National Scholar Updates

Introduction

God communicated to people through prophecy for nearly the entire biblical period, from Adam until Malachi. According to a prevalent Jewish tradition, prophecy ceased with Malachi, not to be renewed until the messianic age. In this article, we will consider a few traditional explanations of why prophecy ceased and some spiritual implications for Judaism over the ensuing 2,500 years and counting.

Overview of Malachi

Unlike Haggai and Zechariah, whose prophecies pulsated with messianic potential, Malachi lived a generation or two later—a generation in which that messianic potential appears to have been lost. At that time, the people’s political and economic suffering contributed to:

their feelings of rejection by God (1:2–5),
corruption of the priesthood (1:6–2:9),
rampant intermarriage (2:10–16), and
laxity in tithing (3:8–12).
God-fearing people were losing heart as well. Why remain righteous? Their sinful compatriots were successful, while God-fearing people suffered (2:17; 3:13–21)! All Malachi could answer was that for now, the mere fact of Israel’s continued existence proved that God still loved them (1:2–5). Only in some unspecified future would God bring complete justice (3:13–24).

According to a prevalent Jewish tradition, Malachi was the last prophet (see, for example, Tosefta Sotah 3:3; Yoma 9b; Sanhedrin 11a). That his book is positioned last in the Twelve Prophets does not prove he was the last prophet, since the book is not arranged in chronological order. However, it seems from textual evidence that he likely was the last of the Twelve. Radak and Abarbanel observe that unlike Haggai and Zechariah, Malachi does not mention the Temple construction; it was in use already. Malachi also condemns intermarriage (Mal. 2:10–16), a shared concern of Ezra and Nehemiah (458–432 B.C.E., see Ezra 9–10; Neh. 13:23–28). The widespread laxity in tithing (Mal. 3:8–12) also likely dates to Nehemiah’s time (Neh. 10:35–40; 12:44; 13:5, 10–12).

Even if Malachi were the last of the biblical prophets, there is no statement at the end of his book or anywhere else in the Bible stating categorically that prophecy had ceased. For example, Nehemiah battled false prophets (Neh. 6:5–7, 11–13) but did not negate the existence of prophecy in principle.

Nevertheless, the tradition that Malachi was the last prophet opened the interpretive possibility that Malachi was conscious of the impending end of prophecy.

A pronouncement (massa): The word of the Lord to Israel through Malachi (Mal. 1:1).

Most commentators understand the book’s opening word massa as another generic term for “prophecy.” However, Abarbanel notes that the term could also mean “burden.” One Midrash similarly understands massa in this vein:

?[Prophecy] is expressed by ten designations…And which is the severest form? ... The Rabbis said: Burden (massa), as it says, As a heavy burden (Ps. 138:5) (Gen. Rabbah 44:6).

Within this interpretation, it is possible that Malachi viewed his mission with additional weight, conscious of his being the last of the prophets.

Similarly, several interpreters understand the book’s closing verses as a self-conscious expression that prophecy was about to end:

Be mindful of the Teaching of My servant Moses, whom I charged at Horeb with laws and rules for all Israel. Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the Lord. He shall reconcile parents with children and children with their parents, so that, when I come, I do not strike the whole land with utter destruction (Mal. 3:22–24).

Kara (on 3:22), Ibn Ezra (on 1:1), Abarbanel (on 1:1), and Malbim (on 3:22) explain that Malachi was aware that prophecy would stop with him. The word of God would henceforth be available only through the written word of the Bible. Malbim links the exhortation to observe the Torah to the prediction of Elijah’s coming. With the end of prophecy, the Torah would sustain the people of Israel until the messianic era, at which point prophecy will resume.

Why Prophecy Stopped

We now turn to three leading trends in traditional Jewish thought as to why prophecy ceased: sin, the destruction of the Temple, or a metaphysical spiritual transition.

Sin

Some sources suggest that the loss of prophecy was punishment for sin. Over 200 years before Malachi, the prophet Amos predicted the cessation of prophecy:

A time is coming—declares my Lord God—when I will send a famine upon the land: not a hunger for bread or a thirst for water, but for hearing the words of the Lord. Men shall wander from sea to sea and from north to east to seek the word of the Lord, but they shall not find it (Amos 8:11–12).

Avot D’Rabbi NathanB:47 explains that prophecy ceased as a consequence of people mocking the prophets.

Radak (on Hag. 2:5) suggests more generally that lack of fidelity to the Torah resulted in the loss of prophecy. A Midrash (Pesikta Rabbati 35) states that many Jews failed to return to Israel after Cyrus gave them permission, and therefore prophecy ceased. Commenting on Yoma 9b, which blames the lack of redemption in the Second Temple period on the fact that many Jews did not return, Maharsha similarly states that prophecy ceased as punishment for the non-return from exile.

