National Scholar Updates

The Book of Ruth is not a halakhic work in the traditional sense. It contains no
direct legal instructions, and its narrative flows without explicit reference to the Torah’s
commandments. Yet halakhic undercurrents not only shape the story—they reveal the
Torah’s vision of law as covenantal kindness, evolving through narrative and culture.

The Law of Yibbum and Its Transformation

At the heart of Ruth lies a situation that evokes yibbum, the levirate marriage
described in Deuteronomy 25:5–10. The Torah commands a surviving brother to marry
his deceased brother’s childless widow to preserve the deceased’s name in Israel. But the
levirate obligation stands in tension with earlier prohibitions. The verses in Leviticus
18:16 and 20:21 forbid sexual relations with a brother’s wife, and threatens childlessness
as punishment.

The Mekhilta (Yitro BaHodesh 7) resolves this contradiction by noting that God
uttered these opposing commands “in a single utterance.” Here, the Torah itself contains
dialectical elements that require rabbinic harmonization through the Oral Law. Hizkuni
offers the principle ha-peh she-asar hu ha-peh she-hittir—the same mouth that forbade
also permitted (i.e., God), under specific conditions.

Although rabbinic law harmonized the verses, Karaites—who follow only the
Written Law and reject the Oral Law—interpret Leviticus as unequivocally prohibiting a
man from marrying his sister-in-law under all circumstances. They interpret
Deuteronomy as referring not to literal brothers, but to paternal kinsmen. According to
this view, Boaz’s act was not an extra-legal custom, but actual yibbum through a different
reading of Torah law.

Yet, as Ibn Ezra notes, the peshat of Ruth challenges that view. Boaz is never
called a yabam, but a go’el—a redeemer. Ruth 1:15 refers to Orpah as Ruth’s yevamah,
in the specific sense of “sister-in-law.” Onan, Er’s brother in Genesis chapter 38, also is
called upon to perform yibbum (Genesis 38:8). Moreover, Boaz remarks that Ruth could
have chosen to marry anyone (Ruth 3:10), which would not have been permissible if
yibbum were in play. Naomi’s own words to Ruth—“even if I had sons, would you wait
until they grew up?” (Ruth 1:11)—refers to an actual brother. 

Ramban (on Genesis 38:8) suggests that while the Torah did not command Boaz
to perform yibbum, Judean society so valued family continuity and loyalty that it adopted
a local practice of kin-based redemption, extending yibbum-like obligations to close male
relatives who were not prohibited by the Torah’s laws. This local practice—connected to
field redemption (ge’ulah)—becomes central to Ruth’s story.

Name and Inheritance: Halakhic and Narrative Layers

Beyond the question of marriage law, the narrative also raises halakhic questions
about name preservation and land inheritance. The Torah speaks of le-hakim shem,
raising up a name for the deceased. But what does “name” mean? Yevamot 24a and later
commentators suggest that the goal is not literal naming, but preserving property and

continuity. This is not about naming the child Mahlon, but about retaining Mahlon’s
family’s portion and title in the land. This meaning of shem appears elsewhere in Tanakh,
as well. For example, the daughters of Zelophehad attempt to preserve their deceased
father’s name=title through land inheritance: “Let not our father’s name (shem) be lost to
his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!”
(Numbers 27:4).

Ramban notes further that Boaz and Ruth name their child Obed, not Mahlon.
Tamar, similarly, gives birth to Perez and Zerah—and does not name them Er (her first
husband). Ibn Caspi, however, takes the literal reading seriously and proposes that Ruth
did in fact name her son Mahlon, while the townsfolk overrode her and called him
Obed—a unique moment in Tanakh where outsiders name a child. 

This connects to inheritance law. Mishnah Yevamot 4:7 and Rambam (Hilkhot
Nahalot 3:7) rule that a brother inherits his brother’s land. Thus, the role of yibbum or
ge’ulah in Ruth is not only romantic or redemptive—it ensures that the land does not fall
outside the family. As Yael Ziegler explains, only by combining marriage to Ruth with
property redemption can Boaz ensure continuity. 

The Moabite Question: Law, Tradition, and Innovation

A related halakhic challenge arises from Ruth’s identity as a Moabite—one that
reverberates all the way to King David. Deuteronomy 23:4–7 prohibits Ammonites and
Moabites from entering kehal Hashem, God’s congregation, because of their refusal to
offer hospitality and their hiring of Balaam.

