National Scholar Updates

Reflections on the Western Sephardic Tradition of Amsterdam

 

            In this article I will share my view on the historical role of Western Sephardic thinking. Hence, this article is not devoted entirely to religious leaders. Rather, it encapsulates the story of Jewish devotion, divisiveness, zealotry, and compromise. As far as Western Sephardic tradition is concerned, many people have a rather hazy picture. All they seem to know is that Spinoza was banned from the Amsterdam community for heresy (July 24, 1656). The fame of this particular excommunication’s is due to its being continually cited as an example of religious intolerance and fear of change comparable to the indictment of Galileo (1564–1642) and the excommunication from Islam of Salman Rushdie in our own day. Accused of every crime, denounced from the pulpit of every faith, insulted, ridiculed, and held in contempt, these thinkers and writers created the world we know today. Through their words and deeds they demonstrated the inadequacy of the erstwhile conceptions of religion compared to their views—based on reason rather than superstition—that could withstand the rigors of debate and argument.

To better comprehend the Western Sephardic mind, let us go back to the sixteenth century, the century after the expulsion of the Jews from the Iberian Peninsula. Following the Union of Utrecht in 1571, Jews of Spanish and Portuguese origin became attracted to the Lower Lands where little inquiry was made as to people’s religious beliefs. Many merchants began to settle in Amsterdam in 1590 but did not openly reveal themselves as Jews.

Dr. Ben Vermeulen, of the Catholic University of Nijmegen, in the Netherlands, delivered an interesting address at the International Coalition for Religious Freedom Conference on "Religious Freedom and the New Millennium."
The conference took place in Washington DC, April 17–19, 1998, and the address was entitled “The Historical Development of Religious Freedom.” In this lecture he dealt with the development of religious freedom in Western Europe. According to Vermeulen,

 

The origin of the legal guarantees of freedom of conscience and religion in Western-Europe are found in the civil wars of the 16th and 17th centuries. Western Europe was torn apart by religious strife caused by the Reformation, which disrupted the medieval religious unity of Catholicism. It should be stressed that the impact of these civil wars, raging in particular in France, England, the Netherlands, and Germany, was enormous…At least a partial solution to help end these horrible civil wars was brought about by treaties that secured religious peace. In these treaties the state declared itself neutral (at least to a certain extent), and guaranteed a certain minimum of religious freedom for every citizen. These peace treaties, such as the Union of Utrecht of 1579 (the Netherlands), the Edict of Nantes of 1598 (France), and the Treaty of Westphalia of 1648 (Germany) may be regarded as the first codifications of freedom of conscience and religion, and even of human rights in general.

 

These treaties, especially the Union of Utrecht, have influenced the choice of rabbis, chief rabbis, and ministers of the Western Sephardic community for the past 400 years. Indeed, the Union of Utrecht is the very first legal document to provide religious liberties to the Jews, since it called for religious tolerance in accordance with the Pacification of Ghent. In other words, the provinces were free to regulate religious matters, provided that everyone remained free to exercise their own religion. In the words of the Union of Utrecht:

 

As for the matter of religion, the States of Holland and Zeeland shall act according to their own pleasure, and the other Provinces of this Union shall follow the rules set down in the religious peace drafted by Archduke Matthias, governor and captain-general of these countries, with the advice of the Council of State and the States General, or shall establish such general or special regulations in this matter as they shall find good and most fitting for the repose and welfare of the provinces, cities, and individual Members thereof, and the preservation of the property and rights of each individual, whether churchman or layman, and no other Province shall be permitted to interfere or make difficulties, provided that each person shall remain free in his religion and that no one shall be investigated or persecuted because of his religion, as is provided in the Pacification of Ghent….

 

With these treaties, the United Provinces of the Netherlands would subsequently play both direct and indirect roles in the development of enlightenment in the seventeenth century. Its proponents would play leading roles in revising the medieval political institutions of Britain, and in preserving the colonial institutions that American colonists took for granted in the eighteenth century. Indeed, once the United States of America declared its independence, and Napoleon introduced new liberties and civil rights for Jews, life could never be the same anymore. 

The religious and intellectual life of the Sephardic community in the Netherlands was marked by tensions between the strict authoritarian orthodoxy of the rabbis and the majority of communal leaders on the one side, and the critical libertarian, individualist views of influential intellectuals on the other. This conflict was all the more acute as it was the consequence of the underground crypto-Jewish existence, which many had formerly led, and their sudden freedom in an open society. A split developed in Amsterdam’s first congregation, Beth Jaäcob, because of a bitter religious controversy led by a free-thinking physician, Abraham Farrar. In 1639 the three existing Jewish groups united under the name Kahal Kadosh Talmud Tora, and ever since then services were conducted in one place of worship. The magnificent synagogue dedicated in 1675 became the model for Sephardic synagogues in many other places as well.

The intellectual life of the community, in both its religious and secular aspects, attained a high level. As a center of Jewish learning throughout the Sephardic Diaspora, Dutch Jewry wielded a powerful influence and became a focus of intellectual ferment. The Talmud Torah and Ets Haim seminary was celebrated for the excellence of its teaching, covering not only talmudic subjects, but also Hebrew grammar and poetry. Indeed, the upper classes spoke only in Hebrew. The seminary flourished during the seventeenth century under the leadership of Haham Saul Levi Mortera, and subsequently under Haham Isaac Aboab de Fonseca. Its pupils officiated as cantors, ministers, rabbis, and chief rabbis in numerous communities in Europe, the Americas, the Near East, and in the Far East as well. It also produced quite a few scholars, writers, and poets.

Messianic hopes seemed to be realized with the arrival of Sabbetai Sebi in the middle of the seventeenth century. Many became followers of this false-messiah, and only a minority vigorously opposed him. The leadership of the community would remain for a long period under the influence of former Sabbateans, including the Hahamim Isaac Aboab de Fonseca, Moses Raphael Aguilar, and Benjamin Mussaphia. Even in the early eighteenth century, when Haham Salomon Aylion was in charge, a controversy arose over the Sabbatean work of Nehemiah Hayon. A prominent Ashkenazic rabbi, Haham Zvi Hirsch Ashkenazi (1656–1780), who had entered the dispute, was excommunicated by the congregation’s trustees in 1713.

            In their early days in the Netherlands, the Jews of Iberian origin were influenced and challenged by their surroundings, having to debate and defend their faith. In communities such as Ferrara, Venice, Antwerp, Amsterdam, Hamburg, London, and Bayonne, these Iberians—most of whom had been raised as Roman Catholics—were largely unaware of Hebrew and formal Judaism. For their benefit, Bibles, prayer books, and a whole range of works on the essentials of Judaism were published in the vernacular. However, Jewish book printing in Amsterdam was not an enterprise committed solely to didactic works, and many books reflect the broad cultural interest and academic background that these people had brought with them from Spain, Portugal, Italy, and the Ottoman Empire. The encounter between Iberian Renaissance culture and the rediscovered Judaism in environments such as the cosmopolitan, tolerant city of Amsterdam turned these Western Sephardim into the first “modern Jews.” This development is exemplified by the life and works of such intellectual pioneers as Haham Saul Levi Mortera, Haham Menasse Ben Israel, Haham Isaac Aboab de Fonseca, and, in his own way, Uriel da Costa. And that was only the beginning, for it would evolve further from the seventeenth century into the twenty-first century. There were also difficult periods, especially in the mid-nineteenth century, when there was no Haham in Amsterdam, and in the twentieth century, when the community suffered from both world wars. Worst of all were the segregation, deportation, and extermination by the Nazis, which nearly resulted in its total destruction.

            It might be useful to describe the nature of the Sephardic community in the first half of the seventeenth century as something entirely new, rather than as the re-emergence of a suppressed religious identity. Strong arguments for such a view can be made from the conflicts that divided the Sephardic community at that time. Disputes arose between influential laymen and the religious leadership. The clergy itself was divided between a rationalistic faction and those of a more mystical bent. Each of the famous Hahamim of the seventeenth century left his distinct mark on Western Sephardim. It has been remarked that Western Sephardic culture combines the morality of Calvinism, and the spirit of the Italian Renaissance, delightfully combined with a touch of Kabbalah. Renaissance thinkers in both Italy as well as in the Netherlands strongly influenced Sephardic culture. Aristotle and Virgil were not examined as mere “aliens” but as potential contributors to Jewish culture.

            At the same time, it must be noted that the authority of Western Sephardic clergy was limited to advice and consent. Following the Venetian example, the “Mahamad,” a standing committee of seven wardens invested with absolute power, governed the congregation. The Mahamad’s decisions were binding on all, and no verbal or written opposition was brooked. Thus, for example, no member could take another member to court without the Mahamad’s permission, nor could he print a book without its prior approval. Scholars like Juan de Prado, Uriel da Costa, and Baruch de Spinoza were formally excommunicated. Excommunication was a regular tool employed against behavior or speech the Mahamad deemed inappropriate. If a sermon in the synagogue was not to the liking of the wardens, they would excommunicate the preacher.

            Haham Levi Mortera was profoundly committed to rabbinic tradition, while he also followed the Maimonidean method of argumentation in his writings. (See H. P. Salomon, Saul Levi Mortera and his “Traktaat betreffende de Wet van Mozes,” Braga 1988, 31–60.) The Haham struggled against superstition, prejudice, and hypocrisy in order to establish truth and reason as the basis of piety. Thus, Mortera promoted justice, free inquiry, and freedom of expression and thought in support of Judaism. He was of course not the only writer to be critical of superstition. In this he was preceded in his own century by Grotius (1583–1645), Isaac de la Peyrere, and Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679). His thinking also ran parallel, but not identical, to that of Montaigne (1553–1592), Descartes (1596–1650), Uriel da Costa, and Baruch de Spinoza, whose arguments he applied to the study of Jewish religion.

            Most of the religious literature intended for the guidance of the Sephardic communities was composed and printed in Amsterdam. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, many new congregations would be established throughout Europe, the British Empire, and the colonies in the New World. It was an honored and honorable position that the main printer, Haham Menasse ben Israel, held, but it was not a well-paid one. And, like most of the Sephardic ministers and rabbis, he had to supplement his income. Menasse ben Israel set up his own printing press, and, at the request of Efraim Bueno and Abraham Sarphati, on 13 Tebet 5387 (January 1, 1627), he published the first Hebrew prayer book in Amsterdam. Haham Isaac Aboab de Fonseca served as a proofreader. Between 1627 and 1710, Amsterdam printing houses produced a total of 146 liturgical books and booklets. Seven months after his first publication, on July 15 1627, Menasse Ben Israel printed an interesting liturgical manuscript, Imre No’am, by Yosef Shalom Gallego (1614–1628). Gallego was one of the first Hazanim in Amsterdam. The importance of Gallego in the growth of what later became Western Sephardic liturgical music has been well established.

                Imre No’am gives some indication of Gallego’s prominent role as an educator in the community. He relates that the followers of Haham Joseph Pardo were in the habit of gathering in the synagogue on the three Sabbaths preceding the fast of the Ninth of Ab, mourning the destruction of the Temple. Gallego wrote against this custom, urging the members of his congregation to observe the Ninth of Ab with greater strictness, in observance of the Sabbath.

                In Amsterdam as elsewhere, the proclamation of Sabbetai Sebi as a messianic figure in 1665 evoked extraordinary enthusiasm, and the standard liturgy was temporarily changed accordingly. Kabbalah in its various systems and schools had spread and become a central part of Jewish theological discourse, giving Sabbateanism, whose founders and leaders were all Kabbalists, an elevated position. This came in addition to the mythic and folk elements that nourished Sabbateanism. Discussion about the liturgical changes continued for years. The Sabbatean movement refused to accept the reality of Sabbetai’s defection from Judaism to Islam. He had disappointed many, but the sincere hope for redemption continued to encourage many to believe the ideas of the Kabbalah.

            The Sabbatean movement was a thorn in the flesh of Haham Jacob Sasportas (Oran 1610–Amsterdam 1698), who was appointed Haham on April 4, 1693. He was of prestigious decent being the eleventh generation after Nachmanides (1194–1270). The opinion among the members of the Mahamad was mixed, but in the end they supported Haham Sasportas. He was an experienced rabbi, having led the rabbinate in Hamburg from 1659 until 1664, when he became Haham in London. He travelled to Scandinavia, but, returning to Amsterdam in 1672, he was appointed president of Yeshiba de los Pintos. Raphael Meldola published his Responsa in 1737.

    In 1698 Haham Salomon Jessurun d’Oliveira (1675–1700) succeeded Sasportas. Under his leadership new rules of Hebrew grammar were introduced. He was a rationalist, and was replaced two years later by Haham Salomon de Ja’acob Aylion (1700–1728). Aylion was born in Safed in Palestine and grew up in Salonika. He spread mystical teachings all over Europe. In 1689 he arrived in Amsterdam, but a year later he moved on to London to succeed Haham Jacob Abendana, who had died suddenly. The rationalists in London organized against him, and so he returned to Amsterdam in 1700. Haham Aylion’s tenure in the 18th century was characterized by his pre-occupation with superstitious beliefs, which resulted in political problems and a rather unhappy community. Haham Aylion died on 30 Nissan 5488 (April 9, 1728). His responsa are not published, but can be found in the Ets Haim library in Amsterdam. In 1728 the trustees appointed Haham David Israel Athias (1728–1753) and Haham Isaac Abendana de Britto (1728– 1760). They would rotate positions as Haham of the Congregation and President of the seminary until Haham Athias’ death in 1753.

            On a personal note, my great-great-great-grandfather, Haham Samuel A’Cathan (1692–1770), was the son of the Chief Rabbi of Sale near Rabbat in Morocco. He came to Amsterdam, and in 1715 married the daughter of Haham Samuel Ahuby, a Sephardic rabbi in Belgrade, which was part of the Ottoman Empire. Haham A’Cathan succeeded his predecessor, Haham de Mesa, when he died in 1761, and was appointed Ab Beth Din. He was more of a teacher and preacher than a communal leader, and, consequently, sent for Haham Salomon Shalem (1762–1781) from the Ottoman Empire to head congregational affairs.

            It was a controversial time. Haham Shalem chaired the Rabbinate while the above-mentioned Haham Zvi Hirsch Ashkenazi, or, as he was universally known, Haham Zvi; arrived from Altona. In the beginning he was very highly regarded; however, his incorruptible honesty and unselfishness soon made many enemies. One of these was Nehemiah Hiyya Hayyun, who managed to render his position in the congregation untenable. In his outspoken opposition to this unprincipled man, Haham Zvi had drawn upon himself the ill-will of the Mahamad of the Amsterdam Western Sephardic community, and that of the authorities of his own Ashkenazic community. The latter brought the matter before the magistrates, who, in order to obtain full information upon the subject, consulted not only the theological professors of Amsterdam, Utrecht, Leiden, and Harderwijk, but the trustees as well. It was no wonder then that, with this array of counselors, Haham Zvi was relieved of his office (1714). He went by way of London and Emden to Lemberg, where, after officiating as rabbi for a short time, he died in 1718. During the whole of this period the power of the trustees was almost absolute. From time to time however, the Haham was asked for his advice. The trustees modified at will the statutes of the congregation, and procured the approval of the magistrates. For the lay members of the congregation there remained nothing but implicit obedience.

    The year 1795 brought the results of the French Revolution to the Netherlands, including emancipation for the Jews. On September 2, 1796, the National Convention proclaimed the following resolution: "No Jew shall be excluded from rights or advantages which are associated with citizenship in the Batavian Republic, and which he may desire to enjoy." Moses Moresco was appointed member of the municipality at Amsterdam, while Moses Asser became a member of the court of justice there. The old conservatives, at whose head stood the Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi Jacob Moses Löwenstamm, were not desirous of emancipation rights. Indeed, these rights were, for the greater part, of doubtful advantage, since their culture was not so far advanced that they could frequent general society. Besides, this emancipation was offered to them by a party which had expelled their beloved Prince of Orange, to whose house they remained so faithful, that the chief rabbi at The Hague, Saruco, was called the "Orange dominie." The men who supported the old régime were even called "Orange cattle." Nevertheless, the Revolution appreciably ameliorated the condition of the Jews. In 1799 their congregations received, like the Christian congregations, grants from the treasury. In 1798 Jonas Daniel Meijer interceded with the French minister of foreign affairs on behalf of the Jews of Germany, and on August 22, 1802, the Dutch ambassador, Sir Rutger Jan Schimmelpenninck, delivered a note on the same subject to the French minister.[1]

            From 1806 to 1810 the Kingdom of Holland was ruled by Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, whose intention it was to so amend the condition of the Jews that their newly acquired rights would become of real value to them; the shortness of his reign, however, prevented him from carrying out his plans. For example, after having changed the market-day in some cities (Utrecht and Rotterdam) from Saturday to Monday, he also abolished the use of the "Oath More Judaico" in the courts of justice, and administered the same formula to both Christians and Jews. To accustom the latter to military services he formed two battalions of 803 men and 60 officers, all Jews, who had been until then excluded from military service, even from the town guard. The union of Ashkenazim and Sephardim intended by King Louis Napoleon did not come about. He had desired to establish schools for Jewish children, who until then were excluded from the public schools.

Upon the death of Haham Daniel Cohen d’Azevedo (1751–1822), the congregation appointed no Haham, but a Bet Din. This court, consisted of Dayan Jacob Ferares (1772–1852), Dayan Salomon Cohen Paraira (–1828), Dayan Raphael Montezinos (–1866), Dayan Isaac Mendes de Sola (–1849), Dayan Aaron Mendes Chumaceiro (1810–1882) (in 1860 Haham of Congregation Mikveh Israel in Willemstad, Curaçao), Dayan David Lopes Cardozo (1852–1890), Dayan Elazar Aaron Vaz Dias (1813–1885), Dayan Jacob Lopes Cardozo (–1873), and Dayan Jacob Mendes Chumaceiro (1833–1900).

In the nineteenth century the rabbinate spent much time on the correct pronunciation of Hebrew and the perfection of its grammar. New prayer books were printed with Dutch translation. Dayan David Lopes Cardozo was the last rabbi to preach in Portuguese.

On August 12, 1900, the trustees appointed a native-born rabbi as the congregation’s Haham, the legendary Isaac Palache (1858–1927). A few weeks earlier, on July 8, 1900, Palache’s competitor, the Rev. Aaron Rodrigues Pereira (1859–1922) was appointed Haham in The Hague. Pereira’s honesty, his friendly personality, and his prodigious knowledge, made him a famous and beloved personality.

Under the leadership of Haham Palache, new immigrants arrived from the Ottoman Empire. In 1919 the trustees appointed Dr. Haim Benjamin Israel Ricardo (1892–1944) as Rubi (adjunct rabbi). After Palache’s death, Dr. Ricardo was promoted to Dayan. Ricardo was an outspoken Religious Zionist. Most congregants held him in the highest esteem. He was a very social gentleman who would visit congregants and bring hope while they were suffering the consequences of the Great Depression. But Zionism at that time was not politically correct or really popular among Dutch Jewry. Consequently, in 1929, the trustees brought a famous and very learned Ottoman Rabbi to Amsterdam. They appointed rabbi Eliyahu Frances (1928–1944) as Dayan. The Dayanim Ricardo and Frances led the community harmoniously through the depression and World War II.

Rabbi Eliyahu Frances was born in 1875 in Salonika. He studied foreign languages and became the secretary of the Chief Rabbinate in Salonika. The trustees appointed Frances as Ab Beth Din. He became very popular, since he had high intellect combined with great knowledge being strict in the law, he strengthened the tradition, while also being open to the needs of the community. He was pleasant and modest. In 1938 he visited his father, who lived in Jerusalem. He was one of the candidates for Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv. When he did not win that position, he returned to the Netherlands. In due course, he was among the Jews deported and murdered by the Nazis.

Reform Judaism in the Netherlands has never been popular among Western Sephardim. A group of German refugees established a Reform congregation to which the Amsterdam Sephardim donated a Sepher Torah. The relationship remained cordial but distant. While most Western Sephardim lived as secularists, they loved their synagogue, their rabbis, their music, and were very proud of their tradition. In this climate of mutual respect and high tolerance, the majority of the Sephardim felt no need for Reform Judaism.

When Nazi Germany invaded the Dutch Kingdom in May 1940 there were around 140,000 Jews in the country, of whom some 120,000 lived in Amsterdam. About 4,300 of these were Sephardim. Comparatively little has been written about the community’s history during the war years. At the end of World War II, a ravaged community of some 600 survivors returned to where the refugees from the Inquisition had once built up a flourishing Jewish culture.

The Ashkenazic Rabbi, Justus Tal (1881–1954), led the community in Amsterdam between February 1944 and May 1945, while all other Rabbis were deported and murdered. Together with Rabbi Barend Drukarch (19171998) and the congregation’s sexton, Salomon Mendes Coutinho, worship services continued until the very end of the war, Shabbath May 5th 1945. Services were conducted, at a private home of the sexton, one week in accordance with Ashkenazic, the other in accordance with Sephardic tradition. In these final days of WWII it was permitted to Dutch Ashkenazim and Sephardim alike to consume rice and beans on Passover.

    As the liberation of the European continent was on its way Major Dr. Salomon Rodrigues Pereira (18871969), Haham of The Hague, returned to the Netherlands with the Royal Dutch Princess Irene Brigade, as its chaplain. Soon after the war, the trustees appointed Rodrigues Pereira Haham. He continued to live his life as a freeman in the city of Hilversum, and would visit Amsterdam during the holidays. To mark his fortieth anniversary as Haham of the Sephardic community in The Hague and his work after World War II in Amsterdam, Queen Juliana conferred Knighthood in the Order of the Dutch Lion on him. The Haham did his utmost to rebuild what had existed before the great catastrophe, although he only worked part-time.

            In 1968 Haham Rodrigues Pereira recommended that the trustees appoint Rabbi Barend Drukarch as Dayan. Both the holocaust survivors, as well as the new immigrants arriving from North Africa and the Near East, and from Surinam and the Dutch West Indies, found in Rabbi Drukarch everything they wished for and more. In 1980 the trustees appointed him Haham.  

In 1981 Rabbi Simon Haliwa of Tetuan, Morocco arrived to lead the Congregation. He was well liked, but as a result of differences with Haham Drukarch, he moved on to become a rabbi in Nice, France. At that time Haham Drukarch, assisted by Chaplain Samuel Behar, led the congregation. The congregation opened a second synagogue in Amstelveen. In 2012 Rabbi Dr. Marc D. Angel, Minister Emeritus of Congregation Shearith Israel in New York installed Dayan Dr. Pinehas Toledano as the Haham in Amsterdam.

In conclusion, the extraordinary legacy of the Western Sephardim included its great hidalguismo, its reverence for its past and the dignity of its culture. It traces its origins to the Iberian Peninsula, Italy, North Africa, and the Ottoman Empire. Characteristically, its long-standing tradition of tolerance was directly reflected in the policies of the Chief Rabbinate throughout its early history, and into modern times.