Destruction of the Temple

Ezekiel chapters 8–10 describe a vision wherein God shows the prophet the rampant idolatry in Jerusalem. God’s Presence abandons the Temple and goes into exile. Radak (on Ezek. 9:3) explains that the absence of God’s Presence ultimately contributed to the disappearance of prophecy.

Although Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi prophesied after the destruction of the First Temple, a number of sources consider the destruction to have dealt a fatal blow to prophecy.

?In five things the first Sanctuary differed from the second: in the ark, the ark-cover, the Cherubim, the fire, the Shekhinah, the Holy Spirit [of Prophecy], and the Urim ve-Thummim [the Oracle Plate] (Yoma 21b).

As Benjamin is the last tribe, so Jeremiah is the last prophet. But did not Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi prophesy after him? R. Lazar says: they had limited prophecy. R. Samuel b. Nahman says: [Jeremiah’s] prophecy already was given to Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi (Pesikta D’Rav Kahana 13).

The last prophets were diminished or, alternatively, were mere transmitters of Jeremiah’s message. Malbim (on Zech. 1:5–6) presents a more benign form of this approach:

I will not send new prophets, since there is no longer any need for prophets as you have seen all the prophecies of doom fulfilled against you…there is no longer any need for prophecy since you already understand God’s hand in history.

According to Malbim, there no longer was any need for prophecy since the message had already been given through earlier prophets.

Metaphysical Transition

Seder Olam Rabbah30 states that prophecy ceased in the time of Alexander the Great. Based on the rabbinic chronology, the Greek Empire began immediately following the end of the biblical period, so this time frame would synchronize with Malachi. Following this chronological assumption, R. Zadok HaKohen of Lublin observed that a metaphysical transition to an age of reason occurred in Israel and in Greece at the same time:

The proliferation of idolatry and sorcery in the gentile world paralleled divine revelation and prophecy in Israel. When prophecy ceased and the era of the Oral Law commenced, there appeared Greek Philosophy, which is to say, mortal wisdom (Resisei Laylah, 81b, Bezalel Naor translation).

This idea meshes with a talmudic statement that at the beginning of the Second Temple period, the temptation for idolatry ceased being the force it had been during the First Temple period (Yoma 69b). R. Yehudah HeHasid argued that once the urge for idolatry vanished there no longer existed the need for prophecy to counterbalance magic (Sefer Hasidim, Wistenetzky ed., p. 544; cf. R. Elijah of Vilna, commentary on Seder Olam Rabbah 30; R. Zadok, Divrei Soferim, 21b).

Similarly, a certain spiritual intensity was lost. Once the urge to idolatry had declined, prophetic revelation would have too much power if left unchecked. To preserve free will, prophecy had to cease as well (R. Eliyahu Dessler, Mikhtav me-Eliyahu III, pp. 277–278).

Religious Implications

According to the sin approach, the deprivation of the supreme gift of prophecy was a devastating punishment that has diminished the connection between God and humanity for the past 2,500 years since Malachi. Within the destruction of the Temple approach, the disappearance of prophecy was a necessary corollary of that cataclysmic event.

Although the loss of prophecy was a spiritual catastrophe, there still are some spiritual benefits to its suspension particularly within the approach that there was a divinely ordained metaphysical shift from prophecy-idolatry to human reason. In 1985, Professor Yaakov Elman published two articles analyzing the position of R. Zadok HaKohen of Lublin in reference to the transition from the age of prophecy to the age of Oral Law. According to R. Zadok, the end of prophecy facilitated a flourishing of the development of the Oral Law, a step impossible as long as people could turn to the prophets for absolute religious guidance and knowledge of God’s Will. Sages needed to interpret texts and traditions to arrive at rulings, enabling them to develop axioms that could keep the eternal Torah relevant as society changed.

Although the decline of revelation distanced people from ascertaining God’s Will, it simultaneously enabled mature human participation in the mutual covenant between God and humanity. This religious struggle is captured poignantly by the talmudic passage:

And they stood under the mount: R. Abdimi b. Hama b. Hasa said: This teaches that the Holy One, blessed be He, overturned the mountain upon them like an [inverted] cask, and said to them, ‘If you accept the Torah, it is well; if not, there shall be your burial.’R. Aha b. Jacob observed: This furnishes a strong protest against the Torah. Said Rava, Yet even so, they re-accepted it in the days of Ahasuerus, for it is written, [the Jews] confirmed, and took upon them [etc.]: [i.e.,] they confirmed what they had accepted long before (Shabbat 88a).

