the commandment of “zekhirat yetziat mitzrayim” (remembering the Exodus from Egypt) is written explicitly in the Torah, the ideal of freedom is derived from this commandment.

            The second example also has this double aspect of commandment and ideal. In the non-Jewish world, the verse “love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18) is understood as love for all of humanity. In Judaism, however, the commandment of “love your neighbor” obligates us to love only the Jews but not non-Jews. It often happens that when non-Jews hear about this, they are dismayed. How can this be? Does Judaism not have that same love of humanity that they believe to be the most important achievement of the Jewish Bible? The answer is that, of course, Judaism has the concept of love for all of humanity. But again, the commandment of “love your neighbor” is written explicitly, while the ideal of loving humankind is culled from the text.

            This dichotomy is also felt in the halakha that rules that there is a fundamental difference between the love for Jews and the love for Gentiles: Loving other Jews is an obligation, whereas loving all of humanity is an ideal. Again, only after we introduce the category of ideals, is it possible to assign the “love of humankind” to its rightful place in Jewish hashkafa (worldview). Additionally, love of humanity is ranked; the love for those who are closer to you precedes the love for those who are more distant. As the Rambam states (Matanot Aniyim 7:13):

A man’s poor relative has priority over any person; the poor in his own household have priority over the poor in his town; the poor in his town have priority over the poor of another town as it is written: “Open your hand to your brother, to your needy, to your poor in your land” (Deut. 15:11).

(A similar idea is expressed in the English expression, “charity begins at home.”) In this way, Judaism defines “love your neighbor” in a much more complete manner by coupling a commandment with an ideal, as opposed to Christianity, which sees this principle only as an ideal.  

            A third example is found in the traditional commentary on the Shema, which says: “Why does the passage of Shema precede the passage of “veHaya im Shamoa”? So that a person would put on the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven and only afterward the yoke of the commandments” (Berakhot 13a). Although the second paragraph also speaks of love of God, the first paragraph is called kabalat malkhut shamayim (accepting the yoke of heaven), and the second one kabalat mitzvoth (accepting the commandments) because the second paragraph discusses rewards and punishments. The word “yoke” gives the impression of some type of obligation. However, the first passage is not talking about responsibilities, but about ideals. Of course, the first fragment can be read in a halakhic sense, deriving from the commandments of the Shema, tefilin, and mezuzah. However, focusing too much on the commandments prevents us from seeing the ideals, namely, to love God and to understand the divine unity. This is an example of how an ideal is realized through a mitzvah: The ideal of loving God is facilitated by the mitzvoth of tefilin and mezuzah mentioned in the Shema. This understanding of the interplay between mitzvoth and ideals should fill all aspects of our lives (both in our secular and religious pursuits), sitting at home or traveling on the road, lying down or getting up.

Interplay Between Commandments and Ideals in Halakha

            The above discussion has related to the issue of the essential meaning of the various mitzvoth; but there is an additional realm—the practical application of the commandments in life in various contexts—the determination of halakha. To fully appreciate the complexity of authentic Judaism, we need to further analyze the interconnection between ideals and halakha. It is important to note that any positive aspiration may develop in the wrong direction if it is not restricted. Ideals are not absolute and their implementation is not a guarantee of any “good.” Ideals are important, but they are also dangerous. Therefore, in addition to ideals we also need commandments that will preserve the ideals. The commandments become vessels and the ideals become the substance that fills these vessels. Another major difference between commandments and ideals is that each of the commandments is intrinsically valuable. However the ideals are valuable primarily as the building blocks of a system. If a person fulfilled commandment A but did not do commandment B, the fulfillment of A is still good. However, if a person realizes ideal A at the expense of ideal B, then the result is dubious. It could be that the person is acting wickedly although the ideal is very good.

            The question is what happens if we encounter a contradiction between the commandments and the ideals? Which one takes precedence? Let us consider the following allegory: driving by car through the city. Locally, the traffic signs direct the car’s movement, but it is the final destination that defines the car’s ultimate direction. So, too, regarding commandments and ideals: As we go through life, the commandments take precedence locally, but it is the ideals that guide us in the bigger picture. Without understanding the ideals, the commandments can easily turn into an empty formal system that does not interact with the reality around us. Hence, the commandments and the ideals do not contradict each other but rather, the commandments show us how to successfully and correctly implement the ideals into our day-to-day life.

            The twentieth-century scholar, R. Eliezer Berkovits, discussed this issue at length in his writings. He took a clear position that the halakha is primarily about moral values rather than rules. He states that the halakha is meant to translate the intention of the Torah into application in real-life situations, and in doing so, it grants “the priority of the ethical, according to which it is understood as furthering the larger moral principles embodied in the Torah.”[6] Thus, the law is a vehicle for realizing this morality in society and advancing human history.

