National Scholar Updates

Recently I attended a Hassidic wedding and was seated next to one of my Hareidi co-religionists. During the course of the evening, it became known that I was a mohel. The question of metzitzah came up. I explained that I was a "modern" mohel and that I did not perform metzitzah b'peh (i.e. direct mouth-to-wound contact to perform metzitzah.) I used either a sterile plastic tube or a gauze pad to perform metzitzah. Having been in this situation before, I began to ask a few gentle, probing questions. "What if we know that a baby could possibly transmit a disease to a mohel or the reverse?" "What if the mohel and baby both appear healthy, yet there was something which could cause illness in either one of them?" The responses were typical. "If the baby is ill, we don't perform the Bris." "If the mohel is ill, we get a different mohel." "We've been doing metzitzah b'peh on thousands of babies, and they didn't get sick." I pressed on. "But what if it could be shown that there is the possibility that even one child could become ill or, God forbid, die from something transmitted by the mohel?" There were two responses. "You'll never get them to give up doing metzitzah b'peh;" and "Today, there is no possibility of change," accompanied by a look which I can only describe as "It does not compute." In other words, in this gentleman's mind, these two concepts could not be reconciled. In all fairness, I should point out that this gentleman is a former Rosh Yeshiva and would qualify as a talmid hakham, a very learned individual. He insisted, however, that he was not a posek, a religious decisor.

What is metzitzah? What is its origin? What is its purpose? What is the controversy?

There are three steps to performing a Berit Milah. Milah, the excision of the foreskin; periah, the drawing back (or removal) of the secondary layer of skin, the mucosal membrane; and metzitzah. Metzitzah is the drawing of the blood from the wound following the ritual circumcision. The source is found in the Mishnah, Shabbat 19:2. "One performs all the necessary steps for the milah on Shabbat: One circumcises, draws back (or tears) the secondary layer of skin (the mucosal membrane, periah), suctions, and bandages the wound with cumin powder." It was believed at that time that there was a positive health benefit to the child. 
The basic understanding of the Talmud is that metzitzah is not part of the actual mitzvah of Berit Milah. It is performed to prevent any health hazard to the child after the circumcision. In the Talmud, Shabbat 133b, Rav Papa states: "Any mohel who does not perform metzitzah creates a danger, and therefore should be removed from his post." The reason the mohel is removed from his post is not because he failed to perform metzitzah, but because he endangered the life of a child. The Talmud states very clearly: "Mal v'lo para, k'ilu shelo mal." "Someone who was circumcised but for whom periah was not performed, it's as if he was never circumcised." Metzitzah is not mentioned. Referring back to Rav Papa's statement, he said the mohel should be removed from his post. Rav Papa didn't say that the milah was invalid. In Nedarim 32a, we read that if the mohel forgot to perform metzitzah, the milah was valid. Maimonides reinforces this aspect of the Gemara by stating: "After [milah and periah], the mohel suctions the area until blood flows from the far places (away from the wound). He does this so that the (health of the) child will not be endangered."
The key question is: How does one perform metzitzah? There is no description or explanation of how metzitzah was performed. It is implicit that metzitzah was performed orally. In the Shulhan Arukh, Yoreh Deah 265:10, the Rama offers the following commentary: "We spit the blood into the earth." It seems that the mohel had sucked the blood into his mouth.

There were several incidents in Europe during the nineteenth century related to metzitzah b'peh. In 1837, Rabbi Eliezer Horowitz, the Chief Rabbi of Vienna, was consulted regarding a number of children who had become ill (infected) following their circumcisions. Some of the children had died. Dr. Wertheim of Vienna asked Rabbi Horowitz if instead of using oral suction to perform metzitzah, a s'fog (a sponge, or what today we would call a gauze pad) could be used to squeeze the blood from the circumcision site. Rabbi Horowitz, before rendering a final pesak, consulted his teacher, Rabbi Moshe Sofer, the Hatam Sofer who wrote:

Metzitzah b'peh is a requirement of a few of the mekubalim (the kabbalists). Therefore, as long as we can draw the blood out from the faraway places, it may be done in any way. We should rely on the experts regarding which technique is as effective as metzitzah b'peh...Even if the Talmud had stated that one must perform metzitzah with the mouth, metzitzah is not part of the mitzvah of milah, i.e. it is done to prevent danger to the child. According to the halakha, if one circumcises and does periah but neglects to perform metzitzah, he has completely fulfilled the mitzvah." (The letter of the Hatam Sofer was first printed in 1845 by Menachem Mendel Stern in the periodical Kokhvei Yitzhak. The ruling is also quoted in Rabbi Moshe Bunim Pirutinsky's book, Sefer haBerit.)

The Hatam Sofer continued by saying that applying cumin powder is also listed in the Mishnah, yet no one argues that only cumin must be used. Since talmudic times we have found more effective ways of bandaging and achieving hemostasis. This is why there is no halakhic requirement to use cumin powder. The Hatam Sofer argued that based on the Mishnah, no one could say that the mouth alone had to be used to draw the blood out. (The background to these events is the religious battle between the Orthodox and the Reform movements in Germany. During this time, the Reformists were attempting to change and or abolish certain religious practices. Milah, or anything related to it, was high on their agenda.)

In 1888, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch and Rabbi Azriel Hildesheimer, the chief rabbis of Frankfurt and Berlin respectively, publicized a halakhic ruling that metzitzah could be performed using a new instrument, a glass tube. It could be placed over the circumcision site and the mohel could use the tube to suction the blood with his mouth without any direct physical contact. This method seemed superior to the Hatam Sofer's suggestion of a cotton sponge. It protected the health of infant and the mohel. When I was trained as a mohel, my teacher, the former Chief Mohel of Jerusalem, Rabbi Yosef Hakohen Halperin of blessed memory, set up his instruments, which included a glass tube for metzitzah. He took a small wad of cotton and inserted it in the tube to prevent the blood from flowing up the tube and entering the mouth.

Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik reported that his father, Rav Moshe Soloveitchik, would not permit a mohel to perform metzitzah b'peh with direct oral contact, and that his grandfather, Rav Chaim Soloveitchik, instructed mohalim in Brisk not to do metzitzah b'peh with direct oral contact, either.

Another element of concern is the elevation of metzitzah b'peh from an ancillary step not even considered part of the mitzvah, to a "halakha l'Moshe miSinai," a law transmitted by Moses on Mount Sinai. The goal is to put metzitzah b'peh out of reach of any change. I have spoken to several ultra-Orthodox individuals, mohels and non-mohels, who have told me that a number of their rabbis have issued rabbinic responsa indicating that if metzitzah b'peh is not performed, the berit milah is invalid!

Five years ago, there was a public controversy related to metzitzah b'peh. An Orthodox mohel had allegedly transmitted the herpes simplex virus to a number of infants resulting in illness and death. The New York City Department of Health ordered the mohel to stop performing metzitzah b'peh. The Department of Health also recommended that metzitzah b'peh not be performed. Needless to say, the outcry form the Hareidi community was great. This was a religious matter in which the Department of Health had no business getting involved! They also disputed the data connecting herpes simplex to metzitzah b'peh. Finally, there were non-religious Jews in the Department of Health who, according to the Hareidi response, wanted to stop metzitzah b'peh and ultimately ban Berit Milah altogether.

This adverse publicity had an unintended affect in the non-religious Jewish community and in the non-Jewish world. Non-religious Jews now associated Berit Milah with illness and death, and instead of having a berit performed by a mohel, they opted to have their children circumcised in the hospital. As for the non-Jewish world, explaining metzitzah b'peh and not have it sound like child abuse was virtually impossible. This was publicity that we did not need.

The prime directive of the mohel is to safeguard the health of the child. If there is the slightest suspicion that the child is not well, we delay the berit. A mohel must also follow the strictest aseptic techniques. His instruments must be autoclaved (heat steam sterilized). Gloves must be worn, the mohel should use disposable blades and so on. I have been told by several of my Hassidic colleagues that they can't wear surgical gloves because it would be looked down upon by the people in their communities. How many times have I seen the mohel place his instruments in a stainless steel tray and pour alcohol on them to soak them prior to the milah; yet certain viruses won't be killed with alcohol alone. I even saw a mohel wearing the izmel (knife) around his neck on a chain! It wasn't until the mid- to late eighteenth century that it was discovered that washing one's hands could prevent the spread of diseases. And at the time, this concept was met with great hostility. Today, this is common knowledge and common sense. There are many ways that a mohel can spread illness to an infant, such as by using dirty or improperly cleaned instruments or not wearing gloves. And now, by performing metzitzah b'peh, we are placing the mouth, the most contaminated part of the human body, on an open wound.

Another very prominent issue related to Berit Milah is jaundice. Jaundice is a yellowish discoloration of the skin caused by increased levels of bilirubin. In the time of the Talmud (and still today), diagnoses were made by using visual methods. If the tint of baby's skin was blue or green or yellow, it indicated that the child had a particular health condition often resulting in the postponement of the berit. Today, we know that jaundice in newborns is normal. We have ways of measuring the bilirubin levels to determine if the jaundice is physiological (normal) or pathological (abnormal). Therefore, if the jaundice is normal, there is no need to postpone the berit. The baby is healthy and the berit may proceed. If a physician determines that the jaundice level is too high and recommends that the berit be delayed, the mohel must follow the directive of the physician. Conversely, the physician may opine that the berit may proceed, but the mohel may overrule the doctor on grounds and delay the berit. Again, every precaution is taken to safeguard the health of the child but we now know that jaundice is normal and should not prevent the berit from taking place. This concept is generally not accepted in the Hareidi community. If the baby is jaundiced, the berit is delayed until the jaundice clears up. Period.

In my opinion, the greatest difficulty as it relates to some in the Hareidi community is to convince them that bacteria and viruses exist, that they cannot be seen and they can cause illness or death. It is possible that a mohel (or baby) can carry a virus (herpes simplex, HIV, etc.), be asymptomatic and still transmit a disease that could result in illness or death. Both individuals appear healthy, yet one can infect and therefore, harm the other. This is clearly a matter of sakanat nefashot, danger to life. Knowing what we know today about the transmission of diseases, a mohel who performs metzitzah b'peh (i.e. direct oral contact) is potentially endangering his health, the health of the child, and the health of the other babies with whom the mohel will have contact that day or that week.

The other element of this discussion is that the Hareidi community does not recognize the opinions of secular individuals or government authority in relation to religious matters. Not long after the metzitzah scandal in 2005, I was a guest on a radio program pitting me, a modern mohel, against a representative of the Hareidi community. The topic was metzitzah. Certain things became very clear to me as a result of that radio program. The Hareidi community does not recognize the opinion or authority of anyone who is not part of their community. When I asked what would happen if it could be shown that a child could become ill, or God forbid, die as a result of a mohel transmitting a communicable disease, the response was that "The people in our communities don't get those diseases. Our people are holy;" and "We have been performing metzitzah b'peh on thousands of babies. How come they did not get sick?" Change, in this case, has been rendered virtually impossible.

For those who demand, insist, or require metzitzah b'peh, it can be performed orally by using a sterile glass or plastic tube. One uses the mouth, yet there is no direct contact. One may also follow the ruling of the Hatam Sofer and use a gauze pad. Metzitzah is performed and the health of the mohel and baby is protected. The custom is fulfilled.

Maimonides wrote "It is impossible to restore the lost life of a Jewish child" (Hilkhot Milah 1:18). This was written to allow the delaying of a berit on a child who is not considered healthy. Similarly, nothing done during a berit should allow the possibility that harm will come to the child, whether it is by unclean hands, improperly sterilized instruments or direct oral contact through metzitzah. Today, Rav Papa's statement might be modified to read, "Any mohel who performs metzitzah b'peh creates a danger, and therefore should be removed from his post." Knowing what we know today about the transmission of diseases, every precaution must be taken to safeguard the health of the child and the mohel.

David and Mephibosheth:

Being Overly “Even-Handed”

          King David is famed for his incredible righteousness, his inspiring prayers, and his powerful leadership over Israel as he brought his nation security by defeating nations which had bullied Israel for centuries. When we think of his sins, the episode of Uriah and Bathsheba comes quickly to mind. In this piece, we consider a lesser-known saga in the Book of Samuel, from which we may learn from David’s mistakes.

David and King Saul’s son, Jonathan, had a singular friendship. In addition to their mutual love and admiration, the political dimension of their relationship was essential. In addition to offering his unwavering support to David, Jonathan repeatedly had David swear that he would not exterminate Jonathan’s family once David became king. Of course, David honored that request.

          Following Saul and Jonathan’s death and David’s assumption of the throne, David searched the kingdom for any living descendants of Jonathan. He learned that Jonathan had one son, named Mephibosheth. David planned to invite Mephibosheth to dine with him whenever he would like, and care for him. David could not have anticipated that he would be entering an incredibly complicated situation.

          It turns out that a man named Ziba, who had been Jonathan’s chief servant, had taken over Jonathan’s house! Mephibosheth, who was physically lame from childhood, lived with a wealthy patron east of the Jordan River. It appears Ziba forced Mephibosheth out and became the master of the house. Enjoying his transition from servant to mansion owner, Ziba lived like a king, boasting fifteen children and twenty servants of his own.

          When David learns of this travesty, he immediately orders Ziba to return the house to Mephibosheth and to serve him:

The king summoned Ziba, Saul’s steward, and said to him, “I give to your master’s grandson everything that belonged to Saul and to his entire family. You and your sons and your slaves shall farm the land for him and shall bring in [its yield] to provide food for your master’s grandson to live on; but Mephibosheth, your master’s grandson, shall always eat at my table.”—Ziba had fifteen sons and twenty slaves—(II Samuel 9:9-10).

David thus fulfills his promise to Jonathan, cares for Mephibosheth, and demonstrates how he “executed true justice among all his people” (II Samuel 8:15).

          Reluctantly, Ziba obeyed David’s decree and returned the house to Mephibosheth (II Samuel 9:11). Nevertheless, he longed for his former royal lifestyle and waited for an opportunity to wrest control of the house from his weak master.

          That opportunity arose years later, when David’s son Absalom rebelled against David. David and his loyal followers fled Jerusalem to the forest, bewildered and abandoned. During David’s flight, Ziba brings food and donkeys for David and his weary men. He accuses Mephibosheth of treason against David, and David subsequently awards the house to Ziba:

David had passed a little beyond the summit when Ziba the servant of Mephibosheth came toward him with a pair of saddled asses carrying two hundred loaves of bread, one hundred cakes of raisin, one hundred cakes of figs, and a jar of wine. The king asked Ziba, “What are you doing with these?” Ziba answered, “The asses are for Your Majesty’s family to ride on, the bread and figs are for the attendants to eat, and the wine is to be drunk by any who are exhausted in the wilderness.” “And where is your master’s son?” the king asked. “He is staying in Jerusalem,” Ziba replied to the king, “for he thinks that the House of Israel will now give him back the throne of his grandfather.” The king said to Ziba, “Then all that belongs to Mephibosheth is now yours!” And Ziba replied, “I bow low. Your Majesty is most gracious to me” (II Samuel 16:1-4).

Ziba explains that Mephibosheth has harbored hopes for the return of the monarchy to himself! The narrative does not corroborate or refute Ziba’s claim. However, David knows Mephibosheth is physically lame and therefore may have been unable to make this journey. It also is puzzling as to how Mephibosheth would have expected to regain the throne. If Absalom wins the rebellion, he would become king. If he loses, David would remain king. In any event, Mephibosheth’s lameness makes it unlikely that he ever would vie for the throne. No less importantly, Ziba already has a proven track record of stealing this house, and therefore his credibility seems very low. There are good reasons for David to doubt Ziba’s story.