Rather than explaining R. Aha’s question away, Rava understood that revelation in fact crippled an aspect of free will. He proposed Purim as the antidote, since that represents the age when revelation ceased.

Although prophecy was the ideal state—and we pray for its return—its absence enables the flourishing of human reason, as we no longer have access to absolute divine knowledge. We must take initiative in our relationship with God or else the relationship suffers. R. Zadok applied this human endeavor to the realm of Torah study. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik understood prayer as replacing prophecy, precisely with the imperative of our responsibility to keep the lines of communication between God and humanity open:

In short, prayer and prophecy are two synonymous designations of the covenantal God-man colloquy. Indeed, the prayer community was born the very instant the prophetic community expired and, when it did come into the spiritual world of the Jew of old, it did not supersede the prophetic community but rather perpetuated it…If God had stopped calling man, they urged, let man call God (The Lonely Man of Faith [New York: Doubleday, 1992], pp. 57–58).

Institutionalizing prayer rescued intimacy with God by creating a new framework for this sacred dialogue.

Although prophecy disappeared some 2,500 years ago, the underlying spiritual struggle continues to be manifest in contemporary society. Many people long for absolute knowledge of God’s Will. Consequently, there exists a compelling pull toward holy men (rebbes, kabbalists) or the over-extension of a da’at Torah concept that accords near-infallibility to Torah scholars. Though that appeal may be understandable, it must be remembered that (a) these individuals are not prophets and therefore do not have the certain divine knowledge that many accord to them; and (b) in an age lacking prophecy we have a far greater responsibility to learn Torah and pray, and to take that spiritual energy to infuse every aspect of our lives with sanctity. This requires a healthy dose of human reason and effort, coupled with an ongoing consultation with spiritual guides who can help us grow.

For further study, see:

Hayyim Angel, “The First Modern-Day Rabbi: A Midrashic Reading of Ezra,” in Revealed Texts, Hidden Meanings: Finding the Religious Significance in Tanakh(Jersey City, NJ: KTAV-Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2009), pp. 217–226.
Hayyim Angel, “The Theological Significance of the Urim VeThummim,” in Through an Opaque Lens (New York: Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2006), pp. 195–214.
Gerald Blidstein, “In the Shadow of the Mountain: Consent and Coercion at Sinai,” Jewish Political Studies Review 4:1 (1992), pp. 41–53.
Yaakov Elman, “R. Zadok HaKohen on the History of Halakha,” Tradition 21:4 (Fall 1985), pp. 1–26.
Yaakov Elman, “Reb Zadok HaKohen of Lublin on Prophecy in the Halakhic Process,” in Jewish Law Association Studies I: Touro Conference Volume, ed. B. S. Jackson (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1985), pp. 1–16.
Lawrence Kaplan, “Daas Torah: A Modern Conception of Rabbinic Authority,” in Rabbinic Authority and Personal Autonomy, ed. Moshe Sokol (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson Inc., 1992), pp. 1–60.
Bezalel Naor, Lights of Prophecy (New York: Union of Orthodox Congregations, 1990).

Framing the Conversation

One of the most dramatic episodes in the Torah describes the Israelites in a state of panic when their leader, Moshe, doesn’t return from Mount Sinai as early as they expected him. In their haste to fill the void in leadership, the Israelites embark on the theologically disastrous venture of building a golden calf to serve as Moshe’s replacement.

Using this story as a philosophical springboard, Ibn Ezra[1] notes that some “empty-minded” people wondered why it took so long for Moshe to descend from the mountain.[2] What could he possibly have been doing for 40 days and 40 nights? Should it really take that long to receive a list of 613 commandments?

In Ibn Ezra’s view, the people who asked such questions were “empty-minded” because their wonderment was based on a faulty premise. They erroneously assumed that God’s mitzvoth (commandments) are simply a list of rules to be observed solely out of a commitment to divine obedience. As a result, it should not have taken Moshe so long to receive a list of arbitrary statutes. They failed to realize, of course, that mitzvoth are not a random list of actions that the Jewish people are intended to follow simply by virtue of God’s authority. On the contrary, mitzvoth are complex regulations that represent the physical actualization of a divine set of values and ideals.[3] In theory, Moshe could have spent a lifetime on Mount Sinai learning the secrets of divine providence, as well as the philosophical and theological meanings that underlie God’s commandments.