How then can Boaz marry Ruth—and how can David, her descendant, become
Israel’s king?

The Talmud (Yevamot 76b–77a) records that Doeg the Edomite challenged
David’s legitimacy. The sages defended him by citing a halakhah received from Samuel:
Moavi velo Moaviyah—the prohibition applies only to Moabite men, not women. Boaz,
according to Ketubot 7b and the Yerushalmi (Yevamot 8:3), assembled a court to
publicize this ruling before marrying Ruth.

Was Boaz’s ruling a revelation, a publicization, or a new ruling? Some suggest
this ruling was newly innovated (Ketuvot 7b, J.T. Yevamot 8:3). Ruth Rabbah 7:7
portrays Peloni Almoni (the anonymous kinsman in chapter 4) as wrongly refraining
from marrying Ruth due to a mistaken stringency, unaware of the true halakhah. Others,
including the Talmud, treat the law as longstanding tradition, hidden from public view
until Boaz made it known.

Rabbi Yaakov Medan observes that God does not want a total break with Moab.
God does not command total vengeance against Moabites as he does with Midian, and the
Torah instructs Israel not to attack Ammon and Moab (Deuteronomy 2). Lot, their
ancestor, still carries a spark of Abraham’s hesed. Ruth embodies that spark—redeeming
Moab through her exceptional kindness. She brings that aspect of Abraham back into the
Israelite fold. 

Property Redemption: Ge’ulah in Practice

Leviticus 25:25–28 outlines the laws of ge’ulat karka—redeeming land sold by a
destitute relative. The biblical concept of ge’ulah here merges two categories: property
law and familial duty—an intersection typical of biblical halakhah. This legal structure
shapes the Ruth narrative. Boaz agrees to redeem Elimelech’s field, and Peloni Almoni
declines when he learns that marriage to Ruth is part of the deal. His concern, according
to Rashi and Ibn Ezra, may have stemmed from Ruth’s Moabite identity, from the
financial burden, or from the complications of polygamy.

Ultimately, Ruth’s story blends ge’ulah and yibbum. Only by performing both
does Boaz fulfill the community’s vision of family loyalty. The public blessing at the gate
(Ruth 4:12) explicitly links Boaz to Judah and Tamar—acknowledging the precedent of
unconventional, but redemptive, lineage.

Halakhah as Hesed: Generosity in the Field

Beyond questions of marriage and inheritance, the book of Ruth is shaped by the
Torah’s commandments of agricultural generosity. Ruth gleans from Boaz’s field,
benefiting from leket, the commandment to leave behind sheaves for the poor. Though
leket applies only to small, accidental drops, Boaz exceeds the letter of the law—telling
his workers to drop stalks intentionally for Ruth.

The Tosefta (Pe’ah 3:8) tells of a pious man who brought a sacrifice of
thanksgiving after accidentally fulfilling leket. The Sefer HaHinukh sees in these laws an
educational aim: to cultivate generosity. Hirsch notes that the laws of pe’ah (leaving a
corner of one’s field unharvested so the poor may take it) and leket remind us that our
property is ultimately God’s.

This ethos pervades the Book of Ruth. It is a story built on kindness that
transcends duty, yet is animated by halakhic frameworks—yibbum, ge’ulah, and
leket—all transformed by hesed.

Conclusion

Though the Book of Ruth is not a law code, it engages with halakhah deeply and
meaningfully. It reflects a living halakhic tradition in which law is not only a command,
but a covenant—shaped by decency, mutual responsibility, and sacred memory.
Through questions of yibbum and ge’ulah, the Moabite identity, and agricultural
generosity, the Book of Ruth presents halakhah not as a closed system, but as a
covenantal framework that grows in dialogue with lived values. Law is refined and
fulfilled through human initiative rooted in covenantal kindness.

The Book of Ruth is deceptively simple. Beneath its surface simplicity lies a
sophisticated interplay of theology and literary allusion.