          Nevertheless, David appreciates Ziba’s generosity (notice how wealthy the servant is to supply all this food!), and accepts Ziba’s story without being able to hear Mephibosheth’s side. David concludes that Mephibosheth is an ungrateful traitor, and therefore awards Ziba the house. Ziba is most pleased.

          David goes on to prevail over Absalom and the rebellion ends. Because the civil war had torn Israel apart, many rifts needed to be healed. A man from the Tribe of Benjamin, Shimei son of Gera, had gravely insulted David when David fled Jerusalem. As the victorious David returned to Jerusalem after the rebellion, Shimei arrived with a large delegation of 1000 fellow tribesmen to apologize. Among them were Ziba and his fifteen sons and twenty servants (II Samuel 19:18).

Ziba says nothing, but he is visibly present when Mephibosheth subsequently appears to David:

Mephibosheth, the grandson of Saul, also came down to meet the king. He had not pared his toenails, or trimmed his mustache, or washed his clothes from the day that the king left until the day he returned safe. When he came [from] Jerusalem to meet the king, the king asked him, “Why didn’t you come with me, Mephibosheth?” He replied, “My lord the king, my own servant deceived me. Your servant planned to saddle his ass and ride on it and go with Your Majesty—for your servant is lame. [Ziba] has slandered your servant to my lord the king. But my lord the king is like an angel of the Lord; do as you see fit. For all the members of my father’s family deserved only death from my lord the king; yet you set your servant among those who ate at your table. What right have I to appeal further to Your Majesty?” The king said to him, “You need not speak further. I decree that you and Ziba shall divide the property.” And Mephibosheth said to the king, “Let him take it all, as long as my lord the king has come home safe” (II Samuel 19:25-31).

          Mephibosheth had not groomed himself from the moment David fled Jerusalem until this point. It appears that these gestures were signs of mourning and solidarity with David (Radak, Ralbag). Mephibosheth explains why he did not accompany David with the other loyal followers: He had ordered Ziba to take him on the donkey to flee the city, but Ziba rode off with the donkey, leaving the lame Mephibosheth stranded in Jerusalem.

          Despite his accusations of Ziba’s slander (and likely disappointment that David had believed Ziba initially), Mephibosheth humbly expresses profound gratitude for all David had done for him and his family. He reiterates his abiding loyalty to David. Ziba remains silent, but no doubt his physical presence served to remind David that he had helped David during the rebellion.

Spread over three separate episodes, we may summarize the “narratives” of the two characters:

Mephibosheth: My father Jonathan’s house belongs to me. Ziba forced me out, and stole my home. You, David, justly returned it to me and ordered Ziba to serve me again. However, during Absalom’s rebellion, Ziba stole my donkey, left me stranded, bribed you and your men with food, and lied about the reasons for my remaining in Jerusalem. You see now that I am unkempt, having mourned for you and your kingdom from the moment you fled Jerusalem until now. Ziba’s story is an outright lie.

Ziba: I fed you when you were at your lowest point and expressed my allegiance to you. Mephibosheth supported Absalom and believed the throne would ultimately return to him. You, David, awarded me Jonathan’s house as a result of my loyalty and Mephibosheth’s treason.

Although the prophetic narrator falls short of outright justifying Mephibosheth’s claim, many facts support his narrative: Ziba is a proven house thief, Mephibosheth is lame, he was in a prolonged unkempt state, and it seems most implausible that Mephibosheth ever expected to regain the throne himself.

It is therefore shocking that David uses an “even-handed” approach to resolve the conflict: “The king said to him, ‘You need not speak further. I decree that you and Ziba shall divide the property’” (II Samuel 19:30). It is unclear if Ziba’s bribe inclined David to divide the property, or whether David simply did not want to be bothered any further because he had many other important matters to attend.

          The evidence supports Mephibosheth. Instead of being treated as a criminal who exploits and abuses a handicapped man and steals his home, Ziba gains half of a mansion and continues to live as a prince. In the Talmud, Rav expresses chagrin that David would rule in this manner:

Rav Yehuda said that Rav said: When David said to Mephibosheth: You and Ziba shall divide the estate, a Divine Voice emerged and said to him: Rehoboam and Jeroboam shall divide the kingdom (Shabbat 56b).

In the earlier parts of David’s reign, he was famed for executing “true justice among all his people” (II Samuel 8:15). Now, however, his listening to patently unequal narratives to act “even-handedly” dealt a profound injustice to Mephibosheth, rewarded the dishonest Ziba, and, according to Rav, sowed the seeds for the nation itself falling apart.

By not standing for truth, justice, and principle, David directly failed his friend Jonathan and his family, and, ultimately, divided his nation. Through this intricate narrative, there is much we may learn from the prophetic author of the Book of Samuel.

Is it proper to go to a pool, beach, or boardwalk where both secular women and men are in bathing suits that are not tznius?

Each person must take responsibility for his/her moral life. We live in a society where many men and women dress and act immodestly. This is true not only at the beach, but almost everywhere in public.  Whether walking down the street or shopping in stores, one is likely to run into people who are dressed very far from proper standards of modesty.  We necessarily must develop inner moral resources that enable us to block out unwanted distractions.

Religiously observant people will try to avoid situations that will lead to improper thoughts or feelings. Different people have different thresholds for what they can or cannot tolerate.

It isn’t uncommon for religious young people to go on “shiduch dates” walking on the boardwalk at various ocean beaches. There are many non-tseniut people on the beach and the boardwalk…but these couples concentrate on their own conversations and are oblivious to the non-tseniut people. This is true of other religious people who enjoy a healthy walk on the boardwalk and do not get distracted by the presence of non-tseniut individuals.

While it isn’t proper to put ourselves in temptation’s way, it’s also not proper to restrict our lives unnecessarily. Each person must know where best to draw the line when it comes to his/her decisions.

Is it proper for children to call their parent's friends or other adults by their first names?

In traditional hierarchical societies, children are taught to respect their elders. Children defer to the authority of adults. They do not exhibit undue familiarity by calling elders by first name. Such behavior is considered to be very bad manners. Calling someone by first name assumes an equality of status.

When I grew up, we never referred to elders by first name—even if they were close friends of our parents. We would call them “uncle” or “aunty” or just not call them by name at all. It would have been unthinkable to call an adult by first name.

But those days of my childhood are long gone. General society has moved away from the traditional hierarchical model. Children grow up thinking that it’s fine to call everyone by first name…even their teachers, and sometimes even their own parents. While I bristle at these things, I also realize that society has become increasingly “egalitarian” where everyone feels entitled to equal treatment and equal respect.

I personally believe society is better served when children learn to refer to elders respectfully, not by first names. There should be social boundary lines between children and adults.

However, it is ultimately up to parents to teach their children proper behavior. In some circles, people feel that it’s fine for children to call elders by first name. They think that a more egalitarian spirit should prevail in relationships between children and adults.

While we each have our own opinions on the topic, it is really up to each family to determine what is most appropriate for them.

Is it proper to adopt if you have biological children?

Each situation requires its own analysis.

As a general rule, it is a great mitzvah to adopt an orphan and provide a loving home. If a couple has children of their own, it is all the more praiseworthy for them to extend their love to a child not of their own. Before making such a significant decision, the couple obviously has to consider many things relating to family dynamics, finances etc.

The question becomes more complicated when there are childless couples eager to adopt…but when there are very few children available for adoption. In such cases, it would be proper to give precedence to childless couples. But even here, it would have to be determined what would be in the best interest of the child that is to be adopted.

Whether or not couples have biological children of their own, the decision to adopt is not simple. The overriding concern should be for the welfare of the children who are to be adopted.

Is it proper to use new Simanim on Rosh Hashana?

The Talmud records the opinion of Abayyei: “Since you hold that symbols are meaningful, everyone should make it a habit of eating the following on the New Year: black-eyed peas, leeks, beets, and dates.” It is told that when the Babylonian scholar Hai Gaon left the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah, his students brought him a basket filled with different fruits over which he recited blessings and biblical verses.

Sephardim still follow this practice, generally before the evening meals of Rosh Hashana. Before tasting each item, a passage beginning with the words “yehi ratson” is recited, along with the appropriate blessing. This ceremony generally features delicious foods including dates, pomegranates, apple dipped in honey or sugar, pumpkin turnovers, leek patties, beets, black eyed peas. There also is a “yehi ratson” said over the head of a fish or lamb. Some Sephardim make a “soup of seven vegetables” that includes symbolic foods for a happy, peaceful and prosperous New Year.

Is it proper to add additional simanim? For us Sephardim, we already have plenty on our plates! Most others also have symbolic foods for the occasion, including apples dipped in honey. If they wish to add appropriate simanim that add joy to the occasion, why not?

The “yehi ratson” passages and the symbolic foods are a happy way to inaugurate the New Year. We pray that all of us, and all Israel, are blessed with a happy, healthy New Year. Tizku leShanim Rabbot, Shalom al Yisrael.

On trying to honor my pledge to work on behalf of the Jewish project with the Christian world

In 1964, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik set out in an article his misgivings on interfaith dialog, and particularly his opposition to theological discussions between Jews and Christians. At the time, the State of Israel was in its infancy and mainly ignored or rejected by the Christian world. After all, it was this Christian world who were responsible for the Shoah, especially in Germany and Eastern Europe.  But, as the 21st century dawned, the Roman Catholic Church woke up to the fact that Jews now had their own State and were a serious political entity. So, at the turn of the millennium, Pope John Paul II asked the Chief Rabbinate of Israel to engage with the Vatican.

Chief Rabbi Shear Yashuv Cohen of Haifa was tasked by the Chief Rabbis of the State of Israel to lead this ‘charge’ on behalf of the State of Israel. In February 2006, he made what is now considered to be the definitive statement on working with the Christian communities. This statement can be found in the English-language version of his biography, Rabbi Shear Yashuv Cohen: Between War and Peace (tr. Irene Lancaster, Urim, 2017, p 295).

‘The question of how far we should go in inter religious dialog compels us to draw a fine line and walk with great care. On the one hand we seek ‘rapprochement’, to get close to the ‘other’ through ‘paths of pleasantness’ and ‘ways of peace.’ On the other hand, we have to step back in order to emphasize our own distinctiveness…. Anyone involved in inter religious relations needs to set out beforehand a clear set of parameters, so that both parties know from the outset what is distinctive to our own religion and what is part of our ‘mission’ toward the wider world. In other words, we have to be clear about the difference between yichud (distinctiveness) and yi’ud (mission)’.

Chief Rabbi Shear Yashuv also stipulated that the Vatican sign a solemn agreement beforehand: dialog should not contain any debate or disputes on the core issues of each other’s faith, and the dialog should deal only with shared values; and any hint of an agenda aimed at conversion should be abandoned.

We shall see how these commitments were effectively abandoned over the years; and the Church of England, about which more later, never even got to the point of making any such commitments.  But of all this I knew absolutely nothing when I found myself thrown willy- nilly into this arena.

Not that I was unfamiliar with anti-Jewish prejudice.  The child of two Polish Holocaust survivors, starting afresh in a small seaside resort near Liverpool, my first negative encounter with the Christian religion (apart from snide remarks from neighbors to my mother) came in compulsory Religious Education lessons at school.

We Jewish girls were exempt from New Testament lessons, but had to attend ‘Old Testament’. One day, aged 14, I sat in a class where the local Church of England clergyman was about to tell us about ‘Abraham, Isaac and Jacob’. I was astounded when he wagged his finger at me and informed the entire class that I had ‘deliberately, and with malice aforethought, murdered our Lord Jesus.’

This happened more than once: I informed the teacher in charge of pastoral care, who took me immediately to the school Principal.  I told her that I was unable to attend further classes with someone who didn’t stick to his curricular brief, and would, therefore, have no option but to leave the school. The Principal - though a committed member of the Church of England - was clear in her response; I never encountered this clergyman again.

Since then, whenever I’ve encountered bullying, bystanderism, or worse from Christian clerics and laity, I think back to that fine lady (still going strong in a suburb of Liverpool at 95 years of age), who, to my mind at least, represented the best of authentic British spirit.  She set the tone for the school: despite daily bullying from some other girls, I have never, before or since, encountered such a philosemitic and empathic set of educators as our teachers.

All these potential hurdles were helpful for my later work with the churches, the universities, the Press and other environments hostile to Judaism.

In the 1970s, newly married with a baby, I had the opportunity to learn biblical Hebrew properly with a local rabbi, whose rabbinical colleague later recommended me as tutor in Hebrew to a training college for Christian clergy. After moving back to Liverpool, we embarked on a year’s sabbatical in Israel. There, near Yad Vashem and the beautiful Jerusalem Forest, I had a ‘now or never’ moment: there was a seminary for women (mainly from North America) nearby, and I enrolled for intensive learning in the Hebrew-language section, and learned a great deal of Tanach, Jewish thought and modern Hebrew. Another nearby seminary provided advanced Tanach study and even Gemara, as well as Jewish philosophy. Meanwhile, I also devised my own course in Ivrit, to benefit both my elder daughter, aged 8, who was struggling at school in Jerusalem, where no assistance was offered to newcomers from abroad, and myself (it involved the first series of Sesame Street - Parparim, i.e. ‘Butterflies’ – in its Israeli version).

The effort was not in vain. On return to Liverpool, I substituted on one occasion for a sick Israeli shaliach as an Ivrit teacher, and was informed that the class unanimously wanted me to carry on as their regular teacher.  Soon after, in 1986, I received an unexpected phone call from Liverpool University, inviting me to teach Hebrew at this august institution.

I decided to be totally honest, and informed the Director that I had no qualifications whatsoever in Hebrew, apart from seminary study in Jerusalem, and an excellent advanced Ulpan in the same city.

‘Exactly’, they said. ‘What’s good enough for the Jewish community is good enough for us.’

It seems that one of my modern Hebrew students, a secretary in the Medical Department at Liverpool University, had recommended me to the secretary to the Director of Continuing Education, So, on one very rainy evening in the fall of 1986, I turned up to Liverpool University to give my first lesson in Ivrit.

For the only time of my life, I can say that at Liverpool University I never once encountered, in eleven glorious years of teaching Biblical Hebrew, modern Hebrew (yes, we added that as a subject eventually), Jewish thought, Jewish literature, and the rudiments of Jewish mysticism, the least iota of antisemitism. Some of my former students went on to become Church leaders, or sincere friends of Israel. One or two even converted to Judaism.

There was one snag. By ‘Hebrew’, the University had meant Biblical Hebrew.  But as I always start with the same Hebrew alphabet for both Biblical and Modern Hebrew, that was no great problem. But in the years that followed it became increasingly obvious that my Jewish students preferred to study modern Hebrew, whereas, on the whole, the Christians preferred Biblical Hebrew. So, at the end of the day, the Biblical Hebrew classes came to be dominated by Christians.  And this is how I began to engage with the Church.

The Director of the Centre encouraged me to embark on a PhD, and even helped find me a supervisor. In 1989 I had, to my great surprise, been invited by the Spanish Government to the first major conference on Abraham ibn Ezra, marking the 900^th anniversary of his birth in Tudela, northern Spain. The conference was held there and in Madrid and Toledo.

I had also been teaching a course about the Jews of medieval Spain to the Jewish community of Liverpool, but ibn Gabirol and Yehuda HaLevi were my favorites, mainly because of their poetry and philosophy.  It was a chance meeting at this 1989 Spanish conference that led to an invitation by the great Professor Haim Beinart of the Hebrew University to a major world conference to be held in Jerusalem later that year, where I was introduced to Moshe Idel, not yet the famous Professor of Kabbalah that he later became. 