In the view that Ibn Ezra criticizes, observance of the law is an end in itself. Obedience and compliance are God’s ultimate goals for humankind. The spiritual meanings of the mitzvoth are at best secondary, or at worst irrelevant. Ibn Ezra, on the other hand, argues passionately that the primary concern of halakha (Jewish law), is that our hearts are affected by the physical performance of mitzvoth. Performance of mitzvoth without an awareness of the larger philosophical vision of the commandments may be legally effective, at least ex post facto. However, in its ideal vision, Jewish law demands that a person understand the rationale behind the mitzvoth, and therefore be spiritually transformed by the divine messages embedded in mitzvah observance.

The Preference for an Obedience-Based Model

The tension that Ibn Ezra highlights is not new. The question of whether Jewish law should be observed primarily from a place of obedience, or from a vision of halakha that is rooted in deeper meaning and understanding, has been debated since the talmudic period. In the medieval era, for example, rabbinic scholars engaged in vigorous debates about the religious appropriateness of searching for rationales behind divine legislation. Some rabbinic voices expressed strong condemnation of this quest, while others conveyed enthusiastic support. Rabbi Avraham Yitzhak HaKohen Kook,[4] however, notes that although many rabbinic scholars have strongly encouraged the search for ta’amei haMitzvoth (reasons for the commandments), throughout Jewish history, there has been an asymmetry between the small number of books devoted to the meaning behind the law, and the amount of published scholarship devoted to outlining the legal and practical contours of the law itself.[5] This trend has continued into the twenty-first century, which has seen a literary explosion of books dedicated to detailed discussion of practical areas of Jewish law that were rarely given such extensive treatment in earlier eras in Jewish history.[6]

The Disadvantages of Excessive Focus on Obedience

While the increased focus on practical halakha certainly helps to make halakhic observance more accessible and facilitates greater commitment to halakhic detail, it generates its own set of challenges as well. After all, a commitment to Jewish law without a parallel commitment to the meaning behind Jewish ritual runs the risk of turning halakha into a formulaic set of laws without any larger spiritual vision. Moreover, overemphasis on authority without a corresponding focus on meaning creates a fundamental disconnect between the practitioner of the law and the law itself. How can we truly feel a sense of pride in our observance of God’s commandments if we cannot articulate and appreciate the underlying messages of the halakha?

This attitude can also have serious effects on the way in which people observe Jewish law. After all, blind obedience can feel burdensome, and there is a natural tendency to look for ways to lighten the burden. When the focus of halakha is heavily tilted in the direction of obedience, practitioners of Jewish law will naturally seek out ways to avoid the technical violation of halakhic mandates while neglecting to keep in mind the law’s spiritual purpose. One example of this is the current effort to create gadgets that circumvent Shabbat laws. Certain trends in contemporary synagogue life, such as talking throughout services or leaving early for “kiddush clubs,” may also be reflections of this disconnect.

Increased focus on the spiritual substance of halakha will hopefully help to address some of these challenges. If we were to truly understand the religiously transcendent messages that prayer and the Torah reading convey, would we be tempted to talk during the service or leave early in order to gain an additional few minutes of socializing with friends? If we had clarity about the spiritual goals of the details of Shabbat observance, would the possibility of an iPhone app that claims to permit the use of a smartphone on Shabbat sound religiously appealing? Readjusting the delicate balance between meaning and authority, with an added focus on understanding the religious messages of halakha, will not only facilitate a more mindful and meaningful observance of Jewish law, but will also promote a more intense commitment to the details of halakha.

Ta’amei haMitzvoth as the Source of Jewish Pride

Maimonides (the Rambam),[7] one of the most important thinkers of his time, affirmed the need to understand the reasons for God’s commandments (ta’amei haMitzvoth). He argues forcefully that all mitzvoth have some rational basis and serve some ethical, societal, or personal religious function.[8] To substantiate his view, he cites the verse from Deuteronomy that tells of the Gentile nations when they “hear all those statutes (hukkim),” they will respond by saying, “Surely this great nation is a wise and understanding people!” (Deut. 4:6). The Rambam notes that if a significant number of the 613 mitzvoth have no rational basis, what would compel the Gentile world to find beauty in a life dedicated to God’s commandments?

The Maharal[9] goes one step further, utilizing the same proof-text cited by the Rambam to argue that not only do the general categories of mitzvoth have some clearly explicable inherent meaning, but even the seemingly arbitrary details of Jewish practice are rooted in divine ideals.[10] According to the Maharal, just as God has a specific reason for instituting the laws of sacrifices, for example, there must similarly be some religious message inherent in the obligation to use certain animals for specific sacrifices.