            R. Berkovits’s approach is not the same as that promoted by Conservative Judaism. For the Conservative movement, changes in halakha are necessitated by the need to create a synthesis between traditional Judaism on the one hand, and modern life and its values on the other. The impetus for change, then, is not the result of eternal Jewish principles, but from some external source, from modernity. R. Berkovits’s understanding of halakha, and what is being described by the present authors, is entirely different. For R. Berkovits, change in halakha is meant

…to reflect the careful, incremental adjustment of legal means to further moral ends that are themselves intrinsic to Judaism and unchanging. These moral ends are not an external “anti-thesis” with which the tradition must come to terms by changing its internal content in keeping with them; they are themselves the moral core of the same revealed message from which the law receives its authority… while the law may change, the values which underlie it do not; on the contrary, the purpose of the change is to permit the continued advancement of the Bible’s eternally valid moral teaching under new conditions.[7]

            To summarize, the Judaism of the Diaspora has come to emphasize the system of commandments. In this essay we have presented a very different approach, claiming that Judaism is really a system of ideals, and the commandments are required for the correct realization of these ideals. We believe that the more people see the truthfulness of the second approach, the more advanced Judaism will be.

Conclusion to Part I

            We do not intend to provide an analysis of all the Jewish texts here, but rather are endeavoring to intuitively derive some of the ideals from the Torah. “Intuitively” means that we use our modern way of thinking to build a system of values. This is not the usual way for Judaism that customarily uses the traditional galut philosophy developed during the Talmudic Era and the times of the Rishonim. On the other hand, if we believe that there is an ongoing Divine Revelation, then the fact that today we look at the world differently is also part of the Divine Revelation. Therefore, when this philosophy is used for the derivation of ideals, this means that the ongoing Revelation is being integrated with the Classical Revelation (of Sinai). This methodology is far from perfect, but for the purposes of this article, it will suffice.

Note that the purpose of this article is merely to give food for thought and to crystallize and categorize the main points, to begin the discussion but not to end it.

Part II: Organization of the Ideals

            We looked at the ideals of freedom and love of humanity and the way they are intertwined with mitzvoth, but what are the other ideals in Judaism? Is there a way of systematizing them into one concrete, all-encompassing scheme?

            Let us begin by looking for ideals in the Torah that are not derived from the commandments. The natural place that comes to mind is the Book of Genesis, as this book precedes the vast majority of the commandments that begin only in the middle of the Book of Exodus. We see that ideals take up a large part of Genesis; it is therefore critical to formulate the commandments so that they take their rightful place in our contemporary understanding of Judaism.

It would be logical to put the ideals into the following categories:

a) Ideals of Adam and Noah: ideals of humanity as a whole
b) Ideals of Abraham, Isaac,and Jacob: ideals of our forefathers
c) Ideals of Joseph and his brothers: family ideals
d) Ideals of Moses and Aaron: ideals of the Nation of Israel
e) Ideals of the Mashiah: a special group of messianic ideals for future times.

            In this section we are going to talk about the ideals of Adam haRishon (primordial man), Noah, Abraham, and a bit about the Messianic ideal. The ideals of Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, and Aaron are currently in the process of being developed. Any suggestions are more than welcome.

Ideals of Adam and Noah: Ideals of Humanity as a Whole

            The first mitzvah that Adam receives is, “Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and rule over it” (Genesis 1:26–28) or, in modern terms, develop the world. In a similar way, two aspects of human’s mastery over nature are described later on: “The Lord God took man and placed him in the Garden of Eden to cultivate it and to guard it” (Genesis 2:15). It is clear what “cultivate the world” means, but from whom or from what should man guard the Garden? The answer is from man himself. For, as we all know, it was man himself who destroyed the Garden through the violation of the prohibition of not eating from the Tree of Knowledge. In our society, we protect the world and the environment from the destructive influence of humans. Progress and environmental protection can coexist, but they should keep each other in check. Progress is a spiritual necessity, although the role of religion is to keep it from self-destruction.

            These sources disprove the common notion that religion opposes the advancement of civilization, progress, and technology. According to the Rambam, authentic Judaism is very much concerned with material and technological progress—so much so that it sees scientific and technological progress as a religious value.

            To counter the mitzvah to advance the world comes the Torah’s account of the creation of humans, “…in the image of God He made him” (Genesis 1:26–28). This verse teaches us that a person as an individual becomes closer to God by imitating Him through one’s own personal choices.