 

This is the list of Senior Ministers appointed by the Mahamad to Haham of Congregation Talmud Torah, the Portuguese-Israelite Community of Amsterdam in the Netherlands, as traditionally recited annually, preceding ‘Arbit, on the Eve of Kippur:

 

Haham Joseph Pardo (16021619)*

Haham David Pardo (16191657)

Haham Saul Levi Mortera (16161660)

Haham Abraham Cohen de Hereira (16021635)

Haham Isaac Uziel (16101622)

Haham Menasseh Ben Israel (16221657)

Haham Isaac Aboab de Fonseca (16601693)

Haham Jacob Sasportas (16751698)

Haham Salomon Jessurun d’Oliveira (16751700)

Haham Salomon de Ja’acob Aylion (17001728)

Haham David Israel Athias (17281753)

Haham Isaac Abendana de Britto (17281760)

Haham Salomon Shalem (17621781)

Haham David A’Cohen d’Azevedo (17811792)

Haham Daniel A’Cohen d’Azevedo (17921822)

Dayan David Lopes Cardozo (18521890) [not on list]

Dayan El’azar Aaron Vaz Dias (18521885) [not on list]

Haham Isaac Palache (18851927)

Haham Salomon Rodrigues Pereira (19451969)

Haham Barend Drukarch (19681998)

 

 

*These are the dates the Hahamim were in office.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Koenen, Hendrik Jakob (1843). Geschiedenis der Joden in Nederland (History of the Jews in the Netherlands), p. 387.

Does Halakha Evolve? Thoughts on Speciation and Sectarianism

The practice of halakha changes. Every shift in materials, technology, economic structure, and political framework necessarily creates new practical halakha. Can plastics be kashered? Is the completion of an electrical circuit forbidden on Shabbat? May Jews own stock in a corporation that serves hametz in its cafeteria over Pesah? How should we relate to a secular but Jewish State? What are our responsibilities in a secular multi-faith democracy? No matter what answer one chooses, any unprecedented situation creates unprecedented practical halakha.  

The fact of practical change, however, can be explained in many different ways. One can argue for the existence of an unchanging, abstract halakha, and understand practical change as the assignment of new cases to existing categories: Are plastics ceramics or glass? Conversely, one can argue that halakha has no necessary trans-temporal identity, and is merely whatever the Jewish people decide it is at any given moment. Plastics may be ceramics today and glass tomorrow, and a category unto themselves the day after, and the day after that the question may seem wholly irrelevant to religious life.

Modern Orthodoxy is driven in part by a valorization and hyperawareness of change, by identification with “There cannot be a House of Study without creative contribution” (BT Hagigah 2b), far more than with “The new is forbidden by the Torah” (Mishnah Orlah 3:9 as creatively repurposed by Hatam Sofer). We therefore must grapple seriously with the profound theological and practical challenges posed by the acknowledgement of change, including the following:

 

  1. The legitimacy of our worldview and the authority of our halakhic interpretations are grounded in the claim that they represent a current embodiment of a living tradition extending back to Sinai. Change raises the question of identity: If we are not thinking and practicing the same way as our ancestors, what justifies our claim to be their Torah heirs? The power of this question is roughly proportional to the radicalness of the halakhic and hashkafic changes we acknowledge.

 

  1. In the absence of a recognized central authority, change in our community inevitably happens piecemeal and haphazardly. What maintains us as a community when our thoughts and practices vary widely? To what extent should change be limited by the desire or necessity to have all members of our community be able to eat together, pray together, recognize each other as Jewish, and so forth?

 

  1. Change raises the question of standards. If conformity to the past is not necessary, how do we distinguish legitimate from illegitimate changes? Might this be an issue of quantity as well as quality? Is this a decision we make with complete autonomy, or are we to some extent constrained by the opinions of other Torah communities that we acknowledge as legitimate even while we disagree with them profoundly? Must we sharply distinguish ourselves from Conservative Judaism’s theories of change, or can we say that we disagree only with its application of those theories, or even that change is not necessarily a point of denominational disagreement?

 

  1. Change increases responsibility. Rabbis who proclaim the immutability of halakha can, when confronted by moral challenges to halakha as it stands, proclaim their deepest sympathies and yet contend that they cannot change anything. Acknowledging change means that the status quo has much more limited deference, and that critiques, even those rooted in externally derived values, have more force. This has been brought home to me many times at events related to agunot.

 

Modern Orthodoxy urgently needs a persuasive theory and compelling rhetoric of halakhic change to deal effectively with these issues. We have a great deal of philosophic work to do before we get there. My goal in this article is to advance the conversation by addressing some implications, strengths, and weaknesses of a rhetorical device that is often understood as representing a theory: the assertion that “halakha evolves.”

Why is saying “halakha evolves” different than saying “halakha changes”? Theories are often embodied in metaphors, and metaphors for liberal arts subjects are often drawn from science (which itself relies more on metaphors than is commonly acknowledged). For at least the past 150 years, the most popular scientific metaphor for change has been Darwin’s Theory of Evolution. Saying that “halakha evolves” implicitly makes the claim that the process of halakhic change shares vital characteristics with the process of biological change that Darwin described and sought to explain.

But this metaphor needs to be interrogated to see what it means, and whether it is true and useful either intellectually or rhetorically.

A fundamental challenge to the intellectual usefulness of the evolutionary metaphor is that scientific theories are descriptive and predictive, whereas a theory of halakha will in addition be prescriptive. Any claim about how halakha has developed in the past carries with it the implicit argument that similar development should be expected and approved in the future. This confusion between facts and values, between “will be” and “ought,” is familiar from Social Darwinism, and theorists of halakha should not fall prey to it.

A fundamental challenge to the rhetorical usefulness of the evolutionary metaphor is that it (deliberately) alienates those who reject evolutionary science from our halakhic community. “Halakha evolves” has the effect of connecting the acceptance of halakhic change with willingness to engage contemporary science. This is good for morale, and builds support within our community, which has little outward tolerance for obscurantism. But I suspect that it also creates a bias against our position among people who have ranged themselves against macro-evolutionary biology, and makes them less willing to consider our position legitimate. 

Why should this matter? Darwin famously sought to account for the origin of species. Speciation classically occurs when two populations with a common ancestry diverge to the point that they can no longer interbreed. There are two potential halakhic analogues to this process:

  1. when scholars from two halakhic camps no longer allow each other’s ideas to fertilize their Torah conversations
  2. when the halakhic positions of two halakhic communities lead them to forbid intermarriage with each other.

Each of these, I submit, should be avoided—the halakhic locus for my contention is the prohibition of lo titgodedu, “Do not form factions.” So we might be better off keeping these two issues separated.  

It must be noted that the interbreeding standard for speciation can be challenged in a variety of ways. Claddists focus on the extent of genetic difference rather than on the compatibility of genitalia, and many intuitively distinct species, such as lions and tigers, turn out to be biologically compatible and reproductively separated only by practicality, such as incompatibility of habitat or waking hours. It is not clear to me which concept of speciation is the best analogy to the halakhic factionalization that the Torah opposes.

Now scientific theories themselves change (evolve?) over time, and this has been particularly true of the Theory of Evolution. For example: Is evolution gradual, as Darwin himself thought, or characterized by “punctuated equilibrium,” that is, by long periods of stability interrupted by brief periods of dramatic change, as Stephen Jay Gould proposes? Clearly, “halakha evolves” will have very different implications depending on which version of the theory one adopts as metaphor.

My sense is that most users of the phrase intend it gradualistically, as a way to respond to concerns that proposed changes might snowball. But that approach did poorly explaining the fossil record, and it might do as poorly explaining the history of halakha. Perhaps we are living in the midst of a halakhic equivalent of the Cambrian explosion. It is not obvious to me that we should only legitimate incremental change, or that all the changes currently being considered within Modern Orthodoxy are incremental.

Darwin’s theory became much more attractive once it was paired with Natural Selection, or “survival of the fittest,” as its causal mechanism. Natural selection is often taken to suggest that change over time inevitably works out for the best, as only those mutations that increase “fitness” survive. So too, we might think, halakhic change is always for the good over time, as the negative changes will die out and the positive changes will reproduce, and overall the halakha that emerges will be fitter.

But this is a misunderstanding of both science and halakha. Survival of the fittest is a tautology: It cannot independently predict anything, as we cannot know in advance what is fittest. Moreover, short-term fitness often leads to medium-term extinction. Halakhic Judaism is not parallel to the entire arena of life, nor even to the animal kingdom; it is at most a species, and thus every mutation puts it at risk of extinction. Biological evolution is horribly inefficient, and can afford to be, but halakha does not have the same luxury.

The second great modification of Darwin came with the discovery of genetics. This field itself has been in almost constant flux, but here are two ongoing developments that I think are significant for the halakhic analogy. First, the connection between genotype and phenotype grows ever more complex—the same gene or set of genes can find radically different expression depending on environment and a whole set of iterative genetic “switches.” Second, mutations more and more seem predictable, in the sense that we know which proteins in which places on the DNA strands are most likely to be replaced, and by which other protein. This means that wholly new “mutations of first impression” are extremely unlikely.

Put together, these developments suggest that even radical changes are rarely unprecedented, and that significant biological changes are rarely the result of a single mutation. If halakhic change is analogous to biological change, then “halakha evolves” is not a good description of what happens when a particular halakhic responsum drives a social change. On the other hand, the recognition that an organism with a fundamentally stable genotype can, under the right circumstances, produce radically different phenotypes might provide a very useful analogy to halakhic change: “Even that which a veteran student will rule in the future in the presence of his teacher was already said to Moses at Sinai” (Yerushalmi Peah 2:4).

Genetic change occurs in two ways: recombination through sexual reproduction and mutation. The intellectual analogue of sexual reproduction is serious, open-minded conversation. A culture in which students can have only one teacher, or learn in only one school, will produce the equivalent of inbreeding. At the same time, a specific genetic combination, especially if many of the genes involved are recessive, will often survive only if it is given the opportunity to reproduce for some time in an isolated breeding group. To what extent is Modern Orthodoxy an established subspecies whose health will be enhanced by mingling its genes with a larger population, and to what extent does it yet need to be sheltered?

Mutations happen all the time, but particularly harmful mutations are often the result of extreme environmental pressure, such as radiation. Some mutations are helpful when carried but harmful when expressed, or helpful in some environments but damaging in others. If the analogy is valid, we should be careful to distinguish halakhic changes that arise from unending regular engagement with Talmud Torah, and those that reflect engagement with external thoughts and realities, and perhaps be more suspicious of the latter. Or perhaps we should see takkanot as radical mutations, and interpretations as new expressions of the existing genome. Perhaps viral insertion and symbiosis leading to incorporation have halakhic analogues as well.

Regardless, a fundamental failing of the analogy may be that halakhic change is not, cannot be, and ought not be blind. I might argue that Modern Orthodox halakha should be seen instead as the product of an expertly supervised breeding program.

In sum: The evolutionary analogy can be intellectually stimulating, but it does not serve as shorthand for a compelling account of halakhic change. We must also acknowledge that where the analogy seems apt, its implications may challenge rather than support the legitimacy of particular Modern Orthodox innovations.

A variety of other analogies may yield more consistently authentic and useful results. Within the realm of science, for example, the Copenhagen model of quantum mechanics, in which only probabilities exist before the act of measurement “collapses the wave-function,” seems to me a useful and true way of describing the relationship of halakha decision-making, or pesak, to abstract study of halakha. The idea that the self is constructed via narrative, that we are the same people we were as infants because we can tell coherent stories using the word “I” throughout, may be very helpful in determining the parameters of change. But these and others have yet to be effectively exploited and synthesized.

Out of a vast array of intellectual resources, a Modern Orthodox conception of halakhic change awaits formulation.

“Dependent on the Gentiles”: New York State, the Orthodox Rabbinate and the Agunah Problem 1953–1993

 

“And afterwards, the Rabbanan Sabborai saw that Jewish women were becoming dependent upon the Gentiles to get divorces from their husbands by force … from which ruin emanates.”

 

—Responsum of Rav Sherira Gaon,

  Head of Academy at Pumpedita, Tenth Century[1]

 

Introduction[2]

 

            The problem of the agunah,[3] the Jewish woman whose husband will not or cannot give her a get, a religious writ of divorcement, thus forcing her to remain chained to a dead marriage, engendered enormous debate in the Orthodox Jewish community in America in the late twentieth century. The debate touched on many difficult emotional and philosophical issues for American Orthodox Jews. In an increasingly secular and rights-oriented America, the agunah issue served as a reminder that traditional Jewish thought was at ever-increasing odds with modern society. Especially as the women’s liberation movement took the national stage in the 1960s and 1970s, Orthodox women became sensitized to, and sometimes resentful of, how different their lives were under American law and Jewish law. At the same time, Orthodox rabbinic leaders saw themselves as increasingly on the defensive, fighting against feminism and other modern ideologies that, in their perception, threatened the stability of Jewish tradition. Lastly, Orthodox rabbis had to negotiate what they believed the proper relationship of the secular state apparatus should be to the internal Jewish communal problem of the agunah. All of these questions cut to the heart of how late- twentieth-century American Orthodox rabbis saw the relationship between Orthodoxy and modern America. 

The desire to differentiate themselves from the Conservative movement, and an ever-increasing fear of halakhic activism led Orthodox rabbinic leadership in America to foreswear any systemic halakhic solutions to the agunah problem by the late 1960s. However, as the Modern Orthodox community began to engage in debate about feminism and questions of equity in Jewish divorce law in the early 1970s, the Modern Orthodox rabbinate was forced to respond with some sort of a solution to the agunah problem. Seeing that Jewish women had already learned that the civil courts would assist them in obtaining their gittin, Jewish divorces, the rabbis understood that they could either let individual women access the civil courts on their own in a manner that might prove halakhically problematic, or they could channel the way Orthodox women used the civil courts to receive a get. By the mid-1990s, the Rabbinical Council of America (RCA), the rabbinic body of the modern/centrist Union of Orthodox Congregations of America, had supported the passage of two pieces of legislation in the State of New York and had adopted the use of a civil prenuptial agreement to be signed by couples to prevent situations of aginut, or “chained-ness.”

On the other hand, the right-wing sector of the American Orthodox rabbinate, those who maintained membership in the Agudath haRabonim or Agudath Israel organizations, never permitted a conversation about feminism to occur within their ranks. When right-wing Orthodox rabbis and community leaders discussed feminism in the twentieth century, they did so only in order to quash it as anti-Torah and destructive to Jewish tradition. Without public pressure from women within their ranks, the right-wing rabbinate did not feel the same urgency to come up with a workable solution to the agunah problem. Furthermore, right-wing Orthodox rabbis found the prospect of turning over the agunah problem to the civil courts to be potentially dangerous. Sympathy to the cause of women’s rights in state courts, they quickly realized, could undermine the power of Batei Din, Jewish courts, to decide issues of divorce law according to strict interpretations of halakha. The right-wing Orthodox rabbinate viewed the civil courts as a place for one thing only—receiving one’s civil divorce.

In one critical way, however, the Modern and right-wing Orthodox rabbinates remained unified throughout the twentieth century, and that was in their ultimate refusal to adopt a systemic halakhic solution to the agunah problem. The solutions adopted by both wings of Orthodoxy were imperfect and left many Orthodox women at the mercy of blackmailing husbands and corrupt Batei Din. Most of all, they were utterly reliant on the enforcement powers of the civil courts. In the end, feminist ferment went only so far in swaying the opinions and actions of the Orthodox rabbinate.[4]

 

Background: The Agunah Problem in the Modern Era

 

Although there is evidence of the existence of agunot in Jewish communities since the times of the Talmud, the combination of the decline of rabbinic authority and the rise in the incidence of divorce in modern European states, together with the massive Jewish migrations of the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, exacerbated the problem significantly. In pre-modern Europe, Batei Din were vested with the power of the state to arbitrate litigation of a civil or religious nature for the Jewish communities. However, as Jews were emancipated in many Western European countries during the late-eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, civil governments divested the Batei Din of their power, and expected that Jews would use state courts to settle their disputes. This led to a disintegration of Jewish communal authority that meant that a husband did not have to listen to a Bet Din that ordered him to give his wife a get. He could simply leave the religious community, move to a different jurisdiction, or even emigrate, leaving Europe for America or other countries. Such a man could even marry another woman in a new location without suffering the condemnation of rabbinic authority whence he came. This constellation of factors was toxic: When divorces were few and far between, and the Bet Din had coercive power in the Jewish community, the agunah problem was kept in check, but the greater number of divorces coupled with the ever-lessening power of the Bet Din created fertile ground for the growing of the modern agunah problem.[5]

            By the post-World War II era, due to a decline in international migration and increased affluence, occurrences of American Jewish husbands deserting their wives were becoming less prevalent. The agunah problem did not disappear, though. Instead, the majority of agunah cases became those in which a husband simply refused to grant his wife a get out of spite, or used get withholding as a tool to coerce his wife to give up claims to marital property or even custody of children.[6] Batei Din had few halakhic tools to prevent such agunah cases, and in many instances, in order to ensure that a woman would receive her get, rabbis encouraged women to submit to their husband’s financial and other demands. 

 

Turning to the Secular State

 

In 1953, in light of the new form of agunah that had emerged, the Conservative movement presented a new solution to the agunah issue. This solution became known as the “Lieberman Clause,” named after its drafter, Rabbi Saul Lieberman, the world-renowned halakhic authority and Talmud professor at the Jewish Theological Seminary of America. This Aramaic clause, which was to be inserted into Conservative ketubot, was intended to reinvest the Bet Din with the power to order a husband to give his wife a get by using the secular courts to enforce compliance. It provided that upon civil divorce, either husband or wife could bring the other before the Conservative movement’s Bet Din for effectuation of a Jewish divorce. If either spouse either refused to appear before the Bet Din or refused to comply with the Bet Din’s order, the other spouse could seek redress in civil court. This was the first time that a body of American Jewish rabbis had created a policy that employed the secular state apparatus to assist in solving the agunah problem.[7]

            Due to the stature of Saul Lieberman, it initially appeared that the Lieberman Clause might gain traction beyond the Conservative movement. In the mid-1950s Lieberman met secretly with Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, the Rosh Yeshiva of the Rabbi Isaac Elhanan Theological Seminary at Yeshiva University (RIETS) to discuss creating a national Bet Din, recognized by both the Conservative and Orthodox movements as having exclusive authority with respect to issues of Jewish family law. According to the plan, Lieberman and Soloveitchik would jointly appoint the members of the Bet Din, all of whom would be Orthodox. Lieberman and Soloveitchik also agreed that the Lieberman clause would be revised to meet with Soloveitchik’s approval and included in Orthodox ketubot as well as Conservative ones. In the end, the plan never took effect because it was voted down by the RCA. Even the imprimatur of Soloveitchik was not sufficient to take away the sting of Lieberman’s participation.[8]

            Even in the Conservative movement, though, the Lieberman clause did not have the power to solve the agunah problem. Most importantly, it could only resolve agunah situations in which the couple had the clause physically present in their ketubah. Additionally, rather than presenting a systemic halakhic solution to the problem, the Lieberman clause was merely an arbitration clause that stated that the couple agreed to abide by the decisions of the Conservative Bet Din, and could enforce any Bet Din decision in civil court. The clause did not empower the Bet Din with any powers it did not previously have, neither did it present any halakhic innovation. Lastly, it was unclear whether the clause, as part of a religious document, was actually enforceable in a civil court.

            Despite the fact that the Lieberman Clause was more of a glorified arbitration clause than a halakhic innovation, both the Modern and right-wing Orthodox rabbinate united in strong and unyielding opposition to it. The RCA and the Rabbinical Alliance of America Bet Din issued a joint statement forbidding their members from officiating at any ceremony using the revised ketubah, and declaring that they would not recognize as valid any acts or decisions of the Conservative Bet Din. The statement warned that remarrying based on any such divorce could endanger the religious status of offspring of the new union.[9] The right-wing Agudath haRabanim also issued a scathing statement against the Lieberman clause, labeling Conservative rabbis “porshim miDarkei haTzibbur” (seceders from the correct ways of religious Jewry) and ordering that they not “be entrusted with any rabbinic functions.”[10]

But the Orthodox response extended beyond a halakhic critique. Herbert Berman, lawyer for the “Orthodox groups” opposing the Lieberman clause said that in addition to the halakhic problems, the clause created “serious legal problems” by potentially breaching the First Amendment by putting a secular court in the position of having to enforce the decision of a religious body, i.e., the Bet Din.[11] In a similar vein, Yeshiva University published a short pamphlet in 1955 entitled “New Provisions in the Ketubah: A Legal Opinion” in which legal scholar A. Leo Levin and Rabbi Mayer Kramer outlined ostensive legal problems with the Lieberman clause. In the introduction, Rabbi Morris Finer, Director of the Community Service Division of Yeshiva University laid bare the real reason behind the publication, declaring, “It is devoutly to be hoped that a viable solution might be developed, one that would be acceptable to the Orthodox rabbinate which alone possesses the collective scholarship and the religious authority to deal with the matter.”[12] While the legal questions raised by Orthodox leaders were valid—the Lieberman Clause had not yet been tested in any civil court, and would not be tested until the late 1980s—the way Orthodox leaders raised them showed that they meant to discredit the clause, not to engage in serious legal debate about a potential solution to aginut.

Meanwhile, individual Orthodox women began to realize that they could turn to another forum to seek receipt of a get—the civil courts. In 1954, a Queens, New York, trial court issued a significant decision in a divorce case called Koeppel v. Koeppel. Maureen and William Koeppel had entered into a post-nuptial contract that specified that each of them would appear before a Bet Din to execute a get. Maureen Koeppel filed suit against William Koeppel for refusing to abide by this contract. The court did not view the contract as constitutionally problematic, noting that “[c]omplying with his agreement would not compel the defendant to practice any religion. … Specific performance herein would merely require the defendant to do what he voluntarily agreed to do.”[13] Although the trial court ultimately dismissed Maureen Koeppel’s complaint for specific performance of the contract because she had already remarried at a ceremony officiated at by a Reform rabbi, it had, at least in theory, upheld an agreement to give a get. [14]

            The Koeppel case was significant on two levels. First, it showed that the secular courts would, in theory, uphold a contract to ensure the effectuation of a get.  However, there was a darker side to the Koeppel decision for the Orthodox rabbinate. The secular court did not understand, neither did it care, that according to Orthodox Jewish law, the Koeppels (especially Maureen) still needed a get to remarry. The fact that Maureen Koeppel managed to find a rabbi to remarry her did not change that reality. Indeed, any children born to Maureen Koeppel and her new husband would be mamzerim, and would not be allowed to marry anyone but other mamzerim under Orthodox and Conservative Jewish law. Therefore, if the secular court system was to be an acceptable agent for the Orthodox rabbinate in ameliorating the agunah crisis, it would have to be under very strict supervision of Orthodox rabbis.

            The combination of the Conservative movement’s adoption of the Lieberman Clause and the Koeppel decision evidenced a new trend of turning to the secular courts for assistance in solving the agunah problem. The secular court solution might have initially seemed unseemly to Orthodox leaders because the Conservative movement was the first to raise it, and because it certainly posed significant halakhic challenges. However, Orthodox rabbis began to realize that if they could shape how the secular courts assisted agunot, use of the secular legal system could prove extremely productive. Indeed, the first record of an American Orthodox rabbi suggesting the use of the secular courts as an avenue to help agunot occurred in the same year as the Koeppel court decision and the adoption of the Lieberman clause. None other than Rabbi Soloveitchik wondered:

[W]ould it not be possible through the legislatures of certain states to have legislation passed whereby there will be an understanding that a civil divorce would not become final until a satisfactory disposition, in keeping with halakhic standards, was made concerning the get?[15]

 

Secular legislation that comported with halakha would be the best of all worlds: Orthodox rabbis could solve the agunah problem without having to take a halakhic stand, and at the same time, could ensure that the state did not create more halakhic problems than it solved.