According to this model, the quest to find the rationale behind the laws facilitates a greater identification with the divine messages that the laws attempt to convey. The Torah imagines that the gentile world will look at the laws of the Torah and marvel at its wisdom. Understanding the transcendent values that the law embodies affirms this vision of the Torah’s self-identity and allows the Jewish people to similarly understand how their God-given set of laws transforms them into a “great nation.”

Ta’amei haMitzvoth as the Vehicle for Accessing the Spiritual Messages of the Law

Articulating a sophisticated vision of ta’amei haMitzvoth affirms the spiritual significance of Jewish law and the critical function of mitzvoth in actualizing these values in the real world. This position is eloquently expressed by the Shela.[11]

In order to fully understand the position of the Shela, let’s imagine what Jewish law would look like if certain physical objects simply never came into existence. For example, Jewish civil law deals with injury cases involving pits, animals, and fire. Imagine for a moment that these things were never created. What would happen to their accompanying halakhot? The Shela answers that the spiritual messages of the halakha exist independently of their physical manifestations. In such a scenario, therefore, these divine ideals would simply find expression through some other physical medium.[12]

The Shela takes this idea even further, arguing that the spiritual substance of the law existed even during the time of Adam and Eve. Since they lived in the spiritual bliss of the Garden of Eden, halakha expressed itself at that time exclusively in spiritual terms. However, as humanity moved away from the intense spirituality of that time towards a more physically-oriented existence, the expression of Jewish law shifted and the practical performance of mitzvoth became the most effective medium to experience divine values in a physical space. The laws themselves thus serve as “spiritual entry points” to experience God. Since halakha is rooted in transcendental divine virtues, each time we observe Jewish law, we also act as a conduit for bringing divine energy into the world.

Interestingly, Rabbi Yehuda Amital[13] argues that the requirement to experience the eternal values of the law through the physical medium of practical halakha is the result of a historical shift that occurred after the Jewish people received the Torah at Sinai. Because of the spiritual greatness of our forefathers, they were able to tap into the religious messages of the Torah even without observing the practical halakha itself.[14] Rabbi Amital notes that “the avot did not observe the mitzvoth in the sense in which we observe them. They did not put on tefillin or shake the lulav. But they understood and appreciated the underlying messages of the mitzvoth.”[15] After the giving of the Torah, by contrast, God insisted that the spiritual messages underlying the law could be accessed only through firm commitment to halakhic detail.

Thus, Rabbi Amital writes:

Avraham, Yitzhak, and Yaakov were able to intuit these basic notions, which Chazal understand as being comparable to performing the mitzvoth in the time before the Torah was given. In the time after the giving of the Torah, these underlying ideas need to be integrated with practice.[16]

Beyond connecting us to the ideals rooted in God Himself, searching for the profound messages that the mitzvoth convey also ensures our connection to the world of the patriarchs and matriarchs and affirms our commitment to seeing our own halakhic identity as a natural outgrowth of their spiritual worldview.

Ta’amei haMitzvoth and the Legal Framework of Halakha

In addition to expressing the themes and messages that underlie observance of the law, analyzing the rationale behind the commandments also helps us to grasp the unique legal framework of Jewish law. For example, in multiple instances, the Torah refers to the requirement for the Jewish people to “be holy.” What is the legal force of this directive? Is this simply a biblical homily, or is there some halakhic consequence associated with this command? The Rambam writes that some codifiers erroneously counted the imperative to “be holy” as its own positive mitzvah.[17] In reality, the Rambam claims, “kedoshim tehiyu” is not an independent commandment, but is rather the meta-value that drives the entire system. The goal of halakhic living is to be holy, and the quest for holiness requires us to perform mitzvoth as if they are meant to be transformative.

Similarly, Rav Kook notes that one of the most distinct features of Mosaic legislation is its ability to link specific commandments to a larger spiritual vision that motivates the legal conversation.[18] According to Rav Kook, the prophets, by contrast, focused nearly exclusively on the overarching vision of the halakha, while neglecting to place a parallel emphasis on the mechanics of the law and how the details serve as an application of the larger vision. Reacting to the failure of the prophetic model of the law, the rabbis of the Talmud placed extraordinary emphasis on the details of halakha in order to ensure the preservation of Jewish identity and society. It is for this reason that the Talmud states, “A sage is preferable to a prophet.”[19] After all, while the prophet can clearly articulate the vision and message that governs the law, it is the sage who is able to guide the people and safeguard the observance of the law itself.

