After years of learning in conventional yeshivot, I discovered several Hasidic writers. They opened my eyes to reading the Torah in a manner fundamentally different from anything I ever had learned before. Their penetrating spiritual and psychological wisdom inspired me to study their works ever since. Below are two unrelated analyses of the Revelation at Sinai and of Korah’s rebellion. I hope that these two studies offer a taste for the nuance and depth these writers have to offer the contemporary reader.

Revelation— Shame and the Law

One of the moments in history that many Jews would love to experience is the Revelation at Sinai. What really happened there? So much has been written about what Sinai was, literally or metaphorically. The idiom of every Jew having been present at Sinai implies that there was, or could be, a Sinaitic certainty. I hope to elaborate on this, and suggest what, paradoxically, this certainty is.

What interests me is the aftermath, what was born there. One may broadly and loosely define Sinai, or Revelation, as some religious peak experience, and assume that the period afterward cannot but be anticlimactic. Religious experiences are sought after worldwide, in various forms and means. There often is a disparity between the intensity of the experience and how unimpressive the person who experienced them is. Sometimes they seem to be in converse proportions.

The Talmud teaches that the aftermath of Sinai is shame: “Anyone who is shameless—it is known that his parents did not stand on Sinai” (Nedarim 20b). However uncomfortable shame is, being shameless is rarely considered worthy. In English or Hebrew we speak of being ashamed of ourselves. Our self shames us. This phenomenon reflects a belief that there’s a self inhering in us that is “better” than we are to whom we compare ourselves, and who criticizes us incessantly. If we absolutely cannot do better—then we feel no shame. Sinai was seeing, experiencing, knowing, a self. After Sinai, that remnant becomes and is the self. These laws, even though they be but a shadow of the core Revelation  “I am the Lord your God,” still shame us, for we know how much ‘more’ we can be: our potential always shames us.

Immediately after the Ten Commandments we read: “And the whole people saw the voices and the torches and the voice of the Shofar and the mountain smoking and the people saw, and moved and stood afar. And they said to Moses: speak to us and we will hear, and let not God speak to us lest we die. And Moses said to the people: Do not fear, for in order to test/raise you has God come, and in order that be His awe on your faces that you not sin. And the people stood ­­far away, and Moses approached the mist, where God was” (Exodus 20:15–18).

Sinai was a terrifying experience. The Talmud tells us that the people “died” again and again when hearing God’s voice, and needed angels to revive them (Shabbat 88a). These were moments when the world stood still, “not a bird chirped nor did a cow bellow,” moments when “God hung the mountain over them like a barrel, saying to them: If you accept my Torah—good, if not—here will be your burial.” The Israelites felt forced to accept God. The Maharal of Prague (16^th century) explains that their experience of closeness and love of God was so exquisite, and their love for God so great, that there was no way that they could ever have declined. “Everything God has spoken we will do,” they said even before hearing His commands (Exodus 19:5). This is a deep human desire to be choice-less, for there to be no-two-ways, love-given clarity. We desire to be in love. This was Sinai, and whoever has been there can recognize others who have, and know who hasn’t. That is the tone of the statement of the Talmud “Whoever is shameless—is not one of us.” This is the way the Talmud expresses this:

Said Rabbi Elazar: when Israel said “We will do” before saying “We will hear” (Exodus 19:8, 24:3,7), a heavenly voice emitted saying: “Who revealed this secret to my children, a secret used by angels… who first do God’s word, then hear God’s word” … It is like an apple tree which brings forth its fruit before its leaves, alike to this was Israel’s saying “We will do” before saying “We will hear.”

There was once a Sadducee who saw Rava deeply immersed in learning, sitting upon his thumb which, from the pressure, squirted blood. He said to him: You hasty/careless nation who placed your mouths before your ears—you still are so careless/hasty! You should have first heard and seen if you are able (to keep it) then accept, and if not—not accept it. He replied: About us, who are very whole, it is written “The innocence of the upright will guide them,” whereas about others, who are very crooked, it is written (the continuation of that verse in Proverbs) “and the distortion of traitors will rob them.” (Shabbat 88b)

The Talmud is describing, amongst various nuances of love, the concept of hineni, here I am. For that is what love is, a “Here I am.” Called by those we love, even in the middle of the night, our immediate gut response will be: Yes, I come. Other people, if they call us, will elicit a more reserved response. We respond to those we love not because we should or because it’s right. We respond because we are unable not to, for as soon as we heard their voice we already answered Yes. The Talmud describes this as a moment of “My soul went out when He spoke” (Song of Songs 5:6). Thus the Sadducee’s question as to first calculating if one is able is irrelevant. Being in love is knowing that one can, because one will stop at no less than doing one’s all. It is “innocent” as Rava says, and that innocence is a sure guide and one knows it.

The Talmud is describing the feeling that one can’t wait, like the apple tree, which cannot wait to bring forth its fruit, even though there are no shady leaves yet, even though sufficient preparations have not been made. Rather than seeing a perfect moment of Rava’s love, the Sadducee saw haste and carelessness. Rava retorts that his calculating leaves infidels and traitors like him with nothing. The feeling of “I can’t wait” is so beautiful precisely because one knows that one can wait yet feels the not-wanting-to-wait as “can’t,” as inability. It is the most delicious inability, the inability to say no when one has no desire but to say Yes.

This clarity sometimes passes. One may be in love, but then starts doubting this God-given clarity and reduces it to terms easily provided by others and ourselves. Not a long time passed after the Revelation before Israel doubted their love and did not know if it was really true, so they felt shame. They now felt that they could wait; they felt that there was no hurry. This lack of desire—is shame.

Let us imagine a concert violinist for whom the audience who heard his playing are on their feet applauding. He may yet feel frustrated and ashamed of his oh-so-professional performance for he  knows what it is like to play with passion, with inspiration, forgetting oneself and being nothing but an instrument for the music, and less than this, for he is nothing more than being an efficient machine. As the Magid of Mezeritch explained-rephrased the words of II Kings 3:15 “And when the player was like the instrument, then the hand-of-God was/is upon him.” Playing, or doing anything, without passion is lifeless especially for those who have known the divine elevation of impassioned inspiration, and what is more shameful than death?

The extreme expression of this Sinai-born shameful split from oneself is the story, maybe a metaphor, of the Golden Calf, the embodiment of decay of desire. Thus the Torah starts with the words “Then the people saw that Moses delayed (ki boshesh Moshe) descending from the mountain” (Exodus 32:1). This word boshesh, akin to bushah, shame, is used also referring to Adam and Eve: “and they were naked, man and his wife, and waited not—lo yitboshashu.” They were not ashamed, and did what was natural without any shame or shyness. The aftermath of their lacking desire is paradise lost. The Talmud narrates that at Sinai people returned to their Eden-like state and became whole. One Midrash (Yalkut Shimoni 20:300) explains that at Sinai all were healed, there were no blind, deaf, lame, or foolish people. All were healed when hearing God’s voice. Feeling passionate is healing.

            Whereas bushah means shame, boshesh means to delay. This delay in satisfaction, in fulfilment of our desires, is the deep experience of shame. There is a difference between desire and desires. The being-kept-waiting by parents, then others, let alone their sighs of frustration at our infant needs, although inevitable, all instill in us a sense of shame, that we should not be desirous of …anything, that we should be satiable (compare the last words of the guard in Kafka’s parable “In the Cathedral”). Hasidut teaches that desiring ever more is expression of man’s being created be-tzelem Elokim, in God’s image, having infinite desire. The way we satiate those desires may, as you say, shame us, for more often than not we supplant the specific objects of our desires for these desires themselves.  We all know the sense of shame in being kept waiting, or even thinking that we are being delayed. We all knew that sense of shame having to wait, being needy, of waiting for the gratification provided by parents. Our good taste shames us, and when feeling detached and uninspired and lacking desire – we may feel shame. Such is bushah—delay, the separation from a self, a soul, an ideal, a height, that was ours, that we believe still is ours in some way, still is attainable. If we don’t expect ourselves to be able to do things that we could when younger we will feel no shame at inability to do so. But distanced from things we still dream of we feel shame.

Someone whose “parents’ feet were on Sinai” is someone who, having known greatness, can recognize it and bow their heads to it, feel humbled and modest as Israel must have felt at Sinai. Having known grandeur one can recognize it, whereas someone who has never known anything better will lack this, will relate to everyone with casualness or familiarity simply because he is unable to recognize genius. One needs a certain education to be able to recognize inspiration. The closest we can come to knowing it, to wholeness and being, is our awareness of our lack. This desire is the fullness of our being.

Dreaming is the closest most of us get to prophecy and Revelation. Sinai, as an event in history and as a metaphor for our soul’s core, is the most sublime dream we ever dreamt. It is not by chance that we speak of aspirations as dreams. Hazal said “A person never dies even half fulfilled” – our dreams and aspirations can never be fulfilled (unless they are very limited ones!). And so our dreams shame us, because they express our highest aspirations, and so when we are reminded of our dreams and aspirations we cannot but be filled with shame at our inadequacy. But the alternative, having very low aspirations or not dreaming at all, is even worse, for it evidences a loss of our being made be-Tzelem Elokim, in the image of an infinite God, it evidences our having lost desire to grow infinitely. The residue of Sinai is remaining dreamers.

The Positive Dimensions of Korah

One of the qualities of good literature is complexity, and even in stories that seem to have clear “good guy—bad guy” delineations, the Bible sometimes hints that these lines are not intended to be clear-cut. The surface reading of Korah’s rebellion seems to present Korah as the bad guy, jealous of Moses’ power, wanting to usurp Moses’ leadership and even prophecy, spotlighting what seems to be evident nepotism in Moses’ choice of Aaron and his sons for priests.

The Mei HaShiloah (mid-19^th century Hasidic commentary) argues that things are not necessarily what they may seem. He assumes that all biblical heroes demand understanding, even if they were mistaken or sinners. He relinquishes the need for a clear-cut and often trite moral. To this interpreter, the story of Korah presents two sides that battled, and one side losing does not imply its being entirely mistaken nor need its protagonist be entirely in the wrong.

Against a totalitarian regime, rebellion is inevitable, even if this rule is divinely ordained, and even when the law challenged is God’s. The event was handled badly. Moses seems to have wanted a public confrontation. He initiates the contest by fire (Numbers 16:16–17), and suggests that the earth open its mouth to swallow the rebels and their families (16:29–30). The grand debacle is ineffective. Rather than being persuaded, the people afterward accuse Moses and Aaron saying, “You have killed the Lord’s people” (17:6–8).

Moses’ words to Korah’s party, “You have enough sons of Levi” (16:7), are irrelevant to the issue. No rule, not even that of Moses, is above criticism merely by virtue of its being ordained by God. In the Talmud, Moses is censured for these words to Korah: “He [Moses] used the term ‘You have enough’—and the same words were used by God when refusing him entry into the land ‘You have enough’ (Deuteronomy 3:26)” (Sotah 13b).

This rabbinic criticism of Moses is severe. It could be interpreted as saying: How can one say to someone seeking closeness to God “You have enough?” Notwithstanding his being hurt, Moses should have perceived that their yearning for closeness to God may have been authentic. Saying “You have enough” is not only saying that Korah is mistaken in his belief that all people can be greater and that they should aspire to more, but that there can be, in regard to closeness to God, “enough.” Questioning others’ motives for desiring holiness is a travesty, whereas the seeking itself is holy.

The Talmud’s suggestion that Moses’ setting boundaries to Korah is what ultimately denies his own entry to the Promised Land is portraying how, tragically, the boundaries with we protect ourselves will always limit our own expansion and growth.

The Seer of Lublin (early 19^th century Hasidic master) said, “Were I alive at the time— I would have supported Korah.” Korah’s words were not a rabble-rousing slogan nor were they empty words. If when meeting Moses people could not but be awestruck (Exodus 33:10), when meeting Korah people saw their own sanctity, realized how God inhered in them, too. Korah had that rare ability to reflect to people their own holiness.

The eleven Psalms that are attributed to “The Sons of Korah” demonstrate that “Korah’s son” was not a shameful name, but rather was a name used with pride by Temple singers. This was a judgment of history that the rebellion against Moses was not a simple power struggle. Even their end implies a non-ending: “And the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them…they and all they had descended to Sheol alive” (Numbers 16:32–33). In language of myth their descent to Sheol is a continuation of living, but in another place.

Many legends narrate how Korah and his children continued their existence in Sheol and were not totally annihilated, even as the Torah tells us later, “Then the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them and Korah in the death of his community when the fire ate the 250 men, miraculously. The sons of Korah did not die” (Numbers 26:9–10).

A Midrash gives the Korah story an additional dimension that connects it to the preceding passage that commands wearing fringes with a blue thread on garments (Numbers 15:40). Korah brought his 250 men wearing entirely blue garments challenging Moses, “Do these need a blue thread?” and then ridiculed Moses’ affirmative response. The Midrash may be portraying Korah not as someone ridiculing ritual per se, but only the idea that ritual is not equally relevant in all cases and not fitting all people equally.

Thus Mei HaShiloah explains: Mitzvot are reminders and, as such, are perhaps needed by the masses, but why should individuals who really are not in need of them observe them? Korah, he says, would say: “Awe of God, awareness of His presence, is perpetual for me. What do I need reminders for?” Mitzvot are reminders of God’s presence, and this can be bliss, or oppressive when awareness of God’s omnipresence and omniscience is inescapable. Korah is saying, in pain, if only I could forget. Mei HaShiloah is portraying Korah not as one who wants to escape God but as one whose aspirations and awareness are so intense as to be unbearable. He imagines that fixed forms of worship, such as high priesthood, could create a limitation and contain his burning. Living forever is the most tragic of punishments, and Korah descends to the Sheol of his unquenchable passion for the divine.

Religions and laws act as equalizers, for better and for worse. Like the ashes of the Red Cow in the parashah that follows Korah, which “Purify the impure and defile the pure”—so rules and regulations refine those who otherwise would be degenerate, while lowering those whom they limit. Korah cannot accept this paradox of ritual. The Torah does seem to nod in Korah’s direction after his demise when God says to Moses: “Say to Elazar son of Aaron to lift the pans from amongst the fire for they have become sanctified. The pans of these sinners in their souls—make them a covering for the altar, for they were brought close to God and have become sanctified, let them be a sign for the Children of Israel” (Numbers 17:1–3). Even though the 250 people had rebelled, their pans become a memento to serve as a reminder of the immortality of their bearers’ claim, recognition that their aspirations were true. These pans would contain the Temple fire, and teach the need for containment of religious passion, too.

Rabbi Yitzhak Luria Ashkenazi, the Ar”i (16^th century Safed) writes that, “In the future Korah will be shown to have been correct.” That Korah who insisted in his opening words, “All the whole community is holy and God amongst them”——every person is unique and divine—will be vindicated.

Moses’ handling of the conflict seems faulty, allowing things to get out of hand, fearing that God may not back him, and initiating violence. Perhaps no one is free of the misuse of speech when attacked, and when being reactive. Moses who so faithfully and repeatedly protects his people from God’s wrath, and even does so again when God wants to destroy his people, has difficulty protecting them from his own wrath. Although no one can speak to God as Moses does, dialogue with the people is not Moses’ forte. Growing up an outsider without family or society, he remained an outsider vis-à-vis the people themselves, remaining “heavy of mouth and heavy of tongue” (Exodus 4:10) and his original fears of being unable to converse with them (Exodus 4:1) and that they would not believe him came true.

There is no one path for everyone. More than seeing Korah as one who wanted to rule, we can see him as suggesting alternatives. Rebels are often as rigidly insistent on having the truth as those against whom they fight, as if admitting many options would weaken rather than strengthen any claim. So often justice becomes a single thing, as if there were but one justice rather than many, we forget that justice can be challenged in name of various other values— wisdom, charity, compassion—to name but a few. Fighting in the name of justice we make the conflicts into zero-sum games. When the Ar”i writes that in the future we will be following Korah’s way this does not read as a contrast and a victory over Moses. Rather, it suggests that the structure of dispute and there being various options, as the Torah passes down this story— is the promise of the future.

I'd like to acknowledge the presence of Rabba Sara Hurwitz. Throughout this whole ordeal, she has carried herself with grace and humility and wanted little more than to continue her work as a spiritual leader in the Bayit. Rabba Sara supports this open discussion and has been involved in shaping the direction of this process at every step of the way.

The change of title from maharat to rabba has precipitated controversy in our community that was unintended and unexpected—controversy that I deeply regret. The fallout has most powerfully affected Rabba Sara.

What I’d like to do this Shabbat is outline in general terms some of the issues that are at play, as a starting point to engage in meaningful conversation on the matter.

What Does Rabba Mean?

It is most important to know what rabba means. Functionally, rabba is no different from maharat. Maharat Sara Hurwitz’s role did not change one iota when she became Rabba Sara Hurwitz. Let me explain:

Our Orthodox model for women in general and women in leadership differs dramatically from the Conservative and Reform model. Unlike Conservative and Reform Judaism, Orthodoxy is not egalitarian. In Conservative and Reform Judaism, a woman’s role is identical to a man’s role. In Orthodoxy, the roles of men and women in spiritual leadership overlap in 90 percent of areas, but there are distinctions.

How and where do the spiritual leadership of men and women overlap? If someone were to ask me what the rabbinate is about, I’d respond quite simply that the most essential element of the rabbinate is being there, being there for people especially in their times of need. The rabbinate is not about being served, but about serving others. Women like men are, of course, perfectly capable and halakhically able to do this. For centuries, women have fulfilled pastoral roles in their communities.

In addition, being a rabbi means being knowledgeable and able to teach. Like men, women from time immemorial have done this. From the Matriarchs, to Miriam, to Hannah, to Beruriah, to Marat Hava Bachrach granddaughter of the Maharal—who were versed in the principles of Judaism and Talmud and Midrash and Responsa—women were teachers par excellence.

In more contemporary times, the statement of the Chafetz Chaim in the early part of the twentieth century, encouraging women to learn Torah, was fundamental in establishing women's communal institutions of learning of the highest level. Most recently Drisha, Stern College, Nishmat, and Midreshet Lindenbaum’s schools for women have taken the next steps in excellence in educating women in Torah.

Women’s learning has naturally evolved into women’s teaching. Nehama Leibowitz was my rebbe in Tanakh—my rebbe and the rebbe of so many of my colleagues. Today, Dr. Aviva Zornberg, Dr. Bryna Levy, Rosh Kehillah Dena Najman Licht of KOE,[1] and Lisa Schlaff, who heads the Talmud Department at SAR high school, are all examples of outstanding Torah teachers in this generation.

Additionally, women who are properly trained can advise and instruct and answer questions of halakha to those who seek them out. This right has been recognized and well established in both classical and contemporary halakhic sources.

Sefer haHinukh concludes: “A wise woman can be a decisor of Jewish Law.”[2] Birkei Yosef (Hida, Chaim Yosef David Azulai, eighteenth century) concurs.[3] Most recently Rabbi Bakshi Doron, the former Sephardi Chief Rabbi wrote: “Women can be of the gedolim of the generation and serve as halakhic decisors.”[4]

Finally, a woman can be a religious leader on campuses, in schools, in camps and the synagogue. They can oversee services in synagogues and officiate at lifecycle events, such as weddings and funerals, within the framework of halakha. They can also represent their congregations and communities as spiritual leaders in the larger public arena. While some argue that the principle of serara (formal communal authority) prevents women from serving as clergy, Rabbi Benzion Uziel (early twentieth century) held that serara does not apply when a community is willing to accept a woman as its leader.[5]

In simple terms, when I think of the roles of a rabbi as a pastoral counselor, as a teacher of Torah, as a responder to questions of halakha or functioning as a religious leader—women can play significant roles in all of these areas. That’s what I mean when I say that 90 percent of what male rabbis can do, women can do as well.

But there are distinctions. The distinctions cut in opposite ways. There are things a woman can do that a man cannot. A woman spiritual leader can take a female convert into the mikvah, something that, of course, a man cannot do. Women may be more comfortable seeking out a woman’s spiritual leadership on matters of niddah, or advice on motherhood and much more. Men, too, could also gain immeasurably from a female clergy’s halakhic pesak and pastoral counsel.

In the same breath, there are things a woman cannot do. Although a woman can lead a wedding ceremony—oversee the signing of documents as well as read the ketubah (marital contract) and give a talk beneath the huppah—she cannot be a witness for kiddushin or sign the ketubah. Although a woman can be the primary spiritual leader preparing one for conversion, she cannot serve on the conversion Bet Din. Although women can oversee religious services in synagogues as halakha permits and give sermons, they are not counted into a minyan, and cannot lead devarim she-beKedusha. That’s what I mean when I say that in Orthodoxy, the roles are not identical; there are distinctions.