            Before the Orthodox rabbinate could proceed along this path, however, it was faced with responding to a proposed systemic halakhic solution.[16] In a book published in 1966 called T’nai Be-Nisuin U’ve-Get (Conditional Clause in the Marriage and Divorce Agreements), Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits, a Modern-Centrist Orthodox rabbi and scholar, presented a number of different possible halakhic solutions to the agunah problem, all of which were based in some way on making the nisuin, or the Jewish marriage, conditional. One solution Berkovits proposed was that the validity of a marriage would be made contingent on an agreement that the marriage would be invalidated if two years after its civil dissolution, the husband refused to give his wife a get. Another, based on the talmudic principle that “whoever marries does so with the agreement of the rabbis,” provided that the Bet Din could have the power to annul marriages under certain particular circumstances to be determined by halakhic authorities.[17]

            Initially, Berkovits’ proposals seemed to meet with lukewarm support from Orthodox rabbis. The revered European halakhist Rabbi Yehiel Yakov Weinberg responded to the book with cautious approval.[18] He wrote an extensive approbation in which he emphasized the importance of addressing the agunah problem, particularly at that time when more and more husbands were refusing to grant their wives gittin, and more and more women were simply remarrying in civil ceremonies.[19] In a similar vein, Rabbi Immanuel Jakobovits, the newly appointed Chief Rabbi of the British Commonwealth, in a review of Berkovits’ book in 1966, noted that although the book would “no doubt meet with much determined opposition,” he hoped it would “be a powerful impetus to an intensified search for procedures” to solve the agunah problem.”[20]

However, Berkovits’ proposals soon met their demise. In 1968, the Conservative movement, discouraged by the failure of the Lieberman Clause to solve the agunah problem, adopted a combination of two of Berkovits’ proposals as law.[21] The Conservative Rabbinical Assembly’s Committee on Jewish Law and Standards unanimously voted to adopt the insertion of a clause into the ketubah that made marriage conditional upon the husband granting a get without six months of a civil divorce. If the husband did not grant the get, then the bet din had the power to annul the marriage. This clause put an end to the agunah problem in the Conservative movement once and for all. Following the Conservative movement’s decision, Orthodox thinkers began to speak more critically regarding Berkovits’s proposals. In 1969, Menachem Kasher an Orthodox rabbi and editor of Noam, an annual journal on Orthodox Jewish thought, published an article forcefully attacking Berkovits’s book. The article included a letter from Rabbi Weinberg stating that he regretted ever having written his approbation in support of Berkovits’ book to begin with. The letter stated:

 

At the time that I wrote my letter, I was unaware of the discussion that had occurred in America…. Furthermore, I am surprised that the author [Berkovits], who certainly knew of the entire correspondence in this matter, dragged me into this controversy. Because of my poor health, I am not capable now of dealing with a matter of such serious implications and I regret ever having written the letter to him.[22]

 

 

As Marc Shapiro relates in a lengthy footnote in his book on Rabbi Weinberg, there is strong evidence, although no proof, that Kasher forged the letter. Until the end of his life, Berkovits claimed that the letter was a forgery, and Kasher never produced the original.[23] Whether or not the letter published by Kasher was forged, the damage to Berkovits’s work was done. Future writings by Orthodox rabbis regarding the agunah issue either categorically rejected Berkovits’s proposals or ignored them entirely.[24]         

            Thus, in the early 1970s, the agunah problem in America remained as unsolved as ever in Orthodox Judaism. Orthodox rabbis bemoaned the plight of the agunah, and some worked to solve individual cases for individual women, but no one offered any systemic solutions.[25] Luckily for the Orthodox rabbinate, divorce was still relatively rare among Orthodox Jews, and communal knowledge about the agunah issue was spotty at best. However, another element was about to be introduced into the agunah debate—the advent of Orthodox feminism. Whereas previously, it was non-Orthodox Jews who complained about the inequality of Jewish divorce law, the 1970s saw the emergence of a critique by individuals who remained squarely within the Centrist Orthodox camp.

This phenomenon caused a two-pronged response. On the one hand, a feminist critique from within could not be shut down by simply claiming that the speakers were outside the pale of Orthodoxy. The agitators were the wives, mothers, and daughters of Orthodox rabbis, leaders, donors, and synagogue members. They could not be dismissed that easily. On the other hand, if not properly answered, feminism could cause significant damage to Orthodoxy by weakening the faith and commitment of those who had become sensitized to issues regarding equality of women. Over the next two decades, Centrist Orthodox rabbis learned to tread carefully around the feminist issue, both invalidating feminist arguments and incorporating more pro-woman language into Orthodox discourse at the same time.

Although the women’s liberation movement began in America in the early 1960s, feminist ideas took some time to percolate into the socially conservative and traditional Orthodox community. By 1972, however, discussions of women’s rights within Orthodox Judaism had become prevalent enough to be covered by the New York Times. One young Orthodox woman, Deborah Weissman, stated, “Most of us have had these feelings of being left out but we never conceptualized them. The women’s movement has galvanized us.” Defining Weissman’s statements as evidence of a new trend, the article went on to quote Dr. Irving Greenberg, a left-leaning Centrist Orthodox rabbi in Riverdale, New York, who noted:

 

At one time most people who felt strongly about such things checked out of the religion. Now we have people who are not leaving but are committed to the Orthodox experience and are challenging from within… they are ahead of their time, but I think they are the spearhead.”[26]

 

 

Although feminist ferment had already reached the Reform and Conservative movements of Judaism, the critique noticed by Greenberg was new both because it came from within Orthodoxy and because those engaged in it refused to leave. Rather than seeking greener pastures in a more liberal branch of American Judaism or by leaving Judaism altogether, these women wanted to see change within Orthodoxy.[27]

            It was not long before a modern Orthodox thinker explicitly labeled the agunah problem as a feminist issue. In a seminal 1973 essay, the left-leaning Rabbi Saul Berman, Chair of the Judaic Studies Department at Stern College for Women of Yeshiva University, engaged in a critical exploration of women’s issues in Orthodox Judaism. Linking the agunah issue to the feminist critique of Orthodoxy, Berman declared, “From her complete silence at the traditional wedding ceremony, to the problem of the Agunah, the law seems to make women not only passive, but impotent to remedy the marital tragedies in which they may be involved….” He suggested a turn to the civil courts to “solve our problem for us” with the use of an ante-nuptial agreement that would require the parties to, at the dissolution of a marriage, “consent to and execute the issuance and acceptance of the Jewish divorce.”[28]

In the same year that Berman’s article appeared in Tradition, three different divorce cases addressing issues with respect to agunot were reported by New York courts.[29] Orthodox Jews were not immune to the increase in divorce rates in 1970s America, and as more Orthodox divorces made their way through the civil court system, the courts had more and more opportunities to weigh in on the agunah issue.[30] The decisions in these three cases would have a significant impact on the way the Modern/Centrist Orthodox community viewed the agunah problem. More than ever before, Modern/Centrist Orthodox rabbis would advocate a turn to the civil justice system to solve the problem for them, and more than ever before, they would realize how important it was for their hands to be guiding that system’s efforts.

The first of the three cases, Margulies v. Margulies, involved a stipulation signed by the couple after their divorce that provided that the husband would grant his wife a get. The husband failed to comply with this stipulation, and was held in contempt of court, for which he was fined, and ultimately sentenced to jail for fifteen days. Although the Appellate Division overturned the incarceration order, it replaced it with a $450 fine, stating “…[W]e can only conclude that the defendant never intended to carry out the terms of the open court stipulation and that he utilized the court for his own ulterior motives. Such behavior may not be countenanced.”[31] Later that same year, in a case called Rubin v. Rubin, a Bronx, New York, court cited Koeppel in upholding a couple’s post-nuptial agreement to give a get, stating explicitly that the New York courts “have recognized the validity of an agreement to obtain a Get.”

In Pal v. Pal, the last agunah case reported in 1973, the trial court upheld a post-nuptial agreement that not only specified that the parties had to effectuate a get, but also detailed how the rabbis on the Bet Din should be selected.[32] On appeal, the Appellate Division reversed, holding that the trial court “had no authority to, in effect, convene a rabbinical tribunal.” Because the trial court has interfered in the actual get giving process, a religious procedure, it had strayed into forbidden territory. However, it went on to say that the husband, by failing to grant his ex-wife a get in keeping with the divorce judgment, did not come into court with “clean hands.” Thus, while the court refused to uphold the trial court’s interference in the actual convening of a Bet Din, it also was unwilling to let Mr. Pal get away with refusing to grant his former wife a get as had been ordered.[33]

All three of these court cases showed that, at least in theory, New York courts were willing to enforce agreements to render a get. Orthodox rabbis concerned with the agunah problem took note, and began to ponder how the civil courts could best assist them in encouraging recalcitrant husbands to grant their wives gittin. One of the first ideas explored by Orthodox rabbis was the implementation of ante-nuptial agreements, as Saul Berman had suggested in his 1973 article on women’s rights. Ante-nuptial agreements in contemplation of divorce had, up until this point, been considered void by most states because they were deemed contrary to public policy for giving incentive to divorce. However, the law with respect to such agreements was changing in the early 1970s due to the increased social acceptability of divorce and the corresponding surge in divorce cases. The Modern/Centrist Orthodox community had taken notice of the new legal acceptability of such agreements, and rabbis published a number of articles in the early 1970s exploring the halakhic and legal ramifications of using some type of prenuptial agreement to prevent situations of aginut.[34] As divorce rates continued to rise, and rabbis from liberal branches of Judaism increasingly performed weddings for couples no matter the status of their previous marriages, Orthodox rabbis feared that if they did not figure out a way to solve the agunah problem, they would be faced with scores of mamzerim in the coming generations.[35] Furthermore, rabbis perceived the feminist critique of Orthodox divorce law as a threat to the stability of the Orthodox community. At the same time, however, Orthodox rabbis did not want to be seen as caving in to pressure from the feminist community, and they feared systemic halakhic solutions that empowered the Bet Din to grant a get when a husband was unable or unwilling to do so. Thus, any solution to the agunah problem would have to tow a fine line between solving the problem and not appearing too radical or transformative of normative Orthodox practice.[36]

Thus, while pressure by feminists and agunah activists on Orthodox rabbis to free agunot continued to increase during the 1970s and 1980s, the pressure did not lead to their desired results. Although the Orthodox rabbinate increasingly discussed more global solutions to the agunah problem in addition to its traditional focus on getting individual recalcitrant husbands to grant gittin, the solutions they came up with not only lacked effectiveness, but also outsourced the problem to the secular courts. At the same time, centrist rabbinic leaders maintained a constant barrage of criticism toward feminists and agunah activists for undermining God’s will and millennia of Jewish life and law.  

One of the first rabbinic responses to the link between feminism and the agunah problem was penned by Moshe Meiselman, then-Rosh Yeshiva at the Yeshivath Brisk in Chicago. Discounting Saul Berman’s feminist critique of Orthodox theology, Meiselman sneered, “What are the forces of the male dominated society of which Rabbi Berman speaks? They are none other than the Almighty Himself and the divinely inspired Psalmist, David, King of Israel.” Protesting that Orthodox Judaism was already sufficiently concerned with the lot of women, Meiselman declared, “It goes without saying that we must be concerned with the religious quest and observance of women. It also goes without saying, something that Rabbi Berman implicitly seems to deny, that this has always been true of religious leaders throughout the millennia.”[37] With respect to the agunah issue, Meiselman dismissed Berman’s potential solution of an ante-nuptial agreement out of hand. Like the Orthodox critique of the Lieberman clause, Meiselman couched his dismissal of the idea in both halakhic and legal terms. “One does not arrive at solutions as quickly and easily as Rabbi Berman suggests,” he scorned:

 

His form of antenuptial agreement, I have been told, would not be upheld in court. A secular court cannot enforce a contract to perform a religious act. While there are countless varieties of antenuptial agreements that could be drawn up, I seriously tend to doubt that most people would sign them.

 

 

Meiselman’s comments about the legal validity of ante-nuptial agreements were, of course, flawed. By 1975, the New York State courts had made it quite clear that they would, in fact, enforce a properly-worded contract to effectuate the giving of a get. Meiselman’s response to the agunah problem was to discount any proposed solution.[38]

            Meanwhile, the New York State courts continued to uphold agreements to effectuate gittin. In the 1976 case of Waxstein v. Waxstein, the court enforced a provision in the couple’s separation agreement requiring the husband to grant his wife a get, stating unequivocally, “A separation agreement is a contract, and if lawful when made will be enforced by the courts like any other contract….” The Appellate Division unanimously upheld the trial court’s ruling, and the Court of Appeals denied Arthur Waxstein’s motion for leave to appeal. The Waxstein decision left no question that the New York State courts were willing to enforce agreements to give a get.[39] 

At the same time, Orthodox Jews, especially women, were speaking out more and more about issues that troubled them in Orthodox Judaism, particularly the situation of agunot. The year 1977 saw a rash of articles in Jewish publications about women’s issues in traditional Judaism, and particularly about Jewish divorce law. One author, Blu Greenberg, who later became known as the “mother of Orthodox feminism,”[40] criticized the Orthodox rabbinate for inaccurately portraying Jewish law with respect to agunot, declaring, “men can no longer decide that it’s alright for women to suffer indiscriminately.”[41] At the 1977 RCA Annual Convention, the rabbinical organization took the unprecedented step of organizing a public session on issues of women and Orthodox Judaism. The all-male panel of three found themselves facing the difficult questions of rabbis’ wives, angry about the plight of agunot.[42]

More than just talking, Orthodox women were beginning to organize. In 1979, a group of women from the Young Israel of Flatbush in Brooklyn, New York founded an organization called Getting Equitable Treatment, or G.E.T. Gloria Greenman, the founder and first president said, “We were commiserating over a friend’s daughter (who had been unable to obtain a get), and I just said, ‘Let’s stop talking, let’s do something.’” The organization assisted women through the Bet Din process and advocated for the social shunning of recalcitrant husbands, including preventing them from receiving synagogue honors. By 1984 the organization had 400 members, most of whom were Orthodox. Greenman noted that G.E.T. had wrought significant changes in the attitudes of the rabbis. “The rabbis have felt the need more than ever to do something,” she observed.[43] 

            However, at least in writing, much of the Centrist Orthodox leadership claimed to be uninfluenced by feminist ferment. In 1978, Yeshiva University Press published a book as part of its Library of Jewish Law and Ethics that it touted as an “in-depth treatment of Jewish feminism.” The book, entitled Jewish Woman in Jewish Law, was written by Moshe Meiselman, the same rabbi who had critiqued Saul Berman’s piece on Orthodox women’s issues in 1975 and sported an Editor’s Forward written by Norman Lamm, the President of Yeshiva University.[44] Arguing that feminism “is based on a very definite value structure which is at odds with Jewish values on a number of basic points,” Meiselman defended the Orthodox status quo regarding the agunah problem, dismissing all those who had, throughout the past century, attempted to suggest systemic halakhic solutions as being “not sufficiently versed in the Jewish marriage and divorce laws.”[45] 

            After scathing critiques of the Lieberman and Berkovits proposals, Meiselman concluded, “The only remedy that seems to be consistent with Jewish law is the one specifically suggested by the Talmud—the use of the secular judicial system.”[46] However, although he reviewed in detail the New York case law on the subject, Meiselman equivocated even about this possible solution. “At this time,” he wrote, “it is still unclear what direction the courts will take.” “Fortunately,” Meiselman reassured his readers, “cases where husbands refuse to grant divorces when required by Jewish law are few and far between, and a beth-din very often has sufficient power, by using social pressure, to secure compliance with its decision.”[47]

Unwittingly, Meiselman created a template for the late twentieth century American Orthodox party line in his analysis of the agunah problem. He created a pattern of (1) discounting any systemic halakhic solution, (2) minimizing the problem, (3) calling for a solution that used the secular judicial system, and (4) refusing to outline what such a solution might look like. Meiselman’s book did not bring the Orthodox establishment any closer to solving the agunah problem; it simply supported the status-quo. However, in one way Meiselman’s book represented a sea change: By the late 1970s, the Centrist Orthodox rabbinate was addressing the feminist critique of Orthodoxy and the issue of agunot more frequently and in a more in-depth fashion than ever before. While solutions were not forthcoming, the issue was no longer being ignored.[48]

The arguments of Meiselman and others like him did not stop the feminist critique of Orthodoxy. In 1981, Blu Greenberg published a book on Orthodox feminism entitled On Women and Judaism, in which she devoted an extensive chapter to the issue of divorce in Jewish law. After reviewing the history of rabbinic debate over the issue, Greenberg called for a systemic halakhic solution to solve the problem once and for all. To rabbinic leadership who would call her ideas anti-halakhic, Greenberg responded thus:

 

To say [rabbis’] hands are tied, or to say they can resolve an individual problem, but not find a global solution, is to deny their collective responsibility. Worse, it bespeaks a lack of rabbinic will to find a halakhic way. What they are really saying is they are not worthy of the authority vested in them, for well they know that the only person whose hands are tied is the woman whose family must pay blackmail.

 

 

Greenberg went on to warn rabbis of the potential results of their inaction: “Growing numbers of Jews [will] solve their problems elsewhere.”[49] The fact that Tradition published two extensive reviews critiquing Greenberg’s book showed that hers was a voice that the Orthodox rabbinate could not ignore.[50]

            Interestingly, however, when rabbis finally acted to implement some solution to the agunah problem, the action did not come from the centrist camp, but rather from the right-wing Agudath Israel. A number of reasons likely contributed to this development. First, even in the early 1980s the Agudah still had more experience advocating for specifically Orthodox Jewish causes in the public sphere than the RCA or OU.[51] Additionally, while Centrist Orthodox rabbis remained fearful of appearing to cave to feminist pressure, right-wing Orthodox rabbis were sufficiently distanced from feminist ferment. Lastly, Centrist Orthodox rabbis were far more concerned with their standing in the eyes of the right wing than vice-versa, and likely feared the reaction of the right to any solution they might raise to the agunah problem.

In 1981, the same year as Greenberg’s book was published, Rabbi Moshe Sherer, President of Agudath Israel of America, gathered a group of nationally-known Jewish lawyers, Alan Dershowitz, Nathan Lewin, and Aaron Twersky at the Agudah’s offices in New York City. Sherer, who had close connections with Speaker of the New York State Assembly Sheldon Silver, believed he could get some form of legislation passed in this area, and he wanted these lawyers to help him come up with what the legislation should be.[52] The proposed law ultimately drafted by the group required the filing of an affidavit by the plaintiff in any divorce action that stated that “to the best of his or her knowledge, he or she has … taken all steps solely within his or her power to remove all barriers to the defendant's remarriage….; or that the defendant has waived in writing the requirements of this subdivision.”[53] Before sending it to Sheldon Silver, the Agudah sent the draft bill for approval by rabbinic heavyweights including Rabbi Moses Feinstein. All the rabbis consulted gave the bill their stamp of approval, assuring that a get given as a result of this law would not qualify as a halakhically invalid “get meuseh,” a coerced get.

Despite several objections on church-state separation grounds, the Get Bill passed with ease through the New York State Legislature and was signed into law by Governor Mario Cuomo on August 10, 1983.[54] At the ceremonial signing of the bill into law, Sherer triumphantly declared, “This is a happy day for many sad people.” The Centrist Orthodox rabbinate also touted the new law. The Orthodox Union, at its 84th National Convention in 1983, passed a resolution entitled “Divorce,” which read:

 

All member congregations are urged to deny the benefits of membership; and community sanction to men who refuse to grant their wives a get following civil divorces….The Orthodox Union and its constituent synagogues shall work to create legislation in all states comparable to New York’s [Get] Law, which seeks to ensure that all impediments to a successful civil divorce, including the granting of a get, are removed before a divorce is granted.

 

The publicity surrounding the law said nothing about the possibility of halakhic solutions to the problem. Indeed, the Agudah scored a public relations coup, portrayed in the press as an activist and politically savvy organization that used its power to help agunot.[55]

Notwithstanding all the hoopla surrounding passage of the 1983 Get Law, the actual effectiveness of the law was minimal at best. The law was only effective against plaintiffs in civil divorce actions in the State of New York. Thus, in the far more common situation in which the recalcitrant husband was the defendant in the divorce action, he would not be required to file an affidavit before receiving his divorce. And of course, the law could do nothing to help women seeking a get outside New York. In the wake of the passage of the 1983 Get Law, the only solutions offered by the Orthodox rabbinate for the plight of agunot were communal sanctions, and the largely ineffective law itself. [56]

At the same time, Centrist Orthodox rabbis continued to rail against feminists and their arguments on behalf of agunot. Rabbi Emanuel Feldman, the Associate Editor of Tradition published a contemptuous critique of Blu Greenberg’s On Women and Judaism in 1984. He scathingly declared the book to be

 

a recounting of feminist arguments of the most conforming sort, papered over with occasional halakhic rhetoric which barely conceals that which lies underneath: imprecise scholarship, slippery logic, and major conclusions often based on nothing more than personal feelings, emotions and intuitions.[57]

 

 

Feldman concluded that Greenberg’s book was “an object lesson in how not to approach the halakhic system,” one that created “a web of confusion in which halakhah—and ultimately, women themselves—emerge the losers.”[58]

However, another response to feminist ferment also emerged. The OU began to take pains to be seen as concerned with women’s status in Orthodox Judaism. That same year, it passed a resolution entitled “The Orthodox Woman in Contemporary Society” which read:

 

The Orthodox Union supports women in their ongoing quest for greater involvement within the Orthodox community.… Rabbis and congregations are urged to seek to increase the participation of women in Torah study programs.… Member congregations shall take all necessary steps to enable female members to participate more fully in synagogue programs.

 

 

Such a resolution, although toothless, portrayed to the Orthodox rank-and-file that their rabbinate was concerned with women’s issues and helped bolster arguments that the Orthodox rabbinate was not ignoring women’s complaints about Orthodox Judaism.

Meanwhile, in 1983 the highest court in New York State issued the strongest statement of any American civil court yet about the enforceability of an agreement to give a get. The case, Avitzur v. Avitzur, interestingly involved a couple who had been married using the Conservative ketubah that incorporated the Lieberman Clause into its text. Following the couple’s civil divorce in 1978, Boaz Avitzur refused to comply with the Lieberman Clause and grant his ex-wife a get. The case ultimately ended up in the Court of Appeals, the highest court in New York State, which ruled that the Lieberman Clause of the ketubah was enforceable just like any other contract; there was “nothing in law or public policy to prevent judicial recognition and enforcement of the secular terms of such an agreement.”[59] Boaz Avitzur appealed to the Supreme Court of the United States which declined to hear the case, thus allowing the decision of the Court of Appeals to stand.

