National Scholar Updates

We stand at the mass grave of men, women and children—
Indians who were massacred at Wounded Knee in the
bitter winter of 1890. Pondering the tragedy that
occurred at Wounded Knee fills the heart with crying and with silence.

The great Sioux holy man, Black Elk, was still a child when he saw the
dead bodies of his people strewn throughout this area. As an old man, he
reflected on what he had seen: “I did not know then how much was
ended. When I look back now from this high hill of my old age, I can still
see the butchered women and children lying heaped and scattered all
along the crooked gulch as plain as when I saw them with eyes still young.
And I can see that something else died there in the bloody mud and was
buried in the blizzard. A people’s dream died there. It was a beautiful
dream. For the nation’s hoop is broken and scattered. There is no center
any longer, and the sacred tree is dead.”

Indeed, the massacre at Wounded Knee was the culmination of
decades of destruction and transformation for the American Indian. The
decades of suffering somehow are encapsulated and symbolized by the
tragedy at Wounded Knee. Well-armed American soldiers slaughtered
freezing, almost defenseless, Indians—including women and children.
Many of the soldiers were awarded medals of honor for their heroism, as
if there could be any heroism in wiping out helpless people.

How did this tragedy happen? How was it possible for the soldiers—
who no doubt thought of themselves as good men—to participate in a
deed of such savagery? How was it possible that the United States government
awarded medals of honor to so many of the soldiers?

The answer is found in one word: dehumanization. For the
Americans, the Indians were not people at all, only wild savages. It was no
different killing Indians than killing buffaloes or wild dogs. If an American
general taught that “the only good Indian is a dead Indian,” it means that
he did not view Indians as human beings.

When you look a person in the eye and see him as a person, you simply
can’t kill him or hurt him. Human sympathy and compassion will be
aroused. Doesn’t he have feelings like you? Doesn’t he love, fear, cry,
laugh? Doesn’t he want to protect his loved ones?

The tragedy of Wounded Knee is a tragedy of the American Indians.
But it is also more than that. It is a profound tragedy of humanity. It is the
tragedy of dehumanization. It is the tragedy that recurs again and again,
and that is still with us today. Isn’t our society still riddled with hatred,
where groups are hated because of their religion, race, national origin?

Don’t we still experience the pervasive depersonalization process where
people are made into objects, robbed of their essential human dignity?

When Black Elk spoke, he lamented the broken hoop of his nation.
The hoop was the symbol of wholeness, togetherness, harmony. Black Elk
cried that the hoop of his nation had been broken at Wounded Knee.

But we might also add that the hoop of American life was also broken
by the hatred and prejudice exemplified by Wounded Knee. And the hoop
of our nation continues to be torn apart by the hatred that festers in our
society.

Our task, the task of every American, is to do our share to mend the
hoop, to repair the breaches.

The poet Stephen Vincent Benet, in his profound empathy, wrote:
“Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.” This phrase reflects the pathos of this
place and the tragedy of this place.

But if we are to be faithful to Black Elk’s vision, we must add:
Revitalize our hearts at Wounded Knee. Awaken our hearts to the depths
of this human tragedy. Let us devote our revitalized hearts toward mending
the hoop of America, the hoop of all humanity That hoop is made of
love; that hoop depends on respect for each other, for human dignity.

We cry at this mass grave at Wounded Knee. We cry for the victims.
We cry for the recurrent pattern of hatred and dehumanization that
continues to separate people, that continues to foster hatred and violence
and murder.

Let us put the hoop of our nation back in order. For the sake of those
who have suffered and for the sake of those who are suffering, let us put
the hoop of our nation back in order.

             It isn’t easy to pray from the heart every day. It isn’t easy to teach about it either. As for a great many things, the hardest thing is often to decide how to start. What is the very best “trigger” to use at the outset, to engage other people in meaningful study?

When I began to teach “Directing the Heart in Jewish Prayer” (kavvanah) almost 30 years ago, I found a powerful trigger that proved effective over and over again. I used it many times in the past to initiate study, and sometimes I still do today. But in more recent years I shifted to a different trigger at the very beginning. Now I use the older trigger later on in the course of study.

The switch derives in part from a change in the audience over the past few decades, and in part from a change in the order of study. Both parts are related, because the change in the audience motivated a change in the sequence. Yet it seems to me that the newer trigger and order of study might have been best for the original audience, too. Finally, and most recently, the coronavirus pandemic forced synagogues to shut and millions of Jews to suddenly change how they pray. This turned out to be yet a third trigger for discussing kavvanah. In this paper I will describe these three triggers one by one.

The First Trigger: Kavvanah as an Obligation to God

The first trigger is a story:

A friend of mine was hired by a successful corporation. He was thrilled about his new job, not only because it was lucrative, but also because his new boss had a reputation for being fair and easy to work with. The boss was also known to cultivate warm, friendly relationships with his employees.

Not long after my friend began working, his boss told him that he’d like to get to know him better and meet his family. So my friend invited the boss to his home for dinner with his family the very next week. As soon as he came home that night, he asked his wife and children to help get things ready for the big visit. They all made plans together to shop and cook and clean up the house. Each of his kids had a special job to do: One was to mow the lawn, another to vacuum, and another to clean out the garage. Everything had to be perfect when the boss arrived for dinner.

But when the big night arrived, my friend decided to leave everything to his wife and children. He himself drove off to spend the evening at a basketball game! When the boss arrived, my friend’s wife had no good way to explain why her husband wasn’t home. The boss was furious (despite the wonderful dinner that was ready to be served) and fired the man on the spot in his own home, right in front of his family.

The most embarrassing thing about the story above is that it isn’t really about a friend of mine. It’s about me. It is also about pretty much every Jew, male or female, young or old, Sephardic or Ashkenazic, who has ever attempted to say the daily prayers found in the siddur with regularity. It was first written down as a parable in Spain nearly 1,000 years ago by Rabbenu Baḥya ibn Pakuda in his classic Duties of the Heart:[1]

When one prays with his tongue, but his heart is distracted by matters other than prayer, his prayer will be like a body without a soul, or an empty shell, because his body is present but his mind is absent when he prays. Of those like him the verse says: “Inasmuch as this people approached with its mouth, and with its lips honored Me, but kept its heart far from Me, and their reverence for Me was a commandment of men learned by rote…” (Isaiah 29:13).

This has been compared to a servant whose master was his guest. He charged his wife and the members of his household to serve the master and attend to all his needs, while he left to occupy himself with pleasures and games. He didn’t serve his master personally, and he didn’t strive to honor him and do what was proper for him. The master was angry with him and refused his honors and service. He threw everything back in his face.

Likewise for one who prays while his heart and mind are devoid of the matter of prayer: God will not accept the prayer of his limbs nor the movement of his tongue. You can see this from what we say at the end of our prayers: “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing before You, O Lord, my Stronghold and my Redeemer” (Psalms 19:15). But when a man occupies himself with any matter in the world, whether it is permitted or forbidden, and afterward he finishes his prayer and says “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing before You,” is it not a great disgrace that he claims to have spoken to his God with his heart and his mind when his heart was not with him, and then he asks God to accept it from him with pleasure? He is like those of whom it was said, “As a nation that pretends to show righteousness…” (Isaiah 58:2).

According to the parable above, the “master of the house” within each of us is the mind, and when we pray it sets tasks for the other parts of the body: It tells the eyes to scan the text of the siddur, the tongue and lips to pronounce the words, the spine to hold us up straight for the Amidah (the silent standing prayer) and bend when it is time to bow. It tells our hands to hold the siddur and our feet step back and forth three times before and after the Amidah. Although I don’t do it myself, many others find that swaying (“shuckling”) helps them concentrate better during prayer: For these people their hips are also involved in the action when they pray.  All these parts of the body do the tasks they are given by the mind during prayer, and sometimes they do their jobs well. But if one’s conscious mind is absent when one prays, occupied instead with business, friends, or a basketball game, then neither the words of one’s mouth nor the other movements of one’s body have any value to God.

This trigger provokes serious discussion because it makes a very firm demand. That demand is made in personal terms, as a moral obligation toward God. But it is also clearly binding on a halakhic level: All the codes of Jewish law have always required kavvanah for prayer. The personal demand and the formal requirement coincide, but it is the former that gives rise to the latter. Rabbenu Baḥya’s Duties of the Heart is a pietistic work, and Jewish pietism has ever refused to admit a distinction between ritual and morality as separate realms.[2] For Rabbenu Baḥya, the “religious” order and the “social” order are one and the same, because God is a personality and a relationship with God can be understood (at least partially) in human terms. No human being could fail to be insulted in the face of such behavior, and the very same is true of God.

Yet the discussion of Rabbenu Baḥya’s parable can sometimes get heated precisely because the obligation is halakhic as well. The parable makes sense on an interpersonal level precisely because we don’t recite fixed texts to other people three times a day! Since our conversation with other people is extemporaneous and unique—as opposed to being fixed and highly repetitive—it is indeed insulting to talk to a person without paying any attention to what you are saying. But how can the same thing be said of prayer? Isn’t the very demand both unfair and impossible?

It is with this question that a serious discussion of kavvanah really begins. It gets right to the crux of the problem at the very heart of halakhic prayer: Should one pray to God when kavvanah is unlikely or impossible? Is that really what the halakha demands? It turns out that according to talmudic rules that were accepted by all of the great authorities, at least in principle, one simply must not. Rabbenu Baḥya himself accepted these rules in practice, not just in principle, and that lets us understand his parable anew in an entirely different light: His demand to pray with kavvanah is neither unfair nor impossible, because when kavvanah is not forthcoming one simply does not pray.[3] To be clear: It is not just that prayer isn’t obligatory when kavvanah isn’t forthcoming, but that it is forbidden. Maimonides ruled the very same way almost two centuries after Rabbenu Baḥya, also in practice and not just in theory.[4] Even according to those who said that these rules are no longer practical, kavvanah is still required and the obligation of prayer is not met without it.[5]

            The advantage of Rabbenu Baḥya’s parable as a trigger for discussing kavvanah is that it goes straight to the heart of prayer and kavvanah as obligations. That makes it highly effective with observant Jews who are committed to the halakha as binding. But there are millions of Jews today who don’t share that commitment. How can the topic be taught to them?

The Second Trigger: “Words from the Heart Enter the Heart”

            Teaching prayer to groups of Israelis from the entire spectrum of observance required a different trigger. I still use Rabbenu Baḥya’s parable for prayer without kavvanah with these groups, and we still study prayer as an obligation. Indeed, to study Jewish prayer without that idea would be to misrepresent it. But in more recent years, instead of starting right away with that trigger and its related topic, I begin with something else.

            The second trigger is a short prayer about prayer called Oḥilah la-El. It is sung by the prayer leader (shali'aḥ ẓibbur) on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. In the Sephardic tradition it is said before the prayer leader’s repetition of the Amidah for Musaf, and in the Ashkenazic tradition it is said before the special blessing of the holidays (within the repetition). Here are its words:

I firmly hope in God and plead with Him,

I ask Him to grant me the gift of expression,

That I may sing His praise among people,

And express His deeds in song.