According to Rav Kook’s conception, the ideal model of adjudication is the Mosaic one. This paradigm places the details of the law in context and, as a result, presents a holistic vision of what the law is meant to facilitate. Nahmanides (the Ramban)[20] offers a powerful example of this model, noting that after listing details of biblical monetary law, the Torah concludes by stating that the overarching principle is “to be good and just in the eyes of God.”[21] Similarly, after delineating many of the details of the laws of Shabbat, the Torah articulates the larger directive of Shabbat as “a day of rest.”[22]

What these examples indicate is that the search for the larger religious messages inherent in traditional Jewish observance is not some external exercise imposed on the law itself. Rather, Jewish law is predicated on viewing the mitzvoth as the medium for religious transformation. Therefore, the search for additional clarity regarding the spiritual substance of halakha furthers the Torah’s self-declared goals.

Ta’amei haMitzvoth and the Balance of Meaning and Authority

While this book attempts to shift the contemporary conversation of halakha back toward an increased focus on the search for meaning in halakhic detail, this reorientation still validates the critical role of obedience and submission in forming a holistic commitment to halakha. Viewing halakha from a place of both meaning and authority is crucial in order to facilitate commitment to Jewish law in its entirety. On a pragmatic level, exclusive focus on the world of meaning can create challenges regarding mitzvoth whose rationale is simply not known. In a model devoted solely to the transformative messages of halakha, how are we supposed to be religiously moved by rules whose meaning we do not understand? It is precisely in these moments that our broader commitment to obedience becomes critical.

Understanding the rationale behind the commandments is crucial to ensure that Jewish law facilitates its goal of religious transformation. Nonetheless, the reasons themselves are not why we observe the law. In fact, despite being one of the greatest proponents of ta’amei haMitzvoth, the Rambam declares, “If [one] cannot find a reason or a motivating rationale for a practice, he should not regard it lightly.”[23]

Beyond the pragmatic problem, a halakhic approach that is exclusively committed to meaning is fundamentally compromised from a philosophical perspective. While excessive focus on obedience can create an observance paradigm that is formulaic and dry, overemphasis on meaning can generate a halakhic model that is self-centered and ultimately rooted in the ego. If we were to observe only those rituals that we fully understand and find personally meaningful, we would effectively be engaging in a commitment to ritual in which the self is the primary object of worship. Embracing the need for periodic submission by observing even those commandments that we do not understand ensures that our observance of halakha is truly a self-transcendent exercise.[24] As Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik[25] (“the Rav”) notes, “The religious act begins with the sacrifice of one’s self, and ends with the finding of that self. But man cannot find himself without sacrificing himself prior to the finding.”[26]

The quest to understand the rationale that underlies the mitzvoth assumes that we should strive to articulate the spiritual messages of the halakha. Ideally, we attempt to minimize the number of times that we need to invoke the submission model. Nonetheless, the presence of some laws whose meaning remains mysterious serves an important religious purpose. Such laws provide a periodic opportunity for us to surrender our intellectual capacities before the divine command and remind ourselves that halakha allows us to find our true selves by connecting to values that transcend our own egos. Moreover, by affirming our commitment to those laws whose reasons we may find personally or ethically challenging, we ensure that the Torah is, in fact, the source of our value system, and not simply an ancient text that validates the contemporary zeitgeist.

Additionally, a commitment to halakha that is exclusively rooted in meaning fails to affirm the central roles of trust and confidence in developing a meaningful relationship to God. It is possible to articulate the meaning and rationale behind the overwhelming majority of mitzvoth. The awareness of these ideals should ensure that a practitioner of Jewish law feels confident and proud of the divine values that the halakhic system represents. It is against this philosophical background that we approach those mitzvoth whose rationale is still a mystery. Here, a commitment to an ethic of submission and the observance of these currently inexplicable laws affirm our trust and confidence in God’s benevolence. After all, the same God who is the source of those mitzvoth that we understand is also the source of the mitzvoth that we do not yet fully comprehend. Refocusing our efforts on understanding the transcendent messages of the law, while ensuring that our commitments are not contingent on understanding these values, most authentically captures the spiritual vision of halakha.

“S.D.G.”—Soli Deo Gloria (To God Alone Be Glory), wrote Johann Sebastian Bach on his musical scores. Many of the greatest classical composers were deeply religious and openly expressed their gratitude to the Source of All Inspiration. As Jews, we learn in Bereishit about the inherent rhythm and bold artistry of Creation, crowned by that awesome moment when God breathes life into Adam. We are designed to “sing a new song,” and pivotal moments in Torah are vividly punctuated with music. But how do we connect Bach’s “music of the heart” with Bachya’s “Duties of the Heart?”