For this reason, a woman in spiritual leadership is rabba and not rabbi. In medicine a doctor is a doctor whether male or female. In law, one is a lawyer regardless of gender. A rabbi in Orthodoxy is a male figure who religiously leads. A rabba is a female religious leader. The role of rabba and rabbi significantly overlap. But there are important distinctions.

And that’s what I mean when I say that maharat and rabba are identical. Maharat is an acronym for Manhiga Hilkhatit, Ruhanit, and Toranit, a woman who is a halakhic, religious, and Torah leader. These words are terms much like rabba, which describes the fundamental roles of a woman spiritual leader: a halakhic leader who has the ability to answer questions of halakha; a religious leader who is a pastoral caregiver and who may guide and lead religious services within the framework of halakha, and a Torah leader who knows and can teach.

The change from maharat to rabba was not functional—that remained the same. It was rather an attempt to give more dignity and respect to Sara. It was also an attempt to clarify her role as truly one of religious leadership. I also felt that Maharat was a clumsy title that had no meaning outside of the bayit, in places like hospitals and funeral homes. Indeed, Maharat as a title was used disrespectfully like people emphasizing the last syllable—Maha-RAT. Rabba was simple, more elegant, and more easily conveyed the message that Sara Hurwitz is a spiritual leader.

Public Policy

The reality is there is little “religio-legal” controversy in the mainstream Modern Orthodox community, or what I call the Open Orthodox community, on how women can function as religious leaders. The issue is not halakhic as much as it is one of public policy. And here there has been serious discussion on what Modern Orthodox policy should be.

Rabbi Norman Lamm, Chancellor of Yeshiva University says it this way in a Jerusalem Post article. Asked about the ordination of female rabbis, Rabbi Lamm responded that his opposition was “social not religious.”[6]

Here, Rabbi Lamm was alluding to the halakhic reality that women today can receive semikha. Semikha today is not the same as when it was transmitted from Moses to Joshua and onward. That line was broken before the conclusion of the fifth century C.E. Today, semikha is primarily a vote of confidence given by learned rabbis, authorizing the person being ordained as able to advise and instruct and interpret and answer questions of Jewish law. In the words of Rema: ענין הסמיכות שנהגו בזמן הזה כדי שידעו כל העם שהגיע להוראה ומה שמורה הוא ברשות רבו הסומכו. “Ordination today allows people to know that one reached [the ability to] rule—make halakhic decisions—and that what one rules is with the permission of one’s teacher.”[7] Thus, as we’ve pointed out, qualified women like men can rule.[8] It is in this vein, I believe, that Rabbi Lamm concludes that ordaining women is a “social not religious” issue.

Rabbi Lamm goes on to say:

Change has to come to religion when feasible, but it should not be rushed; women have just come into their own from an educational perspective. I would prefer not to have this innovation right now. It is simply too early. What will remain later…I am not a prophet.

Rabbi Professor Daniel Sperber disagrees. He suggests the time has come. In a March 18, 2009 letter to me, Rabbi Sperber, who heads the Ludwig and Erica Jesselson Institute for Advanced Torah Studies at Bar Ilan University, wrote:

I was delighted to hear that you will be celebrating an ordination ceremony for Ms. Sara Hurwitz, as a spiritual and halakhic congregational leader. This is indeed an innovation and as such will undoubtedly be criticized by some, but the times demand it and the hour is right…this initiative has clear halakhic legitimacy. I strongly feel that it is high time that we accept the rightful status for women in positions of community leadership, both organizational, spiritual and halakhic, and actively encourage such initiative. I also feel that Ms. Hurwitz is uniquely qualified to fulfill such an aspiration having acquired the necessary knowledge and skills to satisfy these needs.

For Rabbi Sperber, the time has come.

Who Defines Orthodoxy?

Which brings me back to our situation here at the Bayit. Where do we stand? What is our public policy? Our first concern is that perhaps, in some people's eyes, we are no longer seen as an Orthodox synagogue. This may have come from the Agudah’s Council of Sages which declared that: “any congregation with a woman in a rabbinical position of any sort cannot be considered Orthodox.”[9]

Although the statement singles me out, its scope includes other Modern Orthodox congregations that have women performing rabbinical roles of some sort—like the Spanish Portuguese Synagogue and those that have Yo’atzot Halakha.

On a very personal level, the Agudah statement condemned me without contacting me. From my perspective, judging without the defendant in front of you makes a mockery of halakha.

Let it be said clearly, as Rabbi Marc Angel pointed out, the Agudah statement is “aimed at the Modern Orthodox community.” Rabbi Angel concludes his essay just published by his Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals with the words:

One of my concerns is: does the Modern Orthodox community have the inner strength to deal with the issue of women’s religious leadership, or will we simply cave in to the pressure “from the right”? The “Council of Torah Sages” believes it can prevail in defining Orthodoxy, and in casting out those who disagree with them. Does the Modern Orthodox community have the confidence and integrity to demur, and to insist on its own right to discuss and debate and make its own decisions?[10]

In the end, the definition of what constitutes Orthodoxy is not for the Haredi world to determine. It begins from within; with what we know and feel about ourselves. It has everything to do with having confidence in our commitment to halakha, and holding true to the values of Torah and tradition.

Out Front

It’s not easy being out front. I remember when we brought Women’s Prayer Groups into the Bayit. Eminent Roshei Yeshiva wrote a teshuva that was highly critical. I remember when we began passing the Torah to women. It created significant turmoil. Yet, today, this practice has spread.

And I remember the night when Natan Sharansky spoke at the Bayit, soon after his release from the Soviet gulag. It was his first public talk in America. I felt that it was critical that we, an Orthodox synagogue, be joined by Conservative and Reform rabbis who played major roles in the movement to free Natan and the Soviet Jewry Movement. I invited them to join us that evening, and to recite prayers from the Psalms. This, too, was highly criticized, but today is commonplace. In recent years, our commemoration for Dr. Martin Luther King has been raked over the coals. Here again, what we did is being emulated in more and more communities.

That’s the way it is with firsts. You move forward, take a hit, precipitate discussion and keep at it. And that’s what may be unfolding now, once again, here at the Bayit.

***

These few weeks have been most difficult for Rabba Sara. I’ve often seen her ashen and despondent. And yet, she has endured with unusual humility and concern, not only for herself but for our larger bayit. She is a rare gift.

This has also been an excruciatingly painful few weeks for me and my family. It became most painful when our daughter Elana called from Israel, deeply upset. Toby has been at my side and I know she is deeply hurting when she hears and reads all this terrible stuff about her husband.

I’m deeply grateful for the calls I’ve received from many of you, even from those who disagreed with me. My most basic teaching is we’re a bayit—a home, and families remain together even when there is disagreement.

We’re at a glorious but vulnerable stage as our building is completed. So much is happening here in learning, in programming, and in reaching the broader community. What is crucial, absolutely crucial, is that we remain together in the spirit of ahavat Yisrael and in the spirit of family.

I pray that from this challenge we be able to emerge stronger as a bayit, stronger as a family, stronger in our mission to be an Open Orthodox synagogue, deeply committed to halakha and open and welcoming to all.

***

Postscript

Seven years after Rabba Sara’s ordination, the Bayit, led by its magnificent new senior rabbi, Steven Exler, has attracted many, many scores of families. Yeshivat Maharat has also reached new heights. It grants semikha (toreh toreh) allowing each graduate—in consultation with the community they serve—to decide on title. To date, 20 students have been ordained, serving as spiritual leaders in North America (i.e., Baltimore, Berkeley, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, Montreal, New Jersey, New York, St. Louis, Washington) and Israel. Beginning in the summer of 2015, several graduates assumed the title rabba. And with the help of thousands of supporters, the school has now grown to an enrollment of 25 students.

Abstract

A preliminary examination of the suppleness inherent in the Jewish tradition’s concept of ba’al dat—“one possessed of religion”[1]—offers several promising possibilities in view of the present-day challenge ensuing from impending mergers of religious zealousness with unprecedented technological capabilities. In this paper I examine how the possibilities available to the bearers of monotheistic traditions can serve them in taking action through increased cooperation to face global threats. I expand upon one such possibility, one that maintains loyalty to tradition yet nonetheless lays the foundations for joint political action, a possibility made available by a reworking of the ba’al dat idea and supported by a convention more rigorous than precepts such as “because of the ways of peace” [mipnei darkei shalom].

A. Introduction

Political Science scholars today tend to express a need for a review of conventional approaches to world security.[2] Concurrently, we are witness to initiatives to create dialogs between religious persons and to break past taboos on such ventures.[3] What I will present below, I believe, joins these trends yet is different in that the attempt being made here is toward forging a link at the level of believers, in the hope of finding support and encouraging change among the representatives of religions. From this aspect, there is a “privatization” of the interfaith dialog, not only at the level of understanding but as the appropriation of a shared basis for taking action. Second, in view of narratives by important Secularists (such as Habermas) that are able to part with anti-religious fervor, the intention here is to hold such dialog in a way that will reinforce current initiatives for collaboration with Secularists. In this sense, the idea of a ba’al dat presents itself as a natural and promising candidate.[4]

The concept of ba’al dat that, as a rule, indicates how one who is not an idolater is perceived by Jewish tradition, acquires new meaning with the emergence of every new religion on the living fabric of humanity. I do not intend to analyze the multiple meanings of this concept or to seek out any one of its definitive meanings. The potential of this concept’s contribution to discourse lies in its positioning. While concepts that refer to the Other such as “heretic,” “idolater,” “non-believer,” or “a desecrator of the Sabbath in public” vilify the Other, this concept, by its very nature, defines difference while seeking a lenient approach, expressing a certain readiness for relating to the Other, in spite of separateness. This term has an additional advantage, in that it avoids the patronization associated with terms such as tinok shenishba—“a child who has been held captive” and who is not to be held responsible for his decisions.  

Dealing with the term ba’al dat, in a deep sense, leads us inward into Judaism. The evolution and logic of the concept of the Other affects religion from within. The appearance of Christianity and Islam opened a new chapter in the history of Judaism. The distinction to be made—despite the ambivalence that arose around the complexities of the Trinity in the case of Christianity and that increased following the appearance of Islam—was no longer between those uniquely believing in one God and idol worshippers; the state of affairs has been that a belief in the One, transcendent God no longer fully determines the believer’s identity. For once having defined that an individual’s faith is in the one God who created the world by an act of will, the fact of whether the individual is a Jew or a Muslim or a Christian remains to be established, as does the kind of Jew or Muslim. This means that although monotheism demands absolute faithfulness to the belief and worship of God, it does not nullify the context in which the belief in one God developed.

One can say, in general, that Judaism underwent a historic change in its attitude toward the Other, concurrently to an evolution of its clarifications of the very idea of God’s unity. Biblical violence against idol worshippers is handled by the facilitation of the halakha (Jewish law), in all its complexity, which gradually begins to involve pragmatic and theological considerations. This is where we encounter terms such as “because of the ways of peace” and “because of [their] hatred,” as well as the talmudic phrase “Gentiles outside the Land [of Israel] are not idol worshippers; they continue their fathers’ customs.” Applications of these terms and their subsequent elimination, just as the sources on which they are based, are the subjects of discussions and differences that shift and change[5]. The concept of ba’al dat in the Jewish world—“a possessor of religion”—and certainly in the case of a possessor of a monotheistic religion, is an expression of the relationship between Jewish monotheists and other monotheists, and the search for its history supplies us with a first criterion of its suppleness. Today we can understand that a renewed definition of idolatry is in order, one sufficiently relevant to bear actual political meanings.

Halbertal[6] continues and deepens the research tradition of seeking out the meaning of ba’al dat, and the twelfth-century context of Rabbi Menachem Hameiri's writings provides him with the opportunity to study the affinity between this term and the Maimonidean world view. Life among Christians had its effects, and it generated important halakhic changes in reference to Gentiles. Hameiri’s discussion is as methodical and loyal as it is daring: The understanding that the world’s nations among whom the Jews dwell are not idolaters, and the concept of “nations secured by the ways of religion” [umot haGedurot baDat], serve to reduce prejudice between Jews and non-Jews, ensuring, all the while, their separateness.

Scholarly and pragmatic changes thus generated sensitivities that were inconceivable during biblical times, not to mention the effects of significant historic changes – such as the rise of Christianity and Islam—that were entirely absent from the biblical world’s horizons. Similarly, the challenges unique to the present may present a need for change, and the merger of religious fanaticism and modern-day global threats—such as non-conventional weapons and new technologies—beg for an examination of avenues for collaboration between monotheists of different traditions, and present theological questions as to the conditions such collaborations must meet so as to be soundly based and evoke the mutual trust required. The emphasis on trustworthiness is clear: one can make the leap with the help of humanistic commitments by blurring differences between religions, yet it is doubtful that such blurring would be welcome or useful. Hermann Cohen’s attempt to “transfer” the Jewish Sabbath to Sunday so as to build a bridge to the German Protestants will forever remain a tragic-comic exercise.

In today’s globalized setting, the challenge of maintaining security is no longer limited to the traditional foreign-policy and military tools of the nation-state, and security and insecurity are no longer considered as dependent exclusively upon geopolitics and military strength, but rather are seen to depend also upon social, economic, environmental and ethical models of analysis and tools for taking action. For purposes of the proposition to be raised here, I will open with a preliminary description of some of the transmutations through which the ba’al dat concept has evolved and continue, in the following section, with the rich potential it holds in facing the modern day challenge here described.

B. The Theological-Halakhic Context

The biblical vision of “all [beings] uniting in a singular alliance to do Thy will,” or “And the Lord will be King of all the earth on that day will God be one and His name one,” or “My house will be called the house of prayer for all peoples” informs the cumulative connotations of the concept ba’al dat, and is also associated with our father Abraham’s world mission. It is worth noting, furthermore, that the grand vision seemingly ignores differences, as might follow from terms such as “a singular alliance” or “King of all the earth.” No one in biblical times, however, had yet considered that the nations who would wish to bow before the Lord’s sovereignty would not only be nations from distant places but such that they all linked themselves to Abraham.

B.1 The One Does Not Abolish Difference

The basic insight is that the commitment to God, for all that it is total, does not negate difference. Despite the fact that the notion of ba’al dat came of age during the Middle Ages, we should note the biblical source relating to the particular situation in which being a monotheist does not determine an individual’s identity. The concept of ba’al dat is not utopic, and some of its applications were a result of constraints endured by Jews in their exile. But there was, in fact, no need to await the development of the other religions to reach this conclusion. The bible tells of Egyptians who will worship the one God, as well as of the Assyrians, where Israel is one of the three nations that worship God:

19 In that day shall there be an altar to the LORD in the midst of the land of Egypt, and a pillar at the border thereof to the LORD. 20 And it shall be for a sign and for a witness unto the LORD of hosts in the land of Egypt; for they shall cry unto the LORD because of the oppressors, and He will send them a savior, and a defender, who will deliver them. 21 And the LORD shall make Himself known to Egypt, and the Egyptians shall know the LORD in that day; yea, they shall worship with sacrifice and offering, and shall vow a vow unto the LORD, and shall perform it. 22 And the LORD will smite Egypt, smiting and healing; and they shall return unto the LORD, and He will be entreated of them, and will heal them. 23 In that day shall there be a highway out of Egypt to Assyria, and the Assyrian shall come into Egypt, and the Egyptian into Assyria; and the Egyptians shall worship with the Assyrians. 24 In that day shall Israel be the third with Egypt and with Assyria, a blessing in the midst of the earth; 25 for that the LORD of hosts hath blessed him, saying: 'Blessed be Egypt My people and Assyria the work of My hands, and Israel Mine inheritance (Isaiah, 19).

In this vision, the differences between nations are maintained despite their sharing in the worship of God, and Israel is but one of three nations that worship Him. A deeper inquiry shows that this pronouncement differs from the one declaring that all nations will join in worship at the temple in Jerusalem. The particularity of the Egyptian and of Assyrian traditions is maintained, despite the fact that they sacrifice to the Lord.

B.2 Peering into the Middle Ages

Jewish philosophical awareness during the Middle Ages was familiar with friendship and closeness between “possessors of religion.” Before we attempt to understand this, however, it important that we recall an observation of Rabbi Yehuda Halevy’s that has not, to date, or to the best of my knowledge, been accorded its due significance. According to Halevy, the fact that battles between religions exist rules out the philosophical view that what is essential is to worship God and that the manner of worship is insignificant. Were this to be the case, human behavior would be meaningless, because the battles would be superfluous:

Said to him the Khazari: Thy words are convincing, yet they do not correspond to what I wish to find. I know already that my soul is pure and that my actions are calculated to gain the favour of God. To all this I received the answer that this way of action does not find favour, though the intention does. There must no doubt be a way of acting, pleasing by its very nature, but not through the medium of intentions. If this be not so, why then do Christian and Moslem, who divide the inhabited world between them, fight with one another, each of them serving his God with pure intention, living as either monks or hermits, fasting and praying? For all that they vie with each other in committing murders, believing that this is a most pious work and brings them nearer to God. They fight in the belief that paradise and eternal bliss will be their reward. It is, however, impossible to agree with both.[7]

This position of Halevy’s clarifies that he does not attempt to leap into a vision of messianic or utopian peace before first having established the steadfastness of his loyalty and having “contained” the zealous warrior. History is the history of divine intention, and Halevi’s words that follow are therefore particularly reliable, even in the eyes of the zealous believer who will not reduce his faith to humanism.

Subsequently, however, we hear from Halevy that the ba’al dat is closer to the believer than is the philosopher, even though he errs:

12) Said to him the Khazari: But the followers of other religions [ba’alei dat] approach you more nearly than the philosophers?

13) Said to him the Rabbi: They are as far removed from us as the followers of a religion from a philosopher. The former seek God not only for the sake of knowing Him, but also for other great benefits which they derive therefrom. The philosopher, however, only seeks Him that he may be able to describe Him accurately in detail….[8]

Although he does not explicitly say so, the context of the exchange includes as “possessors of religion” those who set their intentions toward God. What is in fact written is, those who “seek the God”—and not the idol or any similar expression. And, in truth, Halevi takes this much further, and his vision, as made familiar in the Khuzari, is that world history, including the Jewish history of exile, is not incidental to the divine will; indeed, the philosopher is generally indifferent to particularistic notions such as “exile” or “Israel.” This vision is the pinnacle of the affinity between the religions, and it refers to the End of Days not as the triumph of Judaism alone and not as the elimination of all other religions; it is illustrated in the form of a tree with sprouting branches:

In the same manner the Law of Moses transforms each one who honestly follows it, though it may externally repel him. The nations merely serve to introduce and pave the way for the expected Messiah, who is the fruition, and they will all become His fruit. Then, if they acknowledge Him, they will again become one tree. Then they will revere the origin which they formerly dispersed, as we have observed concerning the words: "Behold My servant prospers."[9]

This sort of position could not have appeared in the Talmud, which was unfamiliar with the unique challenges facing the Jews as presented by Christianity and Islam or by philosophy. Traces of this position can, of course, be found in clues scattered in the Talmud and Scripture, but the messianic hope for harmony between the “possessors of religion” appeared in its full and rich meaning only with subsequent historical developments.

A similar change can be found in Maimonides’ position concerning Torah study. The Talmud is unequivocal in that Torah is not to be taught to a foreigner or idolater, while Maimonides considers the dissemination of Torah and its promotion to Christians to be an authentic Jewish objective. On the question in Tractate Sanhedrin (59, 71) concerning whether the halakha follows Rabbi Yohanan in that “a foreigner [or idolater] who deals in Torah deserves death,” Maimonides replies: “This is indubitably the halakha. So that when Israel has the upper hand, he [the non-Jew] is prevented from Torah study until he converts.” A tempering step follows, however, similar to the one we observed by Halevi when he says that it is permissible to teach the Bible to Christians. [10] The messianic vision according to Maimonides, in which the truth shall be made known to all humanity and to all possessors of religion, can be found in his Laws Concerning Kings in the Mishne Torah. My reading of this vision is of victory of the Truth and as the insight that it is indeed to be found in the nation of Israel’s custody.

Rabbi Joseph Albo of the fifteenth century took things a step further and established the shared principles of all followers of divine law: the existence of God, revelation, and reward and punishment. [11] In listing the principles of faith, one should note that Rabbi Albo accepts the different monotheistic religions as an open possibility and enumerates the principles for all religions. According to Rabbi Albo, Judaism ultimately is vindicated, but in his inquiry he nevertheless suspends judgment and remain open to the theoretical possibility of numerous other Godly religions.