As the first decision by the highest court of any state to address issues of get acquisition, Avitzur was closely watched by the Orthodox community.[60] It did not take long for Orthodox leadership to analyze the meaning of Avitzur from both a legal and halakhic perspective. Amazingly, such analyses often continued to discount the possibility of using a civil agreement to ameliorate the agunah problem. Rabbi J. David Bleich, now a Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshiva University, reiterated the oft-stated Orthodox rabbinic claim that “there were, and indeed still are—many serious questions regarding the enforceability of [an ante-nuptial] agreement in civil courts.” Such arguments held little water in the wake of Avitzur, a fact Bleich begrudgingly admitted when he wrote that the decision in Avitzur “serves to endow this document with some legal authority.” [61]

In the years following the Avitzur decision, though, due to continued pressure from women within their ranks and incontrovertible evidence of acceptability from civil courts, Centrist Orthodox rabbis became increasingly open to the idea of prenuptial agreements, even if not in the form taken by the Lieberman Clause. Indeed, J. David Bleich himself published an article in Tradition in 1986 arguing in favor of a particular format for a prenuptial agreement which he argued would address both halakhic and American legal issues.[62] A few years later, Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, a well-respected member of the Centrist Orthodox rabbinate’s more liberal wing, published a book entitled Women and Jewish Divorce: The Rebellious Wife, The Agunah and the Right of Women to Initiate Divorce in Jewish Law, a Halakhic Solution. The book argued for a systemic halakhic solution to the agunah problem, but realizing that adoption of any such solution would be nearly impossible, Riskin concluded with a far more practical call for the use of prenuptial agreements that would cause a husband to pay his wife a specific sum on a daily basis until he gave her a get.[63]

As Centrist Orthodoxy warmed to the idea of prenuptial agreements to prevent agunot, right-wing Orthodoxy continued to avoid acknowledging the extent of the agunah problem and remained steadfast in its opposition to any innovation to solve it other than communal sanctions and the 1983 New York Get Law. In a 1988 Jewish Observer article dedicated to discussion of marital problems and divorce in the Orthodox world, Aaron Twerski, one of the attorneys who had worked on the 1983 Get Law, came out staunchly against taking divorce disputes to civil court. While Orthodox agunah activists had often claimed that the Bet Din system favored men over women, Twerski assured his readers that “in fact, batei din that deal with family law problems are staffed with fine, ehrliche rabbanim—men of integrity who do their utmost to deal with the issues honestly, conscientiously, and in a manner consistent with Torah principles.” Not once in the entire article did Twerski mention the word “get” or “agunah,” although he discussed many other issues that could arise in a matrimonial dispute, including counseling, child custody battles, and impact of divorce upon children.[64]

The Agudah also worked to discredit feminists who criticized the rabbis for not solving the agunah problem. In 1990, the Jewish Observer published an article by Rabbi Yissochar Frand that was a scathing critique of feminism in general, and Blu Greenberg specifically. Frand firmly closed the door on the possibility of any halakhic innovation to assist agunot, declaring emphatically, “What was assur (forbidden) yesterday, remains assur today, and what is mutar (permitted) today was always mutar…. Halacha is not an amorphous area wherein changing social needs can be legislated….” Railing against feminism as a “subtle and insidious” threat to Judaism, Frand discounted feminist critiques of the Orthodox rabbinate’s failure to help agunot. He objected that the rabbis cared enormously about agunot, relating a hagiographic story that Rabbi Moshe Feinstein suffered from a stomach ailment that flared up each time he had to deal with an agunah question.  “Yet,” he protested, “these militant feminists claim that the rabbis don’t care!” Like his rabbinic predecessors had done with respect to other civil court solutions, Frand insisted that “according to legal experts in the U.S., this type of [ante-nuptial] agreement is probably not enforceable in most jurisdictions.” Frand’s solution to the agunah problem was social ostracism until the husband gives a get. He admitted that a recalcitrant husband could go to a different community and avoid such punishment, and also that there were cases in which such a “scoundrel could buy… himself a beis din which rules in his favor.” Despite this, Frand concluded his discussion by invalidating any legal or halakhic solution to the agunah problem, saying that Orthodox Jews “must continue to seek social cures for what is essentially a social malaise.”[65]

Such arguments were no longer working for many Orthodox women denied a get, and they and their attorneys increasingly turned to civil courts to obtain relief. The courts responded. In 1992, a New York Appellate Division decision called Golding v. Golding opened a window into the internal workings of some Batei Din during agunah cases. David Golding told his wife that he would not give her a get unless she gave into every demand he made with respect to the divorce settlement. The parties appeared before a Bet Din, and the rabbis presented Mrs. Golding with a document in Hebrew listing all of her husband’s demands and told her to sign it or she would not receive her get. Fearing becoming an agunah, Mrs. Golding signed the document. The court held that the settlement was invalid because it constituted “inequitable conduct” and that there had been “no indication of rabbinical arbitration.” Despite the evident coercion that existed in the Golding case, an Orthodox rabbi quoted by the New York Times in an article about the decision continued to claim that Batei Din took care to make sure that women would not be victimized by any “spitefulness or revenge on the part of husbands.”[66]

Cases like Golding were embarrassing to the Orthodox rabbinate. Not only did they portray Jewish divorce law as inequitable and unfair to women, they also exposed the failings of some Batei Din to act ethically in protecting women’s rights. While the Agudah continued to deny the existence of a problem, the Modern/Centrist Orthodox rabbinate, with its more rights-oriented congregants, was no longer able to do so. Thus, in 1991, as the trial court’s decision in the Golding case was winding its way through the Appellate Division, the RCA issued a resolution acknowledging the abuses taking place, and acknowledging that such abuses were a “chillul Hashem,” an embarrassment to the Jewish community. Among other things, the resolution called for the RCA Halacha Committee to develop a legally and halakhically valid pre- or post-nuptial contract that would help solve the agunah problem, and condemned “in the strongest terms” using the withholding of a get as a form of blackmail. This was the strongest institutional statement yet to come from an Orthodox rabbinic body acknowledging the existence of a serious problem of abuse of the get process.[67]

As the RCA was passing its 1991 resolution, a New York state trial court was hearing another agunah case that would soon become notorious in the Orthodox world. The case, Schwartz v. Schwartz, involved the divorce of a well-known couple in the Orthodox community—Naomi Schwartz’s father was the publisher of the national Centrist Orthodox weekly newspaper, The Jewish Press. Her husband, Yehuda Schwartz refused to give her a get unless she turned over a large number of shares in the Jewish Press. The case was splashed across the pages of the Jewish Press for close to a year, and was even picked up by other mainstream New York periodicals.

More than any previous agunah case, Schwartz v. Schwartz raised awareness in the American Jewish community and in New York State at large, about the agunah problem and the suffering of agunot. Articles about the case related in lurid detail the regularly-occurring instances of husbands blackmailing their wives to turn over property and large sums of money in exchange for a get. One article in the Village Voice detailed the particularly egregious case of a man who was separated from his Holocaust-survivor wife. The man refused to give his wife a get unless she turned over the money she received in war reparations from the Germans. Another article, published in New York Magazine, detailed the story of a woman whose husband was withholding her get. As the article related, the woman ended up receiving the get because her husband “dragged her for a block as she held on to the open door of his car, breaking her leg. She got her get after giving him $15,000 and agreeing not to file assault charges.” The press depicted the Orthodox rabbinate as sexist and patriarchal, and therefore unwilling to find solutions to such abuses.[68]

Ultimately, the court in Schwartz v. Schwartz, pointedly noting “the unequal allocation of power between spouses to terminate a religious marriage—particularly where the partners are of the Jewish faith,” allowed Naomi Schwartz to bring in evidence of Yehuda Schwartz’s coercion and withholding of the get at the future hearing on property division.[69] At that hearing, the court held that, because he withheld the get, Yehuda Schwartz forfeited his claim to a substantial amount of marital property totaling $184,500. In the interim, in October 1993, he finally gave his former wife her get.[70] 

In the wake of the Schwartz ruling, Sheldon Silver, the New York State Assemblyman who had proposed the 1983 Get Law, proposed another bill to assist agunot. This bill essentially codified the holding of the Schwartz court, providing that a judge could consider the existence of a barrier to remarriage as a factor in the distribution of assets in a divorce action in the State of New York. It was passed unanimously by both the Assembly and the Senate in 1992, and was signed into law by Governor Cuomo later that year. As in the case of the 1983 Get Law, Orthodox organizations sent letters to the governor urging him to sign the new get bill into law. However, this time, there was a glaring difference: while three centrist Orthodox organizations—COLPA, the National Council of Young Israel, and the OU—wrote in support of the law, the Agudah did not. Indeed, the Agudah strongly opposed the law, even threatening to fight for its repeal, because its rabbinic leadership felt that it would cause violations of the prohibition against a get meuseh, a coerced get. If a husband faced financial repercussions for withholding a get, the right-wing Orthodox rabbinate argued, this constituted coercion on him. Since a get meuseh was halakhically invalid, the 1992 Get Law could cause the invalidation of numerous gittin, with all the requisite problems such invalidation would create.[71] 

The Agudah’s articulation of its opposition to the law showed its hostility toward feminist activists as well as its ongoing passivity regarding any possible solution to the agunah problem. In a 1993 Jewish Observer article, Chaim Dovid Zwiebel, the Director of Government Affairs and General Counsel for the Agudah, acknowledged the existence of an agunah problem, but quickly added:

 

To be sure, there is ample basis to cast a skeptical eye on the claims that have been advanced by certain “aguna activists” about the alleged magnitude of the problem within the Orthodox Jewish community. There is also good reason to beware the larger agenda of the some of these activists, whose rhetoric often cultivates disrespect for established halachic procedures and rabbinic leaders, and who use the aguna issue to promote some of the most insidious anti-Torah values of contemporary secular feminism.

 

Zweibel went on to argue that “there are situations where a husband may be fully justified in not wanting to give his wife a get, or where a wife is not entirely without blame herself for her husband’s recalcitrance.” Although he closed by reminding readers that “we must not lost sight of the seriousness of the aguna problem and of the urgent moral imperative it places on us,” Zwiebel did not offer any solution to the agunah problem; he simply discredited the 1992 Get Law and those who supported it and renewed the decades-old vague call for rabbis to give “careful study” to proposed solutions.[72]

The 1992 New York Get Law proved far more effective than its 1983 predecessor in addressing individual cases in which a recalcitrant husband refused to give his wife a get, however it, too, was limited in its ability to systemically solve the agunah problem. First, it only affected divorce cases filed in the State of New York. While the vast majority of Orthodox Jews in America lived in New York, there were certainly large Orthodox communities in other states with agunot who could not be helped by the New York Get Laws. Furthermore, the 1992 law would do nothing to assist an agunah who had no significant marital assets at issue. Without the division of the marital estate to hold over a recalcitrant husband’s head, there would be no economic impetus for him to grant his wife a get. The same held true for very wealthy men who had retained assets outside their marriages. Such men would not need the assets from their marriage, and thus would not be pushed to give gittin to their former wives.

While agunah activists celebrated the 1992 Get Law, they also recognized its shortcomings and continued to argue for a systemic halakhic solution to the problem. As the ranks of activists grew through the late 1980s and early 1990s, the Modern/Centrist Orthodox rabbinate found it more and more difficult to ignore or discredit their voices. In addition to G.E.T., another agunah rights group called Agunah, Inc. had been founded in 1987 by a group of Orthodox women agunah activists, including Rivka Haut. Whereas G.E.T. worked behind the scenes to advocate for individual women to receive their gittin, Agunah, Inc. took a more activist path. Women from Agunah, Inc. spoke out frequently about Batei Din that permitted husbands to blackmail their wives in return for a get, and issued repeated calls for systemic halakhic action on the part of the Orthodox rabbinate to solve the agunah crisis. They led protests in the streets of Brooklyn, in front of the homes of recalcitrant husbands, and even at two of Agudath Israel’s Annual Conventions. On a more national level, a 1989 documentary about Jewish feminism in the United States, Canada, and Israel presented Orthodox feminist Alice Shalvi publicly calling Orthodox rabbis to task for not working harder to solve the agunah problem. “If the rabbis really heeded the basic meaning of Judaism,” she declared, “they could not possibly behave in as uncompassionate a manner as they do without relating to the pain and … misery” of agunot.[73]

 Thus, as feminist ferment and publicity about the agunah problem continued to grow and spread, the Centrist Orthodox rabbinate found itself forced to offer a more substantive solution or risk appearing uncompassionate and closed-minded in the face of women’s suffering. In 1993, the Centrist Orthodox Caucus unveiled a new prenuptial agreement that would, it claimed, solve the agunah problem for those who signed it. The agreement, drafted by Rabbi Mordechai Willig, provided that every day that husband and wife are separated without a get, even prior to the issuing of a civil divorce, the wife was entitled to receive a per diem sum of money for her support. The husband and wife also contracted to appear before an agreed-upon Bet Din to arbitrate the get. If the wife should fail to appear before the Bet Din, or fail to abide by its decision, the husband’s financial obligation toward her would terminate.

As one of the roshei yeshiva at RIETS, Willig had the stature and halakhic authority in the centrist Orthodox world to draft such a document. No friend of feminism, Willig had been one of the famed “RIETS 5,” a group of five rabbis at RIETS that had issued a proclamation in 1984 outlawing Orthodox women’s prayer groups. Willig would not be accused by other Orthodox rabbis as pandering to the left-wing of Orthodoxy or to feminists.[74] Furthermore, in contradiction to his forebears who painted such agreements as dangerous inventions of those not sufficiently concerned with halakha, Willig presented the prenuptial agreement as being rooted in a centuries-old precedent, arguing that this should assuage the “reluctance of rabbanim to introduce innovations to the institution of marriage.”[75]

The Centrist Orthodox rabbinate quickly rallied around Willig’s prenuptial agreement, celebrating the agreement as an effective tool to reduce the number of agunot in America. One Orthodox rabbinic leader went so far as to call it “a light at the end of the tunnel” for the agunah problem. The RCA immediately adopted a resolution in June 1993 calling upon its members to utilize Willig’s or another rabbinically approved prenuptial agreement prior to performing any wedding, an act “which will aid in our community’s efforts to guarantee that the get will not be used as a negotiating tool in divorce proceedings.” The Orthodox Caucus disseminated copious information about the agreement, ultimately publishing a booklet in 1996 containing the text of the agreement and instructions for its use together with articles about the history of the agunah problem, the halakhic justification for the Willig prenuptial agreement, and a list of approbations for the agreement received from halakhic authorities in America and Israel. While a number of Centrist Orthodox rabbis since the 1970s had proposed the use of prenuptial agreements to help solve the agunah problem, many others had objected to such agreements as unhalakhic. The Willig prenuptial agreement ended all of these objections.[76]

Agunah activists greeted the news of what quickly became known as the “Willig prenup” with less excitement than did their rabbinic leaders. Although they were relieved that the rabbis were finally attempting to implement a more global solution to the agunah problem, they saw the RCA’s embracing of the Willig prenup as too little, too late. Pointing out that prenuptial agreements similar to Willig’s had been in use for years, they complained that rabbinic leaders were “the last to endorse the agreements.” Furthermore, like every solution implemented by rabbis in the twentieth century, they recognized that the Willig prenup was flawed in its ability to protect women from becoming agunot. Of course, like the Lieberman Clause, the Willig prenup was only helpful if the couple signed it. Even once signed, the goal of the agreement was not to get the woman her get, but rather to get the couple to appear before the Bet Din. Under the agreement, if the wife failed to appear to the Bet Din, or failed to abide by the Bet Din rulings, she forfeited her right to the “support payments” from her husband. Rather than ensuring that each woman who signed the Willig prenuptial agreement would receive a get, the agreement merely ensured that the couple would submit to the authority of the Bet Din, authority that had over and over again failed to help agunot. Additionally, like all the civil court solutions, the Willig prenuptial agreement would not assist women whose husbands had disappeared, had become insane or otherwise incapacitated, had no assets, or were wealthy and vindictive. Lastly, in order to enforce the financial provisions of the prenuptial agreement, a woman would have had to file suit in civil court, a process sure to cost her copious legal fees and a great deal of time. Rather than solving the agunah problem, the Willig prenuptial agreement merely ensured that the Batei Din would retain their control over Orthodox Jewish divorce cases, control that had done little over the past century to help agunot in America.[77]  

The Agudah, for its part, did not embrace the use of prenuptial agreements. Rather, it continued to insist on the efficacy of the 1983 New York Get Law and the use of social sanctions to assist agunot. Using the 1992 Get Law or the Willig prenuptial agreement to obtain a get required a woman to use the secular court system, something the Agudah was loathe to permit its members to do. Indeed, in 1993, the Jewish Observer published another article by Chaim Dovid Zwiebel, which warned readers that halakha mandated that they litigate all matters in the Batei Din, not civil courts.[78] The fact that women almost always fared better in terms of property division in civil court was of no concern to right-wing Orthodox rabbis. In fact, many right-wing Batei Din refused to hear cases if the woman had already filed suit in civil court. The end of the twentieth century saw few developments to assist agunot in the right wing Orthodox world.[79]

 

Conclusion

 

In the waning years of the twentieth century, the strongest champions Orthodox women had in their fight against becoming agunot were the civil courts. Throughout the century, Orthodox rabbis had failed to put forth effective solutions to solve the agunah problem, preferring to use the secular state apparatus resulting in solutions that were flawed and inadequate. In the wake of the decision in Schwartz v. Schwartz, Rivka Haut wrote a letter to the editor of the New York Times saying:

 

The Orthodox rabbinate has abandoned the Torah principles of justice and compassion, persistently refusing to implement Jewish law appropriately and to provide true justice, leaving it up to the civil courts of this state to protect Jewish women and children. Perhaps the rabbis will now follow the model set by civil court judges and will utilize Jewish law in order to help those who abide by it.

 

Haut’s letter reflected the view of agunah activists and Orthodox feminists that a solution to the problem had not been achieved.  Although permitting an open dialogue about women’s rights ultimately forced the Centrist Orthodox rabbinate out of its passivity about the agunah problem, the solutions it implemented were flawed at best. The right-wing Orthodox rabbinate, by never opening itself up to feminist ferment, was able to offer up a largely ineffective law as its only solution to the agunah problem. In the end, twentieth century American Orthodox women, like their tenth-century forebears, were dependent on the non-Jewish world around them to protect them from get extortion and to save them from becoming agunot.  

 

 

[1] As quoted in Shlomo Riskin, Women and Jewish Divorce: The Rebellious Wife, the Agunah and the Right of Women to Initiate Divorce in Jewish Law, a Halakhic Solution. New Jersey: Ktav Publishing House, Inc. 1989, 58.

[2] I have transliterated Hebrew terms consistently throughout this paper, except when quoting a source that transliterated them differently. In such a case, I retained the transliteration used by the author.

[3] Jewish law requires that in order to divorce, a husband must give his wife a bill of divorcement called a “get.” If a man is either unable or unwilling to grant his wife a religious divorce, she is left as an agunah, literally an anchored woman, who is unable to remarry. Such an instance might arise if a husband deserts his wife and disappears, dies without any witnesses to his death, is legally incompetent to grant a get, or simply refuses to grant a get. Furthermore, if a woman who is still halakhically married to her husband—even if they are civilly divorced—is impregnated by another man, the child born of that union is deemed a mamzer. Typically translated as “bastard,” the status of mamzer is far more significant under Jewish law than a simple social stigma. A mamzer and any descendant of a mamzer may only marry another mamzer or descendant of a mamzer.

[4] This article will not comment on the merits of the various halakhic proposals that have been put forth over the past 2,000 years to solve the agunah problem, neither will it engage in halakhic discourse about the issue. Rather than debating the halakha regarding the agunah issue, this paper is concerned with the way others engaged in the debate. I argue that the substance of the debate is actually less important than the political and sociological influences that surrounded those engaging in the debate.

[5] Anna R. Igra, Wives Without Husbands: Marriage, Desertion & Welfare in New York, 1900–1935 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2007), 14–15; Isaac Metzger, ed. A Bintel Brief: Sixty Years of Letters from the Lower East Side to the Jewish Daily Forward (New York: Doubleday & Co., 1971), 15–16.

[6] The reasons for this development are complex, and beyond the scope of this article.

[7] Schwartz, 40–41; George Dugan, “New Marital Law to Stem Divorce Adopted By Conservative Movement,” The New York Times, November 14, 1954, 1.

[8] Shapiro, Saul Lieberman and the Orthodox, 44. Shapiro suggests that the negative vote on the part of the RCA may have been due to Rabbi Moshe Feinstein’s ban against any Orthodox rabbi participating in non-Orthodox rabbinic or lay groups.

[9] Interestingly, the organizations explained that they issued their decision after a thorough investigation by the Halachah Commission of the Rabbinical Council of America, headed by none other than Rabbi Soloveitchik, who had previously sought to join forces with Lieberman on this very issue. Irving Spiegel, “Orthodox Rabbis Condemn Change,” The New York Times, December 5, 1954, 59. For another example of centrist rabbinic response to the Lieberman clause, see Norman Lamm, “Recent Additions to the Ketubah: A Halakhic Critique,” Tradition, 2:1 (Fall 1959), 93118, in which Rabbi Norman Lamm, the future President of Yeshiva University, denounced the Lieberman Clause as outside the realm of halakha.

[11] Irving Spiegel, “Orthodox Rabbis Condemn Change; Ask Conservatives to Give Up Marital Contract Revision as Dividing Jewish Life,” New York Times, December 5, 1954, 59.

[12] A. Leo Levin and Meyer Kramer, New Provisions in the Ketubah (New York: Yeshiva University 1955), Introductory page.

[13] Koeppel v. Koeppel, 138 N.Y.S.2d 366, 373 (Sup. Ct. Queens Co. 1954). Of course, the judge showed his lack of understanding of Jewish divorce law by this decision, since he apparently believed that the Bet Din could render a decision divorcing the couple, when in fact, under Jewish law, the husband had to issue the divorce himself.

[14]The Appellate Division affirmed the decision, reasoning that a get was not “necessary” as specified in the contract because Maureen Koeppel had managed to get married again with a rabbi officiating Koeppel v. Koeppel, 3 A.D.2d 853, 161 N.Y.S.2d 694 (2d Dep’t 1957).

[15] Trude Weiss Rosmarin, “The Agony of the Agunah,” Conservative Judaism, XX.1 (Fall 1965), 53.

[16] Other systemic halakhic solutions had been proposed early in the twentieth century, but had all been either rejected or ignored by the Orthodox rabbinate.

[17] Eliezer Berkovits, T’nai B’Nisuin u’ve Get (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kuk, 1966).

[18] Berkovits had received rabbinic ordination from the Hildesheimer Rabbinical Seminary in Berlin where he had been a student and disciple of Rabbi Weinberg.

[19] Marc Shapiro, Between the Yeshiva World and Modern Orthodoxy, 190–191. Shapiro notes that Weinberg was generally reluctant to “chart new halakhic ground independently,” and his response to Berkovits was in keeping with this reluctance.  

[20] Immanuel Jakobovits, “Survey of Recent Halakhic Periodical Literature: Solving the Agunah Problem,” Tradition 8:4 (1966), 122.