A short story of personal loss and familial loyalty, it has long served as a model of
interpersonal kindness and devotion. Yet when studied in its full literary and intertextual
richness, Ruth reveals itself as a sophisticated theological and narrative statement. It
enters into deliberate dialogue with earlier biblical texts, especially those that speak to the
precarious position of women, the persistence of family, and the covert workings of
divine providence. And at the heart of it all is a profound meditation on
hesed—covenantal love that exceeds duty.

Biblical Parallels: Lot, Tamar, Ruth

One of the most intriguing literary patterns in Ruth is its engagement with earlier
stories of women on the margins who act courageously to preserve their family line. As
Harold Fisch 101 and several later scholars have observed, Ruth’s story parallels the
accounts of Lot’s daughters (Genesis 19) and Tamar (Genesis 38).

In each of these stories, a woman is left with no clear future. Lot’s daughters,
believing that they have no other means of having children, intoxicate their father and
bear sons—Moab and Ben-ammi. Tamar, left an agunah (chained woman) by Judah’s
refusal to grant her marriage to Shelah, disguises herself and seduces Judah. Ruth’s
actions are far more modest, yet she too acts decisively and risks personal dignity at the
threshing floor with Boaz to preserve her husband’s lineage. In all three cases, women act
with unconventional initiative in a male-dominated world—often through situations
charged with sexual or moral ambiguity.

Yet, the differences are critical. Tamar uses deception to unmask Judah’s failure;
Ruth is transparent and modest. Judah is at fault for Tamar’s hardship; Boaz is
consistently noble. The text of Ruth invites us to feel the sexual tension of the night scene
(Ruth 3)—with bathing, perfuming, wine, and secrecy—but denies any impropriety. As
Yonatan Grossman observes, the story channels seduction only to subvert it. Ruth
proposes marriage—not illicit contact—and Boaz responds with restraint and honor. The
sexual charge becomes the backdrop for moral choice. 

All three stories—Lot, Tamar, and Ruth—also converge in the emergence of royal
lineage. From Ruth and Boaz comes David, Israel’s greatest king. And from the shadows
of moral ambiguity arises the messianic line.

This genealogy is not incidental. The Talmud (Yoma 22b) explains that Jewish
leadership must descend from flawed ancestry—“a box of creeping things hanging
behind him” (a proverbial reminder of humble or morally complex origins)—so that a
leader remains humble. David’s roots in Moab and Perez reflect this. The Torah prohibits
Moabite men from entering the congregation of Israel due to a national failure of hesed
(Deuteronomy 23:4–5).

In stark contrast with the Torah’s depiction of Moabite inhospitality, Ruth’s hesed
is radical. She sacrifices homeland, family, and future to accompany Naomi. In doing so,
she offers a redemptive counterpoint to the trajectory of her ancestor Lot, who separated

from Abraham and moved toward Sodom, the city of anti-hesed. Where Lot separated
from Abraham in pursuit of self-interest and eventually aligned with Sodom, Ruth clings
to Naomi in an act of selflessness. Her hesed reverses the spiritual rupture between
Abraham and Lot. As Jeremy Schipper notes, the parallel language of p-r-d (separate,
Genesis 13:9, 11, 14; Ruth 1:17) and immo (with him, Genesis 13:1; Ruth 1:17) reflects
this narrative reversal. Ruth clings where Lot parted. 

Hesed as the Driver of Redemption

Ruth’s choice to follow Naomi is not only personally noble—it is spiritually
transformative. Her hesed mirrors that of Rebekah in Genesis 24, another figure whose
generous, unhesitating kindness marked her as a matriarch. Both narratives include divine
providence (mikreh) and uncommon human goodness, with the Book of Ruth’s lo azav
hasdo (did not abandon his loyalty-kindness 2:20) echoing the same phrase used of God
in Genesis 24:27. 104 But whereas Rebekah’s story is accompanied by explicit divine
guidance and prayer, Ruth’s story is ambiguous regarding Providence. 

A midrash (Genesis Rabbah 85:1) expresses this beautifully. While the patriarchs
and their sons were caught in personal crises, God, the midrash teaches, was busy
“creating the light of the messianic king,” referring to the creation of King David. In
Ruth’s world too, individual choices seem local—but from them radiate the light of
redemption.