The scholarly definition of ba’al dat, albeit from a single religion’s representatives’ point of view, is also echoed in the definitions of the idea of all religion in Islam and Christianity; the New Testament includes an awareness of the Old Testament, and Islam refers to the People of the Book. Subsequent changes in the perception of the Other by Christianity were indeed to inform the attitude toward Judaism so that, for example, Rabbi Riskin’s update of Rabbi Soloveitchik’s position[12] could be supported by those made by Pope John Paul in 1965.[13]

B.4 The Appearance of Secularization

The relationships between the monotheistic traditions and the phenomenon of secularism leave much to be clarified and established. A large gap exists between the discussion on secularism in academic spheres and its discussion among believers. It is important for us to relate to this issue to the extent that it bears upon interfaith partnership, if only to consider the possibility of an analogy between the appearance of the idea of secularism and the appearance of the Christian and Muslim religions. We must first say that one cannot consider secularism to be a neutral position; it carries a world of challenging and competing values. Secondly, just as in the ideas of Judaism and of Islam, there is not one sole concept of secularism; there are multiple possibilities and manifestations of secular identity. Marxism and capitalism, one division amongst several within domains that are likely to be considered secular, maintain interesting affinities to the monotheistic traditions. For this reason, it would be simplistic to reject secular people from the ba’al dat category, just as it would be imprudent to include secularism in the category of “possessors of religion.” We therefore note secularism as a question (even if we leave it unanswered) in order to explain that in its case the concept of ba’al dat changes entirely. It would be as simplistic to consider secularism idol worship if only because the concept of idol worship itself has undergone transmutations. Secularism, as a domain, holds the promise of facilitating religion and interfaith collaboration.

To the extent that it concerns Judaism, the expression “nations secured by the ways of religion” makes the distinction between nations that “possess a religion” and those that do not. Halbertal expanded on this concept and relates to it as referring to nations possessing a civilization, as opposed to those that have none; between nations governed by state laws, and nations that are not. It is interesting to read this interpretation against the background of Rabbi Albo’s words, in which he proposes several basic distinctions:

There are three kinds of law (dat): natural, positive or conventional (nimusit), and Divine. Natural law is the same among all peoples, at all times and in all places. Positive or conventional is a law ordered by a wise man or men to suit the place and the time, and the nature of the persons who are to be controlled by it, like the laws and the statutes enacted in certain countries among the ancients idolaters, or those who worship God as human reason dictates without any divine revelation. Divine law is one that is ordered by God through a prophet, like Adam or Noah, or like the custom or laws which Abraham taught men, instructing them to worship God and circumcising them by the command of God, or one that is ordered by God through a messenger whom He sends and through whom He gives a law, like the law of Moses. (Volume 1, Chapter 7).

The intent of natural religion is to do away with injustice and bring veracity closer, so that people may refrain from robbery, theft, and murder, in such a manner that human society may continue and exist, and every one protected from the hand of injustice and wickedness. The intent of the conventional religion is to do away with indecency and bring closer that which is proper, so that people will distance themselves from what is reprehensible, as is widely known. And in this it is to be preferred to the natural one, for the conventional also corrects people’s behavior respects the concept of family and organizes the governance of their affairs. The Jewish world faced the challenges of Christianity and Islam, in part, with the concept ba'al dat, and Albo's distinctions bear an interesting contribution. It is particularly enlightening to compare the distinction between "nations secured by religion" and nations that are not thus secured attributed to Hameiri and Rabbi Joseph Albo's list of principles.

Yet although these approaches may have the potential of proposing interesting ways of relating to the question of law in secular states, they appear to lack the capacity to decisively determine these fateful issues. The course implied by Barth and Levinas' position is to extend the concept of idolatry. We note here only the great potential this course indicates and outline our context for the issue we face. Idol worshipping has historically been identified with paganism, as worship of the celestial spheres, trees, or mountains. With time, this concept has been extended to include the self-anointed and the "god of money,” and even materialism has been suspected as idolatry. Indeed, the political-spiritual challenge is less likely to be found in a remote tribe throwing flower petals to a river goddess than in bullying regimes. The proposition that arises naturally is to view tyrannical regimes and personality cults, the likes of which we have encountered during the twentieth century, as idolatry. Stalin and Mao's regimes each merit the crown of idolatry, not for having been materialistic or worshipped money, nor for having been atheistic, but rather because they sought to take on the role of gods for their respective peoples. Non-democratic regimes are the prime suspects likely to fall under the category of the updated concept of idolatry. In lieu of Hameiri's position that linked the lack of faith to lawless behavior [14] we may set political tyranny as today's relevant challenge to faith and consider it as dangerous idolatry.

C. An Age of Great Dangers

Just as the appearance of additional religions and the changes they undergo affect the attitudes of other religions, the appearance of secularism challenges the different religions to a similar extent, in ways that have yet to be resolved. Nevertheless, the development of ideas is not alone in imposing change; events and cultural changes do so as well. Important historic developments have changed relationships between the religions, and the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel generated promising changes in Christianity’s attitude to Judaism. There is, nevertheless, no a priori mechanism that can ensure that these great changes will be followed by the desired change in its system of norms. One should note the enormity of the oversight, of the failed opportunity for change, in the helplessness exhibited by the trustees of the religions by their not apprehending the situation and failing to save the world from the great tragedy of the twentieth century. Emmanuel Levinas and Karl Barth were able, from the start, to identify the rise of Nazism led by Hitler as idolatry. Their reading was clear and, in the case of Levinas and Levinas’ nation, fateful. The huge deficiency of Judaism and Christianity was in finding neither the tools nor the language, or perhaps not the strength, to face these developments. The context is secularism, communism and fascism, and the forces of faith lacked the required armies. It was actually Hitler and the fascist countries that were quick to harness religious tendencies to the great madness that transpired over humanity.

Today we would add an instructive value to every change, beyond the norm of “because of the ways of peace,” although it, too, is linked to this idea. I refer to a concern for the world’s continued existence and to humanity's progress, and to the prevention of global disasters. The concept of war has undergone a dramatic change, no serious politician can assure us that war is "the continuation of policy by other means" as promised by Carl von Clausewitz. Furthermore, one should add here that it is impossible to leave the responsibility to “secular” atheistic positions, seeing as in this case it is the rise of religion and religious fanaticism that have created this harsh situation. The combination of  religious fanaticism and weapons of mass destruction creates a threat to human life. Levinas and Barthes’ “missed opportunity” led to the greatest destruction of the twentieth century. What is at stake in the current situation is different: It is more dangerous, and religious believers play a significant role in the threats that face our societies.

C. 1 Three Possible Avenues

What possibilities lie before us in facing these existential threats? The first is to blur the differences between the religions to which we each respectively belong and to accept that blind loyalty is too high a price to pay. The beauty and truth in this alternative are difficult to resist. It aligns us to what is paramount: love, compassion, and a peace served by us all, yet this avenue is problematic precisely from a most essential aspect. It cannot include the zealot's perception of truth, namely, that God's claims transcend the claims of humanity. For the zealot, faithfulness entails an unequivocal loyalty to faith, even when that leads to harming others.

To be willing to destroy humanity cannot be the goal of human redemption! Neither is it clear how differences between the faiths may be both bridged and yet glossed over. A Jew observes the Torah as ones’ only doctrine, at least in terms of worship, while another Jew may end up rejecting these teachings; or one claims that the Torah was forged by Ezra the Scribe while another recognizes the validity of prophecy or does not feel at all bound by the Messiah of other religions. How can differences in basic principles between the faiths be blurred? There are those who have opted for martyrdom when asked to agree to some such violations of their beliefs—are they now expected to convert their loyalties, those of their fathers and their forefathers?

A second approach to bridging the gap between the faiths is to maintain our hold on our loyalty as it has been interpreted to date. This second approach will appeal to those just people who do not seek excuses for themselves or for their nation. This, I believe, is a valid, worthy and laudable way. Divine mercy is promised to those who do not alter their faith and remain on their path—even when it seems to lead to the most terrifying conclusions imaginable.

Believers have thus far been torn by these two options, while many Secularists who were, in any case, uncomfortable with religion, generally preferred to denounce religious fanaticism rather than take responsibility for the situation, and few chose to take any decisive steps (see the quotation from Habermas below).

There remains a basis for yet an additional position. As Rabbi Yehuda Halevi established, wars are not random events. It may be naïve to say, “Why be at war?” when we share the same Father, but this position is disrespectful to warriors and to the memory of their devotion. In the Mahabharata of India the warrior who excels is he who fulfills his duty. At the end of the day, it is possible that God will embrace all those who fought for Him, even if they fought against each other, and it is likely that the naïve person will appear to be disingenuous, and as one who did not follow his conscience. It is indeed superfluous to tell a shahid or martyr that he is unaware that we share the same Father. Humanism, on its own, will not suffice to show us the path, particularly when the fanatic has developed positions resistant to humanism, pluralism, and the like. Nevertheless, we may follow this logic, namely, that war is not a random occurrence, and consider the war against wars as divine will.

C. 2 The Third Possibility

Loyalty to our tradition does not prevent us from observing the deep transformations that took place in this same tradition and that were put into effect by the greatest of believers; this is the issue that now confronts us. The idea of “because of the ways of peace” generated important innovations, yet there are no guarantees that it can meet contemporary challenges. It is in this context that I wish to propose a reading of the known adage, “Therefore love ye truth and peace.” Simply understood, this text states that these two demands lie in contrast to each other; the pursuit of peace can be at the expense of truth (for example, Aaron lied in order to bring peace); we may propose a second reading stating that pursuing truth will not bring peace. The following reading is, however, also conceivable: Sustainable peace cannot be based on a lie, and a truth pursued that does not result in peace cannot be true.

Motivation for collaboration between the monotheistic traditions is likely to be of several sorts: democracy and faith, technological questions that cause discomfiture to faith, loss of the value of humanity, the defection of many from religious life. We may add to these Rabbi Riskin’s laudable initiative, coming from the Orthodox camp, which sought to rethink Jewish-Christian dialog so as to make a stand in face of Islamic fanaticism and terror, and to deal with the world’s relative apathy.[15] There is much to learn from Rabbi Riskin’s position, yet what is here proposed is different. First, we include all those who consider themselves party to these principles, including Muslims, Christians, and Secularists who believe in the existence of God and take responsibility for the value of Man. A Muslim who considers the proposed cooperation to be essential and important is as welcome as is a Christian or Jew. There is, in any case, significant room for those values to be found in the diverse Secularist camps— even for those who do not believe in God[16] may win a religionist’s favor. The issue we face, on the one hand, is the understanding that the merger between fanaticism and weapons of mass destruction threatens the planet’s existence, just as—in a thought-provoking way—the combination between idolatry and atomic weaponry, which may be discerned in North Korea, for example, create a similar menace. On the other hand, we understand that the liberal camp cannot be left on its own. What about the sons and daughters of the traditions who consider such “combinations” to be a distortion of their very tradition? This threat, in conjunction with the awareness that the powers on hand are desperately in need of help, lie at the basis of our proposal.

In his discussion, Rabbi Riskin raises the idea of  tikkun olam, “rescuing the world” as a concept  that can be understood at the same level as the category indicated by “because of the ways of peace.” It can be termed “the peace of the world,” and this would hardly be an overstatement. This category is intended to instruct us—the faithful, in our dealing with the impending dangers of our time, dangers that were unimaginable in previous generations. I will attempt below to develop what lies behind this idea in a certain direction, without entering the world of Jewish Law, in the hope that the latter will find the way to make beneficent use in the creation of a halakhic category of the type I recommend here.

Loyalty to tradition is a good thing in itself but for the fact that, in a non-relativistic world, a structural aspect of belonging to a tradition is its limiting of the validity of the Other’s tradition. My friend Omar Salem claimed that one of the values to which he is committed is the protection of the right to adhere to one’s tradition. This idea is a lofty one, and yet peace lovers cannot afford such lofty ideas, for my loyalty to my tradition imposes your criticism upon me. Does this mean the end of partnership? There remains, however, a meaningful set of shared values to be proposed to every monotheistic position and that has instructional potential on the matter at hand. Thus, even if we are in a bitter disagreement that, in itself, is the divine will, and there is nevertheless a meaningful set of values to which we are all committed, which, for purposes of this discussion, I will call "Enlightened Monotheism." This can be defined through tenets shared by most, if not all, monotheistic traditions. I am not aiming here at a rigorous definition; rather, I hope that the following remarks will help us place the concept within the domain of ideas.

1. 1. 1. The world has a foundation-Creator-Source; Nature is the result of the will of God.
      2. Moral laws and the domain of values in general are objective; they are not accidental results of natural processes.
      3. God and the domain of values intimately related.

The metaphysical dimension of Enlightened Monotheism can be reduced to one sentence: The source of reality is related to the Good.

1. 1. 4. Men and women derive their absolute value from their relation to the domain of norms that surpasses nature.
      5. Moral action brings humanity close to God.  
      6. Since God is one, and there is no other god who might surpass Him, observing the imperative to follow God is the highest achievement.
      7.  Humans can always aspire to a closer relationship with God. As long they are alive they can strengthen this relationship.
      8. An individual’s freedom of choice is a condition for a life of faith.

And a most important principle that must be emphasized in contemporary conflicts:

i. Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.

What concerns us are our meaningful shared values; I did not attempt to enumerate all the shared values and symbols. One could easily add the value of study, the fact that God hears the prayers of every one of us, the Old Testament, the significance of Jerusalem, values of modesty and family values – which are not reducible to moral values, identifying with those who suffer and so on. Faced with these, one might think that the similarities are so numerous that they threaten differences. Nevertheless, in order to clarify that which I here propose, it is worthwhile making the comparison to other shared systems, if only in one or two sentences. The seven Noahide commandments to which, according to Judaism, all human beings, whatever their origins, are obligated. They do not include belief in God yet they do include the prohibition of idolatry. Most of the principles I outlined above do not apply to them. Of Rabbi Albo’s principles only the first is included here, while I do not mention the other two—reward and punishment, and the origin of Torah as Divine revelation—despite the fact that some of the principles I enumerated above (a – i) are to be found in the Jewish tradition. The differences between monotheistic religions cannot conceal the huge expanse of their common ground.

C. 2.1 Expansion  

Karl Barth made the attempt to create a platform from which to withstand the ill winds he identified that were raging in his country at the time, and as a good Christian, he tried to take action to abolish the idolatry that arose within the rise of Nazism. Our parallel proposal is that the alliance between those working to promote the broad expanse of common ground shared by all monotheistic camps must be constructed in face of the dangerous developments within monotheism. This movement of activists from the world over will go beyond interfaith dialog and not be limited to clerics from all creeds, despite the fact that it may well receive their support; it will advance toward establishing a shared political and social agenda. This will not be an encounter for the making of mutual acquaintance, nor even for a clarification of principles of faith, but will deal with taking action whose central justification will be – without exaggeration – the prevention of great disasters or, put in a positive way, the rescue of world peace.

Thus, along with the great ideologies that traverse traditions, such as Liberalism, Marxism or Feminism, this will be a broad ideology that will include members of different traditions who are, on the one hand, committed to their own traditions yet perceive the obligation of acting together with members of other traditions for the benefit of shared values, on the other.

Several questions naturally present themselves that deserve immediate comment. See the relationship to democracy (the interview between Habermas and the previous Pope). It seems to me that the answer here is rather simple. Tyranny is the modern day idolatry and the battle with every tyrannical regime is certainly an important task for the partnership under discussion. From the point of view of Judaism, it is not surprising that tyranny, as an expression of idolatry, and a disregard for the value of human life go hand in hand. A deeper question concerns the tendency to control that is found in certain interpretations of some traditions—the ideal that Islam, Judaism or the Catholic Church will rule over everything. Here too, it seems that democracy is the condition for the integration of interfaith joint forces. The suspicion that adherents to freedom harbor toward clerics who claim to be His representatives on earth is well-founded in human history. Our expectation is that here, too, the principles of the separation of powers, freedom of religion etc. are most likely to be well secured in a democratic regime. What is important here is that these activists acting from their traditions know how to differentiate between the secular regimes that secure freedom of religion and those that do not.

We know in advance that in the struggle between religions over truth God is the sole victor. And yet we must examine how it is possible to maintain the demands of a particular tradition for this or that hegemony. Here we require scholarly investigation of the principles of faith. In the Jewish camp, the most important page on the position concerning messianic days is to be found in Maimonides’ writings. According to him, the End of Days is not to be a battle between nations that will determine who is right but a debate between faiths on Truth. An important objective follows for this same covenant: to allow exploration of the truth, perpetual study. Thus, rather than pursuing heretics, we will strive for to establish the conditions required for profound study and for clarification of the truth, whatever it may be. We say to the zealot, “Promote peace and prayer.” Even if God commanded us to battle, He may yet be merciful when He sees that we seek His victory and not our own, and be content with our love and with our will to know the truth itself. Never did He seek our love so that we should be at war with each other, and when he demanded that we enter battle – it was to ensure that we love and worship Him.

Summary

The differences between “possessors of religion” in no way diminish the deep affinity between them. Monotheism, despite its absolute demands from its believers, affords them with sufficient leeway for major differences. This forms the basis of the term ba’al dat. Life between “possessors of religion” gave rise to concepts such as “because of the ways of peace,” which also underwent transformations over time. The challenges we face in the 21^st century were unconceivable by our forefathers and present us with issues of partnership that preclude blurring differences or endangering loyalties to the basic principles of ba’alei dat. My position on imminent and massive disasters outlined here proposes an expansion of the norms that inform us. The merger between weapons of mass destruction and fanaticism – which is not only hypothetical – is one such challenge, but there are others. What I present above, while not an entirely consolidated position, is intended principally to facilitate this important—and possibly fateful – discussion, and may be summed up in the five statements:

1. While the concepts ba'al dat or "nations secured by religion" were intended to enable Jewish life among Christians, the concept of Enlightened Monotheism here proposed as an update of ba'al dat is intended to define the domain of a system of norms to enable the common battle shared by all those who consider themselves faithful to the monotheistic tradition.

2. While trends in Jewish Law sought to limit manifestations of idolatry and found support in expressions such as "nations secured by the ways of religion,” what is suggested here is to extend the concept of idolatry to include political tyranny.

3. The expression "because of the ways of peace" falls short of the task at hand and should be replaced by the expression shlom 'olam—"world peace.” I do not necessarily refer to utopia but rather propose a positive term for the idea of preventing mass disasters.

4. When placing the emphasis on the common ground between the diverse traditions one should also point out relevant components found in the monotheistic religions, the most important being "Thou shalt not take the Lord's Name in vain,” which we tend to forget in times of conflict.

5. The schema proposed does not avoid the deep identification one maintains with one's own tradition and, while embracing openness to other traditions , considers it a vitally important condition to avoid blurring differences.

Misha  Edel concentrated his gaze one last time on the black ,contorted mask that had made him famous.  The snout, or some would say the curved trunk ,would have to be shortened, he decided,   the jaw cover tightened to produce the sound he wanted.  

He looked at himself briefly in the mirror.  The mask made him appear like a hideous cross between a monkey, a pig and an elephant.   He broke into an almost-smile as he recalled the fright he had caused at his first children’s concert.  He had started by imitating the voice of the Wicked Witch of the West – in the Wizard of Oz – but he had so startled the young audience, some of whom began to wail, that he had to calm them by twisting the snout and becoming Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.”

Tonight, at his final concert, he decided that  he would run through several of his most famous roles – Placido Domingo, Jussi  Bjorling ( sophisticated audiences loved his subtle imitation of the great Swedish singer’s Italian) and more daringly the mezzo-soprano Marilyn Horne.   Then, pivoting rather wildly, he would become the tempestuous Celine and belt out“True Love.”

At the end, with what he hoped would be the show stopper, he would imitate  Jackie Evancho – not the established cross-over  singer of sixteen  - but the little  Jackie, who, at only nine, first stunned the TV world with the voice of a young adult.

Ending with Evancho was a concession.  Deep down, he wanted so much to finish where he himself had begun,  as the ten year old child prodigy auditioning at the famed Barbilo Music Academy  -- his voice so tremulous but so pure. It was that voice he wanted to recover in his finale, the unalloyed, limpid sound of little Misha-le.    But, try as he might, he could not manage it.   When he tried to produce it, what emerged was vaguely recognizable to him but it sounded so distant, without sweetness or character, as if coming forth from a tin box.

How could it be – he asked himself -- that he could not find that voice?  After all it was his own. Just a slight adjustment to the snout, a shorter intake of breath - would that not do it?   