[21] By 1967, only 65 percent of Rabbinical Assembly members were using a ketubah including the Lieberman Clause in weddings they performed. Further, fully half of all Conservative rabbis were referring couples wanting to marry in which one member did not have a get to a Reform rabbi. And, 30 percent of Conservative rabbis did not even bother referring couples to a Reform colleague, but performed the wedding without the get themselves. As a result of these circumstances, combined with the general apathy toward halakha among Conservative Jews, only one case actually came before the Conservative Bet Din. The case was ultimately left unsolved by the Bet Din due to its members’ reluctance to break ranks with the Orthodox and permit an agunah to remarry. The woman involved eventually received permission to remarry from a separately convened Bet Din made up of other Conservative rabbinical leaders. Following this debacle, the so-called Joint Bet Din basically ceased to exist as a functioning body. Schwartz, 41-42.

[22] Moshe Meiselman, Jewish Woman in Jewish Law (New York: Ktav/Yeshiva University Press, 1978), 108.

[23] Shapiro, Between the Yeshiva World and Modern Orthodoxy, 192–193, n.83. Berkovits’s final written statement on the matter can be found in his 1990 treatise, Jewish Women in Time & Torah. Therein, he wrote, “I regret to say that my work [on the agunah issue] has not been given serious consideration, and instead all kinds of statements have been made maintaining that my teacher, Rabbi Y. Y. Weinberg, z.l., withdrew the moral support that he gave to the work. I have to declare that in all these statements and rumors there is not the slightest truth.” Eliezer Berkovits, Jewish Woman in Time & Torah (Hoboken: Ktav Publishing House, Inc., 1990), 111.

[24] See Meiselman, Jewish Woman in Jewish Law, 107–108, in which the author, after quoting the Kasher article and the alleged letter of retraction by Weinberg, stated that Berkovits’ book “elicited virtually no response from the Orthodox rabbinate,” and then one page later, stated that Berkovits’s proposal “was completely rejected by the Orthodox rabbinate.”

[25] See, for example, J. David Bleich, “The Agunah Problem,” Tradition 11.2 (1970), 96–99 in which the author discusses situations of disappearance of Israeli soldiers or deaths in which husband’s bodies are not recovered, but does not mention the more prevalent scenario of husbands’ refusal to grant their wives a get. Engaging in the same passivity seen in the initial responses to the Berkovits book, Bleich wrote, “Judaism has always been keenly aware of the anguish suffered by the agunah and has consequently sought every possible means to alleviate her plight. The entire subject is one of utmost gravity and it is of importance to examine methods that have been advocated as a means of avoiding this tragic situation while yet remaining within the letter and spirit of the law.” 

[26] Enid Nemy, “Young Women Challenging Their ‘2d-Class Status’ in Judaism,” The New York Times, June 12, 1972, 43.

[27] In a similar vein, see Irving Spiegel, “Equality Sought by Jewish Coeds,” The New York Times, April 20, 1975, 33.

[28] Saul Berman, “The Status of Women in Halakhic Judaism,” Tradition 14.2 (Fall 1973), 7–9, 22–23.

[29] There are doubtless many more divorce cases that addressed issues of aginut that were decided by New York State and other American courts throughout the second half of the twentieth century, but not all decisions are put into writing by judges and officially “reported.” Thus, this paper will only address those cases that were officially reported.

[30] One judge specifically recognized this phenomenon, stating, “With the sociological reality of a tremendously increased divorce rate upon us, a phenomenon which cuts across all levels of society, Orthodox Jews find themselves in matrimonial litigation more often and courts are called upon to weigh the import of ecclesiastical laws which are often made crucial by contractual act of the parties.” Rubin v. Rubin, 75 Misc.2d 776, 777, 348 N.Y.S.2d 61, 63 (Fam. Ct. Bronx Co. 1973). See also Sylvia Barak Fishman, A Breath of Life: Feminism in the American Jewish Community (New York: The Free Press, 1993), 35, noting that by 1975 the executive vice president of the Rabbinical Alliance of America and secretary of its bet din reported that the number of gittin granted by his court doubled in just one year. For Orthodox responses to the rising rates of divorce, see Reuven P. Bulka, “Divorce: The Problem and the Challenge,” Tradition 16.1 (1976), 127-133. Also see the New York Times report on a conference convened to discuss the crisis of the rapidly rising divorce rate in the Orthodox community: George Vescey, “Confronting Crisis in the Orthodox Jewish Family,” The New York Times, February 3, 1978, A14.

[31] Margulies v. Margulies, 42 A.D.2d 517, 344 N.Y.S.2d 482 (1st Dep’t), appeal dismissed, 33 N.Y.2d 894, 352 N.Y.S.2d 447 (1973). The Court of Appeals, the highest court in the State of New York, dismissed the husband’s appeal on Constitutional grounds, stating simply that the order did not “finally determine the action within the meaning of the Constitution” because the appellant had not appealed from the fines assessed him, just from the incarceration.

[32] Pal v. Pal, N.Y.L.J. July 25, 1973, p. 13, col.5.

[33] Pal v. Pal, 45 A.D.2d, 356 N.Y.S.2d 672 (2d Dep’t 1974).

[34] See, for example, J. David Bleich, “Survey of Recent Halakhic Periodical Literature: Refusal to Grant a Religious Divorce,” Tradition 13.2 (1972), 129–133.

[35] For articles addressing the problem of mamzerut arising out of the agunah issue, see Louis Rabinowitz, “The New Trend in Halakha: Heter of a Mamzer,” Tradition 11.4 (1970), 5; Yitzhak D. Gilat, “The Halakha and its Relationship to Social Reality,” Tradition 13.4 (1973), 68; Aaron Rakefet-Rothkoff, “Annulment of Marriage Within the Context of Cancellation of the Get,” Tradition 15.1–2 (1975), 173.

[36] Rivka Haut, telephone interview by author, May 13, 2009.

[37] Moshe Meiselman, “Women and Judaism: A Rejoinder,” Tradition, 15:3 (Fall 1975), 52–67.

[38] Meiselman, Women and Judaism: A Rejoinder, 66.

[39] Waxstein v. Waxstein, 90 Misc.2d 784, 395 N.Y.S.2d 877 (Kings Co. Sup. Ct. 1976), aff’d, 57 A.D.2d 863, 394 N.Y.S.2d 253 (2d Dep’t), motion for leave to app. den., 42 N.Y.2d 806, 1977 N.Y. Lexis 3780 (1977).

[40] Gurock, Orthodox Jews in America, 300.

[41] Blu Greenberg, “Jewish Divorce Law: If We Must Part, Let’s Part as Equals,” Lilith 1:3 (Spring/Summer 1977), 26–29.

[42] George Vecsey, “Orthodox and Reform Rabbis at Parleys Note Growing Demand for Traditionalism,” The New York Times, June 27, 1977, 31. The women additionally showed themselves generally unwilling to accept old apologetics about the status of women in Orthodox Judaism. When one of the rabbis on the panel told women listeners that they were already superior to men and did not need the leadership positions and Jewish rituals that men had, several women were insulted, and at least one got up and left the room.

[43] Steven Feldman, “Grappling with Divorce and Jewish Law,” in Women in Chains: A Sourcebook on the Agunah, ed. Jack Nusan Porter (New Jersey: Jason Aronson, Inc., 1995), 217. (Feldman’s article was originally published in Genesis 2 in April 1984).

[44] Meiselman, Jewish Woman in Jewish Law, ix. For a similar centrist Orthodox critique of feminism, see Reuven J. Bulka, “Woman’s Role: Some Ultimate Concerns,” Tradition 17.4 (1979), 27–40.

[45] Meiselman, Jewish Woman in Jewish Law, 103.

[46] Ibid., 109. Meiselman did not cite to any Talmudic source here, so it is unclear what he was referring to.

[47] Ibid., 113, 115. There were no accurate statistics kept as to how many agunot there actually were at any time in the twentieth century. Estimates ranged from Meiselman’s few to 15,000 agunot in New York alone. Nat Hentoff, “Who Will Rescue the Jewish Women Chained in Limbo?” Village Voice, September 13, 1983, 6.

[48] Indeed, in addition to Meiselman’s book, the RCA’s 1978 Annual Convention had a major plenary session on contemporary problems in gittin. Blu Greenberg, On Women and Judaism: A View From Tradition (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1981), 139.

[49] Ibid., 142.

[50] Naomi Y. Englard-Schaffer, “Review Essay on Blu Greenberg, ‘On Women and Judaism,’” Tradition 21.2 (1984), 132–144; Emanuel Feldman, “Review Essay: Women and Judaism,” Tradition 21:3 (1984), 98–106.

[51] Lawrence Grossman, “Mainstream Orthodoxy and the American Public Square,” Alan Mittleman, Jonathan D. Sarna & Robert Licht, eds., Jewish Polity and American Civil Society (Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 2002), 283–310; Samuel C. Heilman, “Haredim and the Public Square: The Nature of the Social Contract,” Ibid., 311–336.

[52] Nathan Lewin, Telephone Interview by author, April 30, 2009.

[53] N.Y. Dom. Rel. Law Section 253 (McKinney 2009).

[54] Bill Jacket, New York L. 1984, ch. 979, 24–27, 32; Bernard M. Zlotowitz & Albert Vorspan, “A Divorce Bill that Involves the State in Religion,” Letter to the Editor, The New York Times July 18, 1983, A14.

[55] Georgia Dullea, “Orthodox Jewish Divorce: The Religious Dilemma,” The New York Times, July 5, 1982. See also, “Will New York Get a “Get” Law?” PR Newswire 7/20/1982. “Governor Signs Bill to Aid Jews in Divorce Cases,” The New York Times, August 10, 1983, B7.

[56] Telephone Interview, Rivka Haut.

[57] Emanuel Feldman, 98–106.

[58] Feldman,106.

[59] Avitzur v. Avitzur, 86 A.D.2d 133 (3d Dep’t 1982), rev’d 58 N.Y.2d 108, 459 N.Y.S.2d 572 (1983), cert. denied, 464 U.S. 817, 104 S.Ct. 76 (1983).  

[60] Indeed, showing that court cases can make for strange bedfellows, various Centrist Orthodox organizations, including the OU and the RCA had filed amicus curiae (“friend of the court”) briefs in the action, arguing in support of civil court recognition of the Lieberman clause. David Margolick, “Court Rules New York Can Enforce Jewish Marriage Contract,” The New York Times, February 16, 1983, B1.

[61] J. David Bleich, "A Suggested Antenuptial Agreement: A Proposal in Wake of Avitzur," Journal of Halacha & Contemporary Society, 7 (1984), 25–41.

[62] J. David Bleich, “Survey of Recent Halakhic Periodical Literature: The Device of the ‘Sages of Spain’ as a Solution to the Problem of the Modern-Day Agunah,” Tradition, 22:3 (1986), 77–87.

[63] Riskin, Women and Jewish Divorce. Riskin’s book was met by the same passivity as other works advocating halakhic solutions. See, for example, Tzvi Gartner, “Review: Women & Jewish Divorce,” Jewish Action, Purim Spring 5750/1990, 77–82.

[64] Aaron Twerski, “When Crisis Looms,” The Jewish Observer, March 1988, 19–23. The Jewish Observer was an Agudah publication aimed at a lay audience.

[65] Yissocher Frand, “Where There’s A Rabbinic Will, There’s a Halachic Way: Fact or Fiction,” The Jewish Observer, October 1990, 6–11.

[66] Ronald Sullivan, “Court Says Jewish Divorce Settlement Was Unfair, New York Times, February 20, 1992, B3.

[67]Rabbinical Council of America, Resolution on Gittin and Agunot, June 1, 1991 http://www.rabbis.org/news/article.cfm?id=101028 (accessed December 24, 2009).

[68] Lucette Lagnado, “Of Human Bondage,” The Village Voice (July 14, 1992) and Peter Hellman, “Playing Hard to Get,” New York Magazine (January 25, 1993) reprinted in Women in Chains: A Sourcebook on the Agunah, ed. Jack Porter (New Jersey: Jason Aronson, Inc. 1995), 3–23.

[69] Schwartz v. Schwartz, 153 Misc.2d, 789, 583 N.Y.S.2d 716 (Sup. Ct. Kings Co. 1992).

[70] “Blocking a Religious Divorce Proves Costly,” The New York Times, October 5, 1994, B4.

[71] Heilman, “Playing Hard to Get,” Women in Chains, 21.

[72] Chaim Dovid Zwiebel, “Tragedy Compounded: The Aguna Problem and New York’s Controversial New ‘Get Law,’” Jewish Observer, March 1993, 26–39. A number of respected Orthodox halakhists and legal scholars published lengthy articles in the wake of the Agudah’s opposition to the 1992 Get Law, arguing that it actually posed no halakhic problem, and in fact, it would not lead to a get meuseh problem. Such articles further showed that the Agudah’s opposition to the 1992 law was not only rooted in halakhic, but also in political and social reasons. See, for example, Marvin E. Jacob, “The Agunah Problem and the So-Called New York State Get Law: A Legal and Halachic Analysis,” October 1994, reprinted in Porter, Women in Chains, 159-184, Michael J. Broyde, “The New York Get Law: An Exchange,” Tradition (Summer 1997), http://jlaw.com/Articles/get_exchange2.html (accessed December 24, 2009).

[73] Rivka Haut, “The Agunah and Divorce,” in Lifecycles: Jewish Women on Life Passages & Personal Milestones, ed. Rabbi Debra Orenstein (Vermont: Jewish Lights Publishing, 1994), 188–200; Half the Kingdom, produced by Beverly Shaffer & Francine Zuckerman, 58 minutes, The National Center for Jewish Film, 1989, videocassette.

[74] Gurock, Orthodox Jews in America, 304.

[75] Mordechai Willig, “The Halakhic Sources and Background of the Prenuptial,” Kenneth Auman & Basil Herring, ed., The Prenuptial Agreement: Halakhic and Pastoral Considerations (New Jersey: Jason Aronson, Inc., 1996), 30.

[76] Auman & Herring, ed., The Prenuptial Agreement: Halakhic and Pastoral Considerations.

[77] Haut, “The Agunah and Divorce,” 198; Susan Metzger Weiss, “Sign at Your Own Risk: The ‘RCA’ Prenuptial May Prejudice the Fairness of Your Future Divorce Settlement,” 6 Cardozo Women’s L.J. 49 (1999).

[78] Chaim Dovid Zwiebel, “Batei Din vs. Secular Courts: Where Do We Pursue Justice?” The Jewish Observer, January 1993, 8–16.

[79] Telephone Interview, Rivka Haut. Centrist Orthodox rabbis also told their flock that disputes should be adjudicated in batei din. Indeed, the Willig prenup offered an option for the couple to agree to litigate all disputes stemming from the divorce in the Bet Din.  Willig acknowledged that “some women or their attorneys will object to the inclusion of monetary disputes … in the arbitration agreement, for the current secular laws … will generally result in larger financial settlements for women than does enforcement of the provisions of the standard ketubah. “ He went on to warn, “Halakhically, however, resolutions of marital property disputes are within the jurisdiction of a bet din, unless the bet din permits the parties to resolve them in court.” Willig, “The Halakhic Sources and Background of the Prenuptial,” 33. However Centrist Orthodox women, more knowledgeable about their rights and not as concerned with the views of their rabbis, continued to file their divorce actions in civil courts.

 

Placing Judaic Values at the Center of the Jewish Agenda

 

In the modern period, several distinguished thinkers have denied that there is such a thing as Judaic values. For them, Judaism is so radically legalistic that it does not recognize any ethical demands that are not grounded in halakha. Quite aside from this philosophical position, there is a prevalent attitude in the contemporary observant Jewish community that regards the sole goal of religious life as adherence to halakha.

In this article, I argue that an approach to Judaism that is limited to observance of Jewish law is inconsistent with numerous classical, medieval, and modern rabbinic sources. Indeed, these sources emphasise and present perspectives on life that transcend concern with halakhic rules. An approach to life based on Torah ideas carries serious implications, both for character development and for standards of behavior that complement the demands of halakha.

In the final section of the article, I expand on these sources to elucidate the pivotal importance of outlook, character development and ethical and spiritual behavior for a Torah life. While this would be true in any generation, it is all the more crucial that we address these concerns in our own time. The relative neglect of these matters in Jewish scholarship and Jewish life is highly regrettable, and the need to redress that neglect is essential.

 

Reducing Judaism to a Legal System

 

In his book, Judaism, Human Values and the Jewish State, the late Professor Yeshayahu Leibowitz contends that Judaism does not “consist of a specific ethic.” Leibowitz argues that Judaism produced no ethical theory of its own and “made no pretences of representing a specific moral point of view.”[1] According to Leibowitz’s thesis, Judaism consists of halakha—the body of commandments that are to be observed for the sole reason that God commanded them and without appeal to any underlying or overarching value system.

The position that Judaism is defined exclusively by the legal decisions of halakha was also embraced by such an eclectic range of scholars as Baruch Spinoza, Moses Mendelssohn, Immanuel Kant, and Marvin Fox. [2]

The limitation of Judaic norms to halakha, far from being confined to the writings of philosophers, is a pervasive feature of contemporary Jewish religious life. The late Rabbi Yehuda Amital contrasts this common attitude with the religious approach that was prevalent in his youth:

 

We live in an era in which educated religious circles like to emphasize the centrality of Halakha, and commitment to it, in Judaism. I can say that in my youth in pre-Holocaust Hungary, I didn't hear people talking all the time about "Halakha." People conducted themselves in the tradition of their forefathers, and where any halakhic problems arose, they consulted a rabbi.... The impression created is that there is nothing in Torah but that which exists in Halakha, and that in any confrontation with the new problems that arise in modern society, answers should be sought exclusively in books of Halakha.[3]

 

R. Amital deplores a commonplace equation of Judaism with the observance of halakha. This attitude sometimes manifests itself in subtle ways. Rabbi Micha Berger notes that, even those diligent students who show up for “Mussar Seder” in yeshiva, often choose the Laws of Lashon haRa as their topic of study. Such subject matter, although of undeniable importance, is focused on halakhic behavior rather than character development. The emphasis is on behaving in accordance with Jewish law rather than developing an attitude toward life that is rooted in Torah sources.[4]

Rabbi Eugene Korn[5] presents an insightful explanation for the development of this attitude within the observant Jewish community. R. Korn notes that, over the generations, Jews have been threatened by Greek and Roman culture, the Church, the Enlightenment, rationalism and post-modernism. The Jewish community responded with a reaffirmation of their commitment that generated an antipathy toward explaining the underlying values behind specific mitzvot as well as more general philosophical reflection on the purpose of God’s covenant with the Jewish people. The latter pursuits were deemphasised in favor of a focus on the importance of authority. Historical explanations aside, it behoves us to ask whether this approach to Judaism is consistent with the approach of Torah authorities throughout the generations.

In 1942, Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler delivered a provocative talk at the Gateshead Kollel. Central to R. Dessler’s presentation was the thesis that a Jew can observe all the laws of the Shulhan Arukh and still only reach “the aleph of Judaism.” R. Dessler’s student, Rabbi Aryeh Carmel, testifies that this assertion stimulated a good deal of heated discussion. In this next section, I will discuss some of the sources that I believe underlie the position that Judaism requires us to transcend observance of the laws of the Shulhan Arukh.

 

The Centrality of Judaic Values: Worldview, Character, and Behavior

 

A proper understanding of Jewish sources reveals a concern, not only with proper conduct, but with the development of an appropriate worldview. In a pertinent verse in Sefer Mishlei, we are told that “Without a vision, the people perish.”[6] Indeed, a true understanding of Jewish tradition is one that includes a vision for the Jewish People and for the world.

The importance of outlook and attitude can be understood through analysis of the Rambam’s statements regarding the importance of the mitzvah of tsedaka. In Hilkhot Matanot Aniyim, the Rambam writes: “We are obligated to be meticulous with the mitzva of charity more than with all [other] positive commandments.”[7]

As Rabbi Judah Goldberg has noted,[8] there seems to be no halakhic basis for Rambam's assertion that one must take more care over the mitzvah of tsedaka. Halakha does not distinguish between the legal force of the obligation of tsedaka and that of other positive commandments. The actual basis of the Rambam’s position can be seen from his affirmation that “tsedaka is a mark of the righteous descendants of our father Abraham.” The Rambam quotes from Sefer Bereshit, where Hashem reveals the reason why He singled out Abraham for a special relationship:

For I have known him in order that he may command his children and his household after him, that they may keep the way of God to do righteousness [“tsedaka”] and justice, so that God may bring upon Avraham that which He has spoken of him. [9]

 

We see in from this that the Rambam’s basis for his emphasis on the mitzvah of tsedaka is not based on its legal status but through identification of tsedaka as fundamental to the Jewish mission and to our identity as the progeny of Abraham.

In modern times, the importance of developing a Judaic philosophy through which one understands and evaluates one’s life experience was emphasised by Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch:

 

The ideal of a perfect personal and national life, along with an understanding of the ultimate goal of all human development, are to be derived from the knowledge of the Torah. It is this ideal and this understanding that, first of all, must become the standard by which to measure and evaluate the modern non-Jewish world with all its spiritual, moral, and social phenomena that mark the lives of men and nations.[10]

 

As Dayan Isidor Grunfeld explains, Rabbi Hirsch understood that such philosophies should be extrapolated from halakhic texts.[11] In a similar vein, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik supports the development of what he calls “reconstructionist explanations” to discern what religious ideas are presented through the laws. Although R. Soloveitchik rejects the legitimacy of asking about the reason that Hashem gave us particular commandments or even how observance of mitzvoth achieves its desired effect, he does endorse the quest to find the meaningfulness of mitzvoth for the individual and society. According to R. Soloveitchik, Torah-observant Jews should not suffice with compliance to halakhic obligation but should ask themselves the question: “How can I integrate and assimilate this mitzvah into my religious consciousness and outlook?”[12]

On other occasions, R. Soloveitchik emphasised the importance of basing one’s worldview on an understanding of Tanakh. The Rav’s dismay at the failure to read the Bible in this way is instructive:

 

Many Jews don’t look to the Bible for guidance, and its spiritual message, so indispensable for man today, is completely ignored... the most beautiful aspect of the Bible is its Weltanschauung, its world view, its spiritual outlook upon both the world and man.[13]

 

The approach exemplified by Rambam and advocated by R Hirsch, R Soloveitchik and others is that Judaism teaches a philosophy of life which, while sometimes grounded in halakhic texts, is not limited to commitment to their specific imperatives. The development of a Judaic worldview impacts on another important facet of Torah life—character development. In the understanding of our Sages, Jews are not only expected to develop a worldview but also to develop certain virtuous dispositions.