A person has an inner world,

But the gift of expression comes from the Lord.[6]

Lord, open up my lips, and let my mouth declare Your praise![7]

To be sure, I don’t give my students this prayer as a text right away. First we listen to it sung in the tender yet stirring melody composed by Rabbi Hillel Peli, which has become quite popular in Israel and is widely used in synagogues.[8]

After listening, when we focus on its meaning, one sentence always stands out: “A person has an inner world, but the gift of expression comes from the Lord.” There is a contrast here between that which is shared and that which is special. Every person has an “inner world” and that is what makes him or her a human being. It is, of course, a blessing just to be, to exist, but that is a blessing shared by everyone alive. It is “the gift of expression” that is special, i.e. the ability to express one’s inner world in a way that means something to another person. This blessing is not shared equally by all.

Some of us express ourselves better than others. Even those who have some share in this blessing find that there are certain times or situations when they don’t find the right words from the heart that can enter the heart of another. One of the greatest tragedies in life is when we want to share our inner world with someone else, but cannot express it. Most poignant of all is when we want to create a connection or deepen a bond to another person, but we don’t know how to do it. It is then that we need to ask God for “the gift of expression.” And if it is God with whom we want a connection, then we pray: “Lord, open up my lips, and let my mouth declare Your praise!”

As for Rabbenu Baḥya above, the idea here is human. The gift of expression is perhaps the most precious quality that a human being can possess. It is needed in each and every interpersonal context, whether the other personality is God or a human being. Here, too, the artificial boundary between the “religious” realm and the “social” or “moral” realm blessedly collapses. This allows for discussion of prayer and its meaning for Jews across the entire spectrum of observance. I now think that even for observant Jews—those who are committed to halakha and obligatory prayer—this is where study of prayer should begin. With this trigger the very soul of prayer itself comes first, before discussing prayer as an obligation and the difficulties that it causes for kavvanah. At the same time it still puts kavvanah in the center of things, where it belongs, right at the start.

Furthermore, the fact that this prayer is said by the prayer leader (shali'aḥ ẓibbur) brings home other aspects of Jewish prayer in a way that can be meaningful to all. First of all, “the gift of expression” is a blessing not just for individuals, but for groups. How might a class in a school, as a group, approach a teacher or a principal? How might the employees in a company approach their senior manager? How might a community approach a governor or a president? They need to choose a representative to speak for them, because if they all spoke at once then they wouldn’t be speaking as one. The most important quality for such a representative will certainly be “the gift of expression,” and if he cares deeply about his mission then he might see fit to pray for that. That is exactly what Oḥilah la-El means for the prayer leader.

Finally, there is the matter of the fixed prayers as found in the prayer book. Is prayer really about talking to God in a way that requires “the gift of expression”? How can it be, if the prayer book already tells you what to say? What need is there for the prayer leader to ask for “the gift of expression” if he already knows what to say?

The prayer Oḥilah la-El implies that there is some degree of novel expression in what the prayer leader says to God, not just in tunes or intonations but in the very words themselves. While halakhic prayer is certainly structured, it was not meant to be fully fixed; there is a rich middle ground between reading a text that appears on a page and total improvisation.[9] This also touches upon the idea that halakhic prayer is public in essence, and that is why it must have a good deal of structure. But even private speech between individuals has more structure than it might seem, and part of “the gift of expression” lies in the ability to use inherited forms in new ways to touch the heart of the listener.[10]

A large part of what makes kavvanah so difficult derives from the built-in tension between personal sincerity and a structured public framework. That tension is suddenly eased when public prayer is not an option. This recently happened during the coronavirus pandemic, and it led to renewed focus on kavvanah.

The Third Trigger: Sudden Closure of Synagogues

            An extraordinary situation can sometimes call our attention to ordinary things that we tend to overlook.

The pandemic forced sudden, radical change upon observant Jews who are accustomed to praying with a minyan (quorum of ten). Many of these people are denizens of the yeshivot or yeshivah graduates. Others are classic “minyan-goers,” people who often make strenuous efforts to work community prayer into their busy lives every single day. On the fringes of the group that received this sudden shock are those Jews who usually only pray with a minyan on Shabbat and holidays, along with the kaddish-sayers. But the shock was the most severe for people who seek out a minyan every single day.

It is hard to predict the results of a sudden shock. To put its severity into perspective, this wasn’t just a jarring personal change in the lives of current minyan-goers. Rather, it is the first time since the destruction of the second Temple in Jerusalem that the daily public worship of God was suddenly silenced in the vast majority of synagogues around the world. In medieval Ashkenaz, the “holy congregation” and its public worship were thought to be the direct continuation of the Temple service, upon which the world stands.[11] That sentiment echoes to this very day in the many Ashkenazic communities that still contain the Hebrew abbreviation k”k (“kahal kadosh,” or “holy congregation”) in their names. But recently, the public worship of the nation that stands before God came to a sudden halt. In the long term, this may prove to be a deeper wound than the personal shock to people’s routines.

When it comes to individuals, a jarring event can sometimes bring change, even if that change is not immediately visible. But sometimes there is no real change and old habits quickly return. It is quite likely that prayer with a minyan will resume in its usual form once the current emergency ends. For most of the devoted people who try never to miss prayer with a minyan, the current crisis will remain a vivid memory, but not one that changed their lives. Many people, whether they are daily minyan-goers or not, may learn to cherish community prayer more deeply in the wake of recent events, and it is possible that synagogue attendance may even be strengthened. No virtual environment can fully replace the experience of a community where people meet regularly in person.

It is also possible that this shocking interruption to the age-old institution of community prayer will cause long-term harm that weakens future participation, or that there will be no change at all. One cannot presently know. It is quite possible that the result depends on our response.

It is tempting to measure strength or weakness in terms of attendance and participation, and to think about the possible effect of the pandemic on future synagogue life in those terms. But perhaps, if there is to be any long term change as a result of this crisis, it might better be in the quality of community prayer.

The pace of a minyan is far too fast for sincere speech (and certainly for “the gift of expression”), but that speed is a necessary function of the overwhelming amount of text that is said. At the very same time the demand for sincere speech is clear and uncompromising in the sources, and to pray without it is clearly called a transgression. This is a problem that cannot be resolved, it seems, unless prayer with a minyan becomes impossible due to an unforeseen crisis. Then we must pray at home, which suddenly makes sincere speech possible.

To pray publicly, with a minyan, is thought to be a sign of piety today, just as it has been for a great many centuries. At the very same time to pray with kavvanah is also an aspect of piety (an even greater one than prayer with a minyan according to the halakhic sources). But on a practical level, for so many people, these two related kinds of piety can be mutually exclusive!

It is not just that it is difficult to pray with kavvanah in a minyan. It is not just that it is a tremendous challenge. The real problem is that it can be impossible. It is simply a practical issue: The 100+ pages of a weekday Shaḥarit, recited in full in the synagogue, make sincerity impossible for a great many people. There are of course ways for the individual pray-sayer to abridge what he or she says. But someone who does so removes oneself from what is going on at the very same time in public: That person isn’t really praying with the community for most of Shaḥarit. The speed-reading game goes on simultaneously, but that is a losing game according to Rabbenu Baḥya and the halakhic codes. If that person is asked to be the prayer leader, such a person will need to play that losing game or else decline. The competition between public prayer and sincere prayer can be a zero sum game.

One might object that this is an age-old problem. We are told, after all, that it “was the custom of Rabbi Akiva, when he would pray with the congregation he would shorten his prayer and go up, so as to avoid being an encumbrance on the public. But when he prayed by himself, if a person would leave him in one corner he would find him [later still praying] in another corner. And why all of this? Because of his many bows and prostrations” (Berakhot 31a).

At first glance, this passage seems to reflect the same kind of tension we find today. In his great enthusiasm, Rabbi Akiva often extended his prayers, but not when he prayed with the community. Rabbi Akiva’s personal spirituality is praised in this passage, but the needs of the public come first.

Note, however, that the passage talks about Rabbi Akiva “shortening” his prayer in public or “extending” it privately. The prayer that is probably meant here is no more and no less than the Amidah (the Eighteen Blessings), probably along with personal supplications (taḥanunim) that are appropriate at its end. The person who witnessed Rabbi Akiva could not have imagined a daily Shaḥarit of 100+ printed pages in his wildest dreams (or nightmares). If Rabbi Akiva’s extended Amidah was “an encumbrance on the public,” then what are we to say of our order of public prayer today?

It is also important to point out that for Ḥazal, the question of “more” or “less” has little to do with kavvanah (Berakhot 5b, 17a). When the Talmud tells us that Rabbi Akiva “would shorten his prayer” in public, it doesn’t mean that he would pray without kavvanah. It rather means that his kavvanah was appropriate to a public setting.

In short, our condition today is the exact reverse of what the Talmud describes: It is the daily prayer of the community that encumbers the individual because of its excessive length and quantity and speed, not the individual who encumbers public prayer by taking longer.

Finally, Rabbi Akiva’s “short” public Amidah and his “long” private one probably had nothing to do with reading fast or slow. It is more likely that he was using his own words within the overall framework of the prayer. Sometimes he said more to God and sometimes he said less. In public he said less, so as not to encumber the community.

By forcing people to pray at home, alone or with their families, the coronavirus pandemic laid bare the conflict at the very heart of our daily community prayers. Never before was there a trigger for kavvanah that affected so many people directly and all at once. We would do well, when our daily minyanim resume, to find ways to make them far less encumbering and much more conducive to kavvanah, for individuals and communities alike.

ZIKA, HALAKHA AND THE POLITICS OF ABORTION
By Dr. Richard Grazi

Zika is all over the news. About 10-30% (we don’t know the exact percentage just yet) of pregnant women infected with the Zika virus will deliver babies with microcephaly, or smaller than normal heads. The medical consequences of this condition are those derived from restricted growth of the brain and include poorly developed sections of the brain, enlarged brain ventricles, and even abnormalities outside the skull such as congenital joint contractures. , [1,2] All of the described anomalies are life-altering for the babies as well as for the families into which they are born.

So where does that leave a woman who wishes to terminate her pregnancy because her fetus is doomed to be born severely disabled, or to never reach sentient life? These are the situations under which many women seek to terminate their pregnancies, and are virtually always the reason why a late termination is done. Would, for example, aborting a fetus diagnosed with a Zika infection be halakhically permissible?

This came to mind earlier this year, during the presidential primaries, as one Republican candidate after another announced the intent to criminalize the “murder of unborn children.” [3] Of course, following the Supreme Court’s decision announced this past June, [4] the chances of abortion again becoming illegal in this country seem remote. Still, the pressure being brought by conservative religious groups on what they see as a child-killing industry is unrelenting and has resulted in severely restricted access to abortion in many states. Some Orthodox Jews reflexively support those efforts. After all, how can God-fearing persons not consider themselves “pro-life”?

What follows is not a political discourse or an opinion about who should win our votes. It is meant to provide basic information about abortion from a traditional Jewish perspective, with the hope that the Torah-observant community can be vigilant about the matter regardless of the outcome of November’s election. Delving into the abortion debate is surely risky business, given the passion with which many cling to their beliefs on the matter. It may also seem strange coming from someone whose professional life has been devoted to procreative medicine. But although most of our patients are desperate to become pregnant, someone is and wants just as desperately not to be. This happens when there is an in utero diagnosis of severe fetal anomalies, be they genetically based or acquired by other means.