 The high pitch could definitely not be the problem. For so many years, he had handled   even female voices quite easily.  He remembered well his first try at Anna Nebreko.   The audience had gasped, even though he could privately recall several flawed phrases.  

And the Maria Callas recital of five years ago, so much more difficult , had been so successful that several in the audience refused to believe it.  

“Give me the mask” a man in the front row of the orchestra had demanded, his cry rising above the tumultuous applause.   “This is a hoax; I want the mask.”

Several in the audience had tried to quiet the man, but he would not be stopped.   Edel  had broken  into a thin smile  and beckoned him to the stage, but his challenger had hesitated, shrinking , perhaps, at Edel’s willing compliance.

Challenges like this had happened several times before – particularly before skeptical audiences in Tel Aviv and in Berlin.  He had had acoustical engineer, sculptors, specialists of many kinds  examine the mask, as they searched for hidden amplifiers, sound modifiers, digital devices of all kinds – to no avail, of course. 

In Berlin, he had even consented, ten minutes before his imitation of the famous countertenor Andreas Schol, to have an otolaryngologist thrust a tube down his throat to investigate for possible mechanical “aids.”  

Edel’s imitations had gained him enormous acclaim, and until a year ago, he had reveled in the adulation.   But now, as he reached 63, uncomfortable questions had  started to nag at him.   Exactly what were his audiences applauding?  His astounding mimicry?  Surely.   Indeed, he had  been told that several “experts” would rush home after his concerts to play audios of the singers he imitated  and , then , triumphantly   claim that “the great   Edel” had distorted a phrase, struck the wrong pitch, or bellowed instead of crooned.

Nevertheless, his consternation mounted.  If he had imitated the voices of ordinary folk, of someone in the audience --- would the appeal have been as great?  Was it only his resurrection of great singers that was so stirring?   Was he appealing, really, to his listeners’ nostalgia?   

As these disturbing reflections deepened, he yearned more and more to recover   his own voice.  If he could not regain the voice of little Misha -le, could he not, at least,  find the voice of the seasoned, sophisticated  Misha? 

He first thought it would be easy . He would simply discard the mask, take a breath and sing.  He tried one of his favorites, Bach’s “Bleibst Du Bei Mir.”  He had performed it countless times, imitating great male and female lieder singers.  But when he tried to find his own voice, his anguish only grew.  He sang with ease, to be sure, but the voice,  although young and pleasant, sounded strange, foreign.   It was like no other, surely, but it did not sound like him at all.     

He tried again and failed again. His hands grew sweaty, and his throat tightened.  He tried to calm himself. “You haven’t heard yourself in such a long time . .  try to take it easy.”  He tried another song, Mozart’s “Das Kinderspiel ( the children’s game) and found himself almost terrified.   He couldn’t recognize the voice at all..  It was coming out of him.  It surely wasn’t someone else’s but it wasn’t his.  He grabbed the mask.   He tried again.  The voice remained soothing and steady, with a slight vibrato, but, again,  he could not recollect it.

“It has become contaminated by the others; I will purify it,” he reasoned.  He dipped his hand into the small bottle of the special coagulant he had often used to thicken the inside of the snout, so that he would exhale less air.  .  

He felt momentarily relieved as he donned the mask, and, indeed, he easily produced a young male sound  -- frail, slight, pristine , but it was yet another imitation, of whom he could not tell – but it was not his.

A kind of panic gripped him.   He tried again and again, tinkering with the mask, adjusting his breathing, at times stretching or bending, contorting his frame, squeezing his midriff – but to no avail.

Exhausted  --  at last, he gave up.

One the afternoon of the final performance, he stared one last time at the mask and then inserted a small razor blade into the lower part of the instrument. A quick touch of his finger and it would be over.   He would do it immediately after finishing Jackie Evancho’s aria.

Rarely apprehensive before performances, he could barely hold down the honey and fruit mixture he customarily drank a half an hour before coming on stage.   As he entered, he had to grip the mask to hide his quivering fingers. 

 The familiar, rising applause calmed him.    He  lifted the mask, pulled it over his face, and , in a moment,  Bjorling’s confident, powerful “Nessum Dorma “ poured forth, then Placido’s Non Puerde Ser.”  It wasn’t Edel’s best, but the audience barely noticed.  He took the mask off, wiped his brow, and, in front of the rapt, silent crowd, began his customary on-stage rapid gluing and his fiddling with the snout.  The mask was back on , and  Marilyn Horne’s  mezzo soprano filled the concert hall.   The applause was appreciative, adoring, but he knew that he had missed more than one phrase and lost more than one of the high notes.  Worse, he noticed that, toward the end,  the voice was not quite accurate.   It was as if Horne had become an alto.

He wished desperately that there would have been no intermission.   It only increased   his anxiety.  He found himself actually chewing on his mask as he waited to return to the stage.  It was not the final moment with the razor that left his heart pounding.   No --   In his super-meticulous manner, he had tested the razor’s sharpness, worked on the mechanism, located the precise point on his throat.   He would feel a fleeting moment of pain, then he would be gone. Rather -- what drove him to near panic was the fear that he was faltering.   He had been acutely aware of the subtle but noticeable errors in his Horne imitation.  . . . and what was to come later , toward the end of the performance,   Celine’s smooth but torrid “ True Love,”  would be far more difficult.

His foreboding was justified.  He hit all the notes correctly, the phrasing was perfect, Celine’s smooth , saucy voice rang out , but the truly  powerful  , sultriness was absent.  The applause came,  but it was milder, more hesitant,, somewhat subdued.   This was Celine, to be sure, but a Celine without strength, without the sly, sexy confidence.

By the time, he reached the finale, he was sweating visibly.  He reached for some water.  Then pulling the mask to his face as tightly as he could, he thrust his trembling hands into his pockets, shut his eyes and began little Jackie’s “ O Mia Bambino Caro.”  The beginning was astoundingly accurate, and as in the original Evancho moment,  the audience, so swept away by the tiny girl’s amazingly mature, adult  voice, burst into applause.  Then came the final phrases “ Babo, pieta, pieta”  and he stumbled badly.  Suddenly, the audience heard neither the adult voice that so characterized Jackie Evancho’s singing nor the  child’s ultra soprano. 
 

What emerged was not  the sweet  voice of Jackie at all.    As he tried to sing on, the voice was quickly changing,  supplanting entirely the song of little Jackie.  It was a boy’s voice, still very young,  a bit tremulous, yet lovely, quiet  –  It could hardly be heard beyond the orchestra seats.

The audience, so excited and adoring a moment ago, was stunned; there was murmuring, shocked whispering, “ What was wrong?  Where was Evancho?” He started to shake noticeably --   then, pulling his hands from his pockets, he completed  the aria with as much strength as a young boy could muster.   Then,  Misha-le  Edel  sobbed with joy.

Much of my life has been a search for meaning and truth. The Great Mystery often hovers over my search as I move from experience to experience, and often I am left with a remnant of faith in my journey toward truth, and this faith sustains me. I often find that it is the journey itself that is most meaningful and that absolute “Truth” may come in hazy, sudden flashes, but is not always sustainable; for the hester panim (eclipse of God) in our contemporary situation is a formidable energy that can implant doubt in me.

This is the devastating curse of the energy of Amalek—radical evil—that truly dims the “Throne of the Lord,” and attacks our faith. For how can evil flourish in the face of the reality of God; the prevalence of evil hampers our lofty faith. As our mystical sages explain, in gematria (numerology) the word Amalek totals 240; the word for doubt (safek) also totals 240; thus, Amalek symbolizes the insertion of doubt into our psyches. This is the radical evil that must be fought against with increased faith in every generation so that God’s Throne can be manifest in clear Light. It is the movement forward even with this doubt, that I will call faith; “faith rather than truth” is the actual legitimate quest in the thought of some of our most traditional sages.

As a prelude to this path, one might ask: What are some of the prevalent suggestions as to how one finds truth in this world? One way is to move broadly to a recognition of all the myriad energies that flow through us, an integration of these “opposites,” the conscious and unconscious, the kabbalistic sephirot that need to be felt and balanced, the middot that we encounter on the path of mussar. This broad perspective keeps us from seeing life through a narrow lens and perceiving things from that narrow space. This way of expanding consciousness and accessing truth is through an inward journey.

Another way is to trust Scripture, and the transmission of ancient knowledge that we believe is divinely revealed through an event, (Sinai). What happens when there is a clash between the outer dictum, and inner experience, (what happens when we encounter biblical criticism)? Whom do we trust then? Can God be experienced from within, or is there a tension of opposites at that point that leads to a deeper perception and integration that we call Truth or getting closer to truth as it is refined as we live through life’s stages?

            Some of our Sages suggest that we should accept that this is actually a world of faith and not of Truth, and it is the “striving” for truth that is essential. A part of life will always be mysterious, and our reasoning minds can only reach doubt when encountering so many variables. One constant challenge is how we distinguish objective facts from our constant projections. We bring ourselves to everything we encounter, so we have to rely upon a myriad of sources, such as feeling, intuition, imagination, experience, senses, reason, and revelation.

And, yes, there are those who are blessed with the absolute belief in our sages and transmission. It is certainly easier if we live in a community of faith where we are influenced by this energy. Hence, na’aseh v’nishma; our experience influences our perception. But much of our community does not live with this certainty and relies on “faith” rather than Absolute Truth. So let us now explain this specific point of view from the parables and teachings of the Sages.

There is a story told about the Rambam that one day he was visiting a beloved student who was on his deathbed. The Rambam asked that when he reaches the True World to please inquire why bad things happen to good people, why justice is not always achieved in this world. He asked his student to visit him in a dream and reveal to him the answer. The pious student promised to do so. Sure enough, a month after he died he appeared to the Rambam in a dream. The Rambam asked him, “Can you now share with me the answer?” The student replied sadly: “When I was in the upper world, everything was clear to me; truth was crystal clear. But when I crossed over—retuning back to the earthly realm, everything became unclear, questionable, filled with limited perception, so I cannot communicate what I learned up there!”

The Sefat Emet at the end of Bereishith, in Parashat Vayehi, shares a similar idea and gives another reason why this is a world of faith, Emuna and not a world of truth, Emet. When Jacob intended to give blessings to his sons at the end of his life, he gathered them together to reveal to them details relating to the secret of the End of the Days. Rashi points out that he was prevented to do so by an angel. The Sefat Emet explains that the reason for this is that the next world is the world of Emet, but this is a world of Emuna. If indeed, the Truth would be revealed in this world there would be no striving for truth, no growth or depth would occur. Absolute clarity and objective truth are withheld so that human beings would strenuously strive for truth, actualize their potential and contribute to the world. It is the journey toward truth in this world that is even more valuable than the actual truth.

The development of faith contains within it some element of doubt, risk taking, and the virtue of courage, but when one lives a life of faith blessings are achieved. Joseph Campbell suggests this idea when he quotes the philosopher who said, “When you are on a journey, and the goal seems further and further away, the journey itself is the goal.”

The Hassidim present a similar idea inherent in the Hebrew letters. The Torah begins with a letter Bet rather than Aleph. This may seem strange, since Aleph is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet and Bet is the second letter. The Hassidim point out that Aleph connotes unity and oneness; however, this is a world of duality, opposites constantly emerging. This is actually a blessing. The letter Aleph begins the word Arur (a curse), for it leads to a naïve unity, imagining that unity can be achieved without striving. The return to the reality of the Garden of Eden, an imagined place of unity, is actually a desire to be free of stress of the dualities of this world, a desire to sleep, a death wish (Thanatos). The letter Bet (two, duality) is the first letter of the word Berakha (a blessing). It is through engaging with duality, striving to move toward greater unity consciously that creates blessing. The shape of the letter Bet also connotes this; it is closed on three sides and open on the fourth side, incomplete. It is up to us in this world of Emuna to fill in the fourth side, through our striving, through our mitzvoth. Truth in this world is not achieved easily, nor is it supposed to be; hence it is only the next world that is called Olam ha-Emet (the world of Truth).

So how do we come closer to Truth in this world? There are two basic traditional historical approaches. One can be found in the view of the Rambam and the other in the view of Yehuda Halevi. The Rambam’s view is the more rational approach. Because of the beauty and logic of the Torah, one can apprehend the Truth of God’s creation and Presence through study and action. The comprehension of the absolutely wise directives of the Torah trains us “To do the right and the good in the eyes of the Lord” (Deut. 6), thus leading us to the truth. To observe the glory of creation, its infinite biological and physical beauty and complexity leads us to the awe and Truth of the Creator as well. It is not just a contemplative path that leads us there, but the doing of the commandments (na’aseh v’nishmah) that leads to a spiritual path that becomes our truth. When done in fellowship in a community of faith, we also find the support and reaffirmation of this Truth.

Yehuda Halevi approaches our imbibing of truth through historical transmission and witnessing, not just individually but as a whole people. It is because a whole nation witnessed at Mount Sinai the revelation and the transmission of the commandments, and passed it generation after generation. For if the Prophets, the greatest truth tellers were to lie, whom can we trust? And if a whole people witnessed the event of revelation, rather than one person, it attains a reliability that cannot be denied. So it is from the faith of the righteous leaders of all earlier generations, their students and the community of Israel through the generations that we imbibe the truth that we must follow.

In our present day, when Torah study is not always the norm, and when there is not always a connection to a community of believers, the search for truth and meaning is challenging. One is faced with the possibility of many truths rather than one Absolute Truth. Some individuals are able to feel the truth, the still small voice from an inner calling, when one is touched by kindness and intuits that as a spark of God; some from the actions of the righteous, the pious, the courageous in the face of darkness; some from the gentle, resilient response in the face of rational incredulity, where the Mystery of something deeper appears. Some as they walk the inner cities and glance at the hundreds of faces and wonder how incredible that each has a unique story, each is a whole world. How can there not be a Creator, a purpose to this magnificent cosmos! Some obtain moments of a sudden flash of insight, perhaps a dream, perhaps the small still voice in the forest of the redwood trees; perhaps in the restfulness of the Shabbat; some through meditation, or sinking the winning basket in front of a large crowd. It is not only in the supernatural miracles, but in the miracle of the everyday when we are open to the glory of the natural creation that works every day. Perhaps from a kabbalistic perspective we may call it the integration of intuition and wonder (hokhma) into the realm of the rational (binah), which transforms it into a deeper knowledge (da’at), a contact with the Infinite.

The elevated behavior of human beings, especially of the genuinely pious, also point to the spark of Truth that alludes to something beyond our limited perceptions. As an example, Gandhi was asked: “Is God Love?” He responded: “I am not sure if God is Love, this Great Mystery is beyond my comprehension, but I know that to love is Godly.”  In other words, even if God seems to be distant, we can feel the spirit and reality of God by the qualities in human beings that we define as God-like.

Other people can feel God by observing God in nature; the magnificent, awesome beauty and grandeur that transcend all our doubts, through beauty, creativity, music, poetry, song.  And yet we are faced by moments of doubt; and that doubt is a concomitant of faith because it indicates the beyond rational Mystery of Mysteries. If God were a simple rational entity that we could control, doubt would not be present; but would we really be thinking of the Mystery of Mysteries? The doubt, of course, is also engendered by perceiving the world through our limited ego, and the radical evil that we face (Amalek).

The Hassidim suggest that we can learn from the word truth (Emet) itself an important path toward moving toward truth. They explain that the word Emet is made of the first letter of the alphabet, the last letter of the alphabet, and the middle letter—a broad perception. The word for falsehood, (Sheker) is made up of one letter after the other, a narrow perception. So how do we achieve this broad perspective?

One way is to acknowledge that this is a world of continuing complexity (Bet), or as R. Yisrael Salanter states, “Man is a drop of reason in a sea of irrationality,” and one must accept the change that constantly flows, allow it to be a constant learning experience and not cling to a simple truth that leads to disappointment. Truth is not achieved by repressing something that contradicts our initial perception, it is to be welcomed as an additional element to add to our perception, an attempt at balancing competing truths.

We look at the many dimensions of self, discovering how we are ego driven. Until we gain greater consciousness and clarity of the many dimensions of the self, we only live from a constricted perception. We first have to become aware of how we avoid facing the anxiety of the unknown, and remove the blockage in order to grow toward a broader perception. How we erect defenses to avoid vulnerability, potential pain and anxiety must be faced, and ultimately overcome. We must work to create the ability to accept life as it is, with all its changes rather than follow our proclivity to control everything, which is impossible and thus creates pain, anger and distance from God. The path of “control” is living from the realm of the ego and not from faith. When we reach the state of depression and guilt that results from living an ego based life, we move even further from God until we open again to the process of teshuvah and are gathered back through love, living from the realm of faith and meaning.

The attribute of faith implies our ability to at times rest in anxiety rather than trying to escape our discomfort immediately. The enduring of the pain of uncertainty is challenging but it leads to depth and appreciation. It suggests that this is not a world of absolute Emet but a world that contains Mystery as well, and thus necessitates faith. This way of encountering the world moves us from the realm of dogmatic certainty and promotes creativity, depth and sublime learning. As the Kotzker Rebbe taught: “The assertion that one knows the full truth is the demise of religion, the journey toward truth is the flowering of religion.”

Let us conclude by finding within the Torah several indications that the path of faith—of searching for truth in this world rather than owning the absolute truth—is an authentic path to be considered. We find in the Torah a potential example of the necessity to “search” for truth in the story of the eviction from the Garden of Eden. One might interpret that the exile (eviction) of Adam and Eve from the Garden was actually an act providentially built into our universe; that we must go out into the world to discover consciousness and return to the Garden only as developed human beings as opposed to the naïve unity that the Aleph, implies in the origins of the Garden. We must encounter the Bet (opposites in this world), in order to move to the Gimmel (the integration of the opposites), and find wholeness in the Dalet (the attenuation of the ego—Dal=impoverishment—and thus contact with soul). For ultimately, the naïve desire to return to the Garden is an attempt to escape stress, to avoid the discomfort of this world.

This interpretation teaches that we must go out into this world, actualize our God given talents and achieve our destiny through living and giving. The desire to grow (Eros) is the counterforce to our desire to escape stress (Thanatos). It is a very powerful, redemptive trait.

A second example is found in the story of Abraham, when he is visited by three angels after circumcision. Although in great physical pain, his natural inclination to do hessed overcame his physical pain. He proceeded to feed the angels finding spiritual meaning in moving onward rather than choosing to rest and de-stress. The story teaches that the primary way to spiritual fulfillment is to keep moving forward on the path, moving with faith, doing the mitzvoth, even while enduring physical pain. With meaning that stems from giving and following a soul journey, we actualize our spirituality and discover the truth of the soul through faith, even without Absolute Truth.

Moshe Rabeinu, too, is an example of one who achieves faith through the “heroic journey.” He is abandoned as a child but then lives in the palace of the king, the secure place. But something is missing; the material comfort that surrounds him does not satisfy his soul. Life remains a mystery; so he risks leaving his secure place and takes a journey toward the unknown, open to discovery. He has the courage to “turn aside,” and he is blessed to discover the “burning bush” and God’s Presence, and he knows he must share this knowledge with his people and with the world. Faith emanates from his journey, and truth is discovered as a blessing in his search. But then he must return to the reality of people who challenge his faith, through all the changes of life; yet his faith remains strong, and God dwells with him.

In our world, when God does not speak to us as directly as to Moses, Abraham, and the Prophets, we are challenged. The more the darkness of evil reigns the more our faith is impacted (Amalek); the more we as human beings do not act with faith, the more elusive faith becomes. And we turn to other gods—materialism, hedonism, and secular culture—which ultimately fail to give us the awesome, sustaining faith that we yearn for.

So if life is ever changing, and we are always changing, what can we rely upon? Can we accept that the nature of life is change, and discover God within that change?

Maybe we may never find the Truth, but we can, through our actions create faith, a movement toward truth that connects us to something larger. The word mitzvah comes from the root tzavta, to join; through the deed we join with God. Living in a community of faith helps support and strengthen our soul proclivity.   

May each of our unique journeys lead to meaning (faith). And may we discover truth at the end of our lives when we may we look back and see that the journey itself held all the clues to the meaning of our lives. The acceptance of the journey toward truth, leading a life of faith without expecting absolute truth along the journey will lead to Truth itself at the end. The acceptance, the journey itself will become the Truth. We will do and we will understand.

Da’at Torah, the notion that leading decisors can issue binding opinions on matters outside the scope of halakha, or Jewish law, is a central concept that distinguishes Hareidim from their Modern Orthodox brethren. The former accept da’at Torah as a given; the latter do not. The term as it is currently understood is of relatively recent vintage[1] and has been conflated with the talmudic concept of emunat hahamim, belief in the Sages. This essay will examine whether either of these notions can be applied to matters of national security, whether in Israel, or for that matter, the United States and elsewhere.