Indeed, in Shabbat 113b, Abba Shaul is quoted as emphasising the imperative to emulate the characteristics of Hashem: “Be like Him! Just as He is gracious and compassionate, you shall be gracious and compassionate!”[14]

This understanding is supported by the Rambam in Hilkhot De’ot, where he explains the mitzvah of walking in the way of God to require an emulation of His attributes. He writes that this involves developing the characteristics of grace, mercy, and holiness. The Rambam continues:

 

In a similar manner, the prophets called God by other titles: "Slow to anger," "Abundant in kindness," "Righteous," "Just," "Perfect," "Almighty," "Powerful," and the like. [They did so] to inform us that these are good and just paths. A person is obligated to accustom himself to these paths and [to try to] resemble Him to the extent of his ability.[15]

 

These rulings are consistent with Rambam’s writing in Hilkhot Teshuvah. In a statement that explicitly negates the notion that Judaism is concerned with behavior alone, the Rambam writes:

 

You mustn’t say that teshuvah (repentance) only applies to sins that involve action such as promiscuity and robbery and theft. Rather, just as a man needs to do teshuvah for sins involving actions, so too he needs to search to identify his evil attributes. He must do teshuvah for anger and for hatred and for jealousy and for frivolity and for the pursuit of money and honor and for the pursuit of foods and the like. He must do teshuvah for all of these.[16]

 

The character traits listed by the Rambam do not violate any particular negative transgression. Nevertheless, as Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein argues, the fact that the Rambam uses this term to describe them suggests that, to the extent that they are corrosive to one’s optimal spiritual personality, they are sinful.[17]

The same understanding was advanced in the sixteenth century by Rabbi Eliezer Azkiri in his Sefer Hareidim. In his explanation of the mitzvah to walk in the ways of Hashem, R. Azkiri cites the rabbinic interpretation that one should emulate the merciful and gracious attributes of God and that one should adopt the golden mean with regard to all character traits.[18]

According to the Vilna Gaon, the development of appropriate character traits is not only essential but foundational to our lives as religious Jews. In Even Shelemah, the Gaon is quoted as comparing the relationship of Torah to the soul to that of rain and the ground. Just as rain causes the growth of whatever was planted prior to the rain, so too “Torah causes what is in his heart to grow”:

 

If what is in his heart is good, his fear [of God] will grow; if what is in his heart is a “root sprouting poison weed and wormwood” then the bitterness that is in his head will grow. As it is written, “the righteous will walk in it, and sinners will stumble in it” (Hoshea 14:10, as explained by Hazal), and as it is written, “To those who go to the right side of it, it is a medicine of life; to those who go to its left, it is a deadly poison,” (Shabbat 88b)... One who is lazy in weeding out an evil middah is not helped by all the legal fences and protections that he practices. For with any disease which is not cured from within...even the fence of the Torah, which protects and saves, will be useless because of his laziness.[19]

 

 

The Vilna Gaon’s position, based on classical sources in Hazal, carries a remarkable message! If a person whose character traits are desirable learns Torah, he becomes even greater as a result. But learning Torah without attention to character refinement will simply produce more forceful personalities with inappropriate character traits.

As Rabbi Soloveitchik explains, developing appropriate character traits also impacts on the performance of mitzvoth:

 

When a person visits the sick, he must join in with their pain; when he comforts the mourners, he must mourn with them in his heart; and when he gives a person charity, he must bear that person’s burden and empathize with his pain.[20]

 

Elsewhere, the Rav gives homiletical expression to this approach when he discusses Hashem’s choice of the Patriarchs and His choice of the Jewish nation at Sinai. The patriarchal covenant is compared to the process of ibud, or treating parchment in order to render it suitable for being used as a Torah scroll. The Sinai covenant is compared to the actual writing of the letters on the scroll. The meaning of this analogy is that, just as the letters of the scroll cannot be written without ibud, the Jew cannot properly observe the laws of the Sinai covenant, unless he performs ibud on his personality—that is to say, he develops a character that is modeled on that of the Patriarchs. The Rav explains that this ibud involves efforts to control desire and passion as well as the development of empathy and compassion toward others.[21] From Rav Soloveitchik’s discourse we learn that, in seeking to develop a character in line with Jewish norms, we must model ourselves, not only on the divine attributes, but also on the characteristics of our biblical ancestors.

Thus far, we have discussed the importance of developing both a Judaic worldview and a character modeled on our understanding of the divine characteristics and the examples set by our biblical role models. Both worldview and character relate primarily to the internal world of the intellect and emotion. However, the relevance of Jewish values extends beyond these realms and into the sphere of behavior. Our sources are clear that a Jew must not suffice with ensuring his conduct is consistent with Jewish law. In addition to halakhic compliance, he must behave in a way consistent with broader values.

Marc Shapiro offers anecdotal support for this proposition from an encounter he had with a pre-eminent sage of the late twentieth century. Shapiro relates that he once went to Gateshead to interview Rabbi Betzalel Rakov, the Gateshead Rov, about the latter’s relationship with Rabbi Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg. Prior to the meeting, Shapiro visited the local Jewish book store. He was informed that, if he were a yeshiva student, he could purchase a book at a discounted price. When Shapiro later met with R. Rakov, he asked him if it would have been acceptable for one of the yeshiva students to buy the book at a discount and for Shapiro to reimburse him. R Rakov replied that there was certainly no halakhic problem involved. But he then added: “Yet it would not be ethical.”[22]

R. Rakov’s response would seem shocking to those who assume that Judaic norms can be reduced to halakhic rules. In actual fact, though, R. Rakov is following in the tradition of the Ramban who wrote explicitly that it would be impossible for the Torah to provide instruction for all morally challenging scenarios. The nature of moral decision-making is too dependent on the specific context and situation within which they occur to be defined, in all instances, by technical halakhic rulings. In many instances, the answer to a moral question cannot be answered by learning the relevant area of halakha but, rather, by the application of ethical principles to the given dilemma.[23]

Shapiro’s anecdote does not reveal R. Rakov’s understanding of the basis for his judgment that the behavior in question was unethical. As we shall see, however, our traditional literature presents a number of approaches to moral judgment that complement the Jew’s compliance with halakhic imperatives.

An intimation of such an approach can be found in Rabbenu Bahya’s introduction to Duties of the Heart. Quoting a wise man who had referred to wisdom in the hearts of the wise, he explains that “[t]he meaning is that wisdom is implanted in man’s nature, in his character and his powers of perception.” This intellectual stimulus, explains Rabbenu Bahya, helps man to praise truth, denigrate falsity, choose righteousness and condemn injustice. Rabbenu Bahya identifies a moral compass within the recesses of man’s intellect that he understands to be, in some instances, a reliable arbiter of correct behavior. It is not clear from this passage, however, that he understands that this can lead to moral judgements that are not already incorporated within halakha.

Such an approach, is, however, affirmed by the Rambam who writes in his Guide for the Perplexed that a person will be rewarded for doing what is right and honorable and punished for any deed that he understands to be improper, even if it is not specifically forbidden.[24] According to the Rambam, an action can be considered neutral from the vantage point of halakha but recognized by the moral intuition to be inappropriate behavior.

This understanding was affirmed in a different context by the thirteenth century talmudic commentator, Rabbi Menachem Meiri. In explanation of the Talmud’s requirement that human beings be treated with the reverence due to a Torah scroll, the Meiri writes that humans are endowed with the capacity for discerning, with their own minds, obligations that are not explicitly stated in the Torah.[25] Hence, it is Meiri’s view that human beings possess an innate moral sense with which they can discern ethical imperatives and that, amongst them, there are obligations that are not required by halakha.

In more modern times, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch writes at some length about the moral law that he understands to be implanted in every man. He often writes of “the conscience which is embedded in every human beast” and he stresses that this human conscience is a manifestation of the voice of God.[26] For R Hirsch, therefore, while revelation is encapsulated in the obligations and strictures of halakha it is also manifest in the moral conscience.

We see from the foregoing discussion that, according to an important strand of Judaic thought, a person is expected to use his moral intuition as well as his halakhic knowledge when deciding how to behave. Some of our authorities explicitly recognize this intuitive capacity as a receptivity of human beings to the wisdom of Hashem.

For many authorities, however, the source of Judaic values lies more in Torah sources than the moral intuition.[27] Although the knowledge of halakha is a non-negotiable for the committed Jew, it is necessary to learn both halakhic and aggadic texts with an eye for their underlying values.

One concept that has been used as a foundation for Jewish norms beyond halakhic compliance is the notion of imitatio Dei. In the Gemara in Sotah, the rabbis interpret the imperative to walk in the way of God[28] as mandating the performance of benevolent actions such as clothing the naked, visiting the sick, comforting mourners, and burying the dead.[29] As discussed above, the concept of imitatio Dei was understood by the Rambam and others to require the development of dispositions. Nevertheless, the Rambam also adhered to the interpretation requiring certain modes of behavior on this basis:

 

This commandment is also repeated in the verse: “Walk after God your Lord.” This too is explained as emulating the good deeds and fine attributes which are used to allegorically describe God, Who is immeasurably exalted over everything.[30]

 

Another key concept in the understanding of Judaic norms is the paradoxical obligation of lifnim mishurat haDin (going beyond the letter of the law).[31] This principle is applied to the returning of lost property and helping a stranded donkey driver load his donkey,[32] the paying of compensation for a loss caused only indirectly,[33] and returning a purchased parcel of land to the original owner who had reason to regret having sold it.[34]

That this obligation is of the utmost importance can be demonstrated by reference to the statement of Rav Yochanan, who cites the failure to go beyond the letter of the law as the reason for the destruction of Jerusalem.[35] We see from this the concept of lifnim mishurat hadin that even a generation that complies with all the regulations of Jewish law can be found so guilty as to be deserving of the destruction of the Temple.[36]

According to the Ramban, the requirement to act lifnim mishurat hadin is required by the biblical verse instructing us to “do what is upright and good in the eyes of God.” Rabbi Simcha Zissel Broide, Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Hevron, explains the Ramban’s approach as requiring an extrapolation of general principles of behavior based on an in-depth study of mitzvoth:

 

“And do the right and the good” is not a specific mitzva but a general mitzva: to delve deeply into the understanding of mitzvot and the reasons behind them; to comprehend and contemplate and appreciate, through the mitzvot that we are commanded to perform, also those obligations that are not explicit. We must develop an understanding of what is really God’s desire from us, and what is good and right in His eyes.[37]

 

Hence, from the Ramban’s perspective, legal imperatives legislated by the Torah constitute a non-exhaustive list of examples of how the ideals of Judaism can be realised. Study of the underlying principles facilitates their application beyond the scope of halakhic observance.

The acceptance of an extra-halakhic norm in Judaism is the unmistakable conclusion from numerous rabbinic sources. According to Hazal,[38] a person who fails to pray for another in need is categorized as a sinner. Although such a person would not be in violation of any specific halakhic rule, his insensitivity and inaction warrants such a description. Indeed, according to the Talmud, taking a loaf that a pauper was about to pick up, raising one’s hand to strike another, and making a vow in God’s name even though one fulfills it, stigmatize the perpetrator as wicked even though there is no violation of halakha.[39]

In the ninth century, Rabbenu Bahya ibn Paquda wrote Duties of the Heart, one of the great classics of Jewish ethics and spirituality. In the middle of his Gate of Service of God, he asserts that halakha “divides human actions into three categories: commands, prohibitions, and permitted acts.” However, in his ensuing elaboration, Rabbenu Bahya explains that those actions that might be regarded from a technical perspective as permitted are, from the vantage point of a broader Judaic ethic, either obligatory or prohibited.

If one is engaging in a (halakhically permissible) activity in order to fulfill his basic needs, he is, in fact, fulfilling a commandment.[40] To engage excessively in that which is technically permitted—whether it is drinking, eating, wearing extravagant dress, living in overly large homes, talking excessively or being overly preoccupied with money and material possessions—is contrary to many principles found in Sefer Mishlei and to the spirit of certain passages in Sefer Devarim. They are, states Rabbenu Bahya, contemptible because they bring a person to engage in that which is prohibited. If, on the other hand, a person takes less physical sustenance than he needs then, if he is motivated by piety, his behavior is appropriately classified as a mitzvah. On the other hand, if one takes less than necessary in order to save money or in order that he be praised, then this is, in fact forbidden.

On the basis of this analysis, Rabbenu Bahya affirms that “it is now evident that all human actions are either commanded or prohibited.” Rabbenu Bahya, when discussing the technical legal status of human actions, had affirmed the existence of the category of the permitted. He now insists that even that which is halakhically permissible must be considered in the light of broader axiological considerations to be either praiseworthy or reprehensible.[41]

For the Rambam, too, The norms of the Torah extend beyond the obligations and prescriptions of halakha. In Mishneh Torah, he rules that it is permissible to depart from the land of Israel to learn Torah or to engage in commerce. Indeed, it is permissible to dwell outside the land of Israel indefinitely in the circumstance of a severe famine. After recording this ruling, the Rambam continues:

 

Even though it is permitted to leave, it is not pious behavior, for behold, Machlon and  Kilyon were two giants of their generation and they left out of great distress and they incurred destruction from God.[42]

 

Hence, according to the Rambam, leaving in such circumstances is halakhically permissible but could be so inappropriate as to warrant premature death! [43]

Congruous with this passage is the Rambam’s ruling that “a person who separates from the ways of the community” is “as if he were not from [the Jewish People]” and “has no share in the World to Come” even if “he has not committed any transgressions.”[44]

It seems remarkable that the Rambam considers excluding someone from the World to Come even though he has not committed any transgressions! However, this position is well understood when Judaism is seen as not merely avoidance of transgression and observance of precepts but also as an existential bond to the Jewish nation and its destiny. Indeed, Rav Soloveitchik has referred to this passage as an example of the Rambam’s ascribing importance to the covenant established amongst the Jewish People through their common experience in Egypt, in addition to the covenant that was forged at Sinai.[45]

Perhaps the most famous affirmation of the unacceptability of a minimal compliance with Jewish law is found in Ramban’s celebrated commentary to the mitzvah of kedoshim tiheyu (be holy). In this passage, Ramban claims that a person could “indulge in perversion with his wife, or many wives, and revel in wine, eat meat to excess, and use foul language to his heart’s content” and still not be in violation of halakha as “there is no prohibition against this explicit in the Torah.” In a revealing phrase, the Ramban explains that such a person would be in the category of a “scoundrel with the permission of the Torah.”[46] This means that a person can live in a way that is in accordance with the regulations found in the Torah and still behave in such a way that, from the perspective of the value system of the Torah, is deeply reprehensible.[47]

In his Shaarei Teshuvah, Rabbenu Yonah listed the different categories of people who do not merit a share in the next world (considered the most severe of all punishments). Included in those categories are those who cannot receive the divine presence, namely, scoffers, liars, fawners, and talebearers.[48] Despite the exceptional condemnation allocated to the perpetrators of such behavior, it is striking that only the last of these practices is explicitly forbidden by the Torah.[49]

In the nineteenth century, Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin contrasted a life of compliance with halakha with the more exemplary conduct of our forefathers:

 

And this was the praise of the Patriarchs, that besides their being tzaddikim, hassidim, and lovers of God in the most perfect way, they were also yesharim; that is, they conducted themselves toward others, even toward despicable idol worshippers, with love; they cared about providing for their benefit, as that keeps the world in existence. Thus, we see that our patriarch Avraham prayed for the city of Sedom, even though he hated them and their king with the utmost enmity due to their evil ways, as is clear from his statement to the king of Sedom; still, he sought their survival… For this reason, the book of Bereishit, which delineates the actions of the Patriarchs, is known as sefer ha-yashar.

 

According to the Netziv, the Patriarchs were not merely righteous but were upright (yashar). Far from being limited to righteous behavior, they behaved with love and care toward all human beings.[50]

 

Judaic Values and Contemporary Jewry

 

In the previous section, we have demonstrated that there is a pervasive theme in the writings of Torah authorities to the effect that Judaism requires us to develop a worldview based on Judaic sources. We have argued that such a worldview carries consequences for our approach to character development. Both the character traits that Jews must develop and the worldview that they must adopt carry implications for how they must behave. In this section, we will explain the significance of this emphasis for the Jewish religious life. Although these areas of normative Judaism are essential for any generation in history, we will argue that they are particularly vital for the current Jewish generation. This importance renders the neglect of these areas all the more regrettable and the need to redress that neglect, all the more essential.

Rabbi Yehuda Levi has compared one who carefully studies halakha but fails to develop a Torah worldview to a person who drives very carefully and takes good care of his car but forgets to check whether he is on the correct road and going in the right direction.[51] This analogy is most apt and we will have more to say later on in explanation of the religious significance of an individual’s worldview. Before doing so, however, I would like to apply R. Levy’s analogy to the Jewish community. As rabbis and religious communal leaders, we rightly seek to promote the observance of halakha. But, in the light of the sources discussed in the previous section, we must also develop an understanding of what the values (other than keeping halakha) a Jewish community should represent. Jewish leaders in every generation must develop a vision for their community—a vision that is based on a sound understanding of Torah sources. It is essential to teach the Jewish community which road we must travel on and in which direction.

Indeed, it is often this very vision that is lacking in our own generation. In Seymour Fox’s 1973 essay, “Toward a General Theory of Jewish Education,” he argues that issues such as insufficient hours of study and a lack of qualified personnel and curricula were really symptoms of a deeper problem: the lack of a vision of what should be achieved through Jewish education.

“In short,” writes Fox:

 

I maintain that the most urgent problem facing Jewish education today is its lack of        purpose and, consequently, blandness... [I]t is my feeling that the investigation of most forms of Jewish education, except for the ultra-Orthodox, would reveal that their curricula and methods of teacher training bear little resemblance to what the leadership of the given movement, school, or institution claims to be central in its conception of education.[52]

 

The need for a strong focus on outlook and values in contemporary Jewish education can be further substantiated through reference to the attitude of contemporary Jews toward charity and social justice. In the course of this article, the importance of loving kindness from a Torah perspective has been supported by reference to the raison d’être of the Jewish People, the goal and imperative of imitatio Dei and the example set by the Biblical patriarchs. Despite this, the bestowal of loving kindness is amongst those mitzvoth for which halakha does not define a set measure.[53] This means that the extent to which one is focused on giving to others, and, in many respects, the way in which one does so are not determined by the halakha but must be decided based on Judaic values. As such, a significant facet of a Judaic outlook would be concerned with our attitude toward these issues.

It is, therefore, of great concern that contemporary Jews do not seem to have heard this message. Commenting on the efforts to secure Jewish continuity in England over the last two decades, Dr. Jonathan Boyd, Executive Director of the Jewish Institute for Policy Research in London, reports a worrying state of affairs. Although many Jews are involved in supporting Israel and fighting anti-Semitism, far fewer are regularly involved in charity work. Indeed, the research shows that over a third of Jewish students polled disagreed with the idea that being Jewish is about volunteering or donating to charity or supporting social justice causes. While the aforementioned activities certainly do not amount to an adequate expression of Judaism, the failure to identify them as core aspects of a Torah life suggest that Jewish leaders and educators have failed to communicate this core Jewish value. Boyd perceptively expresses concern about a generation of Jews who seem to have been shaped more by the negative forces that seek to do damage to the Jewish People than by Judaism’s own positive internal values system.[54]

On the other side of the pond, the evidence suggests that young Jews in the United States do, indeed, engage in charitable activity. However, the very same reports record that the vast majority of such Jews fail to connect such volunteerism to Jewish identity or Jewish values.[55]

Given the nature of many of the programmes advanced under the banner of “tikkun olam,” this should not come as a surprise. Often, such projects lack any distinctive Judaic basis and simply resemble what is being done by people of conscience the world over. If this is the case, it is difficult to see how such activities, while valuable in their own right, can constitute a meaningful expression of distinctive Jewish values. As Dr. Yehudah Mirsky has noted, humanitarianism, social justice and ecological advocacy are not distinctively “Jewish” as such. Mirsky writes:

 

[E]ncouraging young people who are otherwise indifferent to or estranged from Jewish life to engage in humanitarian work with no distinctive—let alone transformative—Jewish dimensions other than the label "Tikkun Olam" will strengthen neither Jewish identities nor Jewish life. [56]

 

Indeed, if Jewish educators and communal leaders are to engage contemporary Jewry with the substance of Jewish tradition, what is necessary is not the promotion of a bland social justice agenda. Rather, there is a need for a serious exploration of the way in which Judaic values and Jewish life can illuminate problems and potential solutions to issues of broad human concern that might otherwise go undiscovered.[57]

Our recognition of the disparity between Torah values and the outlook of contemporary Jews compounds our conviction that we must address the question of how we can model an educational and communal structure to actualise a vision for a community representing Jewish values. In accordance with the ideology of Torah im derekh erets, the Torah’s value system can and should be applied to the whole range of worldly endeavours.[58] Contemporary Jews must be taught that Torah has relevance to all areas of human life and should not be seen as confined to technical halakhic questions. In this respect too, our generation often falls short. In explaining what he sees as one of the main causes of defection from Judaism, Rabbi Berel Wein identifies our failure to articulate a national vision:

    

The Torah [has ideas], but someone has to articulate them. What’s our attitude toward the poorer sections of society? Toward the Arabs? Toward anything?... We don’t say that we are going to fix the world; we don’t say those things even though it is part of our heritage, even though that’s part of Torah.[59]

 

If we neglect to articulate these values, people will see Judaism as unconnected to the issues and realities with which they grapple. At worst, this results in a failure to engage the present generation of Jews. At best, those who are faithful to Judaism will be divided personalities, unable to integrate Judaic wisdom with their worldly activity.

We have argued throughout this article that a focus on the observance of halakha must be balanced by a concentration on the Judaic worldview, character and behavior that extends beyond compliance with Jewish law. Nothing could be further from the intent of this writer than the claim that values provide an alternative to adherence to halakha. On the contrary, a focus on Jewish values should reinforce halakhic observance. Our success in inspiring our students and communities to keep halakha will be enhanced immensely if we develop and disseminate a consciousness of the underlying values of Jewish laws. Professor of psychology and education Aharon Hersh Fried, has written cogently in this vein. With regard to the halakhot relating to appropriate speech, Fried emphasises that children will observe these laws when an appreciation is developed for their underlying values:

 

We must teach our children to respect others and to refrain from disparaging others. Much time and effort is spent on teaching our children the issurim involved in speaking lashon haRa. Thus we teach them that there are 16 lavim involved in every lashon haRa.   But that is not enough. Unless and until we teach children to respect other people’s privacy, and unless we teach them that sticking our proverbial noses into other people’s business is inherently disgusting, they will not cease to find “heteirim” for speaking lashon haRa, if only for the most “juicy pieces.”[60]

 

While Fried refers to the education of children, the same principle holds for our own efforts to adhere to halakhic strictures as well as to our endeavours in educating and guiding adults toward mitzvah observance.

This approach is effective in reinforcing halakhic commitment as it elicits a sense of the meaningfulness of the observance of a given mitzvah. However, the significance of the appreciation of the spiritual meaning of the mitzvot is not confined to its resulting in a more punctilious observance of mitzvot. R Soloveichik has emphasised the intrinsic importance of avodah she-ba-lev—worship of the heart—in every religious act:

 

The ritual as well as moral actions must be endowed with emotional warmth, love and joy and the mechanical act converted into a living experience. Of course, all this unattainable if there is no message to deliver, no idea to suggest, no enriching meaning. In order to offer God my heart and soul, in order to serve Him inwardly, one thing is indispensible- understanding, the involvement of the logos.[61]

 

The Rav explains that an appreciation of the spiritual meaning of a mitzvah is essential, not only as a means of decreasing the rate of halakhic infraction but as facilitating the passion and spiritual connection that should characterise our avodat Hashem.