The Zika crisis has forced many couples to consider the consequences of bringing a severely disabled child into their homes, including the significant impact it might have on their future lives, particularly when there are other children for whom they are responsible. As all of us who have followed the political campaign are now aware, the Catholic and fundamentalist Christian view on abortion, even in such cases, is clear-cut: no abortion under any circumstances. One must not assume, however, that because Judaism prizes life no less than Christianity, devout Jews must also stand opposed. Halakha is more nuanced. In fact, the halakhic approach suggests that the very terminology used to describe the anti-abortion movement – “Right to Life” – has been misappropriated. In this brief paper, I will present some rabbinic decisions that have shaped present day Halakha in regards to abortion. The material that I will present is derived in large part from an analysis of the subject by Rav Moshe Zuriel. [5] But first, a brief accounting of abortion in our current political landscape is in order.

* * *

One’s view on abortion is intimately connected, for obvious reasons, to one’s view of when life begins. So when exactly does life begin? For many people in the United States, the answer is that life begins the moment an egg is fertilized by a sperm. At that point, that one cell embryo is considered fully human, deserving of the same rights and protections of all humans who walk the earth, and any action that disrupts the growth of that embryo, whether as a fetus or even as a bunch of cells in a petri dish, is no different from killing a fully alive human being. Those who share this belief do so with great passion. It is a passion ignited by religious zeal. They see themselves living in a society that has run amok in its countenance of murder on an industrial scale. And, as we know, that zeal itself too often has had consequences, fueling violence against actually-alive human beings who facilitate or perform abortion. The reader may remember this:

Amherst, N.Y., Oct. 24, 1998 — Dr. Barnett Slepian, an obstetrician with a practice in this Buffalo suburb, returned home from synagogue Friday night with his wife, Lynn, and greeted his four sons. Then he stepped into his kitchen, where a sniper's bullet crashed through a back window and struck him in the chest, the police said.

He fell to the floor, calling for help, and died within two hours.[6].

Dr. Slepian was one of three abortion providers in the Buffalo area. The miscreant who did this killed to defend the “Right to Life.” Unfortunately, there have been others such murders supported and perpetrated and by an offshoot of the “Right to Life” movement who call themselves the Army of God.

This point of view presents great difficulty for reproductive specialists. In the routine course of fertility treatments, we routinely discard embryos, either because – like 80% of embryos formed in the natural process of reproduction – they lack implantation potential, or because we have been requested to do so by former patients. [7] Notwithstanding the pro-life nature of in vitro fertilization (IVF) – without it, millions of babies would never have been born – the technique has engendered fierce opposition in fundamentalist communities. Their calculation is simple: IVF is no different than abortion; be it a fetus in the womb or a one cell embryo in a test tube, ending their existence is murder. American voters ignore the consequences of this view at their own peril: in July, the House Appropriations Committee of the US Congress agreed to an amendment that, if passed, would deny funding of IVF treatment to military personnel whose wounds prevent them from having children by any other means.[8] Beyond the ethical implications of such a policy, a moratorium against federal funding of research involving human embryos was put into effect in 1976 and its ripple effects continue to slow the pace of advancements in IVF and its spin-off technologies, including stem cells.[9]

Even more far-reaching is the “Personhood Amendment,” a brilliant new political tactic being used by those who wish to see legal abortion in this country disappear. It seeks to set a new definition of the word "person." Its importance stems from the original Roe v. Wade decision in 1973,[10] wherein Supreme Court Justice Harry Blackmun ruled that that the equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment does not refer to the fetus because it is not legally considered a person. Personhood Amendments seek to redefine the term “person" as something that begins when an egg is fertilized by sperm and ends when the last breath is taken. Were this definition of personhood accepted, the right to life for an embryo or a fetus would then be guaranteed specifically by the Fourteenth Amendment.

In the last five years, thirteen states have attempted to place “personhood” measures on the ballot. Only two states – Colorado and Mississippi – have put such measures to a vote, and voters rejected them. Nevertheless, their derivative, the so-called fetal homicide laws, are already being used in many states to arrest and prosecute women who miscarry pregnancies or are otherwise seen as “harming” the fetus.[11] In Indiana earlier this year, the governor enacted a law that would prosecute any doctor who performs an abortion for almost any reason, including fetal abnormalities, for wrongful death. By that same law, any woman undergoing an abortion at any stage and for any reason would also be required to pay for burial or cremation of the fetus.[12] Appropriately, this law has not been carried out due to an injunction issued by a federal judge this past June.[13]

At the federal level, two similar pieces of legislation – the Sanctity of Human Life Act and the Life at Conception Act – are introduced in Congress year after year; they have failed on each occasion. This past winter, however, every Republican candidate indicated support for these bills.

* * *

Although abortion on demand is anathema to the ethics of the Halakha, in Jewish law there are many situations in which a pregnancy may be terminated. Within the first 40 days of pregnancy, in particular, the embryo is considered by the Talmud to be “mere water.”[14] By inference, an embryo outside the womb certainly has no status as a human life. Thus, as Rabbis Mordechai Eliyahu ZS”L and Haim David Halevi ZS”L pointed out,[15,16] , fertilized eggs in a petri dish may be discarded. In their responsa, neither of these authorities offers any detailed analysis of his legal ruling, considering the position to be obvious and noncontroversial from the perspective of Halakha.

Halakha also does not consider abortion a capital crime. The source for this is in the Torah itself:
If two men fight and they collide with a pregnant woman and she miscarries, but she is not fatally wounded, the one who struck her shall pay damages as assessed by the husband of the woman.
Exodus 21:22

Additionally, there are situations when Halakha mandates abortion. The examples that follow will illustrate this point.

Consider the Talmudic account of a woman has been convicted of a capital offense and is sentenced to death. The court rules that the sentence must be carried out immediately. Even if she is pregnant, the court determines that she, along with her unborn child, must die. Wishing tospare her the agony of anticipating her own death, the court will not wait a single extra day. It discounts any consideration of her fetus. In fact, the iconic amora, Shemuel, rules that the fetus must first be intentionally killed – by striking the woman’s abdomen – before she is executed. He wishes to save her the embarrassment of contemplating the miscarriage and bleeding that will follow her death.[17] Of course, this is only a theoretical discussion – the death penalty was rarely, if ever, practiced in Jewish law, and certainly not in the era of the Talmud. Still, the discussion sheds light on how hazal viewed the fetus. In this case they make clear that a fetus is not a nephesh; it has no independent status as being alive, and it is certainly not a human being.

The Talmud also teaches that if the childbirth process is interrupted and the mother’s life is in danger, the fetus is killed and the body is removed piecemeal in order to rescue the mother’s life.[18] We learn from this passage that up until the moment that the fetus emerges it is not considered a separate individual. It instead has the status of an inner organ of the mother, just like her kidneys or liver. Therefore, if she needs life, we may destroy that part. As Rashi comments there, the fetus has no soul. It does have ruah hayim, or spirit of life, but that is derived from, and is dependent on, its mother. The soul is only acquired upon birth. The notion that killing a fetus is tantamount to murder was not one that he or any of our early sages would recognize.

An example of how this is relevant was given by the Radbaz (Rabbi David ben Zimra, Sephardic, 16th century) who ruled on the case of a kohen who hit a pregnant woman and caused her to miscarry. The question was whether the kohen must thereafter refrain from reciting birkat kohanim because, by Halakha, a murderer is disqualified from all priestly services. Radbaz ruled that the kohen is permitted to continue since a fetus is not yet a soul.

While it would be safe to say that no halakhic authorities allow abortion only for the sake of convenience, all of them accept that in the case of piquah nefesh – where the fetus is jeopardizing the mother’s life – her life comes first. But what do we make of a situation where a woman’s pregnancy does not pose a physical danger to her, only an emotional one?

As background to Rav Zuriel’s analysis, he states that the Torah is certainly concerned with savlan shel ha’beriot, the “suffering of humanity.” Here is a partial listing of the responsa that he cites, specifically regarding a married woman who has conceived as the result of an adulterous relationship and requests an abortion:

(A) Chavot Ya’ir – (Rav Yair Bachrach, Ashkenazi, 17th century) – permitted.
(B) She‘ilat Ya’avetz – (Rav Ya’akov Emden, Ashkenazi, 18th century) – permitted.
(C) Ben Ish Chai – (Rav Yosef Hayyim, Sephardic, 19th century) – permitted.[19]
Mishpetei Uzziel (Rav Ben-Zion Meir Chai Uzziel, Sephardic, 20th century) was asked by a sick woman who feared becoming deaf in both of her ears due to childbirth. Relying on the passage in the Talmud cited above, he permitted abortion, even though it was not a matter of life and death. He specifically states that the reason the court is permitted to abort the fetus before the execution has nothing to do with the fact that they are both destined to die; rather, as clearly stated in the Talmud, it is done for the good of the woman, to spare her embarrassment.

* * *

While there are halakhic decisors who, following the rulings of their respective gedolei hador, disallow termination of such a pregnancy, there are nevertheless many poskim of major import whose views differ. Here is a sampling of 20th Century poskim who considered the subject:

(1) Rabbi Shaul Yisraeli, Rosh Yeshiva of Mercaz HaRav, was asked by a woman who took thalidomide during pregnancy. This drug caused severe birth defects in many but not all exposed fetuses, and he permitted abortion. His hidush was that even if not all such fetuses are in danger, but the obstetricians claim that a sizeable percentage born in such situations are damaged severely, this is enough to support performing an abortion.
(2) Rabbi Dr. Ya’akov Yechiel Weinberg, a mid-20th century European master of Torah as well as secular studies, author of Seridei Eish, was asked by a woman who was sick with German measles during her pregnancy, and who was advised by her doctors that many such fetuses are born deaf, blind and mentally impaired. He, too, permitted abortion.
(3) Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, ZS”L also permitted abortion for suitable medical causes but only to the end of the first trimester.
(4) Finally, the late Rabbi Eliezer Yehuda Waldenberg, ZS”L author of the Tzitz Eliezer, went to great length to prove why abortion of a sick fetus is permissible. He allowed first trimester abortion of a fetus that would be born with a deformity that would cause it to suffer and, famously, termination of a fetus with a lethal fetal defect such as Tay-Sachs disease up to the conclusion of the seventh month of pregnancy.

With this in mind, we must ask, why would any posek condemn a woman pregnant with a Zika-damaged fetus to carry her pregnancy to term? Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, ZS”L considered abortion except when the mother’s life is clearly endangered to be impermissible.[20] In his teshuva he explains why. His reasons are many and varied and include not only his detailed halakhic analysis but also his distrust of doctors’ motivations. He also believed that even a brief and painful life would merit the newborn tehiyat hameitim. Many contemporary poskim, despite their great respect for Rav Moshe, discounted his objections. What prompted Rav Moshe to take his strict position cannot be known. We do know that it was penned in 1976, shortly after abortion was legalized in the United States and in the midst of a new sexual freedom sweeping across the country. It is possible he foresaw that the collusion of these phenomena could bring undesirable consequences for the Jewish world.

In any event, not all poskim accept Rav Moshe’s psak. Rav Zuriel concludes his survey with the notion that koach d’heteira adif. In this regard, the reader should recall the words of Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, ZS”L who wrote the following with the same matter in mind:

A sensitive posek recognizes both the gravity of the personal circumstances and the seriousness of the halakhic factors…. He might stretch the halakhic limits of leniency where serious domestic tragedy looms, or hold firm to the strict interpretation of the law when, as he reads the situation, the pressure for leniency stems from frivolous attitudes and reflects a debased moral compass.[21]

Regardless of which halakhic analysis is deemed more “correct,” any couple facing the looming tragedy of pregnancy with a sick fetus and who chooses to terminate that pregnancy may lean on the wisdom of many giants of Torah. In the language of our sages, yesh al mi l’smokh.