            The story of Noah comes to show us how seriously God takes an improper imbalance between advancement of the self and advancement of the world. Noah was a man of great righteousness, who “walked with God” (Genesis 6:9). He wanted to be closer to God, but at the same time, as the commentators tell us, he did not have a sufficient sense of responsibility for all of humanity. Extremely laborious work in the Ark during the flood corrected Noah in that it showed him the importance of the correct balance between closeness to God and responsibility for civilization. Noah learned to balance Adam’s ideals, and his children took this balancing act even further. Shem became responsible for the ideal of coming closer to God, and Japheth for the ideal of building and advancing civilization. They were all instructed to integrate: “God shall enlarge Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem” (Genesis 9:27).

            By juxtaposing the story of Adam and Noah, we see that a personal level of self-advancement must be counterbalanced by building and advancing civilization. If Imitatio Dei can be understood on an intuitive level, granting religious significance to building a civilization is far from being obvious. These two ideals exhibit internal tension: striving toward a transcendental God may lead a person away from the world, while building a civilization forces him to be very much involved in the world. Being in opposition to each other, it is important that these ideals co-exist in equilibrium and that none of them are realized at the expense of the other. If a person leans toward the ideal of Imitatio Dei and exhibits indifference to civilization, it would mean that his Imitatio Dei is deficient. The opposite situation also holds true: If one is only involved in the needs of civilization, leaving aside “striving to imitate the ways of God,” one will not be able to rectify the world, and all one’s efforts would lead to the wrong result. Thus, the creation of humans in the image and likeness of God is the starting point of a human endeavor to bring humanity as a whole as close as possible to God.

Imitatio Dei in Judaism versus Imitatio Dei in Christianity

            The Jewish version of Imitatio Dei is clearly stated in Leviticus 11:14: “Ye shall therefore sanctify yourselves, and ye shall be holy; for I am holy.” We see that holiness is something that increases the similarity between God and humans, and brings us closer to God. This is a Jew’s obligation toward God, on a solely individual level.

            The ideal of Imitatio Dei is not only found in Judaism. Christianity borrowed the same idea from Judaism and accepted it as a pure monotheistic principle that stands at the core of its ethics. The essence of monotheism is that the Higher Power, or God, has a personality. It is based on the fact that God created the entire world and created humanity in His own image. Of course, human is not God, but the more one realizes the divine potential, the closer one moves toward God. For example, Imitatio Dei is based on the commandment of keeping Shabbat: “And on the seventh day God ended His work which He had made; and He rested on the seventh day from all His work which He had made” (Genesis 2:2). The implication is clear: So you, too, should have a day of rest.

            However, Judaism and Christianity implement Imitatio Dei rather differently. In the Christian view of the world, the Gospels evoked an image of Jesus that identified with God; therefore, the Christian ideal is to be similar to Jesus and Imitatio Dei turns into Imitatio Christi. Accordingly, all of the classical Christian ethics hallow poverty and missionary work, as this lifestyle imitates Jesus’s life. Judaism, on the other hand, believes in imitation of the divine attributes or divine actions that we find in the Torah. The Talmud explains this idea (Shabbat 133b) as a commentary to this verse: “Just as He is merciful, so should you be merciful. Just as He is kind, so should you be kind.” Similarly, Maimonides cites Deuteronomy 11:22 as the main source for a specific biblical commandment to develop a virtuous personality: “If you carefully safeguard and keep this entire mandate that I prescribe to you today, [and if you] love God, walk in all His ways, and cling to Him.” Maimonides interprets “Ve-halakhta bidrakhav” (and walk in all His ways) as imitating God’s traits. Thus, in Judaism there is no other way to “be like God” than through action or perfecting of the self.  

A Closer Look at Imitatio Dei in Genesis

            In this section we will show how ideals can be derived from the first few verses of Genesis. The first verse in the Torah, “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth” (Genesis 1:1), shows that God is the Creator. So, it is clear that the first ideal of Judaism is to create. Creating is the most divine act that a person is capable of doing. Creativity brings a person pleasure and divine light. However, there are not many books about Judaism that emphasize this as the main ideal. Creativity cannot be commanded. A commandment is an obligation, and creativity is free in its very essence; therefore, ontologically, creativity is independent because it precedes the commandments and carries forward the entire system.

            Creativity, like religion, cannot be realized without restrictions, for once restrictions are removed, creativity also disappears. If an architect creates freely without considering the laws of gravity and the laws of mechanics based on strength of materials, the structure will collapse, and creativity will have no effect. Any freedom has to be limited by some rules to make it possible for this freedom to be realized. If these rules are violated, freedom has no effect. Similarly, in religion there are rules called commandments, and if these commandments are violated, the religion collapses.