So that is how I embarked in middle age on my PhD on ibn Ezra, which later led to a book. Alas, my Jewish supervisor, the greatest expert on medieval Muslim thought in the UK, had just lost a case against another university in Liverpool for gross anti-Semitic behavior (which I had also witnessed), and moved for good to the USA.

But around the same time, the Professor of Spanish at Cambridge University recommended me to an academic publisher specializing in translations of medieval texts (including unpublished material) from Spain. These publishers turned out to be related to the 1991 Nobel Peace Prize laureate, Aung San Suu Kyi of Burma, married to an Oxford academic. And when the publishers informed me that their sister-in-law had won the Nobel Peace Prize for 1991, I decided to help her cause. We founded the Liverpool Burma Support Group at my kitchen table, assisted by Burmese refugees and exiles in the area, as well as some of my adult university students from the Hebrew courses.

We were a mix of Jews, Christians, Muslims and Buddhists, all working together as one for the sake of the Burmese people.  The Anglican Bishop of Liverpool’s chaplain and the chaplain to the Roman Catholic Archbishop were both especially proactive.  I was amazed and honored to receive a personal invitation from the Norwegian Nobel Committee to attend the event where Aung San Suu Kyi’s son accepted the Nobel Prize on her behalf.  Once in Oslo, I was also invited by the Nobel Committee to attend the parallel 90^th Anniversary Celebrations for all preceding living Nobel Peace Laureates, where I was able to meet Eli Wiesel (Peace Laureate 1986), whose works I’d just introduced to the curriculum at Liverpool University, as well as the Dalai Lama (Peace Laureate 1989), who informed me that Israel was ‘the best country in the world’, and that, given the ongoing struggle faced by contemporary Israelis in a hostile world, only the Jewish people could understand the plight of the Burmese people.

In 2004, the Dalai Lama reiterated these positive sentiments about Israel in Liverpool’s gigantic Anglican Cathedral, when asked by the Dean of the Cathedral to condemn the Jewish people for their ‘violence’. The reply was that the Church could learn a great deal from the Jewish people, and should repent by embarking with Jews on pilgrimages to Jerusalem - ‘the capital of the State of Israel’, he added, to general consternation.

However, the 1990s saw the beginning of an escalation in the public denigration of Jews and Judaism in the UK.  It was during this time that the UK, which until 1958 had recorded more people leaving the country than arriving, opened its doors to an increasing number of Muslim immigrants, many from global terrorist hotspots, and later to East European immigrants from post-Soviet newly-constituted independent countries that had just joined the European Union. Many of these newcomers brought with them extreme anti-Jewish sentiments; some refused to learn English, and had no point of reference outside their own language and culture, thus reinforcing their anti-Semitism, while at the same time, Jews slipped further and further down the radar of the British Establishment.  More Jews began leaving for Israel, a trend which increased after 9/11, when the BBC and most of the left-leaning Press, the universities, the Churches and the unions, intensified their attacks on the UK Jewish community; it seemed that we (all 250,000 of us) were being blamed for all the ills of the planet.

By this time, my family had moved to Manchester, which had a far bigger Jewish community than Liverpool. In the year 2000, I was invited to start the new subject of Jewish history at Manchester University. This proved a sad contrast to Liverpool. Antisemitism was rife in the University; Islamist societies spouted hatred with impunity, and the Christians who ran the Department of Theology and Religions did nothing to protest; nor did those whose job it was to prevent racism on campus (they often proved to be part of the problem). And too often, Jewish staff and students simply accepted this, without even the semblance of a fight.

When the book on Ibn Ezra was published in 2003, I embarked on a series of book launches around the world, starting of course with the Jewish community of Manchester, my home town, to be followed by Glasgow, Dublin, Florida and lastly Jerusalem. In that year, Cambridge University invited me as Visiting Lecturer in Jewish Studies to teach about Ibn Ezra, and also offered to host their own launch of my book. While there, I noted the fear on the faces of Jewish students – and the ridiculous denials by Jewish staff that anything was wrong.  From Cambridge, I went directly to an educators’ conference at Yad Vashem on teaching the Shoah, where the main speaker was Professor Robert Wistrich, formerly of University College London. Robert was regarded as the greatest expert on antisemitism in the world, advisor on the subject to the White House and the Vatican, alike. After his session (in which he argued that the UK was now the most anti-Semitic country in Europe), Robert took me aside and said that it was my duty as an academic to put my life on the line and to spend the rest of my days working on behalf of the Jewish community. Having suffered discrimination at UCL, he could speak with authority on the UK situation. The problem, he said, was fourfold: in ascending order, the unions, the left-wing media (especially the BBC), the churches (which he stated were ‘absolutely dire’) and, worst by far, the universities. People needed information and guidance to take on these powerful vested interests – which is where academics like myself came in. But, he said the Jewish institutions tasked with defense of the Jewish community had completely sold the pass. I promised him that, on return to the UK, I would do my best.  

Back in England, it was a case of where to start. I decided that the unions were too difficult to tackle (later, most of the Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn’s, supporters and major parliamentary backers were to come from a union background tinged with prejudice against Jews and Israel).   For similar reasons, the universities were impossible to engage with - and, depressingly, the Jewish academics still teaching at universities, especially those in Jewish Studies departments, colluded with the situation, passively accepting the Jewish lot in life.

So, the two institutions that were left to tackle from Robert’s list were the Churches and the media.  At this point, there was talk in the Church of England about disinvestment from Israel (a matter I’ll come back to). The assistant rabbi of my Shul approached all the Greater Manchester Bishops (I still have a copy of the letter) recommending me as a regular shul-goer ‘of the utmost integrity and outstanding academic credentials’, with an unrivalled knowledge of the State of Israel. He added that I was totally supported by the entire Jewish community in all my work, ‘and in particular in relation to the proposal by the Church of England to disinvest in Israel.’

This letter led to an invitation to visit by one of the Assistant Bishops of Manchester, a strong supporter of Israel.  The Diocesan Bishop himself also took supportive steps.  He moved sideways one Assistant Bishop who was a consistent and vocal critic of Israel, and asked me to give a talk to the Anglican Diocese on why the very large Orthodox Jewish community of Greater Manchester refused to dialog with the Church, where I spoke not only about the two-millennium history of violence and bigotry but about the contemporary sympathy of the Church with Islam. At the same time, I was formally requested by the Jewish community of Greater Manchester to review the Church Press on a weekly basis – especially Anglican, Roman Catholic, Baptist and Methodist outlets.

To my near-despair, I found no willingness to engage with the Jewish project or with contemporary Jewish experience.  I challenged the Anglican Church Times (which a professional Israeli academic monitoring service listed among the 20 worst organs of antisemitism world-wide) on their coverage, to be told by the Deputy Editor that the paper’s position on Israel was ‘in line with our readership.’  But the Features Editor invited me to write a number of articles, starting with what was wrong with the Church in the UK (in the end, I wrote five major articles over the decade that followed). However, the main thrust of the paper, read by every Anglican of note in this country, remained highly negative towards Jews and Judaism.

During this period, the BBC asked me to make a program about Judaism. It was very hard going, and reinforced the sense of a massive vested interest hostile to the Jewish community. To make matters worse, incidentally, there is a well-trodden path from journalism to the headship of Oxbridge colleges, so that anti-Jewish prejudices were likely to be confirmed in Higher Education institutions, especially the so-called ‘cream’ of our educational system.

Why bother with the Church at all, you might ask? Fewer than 2% of the population attended church in cities like London and Manchester. But the Church remains ‘by law established’, the Archbishop of Canterbury takes precedence after the Royal Family in British protocol, and a number of bishops sit as of right in the legislature and are able to influence attitudes and policies. A sense of entitlement is built in - a stark contrast to the situation in the US.  The Queen is still ‘Supreme Governor’ of the Church of England. This survival of the union between Church and State is the real reason for bothering to be involved with a failing institution.

I mentioned earlier the disinvestment question.  In February 2006, the General Synod – the supreme deliberative body of the Church of England – passed a motion recommending disinvestment from a company active in Israel (and this only a week after Hamas had taken power in Gaza!).  The wording of parts of the motion, as well as the tone of the debate, together with the action proposed, were marked by the influence of the BDS agenda. The vote seriously soured Anglican-Jewish relations, and was regarded by many as the worst setback in rapprochement for over 50 years.  I persistently made representations to the Ethical Investment Advisory Group of the Church Commissioners (who made the final decision); without such representations the motion might have been implemented, and could well have influenced government policy in the Middle East. In the event, on this occasion, we managed to halt proceedings. 

But there were many negative experiences. Friends in the neighboring county of Yorkshire, informed me that of over 1000 letters written by the Jewish leadership in that area to the Archbishop of York and his Assistant Bishops, as well as to local clergy, requesting meetings to put the record straight, only three had been answered. The 1190 York Massacre, mourned by the world-wide Jewish community every Tisha B’Av, seems not to have registered with the present-day Church there. Even recently, the latest Archbishop shortly after his appointment stated that Jesus was ‘black’; while he explained that he meant simply that Jesus was ‘not a white European’, the phraseology could be taken to deny the historical Jewishness of Jesus, and many criticized his comments on these grounds  He has also more recently used language redolent of religious compulsion.

‘McDonald’s makes hamburgers, Cadbury’s makes chocolate. Starbucks makes extremely horrible coffee. Heineken makes beer. Toyota makes cars. Rolex makes watches. The church of Jesus Christ makes disciples. That is our core business.’ (reported by Kaya Burgess in The Times of London, August 2^nd, 2022).

Nothing about fear of sin, love of truth, piety, humility, studying, learning, guarding one’s tongue, listening to the other, debate, 70 faces, love of one’s fellow human beings … No wonder, therefore, that there is a stream of would-be converts of all ages, religions, ethnicities and walks of life currently clamoring to become Jewish through the extremely strict Greater Manchester Orthodox Bet Din - and ironically, quite a few of these would-be converts to Judaism themselves come from black Christian backgrounds!  Do we actively encourage converts? Of course not. But what is a person trying to find a religious home to do if the ‘State Church’ is failing so conspicuously? 

Meanwhile, I had concluded that it was time to leave the UK.  From August 2006 until February 2008 I lived in Israel and experienced first-hand how well the minorities (comprising between 20 and 25% of the Israeli population) were actually doing. Haifa University was full of Muslim, Christian and Druze professors heading every department under the sun. I was invited to input into the University’s Arab-Jewish Center, whose Director was a Muslim mayor from a nearby village. He asked me to get the British not to boycott Haifa University. ‘Where will I go, if they close us’, he asked?

Shortly after arriving in the war-torn city in the middle of the Second Lebanon War, I was invited for Shabbat by the Chief Rabbi of Haifa and his wife. This was in October 2006, just after the Yom Tovim had ended. Back in the UK, the Church leadership and various political pundits from across the spectrum were blaming Israel for the latest hostilities from Hezbollah – unaware, apparently, of the sights I saw, a third of Haifa’s population having to flee, PTSD affecting people of all ages.

That evening I was greeted by Rabbi Shear Yashuv Cohen with the question, ‘What do you think about the Church of England?’ I thought I had misheard.  But this is Israel - no small talk at all, no words of welcome, straight down to brass tacks (I later learned that he had been alerted by the Chief Rabbi in the UK to my work for the Jewish project). I answered in kind: ‘They hate us.’

‘Yes, I know’, said the Chief Rabbi, but what are they really like?  They want me to be part of a new Anglican-Jewish Commission,’ he said.’ Should I do it, or not?’

This was a man who didn’t shy away from a challenge. As we’ve seen, he had already headed a similar delegation with the Vatican, so was in fact the chief interfaith representative of the Chief Rabbinate of the State of Israel.  I explained something of the role of the Church of England and how it differed from the Roman Catholic Church.  In the end, Rabbi Shear Yashuv went ahead with this venture of rapprochement. While he was alive, things went reasonably well with the Church of England. We even wrote a joint article about this sudden change of heart by the Church of England for the Church Times.

But since his death, his mistrust has been shown not to be misplaced. In November 2015, both the Archbishop of Canterbury and the present Bishop of Manchester made very public and widely-reported comments which assimilated the Isis attacks in France to the murderous behavior of Jewish ‘zealots’ at the time of Jesus (as reported in the Christian Scriptures).  Neither agreed to meet to discuss, let alone to retract, their statements.  I was pressured not to make public criticism of these two prelates. But associating Jews with the murderous activities of Isis, in which contemporary Jewish people were targeted by this Islamist organization, is to invite huge negative repercussions for Jewish communities.

More recently, the Archbishop of Canterbury has used highly inflammatory language in written criticisms of the State of Israel (particularly in respect of the treatment of Christian communities), and refused to retract when faced with incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. 

Meanwhile, the situation in the Roman Catholic Church has also deteriorated.  In August 2021, Pope Francis gave an address in which (reworking some words of St Paul) he spoke of the Jewish Law as ‘dead’ or bringing death. This effectively tore up 60 years of apparent Catholic repentance, and wholly undermined the undertakings made at R Shear Yashuv’s insistence fifteen years before, as well as the Second Vatican Council’s statements in the sixties, by implying that there is no spiritual nourishment in Judaism. Such a theology of contempt trickles down from the hierarchy to the ‘lower orders’, of course.

Beyond a few statements of protest from Israeli rabbis, there was little reaction to this. In contrast, when Pope Benedict seemed to be backsliding in his attitude to the Jewish community, Chief Rabbi Shear Yashuv had simply broken off relations with the Vatican - with the result that he became the first rabbi in history to be invited to address assembled bishops at the Vatican, which he did in 2008! But the Chief Rabbinate of Israel no longer seems to be the spiritual inheritor of Rav Kook, Rabbi Herzog, Rabbi Uziel and Rabbi Eliyahu.

Roman Catholics may feature far more prominently in the Jewish psyche than Anglicans; but we can recognize in both the same old tired anti-Semitic warhorses. Wherever Jews appear to be weak, the forces bent on destroying the Jewish people will rush in, which is why it is tremendously important that Israel remain strong, both physically and spiritually. If only the Anglo-Jewish community of the UK would also see the light and act accordingly in its relations with the State Church over here.

So should we all give up and go the only place we can think of as home – to Israel? A large and growing proportion of my own community and district have voted with their feet. My children have already left this country and are living happily in Israel. And now during and post Covid, many of my closest friends from this area have followed them.

But this is not quite the whole story.  After returning to Manchester in 2008, encouraged by my younger daughter, I started a fortnightly dialog group between learned Jews and Christians, which is still going strong and, since Covid, has even attracted new online participants from all over the UK, as well as from North America and Israel.

Meanwhile, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams, having retired to become Master of Magdalene College, Cambridge, hosted and chaired the book launch of my English-language version of the biography of  Rabbi Cohen (the Chief Rabbi had specifically wanted me to undertake this work on the basis of his knowledge of my record as a translator and a scholar).  The book launch (at the end of January 2017) was a marvelous event; but unfortunately, at the same time, an issue arose about the infamous Holocaust denier, David Irving.  I had been invited to visit Churchill College Cambridge (twinned with Haifa Technion), and there discovered a copy of one of Irving’s chillingly anti-Semitic books on display in the College’s Churchill Library.  Bad enough; but openly anti-semitic fliers in the city of Cambridge were another matter entirely.  It was clear that university cities were a major problem. Along with Rowan Williams, I worked to try and challenge this situation in other universities, including Manchester, where, once again, Irving’s books could be found filed under ‘History’ as if they were reliable sources for fact.

Despite my record as a teacher in the University, the Manchester University leadership refused to budge., A leading Jewish psychiatrist and myself visited the university, where we were informed that we were trying to prevent ‘free speech’, and that in any case both the Council of Christians and Jews and the University Department of Religions and Theology, led (they said) by a Jew, completely supported the university.