* * *

Collectively, we hope and pray that none of us finds ourselves personally involved in such situations. They are heartbreaking, no doubt. But, as Torah-observant Jews, these situations must not always lead to endless pain and suffering. Our approach does not coincide with the fundamentalist sentiment sweeping America. While the Jewish perspective is indeed pro-life, its conclusion is different. To be pro-life halakhically means to be in favor of a pregnant woman retaining her dignity and for the couple in question to be allowed to live their life without the emotional trauma that accompanies the birth of a dying or damaged child. While we certainly respect those who choose to take on that burden, the Torah does not require women to do so. To be pro-life is also to support the use of IVF, when necessary, to build families, including lots of Jewish families.

Zika is a very complicated subject, too new and too potentially threatening for even the medical world to have answers. Curiously, its emergence as a serious threat to the health of American women and children at the very same time that the presidential elections are in full gear reminds us that the abortion issue – and the opposing platforms of the candidates – must be taken seriously. Redefining life as beginning at fertilization discounts the problem of savlan shel ha’beriot and ignores the cruel repercussions that such a policy would engender. As such, this doctrine is in conflict with Halakha and cannot be countenanced by those who are committed to Torah values.

[1]Johansson MA, Mier-y-Teran-Romero L, Reefhuis J, Gilboa SM, Hills SL. Zika and the risk of
microcephaly. NEJM. 2016;375(1):1-4.
[2]http://www.bmj.com/content/354/bmj.i3899
[3]The thesis of this article is that an unborn child is not a recognized entity in Halakha. As long as it is unborn, it is called a fetus; only once it has emerged is it a child. I have therefore been careful to avoid use of such terms as “fetus in the womb” as needlessly duplicative. If it is a fetus, it can only be in the womb and if it is a child it can only be out.
[4]http://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/28/us/supreme-court-texas-abortion.html?…
[5]Tehumin 2005. A (less-detailed) summary is available in English at http:/www.torahmusings.com/2013/08/abortions-that-are-kosher/
[6]http://www.nytimes.com/1998/10/25/nyregion/abortion-doctor-in-buffalo-s…
[7]The outcome of any given in vitro fertilization cycle is unpredictable. Embryos that are not transferred to the womb in the process of treatment are typically frozen for potential future use. However, those for whom IVF has been successful and who have finished growing their families may prefer not to keep their excess embryos in perpetual storage.
[8] http://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/13/us/politics/congress-embryo-ivf.html?…
[9]http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/general-article/bab…
[10]It is worth noting that the case was decided by a 7-2 majority, reflecting public sentiment. Americans still support legal abortion by a significant majority. See http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2016/06/27/5-facts-about-abortion/
[11]https://rewire.news/article/2014/01/09/feticide-laws-advance-personhood…
[12]http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/25/us/indiana-governor-mike-pence-signs-…
[13]http://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/01/us/federal-judge-blocks-indiana-abort…
[14]Yevamot 69b
[15]Eliyahu M. Responsum to Richard Grazi.10 Shevat 5749 (Jan 10, 1989). Tehumin 1991; vol 11
[16]Halevi HD. Responsum to Richard Grazi.19 Tevet 5749 (Dec 27, 1988). 1990; 12:3-4; Assia nos 47-48
[17]Arachin 7a
[18]Sanhedrin 72b
[19]One can argue about this response, because of the oblique manner in which it was given. However, the intent and meaning of the response is clear.
[20]Iggrot Moshe H”M, 2: 69
[21]Lichtenstein A: Abortion: A halakhic perspective. Tradition. 25(4):11, 1991

The Value of an Explanatory Prayer Service

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

          This past Shabbat (April 30, 2022), I had the privilege to lead a newly-opened explanatory prayer service at Congregation Beth Aaron in Teaneck, New Jersey. The service is dedicated to the memory of Andy Dimond, who passed away last year. Raised in a largely secular Jewish family, Andy became observant in his adulthood and was deeply dedicated to inspiring others religiously.

          It is striking that in a highly observant community as Teaneck, there is a profound thirst for learning more about Torah and prayer. Some sixty people were in attendance, and we learned about the weekly Torah reading and prayer. It was inspiring to see so many people take the step to learn more about the services they attend regularly.

          Here is a summary of the main talk I gave, pertaining to the value of an explanatory service and the goals of prayer.

*

Prayer is hard! Even for those of us who attend synagogue services regularly, there are a number of fundamental impediments to prayer.

For many, the Hebrew language is a barrier. Despite the fact that Jewish law permits prayer in any language one understands, our public prayers are recited in Hebrew.

Although thanking God can be understood as an expression of good manners and gratitude, what do words of praise and petition actually achieve? Furthermore, we pray from a fixed text, and recite the same prayers whether at times of great joy or when we are beset by crisis.

For many, analysis is more stimulating than prayer, making Torah study a more meaningful religious encounter. The same holds true for acts of tzedakah and hesed toward others, where we immediately feel a sense of religious fulfillment.

While we may confront different challenges than did earlier generations, our struggle to attain religious devotion is hardly a uniquely modern problem. Let us consider one remarkable passage from the Jerusalem Talmud:

R. Hiyya said, “I never concentrated during prayer in all my days! Once I wanted to concentrate, but I thought about who will meet the king first: [a Persian high official] or the Exilarch.” Shemuel said, “I count chicks.” R. Bun b. Hiyya said, “I count bricks.” R. Matnaya said, “I am grateful to my head, because it bows by itself when I reach Modim (Berakhot 2:4, 16a).

One commentary entitled Toledot Yitzhak (by Rabbi Yitzhak Karo, the brother of Rabbi Yosef Karo) remarks that the Talmud teaches that even the greatest Sages struggled with the issue of proper intention and focus during prayer. Their struggles should inspire us to improve our focus, and not to despair when we find prayer difficult.

In addition to our efforts, we need God’s help to pray. We begin each Amidah with the introductory petition: “O Lord, open my lips, that my mouth may declare Your praise” (Psalms 51:17). We pray to God to enable us to pray! Once we recognize some of the inherent challenges in prayer, we may begin to address those challenges and enhance our ability to pray.

*

One of the most incredible aspects of seeing a starry night is the concept of light years. We are looking at the stars right now, but we see one star as it appeared 20 years ago, another as it appeared 40 years ago, another as it appeared 100 years ago, and so on. It creates a staggering feeling of time-transcendence.

The prayer book offers a similar phenomenon. It is an anthology of sacred texts, which includes passages from the Torah, later books of the Bible incorporated in the Prophets and the Holy Writings, Mishnah, Talmud, the medieval period, sixteenth-century mystical traditions—all the way to prayers for the modern State of Israel. When we pray, we engage God in a relationship right now, but we also transcend time by seamlessly moving through the set order of prayers.

Engagement with the traditional prayer book connects us with communities everywhere and all time. Without this fixed text, we would have lost our shared identity long ago.

*

          The great mystic Rabbi Hayyim Vital (1542-1620), upon entering the synagogue, would say, “I now am ready to fulfill the commandment of loving my neighbor as myself.” Although the commandment “love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18) is a celebrated tenet of the Torah, it seems surprising that Rabbi Vital would call attention to this commandment in the particular context of prayer.

          Rabbi Vital teaches a profound lesson about prayer. Communal prayer creates shared lives, built around God, the Torah, education, and community service. Prayers express our greatest ideas and ideals. If we truly can pray, we truly can love others on the highest plane.

          A great measure of the success of a prayer service is how people behave outside of the synagogue in day-to-day life. Are we bringing religious values to every aspect of our lives? Are we more sensitive, better people?

          Learning to pray requires making ourselves vulnerable to accept that we need help praying. It inspires us to transcend ourselves and our time and connect to eternity. And it prods us to look beyond the walls of our synagogues to develop religious and communal engagement in all areas of our lives.

One of the most influential writers of Jewish philosophy, theology, and fiction during the early Victorian period was Grace Aguilar. A traditional Spanish and Portuguese Jew, Aguilar spent most of her short life living outside of a structured Jewish community. Yet her vast knowledge of biblical, and even some rabbinical, texts—as well as her highly Romantic prose—brought her works to a wide audience of both Jews and Christians. Her popular novels were read all over England and the United States, as were her works of history, theology, and biblical criticism. In The Origin of the Modern Jewish Woman Writer, Michael Galchinsky asserts that Aguilar “was recognized by Christians and Jews alike as the writer who best defined the Anglo-Jewish response to the challenge to enter the modern world” (135).

Aguilar’s works reflect a philosophy that merges traditional Orthodoxy with progressive thinking, elevates the role of women while stressing their domestic roles, and focuses on the individual nature of spirituality while at once identifying with a larger peoplehood. Aguilar’s traditional upbringing and theology resonate throughout her works—as do her Romanticism and passion. It is her way of framing social and theological issues that defines her as a progressive traditionalist; a woman who, within the framework of traditional Judaism and gender roles, sees opportunities for spiritual development of men and women alike. She promotes questioning and personal biblical interpretation, as well as the evolution of the halakhic process to address contemporary realities.

The Women of Israel (and England)

Free to assert their right as immortal children of the living God, let not the women of Israel be backward in proving that they, too, have a station to uphold, and a “mission” to perform, not alone as daughters, wives, and mothers, but as witnesses of that faith which first raised, cherished, and defended them…. Let us then endeavor to convince the nations of the high privileges we enjoy, in common with our fathers, brothers, and husbands, as the first-born of the Lord, by the peculiar sanctity, spirituality, and inexpressible consolation of our belief. (The Women of Israel, 12–13)

.

Aguilar had a short—but prolific—life. Many of her novels were published after her death at age 31. She was born in 1816 in London and died in 1847 in Germany, having gone to spas there on the advice of her doctors. Her parents were of Spanish and Portuguese descent, and practiced traditional Judaism. Emmanuel Aguilar, Grace’s father, was the Parnas, or president, of the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue in London until the family moved to Devonshire in 1828, due to Emmanuel’s poor health.

“A mother, whose heart is in her work will find many opportunities, which properly improved, will lead her little charge to God. … A mother’s lips should teach [prayers and Bible] to her child, and not leave the first impressions of religion to be received from a Christian nurse. Were the associations of a mother connected with the act of praying, associations of such long continuance that the child knew not when they were implanted: the piety of maturer years would not be so likely to waver.” (The Spirit of Judaism, 225)

Aguilar faced several issues as a traditional Jewish woman. First, she was denied access to rabbinical texts. Although Jews were relatively emancipated in English society, Jewish women were not fully emancipated in traditional Jewish circles. Second, she felt the pressures of conversionists. According to Milton Kerker, missionaries often targeted Jewish women, “under the perception that these were more spiritual and chafed under the shackles of a rigid, male-dominated creed” (36). Aguilar wrote, therefore, to help women stand strong against conversionist pressures. For example, in her novel The Vale of Cedars, Aguilar presents a heroic main character who chooses to give up the (Christian) love of her life—and ultimately suffers at the hands of Inquisitors—in order to remain true to her Jewish faith. In addition to showing resistance to conversionists, Aguilar also tells of the history of the Jews of Spain, creating sympathy and understanding of her culture and history in her readers.