            The second act of God represents another ideal: “And God said: Let there be light” (Genesis 1:3). This verse shows that words have the power to create. Indeed, human beings, whose creativity stems from God’s creativity, live in order to express and possibly to create something of importance using words. A variety of arts, such as music, literature, and sculpture may well fit into this definition. Art strives to communicate something of consequence, and this desire should be recognized as an important aspect of Judaism. Thus, opening an art school would not only be a cultural act but a divine one. Similarly, if words are so powerful that they serve as the building blocks of the universe, then a School of Rhetoric would not only teach individuals to attain personal eloquence, but would have religious meaning as well. Thus, building a system of ideals in Judaism has practical implications for Jewish culture today.

            The third act of God is described: “And God saw the light” (Genesis 1:4). This is obviously not referring to simply a “vision” but “an evaluation of the situation.” Therefore, we, like God, like to assess and evaluate, regardless of any practical application. Judaism should see this personality trait as an important part of a person’s religiosity, and should advance and encourage people to develop and state their opinions.

            God’s fourth act is, “And God separated the light from the darkness” (Genesis 1:4). We, too, like to divide the world into black and white, into right and wrong, into good and evil, in our understanding of things. This should not be seen as simply a tendency of the human mind, but part of the religious experience. Therefore, like creativity and the desire to evaluate, Judaism should encourage people to develop their ability to discern right from wrong.

            Finally, people like to give definitions to everything because “God called the light day” (Genesis 1:4). When we give a definition to a certain event, experience, or idea, we imitate the Creator and thus perform a spiritual act.

            The ability to differentiate between good and evil, to create, and to evaluate a situation are characteristics that God implanted in us. To develop these characteristics is an ideal. The problem with contemporary religious society is that it does NOT present these ideals to its followers. This is unfortunate because what is really significant is what ideals we (the society) define as religiously meaningful; this in turn influences society’s development. This is so because a society is very much defined by the development of those ideals that are encouraged by its followers. The question, “What is an ideal?” means, “Which characteristics do we want to develop?” Obviously they are all implanted in us; otherwise there would be no possibility of developing them. Therefore the question, “What are the ideals whose development should be considered of religious value?” is crucial to the advancement of Judaism.

            Thus, in the first four verses of the Torah, we are presented with the basic ideals of human life in relation to the divine. By integrating ideals into Judaism, we let it influence our lives to a much greater degree.

The Ideal of Truth

            The Torah states: “Keep away from anything false.” (Exodus 23:7). From this we learn that there is a basic ideal of Truth in Judaism. Surprisingly, this ideal is not trivial, as there exist cultures that lack it, where personal advancement dominates over truth, and therefore lying could be a social norm.

Ideals of Abraham

            Let us proceed to the next subject of our study: the ideals of Abraham. First, we note that in Judaism there are two kinds of covenants between God and the Jewish people. One is called “the covenant of Abraham” and the other “the covenant at Sinai.” In “the covenant at Sinai” the Israelites received a system of precepts, and at its foundation lay the Ten Commandments. The “covenant of Abraham” was built on ideals and was in no way connected to commandments. Even circumcision was not a commandment per se but a symbol of the covenant. It is not our goal here to analyze in detail all of the ideals of Abraham and the Patriarchs. We will only attempt to learn what lies on the surface and understand what is relevant to us today.

Universalistic vs. Nationalistic Ideals of Judaism

            As discussed in the first part of this essay, universalism is an important part of Judaism. We see this explicitly written in the Torah when God selects and blesses Abraham, “All the nations of the world shall be blessed through your descendants—all because you obeyed My voice.” (Genesis 22:18). Thus, a universalistic goal of Judaism is to make an impact on all of humanity, to become a “kingdom of priests” (Exodus 19:6) and to look broadly beyond the scope of Jewish life.

            On the other hand, Abraham did not just spread religious and ethical teachings; he was commanded to create a nation, a special, separate people that would realize his ideals. Here too, we see that all aspects, the universal, cosmopolitan and the national, have to strike a balance to create a nation that is universalistic.