Emunat Hahamim: The Haham

Chapter Six of the Talmud’s Tractate Avot, popularly known as Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers) lists emunat hahamim as the twenty-third of the forty-eight characteristics with which one “acquires” Torah. It does not define what it means by emunah (belief). Similarly, the eighth chapter of the small tractate known as Kallah Rabbbati, a collection of uncanonized texts (braitot) that incorporates virtually all of Pirkei Avot's sixth chapter, likewise offers no explanation for what the term connotes.[2] Presumably, the authors assumed that their readers were familiar with the concept and that no further explanation was necessary.

It is noteworthy that the Talmud considers a haham to be superior to a prophet and endowed with a form of prophecy. Thus,

R. Abdimi from Haifa said: Since the day when the Temple was destroyed, prophecy has been taken from the prophets and given to the Sage.... Amemar said: A Sage is even superior to a prophet, as it says, “And a prophet has a heart of wisdom.”^[3]  Who is compared with whom? Is not the smaller [i.e. the prophet] compared with the greater [i.e. the Sage]?

Emunat Hahamim Defined

Perhaps the earliest interpretation of the term emunat hahamim appears in Mahzor Vitry, whose author was the eleventh-century student of Rashi, R. Simcha ben Shmuel of Vitry. R. Simcha explained the term to mean “who believes in their words, unlike the Sadducees and Boethusians.”[4] Since the latter were movements that rejected the Oral Law, the term seemed to connote nothing more than belief in that law.

Maimonides, who flourished a century after R. Simcha, situated emunat hahamim in the context of service to the Almighty out of love, rather than for a reward, much as Antigonus of Soho advises in the first chapter of Avot.[5] As Maimonides writes, “All that you do you should only do from love…for it is the objective of the mitzvoth and the basis of emunat hahamim.”[6] Interestingly, the term does not uniformly appear in all versions of Maimonides’ commentary. In the Vilna Shas, still the standard version of the Talmud, the text reads: “for it is the intent of the Torah and the basis for the intent of our Sages, peace be with them.” In any event, it does not appear that Maimonides was referring to belief in the rabbis themselves, however, nor, given his focus on mitzvoth, did he seem to imply that every rabbinical pronouncement demanded unquestioning belief.

Maimonides’ grandson, Rabbi David ben Avraham (thirteenth century), also addressed the term in his own commentary on Avot. He wrote,

[T]he Torah is also acquired through emunat hahamim, who are so learned that they can explain to us matters, its hidden matter, and the scholar (talmid haham) and his counterparts among all sons of Israel will adhere to their words in faith and will acclaim that they are the truth and their words are the truth.[7]

Unlike his grandfather, R. David seemed to be saying that any pronouncement by the Sages was to be accepted without hesitation. On the other hand, when referring to the Sages, he clearly had those of the Talmud in mind.  Indeed, in asserting that scholars should “adhere to their words,” he must have meant that those “scholars” did not command the same level of total belief in all of their utterances as had their predecessors, the Sages.

R. David’s near contemporary, R. Menachem Meiri, offered a slightly different definition of emunat hahamim. He viewed it as “belief in all the pronouncements of the Sages of the Torah, even if one cannot fully comprehend them.”[8]  While his statement might be taken to imply all Sages at all times, in general, the term “Sages of the Torah” connotes the rabbis of the Talmud and Midrash.

Two centuries later, R. Don Isaac Abrabanel offered two novel perspectives on the concept. First, he observed that emunat hahamim connotes

that if [a decisor] hears of some ruling issued by the remaining decisors of that generation that appears to him to be faulty, he should not jump to dispute them, because he must consider whether their ruling was mandated by special circumstances (tzorekh sh’ah), or for some valid reason they diverged from standard law, and he must [therefore] believe that they had a broader perspective on the matter.

In addition, he noted that while in general, the halakha follows later decisors (halakha k’batra’ei), that only would apply if the earlier decisors were not aware of the logic that drove the opinion of the later ones. But if they were indeed aware of the rationale in question, and elected to ignore it, then “it is appropriate for the Sage to believe [my emphasis] in the earlier Sages,” that is, to accept their ruling.[9] In neither case did Abrabanel indicate that one had to believe in meta-halakhic rabbinical pronouncements.

If anyone should have argued for the application of emunat hahamim to matters outside those of halakha, it should have been Abrabanel, who held official or quasi-official positions in the courts of Alfonso V of Portugal, Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile, and Ferranto I and Alfonso II of Naples.[10] Yet Abrabanel went no further than to assert that

one who immerses himself in Torah for its own sake becomes a leader in all his ways and his views will be accepted, even if he states that what is right is left and what is left is right, because rulership belongs to the Sages of the generation, who will instruct them as to what they should do.[11]

Abrabanel’s point was that the rabbis’ decrees had to be followed; he did not, however, argue that those decrees could apply to non-halakhic matters, such as those he dealt with throughout his political career. Nor is it evident that when acting in a governmental capacity, he consulted other rabbis, or even earlier halakhic rulings, before making policy recommendations to the sovereign.

Emunat Hahamim and Da’at Torah

It is noteworthy that none of the foregoing medieval commentators employed the term da’at Torah. Moreover, even in the context of emunat hahamim, there was considerable ambiguity as to whether rabbinical dictates applied to non-halakhic matters.[12] The term da’at Torah actually made its first appearance in the Talmud, in a discussion involving a dictum by R. Judah regarding whether the prohibition against eating the sciatic nerve applied to either hip or only the right hip. R. Judah was of the latter view and the Talmud asked whether R. Judah had reached his conclusion on the basis of reasoned interpretation of Torah (i.e., da’at Torah) or the probable meaning of the biblical injunction. Clearly, da’at Torah in this context had nothing whatsoever to do with extra-halakhic issues.

Several rishonim, rabbis of the Middle Ages, including leading halakhic decisors such as R. Meir of Rothenberg (1219–1293), known by his acronym Mahara”m Rotenburg; R. Joseph Colon, known as Mahari”k (1420–1480); and R. Samuel de Medina, known as Maharashd”m (1505–1589) did write of da'at Torah.[13] However, none employed the phrase in the sense of a rabbi drawing upon some form of prophecy that enabled him to pronounce on matters of all kinds. 

In practice, until the nineteenth century, many Torah scholars did not speak of da’at Torah in the context of emunat hahamim either, although they sought to apply the latter principle to rabbis of all generations. For example, R. Yosef Hayyim of Baghdad, the leading halakhic decisor for Iraqi Jewry in the nineteenth century, asserted that although prophecy was in some respects superior to ruah haKodesh, the holy spirit, the latter was a form of divine revelation, that could descend upon a wise man at any time, in any place, without any special preparation such as that required for prophecy.[14] The implication, of course, was that it was not only the rabbis of the talmudic era upon whom the holy spirit might descend. Yet, like his medieval predecessors, R. Yosef Hayyim did not employ the term da’at Torah.

R. Shlomo Rabinowicz (1801–1866) was perhaps one of the earliest scholars explicitly to expand the notion of emunat hahamim to belief in the power of contemporary rabbis to pronounce definitively on matters outside the purview of halakha. He asserted that

the essence of emunat hahamim is to believe in the words of the wise men of that generation who are imbued with the spirit of Hashem and this applies to any matter upon which they pronounce or advise…even in this-worldly matters  and advice to people in current issues such as business and the like.[15]

R. Shlomo was the first Hassidic rebbe of Radomsk. His views reflected what over time became an essential element of Hassidism: belief that the rebbe (or tzaddik, as the rebbe was often termed) was a source of advice on all matters, be they regarding business, family issues, halakha, or anything else. R. Shlomo did not, however, actually employ the term da’at Torah. On the other hand, when Ashkenazic decisors, notably R. Akiva Eiger and R. Moses Sofer, better known as Hatam Sofer, did refer to da’at Torah, it was not at all evident that they viewed it in the same expansive terms that R. Shlomo had applied to emunat hahamim.[16]

Nevertheless, da’at Torah certainly did seem to be the natural corollary of emunat hahahim. After all, if one were to believe that the leading rabbis of one’s own generation were blessed with ruah haKodesh regardless of the issue at hand, then, by definition, their views on any subject reflected the Torah view. And that Torah view, da’at Torah, would demand acceptance even if, in Abrabanel’s words, it mandated “that what is right is left and what is left is right.”

By the end of the nineteenth century, the Hassidic notion of an all-knowing rebbe began to be adapted to, and adopted by, the non-Hassidic yeshiva world. Initially, the idea that rabbinic wise men could pronounce on matter of all sorts was widely promulgated by the Agudas Yisroel party, which variously functioned as a movement and a political party that claimed to receive binding guidance from a body called Mo’etzes Gedolei HaTorah, or the Council of Torah Sages.[17] R. Yizkhak Me’ir HaKohen, known as Hofetz Hayyim (the title of one his many works), who was the Council’s first leader and Aguda’s ultimate authority, is reported to have explained da’at Torah (or, as he would have pronounced it, da’as Torah), in almost identical terms as the Rebbe of Radomsk defined emunat hahamim: “The person whose view is the view of the Torah [Da’as Torah] can solve all worldly problems, both specific and general.”[18] Yet even the Hofetz Hayyim delimited its reach. Only someone who was hermetically sealed off from all externalities was eligible to make binding pronouncements on non-halakhic matters, something virtually impossible in an age of mass communications.[19]

It was only in the course of its revival in the aftermath of the Holocaust, and particularly with the creation of the State of Israel, that the Hareidi world conflated emunat hahamim and da’at Torah, asserting that its leading rabbis, who invariably were rashei yeshiva, deans of yeshivot, were endowed with ruah haKodesh.[20] The leaders of Israel’s Ashkenazic Hareidi community, notably R. Abraham Isaiah Karelitz, known as Hazon Ish, and after him R. Eliezer Shach, as well as other Hareidi expositors both inside and outside the State of Israel, went to great lengths to articulate the view that the Torah perspective was the final arbiter of all matters of Israeli policy, because one was commanded to have faith in the Torah leaders of the day.

The combination of these concepts is now being applied not only to pronouncements by Councils of Sages regarding government policy, which are automatically adopted by Israel’s Agudat Yisrael and Shas parties, but also by both deans and senior instructors of yeshivot to all manner of issues brought to them by their students, acolytes, and followers. The notion that one must turn to a yeshiva rebbe for mandated instruction on everything from which career (if any) to pursue to whom one should marry, has not been without its critics. These generally have emanated from the Modern Orthodox community, including the leaders of its yeshivot.[21]

Personal matters notwithstanding, the logical conclusion that might be drawn from the Hareidi world’s emphasis on da’at Torah and emunat hahamim is that the State of Israel should not make any decisions in the realm of national security, military operations, and even military tactics without the explicit approval of Torah Sages, be they Sephardic or Ashkenazic, or perhaps both. One may well question, however, whether such matters should be decided by men (they are always men) who not only have no experience outside the walls of the yeshiva, but generally avoid having anything to do with the military, whether in Israel, where so many leading figures are bitterly opposed to service in the Israel Defense Forces, or elsewhere in the Free World.

Much of the halakhic literature regarding military issues has been penned by rabbis of the National Religious (dati-leumi) community, whose men have a record of military service stretching back to the founding of the State. Indeed, many of these rabbis themselves have served in the IDF. While National Religious rabbis have devoted most of their attention to the day-to-day religious challenges that young soldiers confront, some have also addressed questions of security, strategy, and operations. However, the dati-leumi community at large, in common with its Modern Orthodox counterparts in the Diaspora, while highly respectful of its rabbinate’s views, has not universally accepted the notion that emunat hahamim calls for blind acceptance of rabbinic pronouncements because those are ipso facto da’at Torah.[22] Indeed, the history of rabbinic interventions in matters of security policy and military strategy appears to validate the dati-leumi/Modern Orthodox perspective on the nature, and limits, of rabbinical authority as it applies to these issues.

The Historical Record

An early example of rabbinic influence upon national security matters was R. Akiva’s disastrous support of Bar Kokhba. R. Akiva was recognized as the leading Sage of his generation; he, more than anyone, might have been presumed to have ruah haKodesh. Yet tragically he was wrong.

R. Akiva was fully convinced that Simon bar Koseva was the Messiah. Indeed, it was he who named him Bar Kokhba, from the passage in Bil’am’s blessing of Israel. His great student, R. Simeon bar Yohai observed that when R. Akiva would see Bar Kokhba, he would say: “This is the King Messiah.”[23] Furthermore, Maimonides records that R. Akiva was so taken by Bar Kokhba that he served as his aide de camp,[24] which would indicate that he may have accompanied his hero into battle.

R. Akiva was prepared to overlook Bar Koseba’s faults, of which there were several. These included his purportedly saying, “Master of the universe, there is no need for you to assist us [against our enemies], but do not embarrass us either!”[25]—hardly a statement one expected from the Messiah. Bar Kokhba also appears to have insisted that his troops cut off a finger to prove their bravery, a practice that earned him rabbinical rebuke.[26] Finally, the Talmud relates that he killed his maternal uncle, R. Elazar Hamoda’i, after suspecting him of collaborating with the enemy. As a result, he lost the divine protection, which he in any event had not asked for, but which led to his death during the defense of Betar, which the Romans destroyed.[27] 

R. Akiva encountered opposition from his own colleagues, however, and his admiration of Bar Kokhba was rejected by future generations. R. Simeon bar Yohai also related that whenever R. Akiva hailed Bar Kokhba as the Messiah, R. Johanan ben Torta would tell him: “Akiva, grass shall grow from your cheeks, and yet the son of David shall not appear.”[28] R. David Ibn Zimra, known as Radba”z, appears to indicate that R. Johanan was not alone. As he put it, “there is no doubt that there was a dispute between the rabbis. Some believed that he was the messiah and some did not.”[29]

Nine hundred years later, R. Ismail ibn Nagrela, known to Jews as R. Shemuel haNagid, whose great work, Mavo haTalmud (Introduction to the Talmud), is incorporated among the commentaries printed in the Vilna Shas, served as Grand Vizier of Granada in addition to leading the Spanish Jewish community. It was in the former capacity that he commanded the army of Granada on behalf of the king in constant battles during the years 1038–1056. R. Shemuel scored numerous victories; and he credited God for supporting his efforts. Yet nowhere did he assert, or has it been asserted by others, that it was his expertise in Torah, much less ruah haKodesh, that determined the operations and tactics that resulted in his success on the battlefield.[30]

Four hundred years after R. Shemuel flourished in Granada, Don Isaac Abrabanel likewise was both leader of his community and a senior court official. Yet his erudition as a Torah scholar, and, for that matter, his acumen as a financier and court official, nevertheless failed him at a crucial time. He did not recognize the clear indications of the perilous state of Spanish Jewry; that “the days of the Jews of Spain were numbered.”[31]

Abrabanel was not facing a military threat, nor was he a military leader like R. Shemuel. But the challenge that he confronted was no less one of Jewish national security. Even more than in the case of R. Akiva, who had no real experience in matters of governance, Abrabanel’s expertise in Torah, even when combined with such experience, did not prevent his grievous political misjudgment just as it did not determine R. Shemuel’s military triumphs.

Half a millennium later, Ashkenazi Jewry’s pre-war religious leadership faced an even greater national security challenge. Like Abrabanel, they, too, were unable to comprehend the magnitude of the danger that threatened their community. Whether they were Hassidic leaders such as the Belzer Rebbe and his brother (respectively Rabbis Aharon and  Mordehai Rokeach), or recognized scholars like R. Elhanan Wasserman, their Torah knowledge did not extend to their understanding of Europe’s political dynamics. Both urged Jews not to leave Europe (though the Belzer Rebbe did just that). Because many pious Jews felt that emunat hahamim mandated that they follow the da’at Torah of their leaders, they remained in place, and were exterminated by the Nazis and their local supporters.[32] Apologists have offered up metaphysical reasons for the “blindness” of these rabbinic leaders, yet there is no denying that they simply did not have the secular expertise to render authoritative judgments regarding the situation in Europe. And, as the case of Abrabanel demonstrated, even if combined with secular expertise, mastery of Torah was no guarantee of accurate political analysis and forecasting.

The failure to recognize the threat to Jewish survival in Europe was not the only case where those to whom da’at Torah might be attributed were on the wrong side of history. The most vocal proponent of the concept, Agudas Yisroel, opposed the creation of the State of Israel until the eleventh hour before its establishment in 1948. Agudas Yisroel’s American sister, Agudath Israel of America, opposed public demonstrations in support of Soviet Jewry counseling quiet diplomacy instead.[33] They, too, were proved wrong.

The creation of the State of Israel, and of the Israeli Defense Forces, brought forth numerous issues relating to national security that simply had not been considered since the sealing of the Talmud early in the sixth century bce. As a result, dati-leumi rabbis have come to address matters on both a micro-level that all agree fall within the bounds of halakha, for example, how individuals should comport themselves on Shabbat while in the midst of military operations, as well as macro issues that arguably are outside halakha's scope. These include governance issues, as well as national security policy, military strategy to support that policy, and even operational issues that have emerged both during conflicts and peacetime. Over the decades, as the State of Israel has engaged in several wars, as well as confronted terrorism both within and outside its official boundaries, the number of issues, both on a micro-scale and at the macro-level that rabbis have addressed, have continued to increase.

Macro national security concerns have evoked conflicting responses from decisors and laypeople alike. Perhaps the most hotly debated issue facing contemporary Israel has been that of retention of the Occupied Territories/Judea and Samaria. Rabbinic leaders have positioned themselves on all sides of this issue, ranging from numerous dati-leumi rabbis, such as R. Shaul Yisraeli, who have advocated retention if not annexation of the territories, to those who would favor withdrawal from at least some of the West Bank, such as R. Ovadya Yosef, with the latter group dividing over the nature of circumstances that might mandate withdrawal. R. Yisraeli argued that, “In essence, relinquishing Jewish settlements to the enemy endangers life (yesh sakanat nefashot).”[34] On the other hand, employing the same principle of danger to life, R. Ovadya asserted, “If the chiefs of the military and its officers, together with expert officials, determine that there is a risk to life if the territories are not returned, we rely on them and permit the return of the territories.”[35] Of course, military and intelligence officers likewise have been  divided over the issue of returning territories, and those disagreements have not been resolved in the nearly three decades since R. Yisraeli and R. Ovadya published their views.[36] What, therefore, is da’at Torah in this case, even if one were to accept it as a governing principle?

Other security and military related issues have also prompted a variety of responses from leading rabbis, again begging the question of whose da’at Torah should be followed. Rabbis have debated whether IDF soldiers could defy orders to uproot army bases and/or settlements, whether deemed illegal by Israeli courts, or mandated by the government. Thus in mid-1995, a group of rabbis calling themselves the Union of Rabbis for the Land of Israel (Ihud HaRabbanim Lema’an Eretz Yisrael) led by former Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi Avraham Shapira, issued a halakhic ruling (pesak) that soldiers had to refuse orders to relinquish army bases in the West Bank to the PLO. On the other hand, the sitting Chief Rabbi, R. Yisrael Meir Lau, himself a leading halakhic decisor, stated on national television that it was “inconceivable to disobey orders.”[37]

The same issue exploded again when Prime Minister Ariel Sharon ordered the withdrawal from Gaza in 2005. Once again, R. Shapira led the opposition, which included a petition by sixty rabbis, urging soldiers to defy orders to dismantle the settlements.[38] Again, other dati-leumi rabbis, while harboring concerns about the pullout, opposed any effort to discourage soldiers to disobey orders. Some eighty rabbis, including R. Shlomo Riskin, himself a settler, signed an open letter urging soldiers to obey an evacuation order.[39]

Similarly, subsequent to the First Lebanon War, rabbis debated whether the IDF should have permitted PLO fighters and their leaders to have escaped from Beirut, which it had surrounded. R. Yehuda Gershuni compared the PLO to Amalek, and saw no reason to give its fighters an escape route.[40] Similarly, R. Dov Lishanski asserted that it was a positive commandment to besiege the PLO from all sides and to starve it out.[41] On the other hand, Chief Rabbi Shlomo Goren asserted that

There is an obligation (hiyuv) to leave a fourth direction (i.e., a corridor) open in every conflict…the practical halakhic conclusion (ha’maskana halakha lema’aseh) is that in the siege of the terrorists in Beirut they [the IDF] were bound by the power of [Jewish] law to leave open a way for them to withdraw.[42]

R. Shaul Yisraeli, whose hard line on withdrawal from settlements was noted above, occupied the middle ground between the polar positions, arguing that while the law of rodef, killing a pursuer intent upon murder, applies to the terrorists, in practice, “the decision whether or not to permit an avenue of escape for the murderers is left to the sole discretion of military commanders and the government responsible for their actions.”[43] Variants of all of the aforementioned issues continue to be debated by rabbis in books, journals, and in the media.[44] There is no rabbinical consensus on strategic security matters, any more than there is consensus among military leaders, particularly when they retire and are free to voice their opinions.[45]

Unless they have served in the military, rabbis simply are not conversant in the nuances of security policy and military operations despite their wealth of Torah knowledge. A case in point is the question of whether it is permitted to torture a captured terrorist. Several rabbis, among them R. J. David Bleich, permit torture in the case of a “ticking bomb,” that is, when a captured terrorist might have information leading to another terrorist attack, whether the venue for such an attack is Israel, America, or elsewhere.