While these considerations are relevant to every generation, there is reason to believe that they are particularly essential in our own time. Writing about educational priorities in Hareidi schools, Jonathan Rosenbloom has warned that

 

[I]n our headlong pursuit of covering ever greater amounts of material in the classroom— which is too often the criterion by which our educational institutions compete—we have come to view middos development or explaining the deeper meaning of the mitzvos as something not quite serious, something "ba'al teshuvish."[62]

 

A failure to concentrate on such elements can lead to an erosion of halakhic commitment. In her study of formerly Orthodox Jews who had left the path of halakhic observance, Faranak Margolese enquired as to the level of spiritual enrichment that such Jews had experienced in the context of halakhic practice. Only 24 percent of respondents felt that their community had fostered spirituality while 56 percent declined to agree that “Orthodox Judaism will make you more spiritual.”[63] What this shows is that our community has been unsuccessful in communicating to its members the spiritual richness that can be found in a halakhic observance based on an appreciation of its underlying meaning. The Jewish poet, Roger Kamenetz, relates that a young woman once told him that “to her, Judaism is an old man saying no.”[64] Unless there is an appreciation for the positive values expressed through Jewish practice, halakhic observance will often seem like a set of arbitrary restrictions, dissociated from its true spiritual richness.

Having reflected on the importance of defining communal and individual objectives based on Torah values and understanding mitzvot in such a way that facilitates a committed and passionate observance, we must now reflect on the duty to measure one’s behavior against the standards of Jewish ethics. Referring to both Rav Amital’s observations of the contemporary Jewish scene and the Ramban’s aforementioned condemnation of an unspiritual life within halakhic boundaries, Marc Shapiro has commented insightfully on the occurrence of legal scandals amongst those purporting to be observant Jews:

 

A major problem we have is that it is often the case that all sorts of halakhic justifications can be offered for these illegal activities. One whose only focus is on halakhah, without any interest in the broad ethical underpinnings of Judaism, and the Ramban’s conception of Kedoshim Tihyu, can entirely lose his bearings and turn into a “scoundrel with Torah license.[65]

 

Shapiro’s comments are confirmed by Rosenblum’s description of the low priority accorded to middot development. He notes that such concerns tend to get “pushed toward the bottom of a crowded curriculum.” More fundamentally, Rosenblum bemoans the prevalent attitude that “developing good middos is treated as something primarily of concern for young children.”[66] A failure to inculcate a Torah approach to character beyond the stage of infancy is likely to perpetuate a society in which immoral and unspiritual behavior is overlooked due to a veneer of halakhic acceptability.

All the considerations we have discussed above constitute essential elements of a Torah life. They affect our standing before Hashem and apply independently of how they are perceived by other human beings. Nevertheless, there is no denying of the centrality of considerations of Kiddush Hashem (and its opposite) to our mandate as committed Jews or of its relevance to the matter at hand. We recall the warning of Chazal concerning the potential for those who claim fealty to Torah to bring the name of Hashem into disrepute:

 

He who studies Scripture and Mishnah and serves scholars, but is not honest in his business dealings and whose conversations with his fellow-beings are not calm. What do people say about such a person? “Woe to so-and-so for having learned Torah...”.[67]

 

Conversely, the potential exists to glorify the Torah and its Author:

 

The Name of Heaven shall become beloved through you; [this obligated a Jew to] study Scripture and Mishnah, serve scholars, conduct his business dealings honestly and converse with his fellow-beings in a calm manner. What do people say about such a person? “More power to his father who taught him Torah, more power to his teacher who taught him Torah, woe t those who did not learn Torah.”[68]

 

The concept of Kiddush Hashem incorporates a concern, not only for correct behavior but for how that behavior is perceived. Bnei Torah will not succeed in sanctifying the Name of Hashem if our way of life is seen to be lacking in moral rectitude and spiritual depth. When we read that 60 percent of formerly observant Jews interviewed by Margolese declined to affirm the position that “Orthodox Judaism will make you a better person,”[69] we must ask ourselves questions about the reputation of our community and how it is impacting on the reputation of Hashem.

In a powerful and candid article, Rabbi Ilan Feldman accounts for the decreasing tide of Kiruv in exactly these terms. While the goal of Torah observance is to give expression to the glorious spiritual nature of man, R Feldman notes that those who enter the observant Jewish community “will not necessarily discover giants at all”! R Feldman asks the reader to picture a committed family man who respects wisdom and volunteers for good causes joining a world in which Shabbat table talk assesses political candidates “purely on selfish concerns of the religious community, with little concern for their impact on broader society.” Such attitudes, while deeply problematic in their own right, are distinctly unattractive and, according to R Feldman, lie at the heart of the decreasing tide of kiruv in our generation.[70]

 

Conclusion

 

We have argued that both the philosophical position and the sociological attitude that limits Judaic norms to halakhic observance are inconsistent with numerous principles advanced by our great rabbis, from Talmudic times until the modern era. We have discussed the potential consequences of a failure to study, teach and implement Torah ideas relating to worldview, character development and standards of behavior that raise the bar higher than halakhic practice. Such neglect can lead to a lack of clarity in our own lives and those of our students and communities as to how our lives should be guided by the distinctive principles of a Torah worldview. In some cases, a mechanistic halakhic life, unconnected to a deeper sense of meaning and purpose, can lead to attrition from the ranks of the religiously committed. In the best case scenario, the mitzvah observance will lack the passion that is expected of one who has the privilege of fulfilling the ratson Hashem. As Ohavei Hashem, we yearn for a world in which humanity recognises the Chosen People as reflecting the highest ideals and the greatest wisdom. We will move closer to this goal when we complement our essential commitment to halakhic knowledge and practice with a concerted effort to learn, develop and disseminate a Torah understanding of how we can live our lives in the light of Hashem—leHagdil Torah u-leHadirah.

 

 

 

[1] Judaism, Human Values and the Jewish State (Harvard University Press, 1995), pp. 6–7. See also p. 88: “There is no specifically Jewish morality, no specifically Jewish politics, no specifically Jewish conception of society.”

2 See Rabbi Walter Wurzburger, Covenantal Imperatives (Urim, 2008), pp. 21, 34. Rabbi Eugene Korn (“Legal Floors and Moral Ceilings: A Jewish Understanding of Law and Ethics,” The Edah Journal, 2:2 (Tevet 5762=2002), p. 2) notes that this approach is also reflected in the Christian preference to translate the word “Torah” as law. Although Rabbi Wurzburger claims that Rabbi Avrohom Yeshaya Karelitz, the Chazon Ish, also subscribed to this view, Daniel Statman and Avi Sagi (“Divine Command Morality and the Jewish Tradition,” Journal of Religious Ethics, 23 (1995), pp. 47–48) have shown that this is not the only possible interpretation of his writings. For a corroboration of Statman and Sagi’s position, see Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, “Does Judaism Recognize an Ethic Independent of Halakhah,” in Leaves of Faith, the World of Jewish Learning, Volume 2, (Ktav, 2004), 38 and footnote 27 on p. 54.

 

[3] R. Yehuda Amital, Commitment and Complexity: Jewish Wisdom in an Age of Upheaval (Ktav, 2008), 48. For a similar view, see Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, “A Torah of Life, a Life of Torah,” http://vbm-torah.org/archive/sichot67/17-67yitro.htm, (Summer, 2001). R Lichtenstein refers to the attitude of some observant Jews to the effect that one can think, feel and do as he pleases, as long as he does not break any of the technical rules. See also Rabbi Marc Angel, “Re-imagining Orthodoxy,” Conversations 12 at http://www.jewishideas.org/min-hamuvhar/re-imagining-orthodoxy and Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo, “Correspondence: Eli Haddad and Rabbi Dr. Nathan Lopes Cardozo on Reviving the Halakhic Process,” Conversations 13 at http://www.jewishideas.org/articles/correspondence-eli-haddad-and-rabbi-dr-nathan-lopes.  

[4] Rabbi Micha Berger, “Teaching Mussar,” http://www.aishdas.org/asp/teaching-mussar, (August 4, 2001).

[5]The Covenant and Its Theology,” Meorot 9 (Tishrei 5772=2011), pp. 4–6.

[6] Mishlei 29:18. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks notes the irony that this verse is more often quoted by non-Jews than Jews (Future Tense (Hodder, London, 2009), 4).

[7] Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Matenot Aniyim 10:1.

[8]Rabbi Judah Goldberg, “Independence of Berit Avot and Its Interaction with Berit Sinai—Part 2,” http://www.vbm-torah.org/archive/sinai/07sinai.htm.

[9] Bereshit 18:19. In contradistinction to this reference to a narrative text, when presenting the obligation to give tsedaka, the Rambam quotes Devarim 15:8 which commands us to “certainly open your hand to [the poor person].” See Hilkhot Matenot Aniyim 8:10.

[10] Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, Collected Writings, (Jerusalem: Feldheim Publishers, 1997) , vol.7, 456.

[11] Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (translated by Isidor Grunfeld). Horeb: A Philosophy of Jewish Laws and Observances (London: Soncino Press, 1962), cxxiv. Although Dayan Grunfeld presents this as his own view, he understands this to be an accurate representation of the approach of R Hirsch. See also ibid., cxi.

[12] Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Man of Faith in the Modern World: Reflections of the Rav (Vol. 2), (Ktav Publishing House, Inc., 1989), 94.

[13] Family Redeemed: Essays on Family Relationships, ed. David Shatz and Joel B. Wolowelsky (New York: Toras HoRav Foundation-Ktav, 2000), 3-4. For an example of how Rav Soloveitchik developed a philosophy of man based on Bereshit and Shemot, see The Emergence of Ethical Man (Ktav Publishing House, Inc, 2005). For a strong advocacy and excellent exemplification of how Judaic values can be derived from Biblical and Talmudic sources, see Rabbi Nahum Rabinovitch, “The Way of Torah,” The Edah Journal, 3:1 (Shevat 5763), found at www.edah.org. This position is also supported by Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, “A Torah of Life, a Life of Torah.”

[14] See similarly, Sifrei Ekev, 49. For other examples of Hazal’s emphatic condemnation of failure to develop appropriate character traits, see Baba Metsia 85a and Baba Batra 10b.

[15] Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Deot 1:6. See similarly, Sefer HaMitzvot, Positive Mitzvah 8. For an articulation of the same basic position by the Rambam’s son, R Avraham, see Responsa Rabbi Abraham ben HaRambam, ed. A. H. Freimann (Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1937), no.63, pp. l 65–68.

[16] Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Teshuvah 7:3. See also Hilkhot Issurei Be’ah 19:17 where Rambam emphasises that mercy and kindness are characteristics that are essential for a Jew.

[17] Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, By His Light : Character and Values in the Service of God (Ktav Publishing House, 2002), 203.

[18] Sefer Hareidim, Chapter 9, Mitzvah 18.

[19] Even Shelemah, 1:11.

[20] Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Shi‘urim le-Zekher Abba Mori z”l (Jerusalem,

5745), 170. For a further excellent explication of the importance of performing mitzvot bein adam lechavero in a heartfelt manner and the implications of this for the way in which the mitzvah is observed, see Rabbi Binyamin Zimmerman, “Tsedaka—The Heart of the Mitzvah,” www.vbm-torah.org/archive/chavero3/20chavero.htm.The Importance of these considerations for the effective fulfilment of the mitzvoth in question is underscored by Rabbi Micha Berger who writes that his son, who suffers from Down’s Syndrome, tires of teens who come to entertain him on Shabbat. “At some point,” R. Berger writes, “he realises that the teen views him as a chesed project, rather than a real friend.” Rabbi Micha Berger, “Teaching Mussar.”

[21] Beis Yosef Shaul, Vol. 4 (R. Elchanan Adler, ed., 1994),“Ah yid iz ge’glichen tzu ah Sefer Torah” (A Jew is Compared to A Torah Scroll), pp. l 46–55 (Yiddish); “Ha’Yehudi mashul le’sefer Torah” (Hebrew translation by R. Shalom Carmy), pp. 86–95. See also Rav Soloveitchik, Shiurei haRav, p. 51. While Rav Soloveitchik underscores the importance of character for a proper observance of mitzvot, Rabbi Yisrael Salanter insists that its significance even applies in a case in which a person fails to observe the mitzvoth in question. The story is told that a businessman requested to purchase all of the books authored by Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan with the exception of Sefer Hafetz Haim. The man revealed that the pressures of his business made it difficult to avoid speaking negatively about others and he would rather not buy a work if he felt unable to comply with its directives. R. Kagan responded by referring to a comment that had been made to him by R. Yisrael Salanter: “If all you accomplish is to evoke one sigh from one Jew [who becomes aware of the prohibitions and cannot observe them], the work is worthwhile.” (This story is related by the author of the work, Erekh Apayim, in his introduction, as well as in that of R. David Kog’ah to his Dan L’Kaf Zekhut.)

[22] Marc Shapiro, “Responses to Comments and Elaborations on Previous Posts III,” http://seforim.blogspot.com/2009/09/marc-b-shapiro-responses-to-comments.html (August 29th, 2008).

[23] Ramban on Devarim 6:18. For similar observations of the impossibility of Torah legislation providing a comprehensive moral guide, see Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehudah Berlin, Ha-amek Davar to Shemot 19:6 and Rabbi Joseph Albo, Sefer Ha-Ikkarim 3:23. R. Albo’s position is discussed by Wurzburger, Covenantal Imperatives, 26.

[24] Guide for the Perplexed III:17. In a similar vein, Rabbenu Yehuda HeHasid writes in Sefer Hasidim 153: “We find that anyone who is able to understand [that something should be done] even though it is not commanded, is punished for not heeding.”

This approach to understanding reward and punishment is consistent with that of R. Nissim Gaon in his Introduction to the Talmud (printed in the Vilna Shas at the beginning of Berakhot) where he explains how it is possible for the nations of the world to be punished for failure to keep mitzvoth. R Nissim Gaon’s position is elucidated accordingly by R. Avraham Grodzinski in his Torat Avraham: “everything that the sechel of man is able to grasp, man is obligated to do and is punished for if he transgresses it, and according to its closeness to sechel, so the [level of] obligation and punishment increases, for dear is man who was created in the image of God, his wisdom is derived from Divine wisdom.” A similar view is expressed by Hizkuni who explains the punishment imposed on the generation of the flood:” There are several mitzvoth that people are obliged to fulfill by reason alone, even though they were not commanded to do so.” (Commentary to Bereshit 7:21). Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin in his introduction to Rabbi Yisrael Meir HaKohen Kagan’s Ahavat Chesed writes similarly that gentiles are obligated in mitzvothsichliyot—mitzvothwhich can be discerned through the intellect.

[25] Meiri, Shabbat 105b.

[26] See discussion by Dayan Grunfeld in his introduction to Horeb. See Isaac Heinemann, Taamei ha-mitzvothbe-sifrut Yisrael (Jerusalem: 1956, vol.2), 95 who notes that the terminology of inner and external revelation was already employed by R. Hirsch’s teacher, Isaac Bernays. For examples of Rav Hirsch’s approach and his support for a sensitivity to values, see his commentary to Devarim 6:18; Horeb, paragraph 325; Horeb, vol. 1, 219; Commentary on the Torah, Vayikra 18:4; Jeshurun, 1, 1914, 73ff.

This view is also represented by Rabbi Meir Simcha of Dvinsk in a lengthy piece near the end of his commentary on the Torah (Meshekh Chochma, Devarim 30:11). Rav Meir Simcha’s thesis is that man was created in the image of God with a sense of yashrut. When he refrains from overanalysing, man has an inner purified sense of justice and morality.

Rabbi Yaakov Kaminesky (Emet LeYaakov, Bereshit 14:14) affirms the same approach in his commentary to the story of Avraham and Lot. R. Kaminetsky writes that Avraham was not halakhically obligated to put himself at risk to save Lot. However, Hashem created man with the capacity to be upright (yashar) and, through Avraham’s understanding of upright behaviour and menschlichkeit, it was incumbent upon him to try to save Lot.

[27] Indeed, Rabbi Ovadia Bartneura at the beginning to his Commentary to Pirkei Avot rejects the possibility of moral intuition functioning as a source of Judaic ethics. According to Bartenura, Jewish moral wisdom is based on that which was revealed at Sinai. For other affirmations of this position, see Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, Iggrot Moshe, Orah Haim IV:66 and Rabbi Asher Weiss, Minchat Asher, Devarim (Machon Minchat Asher 5767), 360.

[28] Deuteronomy 28:10.

[29] Sotah 14a. For another example of extra legal norms based on divine conduct, see Berakhot 61a. This position is affirmed by R Yosef Albo in Sefer HaIkkarim III:5: “A man should understand and know that since I exercise kindness, justice and charity...from this he must understand that these things are desirable to me.”

[30] Sefer ha-mitzvot, positive commandment 8.

[31] Baba Kama 100a.

[32] Baba Metsia 24b, 30b.

[33] Baba Kama 99b.

[34] Ketuvot 97a. For another application of the principle of lifnim mishurat haDin, at least on Rashi’s understanding, see Baba Metsia 83a.

[35] Baba Metsia 30b.

[36] For an erudite discussion of lifnim mishurat hadin, see Rabbi Yehuda Levi, Torah Study (Feldheim Publishers, 1990), 80–83.

[37] Sam Derekh, Ha-yashar ve-hatov, Introduction. The approach of extrapolating from the principles underlying the mitzvoth sikhliyot (rational mitzvoth) to provide behavioural norms beyond that which is stipulated by halakha is also affirmed by R. Joseph Albo, Sefer Ha-Ikkarim 3:23 and Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, Ha’amek Davar, Devarim 5:30. See also Rabbi Asher Weiss, Minchat Asher, Devarim (Machon Minchat Asher 5767), 356. For a support of Ramban’s position by Rav Yeshayahu Shapiro, the Admor He-chalutz, see Nechama Leibowitz, Studies in Devarim (Haomanim Press, 1996), 63.

[38] Berakhot 12

[39] Kiddushin 59a; Sanhedrin 58b; Nedarim 22a.

[40] Rabbenu Bahya understands the following verses to command securing one’s need for food: “God blessed them and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, fill the land and subdue it. Behold, I have given you every seedbearing plant on the face of all the earth.” (Bereshit 1:28–29)

[41] Hovot Halevavot, Shaar Avodat Ha-Elokim, chapter 4.

[42] Hilkhot Melakhim 5:9.

[43] For further discussion of the significance of Rambam’s ruling here, see Rav Dr. Judah Goldberg, “Before Sinai: Jewish Values and Jewish Law, Shiur 7,” http://www.vbm-torah.org/archive/sinai/07sinai.htm. For another instance in which Rambam severely censors certain behavior while recognizing it as technically permissible, see Hilkhot Avadim 9:8.

[44] Hilkhot Teshuva 3:11.

[45] Kol Dodi Dofek: Listen—My Beloved Knocks, trans. David Z. Gordon, 99n.

[46] Ramban on Vayikra 19:2. For additional comments from Ramban on the imperative to abide by Judaic values in addition to halakhic compliance, see Commentary to Vayikra 23:24 and to Devarim 21:18.

[47] Despite the importance of these concepts to Ramban and others, it is these very concepts which are often downplayed in contemporary Orthodox life. As R. Amital writes (ibid): “Many of the fundamental values of the Torah which are based on the general commandments of "You shall be holy" (Vayikra 19:2) and "You shall do what is upright and good in the eyes of God" (Devarim 6:18), which were not given formal, operative formulation, have not only lost some of their status, but they have also lost their validity in the eyes of a public that regards itself as committed to Halakha.”

[48] Shaarei Teshuvah 3:172.

[49] This is noted and discussed by R Yehuda Levi in Torah Study, p. l 78.

[50] As discussed in the footnote 25, the view that the avot are exemplars of ethical behavior transcending halakhic observance is also found in the writings of Rabbi Yaakov Kaminetsky. The idea that the avot conducted themselves according to yashrut is, according to R. Kaminetsky, the meaning of the phrase “derekh erets kadma laTorah.”

[51] Rabbi Yehuda Levi, Facing Current Challenges, (Hemed Books, 1998), 397.

[52] Seymour Fox, “Toward a General Theory of Jewish Education,” in The Future of the American Jewish Community, ed. David Sidorsky (New York: Basic Books, 1973), pp. l  260–270. Lest the reader suspect that this evaluation is outdated, it is of interest to know that Rabbi Jeffrey Saks reported in 2003 that Fox’s assessment resonated strongly with a group of Modern Orthodox educators associated with the Atid organisation, see Jeffrey Saks, “Spiritualizing Halakhic Education: A Case Study in Modern Orthodox Teacher Development,” (Mandel Foundation, 2003).

[53] JT Peah 1:1.

[54] Jonathan Boyd, “What Kind of Jewish Grandchildren Will We Have?,” http://jewish-peoplehood.blogspot.com/2011/10/what-kind-of-jewish-grandchildren-will.html (October 2011).

[55] This is the conclusion of the Volunteering and Values study of the Repair the World Foundation. The study can be accessed at http://www.brandeis.edu/cmjs/pdfs/VolunteeringValuesReport.Final.pdf. Indeed, the recent Pew Report revealed that there are many more Jews who believe that having a good sense of humour is essential to being Jewish (42 percent) than there are those who believe that being a part of a Jewish community is essential to being Jewish (28 percent)!

[56] Yehudah Mirsky, “Tikkun Olam’s Practical Meaning and Potential Significance,” http://www.jewishideas.org/articles/tikkun-olams-practical-meaning-and-potential-signif (January 2009); For corroborations of this view, see Leslie Lenkowsky, “Where Have All the Volunteers Gone?,” http://www.jidaily.com/42834 (July 2011) , Levi Cooper, “The Assimilation of Tikkun Olam,” Jewish Political Studies Review 25, no.3–4 (Fall 2014) at http://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=2385947 and Hillel Halkin, “How Not to Repair the World,” Commentary (January 2008) at http://www.jidaily.com/iRoiv.

 

[57] For an affirmation of the potency of focusing on Jewish values when reaching out to uncommitted Jews, see Scot A. Berman, “ “So What!?!”: Talmud Study Through Values Analysis,” Ten Da'at, vol. 10, 1, 1997, pp. 17–31, http://www.lookstein.org/articles/talmud_values.htm#fn5.

[58] For an eloquent support of this approach, see R. Yitzhak Hutner, Pahad Yitzhak, Iggerot u-Mikhtavim (New York: Gur Aryeh, 1998), no. 94, pp. l 184–185.

 

[59] Faranak Margolese, Off the Derech, (Devora Publishing, 2009), 203. For an impassioned call for the application of Judaic values to contemporary social problems, see Rabbi Immanuel Jakobovits, Journal of a Rabbi (Living Books, 1966), 6

[60] Aharon Hersh Fried, “Is There a Disconnect between Torah Learning and Torah Living? And If So, How Can We Connect Them? A Focus on Middos,” p. l 32 at http://www.hakirah.org/Vol percent206 percent20Fried.pdf. In a similar vein, Rabbi Yitzchak Berkowtiz has spoken of the need to emphasise positive values when educating newly observant Jews about halakha - see http://www.jewishmediaresources.com/1346/tapping-into-their-idealism .

 

 

[61] Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Out of the Whirlwind: Essays on Mourning, Suffering and the Human Condition (Ktav Publishing House, Inc., 2003) 44. For a similar idea, see Derashot Ha-Ran, Derasha 5.