My foundational exposure to the role of music in religious expression was the tender voice of Cantor Carl Urstein, at the “Old” Sinai Temple on 4th and New Hampshire in Los Angeles. Recent transformative experiences include hearing the rich, velvety chanting of Cantor Laszlo Fekete at the Dohany Street Synagogue in Budapest and to the exquisite phrasing and nuances of Cantor Henry Drejer at Ner Tamid Synagogue in San Francisco, who has taught the cantorial arts to my daughter, Cherina. Jascha Heifetz, my beloved violin teacher, suggested that just before going on stage one can “thank God for the gift of music” and pray for “a blessing to the work of our hands.”

Regular practice and performance of works of great composers, Jewish and non-Jewish alike, invite flow into the musical vibrations of the divine. Even off stage in the kitchen, I delight in kneading challah to Rudolf Serkin’s rendition of Brahms Piano Concerto #1. Throughout my musical life, there have been powerful moments of spiritual insight—performing the banned Bloch Baal Shem Suite in Soviet Moscow; recording the Vaughan Williams Lark Ascending with the Israel Philharmonic on Tisha b’Av at the Jerusalem Music Center, on an empty stomach after hearing a human lark, Cantor Gail Hirschenfang the previous Shabbat; and introducing the Ben-Haim Three Songs Without Words to students in Taiwan. Perhaps the deepest imprint that magnified my sensitivity and appreciation of the role and relationship of music in religious expression was my acquaintance with Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel.

Rabbi Heschel, as a poet/philosopher, expressed himself through the musicality of language. The power of his writing and speech were enhanced by the lilt of phrase, the lyrical structure of sentence, the grace of alliterative voice, and abundance of musical allusions. As a musician, I find that one of the supreme joys of studying Heschel is being able to connect to his ideas through his musical language. At times the idea is beyond my comprehension, but I can make out a familiar tune. 

            I came to know Rabbi Heschel through music. Several weeks after my father’s death, I was sent to Camp Ramah in Ojai, California, to give my mother a chance to rest. There I met a kind, gentle redheaded boy, who also had chosen the elective of orchestra. Teddy “Tuvia” Kwasman, concertmaster of the group, immediately became my dearest friend. After camp ended, we communicated sporadically, seldom seeing each other except at an occasional concert or simcha. Years passed. Then one summer day he telephoned, inviting me to meet his new friends, Abraham and Sylvia Heschel. Teddy had been in the UCLA library, where Rabbi Heschel discovered him poring through a pile of impressive Jewish books. An instant bond occurred between them. When Teddy met Mrs. Heschel, a concert pianist, he told her about me, and soon we were lucky to be guests at the Heschel apartment.

            They waited for us to arrive to have Havdalah. It was a magical moment, seeing Rabbi Heschel’s eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the braided candle. After grapes and tea, Sylvia and I began to play. Here too, there was an instant bond. Lalo’s Symphonie Espagnole was followed by Beethoven’s Spring Sonata and then the Bloch Nigun. Sylvia was an outstanding musician. Both Teddy and I looked forward to the Heschels’ summers in Los Angeles. Teddy and the Heschels attended my wedding, where Rabbi Heschel sang the sheva berakhot and danced a handkerchief dance with me.

            Despite our friendship, I had experienced Heschel but had not read much of his work until I enrolled in a credit course on Heschel at UC Berkeley Hillel in 1975, taught by Burt Jacobson. Discovering the musical references did not surprise me; they seemed perfectly natural and logical, since I had always seen him steeped in a world of music. I believe music gave Heschel an invaluable linguistic tool, because he saw music as an inherent aspect of Jewish expression. Music was a source of mystery and majesty, a wisp of the ephemeral and infinite, of spirit and body, of boundaries and freedom, and of the complementary polar opposites of sounds and silence.

      I could easily imagine Sylvia’s grand piano, which dominated the living room of their Riverside Drive apartment in New York City, and him sitting across the room enchanted by her music, carefully observing the process of her work. The practice of music requires a complex routine, repeatedly exercising the fingers, brain, imagination, and heart. Heschel wrote that “routine breeds attention… For this reason, the Jewish way of life is to reiterate the ritual, to meet the spirit again and again, the spirit in oneself and the spirit that hovers over all beings.”[1] He describes that the spirit is dependent not only on the accomplishment of the goal, like the concert performance, but the process, the practice, which is “…a song without words.”[2] “When done in humility, in simplicity of heart, it is like a child who, eager to hear a song, spreads out the score before its mother. All the child can do is open the book. But the song must be forthcoming. We cannot long continue to love on a diet that consists of anticipation and frustration.”[3]

            Heschel understood the complete concentration and focus, the letting go of ego, which makes a great performing musician like his wife. This same transformation allows prayer to take flight, to connect with God.