Symbolism and Subtle Irony

The text of Ruth may be sparse, but it is densely meaningful. Names and places
potentially carry both symbolic and realistic dimensions, even if they also reflect reality.
As Meltzer and others suggest, famine in Bethlehem (“House of Bread”) is deeply ironic.
That Elimelech chooses to flee to Moab, the nation known for stinginess, sharpens the
moral tension. A midrash (Ruth Zuta 1:4) notes this potential irony, as does the Vilna
Gaon.

Even personal names may carry potential symbolism. Biblical naming often walks
the line between literary and historical realism. Mahlon and Chilion, Naomi’s sons, have
been interpreted as names foreshadowing their deaths—erasure and destruction (Ruth
Rabbah 2:5). Whether this is historical or literary naming, the association reinforces the
tragedy. The anonymous Peloni Almoni, who refuses redemption, becomes a literary
symbol of missed opportunity—nameless, faceless, forgotten (Rashi). Orpah, who turns
away from Naomi, is linked to the Hebrew oref (nape), reinforcing her image as one who
turns her back in contrast to Ruth, who looks forward and acts (Ruth Rabbah 2:9).
As Yael Ziegler and others have shown, the etymologies of Ruth’s name offered
in rabbinic and modern literature—compassion, vision, dedication, friendship—form a
composite portrait of her character. 106 She is an outsider who becomes a moral center of
Israelite identity.

The Challenge of Literary Reading

Amid this richness, readers face a methodological question: where does
interpretation end and invention begin? Ibn Ezra’s comment on Ruth 2:17—“sometimes,
it is simply what happened”—cautions us not to force meaning onto every detail. But the
literary artistry of Ruth suggests that many of these connections are real, even if not
provable. The author writes with careful economy and layered resonance. We are meant
to hear echoes and ponder implications.

Conclusion
The Book of Ruth is not merely a story of private grief or personal redemption. It
is a work of profound theological and literary depth, charting the transformation of
tragedy into destiny through the power of hesed. By echoing earlier biblical stories and
reframing them in moral clarity, Ruth emerges as a counter-narrative—women whose
courage builds rather than disrupts, who act boldly yet nobly, who bring light into the
world not through conquest, but through kindness and loyalty.

     “Inclusive Orthodoxy” was Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ way of describing how the majority of Jewish

congregations operate in Britain and the Commonwealth. In these communities most

synagogues are run along Orthodox lines with an Orthodox Rabbi, and some

members who are observant. However, most congregants are more traditional than

strict in their religious practice. Nevertheless, they are part of an Orthodox

congregation, and when the model is working at its best, they feel at home there, are

actively welcomed and valued, and they may even grow in their religious

commitment. Beyond their commitment to maintaining Orthodox communal

standards, these congregations are not part of a dedicated ideological project of any

particular variety, but religious communities that seek to provide a home to as many

Jews as possible.

     That is the model of the United Synagogue in London, similar congregations around

Britain, and in other countries including Canada, New Zealand, South Africa and my

own home in Australia. I have been the Rabbi of one such congregation, The Great

Synagogue of Sydney, for just over ten years now. In that time I have had to reflect

on how a Rabbi can and should lead an Inclusive Orthodox community. It is not

straightforward, and raises several quandaries. How can the Rabbi uphold Orthodox

standards while still welcoming everyone? How can he make everyone feel at home

even though they might have very different lifestyles to his own, and very different

from a halakhic ideal? How can he promote increased Jewish observance without

alienating his congregation?

     I cannot claim to have all the answers to these questions, but I think that the bridge

that needs to be built may rest on three pillars: Embracing, Exemplifying and

Encouraging. Just as Rabbi Sacks argued that Inclusive Orthodoxy as a whole was

not an accommodation, but an ideal, certainly in the context of the modern world as it

actually exists, I submit that this rabbinic approach is not just a strategic choice, but

is also a religious imperative.

     First comes Embracing. It is the job of the Rabbi of any congregation, and especially

a congregation where the members are not uniform in their level of religious

observance, to embrace each and every person. My young children have a board

book called We Go To Shul (by Douglas Florian and Hannah Tolson), which includes

the line “rabbi greets all those he meets”, which captures this responsibility

perfectly. Everyone who wants to come to any activities of the congregation should

be greeted, embraced, genuinely welcomed and valued, and they should feel that is

the authentic disposition of the Rabbi. This is a different concept to being non-

judgmental. Choosing not to be judgmental implies that I harbor an unexpressed

judgement, and I am making the decision not to bring it out, but it exists and I could if

I wanted. Embracing puts all that aside, and sees only a person who wants to

connect, and celebrating and facilitating that desire. Although, as I will go on to

argue, the Rabbi can and should be ambitious for each person’s religious growth,

authentic embrace is not a tool to bring about that growth but a fundamental

expression of Jewish values in its own right. When Maimonides codified the

obligation to love another Jew in Hilkhot Deot 6:3 he did so without qualification:

“Each person is commanded to love each and every one of Israel as themselves.” It

is not dependent on the level, actual or prospective, of religious observance.