The Ideal of Progress through Argumentation

            One of the important characteristics of “Jewishness” is the capacity to debate with God. Abraham argues with God regarding Sodom. This is the most striking example of a dispute with God in all of the monotheistic literature. This dispute is not simply a request or presentation of arguments. Abraham is openly critical of the divine plan, and he doesn’t refrain from using rather severe words: “It would be sacrilege even to ascribe such an act to You—to kill the innocent with the guilty, letting the righteous and the wicked fare alike. It would be sacrilege to ascribe this to You! Shall the whole world’s Judge not act justly?” (Genesis 18:25). If a person on trial in a state court said anything like that to a judge, he would be accused of contempt of court. God however does not react in that way. On the contrary: He provokes Abraham to argue with Him. Abraham’s debate with God teaches us an important lesson about how humanity progresses: If a person always agrees, he will never grow in understanding. To truly understand, one must first put forward arguments and then discuss them. Judaism should therefore strive to encourage Jews to ask questions, no matter how sensitive they are, and they should not to be afraid to seem “impious,” for even Abraham disputed with the Almighty!

            In monotheism, there are three levels of humanity’s relationship with God: the level of subordination, when people carry out the divine orders; the level of love, when God wants to bestow benefits upon humanity; and the level of a dialogue, when God conducts a dialogue with humans. Judaism stresses the importance of all three levels. When God commands Abraham to “walk before me” (Genesis. 17:1), commentators note that it is said about Noah that he “walked with God.” “Walking with God” is to agree while “walking before God” is to argue and disagree when the divine guidance contradicts the divine spark of intuition within humans. Thus, the Jewish ideal is to “go before God.” Later, the Torah explains the reason for selecting Abraham as follows: “I have given him special attention so that he will command his children and his household after him, and they will keep God’s way, doing charity and justice. God will then bring about for Abraham everything He promised” (Genesis18:19).

            The way of God is a covenant of ideals. One of them is a combination of tzedakah (kindness) and mishpat (judgment). It is impossible for the world to exist on mercy alone, but the world cannot survive solely on justice either. Theoretically, we could say that one of the ideals is mercy, and the other is justice. This however would not be precise: mercy and justice must be pursued together rather than separately. This synthesis of mercy and justice is the ideal that God teaches us through our ancestors. Each of our forefathers added a fundamental ideal: Isaac taught us a lesson of self-sacrifice, and Yaakov sanctified God’s name by building a nation and wrestling with God.

Messianic Ideals

            Christianity puts messianic ideals at the center of its belief system. Judaism also has these ideals, but we believe that there is great danger in attempting to implement messianic ideals at a time when society is not ready for them. Any attempt to implement these ideals will immediately lead to undesirable results. Perhaps that is why the messianic ideals of Judaism are not given in the Torah, which is a guide to action, but rather are given in the Books of Prophets. Pacifism, a situation of “beat their swords into plowshares” (Isaiah 2:4), is precisely one of the criteria of the Messianic Era. A few other messianic ideals include nations of the world bringing offerings to the God of Israel and vegetarianism, which R. Kook believed to be a messianic ideal.

            It is well known that different strands of Orthodox Judaism agree mainly in understanding the actual commandments but differ significantly on the question of hiddur mitzvah. Apparently, with regard to ideals, the same holds true. It is imperative to start formulating the ideals of Judaism. By doing so, we will promote Judaism and move closer to being a “Light unto the Nations.”

Instead of a Conclusion: Moses’s Appearance Is Like that of Abraham’s

            The Midrash relates that when Moses ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Torah, the angels opposed him claiming, “Is a man fit to receive this Torah? It should not be given to humans!” Then God made Moses’s appearance and face similar to Abraham’s, and He then asked the angels: “Was it not to him that you came and with him that you ate?” The angels had no choice but to agree.

            According to R. Kook (Kovets, “The Last of the Boyska,” § 24), the angels did not object to Abraham’s teachings being given to humans. Abraham taught that the world has a single Master, who created humans in His image and after His likeness, and from this concept he deduced principles that could be understood by humankind, such as loving and helping one’s neighbor. Abraham taught ideals of mercy, love for all creatures, and above all, love for one’s neighbor; these concepts are so comprehensible that it is clear why people need them. Moses’s teachings, on the other hand, are commandments whose meanings are not always clear; this raises the question whether or not this doctrine is suitable for humans. By rendering Moses’s appearance and face similar to Abraham’s, God demonstrated to the angels that Moses’s commandments are rooted in Abraham’s ideals and that they are the specification and implementation of the ideals that Abraham proclaimed. As a consequence, the angels withdrew their objections.

            Today, we in our lower world need to do what God did in His upper world on high at the time of the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai—show that Moses’s appearance resembles Abraham’s, and that Moses’s commandments are the realization of the ideals that Abraham declared; in this way we need to demonstrate that Abraham’s ideals are primary, while Moses’s commandments are a means of realizing these ideals. This understanding will help bring humankind closer to the Torah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Review Article by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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