What Jewish women needed, according to Aguilar, was to be strengthened in their Judaism, and to feel fulfilled intellectually and spiritually. She wrote The Women of Israel as an apologetic text; in it, she “proves” women’s equality in Judaism—stressing that even the idea of ideal Victorian womanhood can be found in Jewish texts. Jewish women, she argues, should not be seduced by missionaries’ arguments that Judaism relegates them to second-class citizens.

The Women of Israel became a very popular book among Jewish and Christian readers. It highlights some of Aguilar’s theological ideas, her social values, and some of the tensions inherent in her enlightened traditionalism.

Public Religion vs. Private Spirituality

Aguilar exalts the feminine, private aspects of Judaism in her work, The Women of Israel. When examining the lives of biblical women, Aguilar glorifies the domestic sphere as the arena of true spirituality and communion with God. For example, in retelling the story of the matriarch Sarah, Aguilar envisions a Victorian model of domesticity—who is at the same time equal in God’s eyes to her husband, Abraham:

The beautiful confidence and true affection subsisting between Abram and Sarai, marks unanswerably their equality; that his wife was to Abram friend as well as partner; and yet, that Sarai knew perfectly her own station, and never attempted to push herself forward in unseemly counsel, or use the influence which she so largely possessed for any weak or sinful purpose….There is no pride so dangerous and subtle as spiritual pride….But in Sarai there was none of this… it is not always the most blessed and distinguished woman who attends the most faithfully to her domestic duties, and preserves unharmed and untainted that meekness and integrity which is her greatest charm. (The Women of Israel, 49)

To a modern reader, the idea that a meek, domestic wife has attained equality with her husband seems odd. Aguilar is here promoting Victorian ideals of womanhood alongside a Jewish philosophy that holds women equal in status and responsibility to men. Although Aguilar believes that women and men necessarily have different “stations,” or prescribed social roles, she emphasizes women’s spiritual equality, or her equality in worth as a human being in the eyes of God.

In Aguilar’s description of Hannah for example, she lauds Hannah’s ability to privately utter her own prayers: her poetry shows her intellect, as her poem is “a forcible illustration of the intellectual as well as the spiritual piety which characterized the women of Israel, and which in its very existence denies the possibility of degradation applying to women, either individually, socially, or domestically” (The Women of Israel, 260). Additionally, Hannah is able to enter the Temple, showing that she has equal access to holy places. Hannah’s private, quiet prayer—the first of its type—is used by rabbis as the model of prayer in general. Aguilar praises Hannah’s prayer for its quiet modesty and its feeling and intellectual composition, thus elevating a woman’s role to the paradigm of all prayers said by Jewish men and women.

Aguilar’s concern is for the private, spiritual nature of Judaism and the individual’s ability to read Jewish texts and draw use these texts to preserve and strengthen one’s identity. For example, in discussing Yokheved, the mother of Moses, Aguilar follows the rabbinic interpretation that Moses was sent to live with his birth mother until he was weaned. In these few years, Yokheved was able to educate her son and create in him an identity that would enable him to become a great leader of the Jewish people. Home, the site of maternal love and education, is glorified as the only place a Jewish woman should desire to reside and lead:

[Mothers of Israel should] follow the example of the mother of Moses, and make their sons the receivers, and in their turn the promulgators, of that holy law which is their glorious inheritance. (The Women of Israel, 144)

In the nineteenth century, Jewish women were not taught Talmud; they were exempt from public prayer; and they could not hold positions of authority in the Jewish community. But rather than chase after a “male” type of emancipation, Aguilar raises the “female” spaces of the Jewish woman to a higher plane than that of Jewish men. Private, personal relationships with God are seen throughout the Bible; thus spirituality should be an individual, private affair.

But while spirituality is elevated as a private value for women and men, Aguilar believes that public societal positions should be left in the male domain; women should always remain in that spiritual, private sphere. The idea of gendered public and private life can be seen dramatically in Aguilar’s portrayal of Miriam, sister of Moses.

Miriam is one of the few biblical women who is referred to as a neviah, a prophet. She is a public figure among the Israelites; when she dies, the whole camp ceases its travels and mourns for seven days. Miriam leads the women in song after the miraculous splitting of the sea. Aguilar points to this incident and notes that neviah here means poet, not prophet, thus diminishing her public role in the community. Then, Aguilar focuses on Miriam’s sin: speaking gossip about Moses’ wife. She points to Miriam as what happens when women presume to live in the same sphere as the men in their lives, namely, they get punished for the sin of haughtiness: “Miriam sought to raise herself not only above her brother’s wife, but to an equality with that brother himself; and, by the infliction of a loathsome disease, she sank at once below the lowest of her people” (The Women of Israel, 208). At the same time, Aguilar argues that Miriam’s punishment shows women’s equality to men:

Were women in a degraded position, Miriam, in the first place, would not have had sufficient power for her seditious words to be of any consequence; and, in the next, it would have been incumbent on man to chastise—there needed no interference of the Lord. We see, therefore, the very sinfulness of Jewish women, as recorded in the Bible, is undeniable evidence of their equality, alike in their power to subdue sin, and in its responsibility before God. (The Women of Israel, 210)

The idea of women’s equality versus women’s sinful “nature” and private sphere, as illustrated in Aguilar’s interpretation of Miriam, is one of the tensions in Aguilar’s works. Galchinsky sums up this feminist/anti-feminist tension:

In the 1860s, when women’s rights debates grew strong, Aguilar’s work could appeal both to feminists and to anti-feminists. Feminists could support her work as a Jewish woman’s groundbreaking act of self-representation and advocacy, a stage on the way to liberation, while anti-feminists could support it as a model of modesty and domesticity. (187)

An additional tension comes from Aguilar’s promotion of women’s private roles as mothers and domestic teachers, while she herself tells of these ideas through the publication of books for a wide public. But this tension is an integral part of Aguilar’s upbringing and philosophy. Tradition and progress must go hand in hand—in perpetual tension; consistency is of secondary importance.

Toward a Progressive Orthodoxy

A new era is dawning for us. Persecution and intolerance have in so many lands ceased to predominate, that Israel may once more breathe in freedom…the voice of man need no longer be the vehicle of instruction from father to son, mingling with it unconsciously human opinions, till those opinions could scarcely be severed from the word of God… This need no longer be. The Bible may be perused in freedom… A spirit of inquiry, of patriotism, or earnestness in seeking to know the Lord and obey Him…is springing up. (The Women of Israel, 11–12)

Some criticize Aguilar’s theology in The Spirit of Judaism as “Jewish Protestantism” and note that Aguilar’s work shows a lack of deep knowledge of rabbinic texts. However, as a woman in a traditional Jewish community—where would she have found access to rabbinical texts? Scheinberg responds to the label “Jewish Protestant”:

Aguilar fervently believed that only through active “defensive” engagement with Christian culture could Jews and Judaism advance in Diaspora life; she took on this project of advancing Jewish learning despite the fact that she was excluded from traditional Jewish theology. If she sought strategies that could speak conclusively and inclusively to Christian readers, it was always part of a project of advancing Judaism and the Jewish people, a rhetorical strategy… rather than ideological commitment to Christian/Protestant doctrine.” (154)

In her writings Aguilar continually placed the Bible on a pedestal of unquestioned authority and simultaneously downgraded the Oral Law as having little importance. For example, she declared that “the Bible and reason are the only guides to which the child of Israel can look in security….those observances…for which no reason can be assigned save the ideas of our ancient fathers, cannot be compared in weight and consequence to the piety of the heart.” [The Spirit of Judaism, 228] Again she criticized Jews who, “earnest in the cause, yet mistaken in the means, search and believe the writings of the Rabbis, take as divine truths all they have suggested, and neglect the Bible as not to be compared with such learned dissertations” [The Spirit of Judaism, 51]. (190)

Aguilar’s emphasis on shifting academic study of Judaism to the Bible and reason, and away from rabbinic texts, is not necessarily a move toward Karaism. First, Aguilar emphasizes the resources to which she herself has access; it is only natural to value one’s own path of access above learning that one does not have the opportunity to delve into. Her belief in the Bible as a source of “unquestioned authority” stems from her traditional philosophy that the words of the Bible are divine. Second, Aguilar makes some very valid points in looking at Orthodox tradition—from a traditional perspective. Just because Aguilar criticizes the status quo in the Orthodox world does not, as some critics argue, make her a reformer. In fact, in progressive Orthodox circles today, these same claims are being made: There is too great a focus in the yeshiva world on the Oral Law; many yeshiva students do not have a basic knowledge of Tanakh, biblical writings.

Aguilar argues that “Circumstances demand the modification…of some of these Rabbinical statutes; and could the wise and pious originators have been consulted on the subject, they would have unhesitatingly adopted those measures” (The Spirit of Judaism, 31). Rather than reject rabbinic law, Aguilar promotes modification—based on contemporary realities. The process of halakhic decision-making is a fluid, changing structure. By viewing the Oral Law as “divine,” one discredits the whole nature of the halakhic process, which necessarily evolves as new realities crop up. Additionally, Aguilar notes, it is important to understand the backgrounds and biases of those rabbis who wrote the halakha: “There may be some observances which superstition and bigotry have introduced” (The Spirit of Judaism, 241). Looking at halakha as an evolving process, Aguilar demands an honest assessment of the origins and intellectual validity of each law as it is practiced. She thus encourages each Jew to go back to the original source—the Bible—to try to understand the essential spirit of the halakha. As a traditional Jew, Aguilar encourages a more rational, Bible and reason-based, evolving Orthodoxy that will be rich in tradition and spirituality for men and women alike.

Works Cited

Aguilar, Grace. The Women of Israel. New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1872.
Galchinsky, Michael. The Origin of the Modern Jewish Woman Writer: Romance and
Reform in Victorian England. Detroit: Wayne University Press, 1996.
———, ed. Grace Aguilar: Selected Writings. Orchard Park, NY: Broadview Press, 2003.
Hyman, Paula E. Gender and Assimilation in Modern Jewish History: The Roles and
Representations of Women. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995.
Kerker, Milton. “Grace Aguilar, A Woman of Israel.” Midstream 47:2 (2001): 35–37.
Scheinberg, Cynthia. Women’s Poetry and Religion in Victorian England: Jewish
Identity and Christian Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.
Singer, Steven. “Jewish Religious Though in Early Victorian London.” AJS Review
10:2 (Autumn 1985): 181–210.
Zatlin, Linda Gertner. The Nineteenth-Century Anglo-Jewish Novel. Boston: Twayne
Publisher

Dr. Edy Cohen is a research fellow at Bar-Ilan University

On June 1, 1941, on the holiday of Shavuot, the Farhud took place in Iraq -- a pogrom against the Jews carried out be an incited, raging Muslim majority that was the result of the Third Reich's Nazi propaganda. Hundreds of Jews were murdered in Baghdad and elsewhere, and thousands more were injured. Jewish property was looted, and many homes were burned down. The Iraqi government established an investigation committee to look into the riots, and the findings revealed that Jerusalem Grand Mufti Haj Amin al-Husseini and the Nazi Arabic-language propaganda broadcast on the radio from Berlin were the main causes behind the massacre.

The mufti's followers were the ones who carried out the pogrom due to the failure of the coup he helped to orchestrate after fleeing Palestine. That is why the frustrated mufti decided to settle the score with Iraq's Jews. In his memoirs, he even justified the Farhud, writing, "The Fifth Column had a great influence on the failure of the Iraqi movement, and was comprised of many elements, most importantly, the Jews of Iraq.