Rowan Williams wrote to the Vice Chancellor (she hadn’t agreed to see me) and received the response that she was following the Jewish Studies Department in her decision. The upshot was that David Irving on his website thanked the University of Manchester profusely for housing his works as real history. I had the same treatment on his website as his legal nemesis, Professor Deborah Lipstadt.  And Manchester University, the largest in Europe, is now widely regarded as a ‘no-go’ area for Jews.

There is a similar story to be told about York University, whose library also housed Holocaust Denial material - though in this case, a Jewish university student was eventually awarded compensation for the anti-Semitism he had experienced at the hands of students, university authorities and the Christian chaplains alike.

Around this time, the UK Press reported that only eight universities out of around 150 were regarded as ‘safe spaces’ for Jews, thus depriving Jewish students of the choice that was available to students from other backgrounds. At least three of these eight have been found more recently to have forfeited that confidence; one of the favored eight has also had to compensate a Jewish student for gross and persistent antisemitism. Neither the State Church nor the institutions devoted to protecting the Jewish community have made any effective intervention in all this.

In May 2017, I was invited by Ruth Gledhill, then editor of the global website, Christian Today, to contribute fortnightly ‘scholarly articles on Judaism’ in a popular style. My first article appeared just after the Manchester bombing of May 22nd 2017, in which, at a highly-advertised Ariana Grande concert, 22 children and young people were murdered by a Muslim bomber with links to the Didsbury Mosque (which had recently entered into a link with Manchester’s Anglican Cathedral).   In the last couple of years, Rowan Williams and I have collaborated in a number of joint articles on sometimes controversial topics for Christian Today, which I hope have done something to dispel misinformation about the Jewish project.

A by-product of this was that Rowan who, in November 2021, was to give an address at the Glasgow CoP 26 conference, asked me for the three main points I would make from a Jewish point of view on the subject of the environment. I chose Rashi’s famous comment on the first words of Bereshit and the first fruits, as well as the passages in Humash on Shemitta and the Jubilee Year, with its cancellation of debts and the freeing of slaves and prisoners. Rowan’s talk focused entirely on these subjects in their Tanach context, reiterating more than once that Jesus of course had been Jewish, and that his teachings were all Jewish teachings (a little later, Rowan repeated the substance of this talk at a seminar with the Secretary General of the United Nations).

At the same time, our own dialog group, after 14 years of studying in depth the 2000-year history of Jewish-Christian relations, decided that we needed to look at contemporary Jewish history in North America, too big a topic for me to tackle on my own.  By great serendipity, I had made contact once again with one of my original Jerusalem teachers, the now very famous and radical Rabbi Nathan Lopez Cardozo. His daughter had invited me to the synagogue in South Manchester where her husband had been appointed as rabbi, to be the scholar in residence over the May 2018 Shavuot weekend, and the subject was to be conversion in Judaism.  Despite the rival attractions of the wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle (no-one in Church or State having noticed the clash with Shavuot, it seems…) quite a crowd turned up to hear my talk on the Book of Ruth and how we should welcome converts. And in my spare time that weekend, I devoured the latest book by my former teacher, Jewish Law as Rebellion, and, frankly, couldn’t put it down (I later reviewed it for Christian Today).

In the Fall of 2020, when were all in lock-down, Rabbi Cardozo was due to speak online to a synagogue in Detroit hosted by Rabbi Asher Lopatin, who welcomed me with open arms to his Zoom presentation with Rabbi Cardozo, and then agreed to be the first North American speaker for our dialog group, concentrating on the history of American Orthodoxy in the last 150 years.

This was followed by Rabbi Eli Spitz of Orange County, California, giving us a similar Zoom talk on the Conservative movement in the USA, and finally Rabbi Raachel Jurovics from North Carolina, a Renewal Rabbi. All the Americans encountered as part of our dialog work were open, erudite, friendly and, frankly, a complete breath of fresh air. Rabbi Eli invited me to participate in his wonderful Covid-inspired online Psalm-a-Day series for his congregants. Rabbi Raachel introduced me to her husband, Dr Steve Jurovics, who talked to our group about his book, which advocated Tanach-based environmental issues for churches. I reviewed this book too for Christian Today.

And then the largest faith-based environmental group in the world, Hazon, contacted me from the USA. In an extraordinary coincidence, its founder, Nigel Savage, was born around the corner in North Manchester, and I had even taught at one time in his school. On top of this, the rabbi for Hazon was a UK native, now living in Israel, who had been the Jewish chaplain at Cambridge University around 20 years earlier, during my various book launches and spell as visiting lecturer. Nigel met our group online to talk about how to ‘let go’ in our lives, and Rabbi Yedidya Sinclair also agreed to talk to us on environmental issues. Later, I reviewed his own new book on Rav Kook’s thinking, which included brilliant translations of some of Rav Kook’s meditations on Shemitta.

The fourth contributor on this issue was former President of the Jewish Vegetarian Society of North America, Professor Richard Schwartz, also now living in Israel, whose book on vegetarianism I again agreed to review for Christian Today. So I was not totally surprised when Hazon asked to partner with our own Broughton Park Jewish-Christian Dialog Group and invited me to write a guest article for their Shemitta publication. As all this took place just before CoP 26 in Glasgow, it brought me some added kudos in the field of Jewish environmental thinking!

These new contacts helped with a very pressing situation affecting Londoners living in the area around Parliament. The tiny World Heritage park just outside Parliament was marked out by developers for the construction of a massive ‘Holocaust Memorial’. I turned to all my new friends in North America and Israel.  Everyone I knew from the Conservative Synagogue Psalm group in Orange County, California, including their wonderful Rabbi (a friend of Eli Wiesel), gladly signed our letter of protest, as did Rabbi Raachel and her husband, along with Professor Schwartz, Rabbi Sinclair, and my neighbors and friends from Greater Manchester, some of whom had recently made Aliyah. Most of these signatories were either Holocaust survivors themselves, or came, like myself, from Holocaust survivor or refugee families.  Rowan Williams and the local Anglican Area Dean of that part of London offered support, and Rowan and I wrote several joint articles and letters about what is really needed to increase awareness of the Jewish project - destroying a World Heritage park not being the most obvious option in the struggle to stem British antisemitism. The great Eli Wiesel had told me over thirty years ago at the 1991 Nobel Celebration in Oslo that constructions are not the answer; the answer is what I was doing in Liverpool – education, education and more Jewish education, bringing the Jewish project into the school curriculum at all levels. This country doesn’t have the will or the inclination to do this, and changing the mind of the British Establishment is no small task.  But for the help and solidarity of all our friends, we can be truly grateful.

There have been other projects where working together has proved to be fruitful. Rowan asked me to help with a choice of Jewish poetry for a new anthology of religious poems. [I steered him towards several names, so that we could include not only Paul Celan’s poems of agony and darkness, but also the great Yiddish poet, Avrom Sutzkever, fighter in and survivor of the Vilna Ghetto, as well as others who mainly wrote in Hebrew, such as Bialik, Rav Kook and Amichai.] I made suggestions for interpreting Paul Celan’s German and did some draft translations of Hebrew and Yiddish from scratch.

So, yes, in the field of ‘thought’ – philosophy, poetry, not to mention public matters on which we tend to agree – there can be a certain meeting of minds. But problems persist. A couple of years ago, I was asked by an Anglican clergy training college to lead some sessions on Hebrew Scripture for their students. But it was a different experience from my work with trainee clergy all those years ago in the seventies. Students – and staff  - would ask why Judaism is ‘such a violent religion’. I was taken aback by the ignorance of Hebrew Scripture and the unexamined stereotyping of ‘Jewish legalism’ and other unfounded tropes displayed by prospective clergy (as by their superiors).  Progress at grass roots in knowledge of Judaism seems if anything to have reversed, even on matters - like ‘evangelizing’ Jews - which we thought had been settled.

There are voices in the USA, Jewish as well as Christian, which seem to be sympathetic to a closer rapprochement between State and religion, But for Orthodox Jews to come closer to evangelicals and the Catholic Church, both of which at source do not wish us well, is not healthy, given the very small size of the Jewish diaspora community. Aligning with the style and values of proselytizing faiths like Islam and Christianity does Judaism no favors.

Here in the UK the two main political parties will exploit reference to ‘the Jews’ to advocate their own very different political agendas.  This is damaging for us.  The truth is that people do not really understand Jews, Judaism, or the Jewish project - least of all, it seems, the Church.  But despite the disturbing prospects of what the religious future here may hold after the death of the present monarch (whose successor seems to be fascinated by the Islamic world), one silver lining remains – the existence of a strong and powerful State of Israel.  Another is the advent of the Internet, enabling Jews all over the world to work together in dealing with the critical and complicated issues of our contemporary world - as our group has discovered to our amazement in the last two or three years.

Was Robert Wistrich asking too much when he urged me 20 years ago to take on this yoke of constantly challenging people who despise us and ultimately hope to cause our destruction? Have I wasted my time? Possibly.  In theological terms, will Esau never cease from hating Yaakov?

But Pirke Avot does say it all: ‘We may not be able to complete the task, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t give it a go.’

            Recent popular and aggressively anti-religious books have highlighted the Bible’s sanctioning of slavery as evidence of the Bible’s immorality.[1] One striking example can be found in a best-selling and deliberately provocative book by journalist, author, and political commentator Christopher Hitchens, who argues that the ethics of the Bible lead the sensitive modern thinker not so much to atheism as to “anti-theism:”

By this I mean the view that we ought to be glad that none of the religious myths has any truth to it, or in it. The Bible may, indeed does, contain a warrant for trafficking in humans, for ethnic cleansing, for slavery, for bride-price, and for indiscriminate massacre, but we are not bound by any of it because it was put together by crude, uncultured human mammals.[2]

Given the enormous outrage and repulsion that the modern Western world feels toward slavery, arguments like Hitchens’ find fertile ground.

Not all readers of the Bible have been moved to throw down an atheist gauntlet in the manner of Hitchens. Recent progressive theologians point to biblical slavery, along with animal sacrifice and the prohibition against homosexuality, as a moral anachronism that the Western world has outgrown. Unlike atheist critics, these progressive theologians are unwilling to reject their biblical traditions outright; in fact, they claim to take much inspiration and guidance from these traditions. Nevertheless, they find so many gaps between their modern moral sensitivities and the particular commandments and institutions of the Bible that their divergence from those institutions appears systemic. For example, in an article supporting the concept of single-sex marriage, Reform rabbi Devon Lerner points to biblical slavery as a basis for concluding that “Our world is very different from the world of the biblical times, and so all of our religious practices and interpretations of the Bible have necessarily changed and evolved through the centuries.”[3]

Orthodox Judaism has its share of morally sensitive thinkers, and they also have had to deal with the Western outrage over biblical slavery; naturally, in order to remain Orthodox, they have not been moved, as Hitchens was, to reject the Bible as primitively mammalian. They are, therefore, left with the task of resolving the conflict between the modern moral outcry against slavery and the Bible’s obvious sanction of the institution. Among Orthodox Jewish thinkers of the modern period, several creative—and sometimes mutually exclusive—approaches to this contradiction have emerged. Some have reinterpreted the biblical system in order to render it less offensive; others have questioned the moral superiority of the anti-slavery position; still others see biblical slavery as one of a few ephemeral accommodations to particular historical circumstances that the Western world has thankfully outgrown. This paper will examine these Orthodox approaches.

The case of slavery serves as a paradigm, as it helps us generate diverse approaches to a wide range of apparent ethical conflicts between Judaism and Western morality. It also traces the boundaries of acceptable theological resolutions within contemporary Orthodox Jewish thought. The three basic models for dealing with potentially noxious biblical systems and laws—limiting via reinterpretation, moral and social justification, and historical qualification—are found both in their pure forms and as alloys in this context, and they shed as much light, and perhaps more, on the general approach of the contemporary Orthodox commentator as they do on the institution of slavery itself.[4] As we shall see, in cases such as this, in which tradition so vividly seems to clash with modern thinking, even conservative rabbinic figures will feel compelled to subject tradition to large scale re-evaluation and re-interpretation.

The Biblical Systems of Slavery

            The Bible allows for several different systems of slavery, some more moderate than others—one applies to the Hebrew manservant (Ex. 21:2-6, Lev. 25:39–43), another to the Hebrew maidservant before the age of majority (Ex. 21:8–11),[5] and the third to Gentiles of either sex (Lev. 25: 44–46).[6] In order to highlight the three basic models for resolving the conflict we are presently studying, I will focus only on the biblical system of slavery most grating to the modern sensibility. A model that successfully disarms the offense in the most “unjust” system will easily disarm the relatively modest “injustices” of the more moderate systems. Although a study of the various systems of slavery as they are presented in the Bible itself would be interesting, we will take the talmudic categorization of these systems as a given, since all the Orthodox thinkers whom we will discuss accepted the talmudic understanding as the authoritative meaning of the Bible.[7] 

From the modern, egalitarian perspective, the Gentile slave is at a remarkable disadvantage. To be sure, even he benefits from significant rights that temper his obviously unfortunate state. These rights include, most notably, the right not to be killed, and given the history of slavery, this is a right that must not be taken for granted. According to Jewish law, the murder of any slave is a capital crime,[8] and a slave is freed should his master inflict a severe and permanent bodily injury.[9] Even the spiritual rights of the Gentile slave are protected to a degree; for example, a slave residing in the Land of Israel may not be taken to the Diaspora against his will, and if he is sold to a master in the Diaspora, he must be released.[10] Maimonides concludes his Laws of Slaves with an appeal to masters to treat their Gentile slaves mercifully, in accordance with “the attributes of saintliness and the ways of wisdom.”[11] 

Nevertheless, despite his many rights, of all types of slaves, only the Gentile slave is a slave for life. Children born to him are slaves as well, unless he succeeds in purchasing his freedom or is set free upon having suffered a severe and permanent bodily injury. The Hebrew slave, on the other hand, goes free after six years if he was sold by a court; his term of service could be longer if he sold himself into bondage or agrees to extend his term at the end of the six years imposed by the court, but in all cases, he goes free at the Jubilee year.[12] The Hebrew maidservant goes free automatically upon reaching the age of majority.[13]

The Hebrew slaves’ temporary status, together with the fact that they must be treated with great dignity by law, somewhat attenuates the moral difficulty of the institution.[14] Rather than harsh slavery, they could be likened to indentured servitude—a desperate and passing solution to the hunger of poverty or a reforming expiation following an act of theft. Maimonides notes that a Jew is sold into slavery against his will only after a theft that he is unable to repay; he may sell himself only if he is reduced to such poverty that “he has nothing left, not even a garment.”[15] Similarly, a Jewish girl is sold by a father unable to care for her needs.

In summary, although modern moralists may have many reservations about any of the Bible’s systems of slavery, they will clearly find the system of Gentile slaves-for-life the most offensive. For Orthodox thinkers, this system presents the greatest challenge. We turn now to examine the ways in which they responded to this challenge. 

Approach I: Limiting via Reinterpretation

R. Hirsch

            R. Samson Raphael Hirsch (1808–1888), the founder of German Jewry’s Torah im derekh eretz movement, moderates the conflict by reinterpreting the institution of biblical slavery. He limits its scope and emphasizes how—in this limited scope—it was of practical benefit to any individual slave.