     Sometimes this can be difficult, on a personal or a religious level. Some people are

difficult, they are prickly characters, or simply have a personality that does not click

with the Rabbi’s. Sometimes the Rabbi may feel frustration or disappointment with a

congregant’s religious observance. He might feel the congregant could do more, or

has even slipped backwards. He might feel that his hopes for that congregant have

not borne fruit, or that he has poured care and effort without experiencing reciprocity.

     There are two ways for the Rabbi to address this, and they are both internal work.

The first is to try to set all these considerations aside, and return to the core values

of universal and unconditional embrace. If that is not immediately or always possible,

then it is worth remembering that religious-pastoral relationships play out over a long

time. What does not happen this year may happen next year, or in ten years.

     Patience and persistence are the keys to both a happy and a successful rabbinate.

The second pillar is Exemplifying. Yelling at people to do more or do better probably

never worked well, and certainly cannot work today. A Rabbi makes clear their

standards not by demanding them of others but by living up to them, as much as

possible, himself. Again Maimonides points us towards this, when he advises

(Hilkhot Talmud Torah 4:1) that however wise a teacher may be, he should only be

followed if his behavior exemplifies proper conduct, because teaching ultimately

resides in actions more than words. The Rabbi must therefore be scrupulous in how

he speaks and what he eats, in timely and reliable attendance at services, visible

enthusiasm for the study of Torah, hospitality, generosity, acts of personal kindness.

As the Talmud states in Yoma 86a, he should prompt observers to say of him “how

pleasant are his ways, how proper are his deeds”.

     This should not make the Rabbi appear angelic, because the Torah was not given to

the angels. He can thoughtfully give insight into his struggles, because questioning

and doubt are inevitable parts of the religious experience, and his congregants

should not be misled into believing they alone face these challenges. That would be

both dishonest and unhelpful. In a careful way, the Rabbi can share the practical

struggles of, say, raising a young family while also attending to religious and

communal obligations, or the theological struggles that come from seeing the

innocent suffer.

     The Rabbi must also demonstrate palpable intellectual integrity and moral clarity. If

he feels the need to teach difficult lessons or transmit challenging ideas, he must do

so, but not in a way that demands agreement or compliance. The stance of the

Rabbi should be “you have asked me to be your teacher, and that gives me an

obligation to teach the truth as I see it. No one is obliged to agree with me, but you

have a right to know what I think, if I believe the circumstances call on me to tell you.”

     That combination of courage and conviction with humility and openness is a

contribution in itself and also makes even the hardest messages possible to give and

receive without destabilizing relationships. They reveal a Rabbi who might be wrong,

and knows he might be wrong, but who is not prepared to be a liar or a coward. Of

course, knowing when not to speak, and how not to speak is just as important, and

verbal recklessness is no more a quality in a Rabbi than it is in anyone else. What is

true, is that with the growth of love and trust, more can be said.

     Have I detailed impossibly high standards? Probably. Which means in turn there can

be modelling of living with imperfection, honesty about falling short, the need for

repair following rupture and a continual attempt to do better.

     The final pillar is Encouraging. The challenge is to nudge without becoming a

‘noodge’. In an Inclusive Orthodox congregation the Rabbi cannot rely on a shared

understanding of the practical binding force of Halacha, or on peer pressure and

social expectations, but he still wants to see his congregants grow in their religious

observance. He is not presiding over what is sometimes called a “kiruv shul”, a place

where everyone is consciously and deliberately on a journey towards greater

religious observance and they want the Rabbi to help them on that path. That is

probably not the project or the consensus of the membership of an Inclusive

Orthodox community. What, then, can the Rabbi do? He can and should encourage.