The matter is not that straightforward, however. R. Bleich asserts that

torture in the case of the ticking bomb…is designed purely and simply to elicit information and circumstances will rapidly demonstrate whether or not the information elicited in such a manner is accurate.[46] 

His view is contradicted by both military and intelligence professionals who have actual wartime experience, however, including former prisoners of war who underwent torture. Among those who take the contrary position are Secretary of Defense Jim Mattis, a retired four-star Marine general with considerable combat experience in Iraq; Admiral Mike McConnell, a former Director of National Intelligence; and Senator John McCain. All have questioned the utility of torture under virtually any circumstances.

In any event, also at issue is whether the individual in question is indeed a “ticking bomb” at all. R. Bleich’s casual assertion that “circumstances will rapidly demonstrate” the truth of a tortured terrorist’s confession overlooks the likelihood that a trained, hardened terrorist would deliberately provide false information that actually would undermine efforts to prevent a future catastrophe. In addition, the terrorist may not be aware of changes in his/her organization’s plans that may have been spurred by his or her capture.[47] Thus, while R. Bleich might provide theoretical halakhic guidance regarding torture, assessing whether a terrorist actually is a “ticking bomb” is entirely another matter, one that transcends halakha. Ultimately, R. Bleich’s lack of practical experience, whether in policy or military matters, renders his judgment somewhat beside the point.

There is no doubt that at times what some would term da’at Torah was borne out by events. The Lubavitcher Rebbe confidently predicted that the first Gulf War would end before Purim, and that is exactly what happened.[48] The Rebbe also critiqued the Bar-Lev line, predicting that Israel should concentrate its forces in one place. In a sense he was correct; the onset of the Yom Kippur War demonstrated that the Bar Lev line was not an insurmountable barrier to Egyptian penetration of the Sinai Peninsula.[49] The Egyptian success was due to many other, more critical factors, however, especially the Meir government’s failure to act upon the indications and warning that it had available from Israel’s intelligence community.[50]

It should be noted that another of the Rebbe’s positions, his opposition to the Begin government’s negotiations with Egypt, proved to be misplaced.[51] Those negotiations led to a peace treaty with the Arab world’s most powerful state that has remained in force for nearly four decades, and enabled Israel to fight several wars during that time without having to keep large forces deployed on its southern border. The Rebbe was a remarkable man, but by his own admission, his advice in national security matters was not da’at Torah.[52]

It is beyond the scope of this essay to examine whether emunat hahamim comes into play in all non-halakhic matters, for which its modern corollary, da’at Torah, must be the ultimate adjudicator. Nevertheless, the notion that emunat hahamim and da’at Torah should govern national security decisions collapses on multiple grounds. The record of those to whom it has been attributed, whether in ancient, medieval or modern times, is not one of great success. In addition, contemporary national security issues have prompted conflicting rabbinical responses, with the result that da'at Torah cannot be easily identified. Finally, da’at Torah might be valid in the abstract, but may not be practical as a basis for real-life decision-making. Wise rabbis have much to offer in the way of advice; emunat hahamim confirms that their views are always worthy of consultation, whatever the issue. But their writ should end there; in matters of national security, the final word must always belong to government and military decision-makers.

“I didn’t know they teach biblical archaeology at YU” is one of the most frequent responses I receive upon informing people about my job and its whereabouts. I find this amusing because to me biblical archaeology is such a natural fit for the study of Tanakh that it seems self-evident that these two disciplines should be studied in tandem. I am not alone in this approach as the original mission statement for the creation of Yeshiva College in the 1920s makes clear:

Yeshiva College will offer, with the standard college curricula combined with courses in Bible, Hebrew philology, Jewish history and literature, Jewish philosophy and ethics, the Talmud and Rabbinic literature, Jewish archaeology, Semitic philology and cognate subjects (emphasis mine).[1]

And yet, people are still surprised that biblical archaeology is taught at Yeshiva University—as if it were too radical a subject, or too dangerous, or perhaps not relevant.

This view is even more perplexing in light of the fact that the Land of Israel is among the most intensely excavated regions of the world (only Greece comes close). While Christian Americans and Europeans dominated the field in the early part of the twentieth century, today Israeli archaeologists are at the forefront of research and research projects. With so much active research and much of it done by Israeli scholars, again why the hesitancy to fully embrace the discipline?

The answer is complex, and reveals both external and internal strains. Externally, the discipline of biblical archaeology itself has evolved from one that primarily saw its goal as illuminating the biblical narrative to a more scientific one that has at times relegated biblical narrative to the background. Religious teachers of Tanakh are often uncomfortable with this “secular” approach. On the other hand, while such teachers have been receptive to selecting individual archaeological finds that can shed light on particular biblical passages, they have often shied away from confronting the archaeological record when it seems to present a more nuanced or perhaps contradictory view of traditional readings of the text. The unwillingness to engage the data on its own terms has led to an approach that can be characterized as lacking in academic rigor and integrity.

My goal in this article, therefore, will be to demystify the discipline of biblical archaeology so that religious teachers of Tanakh feel comfortable embracing its discourse and to argue for inclusion of these findings into a richer and more sophisticated understanding of the biblical text. Finally, I will argue that those with a strong understanding and commitment to Tanakh have a perspective that can greatly enrich biblical archaeological studies. In fact, the absence of such a perspective threatens to deprive the discipline of its vitality, accuracy, and raison d’être.

Biblical archaeology as a discipline focuses on the places and time periods that are central to the biblical narrative. In general, this means that the core region is the Land of Israel, with a periphery reaching into parts of present-day Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon. This region is customarily referred to as the southern Levant. The core time periods are the period of the Judges, United Monarchy, Divided Monarchy, Babylonian period, and Persian period. The time span is roughly from 1200 bce–333 bce. Archaeologists refer to these periods as Iron I (1200-1000 bce), Iron II (1000 bce–586 bce), Babylonian (586–538 bce), and Persian (538–333 bce). Technically, then, for those operating within a traditional Jewish perspective, the biblical period closes with the final historical context of the biblical canon. The Christian perspective, of course, proffers a later end date, as the Christian Bible extends throughout the Second Temple Period. Thus in the larger and even academic community, biblical archaeology as a discipline extends beyond the Persian period through Hellenistic, Roman, and even into Byzantine times.

The fact that the time frame of biblical archaeology moves beyond the end of the Hebrew Bible, while potentially confusing, does not pose any real complications. Those with a Jewish perspective simply choose to end their biblical period with the Restoration of the Second Temple and the Persian period. The subsequent Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine periods are often lumped under the rubric of the Classical period.

From its inception, biblical archaeology was closely tied to the Bible. The dominant American figure of twentieth-century biblical archaeology, William Foxwell Albright, trained generations of students in his approach that took a positivistic view toward biblical narrative and was oriented toward reconstructing the archaeological, historical, religious, and literary context of the biblical world. This approach was formed in part by his own excavations and expertise in material culture and by his facility with ancient languages that allowed him to read and translate texts in Hebrew, Aramaic, Ugaritic, Egyptian, Akkadian, and Sumerian, among other languages.

While not a biblical literalist, Albright’s interpretations and those of his students generally supported the biblical narrative. In the second half of the twentieth century, cracks began to emerge in this consensus. New archaeological finds seemed to contradict biblical narrative, while at the same time a younger generation of scholars, influenced by current trends in general archaeology, began to argue for a less “biblical” approach and a more “scientific” one. Broad issues of cultural change and the rise of social and political complexity came to the forefront, whereas specific questions of biblical historicity were ignored.

The field of biblical archaeology certainly benefited from more scientific rigor, especially in its methodology, but also in its interpretations. However, the disregard for biblical text emerged as an Achilles heel when a new generation of biblical scholars primarily from northern Europe began to inject a revisionist view into biblical studies and ultimately into biblical archaeology. The biblical archaeology community was slow to respond to these new interpretations, partly because they were seen as so far out that they did not need responding to. When the archaeologists finally did take note, they realized they were confronting a host of scholars who had re-interpreted the Bible and whose views were gaining prominence in both the academic and non-academic community. Most problematic, was that these revisionists were deliberately obfuscating the archaeological record.

The acrimony of this debate between revisionists (minimalists) and the traditionalists (maximalists) has been damaging both to individual scholars and to the reputation of the discipline. Those outside the fray were made to feel powerless as these polarizing forces came to dominate the debate. And what were they debating, anyway? Whether or not King David was a real king? For the traditionalist, of course, this was a non-starter. But even trying to understand the debate has been difficult without concluding that the motives of the minimalist school to discredit the Hebrew Bible were infused with anti-Semitism. If this were the end of it, the situation would be quite discouraging, indeed.

However, mainstream biblical archaeologists were not ready to yield control of the debate to the minimalists and their supporters in the archaeological community (e.g., Israel Finkelstein). The lack of archaeological evidence for David’s kingdom had to be addressed, and this has been precisely the focus of much of the archaeological research in the past two decades. Although 20 years ago, minimalists could mock traditionalists for clinging to a narrative with no archaeological support, that is certainly not the case today. While a full account of the finds pertaining to the United Monarchy under David and Solomon is beyond the scope of this paper, three significant examples will suffice.

The first significant find was a stele (inscribed stone) found at Tel Dan in 1993. Written in Aramaic, this royal, monumental inscription commissioned by a ninth-century bce king (probably Hazael) boasts of Aramean military achievements over the kingdoms of Israel and Judah. The text uses the phrase bytdvd (“House of David”) to refer to the southern kingdom. This is the earliest extra-biblical mention of David and is consistent with ancient Near Eastern practice of referring to a kingdom by its eponymous founder. For traditionalists, this was the first step in reclaiming David as a historical personage. For minimalists, this posed a big problem, which they feebly tried to discredit by first reading bytdvd not as “House of David” but rather as “house of the uncle.” Subsequently, they posited other interpretations—equally unconvincing—citing the absence of a word divider between byt and dvd.

Even when minimalists were willing to acknowledge the existence of David—and the Tel Dan stele made it hard not to—they still maintained that David was not a true king but rather a simple tribal chieftain. This allowed them to argue that true statehood emerged in ancient Israel much later, and that the biblical narrative of a United Monarchy was a later fabrication. Again, 20 years ago, the minimalists could point to the fact that no monumental architecture had been found in Jerusalem associated with David or Solomon.

Why this is important is that one of the principal archaeological correlates for statehood is the presence of such architecture. The absence of monumental architecture confirmed for them that there was no state. However, one should always be careful of deriving arguments from negative evidence. Indeed, the minimalists’ position suffered a severe blow when in 2005 archaeologist Eilat Mazar announced that she had found in Ir David (City of David) the foundations of a royal monumental building, which she named the “Large Stone Structure.” Whether or not this building was part of Kind David’s actual palace as Mazar posits, does not change the fact that monumental architecture from the time of David (dated by the pottery finds) has finally been found in Jerusalem. Kings, not tribal chieftains, build such structures. Minimalists responded in the only way they could to retain their ideological stance: they rejected outright Mazar’s dating of the Large Stone Structure.

A final irrefutable blow emerged in the last five years, with the excavations of a small, fortified site in the Elah Valley called Khirbet Qeiyafa. This site yielded not only evidence of a central Israelite administration but also was unequivocally dated to the time of King David by radiocarbon analysis of olive pits found in secure archaeological contexts. That the site was Israelite and not Philistine or Canaanite is strongly attested by the style of wall construction (casemate), the pottery, the lack of pig bones and figurines, and an early Hebrew inscription. Only a centralized administration would be capable of organizing the construction de novo of a border fortress. It follows then that David was a true king who took an active role in securing his borders from external threats, particularly the Philistines to the west.

These recent finds have shifted the center of argument away from the minimalists and their ideologically motivated interpretations towards a more central position in which the layers of historicity in Tanakh are refracted against the archaeological record. This middle approach, while certainly “secular” need not pose a threat to a traditional Jewish consideration. For the Jewish approach to Tanakh has never been a strictly literal one but rather an interpretive one. The so-called historical books of the Bible—Joshua, Judges, Samuel, Kings, Ezra, Nehemiah, Chronicles—were not written as pure history in the modern sense, and they are certainly not unbiased. On the contrary, they deliberately and unabashedly impart a theological message. For example, the Book of Samuel focuses on the motif of why David is to be chosen over Saul.[2] The theme then dictates the narrative as only those stories that develop it need to be mentioned. Consequently, while the text makes clear that Saul is a gifted military leader waging a successful campaign against the Philistines, the textual emphasis is not on the minutiae of battle, attacks and counter-attacks, but rather on Saul’s reaction to his success. Namely, Saul credits himself with victory rather than God, and this is what makes him unfit as a leader for the Jewish people.

Accepting the primacy of the theological message does not negate the important historical and cultural material that is embedded in Tanakh. Moreover, these nuggets are not gleaned in a vacuum. One of the great achievements of biblical studies over the past century has been the decipherment of ancient Near Eastern texts—cuneiform, hieroglyphic, alphabetic—from Mesopotamia and Persia in the east to Egypt in the south, and Anatolia in the north. Add to this a century of archaeological exploration throughout the region, and scholars have reached a point where specific historical events, intellectual currents, and general lifestyles can all be recreated to one degree another. Thus the biblical material finds itself in conversation with not only the archaeological record from the Land of Israel—which has yielded a small but important corpus of extra-biblical texts—but also with the vast corpus of ancient Near Eastern material.

Gaining access to this material may seem daunting at first, particularly because very few overviews exist and each geographic region is often treated as its own separate discipline. Encyclopedias and cultural atlases provide good starting points, such as The Cultural Atlas of Mesopotamia by Michael Roaf, but these usually include material from time periods that are not relevant to the biblical period. Textbooks are comprehensive by nature, their usefulness measured by their accessibility to non-specialists. One of the better introductory textbooks is Hershel Shanks’ edited volume Ancient Israel. More concise presentations can be found among the titles published by Oxford University Press in their series titled “Very Short Introductions.” Two such examples are Ancient Egypt by Ian Shaw and Biblical Archaeology by Eric Cline. While newspaper articles will often feature recent discoveries, more lengthy and explanatory pieces can be found in periodicals, the most popular of which is Biblical Archaeology Review.

Meanwhile, the best resource for ancient texts related to the biblical world is The Context of Scripture, edited by William Hallo and K. Lawson Younger. This three-volume tome contains hundreds of translated texts spanning a range of compositions—canonical, archival, and monumental—that relate directly and indirectly to Tanakh and the biblical world. Although not every known ancient Near Eastern text has been included, the selection is overwhelmingly comprehensive and the translations nicely balance readability with literal accuracy.

There are, of course, limitations to this textual material. The writers of ancient texts generally reflect the views, goals, and ambitions of the (overwhelmingly male) ruling or upper class. Although literacy during the biblical period was not rare in Judah or Israel, it was by no means universal. Evidence such as notations on pottery and ivory suggests that artisans and craftsmen were literate, but it is doubtful that the farmers who comprised the majority of the population could read or write. Another problem with texts is that huge gaps both temporally and geographically exist in their distribution. What this means is that texts are found neither everywhere nor from all time periods. Rather, their presence is concentrated in urban areas and in caches that generally reflect a specific era of time. Thus texts present a window on the elite and male urban population from disparate time periods.

The archaeological record, in contrast, does not suffer from these limitations. It is equally frequent today to find researchers excavating elite zones of cities where temples, palaces, and public buildings congregate as well as outer areas where basic households cluster. When looking at top plans of archaeological sites, these different areas are indicated by different letters. Moreover, one of the stratigraphic goals of the expedition is to unite the separate areas into a single chronological scheme. In addition, many research projects today incorporate not only the entire urban area but also the surrounding countryside. Such projects bring new insight into the relationship between urban cores and their supporting hinterlands.

In terms of temporal continuity, archaeological remains are far superior to texts. Gaps in material reflect real gaps in occupation. Otherwise, the detritus of daily life accumulates layer by layer without interruption. The basics of daily life—mud bricks for building homes and ceramic vessels for storage, food preparation and consumption—were used by all people, rich and poor, male and female. Whereas the textual evidence simply ignores the vast majority of the population, the archaeological record highlights the differences between groups. Thus, wealthy people lived in larger homes, closer to the center of town, possessing fine decorated wares and exotic items. Poorer people lived in smaller homes suited to their agricultural lifestyle, closer to their fields, with basic wares and few, if any, luxury items. Gendered items such as spindle whorls and grinding stones for women and arrowheads and axes for men provide insight into the structure of daily life.

This does not mean, however, that archaeology is without its biases. The archaeological record is partial toward items that preserve well. Thus the most perishable materials such as foodstuffs, textiles, papyrus, and wooden implements are found only in exceptional circumstances. Ceramics are the single most common find due to their widespread use, fragility as complete vessels (i.e., they break easily), and incredible durability as shards. Another bias lies with collection methods. Decades ago, it was not customary to collect animal bones. As a result little information about diet and husbandry emerged. However, archaeologists today are much more careful about trying to safeguard all of the remains and have the non-material culture remains analyzed by specialists from other fields. For example, faunal and floral experts are routinely consulted, as are scientists who sample sediment deposits, extract DNA, or perform carbon 14 dating.

Just as texts can speak toward specific historic events, archaeology can as well. The construction of a new town or a new building can be attested. More impressive is when the texts speak of a city’s demise and the archaeological record preserves a thick, clear layer of destruction filled with charred material, fallen bricks, whole vessels left behind, unfortunate people who did not escape, roof material from collapsed homes, and, in some cases, arrowheads and other ballista that attest to the intensity of the fighting. Lachish is such a site that preserves not one but two clearly identified destruction layers. The first (Stratum III) correlates with the Assyrian conquest in the late 8th century bce under Sennacherib whereas the second (Stratum II) is from the time of the Babylonian conquest under Nebuchadnezzar a century later.

Our understanding of the Assyrian siege at Lachish is further elucidated by a series of reliefs unearthed at Sennacherib’s palace at Nineveh in present-day Iraq. These reliefs attest to the composition of Assyrian military personnel—slingers, archers, lancers, and so forth—the strategy of building ramps to elevate the battering rams, the great loss of life, the ultimate surrender of the people of Lachish, and the bringing of booty and humans back to Assyria. The archaeological record can also attest to things that were previously unknown from textual or pictorial evidence. For example, opposite the Assyrian siege ramp, the people of Lachish had hastily built a counter ramp and raised the height of the wall as a defensive technique. Moreover, while the Assyrian ramp was known from the reliefs, only excavations could reveal that this earthen ramp contained 25,000 tons of material composed of a stone base consolidated by mortar, covered by layers of beaten earth, with logs sprinkled in to support the siege engines and facilitate their transport up the slope.

If validating and expanding on specific biblical events were all that archaeology could achieve, then the discipline would indeed be only a dedicated handmaiden of biblical studies. However, the archaeological record has great potential beyond this primarily in the range of culture and cultural context. For example, when Abraham visits Gerar (Genesis 20), the Bible focuses on the incident of Abraham concealing the true identity of his Sarah (“She is my sister” [verse 2]) and the repercussions thereof. There was of course much more to the visit. What did Abraham and Sarah see when they were wondering the streets of Gerar? What did they eat or smell or hear?

From excavations, we know that if Abraham and Sarah wandered toward the southwestern quadrant of the city—not inconceivable since the city itself was not that big—they would have seen a large, symmetric, fortress-like, Canaanite temple. It is not likely that they would have gone inside for a variety of reasons, including the fact that only religious specialists, i.e., priests, would have been given access. However, the surrounding courtyards would have been easily visible, and in them they would have seen much activity: throngs of people, bringing with them food offerings in either miniature or regular sized vessels, animals being slaughtered, incense being burned, puppies with their necks broken as part of healing rituals, people eating sacred meals, and, on one day only (their timing would have to have been impeccable), the ritual sacrifice of a donkey as part of a non-aggression pact between two potentially warring parties. The food offerings would attest to the produce of the land such as wine, oil, wheat, barley, legumes, and so forth, whereas the animal sacrifices reflected the pastoral component of the economy: sheep and goats mainly, some cattle, and even birds. The archaeological record thus illuminates the biblical world and its context.