 In R. Hirsch’s Germany, Jews were debating emancipation of a different kind—the emancipation of the Jews—and R. Hirsch was a cautious supporter. As a young rabbi in Oldenburg in the 1830s, R. Hirsch dedicated a chapter to the subject of Jewish emancipation in his first published book, The Nineteen Letters of Ben Uziel, a bold defense of Jewish tradition. The reasons R. Hirsch gives there for supporting Jewish emancipation could easily apply to the emancipation of slaves as well:

I rejoice when I perceive that in this concession of emancipation, regard for the inborn rights of men to live as equals among equals, and the principle that whosoever bears the seal of a child of God, unto whom belongs the earth, shall be willingly acknowledged by all as brother....[16]

Later in this chapter, R. Hirsch expresses some reservations about the emancipation of the Jews, since it might lead to greater assimilation, but this was a consideration unique to the Jewish condition in exile. Implicit in these particularistic reservations is the appreciation that the emancipation of other groups is an unqualified blessing. 

R. Hirsch more explicitly addressed the institution of biblical slavery several decades later in his commentary to the Pentateuch, which was published over the course of a decade (1867–1878). In several passages, he makes clear his discomfort with the biblical institution of slavery by emphasizing its limits, noting in his comments to Exodus 12:44 that nowhere does the Bible permit a Jew to enslave a free person; one may only purchase a person who has already been enslaved by others. In circumstances in which not only the concept of slavery exists, but actual slaves exist, the best thing a Jew can do is to buy them and care for them according to the relatively merciful laws of the Torah.

It is telling that R. Hirsch chooses to discuss biblical slavery in the context of the slave sharing in communal worship, in this case the Passover offering, which is itself a symbol of Jewish liberation. R. Hirsch emphasizes this irony and uses it to distinguish biblical slavery from its contemporary forms.

The consideration of certain circumstances is necessary, correctly to understand the fact that the Torah presupposes and allows the possession and purchase of slaves from abroad to a nation itself just released from slavery. No Jew could make any other human being into a slave. He could only acquire by purchase people who, by then universally accepted international law, were already slaves. But this transference into the property of a Jew was the one and only salvation for anybody who, according to the prevailing laws of the nations, was stamped as a slave. The terribly sad experiences of even the last century (Union, Jamaica 1865) teach us how completely unprotected and liable to the most inhuman treatment was the slave who in accordance with the national law was not emancipated, and even when emancipated, wherever he was, looked upon as still belonging to the slave class, or as a freed slave.[17]  

From this passage, it is clear that R. Hirsch sees biblical slavery as a practical improvement and not as an ideal. He argues that the purchase of a slave by a Jew would improve the lot of the slave, since slaves, wherever and whenever they existed and until his day, had no rights except in the house of a Jew. Even when emancipated, the freed slaves were often treated with the same exploitation and cruelty that they received in their master’s house. By becoming the property of the Jew, the slave became, to a great degree, a member of the Jewish people, with rights, religious obligations approximating those of his master, and a sense of community to the point that he was allowed to eat of the communal Passover sacrifice. The slaves of Jews were protected by law, and as R. Hirsch points out elsewhere in the same spirit, even the mental suffering of slaves is seen by God, who protects them and comforts them.[18]

R. Uziel

The first Sephardic Chief Rabbi of the State of Israel, R. Ben Zion Meir Hai Uziel (1880–1953), later adopted this same approach to slavery. R. Uziel explicitly writes his defense of biblical slavery in response to “those who mock the Torah of Israel, which permits the ownership of the Canaanite slave’s body.”

[B]ut were those mockers to think carefully, they would understand that this acquisition was not permitted other than regarding those who were already sold to their brothers under the same conditions. And even so, it was not permitted to exploit their bodies. Rather, even if one should damage a major human limb, this slave goes free, even for a tooth or an eye.… From here you see that the acquisition of a Canaanite slave that the Torah permits is for the good of the slave himself, to save him from his Canaanite brothers so that he should not be enslaved cruelly and physically exploited to the point of death.[19]

Both R. Hirsch and R. Uziel contrast the relatively merciful slavery of the Bible with the cruel slavery of the ancient world, a theme that is expressed repeatedly in popular Orthodox literature.

R. Hertz

Another example of this approach contrasting biblical slavery with other forms of slavery appears in R. Joseph H. Hertz’s commentary on the Pentateuch. R. Hertz (1872–1946) was the Chief Rabbi of the British Empire from 1913 until his passing, and his commentary was ubiquitous in English speaking congregations for some 50 years following its publication in 1936. In his comments to Leviticus 25:46, R. Hertz details how the “system of slavery which is tolerated by the Torah was fundamentally different from the cruel systems of the ancient world.” The Bible never permitted the chaining, maiming, branding, and crucifixion of slaves that were permitted in Greece and Rome; “A Fugitive Slave Law, such as existed in America, with the tracking of runaway slaves by blood hounds, would have been unthinkable to the Israelite of old.” Here, R. Hertz gives powerful expression to the historical premise that forms the foundation of R. Hirsch and R. Uziel’s argument: The system of slavery tolerated by the Bible was relatively merciful and represented a vast improvement not only over ancient forms of slavery, but even when compared to the nineteenth-century American iteration.

But for R. Hirsch and R. Uziel, an argument like that of R. Hertz did not go far enough. They were not satisfied with asserting that the Bible was only relatively merciful, tolerating a less offensive form of a basically unjust institution. As they led Judaism in the milieu of, respectively, modern Western Europe and the new Jewish State, they consistently attempted to show the Bible’s absolute morality—and therefore pertinence—in all times. In this case, they did so by imposing a qualification: Jews, they argued, were permitted to improve only the lot of the already enslaved by modifying the conditions of their enslavement. When qualified in this way, the purchase—but not the creation—of a slave could be viewed as something of a redemption and salvation. As we will see, other Orthodox thinkers are satisfied with the more modest argument that the Bible was merciful only in a relative manner.

Even if we accept the historical premises that underlie this approach, it remains difficult for several reasons, on both the universal and particular levels. One ethical problem that can be raised is that the Jewish purchase of slaves, even if good for any particular slave, would seem to encourage the enslavement of people in general. Both R. Hirsch and R. Uziel would agree that Jewish law forbids the purchase of stolen goods because such a purchase creates a market for stolen goods and thereby encourages theft.[20] One could plausibly argue that the purchase of slaves would similarly seem to encourage enslavement by creating a market for them. In response, R. Hirsch and R. Uziel might counter that we should care more about the actual and acute suffering of the already enslaved—who suffer in a way that stolen goods do not[21]—than the hypothetical effects on the slave market.  

A greater problem, however, is that the legal premise of their argument—that Jews may not themselves create Gentile slaves—seems to be inaccurate according to Jewish law. For example, a Gentile, monotheistic resident of Israel, a “ger toshav,” may sell himself to a Jew and become a permanent slave.[22] In fact, according to the code of Maimonides, a Jew who “seizes” a Gentile child or finds a Gentile baby can choose at his discretion to immerse him as a Gentile resident, as a slave, or as a free Jew.[23] In addition, a Jewish slave owner is allowed to breed Gentile slaves by ordering his Jewish slave to impregnate a female Gentile slave mate.[24]

The strength of these questions seems to cast some doubt on the validity of this approach to biblical slavery. At the same time, the Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel and the undisputed leader of Orthodox German Jewry were certainly aware of these laws. The degree to which they struggled to explain biblical slavery in a way that would conform to modern ethical sensibilities only highlights the importance of those sensibilities in their eyes. Although unquestionably Orthodox in outlook, they seemed to have little compunction about explaining a biblical law in a way that modestly can be termed “creative.”[25] One can only wonder if they would also rule based on their premises, were these laws to become practically relevant.

Approach II: Moral and Social Justification

Netziv 

A very different approach is found in the Bible commentary of R. Hirsch’s Eastern European contemporary, R. Naftali Tzvi Yehudah Berlin (1816–1893), head of the famous Volozhin Yeshiva. In his work of biblical exegesis Ha’amek Davar, R. Berlin (commonly referred to by his acronym as “Netziv”) accepts slavery as being in the moral and religious interest of the pagan. While R. Hirsch and R. Uziel reinterpret the laws of slavery and then show how purchase by a Jew is to the existing slave’s benefit, Netziv justifies the entire institution of slavery by appealing to the religious benefit any Gentile would derive from joining the nation of Israel, even in the limited and restrictive role as a slave.

The Bible (Lev. 25:44–45) states that slaves may be taken from both the pagan nations and the resident alien population:

And as for the male and female slaves whom you may have—it is from the nations that are around you that you shall buy male and female slaves.

Moreover, you may buy them from the children of the strangers who sojourn among you and from their families that are with you, whom they have begotten in your land; and they will be your possession.

In his commentary on these verses, Netziv notes that there is a positive biblical commandment to take slaves from the neighboring pagan nations (“from among them there was established a commandment”) in order to, as he puts it, “remove them from their idolatry.[26] In contrast, the ger toshav achieved his status by committing to abandon idolatry. Although he need not keep other ritual laws and is not considered a full convert to Judaism, there is no general obligation (“there is no commandment at all”) to convert Gentiles to Judaism, and therefore there can be no positive commandment to enslave the sojourner.

Still, the verses do give explicit permission to enslave even the monotheist sojourner, and Netziv does not seem to be have been troubled by this. Perhaps he would argue that although the religious development entailed by transforming a sojourner into slave is too small to make such enslavement a positive commandment, there is nevertheless still significant improvement. The Canaanite slave is, after all, obligated in Jewish law and ritual to a high degree, in a way similar to the obligations of any free Jewish woman, and that improvement would make the enslavement an overall positive development even for a ger toshav.

Sometimes, Netziv claims, slavery is the only way to help a vulgar person find positive religious expression in his life. For example, when discussing the curse of Ham, the son of Noah, Netziv writes that slavery fits the nature of Ham and his descendants. His comments are a response to the fact that although Noah cursed only Ham with slavery, many descendants of Shem and Japheth have also been enslaved, while at the same time many of descendants of Ham remain free.

Rather the curse was that one who arrives at the state of slavery would be fit for this, insofar as he is from the seed of slaves from birth, and from the womb, and from conception. This is not the case of Shem and Japheth. His seed is not fit for this, and even when he is a slave, his inner spirit longs to be free. Consequently, it is inconvenient to use him, and through some effort he will be made free.…[27]

            The modern moralist accepts personal autonomy and liberty as sacrosanct. In the conception of Netziv, however, the imposition of moral standards and monotheism is far more important, since only through moral practice and monotheist belief can any person fulfill his purpose on earth and return his soul to its divine source. Morality and monotheism accepted autonomously may be the ideal, but for a corrupt Ham and his descendants—both figurative and literal—a regulated and merciful system of slavery is a clear second best. One who views slavery only as a social institution may certainly find it terrible, and a Bible that supports it immoral; but Netziv, who sees slavery as a vehicle through which the pagan may participate to some degree in the covenant and commandments of Israel, justifies the sacrifice of personal liberty as worthwhile.[28]

Interestingly, in discussing the curse of Ham, R. Hirsch takes a position that on its surface closely approaches that of Netziv. He points out that Noah does not say that Canaan, the son of Ham, “will be a slave of Shem” as a prophetic description; rather, Noah prays, “may Canaan be a slave of Shem.” According to R. Hirsch, only through domination by the spiritual Shem can the sensual Canaan find a path to worshiping God, “to fulfilling his divine purpose.”[29] From this comment, one might easily understand that R. Hirsch believes in a form of racist elitism, but this would be inaccurate. True, the children of Shem have inherited their patriarch’s spiritual and moral disposition, while the children of Ham have inherited antinomian sensuality; nevertheless, R. Hirsch clearly describes Ham’s servitude as a historical vehicle for Ham’s spiritual reform and ultimate freedom: “From Shem will man learn to make his home a dwelling for the divine presence, and the divine presence will return to dwell among men.”[30]

In R. Hirsch’s conception, the ultimate subjugation of Canaan to Shem is not economic, material, or political; it is an inner acceptance of Shem’s values, of the yoke of self-restraint for the sake of heaven. Compared to R. Hirsch, Netziv’s emphasis is more practical and prosaic, dealing less with sweeping historical development and more with the moral and theological merits of actual slavery for actual individual slaves. According to Netziv, Noah’s curse remains eternally valid, and slavery thus remains the best hope for the morally challenged Canaan.

R. Kook

            R. Abraham Yitzhak Ha-Kohen Kook (1865–1935) was a close student of Netziv, and like his teacher, he unapologetically accepts slavery as just when controlled by the divine laws of the Bible and when practiced within the context of a merciful and moral society.[31] R. Kook’s acceptance of slavery is based on the premise that human beings are naturally and inevitably unequal—not in moral terms, as in the conception of Netziv, but rather in physical and economic terms. R. Kook argues that in order to prevent the strong from exploiting the weak, employers should be given an economic interest in the welfare of their workers, and this is best achieved when the latter are treated as property.

R. Kook cites the contemporary predicament of coal miners who, as free laborers, worked (and often still work) under horrible and sometimes tragic conditions. Were the mine owners to have an economic property interest in each individual worker, R. Kook argues, the owners would surely care for them better. When slavery is regulated by the laws of the Torah (which R. Kook understands to include not just the Bible but the oral tradition as well), the institution of slavery may, in fact, be the most merciful mode of life for such workers. Only when slave owners are cruel does the institution become monstrous; under such circumstances, it is better that there should be no slaves at all.

R. Kook is of the opinion that the laws of slavery are a noble, if not ideal, solution to a less than perfect economy. The ideal solution presumably would be merciful labor laws fulfilled by merciful people. Jewish law, however, recognizes that in reality, people will act in a way that is exploitative, and the Bible deals with this sad reality by prescribing slavery as one solution. As previously noted, however, in a world where people take cruel advantage, it is better to do away with that institution entirely.

R. Kook’s approach to slavery echoes his approach toward other Jewish laws—they are directed at people who are basically righteous, but who still have the human failings of a pre-messianic age. For R. Kook, the institution of slavery is an accommodation to historical reality, not just to the reality of slavery in the ancient world, but to the reality of any age before the advent of the messiah. On the one hand, in a messianic world, the laws of slavery would be unnecessary—similar to what R. Kook writes about the strictly modest separation between the sexes prescribed by the Jewish tradition.[32] In a perfected world, not only will slavery of humans be proscribed, but even the human domination of beasts—described by R. Kook as “ugly slavery”—will pass from the earth as humans return to the vegetarian state of Adam.[33] On the other hand, in an overly corrupt world, the laws of slavery that should protect the worker from exploitation are themselves abused and used to exploit the worker to a monstrous degree and must, therefore, be abandoned.[34]  

R. Kook writes that the Jewish People’s exilic state is a sign and a result of this moral corruption. In practice, therefore, he would have little sympathy for contemporary slavery. His practical renunciation of slavery on these grounds, despite the theoretical utility of the institution, recalls his discussion of Israel’s abandonment of political activity while in exile.[35] According to R. Kook, political activity is necessary in order to effect change on a communal level; nevertheless, in its exile, Israel abandoned the political arena, as political activity in the hands of the corrupt can only be destructive both to the self and to the polis.

Today, more than half a century after the New Deal, in an era in which labor laws and social safety nets are ubiquitous if not always generous, one might question to what degree R. Kook’s defense of biblical slavery is ingenuous. R. Kook, however, wrote his opinion about slavery in 1904, at a time when the exploitation of the proletariat was acute and driving much of the world toward economic and political revolution. We may honestly wonder how he might have amended his opinion after witnessing the reforms that developed in this social ferment and which are today accepted as standard practice in modern countries, but it is difficult to suggest that R. Kook did not sincerely present what he felt was a genuine and ancient solution to a perennial social and economic problem.

R. Dessler

            R. Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler (1892–1953) served as the spiritual and educational supervisor (“Mashgiah Ruhani”) of the Ponevezh Yeshiva in Israel. Many of R. Dessler’s teachings—which draw from the Mussar movement, the Hassidic movement, and the Lithuanian yeshiva tradition—have been collected in the five-volume Mikhtav me-Eliyahu, which is widely read in contemporary Orthodox circles. He referred to the matter of slavery in a short address to the yeshiva in the fall of 1950; his approach to slavery seems to borrow elements from both Netziv and R. Kook.  