He should engage with his congregants, as Maimonides counsels “patiently and

Gently” (Hilkhot Deot 6:7). Suggesting to someone who rarely attends services to

come, not just more often in general but on a specific occasion, whether Shabbat,

Yom Tov, or weekday; offering to take time to learn Torah with them; not just laying

tefillin for them, but teaching them how to put on tefillin; teaching them how to read a

Haftarah, perhaps the Torah, or lead a service; giving them an active role in services

as a shamash or gabbai. This is aside from a role in lay leadership, such as joining

the synagogue board; it is about deepening specifically religious activity.

     Not everyone will agree to try to do more, some will agree but not follow through,

some will follow through for a while and then participation will tail off, but the more

and the wider the Rabbi’s encouragement the greater will be the results. This

encouragement has to be personal. I have not seen exhortations from the pulpit or

appeals in emails have much effect. Success comes most often from personal

invitations made in the context of personal relationships. The greatest success for

the Rabbi is when, in the case of an individual, he no longer needs to encourage,

because that person now attends and participates because of their own internal

enthusiasm and not because of an external intervention. Of course, no longer

making specific suggestions should never mean the relationship is allowed to

atrophy. Anyone can see when the Rabbi loses interest because their presence is

taken for granted, is regarded as “in the bag”.  Instead what starts out as drawing

people in can become a warm, close and settled relationship of fellowship and

appreciation. No one should feel looked down upon because they do less, but they

should feel celebrated when they do more.

     While these three pillars represent an ideal rather than a claim of personal

achievement, they are perhaps parts of a vision to which an Inclusive Orthodox

Rabbi can aspire and strive. They are a route to combining openness with integrity, breadth with growth, 

and authenticity with ambition. For a Rabbi called to this type of community and the challenges 

and opportunities it will bring, I submit these suggestions as an approach worth attempting.

Book Launch: The Grand Worldview of Rab Uziel will happen on Tuesday, February 17, 7pm at Shearith Israel, New York. 

Angel for Shabbat HaGadol

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

“And the Lord gave the people favor in the sight of the Egyptians…” (Shemot 12:36).

For centuries, the Egyptians enslaved the Israelites with malice and cruelty. But when the Israelites were about to gain their freedom, the attitude of the Egyptians changed dramatically. The Israelites now “found favor in the sight of the Egyptians,” who showered gold, silver and garments on their erstwhile slaves.  Last year they hated us; today they love us; is this for real?

This strange phenomenon came to mind when I re-read an article I wrote in 2017, reporting on the results of a survey by the Pew Research Center. The survey showed that Americans expressed more positive feelings toward Jews than any other group! “Warmer feelings are expressed by people in all the major religious groups analyzed, as well as by both Democrats and Republicans, men and women, and younger and older adults.”  They loved us!

But the situation today seems so radically different. We are constantly barraged by statements and surveys that point to increased rates of anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism. Anti-Semitic violence is on the rise.  Did all the goodwill cited in earlier polls simply evaporate?

The bad news: people are fickle.  Attitudes can—and do—change due to media bias, publicity campaigns, statements by celebrities etc.  Public opinion can be—and is—manipulated through many sources. Not everyone has the clarity of mind or solid facts to make informed judgments. The crowd moves with the crowd. Demagogues know this and depend on this. By generating a non-stop flow of anti-Jewish and anti-Israel propaganda, they insidiously infect public opinion.

The good news: people can change for the better. They are able to overcome past negative stereotypes and come to see things more realistically. Most Americans, as reflected in earlier polls, admire the Jewish community as a highly educated, idealistic, charitable and constructive group. They respect the dynamic democracy of Israel and its amazing creativity and strength. When the anti-Jewish/anti-Israel fulminations die down, so will public opinion veer back in a positive and honest direction.

The haftara for Shabbat HaGadol is drawn from the prophecies of Malachi. He foresaw a day when righteousness will prevail over wickedness, when goodness will be rewarded and evil will be overcome. “But unto you that fear My name shall the sun of righteousness arise with healing in its wings; and you shall go forth and gambol as calves of the stall. And you shall tread down the wicked; for they shall be ashes under the soles of your feet in the day that I do make, says the Lord of hosts” (Malachi 3:20-21).