During the fighting, [Lebanese diplomat] George Antonius told me that Jews employed in the telephone department were recording important and official telephone conversations and passing them to the British embassy in Baghdad. Jewish workers in the post and telegram departments acted in a similar fashion, forwarding the messages and letters they received to the embassy."

Thus Husseini decided to punish the Jews for allegedly cooperating with the British and causing his revolt to fail.

Later, when the survivors of the Farhud immigrated to Israel, Israeli authorities flatly refused to recognize them as victims of Nazism. Even today, anyone who tries to expose the injustice done to Jews from Arab lands is blamed for attempting to provoke ethnic clashes. And so, for many years, they managed to silence anyone who attempted to bring the issue to light, and the culture, leaders, authors, poets and spiritual life of Jews from Arab countries were not integrated into the school curriculum (in contrast to the history of European Jews). In this context, one must also recall the Yemenite Children Affair (in which hundreds of Yemenite babies were kidnapped upon their families' arrival in Israel and given to Ashkenazi families), which is a part of history that is still mainly untold and unknown.

The Farhud is inseparable from the Nazi atrocities. It was carried out by Arabs who were directly incited by Joseph Goebbels' Nazi propaganda -- according to Iraq's own investigation. Despite this, Israel "cleansed" the Nazis of these crimes over a period of several years. A lot of money was invested and paid to senior academics to determine that the Farhud was an "Arab" incident. Throughout history, there is no incident similar to the Farhud, which was carried out to harm Jews in an Arab state. There is no doubt that the Nazi propaganda is what incited and caused the murder of Jews.

Today, the situation is beginning to change -- justice has finally won, if a bit late. Finance Minister Moshe Kahlon made the administrative decision to end the injustice, stating that anyone born in Iraq up until the Farhud would be eligible to receive an annual grant, among other benefits. Additionally, thousands of Jews of Iraqi heritage have been fighting for compensation for years, with the help of attorney David Yadid, in a suit that is awaiting a ruling shortly.

The benefits and efforts to correct the injustice done to Jews from Arab countries will not be determined solely by the court's ruling. Education Minister Naftali Bennett has established a committee led by poet and Israel Prize laureate Erez Biton, to review efforts for the further integration of content about the Jewish communities from Arab countries into the curriculum, out of a desire to expose Israeli students of all ages to the cultural, social and historical wealth of these communities.

We must remember that Jews from Arab countries and their descendants are not a minority, rather, they now make up more than 50% of Israel's Jewish population.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Naso

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

When the Almighty calls on Moses to command the priests to bless the people of Israel, the instructions are in the plural (emor lahem). When the blessing is concluded, the Almighty indicates: “and I will bless them” (va-ani avarakhem)—also in the plural. The setting of the priestly blessing, then, is clearly to be a public event intended for the entire collective.

Yet, the tripartite blessing itself is entirely in the singular form. Although the blessing is intended for the plurality of Israel, it is aimed at each individual separately. It prays that God will bless and protect each of us; that God’s countenance should shine on each Israelite and grant each one of us peace—shalom.

The formulation of the priestly blessing is alluding to a profound truth. The blessings are given to the entire community…not as an anonymous mass of people, but as an assembly of individual human beings. The emphasis is on the uniqueness of each person, the desire that each of us finds blessing and fulfillment in life. The goal is shalom…peace, wholeness, personal satisfaction.

God’s infinite wisdom encompasses all…but focuses on each. This idea is underscored in a Talmudic teaching (Berakhot 58a) that requires the recitation of a special blessing when witnessing a vast throng of Jews. We are to praise the Almighty Who is hakham harazim, the One who understands the root and inner thoughts of each individual. “Their thoughts are not alike and their appearance is not alike.” The Creator made each person as a unique being. He expected and wanted diversity of thought, and we bless Him for having created this diversity among us.

Religious life entails participating in a community, observing shared rituals, following traditional patterns. It can happen that one’s individuality may seem compromised or lost in the process. The overwhelming emphasis on communal mores tends to diminish the uniqueness of each individual. The priestly blessing reminds us of the need to be part of the community…but to retain our own distinctive individuality.

In his famous essay, “Self-Reliance,” Ralph Waldo Emerson taught: “There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion.” We each are who we are; to squelch our individuality in order to imitate others is self-destructive. Emerson lamented the tendency to forfeit one’s ideas, ideals and values in order to blend in with the dominant group. Rather, one should be true to him/herself.

Poignantly, Emerson wrote: “Man is timid and apologetic. He is no longer upright. He dares not say ‘I think,’ ‘I am,’ but quotes some saint or sage.” These words, proclaimed in the mid-19th century, continue to ring true nearly 200 years later. So many religious people, including rabbis, are reluctant to express an original opinion unless it is authenticated by sages of earlier generations. Instead of relying on their own thinking, they seek to amass sources of earlier “authorities.”

The framework of the priestly blessing provides a vital dynamic. We are a community; we stand together in our beliefs and observances. At the same time, though, we are each unique individuals with our own particular thoughts, sensitivities and needs. While we—as members of a community—receive the blessings from the priests and from God, those blessings are directed to each of us separately.  

This is not merely a blessing on us. It is a challenge for us.

* * *

Rabbi Marc Angel has a youtube series on religion and literature, with the first session dealing with the teachings of Ralph Waldo Emerson:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqP9UMJOwmk

When reading any text, whether a work of literature or a legal work, there are broadly speaking two possible goals. The goal may be to understand what the author was trying to convey. Alternatively, the goal may be to extract meaning for the reader. Of course, these are two extremes, and a range of options exist in the middle.

The Talmud, and indeed all of rabbinic literature, is an extremely complex and deep corpus, and has been continually studied by Jews for thousands of years. The goal of the study, however, is not so simple. In this essay, I will examine how these texts ought to be approached, both according to their authors and prominent interpreters.

It may be natural to think that the ultimate goal in studying the Talmud is objective truth. As a religious act, the reader is attempting to understand God’s word, and thus the goal should be arriving at the meaning originally intended by the authors. However, the issue is far more complex, and as a result has theological implications.

Before looking at any specific piece, it is noteworthy to examine the very structure of the Mishna. The Mishna, like the Talmud after it, is noteworthy in its meticulous inclusion of all opinions, even those conclusively refuted. Unlike other law codes and religious works, the Talmud and Midrashim celebrate conflict, and preserve a multiplicity of opinions. The Mishna in Eduyot 1:4-6 explains why minority opinions are included:

And why do they record the opinions of Shammai and Hillel for naught? To teach the following generations that a man should not [always] persist in his opinion, for behold, the fathers of the world did not persist in their opinion.
And why do they record the opinion of a single person among the many, when the halakha must be according to the opinion of the many? So that if a court prefers the opinion of the single person it may depend on him. For no court may set aside the decision of another court unless it is greater than it in wisdom and in number. If it was greater than it in wisdom but not in number, in number but not in wisdom, it may not set aside its decision, unless it is greater than it in wisdom and in number. Rabbi Judah said: “If so, why do they record the opinion of a single person among the many to set it aside? So that if a man shall say, ‘Thus have I received the tradition’, it may be said to him, ‘According to the [refuted] opinion of that individual did you hear it.’”

We can extract three reasons. Including the minority opinion teaches the important lesson that even the greatest scholars are sometimes wrong. It also allows for a later court to uphold a minority opinion. And further, it keeps a record of what has been refuted, so that such a position is not considered a second time.

From Eduyot alone, the reasons seem purely pragmatic. However, Eruvin 13b gives a more detailed picture.

Rabbi Abba said that Shemuel said: For three years Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel disagreed. These said: The halakha is in accordance with our opinion, and these said: The halakha is in accordance with our opinion. Ultimately, a Divine Voice emerged and proclaimed: Both these and those are the words of the living God. However, the halakha is in accordance with the opinion of Bet Hillel.^[1]

Here, we are given a theological reason for the inclusion of minority opinions, for they, too, are the word of the living God.² Similarly, Hagiga 3b states:

“Those that are composed in collections [ba’alei asufot]”: These are Torah scholars who sit in many groups [asupot] and engage in Torah study. There are often debates among these groups, as some of these Sages render an object or person ritually impure and these render it pure; these prohibit an action and these permit it; these deem an item invalid and these deem it valid. Lest a person say: Now, how can I study Torah when it contains so many different opinions? The verse states that they are all “given from one shepherd.” One God gave them; one leader, i.e., Moses, said them from the mouth of the Master of all creation, Blessed be He, as it is written: “And God spoke all these words.”

From the above sources, something remarkable emerges. All responsible opinions in a debate are deemed valid. While the halakha must follow one side, that does not make that opinion more correct. Bet Hillel is followed not because they are more correct but because they were more accepting, as Eruvin 13b goes on to explain:

The Gemara asks: Since both these and those are the words of the living God, why were Bet Hillel privileged to have the halakha established in accordance with their opinion? The reason is that they were agreeable and forbearing, showing restraint when affronted, and when they taught the halakha they would teach both their own statements and the statements of Bet Shammai. Moreover, when they formulated their teachings and cited a dispute, they prioritized the statements of Bet Shammai to their own statements, in deference to Bet Shammai.

In fact, not only are both sides of such a debate valid, but the debate itself is considered a good thing! This idea is beautifully formulated in Avot 5:17:

Every dispute that is for the sake of Heaven, will in the end endure; But one that is not for the sake of Heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Korah and all his congregation.

This Mishna establishes another important principle. While we ascribe value to both sides of a debate, that does not apply to all opinions. Some opinions are indeed deemed illegitimate. These debates are termed “not for the sake of heaven,” although such a designation is difficult to define precisely.

The above sources establish both pragmatic and theological reasons for keeping both sides of the debate in the dialogue. Still, from the above one would assume that the ultimate purpose of both sides is to determine what God meant. However, one of the most famous passages in the Talmud shatters this notion, the story of the oven of Akhnai in Baba Metzia 59a–59b. The Gemara relates a debate between Rabbi Eliezer and the Rabbi’s regarding the purity status of an earthenware oven that had been disassembled. Rabbi Eliezer, failing to convince his colleagues of his opinion, resorted to supernatural means to prove his position. After performing several miracles, conditioning their occurrence on his opinion being correct, the Rabbis remained unimpressed. Finally, Rabbi Eliezer resorted to an even more extreme means of proof:

Rabbi Eliezer then said to them: If the halakha is in accordance with my opinion, Heaven will prove it. A Divine Voice emerged from Heaven and said: Why are you differing with Rabbi Eliezer, as the halakha is in accordance with his opinion in every place that he expresses an opinion?

Rabbi Yehoshua stood on his feet and said: It is written: “It is not in heaven” (Deuteronomy 30:12). The Gemara asks: What is the relevance of the phrase “It is not in heaven” in this context? Rabbi Yirmeya says: Since the Torah was already given at Mount Sinai, we do not regard a Divine Voice, as You already wrote at Mount Sinai, in the Torah: “After a majority to incline” (Exodus 23:2). Since the majority of Rabbis disagreed with Rabbi Eliezer’s opinion, the halakha is not ruled in accordance with his opinion.

A literal read of the passage is shocking. Once God gave us the Torah, His intent is no longer the important question, but rather our interpretation. This takes the notion of Eilu v’Eilu (they are both words of the living God) a step further. Even if it weren't God’s word, it is still Torah! Or perhaps more accurately, God accepts all interpretations as His word. Indeed, the passage continues to say that God Himself was pleased with this outcome, saying “My children have triumphed over Me.”