Like Netziv, R. Dessler notes that the source of slavery is rooted in the biblical Ham’s moral corruption. Noah’s reaction to Ham’s act of violence, according to R. Dessler, indicates that the institution of slavery was intended to enable a “small” person to perfect himself by becoming a “vessel for a great” person.[36] Nevertheless, like R. Kook, R. Dessler disavows the practical utility of slavery in his contemporary world. He explains that over the course of history, the originally constructive relationship between slave and master changed for the worse, so that the relationship became defined less by moral superiority and more by inequalities of power in which the weak became the slaves of the strong. The powerful tried to justify their exploitation by taking on the external trappings of moral superiority—gentility and superficial manners—but these gestures were empty and often hypocritical.[37] Ultimately, the slaves threw off their yokes to become the dominant cultural force themselves, sadly lacking not only moral excellence but even shallow manners.

            R. Dessler’s explanation traces a history of ethical degeneration, from true moral leadership to exploitation supported by superficial and hypocritical moralizing and from empty exploitation to bald immorality. Without question, the world should be freed from the grip of hypocritical masters, moralizers, and imperialists, but in practice, we have found ourselves in an even worse state.

            While R. Hirsch views emancipation as a step along the road of social progress, R. Dessler sees it as just the opposite. This description of slavery parallels his general perspective on historical degeneration, yeridat ha-dorot,[38] a perspective grounded in classical rabbinic literature[39] that defines, to some degree, more right-wing Orthodoxy.[40] Modern humans rage against slavery because they know it only in its corrupted and cruel form. Were we to witness this institution as the Bible intended for it to be practiced, for the physical (R. Kook) or moral/spiritual (R. Dessler or Netziv) benefit of the slave, even modern people would agree that this is a useful institution.

Approach III: Historical Accommodation

R. Nahum Rabinovitch

            The several approaches we have summarized above were articulated by rabbinic thinkers who have become accepted in the Orthodox world as leading luminaries of past generations. Nevertheless, not all have found their approaches satisfying. Several contemporary rabbis have continued to grapple with the ethics of biblical slavery, both in writing and in the classroom, and it remains to be seen if their contributions will be widely accepted.

            One major current theme is that slavery, even in its biblical form, is indeed unjust. Above, we saw that R. Hertz refers to the Bible’s toleration of slavery when regulated by merciful laws. This is essentially an admission that slavery is not in the best interest of the slave—even having saved him from a worse slavery at the hands of a cruel master (R. Hirsch and R. Uziel), having saved him from idolatry (Netziv and R. Dessler), and having saved him from being fodder for the coal mines (R. Kook). Despite the admitted injustice, however, the Bible tolerated regulated slavery.

R. Hertz did not explain the reason for this tolerance, but contemporary Orthodox thinkers have developed this theme, arguing that the laws of slavery are not an ideal; rather, they fall into the category of laws that were given, in the words of the Talmud, “to appease the evil inclination.”[41] Accepting the concept of historical progress, R. Nahum Eliezer Rabinovitch (1928–2020), who served for many years as the Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Birkat Moshe in Israel, argues that the laws of biblical slavery were a practical accommodation and a minimum standard for the developing cultural circumstances described by the Bible, in which slavery remained a norm. As with the laws of polygamy, divorce, and war, here too the Bible speaks to circumstances that are real, not necessarily ideal.[42] R. Rabinovich bases his historical contextualization of certain commandments on the following passage from Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed:

Many things in our Law are due to something similar to this very governance on the part of Him who governs, may He be glorified and exalted. For a sudden transition from one opposite to another is impossible. And therefore man, according to his nature, is not capable of abandoning suddenly all to which he was accustomed.… Just as God perplexed them in anticipation of what their bodies were naturally incapable of bearing—turning them away from the high road toward which they had been going, toward another road so that the first intention should be achieved—so did He in anticipation of what the soul is naturally incapable of receiving, prescribe the laws that we have mentioned so that the first intention should be achieved, namely, the apprehension of Him, may He be exalted, and the rejection of idolatry.[43]

            R. Rabinovich points out that there is no positive obligation to buy a slave, because the ownership of another person is a violation of the essential equality of all humanity. Nevertheless, in giving the Torah to Israel, God recognized that this young nation was living in a world in which slavery was a normative institution. For reasons both social and economic, the Jews would have been unable, at that point in history, to give up the institution of slavery completely. The Bible therefore chose to regulate and improve the existing institution until the time came when humanity would grow out of it.[44] Like animal sacrifice, slavery was permitted as an accommodation; but unlike animal sacrifice—and in applying Maimonides’ principle to slavery, this seems to be R. Rabinovich’s subtle innovation—slavery could ultimately vanish completely, since there is no positive obligation to own slaves, as there is to offer sacrifices.[45]

Whereas R. Dessler and other Orthodox Jewish thinkers see history as a process of ethical decline, R. Rabinovich, like R. Hirsch, takes ethical progress for granted. R. Rabinovitch's approach is echoed and amplified by R. Norman Lamm (1927–2020), who served as the President of Yeshiva University for many years. R. Lamm catalogues several biblical laws, including slavery, that were passively suspended when they were regarded as “counter-productive” in a moral climate of “heightened sensitivity.”[46] This claim was recently re-articulated by the former Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, R. Jonathan Sacks (1948–2020):

In miracles, God changes nature but never human nature. Were He to do so, the entire project of the Torah—the free worship of free human beings—would have been rendered null and void… God wanted mankind to abolish slavery but by their own choice, and that takes time. Ancient economies were dependent on slavery… Slavery as such was not abolished in Britain and America until the nineteenth century, and in America not without a civil war. The challenge to which Torah legislation was an answer is: how can one create a social structure in which, of their own accord, people will eventually come to see slavery as wrong and freely choose to abandon it?[47]

            R. Rabinovitch addresses two related difficulties with this approach. First, if the institution of slavery is only an unfortunate and temporary accommodation, we would imagine that emancipation would be encouraged for Gentile slaves at all times, just as it is required for Hebrew slaves every Jubilee. In fact, the opposite is true, as Leviticus (25: 39, 43–46) seems to encourage the purchase of Gentile slaves:

If any of your brothers become impoverished and sell themselves to you, do not work him as you would a slave… Do not rule over him ruthlessly; but fear your God. And your male and female slaves—from among the foreigners who live among you may you purchase male or female slaves. Also from the children of the resident foreigners who live among you may you take, and from their family that is with you, to whom they gave birth in your land; they shall be for you as an inheritance. And you shall pass them on to your children after you as a permanent inheritance, and with them should you work; but with your brothers the children of Israel—a man and his brother—do not rule over his ruthlessly.

R. Rabinovich responds that by actively encouraging the enslavement of Gentiles, the Bible was weaning Israel away from the enslavement of Jews; in the future, however, even the enslavement of Gentiles would be discouraged. In a world where slavery was considered economically necessary, the Jews were directed to take neighboring pagans instead of their monotheist brothers.[48] This at once limited slavery, gave the slaves rights, educated the pagans, and slowly led to a transformation of thought. From a perception that slavery was necessary, it became viewed as a necessary evil; later it became viewed as simply evil. 

A second difficulty for this approach is that it seems to contradict the talmudic law that forbids freeing a Gentile slave.[49] Again, if all people would be emancipated in an ideal world, we would expect Jewish law to encourage the emancipation of any particular slave at any time, but in fact, the opposite is the case.

In response, R. Rabinovich recognizes the paradoxical nature of these laws, and explains that once the Gentile entered—to a limited degree—the people of Israel, he could not simply be given his freedom:

Once a slave had tasted of God’s commandments, it would be unreasonable for him to return to idolatry. And so it was forbidden for his master to sell him to a Gentile, and even more so to restore him to full Gentile status.

If, on the other hand, he were to be set free as a full Jew, he would have converted to Judaism without any volition on his part. R. Rabinovich argues that the prohibition against freeing slaves derives mostly from concern that Israel should not be making masses of, in effect, forced converts.[50]

Finally, R. Rabinovich argues that the prohibition against freeing slaves should not be overemphasized. The Talmud and later codes note many instances in which slaves could and should be freed. For example, a slave could be freed in order to facilitate the enhanced performance of any commandment, even one of only rabbinic authority; the Talmud reports that R. Eleazer once freed a slave in order to be able to pray with a minyan (Berakhot 47b and Gittin 38b). This precedent was accepted as law by Maimonides[51] and R. Yosef Karo[52] in their codes. In effect, that which seems categorically prohibited in the Bible was accepted as relatively banal in the time of the Talmud.

Apparently, it was so common for the Jews of the tannaitic period to free their slaves that Jews were even persecuted for this very reason by the Romans. The Talmud reports that R. Eleazar ben Parta was brought before the Roman authorities and accused of freeing his slaves. When he denied this, one of his former slaves rose to testify against him (Avodah Zarah 17b). The Talmud does not elaborate on the basis for the Romans’ displeasure with R. Eleazar, leading Rashi to suggest an explanation. He comments that the Romans decreed against the freeing of slaves because it was understood to be a Jewish custom (“dat Yehudit”), and this, apparently, was one of the many decrees enacted to break the uniquely Jewish spirit.

R. Shlomo Goren (1917–1994), as Chief Rabbi of the Israel Defense Forces (he would later become the Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi of Israel), celebrated this story and the history it symbolizes in an article written for the army magazine Mahanaim.[53] The Romans identified the Jews with emancipation, and ever since, R. Goren claims, Jews have continually been at the forefront of the emancipation movement. The degree to which this claim is historically accurate is beyond the scope of this article.[54] For our purposes, R. Goren’s spirited embrace of the values of emancipation, and the ease with which he marginalizes the normative institution of biblical slavery, including the apparent prohibition on freeing slaves, testifies to this Orthodox rabbi’s unambiguous acceptance of certain modern egalitarian values, as well as his comfort in reinterpreting biblical values and laws in light of modern ethical conceptions.

Conclusion

            The moral outrage that modern thinkers share against slavery has elicited widely different responses to the moral status of biblical slavery. Not only are there differences between the religious and the anti-religious, but there are differences even within the ranks of Orthodox Jewry. This subject highlights various Orthodox perspectives on history: Some Orthodox thinkers lament the loss of a potentially valuable social instrument due to the moral decline of society throughout history, while others point to emancipation as a sign of moral progress. Even more centrally, our examination of the topic shows the varying degrees with which Orthodox thinkers acknowledge the moral values of their contemporary society and the different models with which they confront those values. Some are more apologetic, limiting biblical slavery so that it conforms to modern conceptions. Others assert that the Bible contains moral accommodations that society has transcended.

Interestingly, even conservative thinkers—who justify slavery by pointing to the social, economic, moral, and spiritual benefits it gives to the weak and the vulgar—may have been moved by modern conceptions to justify slavery in accordance with those conceptions. Accepting that only a direct benefit to the slave himself could be an acceptable justification for enslavement, almost all would agree that the practical application of this once normative institution would be unthinkable today. Of course, the most conservative rabbis might argue that their approaches are informed only by unchanging biblical values, that their views have always been the Jewish view,[55] and that they have not been influenced by modern notions of egalitarianism. These claims would have to be tested by a comparative study of the talmudic and medieval rabbinic literature on this subject—a study that would be of great value, but which is beyond the scope of this paper.

Acknowlegments

My thanks to David Berger, Meira Mintz, Yitzchok Segal, David Shatz, Meir Triebitz, and the anonymous referees of The Torah U-Madda Journal for their comments and suggestions.

Oliver Sacks (1933–2015) was dubbed by the New York Times as “the poet laureate of medicine.” His many years as a neurologist brought him into close contact with many human beings with severe disorders—and he seemed to learn from each of them. To him, they were not “cases” but real people, human beings whose lives had been seriously impaired, who needed care, who still had something to teach. His many books reached millions of readers and opened new and deep worlds to us.

            Dr. Sacks was raised in a fairly observant Orthodox Jewish family in Cricklewood, England. Although later in life he reminisced about the positive elements in his religious upbringing, by the time he was a teenager he was already drifting away from the religious lifestyle of his family. At some point he admitted to his father that he had homosexual tendencies, “but don't tell Ma, she won’t be able to take it.” But his father, a medical doctor, did tell his mother, also a medical doctor, that their son was homosexually inclined. The next morning his mother “came down with a look of horror on her face, and shrieked at me: ‘You are an abomination. I wish you had never been born’” (Gratitude, pp. 37–38). Although the subject seems never to have come up again with his parents, the searing pain of his mother’s remark never went away.

            After becoming a doctor in 1960, Sacks left his family and community, in search of a new setting for his life. He moved to Los Angeles where he continued his studies in neurology. Feeling an inner void, he turned to drugs and a near-suicidal addiction to amphetamines. He slowly recovered, and then found meaningful work in New York in a chronic care hospital in the Bronx, the Mount Carmel. “I was fascinated by my patients there, cared for them deeply, and felt something of a mission to tell their stories—stories of situations virtually unknown, almost unimaginable, to the general public and, indeed, to many of my colleagues” (Ibid., p. 39).

            Throughout his life, Sacks dealt with loneliness, feelings of not belonging. He had a variety of neurological problems of his own, and then later in life had to deal with injuries, and eventually with bouts of cancer. Perhaps because he had these issues, he was able to view life with deeper insight and intensity, greater empathy for sufferers, gratitude for all the genuine blessings he did enjoy.

            An underlying theme of his work was expressed simply and elegantly: “The essential thing is feeling at home in the world, knowing in the depths of one’s being that one has a real place in the home of the world” (Awakenings, p. 272). As we go through life, we need to feel that we are rooted in something real and strong, that we can live without fear and despair. But this is not easy to achieve.

For all of us have a basic, intuitive feeling that once we were whole and well; at ease, at peace, at home in the world; totally united with the grounds of our being; and that then we lost this primal, happy, innocent state, and fell into our present sickness and suffering. We had something of infinite beauty and preciousness—and we lost it; we spend our lives searching for what we have lost; and one day, perhaps, we will suddenly find it. And this will be the miracle, the millennium! (Ibid., p. 29)

            In his book, An Anthropologist from Mars, he tells the story of Franco Magnani, a man who had only one subject and who talked about nothing else. It was the story of his hometown in Italy, Pontito. Magnani could imagine every building, every brick in every building; he could hear the sounds of the church bells. He painted scenes from Pontito with amazing accuracy and eye for detail. During World War II, the Germans had occupied Pontito, and Magnani’s family had to escape. When they returned after the war, they found that things had changed for the worse. Buildings were defaced, the previously neat town was in shambles. Franco was a fatherless ten-year-old child at the time. He told his mother: “I shall make Pontito again for you, I shall create it again for you.” When he later was living in the United States, he began to paint scenes of Pontito. His first painting was of the house where he was born, and he sent it to his mother. “In some sense he was redeeming his promise to reconstruct Pontito for her” (p. 167).

            Oliver Sacks knew that Franco Magnani had an obsession; Franco felt himself the sole survivor and rememberer of a world forever gone. But Sacks then extrapolates from Franco’s situation:

Discontinuity and nostalgia are most profound if, in growing up, we leave or lose the place where we were born and spent our childhood, if we become expatriates or exiles, if the place, or the life, we were brought up in is changed beyond recognition or destroyed. All of us, finally, are exiles from the past. (p. 169)

            But being an “exile” also has its positive elements. When one feels at least somewhat of an outsider, the very feelings of unease can generate creativity and originality. Confrontation fosters friction that can lead to boldness, confidence, independent thinking. “It takes a special energy, over and above one’s creative potential, a special audacity or subversiveness, to strike out in a new direction once one is settled. It is a gamble as all creative projects must be, for the new direction may not turn out to be productive at all” (The River of Consciousness, pp. 139–140). People sometimes lock themselves into an intellectual box; they do not allow themselves “to encounter new ideas, to create a mental space, a category with potential connection—and then to bring these ideas into full and stable consciousness, to give them conceptual form, holding them in mind even if they contradict one’s existing concepts, beliefs, or categories” (Ibid., p. 205).