During this season, the ancient Israelites were freed from bondage. During this season, may our generation be saved from haters, oppressors and perpetrators of violence against us. "In Nisan the Israelites were redeemed; in Nisan the Israelites will be redeemed."

Shemini

Kashrut: Holiness through Separation

Introduction

Parashat Shemini concludes with the Torah’s first comprehensive presentation of the laws of kashrut. The chapter distinguishes between animals that may be eaten and those that are forbidden: land animals must possess both split hooves and chew their cud; fish must have fins and scales; many birds and most creeping creatures are prohibited.

Yet the Torah provides remarkably little explanation for these distinctions. It lists the laws in detail but offers almost no direct rationale for them. This silence has prompted centuries of interpretation as Jewish thinkers have sought to understand the deeper meaning behind the dietary laws.

Several complementary approaches emerge from Jewish interpretation across the centuries. Some interpreters emphasize possible physical or psychological effects of different foods. Others focus on the religious discipline created by these laws. Still others highlight the ethical and theological vision reflected in the Torah’s restrictions on human consumption of animals.

Together, these perspectives suggest that the laws of kashrut transform one of the most basic human activities—eating—into a domain of holiness.

Explanations for the Laws of Kashrut

Health Explanations

Some commentators suggested that the dietary laws may promote physical health. Rashbam (on Leviticus 11:3) and Rambam (Guide of the Perplexed III:48) propose that certain animals are prohibited because they are harmful to human beings.

At first glance, this approach appears plausible. Some non-kosher animals do indeed carry diseases—for example, pigs can transmit trichinosis, and hares may carry tularemia. Shellfish and other bottom feeders bring various health risks.

Nevertheless, this explanation encounters significant difficulties. The Torah itself never mentions health as a reason for these laws. Abarbanel further observes that many poisonous plants are not prohibited by the Torah. If the primary concern were human health, it would be surprising for such dangers to go unaddressed.

Rabbi Yitzhak Arama (Akedat Yitzhak) adds another challenge: many non-Jewish populations that consume these animals enjoy perfectly good health. While dietary restrictions may incidentally promote health, this was likely not the Torah’s primary concern.

Moral and Psychological Influence

Another explanation focuses on the moral and spiritual influence of the animals themselves. Ramban (on Leviticus 11:11) and Abarbanel suggest that the Torah prohibits the consumption of predatory animals because their violent nature might shape human character. In this view, people are influenced by what they eat.

This idea finds support in a broader pattern within the Torah’s laws. All predatory land animals are excluded from the list of permitted species. The Torah may be teaching that those who aspire to holiness should not nourish themselves from creatures defined by aggression and bloodshed.

At the same time, this explanation cannot fully account for the entire system. Several herbivorous animals are also prohibited, which suggests that additional considerations must be involved. Fish predators, moreover, are permitted under the Torah’s criteria of fins and scales.

Discipline and Spiritual Formation

A third approach shifts the focus from the nature of the animals to the spiritual discipline created by kashrut. Ibn Ezra (on Leviticus 11:43) explains that these laws protect Israel from impurity and preserve their sanctity. By carefully distinguishing between permitted and forbidden foods, the people cultivate constant awareness of holiness in everyday life.

Other commentators develop this idea further. Akedat Yitzhak and Shadal understand the dietary laws as a form of obedience that trains Israel to accept God’s will even in ordinary matters. Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch similarly stresses that kashrut elevates the physical act of eating into a spiritual practice.

The Torah itself hints at this idea in its conclusion to the chapter:

“For I am the Lord your God; sanctify yourselves and be holy, for I am holy… For I am the Lord who brought you up from the land of Egypt to be your God; you shall be holy, for I am holy” (Leviticus 11:44–45).

Holiness in the Torah frequently emerges through acts of separation and distinction. Just as God created the world by separating light from darkness, land from sea, and Israel from the nations, so too Israel learns holiness by distinguishing between what may and may not be eaten.

The Ethical System of Kashrut

Modern scholarship has also explored the ethical vision reflected in the dietary laws. Professor Jacob Milgrom (Anchor Bible) argues that kashrut forms part of a broader moral framework governing the human consumption of animals.

Limiting Human Domination

According to the Torah’s creation narrative, human beings were originally commanded to follow a vegetarian diet: “I have given you every seed-bearing plant… and every tree with fruit… they shall be yours for food” (Genesis 1:29). Only after the Flood was humanity permitted to eat meat (Genesis 9:3). Even then, the Torah immediately imposed restrictions.