One interpretation of this story, adopted by some medieval commentators, is that the goal is understanding God’s original intent as best as possible, but supernatural means are not a legitimate part of this process. This theory is a result of the uncomfortable implications of removing God’s intent from the picture, but is undermined by the simple reading of the texts cited above. Further, this clashes with several tendencies of the Talmud. For example, the Talmud is wont to interpret a Mishna or Beraita in accordance with the accepted opinion despite such a read going against the simple understanding of the text. Further, when defending an opinion from attacks based on earlier sources, often highly nuanced and convoluted reads are accepted as a defense, the simple read of the earlier source notwithstanding.

However, it would be a gross mis-categorization to claim that the Talmud places no value on authorial intent. Not all interpretation and debate is legitimate, as the Mishna in Avot so clearly indicates. The careful categorization of Stam Mishnayot with their authors, the precise exploration of and preservation of the words of earlier authorities, and the whole notion of the

mesora (tradition) demonstrates the implausibility of such an argument. But it is equally clear that a standard notion of authorial intent is decidedly not the goal. So which one is it?

The solution emerges from an analysis of the Talmud’s notion of fact and fiction. Whenever trying to establish a fact, the Talmud has two options, empirical observation, and canonical sources.

Whenever both exist, the latter is exclusively chosen, even in cases when observations are readily available. Counterintuitively, canon is deemed superior to observable fact.

So what is the Talmud’s reason for this inversion? The halakha does not operate in the observable world, but in an abstract one of ideals. This distinction, the subject of Rabbi

Soloveitchik’s Halakhic Man, has made its way into modern halakhic literature as well, as can be reflected in the attitudes of many contemporary decisors regarding dealing with halakhic ideas that have been empirically refuted, such as spontaneous generation. Its notion of truth, at least in the halakhic realm, exists in this abstract world of ideas.

Thus, it is not at all surprising that this phenomenon extends into authorial intent. This is precisely the idea of Eilu v’Eilu. The author’s intent is a key factor, but it is not judged by the empirical shackles of this terrestrial world but by the idealized conception of the author as reflected in the canon. In other words, authorial intent is everything in the Talmud, but its process at identifying it operates under foreign axioms.

This theory raises two fundamental questions that must be addressed. First, what exactly are these axioms, and how do they operate? Obviously not all interpretations are valid, so what rubric is used? Second, what is to be made of this idealized reality? What motivated the Rabbis to form this bifurcation and choose their idealized version over empiricism? How can this decision be justified?

My response to the first question is best posed with an analogy. Judaism holds the text of the Bible to be sacred. However, throughout history, two different schools have sought to protect its authenticity. While both are part of one whole, in a way they represent two different traditions.

On the one hand, we have the scribes, who faithfully transcribe the text word for word. Concurrently, we have the ba’alei keri’a, the members of the community whose job it is to read the Torah scroll. One theory of the origin of Kerei u’Ketiv is divergence between these two schools. While that theory has many issues with it, it illustrates this point perfectly. For, leaving aside the origins of Kerei u’Ketiv, it remains true that in the preservation of the Torah, we have those reading it and those writing it, but the two groups are indeed preserving a slightly different text.

Regarding Torah Sheba’al Peh, the same phenomenon is present. Originally, the Oral law remained oral. However, post the redaction of the Mishna, the mesora began to be transmitted in two concurrent forms, that of texts and that of people interpreting the texts. It may be the case that the two are not always identical, but the latter still remains a valid, indeed the only valid, interpretation of the former. This is reflected by the tendency to interpret mishnayot in accordance with the accepted halakha even if they do not seem to be. The accepted norms, as part of the oral tradition, remain as a key factor in the interpretation of texts.^[2]

In recognition of this, the Talmud views as legitimate later innovative interpretations of earlier authorities, even as it acknowledges their novelty, as expressed poignantly in the story of Moshe and Rabbi Akiva in Menahot 29b:

Rav Yehuda says that Rav says: When Moses ascended on High, he found the Holy One,

Blessed be He, sitting and tying crowns on the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, who is preventing You from giving the Torah without these additions? God said to him: There is a man who is destined to be born after several generations, and Akiva ben Yosef is his name; he is destined to derive from each and every thorn of these crowns mounds upon mounds of halakhot. It is for his sake that the crowns must be added to the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, show him to me. God said to him: Return behind you. Moses went and sat at the end of the eighth row in Rabbi Akiva’s study hall and did not understand what they were saying. Moses’ strength waned, as he thought his Torah knowledge was deficient. When Rabbi Akiva arrived at the discussion of one matter, his students said to him: My teacher, from where do you derive this? Rabbi Akiva said to them: It is a halakha transmitted to Moses from Sinai. When Moses heard this, his mind was put at ease, as this too was part of the Torah that he was to receive. Moses returned and came before the Holy One, Blessed be He, and said before Him: Master of the Universe, You have a man as great as this and yet You still choose to give the Torah through me. Why? God said to him: Be silent; this intention arose before Me.

As to what may have influenced Hazal to form this conceptualization of the halakha, it seems this arises in part from the text of the Tanakh itself. Several laws point in this direction. The most obvious example is the biblical institution of testimony, which requires several extreme formalities, such as both witnesses being males, seeing each other, and concurring even regarding ancillary facts. The massive gap between these laws and the requirements of having a functioning judicial system is obvious. Hazal recognized this, instituting super-judicial^[3] means of bridging the gap between the ideal and concrete by creating the kippah (Sanhedrin 81b).

This idea is far from limited to the above illuminating example. In a much broader sense, the very notion of rabbinic and biblical law, a dichotomy all across the Talmud, is much the same idea. Rabbinic law’s very existence is an admission that the biblical law as it stands is too far from reality, and needs a bridge of sorts, or perhaps a fence, to ensure its effectiveness.^[4]

When faced with this reality, there are two philosophical positions that potentially emerge. The first is that biblical law is flawed. Obviously, this is not even considered in the Talmud. The other recourse is to postulate that Torah Law pertains exclusively to an idealized plane, and is perfect in this abstract universe, even if it sometimes comes into conflict with the reality of daily life.

With this context, we can attempt to understand the enigmatic imperative of Torah Study for its own sake. This ideal as the goal of Talmud Torah is expressed quite clearly in Avot 6:1.^[5]

Rabbi Meir says: “Anyone who engages in Torah for its own sake merits many things, and moreover makes the entire world worthwhile.”

A warning of failure to do this can be found in Avot 4:5, which states:

Do not make the Torah a crown to magnify yourself with, or a spade with which to dig. So would Hillel say: “One who make personal use of the crown [of Torah] shall perish.” Hence, one who benefits oneself from the words of Torah removes one’s life from the world.

This ideal reaches its most famous form in Pesahim 50b:

Rav Yehuda said in the name of Rav: “A person should always be engaged in Torah and

mitzvoth, even she-lo lishmah, for doing so she-lo lishmah leads one to doing so lishmah.”

The precise meaning of this term is subject of much debate. It seems the simplest understanding is Torah learning not for any personal reward, gain, or practical benefit. It means Torah learning is not a means but an end. In light of the above analysis, this phrase takes on a new meaning. For the goal of learning Torah is not merely reconstructing an earlier historical position, but the further development of its own internal canon, to be understood in its ideal universe. Thus, in a very literal and real way, the only goal of Talmud Torah is its own sake.^[6]

Above all the Torah is a story. It is our story. It is replete with heroes, villains, drama, and ethical dilemmas. The Torah devotes a good deal of time talking about these characters and their trials, but more often than not, when reading these stories we learn less about the characters and more about ourselves. That’s because we weigh ourselves against the actions of our forefathers and foremothers. We ask ourselves: “Would I have done the same thing had I been in his or her position?” “Did he or she do the right thing?”

No story in the Torah exemplifies this better than Akedat Yitzhak, the binding of Isaac.¹ On the surface, this story appears to be one of a conflict between obeying a divine commandment from God—“Take your son, your only son, whom you love, Yitzhak, and go to the land of Moriah and raise him up there as a sacrifice” (Genesis 22:2)—and a moral prohibition against murder and child sacrifice. In other words, Avraham is forced to decide between moral and divine considerations.

For 2,000 years, this story has plagued and intrigued Jews and non-Jews alike by drawing forth questions inside of us regarding Avraham’s actions: “Did Avraham do the right thing?” “Why was he rewarded?” “Would I have done the same?”

One common traditional interpretation is that Avraham “passed the test” by putting blind faith in God and by being willing to sacrifice his son to serve God. Avraham is held up as the paramount oved hashem, servant of God.

Another interpretation is that the Akedah was a punishment or reaction for Avraham’s actions. This interpretation is supported by Rabbi Yossi Ben Zimra in Sanhedrin 89b:

[To what does “after” refer?] Rabbi Yochanan said in the name of Rabbi Yossi ben Zimra: “After the words of Satan.” For it says (Gen 21:8), “And the child grew up and was weaned.” Satan said to the Almighty: “Sovereign of the universe! To this old man You graciously granted the fruit of the womb at the age of a hundred, yet of all that banquet which he prepared, he did not have one turtle-dove or pigeon to sacrifice before you!” God replied, “Yet were I to say to him, ‘Sacrifice your son before me,’ he would do so without hesitation.” Straightway, “God did test Abraham… And he said, ‘Take, I pray, your son’ [Gen 22:1].”

In Sanhedrin 89b, the Akedah is a reaction to Avraham’s failure to provide a sacrifice for God following the birth of Yitzhak. Rabbi Yossi ben Zimra imagines Satan questioning the depths of Avraham’s loyalty to God. Therefore, God seeks to prove Satan wrong by commanding Avraham to give the ultimate sacrifice: his own son, Yitzhak.

A second interpretation that views the Akedah as a punishment comes from Rashbam, who views the Akedah as a response to Avraham’s problematic treaty with Gerar in Genesis 21:22–32.

Both of these interpretations rely on the curious line, “And it was after these things” (Genesis 22:1). Rabbi Yossi ben Zimra and Rashbam read their peirushim into these four words.

Other interpretations also hinge on these four words. The Targum Pseudo-Jonathan imagines a conversation between Yishmael and Yitzhak:

Ishmael answered and said: “I am more righteous than you, because I was circumcised when thirteen years old; and if it had been my wish to refuse, I would not have handed myself over to be circumcised.” Isaac answered and said: “Am I not now thirty-seven years old? If the Holy One, blessed be He, demanded all my members I would not hesitate.” Immediately, these words were heard before the Lord of the universe, and immediately, the word of the Lord tested Abraham, and said unto him, “Abraham,” and he said, “Here I am.”²

Finally, Rambam (and other Rishonim) viewed the Akedah as the prooftext for the reliability of prophecy on the same level as a logical deduction. It teaches us that prophecy should be heeded just as any empirical experience of the world.

Now, turning to the contemporary world, we have several interpretations from Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Rav Kook, Rabbi Shimon Gershon Rosenberg (Rav Shagar), and Rabbi Dr. Walter Wurzburger.