            Sacks had a “spaciousness of mind,” a deep and spontaneous curiosity about how human beings function; how our minds and senses perceive reality; how each detail of nature deserves close and concerted attention.

We take our senses for granted. We feel we are given the visual world, for example, complete with depth, color, movement, form and meaning all perfectly matched and synchronous. Given this seeming unity, it may not occur to us that there are many different elements composing a single visual scene, and that all of these have to be separately analyzed and then put together. (Musicophilia, p. 105)

            As he was facing his own imminent death, Oliver Sacks wrote a beautiful essay drawing on his memories of the Jewish Sabbath as observed in the home of his youth, and in the homes of many of his relatives. The peace of Sabbath was palpable, a time outside time.

And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life—achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest. (Gratitude, p. 45)

            Dr. Oliver Sacks’s mother had once wished that he had never been born. I suppose she changed her mind as she witnessed the impressive person he was to become and the significant achievements he was to attain. But those who have benefited from his care and his wisdom are very grateful that he was born. Our world is larger and better because of him.

*   *   *

            I first discovered Dr. Oliver Sacks when I read his book, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, published in 1985. He wrote about a variety of people who had serious neurological deficiencies, and who dealt with problems that most people—thankfully—do not have to confront. Although the symptoms were so strange, Sacks writes about them with warmth and empathy; we come to focus on the human beings not on their symptoms. We all, after all, have deficiencies of one kind or another—or many deficiencies. Dr. Sacks’s genius was not to judge us for what we lack, but for what we are.

            Someone once told Dr. Sacks: “You’ve always been a rover. There are rovers, and there are settlers, but you’re definitely a rover. You seem to have one strange adventure after another. I wonder if you will ever find your destination” (A Leg to Stand On, p. 66). I think that by the end of his life, Dr. Sacks had found his destination, calmly and wisely.

References

A Leg to Stand On, Simon and Schuster, New York, 1998.

An Anthropologist on Mars, Vintage Books, New York, 1996.

Awakenings, Picador Books, London, 1990 (first published 1973).

Gratitude, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 2019.

The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Summit Books, New York, 1985.

The Mind’s Eye, Picador Books, London, 2011.

The River of Consciousness, Vintage Books, New York, 2017.

Musicophilia, Vintage Books, New York, 2008.

For the past several years, I have contributed postings to a number of websites on the subject of the dangerously charismatic teacher in schools. The material was based on my book on Jewish school management that was published at the beginning of 2010. The section on the charismatic teacher was entitled “The Pied Piper.”’[i]

Tragically, between the time that the section was originally written (in 2007) and the time the book was published, a former Jewish Studies teacher at our school was arrested on very serious charges of sexual molestation and assault. His alleged offenses were committed in Israel. Following his arrest, an investigation in Toronto unearthed many issues of concern. He had exemplified many of the good and many of the bad characteristics of the charismatic teacher, especially one active in the religious life of the school. While in Toronto (as a shaliah) he had been immensely popular; had been idolized by students and by some staff; was a talented musician, much in demand locally as a singer at weddings and other community celebrations; and was also used by NCSY as a youth leader and resource. Many former students testified to the profound religious influence he had on their lives. Others—as it emerged—had far darker, tragic, and damaging memories.

The whole episode and its aftermath caused me many hours of reflection, and made me reconsider fundamentally many other encounters throughout my life with charismatic rabbis and teachers—in both personal and professional capacities. I concluded that although many good teachers and rabbis have elements of charisma in their personalities and style, the overtly charismatic personality almost always masks far more sinister agendas, and must be treated and managed with the utmost caution. The tipping point is where the personality of the teacher/rabbi is more important than the content of his message or teaching. Sadly, most readers of this article will be familiar with examples from within our own community, let alone examples from other educational and religious communities.

Where, though, are the boundaries? At what point does charisma become dangerous? In a community (and a wider world) where an elusive quality called “spirituality” is constantly sought as representing the “authentic” in the religious quest, how can the individual, or the community, or the responsible leader, distinguish the teacher with integrity from the predator?

It can be difficult; but there are some obvious danger signs. They may be present in different combinations, and seem to have some degree of overlap with recognized patterns of cult behavior, although they are rarely so blatant. They may include, but are not limited to:

The personality of the rabbi/teacher becomes the most important part of his presence, rather than the content of what he is teaching. When people go to a shiur, or a workshop, or a lesson, to see what “X” is doing or saying—rather than what “X” is teaching—a personality cult is in the making. The same applies when their conversation is about X’s latest action, or remark, or appearance—rather than X’s “Torah.” A truly spiritual personality, in a Jewish context, is concerned to bring people to God, not to himself (more rarely—herself).

Extreme emotional or pseudo-intellectual manipulations are being used to demonstrate that X, and only X, has “the answer.” A spiritually and intellectually honest teacher will rarely deal in absolutes.
The teachings and views of others—particularly rivals for the charismatic teacher’s popularity—are openly disparaged or undermined.

In an institutional or community setting, the followers of the charismatic rabbi/teacher become a group within a group. They do not mix with others, and see themselves as an elite.
Individuals or small groups regard themselves as favored protégés of the teacher. When they no longer uncritically accept the teacher’s philosophy or Torah, they are quickly dropped; disillusion—often accompanied by feelings of betrayal—sets in.
Counseling, advice and guidance are being given on deeply personal, perhaps intimate matters, far beyond the training and competence of the rabbi/teacher. The personalities we are describing will often invite such disclosures.
There is one clear sign that should immediately raise red flags:

The rabbi/teacher teaches, or shows by behavior, that he or she is exempt from the rules that apply to others. Mesmerized followers accept that “it”—whatever “it” is—is permissible or not problematic because the rabbi/teacher has special reasons, or a special argument, or special circumstances, or special authority, to justify the behavior. Often, there is an accompanying condition: Don’t tell anyone about this, because no one else can understand.

This is most obvious in a sexual context, but any and every such instance is suspect. Are meetings and encounters taking place at times, places, and in circumstances that violate accepted norms and practices? Are improper communications passed between individuals? Are money, gifts, favors, special treatment being exchanged?

The sad list goes on. Unfortunately, in our community context, too many people who should know better willfully ignore such danger signs, arguing that the ends justify the means. The word “kiruv” frequently figures in such discussions. It takes a great deal of courage, and a great deal of conviction, to stand up against this type of activity.

We live in a time of extremes. Some of the religious leaders of our age have embarked on a battle against the world we live in. The argument that to be a loyal Jew (a “Torah Jew”) involves rejection of science and culture has to involve an emotional, not an intellectual position, and ipso facto it has to involve rejection—usually vehement rejection—of others. Parallel or analogous political positions and beliefs will generate similar behaviors. They all encourage extreme personalities. Tolerating, let alone encouraging, extreme personalities makes the group vulnerable to unhealthy influence and behavior.

We need charisma—it has an honorable history in leadership, certainly including models of Jewish leadership—but we need it to be combined with uncompromising, uncompromised, and comprehensive integrity. That integrity has to be religious, emotional, behavioral, and intellectual. But it is very difficult to be a charismatic moderate!

[i]The character of the Pied Piper remains a seductive and sinister figure in folklore. According to legend, in 1284 130 children mysteriously disappeared from the medieval German city of Hamelin (Hameln). A man dressed in colorful (“pied”) clothing, and playing a pipe mesmerized the city’s children with his music. Bewitched, and entirely under his control, they blindly followed him out of the city to an unknown destination, and were never seen again. (Also by playing his pipe, he had lured the rats that plagued the city to their deaths by drowning in the local river. The town council refused to pay him for his services. In an act of revenge, he worked his magic on the children.) The poet Robert Browning (1812–1889) immortalized the story in verse (“The Pied Piper of Hamelin”).

"Behold, he stands behind our wall, he looks in from the windows; he peers through the lattice."

—Song of Songs, 2:9

Early in our marriage, my husband and I shopped for groceries every Sunday—not a simple event. Mama went with us. Each week we guided my husband's eighty-some year old mother to the car. She took tiny steps and held her son's arm as though she was walking a tight-rope. I took her opposite elbow and between the two of us, we placed her gently in the back seat and buckled her in. She would nod a thank you to her son and motion her daughter-in-law to stop fussing and get in the car. She was safe, thanks to family and God.

As we pulled away from our home, a soft, whispering breath would seep through the air. It was barely audible, yet persistent. The further we traveled, the stronger it became—not in volume, but in strength. Mama was talking to herself. Her mouth moved and soft hissing noises were all I could make out.

"She's frightened," I would announce to my husband. "Maybe we should stop the car and tell her everything is fine and not to worry."

"She's not frightened. She's talking under her nose to God. She never travels anywhere without talking to God."

I can't count the times I turned in my seat to observe Mama, praying in her home language of Yiddish. She was in a special world, just her and God. As she prayed beneath her nose, her facial expressions changed as if she was having a conversation with someone next to her.

"She's really talking to God." I surmised every time we traveled with her.

"Of course she is. Don't disturb her." My husband would answer with a serious tone. "She thinks she's alone and no one can hear what they're talking about."

For 12 years, I was privileged to listen to this old woman's prayers. In the early years, I was overly conscious of keeping a kosher kitchen that would meet Mama's expectations. Was I putting everything in the right place; was this spoon now non-kosher because I dropped it in the "red" sink instead of the "blue"? How many mistakes could I make before my mother-in-law would not accept me as 100 percent Jewish? She was such a holy lady. She'd survived Nazis, Stalin, and the KGB, and during these times of oppression, had never compromised on her halakhic responsibilities. She had learned religious boundaries from her parents and grandparents. My husband and his family had paid a handsome price for the privilege of living and remaining Jewish in the former Soviet Union.

Friday evenings, Mama carefully lit her candles, then scurried to each room announcing, “Shabbas. Gut Shabbas." My husband explained she needed to bless every piece of space in the house with Gut Shabbas! Every religious thought, each action was as natural to her as breathing. She gave it no thought and, I am certain, had no idea I watched and admired her every move.

Mama traveled from Moldova to America as a refugee in the early 1990s with her son and husband to be able to live as a Jew without being afraid. Now, she had an insecure, ba'alat teshuvah daughter-in-law who could not speak any of her languages and spent more time worrying about process than how the food tasted. No matter. All was solved one afternoon. Late one summer, Mama became ill and had to be hospitalized. She improved quickly, and while her son was at work, I sat by her bedside. The day before she was able to return home, a cheerful, Orthodox rabbi stopped by to wish her well. He spoke Yiddish and the two of them talked and laughed while I sat mesmerized, wishing I could understand at least every other word.

Finally, Mama fell asleep. The rabbi had pity on me and gently asked, "Did you understand what she was saying?"

"Not a word." I admitted.

"She was talking about you."

Oh, great, I immediately thought. Now the entire community will know what a Jewish failure I am. I waited, precariously for the rabbi to continue.

"She says you're a good girl. You keep a kosher home. You chant the blessing over Shabbat candles with a melody she's never heard before. It's a melody that touches her heart. You take good care of her son. She likes you. But she'd like you to be a bit more modest."

Modest? In a nano-second panic, I quickly checked my skirt and touched my head to see if I forgot to cover my hair that morning. Here was an opportunity for failure I had not counted on.

"No. That's not what your mother-in-law means." The rabbi interrupted as if reading my mind. "She wants to remind you that our people learned modesty from the cat. Everything a cat does is seemingly without effort. When a cat runs, it's as though they will never tire. They move effortlessly. When a dog runs, they labor, they pant and they call attention to themselves. She's overjoyed her son married an Orthodox, religious girl. But, she worries that you are becoming obsessed with right and wrong. You think too much. Rules are important, but if you don't have time to talk with God, what's the point? There is no shame in making a mistake—correct it and move on. She doesn't want you to exchange the spirituality she hears in your melodies for rules and build an empty shell for the sake of being an Orthodox Jew who lives only to recognize the right butcher."

It was a good lesson. But it was just one of many I'd collected long before I'd met Mama. I've been fortunate to have met excellent and balanced teachers over the years. I've sought out rabbis who I believed were respected, and who touched my heart in some way and were kind, compassionate and honest community leaders. I attended their lectures when I could, bought their books and listened to their tapes. I read and accepted the teachings of scholars and leaders they admired. Every year, I balanced the spiritual with the religious and became a bit more observant and "Orthodox."

Many years ago, a good friend had recently married and moved to the upper midwest. She was newly observant and had married a man who came from an observant Orthodox family. I'd been invited to their new home for Pesah. I arrived early to assist my friend with cleaning and other preparations. Everybody knows it's exhausting to prepare for Pesah. But this was different. My friend was frightened. She feared shame. She was worried she would make a mistake, not make the grade, or that she would say the wrong thing to the right person.

We cleaned and scoured, making sure we had the right food and the right utensils and plates unpacked. Together we worked from sunup until well past midnight. We slept a few hours and were at it again early each morning. Finally, we were close to finishing. As we sat in the kitchen, I observed how tired my friend looked. She could barely hold a conversation. Normally, her eyes sparkled with joy and energy, but on this day they were dull and mirrored defeat.

That afternoon, her husband asked a question about the Pesah silverware. As we soon realized, we'd forgotten to unpack them. My friend immediately sprang to her feet and rummaged frantically through boxes she'd carefully labeled. I watched her body stiffen. She turned to her husband and announced the silverware was misplaced and had been packed with the hametz dishes.

Her husband, a kind person, offered a joke to break the gruesome tension that had entered the room. It was the worst thing he could have done. My friend burst in

to tears of exhaustion and shame, sobbing, "I am just not a good enough Jew. I'm not Orthodox enough. I'll never fit in."

I decided it would be a good time to take a walk around the lake and give my friends some privacy to reignite shalom bayyit into the world. While walking, I had a conversation with myself that has continued on and off until this day: What are we doing to ourselves? Is our pursuit of halakhic perfection taking the place of the oppressors that plagued my husband and his family in the former Soviet Union? After all, a Torah observant life should be joyful and balanced with spirituality, connecting us to the source of our purpose and beginnings.

Another story—this one is about a woman who'd lived longer than anyone I'd known. Her

name was Sophie. I met Sophie on her 90th birthday. She lived in a community that had once had an active Orthodox presence, but had succumbed to in-fighting and assimilation. Only a few Jewish families remained and those who had not inter-married, had moved to communities with stronger Orthodox lifestyles. Sophie refused to move. She was responsible for the Hevrah Kadisha, the religious burial society. It became her responsibility to teach the non-religious to bury their dead in the proper manner.

"Just because Jews aren't acting like Jews, doesn't mean they aren't Jews. It's my job to teach them how to do a taharah, a purification. My purpose in life is to teach how to sew takhrihim[DEA1] . If the young ones want to buy them from New York, fine. But they still need to learn how to take care of our dead and our cemeteries."

The only services that continued after this century-old community began to dwindle were Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Shabbat services had long since ended. Every Shabbat, I walked to Sophie‘s home and we prayed together, silently—each at our own pace. Sophie fixed an elaborate Shabbat lunch and we talked about Israel and Judaism in general. Sometimes, I'd bring a friend along.