Those with a strong background are poised to take particular advantage of all that archaeology has to offer as they have a context in which to absorb it. This is why teaching biblical archaeology at an institution such as Yeshiva University is particularly exciting—the students already possess the building blocks of biblical narrative and thus are able to synthesize the new archaeological material very quickly. They grasp nuances that are lost on novices, ask questions reflecting a vast knowledge, and provide interpretations that reveal deep understanding.

One such example arose during a discussion of the economy of the Land of Israel during the Assyrian period (7th century). There is strong evidence that the area around Ashkelon specialized in wine, that around Ekron in olive oil, and that around Jerusalem in cereals. However, there is also evidence for some wine production around Jerusalem. It has been generally accepted that the reason for this is that the real estate close to the city was expensive and thus a more profitable crop such as wine was grown to cover costs. Upon hearing this explanation, the students at Yeshiva University immediately suggested another explanation: perhaps the reason for producing wine in the Jerusalem area was due to concerns of kashrut, with Judah preferring to produce its own kosher wine rather than trading for the readily available, Philistine wine from Ashkelon.

We do not know the answer yet, but because of their Torah perspective, the students at Yeshiva University are offering new insights that can potentially guide and certainly enrich the direction of future research in biblical archaeology.

Notes

Racism and Chosenness: What It Means to Be a Light unto the Nations

By Meylekh Viswanath[1]

One Shabbat, more than two years ago, a respected Israeli Rosh Yeshiva and a frequent visitor to our synagogue gave a speech from our shul pulpit in which he made some racist, demonizing remarks about Arabs. I was not entirely surprised because his remarks on previous occasions could not exactly be termed representative of a universalistic approach to Judaism, to say the least. Still, to hear him explicitly mouth racist rhetoric—particularly from our synagogue pulpit—shocked me. But what shocked me even more was that his remarks didn’t seem to bother most of the congregants. To be fair, he had spoken in Hebrew and even though the Hebrew he uses is fairly simple and easy-to-understand, many people in the audience probably were not paying attention. But many were; and they found all sorts of ways of excusing this rabbi’s words or explaining them away. At least one other person actually excoriated me vehemently for daring to criticize the rabbi’s remarks. Of course, close-knit groups often exhibit hostile attitudes toward other groups with whom they are in competition, either for land, material resources, or even simply with respect to ideology. I suppose I thought the group I belonged to was special, that my friends were special; others might exhibit such behavior, but not my group, not my synagogue. I was clearly wrong! And so this whole business got me thinking. In this article, I would like to offer my ideas on why some people exhibit such enmity toward people of other groups, and why I think such a posture is contrary to the very essence of Judaism. I will try to demonstrate that the mission of the Jews is, in fact, to teach the world to be tolerant and accepting of strangers. Other groups, I will argue, have other missions assigned to them by God; but the Jews, because of their history, are uniquely positioned to be a role model for compassion and empathy toward strangers.

A Theory of the Origins of Racist Behavior

Why do people preach hatred against other peoples? Against other nations? I can understand why a person might feel hatred toward another individual who has done something bad to him. Even in such a case, the Torah requires us not to exact revenge.[2] But in any case, one would not find it rational for such a person to feel hatred toward the person’s son or brother or friend. And if this is so, it would certainly not make any sense to hate the entire nation or group of origin of this person. So then why do we have the Ku Klux Klan? Why do we have intertribal mass killings? Why do we have mass violence in Sri Lanka against the Tamils and in Myanmar against Muslims—both nominally Buddhist nations, both purporting to follow the precepts of the Buddha, the one who taught compassion toward all beings, the one who gave up the possibility of nirvana in order to stay and bring his fellow-beings to enlightenment out of compassion?

I think such behavior might originate in an initial act of irrational injury or violence that may be entirely out of the blue; or it may be an excessively extreme reaction to something that the victim might have said or done; or maybe even due to a misunderstanding. The target of an injury cannot understand, cannot accept that such an act might have been intentionally directed toward him or her, because to consider such a possibility is to consider the possibility that s/he herself or himself might have some shortcoming, might have done something bad. The possibility that the violence might have been irrational, i.e., without any understandable cause is even more difficult for people to accept, because that is so close to the notion that there is no order in the universe. As a result, such an offense might be rationalized as being prompted by antipathy against the target’s group, which is then followed by a reactionary antipathy toward the assailant’s group.

As we will see later, there is a rational tendency for groups to form as a way of reducing the free-rider problem. A very important characteristic of a group is group-stability and group-cohesion. This can be achieved in two ways: creating bonds between in-group members and creating distinctions and distance between groups. Such pre-existing between-group distance reinforces this creation of ill-feeling toward the other on the basis of his/her group affiliation. But the point I want to make is that individual experiences have an important part to play in the generation and maintenance of these anti-other group feelings, whether we term them racism or not. And if racism is an understandable result of individual experiences, then it is also easy to understand why the target of an unfortunate incident of violence or injury would want others to share his/her feelings. A feeling that is shared is a feeling that is validated. The unfortunate result of the sharing of such negative feelings toward other groups is that racist ideologies are taught to children and young people who, having learned such negativity at a young age, incorporate it into their world-view. Ideas learned at a young age are essential foundations of the individual’s epistemological system and hence are difficult to remove later on.

If we wish to eliminate racism, it is important to teach tolerance to young people. It is equally important to not allow people who have been hurt to propagate their hostility toward other people. The Jewish community, unfortunately, has been the target of a lot of hate. The Holocaust is still fresh in our group-memory, and most of us know people who have suffered during the Holocaust and after the Holocaust, whether in Eastern Europe, in Germany or in the Middle East. It is completely understandable that such people have negative feelings toward Germans, Poles, Russians, Ukrainians, Arabs, Muslims or any of the other groups to which their assailants might have belonged. Some of

these people have overcome their experiences and have come to teach love and tolerance even toward their assailant-groups.[3] Unfortunately, many other people have been pushed by their experiences into this cycle of the perpetuation of fear, mistrust, doubt, suspicion and violence.  The purveyors of such negative sentiments are not necessarily fringe elements in our society; they are all too often, unfortunately, community leaders and even rabbis and yeshiva-teachers.

The Torah sometimes does mandate hatred against an entire ethnic group. For example, we are commanded to remember what the Amalekites did to us and to obliterate their name from under the Heavens.[4] But, as the Abarbanel says, Amalek’s actions were directed against the weak and the feeble; they were committed out of baseless hatred and were perpetrated in a cowardly and furtive manner.[5] Such actions and ideologies are what we condemn in remembering Amalek. Similar, we condemn the Nazis, a group whose ideology was racist, eugenic and genocidal, completely lacking in compassion toward the weak and infirm. However, it would be a mistake to declare and to teach hatred and mistrust toward Germans as a group, toward Arabs and Muslims as a group. There may be hate-filled and hateful Germans and Muslims. But Germans and Muslims do not choose to be born into their groups; and, furthermore, these groups are not defined by an ideology of hate.[6] Hence, it would be a denial of the positive traits of the nation of Abraham to declare of Palestinians, as a group, “Yemmakh shemam!” “May their name be blotted out!” Nevertheless, I have heard such racist preaching from pulpits in our own synagogues; I have heard of such declarations by Jewish day-school rebbes in our own communities. This kind of racist behavior is, frankly, perplexing to me, given that not so long ago Jews were on the receiving end of these attacks and diatribes. So even if we can understand the origins of such hate and even if we sympathize with the experiences that gave rise to this hate, we have an obligation to reject it and to speak out against it.

Most recently we heard R. Herschel Schachter, a respected and learned rosh yeshiva at the centrist Orthodox Yeshiva University, referring to African-Americans pejoratively as shvartses.[7] While Yeshiva University did put out a press release stating that “The recent use of a derogatory racial term and negative characterizations of African-Americans and Muslims, by a member of the faculty, are inappropriate, offensive ...,” none of our local Orthodox community rabbis, to my knowledge, used the opportunity to condemn the use of derogatory terms.[8] Neither did R. Schachter, himself, apologize for his remarks.[9] The point is not that R. Schachter is a bad person;[10] rather, given R. Schachter’s prominence and the likelihood of ordinary people learning from him, it is essential that rabbis speak out against the use of such derogatory expressions. When the Israeli rabbi with whom I started this article spoke in our shul, I am happy to report that our rabbi gave a derasha the following Shabbat distancing himself and our shul from such vitriol. On the other hand, this rabbi was once again given an opportunity to speak in our synagogue a couple of years later; worse, shul members were encouraged to contribute to his yeshiva. So from my point of view, we still have a long way to go in recognizing and redressing racist attitudes.

But it’s not only rabbis and rebbes that have such anti-other views. Many ordinary Jews have highly biased views of non-Jews; my feeling is that such views have been inherited from their parents and grandparents who went through the Holocaust. I think it is important to make a distinction between understanding why somebody might have negative views of Eastern European gentiles and allowing that understanding to color one’s own views of gentiles. I personally, though not of Eastern European extraction, have been on both sides of the fence. Many of my relatives in India have/had anti-Semitic stereotypes of Jews, partly inherited from the English/Americans passing through India and partly due to the pro-Arab stance that the Indian government had for a long-time.[11] Many Hindu Indians have negatives attitudes toward Muslims as a group and against lower-caste Hindus; similarly Muslims think of Hindus as kaffirs—“idolators and polytheists,” and educated Muslims are contemptuous of the inequality of the Hindu caste system.”[12]

On the other hand, in the US, I have personally been on the receiving end of some unpleasant experiences both from Jews and from non-Jews, because of my skin color and my geographical origin. For example, many years ago, in Chicago, I sat down next to an elderly white lady on a city bus, whereupon she promptly got up and moved elsewhere—even though there was more than enough room for both of us on the seat. I understood that the lady might have inherited her attitudes from her upbringing and didn’t hold it against her, especially given her advanced age, but I was certainly saddened by her action. Another time, I encountered a rather hostile reception while eating dinner with a white girlfriend at a restaurant in a Lithuanian neighborhood on the south side of Chicago.

I also know personally how easy it is to fall into racist behavior. I remember how at one time, I myself treated a Gideon New Testament with less than complete respect, and my children called me out on my behavior. I realized that I was wrong, that I had violated the very precepts that I had taught my children to follow. The point I want to make is that we have to be on our guard, lest we fall into such behavior. Our children should be taught that speech and behavior disrespectful of ethnic and religious groups is not tolerated, even when it emanates from individuals we teach our children to respect. The Orthodox community has experienced several instances of sexual molestation by rabbis and other people respected in the community; even if we, as a community, have not yet taken sufficiently strong steps to prevent the recurrence of such behavior, we all agree that it is unacceptable. We need to take a similar stance against racist speech and behavior.

It has been suggested that part of the reason that racist attitudes exist in the Jewish community is the doctrine of the chosen people. I don’t know if I agree entirely with this theory, because other communities without such explicit chosenness doctrines also exhibit racist attitudes. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that it is easier for Jews to justify racist attitudes by casting such beliefs in the context of the doctrine of chosenness. I have long been bothered by this doctrine. It seems to go counter to the notion of monotheism.[13] Can God really have created a whole world with so many creatures in it and then decided that He’s really only interested in a small part of this humanity? And not just that He gives preference to this small part of humanity, but that He’s going to do so simply on a whim. Of course, we all know the problems of applying human logic and rationality to God and the question of whether that restricts Him. Nevertheless, we do believe in a just God—as Abraham asks in Genesis 18:25, “Will the Judge of the entire earth not perform justice?” Clearly, this is a human conception of justice, which the Torah accepts. Hence, if God wants us to “walk in His ways,” and to walk with Him,[14] it has to be a walking that makes sense to us. So I think my question is a good question—can God really play favorites in such a whimsical way?[15]

Lo titgodedu: why do we have divisions in humanity?

I will come back to the question of the special nature of one group—the Jewish nation; but before I do that, I want to ask a more fundamental question—why do we have groups at all? Why do we have to divide people into Jews, Christians, Hindus, Muslims, etc.? Or into Americans, Italians, Chinese, Albanians? Why do we need to separate people from each other in such ways? There are people who call themselves Ethical Humanists. Such people focus on the common experience of human beings. The International Humanist and Ethical Union, on its website, describes Ethical Humanism as “acceptance of responsibility for human life in the world” and “affirms the unity of man and a common responsibility of all men for all men.” Judaism, on the other hand, while not denying the unity of man, insists of dividing people as Jews and non-Jews; Muslims, as well, talk about believers and non-believers, about Dar al-Islam and Dar al-Harb. I believe there is a rational basis for the establishment of such groupings and I think it goes back to the question of the Prisoner’s Dilemma.[16] The Prisoner’s Dilemma can be complicated, but it can be explained very simply with reference to the problem of the commons. Suppose a hundred shepherds own a piece of grassland in common. Overgrazing this plot could be disastrous in terms of the long-term productivity of the plot; on the other hand, in the short-term, each individual shepherd who uses more than his proportional share of the grass benefits individually. Individual self-interest will lead to overgrazing and long-term loss for all of the shepherds; the only way to resolve this problem is cooperation. However, cooperation by itself, while retaining self-interest as the basis of individual actions can be expensive and sometimes infeasible because of the need to monitor everybody’s actions.

This is the situation that mankind faces in many realms; in the case of the environment, of course, but also in almost every organization. Most organizations work on the basis of teamwork and collegiality. Most societies work on this basis, as well. For example, the American political system would collapse if people decided not to vote, a decision which would be rational for many people on a pure self-interest basis. Most of us depend on our neighbors’ help and good intentions—to borrow a cup of sugar, to make sure that nobody breaks into our houses while we’re away, to babysit our children, to keep an extra key handy; social interactions would break down entirely under pure self-interest. The reason that such social systems work is that we have internalized benefits and costs that accrue to our neighbors. And the way in which such internalization is accomplished is manifold—partly it is biological, as for example when a parent is conditioned to worry about his/her children; partly it is social and religious—we internalize certain rules of ethics and religious morality, so that when we do something to hurt our neighbor, we end up hurting ourselves psychically to some extent. As should be obvious, the success of this system depends upon the subjective belief that the other is important to our own well-being. Believing that an all-powerful entity requires this, obviously makes it easier to believe in these ethical rules and thus contributes to the well-being of everybody participating in the system. However, simple belief manipulation of this sort will not, in and of itself, succeed. We also need to see the benefits of the system, now and then. The benefits of such cooperation are obvious, the smaller the group. Most of us would agree that inter-family cooperation is valuable and we act on this basis with very little prompting. Most of us would probably also agree that international cooperation is much more difficult. Why should I donate money to the Indonesian family that suffers in a tsunami, half a world away? Why should it matter to me that Muslim Rohingyas are being killed by their Buddhist compatriots in Myanmar? It is much more difficult to identify with people that are far away and very different from us. Nevertheless, ignoring the fact that our common survival depends on cooperation is foolhardy. The point is that tension between nearby ties and faraway ties, between centripetal tendencies and centrifugal tendencies, is something that we all live with, every day.

Religion is a way to create and strengthen ties between individuals, particularly where the benefits of such ties are not obvious. Thus, when the Qur’an says: “You [Muslims] are the best umma (nation) brought out for Mankind,”[17] it extends social bonds from a familial level, from a neighborhood level to the level of all believers. Islamic theologians extended this to a broader category called “ahl al-kitab” or people of the book, which used to refer to Jews and Christians, as well. Later on, this would be extended to other groups, including Zoroastrians and Hindus, on the basis of their possessing a holy book. Similarly, in Judaism, we have the sequentially expansive notions of family, tribe, Jew, ger-toshav (non-idolatrous resident alien), Noahide, non-idolater, man created in the image of God. Again, in the Babylonian Talmud (Baba Metsia 71a), we learn: “R. Joseph learnt: If you lend money to any of my people that are poor with you: [this teaches, if the choice lies between] a Jew and a non-Jew, a Jew has preference; the poor or the rich, the poor takes precedence; your poor [i.e. your relatives] and the [general] poor of your town, your poor come first; the poor of your city and the poor of another town the poor of your own town have prior rights.”[18] The problem is that sometimes, the establishment and strengthening of the narrower groupings emphasizes the otherness of the broader groupings. Thus, the verse quoted earlier from the Qur’an continues—“and if the followers of the Book had believed it would have been better for them; of them (some) are believers and most of them are transgressors.” Similarly in Judaism, many of the ethical commandments are restricted in their application to Jewish behavior toward other Jews.[19]

In other words, while religion is an effective way to partially resolve the Prisoner’s Dilemma problem, it does not do away with the need for us to work on our ethical obligations toward the distant “other.” Religious systems, therefore, have more expansive principle-based ethical systems that go beyond specific rule-based systems. And for this to work, we have to strive at the individual level.[20]I will have more to say on this score, but at this time, it is appropriate to re-introduce the question of the role that the Jewish people play in humanity.

Chosen People(s)

As we noted above, the notion of chosenness seems to be a violation of this broader universalistic theme. In order to resolve this seeming contradiction, we have to ask what it means for the Jewish nation to be chosen. There are two ways in which this question can be answered. Most people think of it in terms of God’s choosing the Jewish people to the exclusion of all other peoples, God’s having a special relationship with Israel, with Israel being a light to other nations, as it says in Isaiah (42:6) “I am the Lord; I called you with righteousness and I will strengthen your hand; and I formed you, and I made you for a people's covenant, for a light to nations.”

However there is nothing in this that is necessarily exclusive. The Qur’an, in the fifth chapter, in the sura of al-Ma’idah (The Spread Table or ShulkhanArukh, as it were), in verse 7, refers to a covenant of God with Muslims: “And call in remembrance the favor of Allah unto you, and His covenant, which He ratified with you, when ye said: "We hear and we obey": And fear Allah, for Allah knoweth well the secrets of your hearts.”[21] And, at the last Supper, Jesus says to his disciples, in Luke’s wording (22:20), “And likewise the cup after they had eaten, saying, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.” So the followers of all the Abrahamic religions, at least, believe that they have a covenant with God. And, in fact, many other ethnic and religious groups also have similar beliefs.

Now, those Jews who believe in the exclusivity of God’s covenant with the nation of Israel can, of course, simply reject these other verses. After all, these are not Biblical verses, and can be dismissed as figments of the imagination. But even if these texts are not divinely inspired, the fact of the matter is that there probably are at least a billion non-Jews who believe that they have a special relationship with God. And, as one of my rabbis use to say “Fifty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong!”[22]At the very least, belief in such a covenant leads these peoples to live moral lives. In the words of the Rambam, “All those words of Jesus of Nazareth and of this Ishmaelite [i.e., Muhammad] who arose after him are only to make straight the path for the messianic king and to prepare the whole world to serve the Lord together. As it is said: 'For then I will change the speech of the peoples to a pure speech so that all of them shall call on the name of the Lord and serve him with one accord' (Zephaniah 3:9).”[23] I find it difficult to believe that God has allowed so many people to be misguided on such an important tenet of their existence.

My answer to this conundrum is to suggest that the chosenness of the Jews is not necessarily exclusive. There is no logical reason why chosenness has to be exclusive. There is nothing in Isaiah that says that if Israel is a light unto the nations, then the other nations cannot be a light unto Israel. Of course, the Talmud does teach that God’s relationship with Israel is special and that He does not have a similar relationship to other peoples.[24] Similarly, Islam and Christianity also claim exclusivity. I think such claims to exclusivity can be dealt with in two ways. One is that, from a functional point of view, it makes sense for each group to think of itself as having a special and unique relationship with God. This makes each group likely to work harder to fulfill God’s commandments; and most religions, if not all, have a lot of commandments/beliefs in common that advance the common weal. Second, God is not limited, as human beings are; the Talmud often contrasts the King of Kings with the more limited “king of flesh-and-blood.”[25] Human beings might be limited; a human being would find it difficult to have a very special relationship with more than one person. Even a mother is likely to find herself playing favorites with one particular child, at least in her own mind. However, God is not limited in this way; God can have very many special relationships. R. AdinSteinsaltz put it like this: “(E)ach of us has a personal relationship with God. My relationship is always personal and private; precisely because He is so infinite and unlimited, He relates personally and specifically to me. It always is a one-to-one relationship, when I am by myself as well as when I am in a crowd; somehow we are always alone together.”[26] So if this is true for every individual, can this not be true of every nation?