For Yeshayahu Leibowitz, the Akedah is primarily about obedience to a divine command that stands contradictory to ethics.³

Rav Kook and Rav Shagar have similar interpretations of the Akedah that are based on a Midrash of the Akedah. The Midrash goes,

As [Abraham and Isaac] were walking, Satan appeared to Abraham and said to him, “Old man, are you out of your mind? You’re going to slaughter the son God gave you at the age of one hundred?! It was I who deceived you and said to you, ‘Take now [your son]….’”⁴

In this scenario, Satan approaches Avraham and attempts to convince him that it was not God who asked Avraham to sacrifice his son, but rather Satan himself. This is Satan’s attempt to dissuade Avraham from sacrificing Yitzhak. Rav Kook explains that Satan here is actually Avraham’s conscience.⁵

Rav Shagar goes a bit further. He concedes that it is possible that Satan represents Avraham’s conscience. Rav Shagar then states that this argument, this doubt is the central message of the Akedah. He argues that Avraham was unsure of whether he truly was commanded by God to sacrifice his son, but that he persevered through doubt to serve God. Rav Shagar concludes,

The lesson is clear: A conceited, all-knowing religious stance renders the trial, and with it the entire religious endeavor, a sham. The trial, along with a religious lifestyle and a connection to God, can exist only in the context of a humble personality that is content in not knowing. A conceited stance stems from pride, and it is the voice of Satan. The trial will forever be associated with a subject who by nature is in the dark.⁶

Action despite doubt is the essence of faith and the true victory of Avraham.

As well, Rabbi Dr. Walter Wurzburger argues that human morality is limited and that the act of the Akedah was not immoral. He critiques the Kantian categorical imperative that Kant describes as, “objective, rationally necessary and unconditional principle that we must always follow despite any natural desires or inclinations we may have to the contrary.”⁷ In other words, ethics are governed by rationally constructed, mutually recognized norms. Rabbi Wurzburger sees this view on ethics as limiting. He argues that humans have a “covenantal imperative” that is ethically correct even if we can’t rationalize it. Human morality is limited. Divine morality is not.⁸

Rabbi Wurzburger argues with Ramban’s interpretation of Devarim 6:18, “Do what is right and good in the sight of Hashem,” as a divine commandment to act morally, but qualifies this commandment by saying that there are times when human understanding of morality is insufficient to fulfill the “covenantal imperative.”

Finally, there are several contemporary non-rabbinic interpretations of the Akedah that are worth addressing.

The first comes from Jon D. Levenson, the Albert A. List Professor of Jewish Studies at the Harvard Divinity School. Levenson argues that child sacrifice was not morally problematic during the time of Avraham. Levenson believes that the purpose of the Akedah was to show us that child sacrifice was not acceptable.⁹

Aaron Koller in his work Unbinding Isaac understands the Akedah to be a moment in which God not only demands but desires the sacrifice of Isaac as a testament to Abraham’s ultimate faith in God’s promise of progeny. However, God values the individual human life more than he desires Abraham’s sacrificial act. Koller relates, “Consider a health-conscious person looking at a piece of cake. He may want the cake, although in the end, he won’t eat it. The rejection of the cake is a statement not of its despicability or fundamental abhorrence, but of a desire for health that is even more powerful than the desire for the confection.”¹⁰

This motif is recorded in rabbinic literature, as Koller cites,

R. El’azar b. ‘Azariah says: How do I know that a person should not say, “I don’t want to wear sha’atnez [the forbidden mixture of wool and linen],” or “I don’t want to eat pork,” or “I don’t want to have that illicit sexual relationship,” but rather, “I do want to! But what can I do? My Father in heaven decreed against it.” This is what is taught, “I separated you from the nations, to be Mine.” Thus one distances oneself from a sin and therefore accepts the yoke of heaven.¹¹

Lastly, we have the interpretation of the Danish Christian philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard.¹² In his seminal work, “Fear and Trembling” (1843), Kierkegaard offers his explanation. In his mind, Avraham’s actions were morally wrong, yet they were meritorious because of Avraham’s absolute subservience to God, what Kierkegaard terms “the teleological suspension of the ethical.” Avraham pushes ethical considerations to the side for the purpose of serving God.

All of the aforementioned peirushim are interesting and offer much insight into the troubling story of the Akedah. But none of them resonates with me. I take issue with both their incongruity with Avraham’s character as well as my own moral sensibilities. I will discuss each of these critiques in turn.

I find it hard to believe that Avraham would not know that child sacrifice is wrong. Avraham has a highly developed moral conscience. The entire Parashat Vayera is designed to show this fact. Avraham’s generous welcoming of the three messengers and his intercession on behalf of Sodom and Gomorrah serve as key examples to Avraham’s keen moral sense.¹³ Avraham’s compassion and generosity are highlighted in numerous Midrashim.¹⁴ To think that he would suddenly accept child sacrifice as morally acceptable is simply not likely.

Instead, I argue that not only did God not intend Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak but that Avraham intuited this and went along with it as a testament to his devotion to God. At no point during the story of the Akedah did Avraham truly believe that he was going to sacrifice his son. There is some indication of this interpretation in the text.

Firstly, it is not clear in the text that God asked Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak. Rather, it is possible that God commanded Avraham to raise Yitzhak as an offering but never intended to kill him. We can derive a proof of this interpretation from the text itself.

The original command was to “raise him up as a sacrifice,” but was never explicitly to sacrifice Yitzhak.¹⁵

Furthermore, when asked by Yitzhak where the animal was that they would sacrifice, Avraham responded, “God will see to the sheep for His burnt offering, my son” (Genesis 22:8). Avraham indicated that he was not worried about the eventual sacrifice, since God would attend to it. In my opinion, this is Avraham tacitly revealing his belief that God would not make him sacrifice his son and that Avraham believes that there will be some force that will intercede and prevent the final action.

Also, Avraham never even began the downward stroke of the blade that would kill his son. He only raises the knife, “And Abraham picked up the knife to slay his son.” (Genesis 22:10).

But he never brought it down. He never began the act that he knew he would not have to do. Yes, an angel interceded, but this was Avraham’s belief all along.

Avraham’s reward at the end of the Akedah was not for his blind faith in God and sacrifice of moral considerations, but rather Avraham’s commitment to both his faith in God and his own moral judgment. In Avraham’s eyes, God was morally perfect and would never command Avraham to commit a morally abhorrent act. His faith in God was the faith that God was morally perfect. This, I believe, is the message of the Akedah.

The idea that God never intended Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak is not my original thought. The suggestion that God never intended Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak is found in a Midrash in Taanit 4a: “And never entered my mind” – this refers to Isaac the son of Abraham.”

Another source for this interpretation comes from Rabbi Acha’s reading of Genesis Rabbah 56:8:

“When I said to you ‘take your son’ I never said to slaughter him. I merely said to ‘raise him up.’ I said this to you to demonstrate your belovedness, and you did my bidding. Now take him down.”

And finally, from Tanchuma 17:2,

“Abraham’s ram was created at twilight,” meaning from the beginning of creation God never intended Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak for the ram that took Yitzhak’s place had already been created.

A final, striking insight comes from Israeli philosopher Yoram Hazony, who argues that the name that Avraham gives to the site of his ordeal is indicative of his understanding. Hazony comments,

As it turns out, Abraham does not leave the terrible scene at Moria without comment. He gives the place a name, and in so doing, tells us precisely what he believes is significant about what happened there. The name he gives the place is “The Lord Will See [adonai yireh],” this being a reference to his own words, reported a few lines earlier, when he tells Isaac that “God will see [elohim yireh] to the sheep for an offering himself.” The meaning here is unmistakable. For Abraham, there is one and only one thing that is worthy of remembering here and passing to future generations: That is the fact that he had held fast to the conviction that God would provide the ram so that there would be no human sacrifice — and that God had indeed come through for him, providing a ram in place of his son, as Abraham had believed he would.¹⁶

My hiddush, reinterpretation, is that Avraham, due to his acute knowledge of God and highly developed moral conscience, intuited that this was God’s plan. His “willingness” to sacrifice Yitzhak was not an expression of his willingness to blindly follow God’s commandments especially when they transgress Avraham’s moral code. Instead, it is an expression of Avraham’s willingness to follow God’s commandments knowing that they are in line with moral correctness.¹⁷

Two final points: The first is that human morality resembles divine morality. We can asymptotically approach divine morality by honing our own moral sensibilities much as Avraham did. In this way, we can better live our lives in accordance with divine morality and save ourselves from the error of human subjectivity. Avraham’s morality very closely approximated God’s morality because Avraham had worked hard on developing his moral conscience (See Sotah 14a).

Lastly, this is my interpretation. It speaks to me as I believe that human understanding of morality is central to Jewish, ethical life. Any interpretation of the Akedah that asks me to believe that Avraham desires or attempts to commit a morally abhorrent act is one that I cannot accept. Others may disagree with me and that is both expected and welcomed. The legacy and marvel of Judaism is its openness to multiple opinions. This, too, is a message of the Akedah.

As Rav Soloveitchik said, “The drama of the Akedah is multi-semantic, lending itself to many interpretations. God demands that man bring the supreme sacrifice, but the fashion in which the challenge is met is for man to determine.”¹⁸

I hope that all can find an interpretation of the Akedah that speaks to them, and I hope that in the process of listening to the words of Torah, we can hear ourselves and our souls whisper who we truly are.

Notes

1 One should not overlook the irony that the story is known as Akedat Yitzhak, the Binding of Isaac, when Isaac is almost a completely passive character. See Aaron Koller Unbinding Isaac “The Erasure of Isaac” and Stolle, “Levinas and the Akedah,” 137–139 cited in Koller.

2 Targum Pseudo Jonathan on Genesis 22:1–19.

3 “[Leibowitz’s] glorification of the Akedah—the binding of Isaac—which is the heart of the existential moment of true worship of God for its own sake, comes into focus as an alternative theology of redemption. The Akedah is understood as the ultimate redemptive act. The rational and the ethical, therefore, are suspended and, finally, transcended when one fully accepts the yoke of Torah and Mitzvot.” See also Rechnitzer, Haim O. “Redemptive Theology in the Thought of Yeshayahu Leibowitz.” Israel Studies, vol. 13, no. 3, 2008, p.138-139. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/30245835. Accessed 6 Sept. 2020. Note that this is also part of the Malbim’s understanding. See Malbim on Breishit 22:5.

4 Solomon Buber, ed., Midrash Aggada (Vienna 1894), Vayera 22. Cited in “Faith Shattered and Restored” Magid Books. Translated by Elie Leshem.

5 Riskin, Shlomo. “Parashat Veyera: Listening to the right voice.” Jerusalem Post. 17 Oct 2013. https://www.jpost.com/opinion/columnists/parashat-veyera-listening-to-the-right-voice-328994

Accessed 6 Sep 2020.

6 Rosenberg, Shimon Gerson. “Uncertainty as the Trial of the Akeda” Faith Shattered and Restored. Maggid 15 July 2017.

7 “Kant’s Moral Philosophy” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. 7 July 2016. Accessed 21 May 2020 https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/kant-moral/

8 See Wurzburger, Walter S. Covenantal Imperatives. Edited by Eliezer L. Jacobs and Shalom Carmy. Urim Publications 1 Sep 2008.

9 Levenson, Jon D. Inheriting Abraham: The Legacy of the Patriarch in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Princeton University Press. 2012 p. 59.

10 Koller, Aaron. Unbinding Isaac: The Significance of the Akedah for Modern Jewish Thought. Jewish Publication Society: 2020 p. 139.

11 Ibid.