One Shabbat a young woman I'd met at a Women's Study Group in Winnipeg called and asked for Shabbat hospitality. I obliged and arranged to take her to Sophie's house to pray and enjoy Shabbat with this elder, who had joyfully become my best friend. My visitor asked many questions about kashruth and whether or not Sophie was “Orthodox.” She didn't ask if the old woman was Jewish, just Orthodox. I began to regret inviting this young woman to spend Shabbat with us. I could just imagine her telling Sophie the recipe for mock-liver passed down to her from her great-grandmother who was not really Jewish. Silly, I finally decided. Why worry about Sophie? Now 95, she could take care of herself.

We arrived and were welcomed into Sophie's modest home. Sophie made sure we were comfortable before suggesting we join her while she finished her Shabbat prayers. Our visitor began swaying and shuckling; bowing, sitting and standing. Our elder hostess sat on a kitchen chair she always placed in her living room for prayer purposes. Whether she stood or sat, the only discernable movement was in her lips. They moved, continuously without uttering a word. I'd become focused on my own religious expression and upon completing the service, I noticed our visitor had closed her siddur and sat motionless as she listened to Sophie complete her prayers by chanting a soft, haunting melody.

"That was beautiful." Our guest complimented. "Where is that niggun from? Is it Hassidic? Is it Mitnaged? It sounds German. Which rebbe is it from?"

Sophie placed her siddur on her table and smiled, pleased with the attention. "It's from Sophie. My great-grandmother told us when we were little girls that if a woman doesn't have her own melody, she's destined to be in exile all her life—God forbid."

We chatted and then found our way to Sophie's kitchen where a meal was about to unfold, layer by layer. It was a particularly dark, winter day and Sophie had forgotten to leave the light in the kitchen on. It was like entering a dark cave.

"Oy. The light." Sophie clasped her hands together. "I forgot the light."

This revelation began a halakhic discussion about turning lights on and off on Shabbat. Sophie's two young guests began to discuss ways we could turn the light on. Is there a neighbor we can call, a non-Jew? We talked on and on. This rabbi said that, and that rabbi said this—it went on until Sophie decided to take the matter into her own hands.

"Girls. You rely too much on rabbis. Here's the solution." Sophie, who was all of four feet eight inches tall and almost as wide, reached behind our visitor and switched on the light. "There. Now, that wasn't too much work—was it? You two talk too much and you both take yourselves too seriously."

Did Sophie violate the laws of Shabbat that afternoon? Yes, she did. A few years later I received a call from my visiting friend. She began, "I was wondering. Is Sophie still alive?"

"No, she left the world well after her 100th year."

"Ah, I thought she'd probably passed away. Surely she is in the highest heaven. Do you know there is not a week that goes by I don't think of the Shabbat I spent with you and her. Remember her story about melody? It has taken me 10 years to find my own melody. I appreciate our teachers, but I've learned to celebrate my own actions and opinions. I am not so afraid to make an error. I have a little girl now. Her middle name is Sophie and I teach her that if she makes a mistake, instead of feeling ashamed or less than Jewish, she should celebrate by singing in a voice only God can hear. If I'd never heard Sophie pray, or if she'd never teased us about our seriousness by switching on that light on Shabbat, I'd never have understood our rules and laws are meant to be borders that form a vessel for spirituality."

Many years have passed since I last saw Sophie. Not so long ago, I realized when I speak of my beloved and respected teachers, they are all rabbis—all men. Sometimes, the strongest influences in one's life are so subtle, it's easy to forget that much of who I've become spiritually is because of the inspiration I've received from the gentle and quiet elder women I've known. Each one had a personal understanding of God. Their faith was solid, whole, and beyond words or explanation. They had strong boundaries and mischievous smiles. They were not talkers, but celebrated their private affairs with God, stretching their arms to ensure boundaries were far enough apart that the vessel of spiritual, holy expression could hold all it needed to say. They had such wealthy souls, their hearts and homes were open to anyone regardless of the spiritual level they were on, or followed. The old women who took time with me knew who they were, where they belonged and their purpose in our world became little seeds I carried with me and watched bloom no matter where I ended up. Their secret, private melodies were so obviously from the heart that strangers fortunate enough to overhear them were certain they were listening to remnants as old as our days in the wilderness.

I have built friendships with Jewish sisters who have roots many believe are traceable to David haMelekh. Their faith and knowledge of Judaism and its practices are beyond reproach. Many of my contemporary sisters are recent returnees, or converts to Judaism in search of understanding and balance in their religious expression. Besides being Jewish, all of us have a common thread: the quest to express an individual spirituality within the boundaries of halakha fully, without fear, shame or censorship. Many rabbis teach the story of the Baal Shem Tov where some 200 years ago, the BeSht predicted, in the days just before Mashiah, all things spiritual will be in the hands of women.

I don't know if Mashiah has signed a lease, or invested in Israeli real estate to date, but I feel a tension in the Jewish world. It's a tension like the one that invaded my newly wedded friends' home on Pesah long ago. Some Orthodox Jewish leaders are saying assimilation of American Jews is like a holocaust—worse than the Nazis (God forbid). Some of our most learned, hessed-focused and grass-roots rabbis are compromising. In order to keep their communities alive, strong, and financially viable, they sanction eating in restaurants that are not kosher. They dismiss our Shabbat laws as optional and pen sermons that rationalize intermarriage and call our Torah a series of harmless myths. They are angry their conversions are not recognized and they contend Orthodoxy is marginalizing their ideas and input. They announce that the most Torah observant among the Jewish people have lost spirituality. They too are ashamed that maybe they are not able to fit within Jewish Orthodox boundaries. They find solace and understanding in the more dominant, Christian culture of America, calling themselves bridge-builders. Instead of modeling Jewish spirituality and ethics, they are eager to blend into the greater society, to be accepted and taken seriously.

Have we become our own oppressors? Have the melodies of Orthodoxy become so haughty and superior that we've created a hierarchy of snobs who can't appreciate new songs? Has it become too difficult for the common Jew to adhere to halakha without losing the deep, inner spirituality and faith our ancestors celebrated and expressed so naturally?

I'm a simple, humble Jewish woman. I don't pretend to understand the complicated factions that are rising within and beyond Orthodox Judaism. I worry that our communities are assimilating and our community leaders often times are more interested in baseball scores than studying Torah or finding deeper understanding of our beautiful religion and spiritual path. I cry because we are learning to fear and mistrust each other instead of teaching strength, tolerance, and compassion to the non-Jewish world. I am concerned that the most learned among us are forgetting how to balance strength with compassion. Their creative spirits have been overshadowed by an interpretation of laws and rules that offer such a narrow space, there is little room to celebrate shalom veShalvah in our communities, let alone the world. It is tragic that many of us have lost our taste for creating haunting, beautiful melodies that are new, yet feel old, because we fear that sharing our souls with our own people may prove we don't really belong, or were never wanted in the first place.

I am saddened that many traditional Jews spend so much effort making what they perceive as gray into black or white; they have forgotten the world is actually in color. It is equally worrisome our more liberal, grass-roots community leaders have deep souls, yet do not think it worthy to tame and groom their spiritual selves with strong boundaries and observance that connect us to our past, eventually influencing our future and current state of spiritual health.

But, I know my limits. Not long ago, I admitted to myself that it is easier to leave the intellectual parsing and dissection of complex Jewish religious dogma versus spirituality to my teachers, more learned brothers and sisters, or better yet, to haShem. I've become a victim of my own oppression and am afraid my opinion will not only be unwanted in Orthodox circles, but someone will ask me to leave, suggesting I never belonged in the first place. I have also learned that liberal Jewish communities are just as likely to exclude those with an opinion that differs from the majority.

Last Shavuoth I could not stop thinking of Mama, Sophie, and all the elders who have helped shape my soul. I decided I am no longer a child with ears and no voice. I have learned from others and have perfected my practice of Judaism while finding my spiritual center. The elders I cherished over the years have passed on, leaving behind pieces of their souls and an abundant inheritance. Over the years, Orthodox rabbis and teachers have taught me boundaries. They've provided a map that guides me even in the driest, flattest desert. In between these boundaries are memories of Mama blessing the air with Shabbat, teaching me simplicity and the importance of sincere expression of spirituality within our traditions. The sound of Sophie's melody fills this space as well. I sit shoulder to shoulder with women my age who are just one step away from assuming the responsibility of becoming community elders themselves. They've found their spiritual voice and pray to God beneath their noses when no one is the wiser.

In traditional Judaism, our Rebbetzins often appear silent. One must listen closely to hear their voices. They sing strong melodies with silent words. Many have such vast roots it is as though they have no beginning or end. Others come from secular homes, families who have intermarried or have conversions in their histories. But, all sing new songs that may as well be from old voices. They sing of compliance, borders, and rules. They cover their hair and tell stories no one has heard before, because these stories come from their paths and are filled with their spirituality. They have discovered that our Torah is the source of our being. They seek out each other and the men relax, grow quiet in their presence and have more time to pray and strengthen their boundaries as Jews. These holy women exhale belonging while nurturing and encouraging everyone, no matter what sound another person's prayer makes.

These holy Rebbetzins have learned not to operate from anger. They teach that where there is anger, there is no possibility of sustaining a relationship or communication. They teach about the great sin; a sin that can never be excused. What action, speech, or behavior among Jews could be so unforgivable? They answer with a softness one cannot ignore: When human beings offers you their special gift, something only they can see or teach the world, and we refuse to listen to their contribution and celebrate their presence, there is no way this kind of arrogance can be forgiven. It is bad enough for relationships between Jews and the non-Jewish world to experience this kind of impasse—but for such sadness to exist between Jews is enough to break the heart of the whole world.

Perhaps our collective concern should not be the assimilation of Jewish culture as our great rabbis and thinkers suggest. It might be as important to worry about our individual and collective character traits. If you are standing in the place where you belong, and a family shows up on Shabbat by car because they live too far to walk, why not welcome them? Maybe next year they will buy a home in the neighborhood. If a member of the community is seen buying shrimp at Sam's Club—assume it is a special gift for their non-Jewish neighbor. Isn't it a mitzvah to always assume and think the best of each other? If as an individual, you keep your heart open; your community will reflect this.

Kind, sweet communities attract special people-Jew and non-Jew alike. Conversely, if you draw your boundaries, or speak out about a subject in your "kind and sweet community" and find you are a minority, don't let fear or anger consume or affect you negatively—move on. Keep speaking, keep listening and stay balanced with a little compassion, a little kindness and a lot of strength. It's a privilege to sing an old melody, but the world and haShem are hungry for new songs that have the exact same notes that old voices have already sung.

My great grandmother taught, there are two ways to do things-the right way and the wrong way. The wrong way is telling everyone how to do it the right way. Every Jew is connected to the other—be they Orthodox or Reform; ger, frum or ba'al teshuvah; Sephardic or Ashkenazic. Each Jew has a special song, a special melody and the whole world enjoys a good tune—one that reflects the past, present, and future. We should fix our ears and eyes to be able to hear, see, and share our own holiness in the world we live in. We should be blessed with the knowledge to know where our boundaries begin and end, and when we take a big breath we should not fear our own healthy expansion.

I was visiting a synagogue earlier this year and a heavy-set woman sitting next to me placed her hands in her lap, turned her palms upward and began to sob. Little tears ran down a face that suggested the woman had aged beyond her years. She wept because she had something to say; she prayed because she believed God was lonely for her voice. She came to the synagogue and sat in the women's section because that is where she belonged. An affinity grew between us in the short time we sat together. It was a beautiful moment of belonging and loneliness, and instead of a transient moment one might attribute to chance, something magical made us look at each other as though we were related. The stranger dropped her gaze to the floor and spoke, "Sorry, my prayers sound like little tears. My grandmother taught me to talk to God with tears. I usually stay home so as not to upset anyone."

I answered, "No problem. God and the world need every tear and every Jew. Did you ever hear the story that one day all things spiritual will be in the hands of women?"

The holy stranger laughed. "I'm just a convert. My husband and I are on vacation. He thinks I'm too emotional. I need to learn more rules. Maybe I'll fit in with time."

And with that parting comment, she stood and disappeared into the crowd. If it had not been Shabbat, I'd have found a pen, written her name down and never lost track of her. This special soul had the capacity to bless the whole world with strong vessels and demand we fill ourselves with tears of sason veSimha. These are the kind of people whose melodies sound old, but are really as new as the morning sun. May our people be blessed to find their special melodies and may we never become so afraid of each other that we fail to sing and share our special songs.

Talmudic discussions are often introduced by the phrase “ta shema,” come listen. The connotation is that we are to apply our intellects to analyze a particular passage, to “listen” to alternative interpretations, to iron out possible contradictions. “Shema”—listening—calls on us to utilize our intellects.

Discussions in the Zohar, the classic work of Kabbalah, often are introduced by the phrase “ta hazei,” come see.  The connotation is that we need to use our “vision,” to go beyond the realm of pure logic.  When we are challenged to “see” a text or teaching, we are asked to do more than “listen.” We are asked to draw on other human resources—imagination, creativity, aesthetics, faith.

Parashat Va-et-hanan includes the famous passage: Shema Yisrael…Listen Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. This verse, recited in our prayers several times each day, calls on us to be attentive to the reality of God and God’s unity. As Rambam taught, proper faith in God is based on intellectual striving and philosophic analysis.

Parashat Re’eh begins: “See, I have set before you this day a blessing and a curse.” We are told that if we observe the mitzvoth we will be blessed, but if we fail to observe them we will be subject to negative consequences. The Torah uses the word “re’eh”…see. What does seeing have to do with blessings and curses?

The Torah states that blessings and curses are correlated to our observance of the mitzvoth. The implication should be that religiously observant people enjoy blessings and religiously non-observant people receive curses. But in our experience, we see that this correlation does not always seem to hold. There are fine pious people who suffer terribly, and there are highly immoral people who enjoy good health and prosperity. If we rely only on our “listening”—our power of reason—we cannot understand why bad things happen to good people, or why good things happen to bad people.

So the Torah teaches: when it comes to comprehending blessings and curses, “listening” isn’t enough. We need the power of “seeing”—going beyond surface understanding.

Sages and philosophers over the ages have sought explanations as to why good people suffer and bad people thrive. Some have explained that the blessings and curses relate not to external conditions, but to internal life. Righteous people, even if suffering, find meaning and blessing in life. Their faith sustains them. Wicked people, even when seeming to be successful, may actually be extremely unhappy. They are cursed with all sorts of anxieties and frustrations that sap their lives of real joy.

Blessings and curses are not objective conditions in themselves, but are connected to how we relate to them. Different people may be undergoing identical physical sufferings, but one deals courageously and finds meaning in the suffering; while the other wallows in pain and self-pity. Different people may be enjoying identical blessings, but one expresses humble gratitude to the Almighty; while the other is dissatisfied and always wants more.

The Talmud (Hagigah 14b) tells of four great sages who entered the "pardes" i.e. the world of profound speculation.  Ben Azzai died; Ben Zoma lost his mind; Elisha ben Abuya became a heretic. Only Rabbi Akiva entered in peace and emerged in peace.

Elisha and Akiva listened to and saw the same things. Why did they come to opposite conclusions?

Elisha relied entirely on “listening”—his faculty of reason. He concluded that the world seems to operate without Judge and without justice. Things are random. There is no correlation between righteousness and blessing.

Akiva relied not only on “listening” but on “seeing.” He was just as aware as Elisha of the intellectual problem before them. But Akiva “saw” beyond. He was wise enough to be able to live with intellectual questions and to recognize that there is a dimension of understanding that transcends cold logic. A person of faith does not deny reality…but knows that there is a reality that goes beyond our power of reason.

If we rely entirely on “listening,” we sometimes come to a dead end.

If we also incorporate “seeing,” we learn to internalize blessings and curses as personal opportunities and challenges in our relationship with God. How we deal with blessings and curses is an indication of who we really are.