While this rings true on a philosophical level, we would also like to make sense of this on a logical level, on a level that we can relate to, more easily, as human beings. Here is the conclusion that I have come to—God has entrusted each nation with a special mission. By nation, I don’t necessarily mean an ethnic group; I mean simply any group that has shared values and beliefs, and whose members believe that they have a closer tie to members of their group than to non-members. And if this is so, each nation has to try and understand what its mission might be. It’s not very easy for an outsider to figure out what a particular clan’s mission might be. But here are some possibilities. Chinese culture exalts filial piety; devotion to one’s parents ranks very high on their system of moral values. God may have chosen the Chinese people to emphasize the importance of love for one’s parents and one’s ancestors. Hindu philosophy teach the unity of all existence; the system of Vedanta that is expounded in the Upanishads is extremely profound and is very helpful in understanding the constant contradictions that we experience in our daily life between finiteness and infinity. God may have chosen the Hindus to help the nations understand how the finiteness of the material world is consistent with His infinity. The Greek nation taught the world the importance of reason. Science in the Western world flowered after the introduction of Greek ideas. These are some suggestions that I have regarding the divine missions of various nations, based on what I know about them. Note that I am not saying that these nations have a monopoly on the knowledge or characteristics that I attribute to them as their specialty. All I am saying is that these nations have cultures where these characteristics have been developed to a much greater degree than in other cultures. But what I am really interested in, is the unique mission that I think God has for the Jews—that mission which makes them a chosen people.

The Jews as a Chosen People

The most remarkable thing about the Jews almost from their beginnings as a people is that they are peripatetic. The family of Jacob went down from Israel to Egypt; then they came back to Israel after a couple of centuries, following forty years of desert peregrinations. Then they stayed put for a while, but then—this time involuntarily—some of them were exiled to Babylonia, and others into an exile so permanent, we still don’t know where they are.[27] Later on they came back to the land, but were once again exiled after the war with the Romans, this time to locations all over the world. And even then, they had to keep moving around. Britain exiled its Jews for several centuries, Spain and Portugal only recently rescinded the expulsion of the Jews, and, while the middle of the 20^th century saw the establishment of the State of Israel, it also saw the expulsion of the Jews from Middle Eastern lands where they had been for centuries. Why would the Jews be condemned to such a wandering existence? Since this wandering pre-dates the death of Jesus, the Christian explanation is not very satisfying. And without that particular religious perspective to come to the rescue,[28] we have no real explanation for why God would have visited such a unique fate on one people. My answer is that this is part of the raison d’etre of the Jewish people.

As we noted above, in order to transcend the centrifugal tendencies of the Prisoner’s Dilemma, people have to live in groups, so that the urge for group members to help each other can be nurtured. However, when a group becomes too large, the feeling of membership in a group is lost because it’s no longer sufficiently close-knit. The bonds are too loose. So, the social solution to the Prisoner’s Dilemma is the generation of many groups of people. At one time, these would have been tribes, more recently, they have been nations (at least in the Western world); at different times, they have been called different names and have taken different forms; let us call them simply clans. These relatively homogenous clans bound together by religion, language, food habits and a myriad of other characteristics create ties between their members. However, an unavoidable side-effect of this is a distancing between the members of one clan and those of another clan. As long as the clans do not intermingle then this emotional distancing doesn’t matter as much. However, for various reasons and sometimes through accidents of history, clans come to live in proximity to each other; small clans live in the middle of other larger clans; and often members of one clan live in the midst of other clans. As a result, we need a way for these disparate groups to realize their interconnectedness; else inter-clan conflict would result in disastrous consequences for all clans. We need a way for people to understand that it is important to keep in mind the needs of individuals that do not belong to their clan.

We need a way for people in one clan to empathize with members of another clan. It is for this purpose, that the ideologies of each clan incorporate universalistic elements, in addition to the particularistic elements that they contain. However, stray sentences in law-books and religious texts are not enough, people need living examples. In each civilization, there are living examples of such empathy; sometimes they are called saints, sometimes they are called mahatmas. These exemplars embody compassion for everybody—both within and without the clan. Jesus was one such being, the Buddha another; more recently, Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi have been such examples. These examples work on the individual level and appeal as models to individuals.

What about at the national level? I believe that the Jews are an example of a nation that has been charged with showcasing the ideals of universal tolerance. I am not necessarily claiming that they have always done a good job of this, but their experience has crafted them to be such an example. The Jewish founding document is replete with such reminders. Ki geyrim heyyitem be-erets mitsrayim—“for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” is a phrase that is repeated over and over again. And a stranger shalt thou not oppress; for ye know the heart of a stranger, seeing ye were strangers in the land of Egypt (Exodus 23:9). And a stranger shalt thou not wrong, neither shalt thou oppress him; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt (Exodus 22:20). And if a stranger sojourn with thee in your land, ye shall not do him wrong. The stranger that sojourneth with you shall be unto you as the home-born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt(Leviticus 19:34). Love ye therefore the stranger; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt Deuteronomy 10:19). And it is not just that there are many such reminders. Rather, Leviticus 19:34 adds immediately afterward, “I am the Lord thy God.” That is, care for strangers is a key element in the system of divine commandments to the Jews. The Jewish religion is an example of compassion, tolerance and empathy toward the stranger. As the Talmud says, the children of Abraham can be recognized because they are modest, merciful and full of loving-kindness.[29] I believe that their mercy and loving-kindness is commanded to be directed not only to Jews, but to all humanity.

The Jewish Bible and the rabbinic literature are vast; as the Mishna says in Pirkei Avot (5:24), hafokh bah ve-hafokh bah d'kulah bah "Turn it over and turn it over, for everything is within it." We can interpret it narrowly in a sectarian and particularistic way, or we can interpret it broadly and in a universalistic way. If we think of what the goal of the Jewish tradition, of the prophets and of the rabbis is, then I believe we will realize that Judaism is not simply a set of unfathomable laws, but that the message of Judaism is meant to bring us into harmony with the Universe and specifically with other living souls,[30] our fellow human beings.

“Who is wise? One who sees the future outcome.”        (Talmud, Tractate Tamid 32a)

This famous statement by the Gemara challenges us to critically examine past and current issues, identify patterns and trends, conduct a thorough analysis, and if wise enough, act to achieve future desired outcomes.  However, this approach demands that we be honest and realistic in our assessments, and not be encumbered or influenced by nostalgia or Golden Age thinking.  Given our highly emotional nature as Sepharadim, this is no easy task.

All Jewish communities are dynamic organisms.  Each community grapples with similar challenges of engagement, outreach, growth, membership retention, leadership and financial stability.  Sephardic communities in North America are faced with these and more complex issues regarding their survival. Members of established Sephardic communities have become integrated into American society in the same manner as other Jewish groups who immigrated at the same time period.  Over the last decade, the emergence of new Sephardic congregations reflects a demographic composed mainly of recent immigrant groups, primarily from Israel.  In today’s globalized world, they do not undergo the same American Jewish experiences as did the immigrant groups who arrived a century ago.  The older second and third generation communities are now in a state of flux as they either undergo existential transitions or are at the point of losing their identity to these new incoming groups.

Seattle’s Sephardic community, which has long enjoyed a reputation as a bastion of the rich cultural heritage, religious customs and liturgy of Levantine Judeo Spanish Jewry, is one such community concerned about its future.  Founded in 1906, the community traces its roots to immigrants from Turkey and the Island of Rhodes.  It is served by two synagogues, each reflecting its country of origin, a jointly run religious school, an independent summer camp and the Seattle Sephardic Brotherhood, whose primary purpose is to serve as the chevra kadisha, the burial society.  Seattle is also the birthplace of many leading rabbis and educators serving other Sephardic communities, including Rabbi Marc Angel, Founder of The Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.

While no longer spoken as a living tongue save for some favored words and expressions, Ladino is still incorporated into many features of synagogue prayer services and holiday rituals.  Our unique customs and liturgy have been successfully preserved so that were our great grandparents to enter the kehillot during tefila, they would feel most at home.  We are fortunate that our grandparents and other learned community leaders taught us after school and through ritual observances at home.  This informal educational infrastructure ensured the continuity of our traditions for my generation and for some, will continue to the next generation as well. 

While the majority of Seattle’s Sepharadim are not observant, with many having have joined Conservative and Reform congregations, there is still a sense of belonging, friendship, mutual respect, and a shared pride in our heritage, traditions and legacy within the overall community.  

On many levels, the Sephardic experience in Seattle is no different than other American Jewish communities - the search for affluence and acceptance.  Attrition, assimilation and intermarriage have taken their toll.  Many families whose grandparents were traditional two generations ago are now completely assimilated.  There is evidence of disengagement from communal institutions and a lack of interest in both Jewish and Sephardic identity.

Whereas the primary portal of engagement for our parents and grandparents was the synagogue, this is no longer the case.  For the majority, their relationship to the synagogue is extremely tenuous, not meaningful or spiritually fulfilling, and based almost exclusively on their filial devotion.  Synagogue attendance continues to decline, even on the High Holidays, and for most, their only other interactions are annual food bazaars or lifecycle events, mostly sad, where clergy is required to officiate.  As the older generation passes away, there is little doubt that these relationships will suffer even more. 

The Seattle Sephardic community has for the most part not benefited from Hansen’s Law "What the son wishes to forget the grandson wishes to remember" or “the principle of third generation interest” as stated by the historian Marcus Lee Hansen.  Hansen's Law is often used to interpret the immigrant experience.  While the children of immigrants may devote considerable energy to discarding immigrant culture traits such as religion, their children may find them meaningful and identity forming.

Nor has the community received any significant benefit from the American Sephardic renaissance in the 1970-s driven by the formation of the American Sephardi Federation.  This short lived phenomenon was eclipsed by the organized development and empowerment of Sepharadim in Israel.  Our own inability to successfully create and maintain an organizational infrastructure on a national and local level also played a major role in its failure to have a lasting impact on the community.

Those who are committed to an observant lifestyle are faced with the additional challenge of the allure and attractions of the vibrant Jewish lifestyle and multiple resources that larger communities such as New York and Los Angeles have to offer their children.  While some young men and women have returned to Seattle to raise their families, the trend to move away will continue.

More crucial are two issues that confront not just Seattle, but the majority of second and third generation Sepharadim in general-- intramarriage and the lack of articulating what differentiates Sepharadim from other Jews, and ultimately, the relevance of Sephardic Judaism (or Sephardism, to use the term coined by Rabbi Angel) and identity in the future.

Intramarriage with Jews of non Sephardic backgrounds has resulted in blended families with a diluted sense of their Sephardic heritage and customs.  The educational emphasis in these families is placed on fostering, promoting and maintaining a strong Jewish identity.  This priority is shared by many Sepharadim who marry other Sepharadim, with the result being a lesser emphasis on Sephardic heritage.  (Some communities, mainly those of Syrian and Persian origin, do not yet face this problem, and, given their significant numbers and insular nature, may never will).

In essence, this will be the Jew of Sephardic lineage in the post ethnic Jewish world.  Given the fact that Sepharadim are vastly outnumbered, the future is that coming generations will be completely absorbed into mainstream American Jewish life, leaving their Sephardic heritage little more than a fond memory.

Hence the larger questions loom. What will those memories be composed of?  Will they consist only of liturgy, ethnic music, exotic cuisine and joie de vivre?  Are there really unique Sephardic values?  Is there such a thing as a Sephardic ideology or (since no Ladino counterpart exists) Weltanschauung?  Can it be that Sephardism arose in a unique milieu, and since that setting no longer exists, there is little of substance that remains relevant or transmittable?  As one young man, a member of a blended family with a non Sephardic spouse put it:” We know we are different. We just don’t know how.”

If there is something unique about the values that constitute Sephardism, can they be defined, distilled, crystallized, and articulated so they can be transmitted to future generations?

Many claim that what distinguishes Sepharadim is our unique approach to modernity and life.  We possess a set of values and worldview that allows us to navigate and enjoy the best of both worlds, maintaining our Jewish identity, Torah values, and traditions as we straddle past and present.  Our hallmarks are moderation, non judgmental acceptance and tolerance of other’s levels of observance.  But today, many branches of Judaism, most notably Modern Orthodoxy and the Conservative Movement espouse similar ideals and approaches. 

There is much we can be proud of.  We have made invaluable contributions to both the Jewish and non Jewish world.  The writings of our great Sephardic sages in the areas of thought, philosophy, liturgy, piyyut, Torah interpretation, mysticism and Halacha have been recognized and incorporated into the greater general wisdom of Torah.  In particular, past Sephardic rabbis are now being hailed for their bold, innovative and even daring Halachic rulings and approach to dealing with modern concerns and dilemmas, especially in the current stricter religious environment.  Contemporary opinions advocate that a Sephardic approach can resolve many of the current issues plaguing the Jewish world and the State of Israel.  In the secular world, Sepharadim are known for their contributions in the arts, literature, sciences, and philosophy. 

Seattle’s Sephardic communal future is predictable.  We know that through intermarriage, assimilation, attrition and intramarriage the community will continue to decline.  It will lose its unique identity and hallmark of “community“.  Eventually, Ladino will be eliminated as we come to realize that we would rather speak words we understand than words we do not.  There will no longer be Sephardic synagogues, but synagogues in the Sephardi tradition.  This situation is exacerbated by the fact that we have failed to identify and train spiritual leaders from our own ranks and background to guide the community’s future.  

To counter this decline, there are a number of specific things that Seattle’s communal leadership can do.  The creation of a community council would serve as a vehicle to bind the different organizations.  Communal strategic planning would create a master plan to guide future development.  A community wide genealogical project can be implemented to identify those of Sephardic heritage and serve as a means of creating a database for outreach.  Cultural events can be created to provide additional entry points to engage the disinterested and disenfranchised.  If done in context within a vision, there is a chance that the community can be rejuvenated.  

However, if we cannot articulate a set of values and worldview, and devise educational methods to transmit them to future generations, it would appear that we too will suffer the same fate as the majority of Judeo Spanish communities around the world.  We will be remembered solely for our quaint minhagim, soulful liturgy and melodies, and delicious food.

Rabbi Angel, in his excellent book, Foundations of Sephardic Spirituality, makes the following assessment.  “Judeo Spanish civilization has reached its conclusion as a living, dynamic organization.  There are no more communities in the world where Judeo Spanish is the mother tongue of the younger generations and there is no sociological reason for Judeo Spanish communities to emerge in the future….. The Judeo Spanish community has made vast contributions to Jewish life and lore, yet it now enters a new phase in the fulfillment of its distinctive mission.  In this phase, its central teachings and experiences will be translated and incorporated into the general wisdom and culture of the entire Jewish people. “

Through the lens of foresight, we are empowered to become wise and shape the future.  Seattle is the last vibrant Judeo Spanish community in the United States.  Eventually though, it will undergo a complete transformation as its constituency evolves and factors beyond its control take over.  Will we use our insights to ensure that our treasured Sephardic legacy remains relevant and transmittable or will we fade into the twilight as a footnote on the pages of Jewish history?

It was not until my third year of observing the mitzvoth that I read Rav Soloveitchik’s seminal essay “The Lonely Man of Faith,” and it was not until I read this essay that I had ever articulated why I had become a religious Jew. The Rav writes, in the first few sentences of his piece:

“I am lonely. Let me emphasize, however, that by stating “I am lonely” I do not intend to convey to you the impression that I am alone. I, thank God, do enjoy the love and friendship of many. I meet people, talk, preach, argue, reason; I am surrounded by comrades and acquaintances. And yet, companionship and friendship do not alleviate the passional experience of loneliness which trails me constantly.”

To these very personal words, I can only say: Rebbi, I relate. I was an only child until I was 15, the golden (I am blond) immigrant daughter of immigrant parents (my parents and I arrived in the United States from the Soviet Union in 1989). I was a child raised on the nutritious stew of the American Dream and the delicacies of daily conversations about philosophy, politics, and the meaning of life. Armed with introspection and the desire to fit into my new country—young enough to be completely American, yet old enough to remember being different—how could I NOT be lonely?

And so this loneliness carried me through my entire life. I was always gregarious, outgoing, and had many friends. I liked to go out to cultural events, attend parties, and play sports. I see now, and probably had some sense of this before, that these were what I now call loneliness—diversions. It is not that my many life-filling activities didn’t have value in and of themselves. I love my friends dearly, and the discipline I learned from being an athlete has helped me immeasurably in my life. However, at the depths of my soul, I perpetually wanted to connect, to remove from myself the feeling of “other,” to meld my existence into another existence so that I could alleviate the constant reminder that I was in some way not “unified.”

As a philosophy major at Stanford, my favorite philosophers were not the modern philosophers of mind, linguistics, and logic, but rather the old-school Continental philosophers such as Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and other Existentialists. I sought philosophers with whom I could share my loneliness—and who had figured out ways to alleviate it. In my studies of philosophy, I sought out a prescription for understanding my purpose rather than a precise description of the world.

It was in college that my loneliness grew. My solution: I had to ramp up my loneliness-diversion tactics. I joined a sorority, went out several nights a week (with, of course, ample amounts of distilled liquors), competed as an NCAA athlete, and threw myself into the amazing extracurricular life that Stanford had to offer. Moreover, I turned with more vigor to the great philosophical minds in my academic work and tried to connect with my professors to see if they

could help resolve the loneliness dilemma. But the loneliness persisted, hungry from a lack of nutrition; what I was feeding it with my diversion tactics was merely junk food.

In my senior year of college, I took a wonderful class called “Jewish Philosophy” with the now Dean of Jewish Theological Seminary (JTS), Arnie Eisen. In his class, we read Buber, Rosenzweig, Rav Kook, Mordechai Kaplan, Derrida, and, of course, the Rav. As I read through these thinkers, I began to feel that many of these Jewish thinkers experienced my same loneliness, and their works were written as manifestos of the struggle to understand it. Buber’s I and Thou was a poignant and succinct expression of the human search for connection and relationship. Rosenzweig’s Star of Redemption created an empowered space for the searching Jew in a world where he is outnumbered.

When I graduated, I decided to go to Israel. I wanted to learn more about Judaism because I wanted to know I was not alone in my loneliness, and that the loneliness had a purpose. I did not want to be an Orthodox Jew (having met almost none in my 22 years of life); rather, I wanted to learn Truth; I wanted a Guide. I wanted an end to relativity, which after four years of a liberal arts education, only left me lonelier.

I spent nearly two months in Israel trying to find clarity, first at a Conservative yeshiva in Jerusalem, then at Pardes, and finally at Aish HaTorah.

It was only at Aish HaTorah that I felt some sense of satisfaction. Aish gave me answers. They were simple, entirely not nuanced, and very philosophically biased toward their own view of Judaism. I did not know that then, and taking what they taught as gospel (quite literally), I was able to form a coherent picture of why I was here and what my purpose in life ought to be. I understood my loneliness as a sense of existential purposelessness; somehow I had always known that becoming a lawyer, epicure, intellect, and even wife, mother, and friend, was not enough. No one had ever explained to me that there could be more (see, for example, Sartre, who explained that existence precedes essence, and the essence is what you make of it; but what do I make of it?).

I saw from Aish’s “power hour” lectures that Judaism solved all of my most pressing existential questions. My life’s purpose is to connect to God, and to do so, I must learn His Word and do the deeds He has commanded me to do. Life now centered around connection (with God and with others) and its purpose was perfecting the self. The reframing of life in this manner somewhat alleviated my loneliness. I was not alone; God was there with me. It also gave me a sense of purpose and control, and the knowledge of what my convictions were, so that I may have the joy of standing up for them. (And that these convictions were rooted in something immutable and perfect.)

Very quickly I realized that the one-size-fits-all form of Judaism presented at Aish HaTorah became anathema to both my personality and my essence. Nonetheless, the underlying principles of belief in God and a relationship with him built through deed remained as an anchor when I began to explore my own place in Judaism.

This is when I read the Rav. Amidst the references to “loneliness” (he understands me!) was also a view of a human being as the empowered creator, given gifts to change both one’s self and the surrounding world, and the right to find joy in using those gifts (rather than seeing them as some form of necessary evil in order to get back to the “spiritual” stuff in life). To this I related! I am lonely, yes, in my quest for connection to God and to others and in finding my own role in contributing to this world. But I can rejoice in the relationships I’ve acquired and take pride in my achievements, and take solace in that my loneliness is shared by others and softened by God’s love.

To say I no longer feel lonely would be to say that I drank the Kool-Aid offered by some kiruv organizations. Nonetheless, I now have a relationship with an entity that is always there and is filled with love. And I am busied out of my loneliness by the community I must care for, and the world (and self) that I must change.