The artist may give a concert for the sake of the promised remuneration, but in the moment when he is passionately seeking with his fingertips the vast swarm of swift and secret sounds, the consideration of subsequent reward is far from his mind. His whole being is immersed in the music. The slightest shift of attention, the emergence of any ulterior motive, would break his intense concentration, and his single-minded devotion would collapse, his control of the instrument would fail…. Prayer, too, is primarily kavanah, the yielding of the entire being to one goal, the gathering of the soul into focus.[4]

            Heschel describes music as a gift enabling one to navigate the challenge of prayer.

In no other act does man experience so often the disparity between the desire for expression and the means of expression as in prayer. The inadequacy of the means at our disposal appears so tangible, so tragic, that one feels it is a grace to be able to give oneself up to music, to a tone, to a song, to a chant. The wave of a song carries the soul to heights which utterable meanings can never reach.[5]

            According to Heschel, speech and silence are not enough. “…[T]here is a level that goes beyond both: the level of song.” He quotes the Kotzker rebbe, “There are three ways in which a man expresses his deep sorrow: the man on the lowest level cries; the man on the second level is silent; the man on the highest level knows how to turn his sorrow into a song”[6] Heschel says, “True prayer is a song”[7]

            Heschel incorporates musical language in both describing the protective intimacy of prayer and the inherent discordance in connecting with God. “How good it is to wrap oneself in prayer, spinning a deep softness of gratitude to God around all thoughts, enveloping oneself in the silver veil of song! But how can man draw song out of his heart if his consciousness is a woeful turmoil of fear and ambition?”[8] “God’s grace resounds in our lives like a staccato. Only by retaining the seemingly disconnected notes comes the ability to grasp the theme.”[9]

            In Heschel’s discussion of symbols in relation to the reality of God’s presence, he writes: “Of a violinist who is moving his bow over the strings of his violin, we do not say he is performing a symbolic act. Why? Because the meaning of his act is what he is doing, regardless of what the act may represent.”[10] The will of God, to Heschel, is a known quantity, an obvious fact, “neither a metaphor nor a euphemism, but more powerful and more real than our own experience.”[11]

            Heschel understands music as a means for expressing the inexpressible.

To become aware of the ineffable, is to part company with words. The essence, the tangent to the curve of human experience, lies beyond the limits of language. The world of things we perceive is but a veil. Its flutter is music, its ornament science, but what it conceals is inscrutable. Its silence remains unbroken; no words can carry it away.[12]

And yet, Heschel also suggests the limitations of this concept. “The attempt to convey what we see and cannot say is the everlasting theme of mankind’s unfinished symphony, a venture in which adequacy is never achieved. There is an eternal disparity between the ultimate and man’s power of expression.”[13]

            Heschel differentiates between faith and creed, the former being the act of believing, while the latter is that which is believed. “Our creed is, like music, a translation of the unutterable into a form of expression. The original is known to God alone.”[14]

For Heschel, the heavens and earth are pregnant with song. He asks, “How shall we remain deaf to the throb of the cosmic that is subtly echoed in our souls?[15] God is everywhere, hidden in the essence of all of life. “The song that nature sings is not her own.”[16]

Heschel’s use of musical imagery enriches the poetic flow of his writing. At the end of Man Is Not Alone, however, he turns to the musical imagery of the prophet Amos. Heschel asks, “What does God desire? Is it music?”[17] Amos answers his question: “Take away from me all the noise of your songs, and to the melody of your lyres I will not listen” (5:23). The prophet castigates those who “chant to the sound of the viol and invent to themselves instruments of music like David” (6: 5), rather than feel the pain of others.

For Heschel, “man’s responsibility to God cannot be discharged by an excursion into spirituality, by making life an episode of spiritual rhapsody….”[18] The black dots on my musical scores remain meaningless until they are recognized, internalized, practiced repeatedly, recreated, pushed to their outer limits, exposed, and shared. For Heschel, the song is a prelude to the ultimate task of bringing the melody of a living, breathing, healing Torah to the people. If God, in search of man, breathed life into him, the exhalation breath of music is the human proof that man is not alone. 

Postscript

In 1978, Sylvia Heschel accompanied me on a concert tour of Israel, which included major recitals at the Rubin Academy in Jerusalem, the Tel Aviv Museum, and Weizmann Institute. She attended every performance I gave in New York.

Theodore Kwasman, scholar, author, and consultant to the British Museum, founded and directed the Jewish Studies program at the University of Heidelberg before becoming Professor at the Martin Buber Institute for Judaism at the University of Cologne.

This essay is written in memory of Rabbi Doctor Byron Sherwin, Heschel protégé, whose March 2014 class on his beloved mentor I attended at Spertus Institute in Chicago.