The dietary laws therefore limit humanity’s domination over the animal world. Although people may eat meat, they may do so only within carefully defined boundaries.

This idea may also extend the distinction between clean and unclean animals already mentioned in the story of Noah. Noah offers sacrifices only from clean animals, and the Torah later restricts Israel’s diet in a similar way.

Excluding Predators

The Torah’s exclusion of predatory animals reinforces this ethical vision. Creatures that live by violence and bloodshed are not considered suitable food for a nation called to holiness.

This pattern lends additional support to the earlier interpretation of Ramban and Abarbanel that predatory behavior plays a role in determining which animals may be eaten.

Conclusion

The laws of kashrut transform eating into an arena of religious meaning.

Some explanations emphasize the possible physical or psychological effects of food. Others highlight the discipline created by obedience to divine law. Still others emphasize the ethical framework that governs humanity’s relationship with the animal world.

At the heart of the system lies the Torah’s call to holiness. Just as God created the world through acts of separation and distinction, Israel is called to cultivate holiness by learning to distinguish between permitted and forbidden.

Eating, one of the most ordinary activities of human life, thus becomes an opportunity to practice sanctity. Through the laws of kashrut, the Torah teaches that holiness is not confined to the sanctuary. It extends into the rhythms of daily living, shaping even the food that sustains us.

In an era when social media often amplifies hatred and outrage, something remarkable happened recently on X (formerly Twitter).

It began with a simple post I wrote on March 12. I mentioned that my sons, along with thousands of other young Israelis, are serving in the Israel Defense Forces as the Jewish state confronts Iran and its proxies. Like any father, I worry for their safety.

So I ended the post with a request directed to the people of Somaliland, a state that declared independence from Somalia in the early 1990s.

Over the years, I’ve met many Somalilanders online and been struck by their open admiration for Israel-its resilience, democracy, and ability to thrive despite hardship. Because of that, I asked them to do something unusual: pray for the IDF.

Even so, I never expected what happened next.

Replies poured in-warm, heartfelt, and sincere.

“I pray to Allah to stand with the people of Israel and protect them against Iran and all enemies who wish them harm."
- Rakad Sultan, businessman connected to Somaliland’s Ministry of Labor"

“We pray a lot for the sons of Israel who are fighting the enemy. May they be victorious!"
- Amin Ismail

“Our prayers are with you. May G-d protect and watch over you. Long live Israel."

The messages just kept coming. Again and again, religious Sunni Muslims from Somaliland expressed their willingness to pray for Jewish soldiers.

Pause and consider that.

In much of the Muslim world, public support for Israel is rare. Political rhetoric and decades of propaganda have fostered hostility toward the Jewish state. Yet here were Muslims openly praying for IDF soldiers-publicly, on a global platform.

Even more striking, it happened during Ramadan, a time of devotion and compassion. As Muslims worldwide turned to G-d, Somalilanders included Jewish soldiers in their prayers.

That is extraordinary-and deeply telling.

Located in the Horn of Africa along the Gulf of Aden, Somaliland declared independence in 1991. In three decades, it has built democratic institutions, held elections, and maintained stability in a turbulent region. Despite this, it remains unrecognized internationally. Israel, however, became the first to recognize it in December 2025.

Both societies share similarities: they arose from difficulty, were built under pressure, and survive in tough neighborhoods. But beyond geopolitics lies something more important-mutual respect between people.

The responses to my post weren’t official statements. They were simple prayers from ordinary Somalilanders.

And that’s why they matter.

Even among Arab countries that have peace with Israel, few citizens would so openly pray for its soldiers. For decades, hostility between Israel and the Muslim world was seen as inevitable.

But Somaliland offers another model - a Muslim-majority society that is pragmatic, outward-looking and open to cooperation.

Here were individuals who answered a Jewish father’s plea by asking Allah to protect his sons. That is more than a gesture. It’s a glimpse of what relations between Israel and the Muslim world could one day become.

Sometimes diplomacy doesn’t begin with treaties or official visits. Sometimes it begins somewhere far simpler: with a Jewish father asking for prayers, and Muslims answering that call.