 

[62] Jonathan Rosenblum, “Tapping into Their Idealism,” Mishpacha Magazine (February 14, 2010)  from http://www.jewishmediaresources.com/1346/tapping-into-their-idealism.

 

[63] Off the Derech, p. 390.

 

[64] Roger Kaminetz, The Jew in the Lotus, (HarperOne, 2007) 48.

[65] Marc Shapiro, “Responses to Comments and Elaborations of Previous Posts III,”http://seforim.blogspot.com/2009/09/marc-b-shapiro-responses-to-comments.html. In the same post, Shapiro writes: “One of the most important themes in [Rabbi Yechiel Yaakov] Weinberg’s writings is the fact that there are people in the Orthodox community who, while completely halakhic, are ethically challenged.” For a similar view, see Rabbi Efrem Goldberg “Just Because it is Permissible, Doesn’t Mean it is Right,” http://rabbisblog.brsonline.org/just-permissible-doesnt-mean-right/ (January, 2013). The failure to meet Torah standards often extends beyond the realm of ethics into other areas of life. That our halakhic observance has not been matched by an appropriate attitude toward the spiritual life has been noted by Rabbi Yitzchak Adlerstein who writes: "We have managed to avoid pig in our foods, but not pigging-out in our tastes for comfort, convenience and entertainment." (Tradition, Symposium: The Sea Change in American Orthodox Judaism).

[66] Jonathan Rosenblum, “Dr. Middos is Not Just for Kids,” http://www.cross-currents.com/archives/2011/08/03/dr-middos-is-not-just-for-kids/.

 

[67] Yoma 86a.

[68] Ibid.

[69] Off the Derech, p. 390.

[70] Rabbi Ilan Feldman, “Why the Giant Sleeps,” The Klal Perspectives Journal, (December 2012), http://klalperspectives.org/rabbi-ilan-feldman/.

Traditional and Academic Tanakh Study: Opportunities and Challenges

 

 

            Tanakh lies at the heart and soul of Judaism. The Talmud and Midrash, Jewish philosophy and mysticism, and Jewish thought all find their deepest roots in the Bible. For millennia, Jews and other faith communities have been transformed by this unparalleled collection of 24 books. Tanakh is accessible and enjoyable to small children and to the most sophisticated scholars and thinkers. It is a singular privilege to encounter its sacred words, to engage with its eternal messages, and to be galvanized to greater ethical and social action and spiritual growth as a result of our study.[1]

            From the perspective of contemporary religious students of Tanakh, we have remarkable opportunities today. Scholars publish critical editions of our classical commentators so that we have access to the most accurate texts from our greatest teachers. Scholars discover and publish previously obscure rabbinic works, enabling us to broaden our understanding of the range of interpretation in the classical period. They also advance the field of biblical study in areas including, but not limited to, literary analysis, archaeology and history, and linguistics. The information readily available in books, online resources, and classes is breathtaking.

            At the same time, however, these opportunities also pose serious challenges to our enterprise. How do we balance this flood of knowledge and methodology with the fact that many scholars in the field are not Orthodox Jews and therefore bring their own assumptions and biases to their work? Are there means for sorting through which information and methodology is beneficial for our religious growth and which must be discarded or modified? Ultimately, the litmus test of success for our study of Tanakh is that it deepens our religious commitments and inspires us to greater ethical behavior. How do we shape the contours of this discussion to maximize those benefits and characterize that process with intellectual honesty and integrity?

When we learn and teach Tanakh properly, we convey a sense of holiness and reverence, coupled with respect for individuality and intellectual struggle with our most sacred texts and traditions. Tanakh has the singular ability to inspire and edify people of all ages and backgrounds. The potent combination of rabbinic commentary and contemporary scholarship enables our minds, hearts, and souls to complement one another in a holistic spiritual and intellectual experience. The maturation of sophisticated Tanakh study provides us with a system with which to navigate the complicated contours of scholarship and religious growth. Rabbis and educators have the immense responsibility to sort through available information, commentaries, and methodologies in order to steer the discussion for the benefit of the community.

In theory, the text analysis in the yeshivah and the academy could be identical, since both engage in the quest for truth. The fundamental difference between the two is that in the yeshivah, we study Tanakh as a means to understanding revelation as the expression of God’s will. The scholarly conclusions we reach impact directly on our lives and our religious worldview. In the academy, on the other hand, truth is pursued as an intellectual activity for its own sake, usually as an end in itself. There also are no accompanying beliefs in the revelation of the text.

The ostensible conflicts between traditional and academic scholarship have led some scholars, including several who identify with the Orthodox community, to conclude that traditional faith is incompatible with scholarship. This supposition has led some to reject traditional belief outright, or to radically redefine faith to make it compatible with their scholarly conclusions, or to radically reinterpret classical sources in an attempt to justify such paradigm shifts as being within tradition. These positions have led to counter-reactions in some Orthodox circles that adopt excessively dogmatic and restrictive positions to prohibit scholarly inquiry or peshat learning altogether. Both sides may be motivated by a profound and authentic religious desire to connect to God and the Torah, but they distort aspects of tradition and create dangerous and unnecessary rifts between us.

In Ad HaYom HaZeh, Rabbi Amnon Bazak, one of the bright stars at Yeshivat Har Etzion and its affiliated Herzog College, offers a sophisticated understanding of Tanakh and our faith axioms while simultaneously being fully open to contemporary scholarship. Addressing the fact that many in the Orthodox world disregard contemporary academic scholarship, Rabbi Bazak offers three reasons why such willful ignorance is inexcusable: (1) On educational grounds these issues are widely publicized, and therefore rabbis and religious educators must be able to address them intelligently. (2) Many of the questions are genuine, and must be taken seriously on scholarly grounds. (3) We often gain a better understanding of Tanakh with the aid of contemporary scholarship.

Rabbi Bazak’s central premise is that we must distinguish between facts and compelling tools of analysis, which must be considered in our learning; and the assumptions of scholars, which we reject when they conflict with traditional beliefs. Rabbi Bazak argues that nothing based on facts forces one to choose between faith and scholarship.[2]

The growing popularity of what Rabbi Shalom Carmy calls the “literary-theological” approach to Tanakh study has been transforming the way we approach our most sacred texts. This methodology demands a finely tuned text reading, along with a focus on the religious significance of the passage. The premises of this approach include: (1) Oral Law and classical commentaries are central to the way we understand the revealed word of God, and (2) it is vital to study biblical passages in their literary and historical context.[3]

Over the past two centuries, analysis of literary tools, comparative linguistics, and the discovery of a wealth of ancient texts and artifacts have contributed immensely to our understanding the rich tapestry and complexity of biblical texts. Much also has improved since the 1970s as a result of the literary revolution in biblical scholarship. After generations of dissecting the Torah and the rest of Tanakh, many Bible scholars have recognized that the Torah and later biblical books can be analyzed effectively as unified texts. Every word is valuable. Passages are multilayered. Understanding the interplay between texts is vital.

Great traditional scholars of the previous generation such as the authors and editors of the Da’at Mikra commentary series,[4] Professor Nehama Leibowitz,[5] and Rabbi Mordechai Breuer,[6] exemplified different aspects of how one could benefit from the information and methodology of academic Bible scholarship through the prism of traditional faith. Similarly, the prolific writings of leading contemporary rabbinic scholars such as Yoel Bin‑Nun,[7] Elhanan Samet,[8] and Shalom Carmy[9] are intellectually and spiritually stimulating, as they benefit from the academy while working from the viewpoint of the yeshivah.[10]

The ideal learning framework espouses traditional beliefs and studies as a means to a religious end while striving for intellectual openness and honesty. Reaching this synthesis is difficult, since it requires passionate commitment alongside an effort to be detached while learning in order to refine knowledge and understanding.

To benefit from contemporary biblical scholarship properly, we first must understand our own tradition—to have a grasp of our texts, assumptions, and the range of traditional interpretations. This educational process points to a much larger issue. For example, studying comparative religion should be broadening. However, people unfamiliar with their own tradition, or who know it primarily from non-traditional teachers or textbooks, will have little more than a shallow basis for comparison.

Religious scholarship benefits from contemporary findings—both information and methodology. Outside perspectives prod us to be more critical in our own learning. On the other side of the equation, the academy stands to benefit from those who are heirs to thousands of years of tradition, who approach every word of Tanakh with awe and reverence, and who care deeply about the intricate relationship between texts.[11] The academy also must become more aware of its own underlying biases.[12]

 

Ultimately, we must recognize the strengths and weaknesses in the approaches of the yeshivah and the academy. By doing so, we can study the eternal words of Tanakh using the best of classical and contemporary scholarship. This process gives us an ever-refining ability to deepen our relationship with God, the world community, and ourselves. It also enables us to build bridges within our community.

Dr. Norman Lamm has set the tone for this inquiry:

 

Torah is a “Torah of truth,” and to hide from the facts is to distort that truth into myth.… It is this kind of position which honest men, particularly honest believers in God and Torah, must adopt at all times, and especially in our times. Conventional dogmas, even if endowed with the authority of an Aristotle—ancient or modern—must be tested vigorously. If they are found wanting, we need not bother with them. But if they are found to be substantially correct, we may not overlook them. We must then use newly discovered truths the better to understand our Torah—the “Torah of truth.”[13]

 

The eternally relevant vision of the Torah and prophets is available for the taking. What we make of the journey is up to us, to learn and transform, and work on building the ideal self and society envisioned by our prophetic tradition as we develop our own relationships between God and humanity through the inspired words of Tanakh.

Our early morning daily liturgy challenges us: “Ever shall a person be God-fearing in secret as in public, with truth in his heart as on his lips.” May we be worthy of pursuing that noble combination.

 

 

[1] Some of this article is adapted from Hayyim Angel, Editor’s Introduction in Where the Yeshiva Meets the University: Traditional and Academic Approaches to Tanakh Study, ed. Hayyim Angel. Conversations 15 (Winter 2013), pp. v–vii; Hayyim Angel, “The Yeshivah and the Academy: How We Can Learn from One Another in Biblical Scholarship,” in Angel, Revealed Texts, Hidden Meanings: Finding the Religious Significance in Tanakh (Jersey City, NJ: Ktav-Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2009), pp. 19–29; reprinted in Peshat Isn’t So Simple: Essays on Developing a Religious Methodology to Bible Study (New York: Kodesh Press, 2014), pp. 28–35; Conversations 20 (Fall 2014), pp. 91–97.

[2] See R. Amnon Bazak, Ad HaYom HaZeh: Until This Day: Fundamental Questions in Bible Teaching (Hebrew), ed. Yoshi Farajun (Tel Aviv: Yediot Aharonot, 2013). See also review essay of Hayyim Angel, “Faith and Scholarship Can Walk Together: Rabbi Amnon Bazak on the Challenges of Academic Bible Study in Traditional Learning,” Tradition 47:3 (Fall 2014), pp. 78–88.

[3] R. Shalom Carmy, “A Room with a View, but a Room of Our Own,” in Modern Scholarship in the Study of Torah: Contributions and Limitations, ed. Shalom Carmy (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson Inc., 1996), pp. 1–38.

[4] After completing the series, two of its leading contributors and editors, Yehudah Kiel and Amos Hakham, wrote a short book describing the history and goals of the series, Epilogue to the Da’at Mikra Commentary (Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Keter, 2003).

[5] For more on her work, see especially Yael Unterman, Nehama Leibowitz: Teacher and Bible Scholar (Jerusalem: Urim, 2009); Pirkei Nehama: Nehama Leibowitz Memorial Volume (Hebrew), ed. Moshe Ahrend, Ruth Ben-Meir, and Gavriel H. Cohn (Jerusalem: Eliner Library, The Joint Authority for Jewish Zionist Education, Department for Torah and Culture in the Diaspora, 2001); Hayyim Angel, Review Essay: “Pirkei Nehama: Nehama Leibowitz Memorial Volume: The Paradox of Parshanut: Are Our Eyes on the Text, or on the Commentators?” Tradition 38:4 (Winter 2004), pp. 112–128; reprinted in Angel, Through an Opaque Lens (New York: Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2006), pp. 56–76; revised second edition (New York: Kodesh Press, 2013), pp. 39–59; Peshat Isn’t So Simple: Essays on Developing a Religious Methodology to Bible Study (New York: Kodesh Press, 2014), pp. 36–57; Conversations 21 (Winter 2015), pp. 127–144.

[6] For analysis of R. Breuer’s method, see R. Amnon Bazak, Ad HaYom HaZeh, pp. 109–139; R. Shalom Carmy, “Concepts of Scripture in Mordechai Breuer,” in Jewish Concepts of Scripture: A Comparative Introduction, ed. Benjamin D. Sommer (New York: New York University Press, 2012), pp. 267–279; R. Meir Ekstein, “Rabbi Mordechai Breuer and Modern Orthodox Biblical Commentary,” Tradition 33:3 (Spring 1999), pp. 6–23. For a collection of R. Breuer’s articles on his methodology, and important responses to his work, see The Theory of Aspects of Rabbi Mordechai Breuer (Hebrew), ed. Yosef Ofer (Alon Shevut: Tevunot, 2005). For case studies of R. Breuer’s methodology, see especially R. Breuer’s Pirkei Mo’adot (Jerusalem: Horev, 1989), Pirkei Bereshit (Alon Shevut: Tevunot, 1998), and Pirkei Mikra’ot (Alon Shevut: Tevunot, 2009).

[7] For an overview of R. Bin-Nun’s methodology, including citations to many of his published articles through 2006, see Hayyim Angel, “Torat Hashem Temima: The Contributions of Rav Yoel Bin-Nun to Religious Tanakh Study,” Tradition 40:3 (Fall 2007), pp. 5–18; reprinted in Angel, Revealed Texts, Hidden Meanings: Finding the Religious Significance in Tanakh (Jersey City, NJ: Ktav-Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2009), pp. 30–47.

[8] Iyyunim be-Parashot ha-Shavua (series 1, 2, and 3), ed. Ayal Fishler (Ma’aleh Adumim: Ma’aliyot, 2002, 2004, 2012). For an overview of R. Samet’s methodology, see Hayyim Angel, “Review of Rabbi Elhanan Samet, Iyyunim be-Parashot ha‑Shavua,” in Angel, Through an Opaque Lens (New York: Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2006), pp. 21–33; revised second edition (New York: Kodesh Press, 2013), pp. 6–18. See also R. Samet’s books, Pirkei Eliyahu (Ma’aleh Adumim: Ma’aliyot, 2003), Pirkei Elisha (Ma’aleh Adumim: Ma’aliyot, 2007), Iyyunim BeMizmorei Tehillim (Tel Aviv: Yediot Aharonot, 2012). Many of his articles are archived in English translation at the Virtual Beit Midrash of Yeshivat Har Etzion, at http://www.vbm-torah.org.

[9] R. Carmy gives an overview of his own methodology in “A Room with a View, but a Room of Our Own,” in Modern Scholarship in the Study of Torah: Contributions and Limitations, ed. Shalom Carmy (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1996), pp. 1–38. See also especially his “To Get the Better of Words: An Apology for Yir’at Shamayim in Academic Jewish Studies,” Torah U-Madda Journal 2 (1990), pp. 7–24; “Always Connect,” in Where the Yeshiva Meets the University: Traditional and Academic Approaches to Tanakh Study, ed. Hayyim Angel, Conversations 15 (Winter 2013), pp. 1–12. For a bibliography of his published writings through 2012, see Rav Shalom Banayikh: Essays Presented to Rabbi Shalom Carmy by Friends and Students in Celebration of Forty Years of Teaching, ed. Hayyim Angel and Yitzchak Blau (Jersey City, NJ: Ktav, 2012), pp. 403–414.

[10] For further discussion and references, see Hayyim Angel, “The Literary-Theological Study of Tanakh,” afterword to Moshe Sokolow, Tanakh: An Owner’s Manual: Authorship, Canonization, Masoretic Text, Exegesis, Modern Scholarship and Pedagogy (Brooklyn, NY: Ktav, 2015), pp. 192–207; reprinted in Angel, Peshat Isn’t So Simple: Essays on Developing a Religious Methodology to Bible Study (New York: Kodesh Press, 2014), pp. 118–136.

[11] Cf. William H. C. Propp: “Generations of Bible students are taught that the goal of criticism is to find contradiction as a first not a last resort, and to attribute every verse, nay every word, to an author or editor. That is what we do for a living. But the folly of harmonizing away every contradiction, every duplication, is less than the folly of chopping the text into dozens of particles or redactional levels. After all, the harmonizing reader may at least recreate the editors’ understanding of their product. But the atomizing reader posits and analyzes literary materials whose existence is highly questionable” (Anchor Bible 2A: Exodus 19–40 [New York: Doubleday, 2006], p. 734). At the conclusion of his commentary, Propp explains that he often consulted medieval rabbinic commentators precisely because they saw unity in the composite whole of the Torah (p. 808). See also Michael V. Fox: “Medieval Jewish commentary has largely been neglected in academic Bible scholarship, though a great many of the ideas of modern commentators arose first among the medievals, and many of their brightest insights are absent from later exegesis” (Anchor Bible 18A: Proverbs 1–9 [New York: Doubleday, 2000], p. 12).

[12] See R. Yitzchak Blau, “Reading Morality Out of the Bible,” Bekhol Derakhekha Da’ehu 29 (2014), pp. 7–13.

[13] R. Norman Lamm, Faith and Doubt: Studies in Traditional Jewish Thought (New York: Ktav, 1971), pp. 124–125.

Dis/Obedience to Military Orders: A Biblical, Talmudic, Midrashic, and Exegetical Analysis of an All-Too Contemporary Question

 

Prologue

 

From time immemorial, soldiers on the front lines have borne the burden of carrying out orders that are issued by senior officers from the relative safety of the rear echelon. When those orders are illegal, or of an ambiguous moral nature (think Nuremberg and My Lai), who bears the responsibility for their consequences?

This article is adapted, unabashedly, from a thoughtful article by the late Professor Moshe Greenberg of the Hebrew University, a renowned scholar of Tanakh, Parshanut, and the ancient Near East, entitled: “Rabbinic Reflections on Defying Illegal Orders,” in Menachem M. Kellner (ed.) Contemporary Jewish Ethics (NY, 1978), 211–220. I have added sources here and there and, of course, the pedagogical adaptation is entirely original. I alone bear the responsibility for the presentation of the sources and for the conclusions drawn from them.

 

A Word about Methodology

 

Our Sages describe the highly selective nature of biblical history as nevu’ah she-hutzrekha le-dorot: prophecy that is required for eternity (BT Megillah 14a). According to this principle, only those events that were to have everlasting meaning and application were recorded in Tanakh, whereas other, ostensibly more idiosyncratic, events were omitted. In other words, prophetic foresight enables us to draw not just inspiration, but practical advice from the deeds—and, yes, misdeeds!—of our ancestors.

            Just as the talmudic sages and medieval exegetes judged the evidence of the biblical text and applied it to their own circumstances, so too must we evaluate the evidence of their interpretations and attempt to extract from them the guidance we seek. Sometimes our situations are sufficiently similar that we can adopt their suggestions wholesale. At other times, however, and despite the overall sameness in our underlying human conditions, we can take their suggestions only as foundations upon which we must then construct our own edifices. I trust that I have built prudently.

 

Synopsis[1]

 

As King David lies dying (1 Kings 2), he instructs his son, Solomon, to settle old scores with Joab ben Zeruiah (vs. 5) and Shimei ben Gera (vs. 8). When Joab hears that Adonijah, whose candidacy for king he supported (1 Kings 1:7), has failed to secure the throne, he realizes that his life is forfeit and he seeks sanctuary in the "Tent."[2] He is brought before King Solomon and charged with the murders of Abner ben Ner (2 Samuel 3:27) and Amasa ben Yeter (op. cit., 20:10). According to the "peshat" of the Book of Kings, Joab is immediately and unceremoniously executed by Benayahu ben Yehoyada (vs. 34). Talmudic Aggadah, however, has Solomon bring Joab to trial where he successfully defends himself against both murder charges. Instead, he is eventually executed on a third charge—namely, his collaboration in the unsuccessful coup staged by Adonijah.

The core of this essay is an examination of Joab’s defense in which the element of obedience to the orders of a superior officer plays a pivotal role.

 

Exhibit One: Joab’s Trial

 

Sanhedrin 49a:

[Solomon] brought Joab to trial and said to him: Why did you kill Abner? He replied: I was avenging [my brother] Asael.[3] Wasn’t Asael in pursuit of Abner?[4] Abner could have saved himself by wounding Asael in one of his limbs [he needn’t have killed him]. Perhaps he was not able to do so? Since Abner was able to strike him at the fifth rib[5] ...he could have just wounded him.

 

[Solomon] said: Let us leave [the subject of] Abner. Why did you kill Amasa? [Joab] replied: Because Amasa committed treason against the king. “The king [David] ordered Amasa to summon all the men of Judah in three days’ time... Amasa went to summon them and tarried” (2 Samuel 20: 4 ff.). [Solomon] said: Amasa construed the “but’s and only’s.”[6] He found them engaged in [religious] study and reasoned: [The Israelites promised Joshua] “Whoever contradicts you or disobeys you, whatever you command, shall die” (Joshua 1: 18). Does that include [disagreement on account of] Torah study? The verse states: “Only [rak] be firm and resolute” (op. cit., vs. 7).

 

[So why was Joab executed?] He was a traitor, as it states: “The news reached Joab who had sided with Adonijah, although not with Absalom” (1 Kings 2:28).

                                                                                   

Elaboration:

 

The right of a leader to expect obedience to his instructions is not granted expressly in the Torah;[7] it derives from a specific historical precedent. After the death of Moses, the Israelites swore their allegiance to Joshua and promised to punish any disobedience to his command. This pledge, however, was not a blank check. Through their reference to “Only be firm and resolute” (rak hazak ve-ematz; the “but’s and only’s” cited above), they reveal to us our first important insight into the halakhot of obedience: A leader is expressly prohibited from requiring obedience in violation of Torah law.

NOTE: The Talmud accepts Joab’s claim vis-à-vis Abner, but rejects his claim against Amasa by justifying Amasa’s delay. Nevertheless, it prosecutes Joab on the separate charge of treason. The conclusion appears to be that while he was morally guilty vis-à-vis Abner and Amasa, he was not legally culpable.

 

Exhibit Two: Abner, Amasa, and Disobedience

 

Abner and Amasa, ironically, play a critical role in the talmudic derivation of the halakhic principles of obedience to orders.

In 1 Samuel 22:17, Saul commands his servants to kill the kohanim of Nob because they had aided and abetted David in his escape. The soldiers refuse to shed the blood of “servants of the LORD,” so Saul turns the task over to Doeg the Edomite who has no such compunctions and kills them.

The Talmud Yerushalmi (Sanhedrin 29a) asks:

 

Who were those servants [who refused the order]? Rabbi Samuel ben Isaac said: They were Abner and Amasa. They said to Saul: If we owe you anything besides these belts and coats [their uniforms and insignia?], take them back!

 

The Talmud Bavli (Sanhedrin 20a), however, has certain reservations about their conduct:

 

Rabbi Judah said in Rav’s name: Why did Abner meet an untimely death? Because he failed to take a stand against Saul. Rabbi Isaac said: He took a stand, but he was overruled.

 

Elaboration:

 

Abner’s death at the hands of Joab is his just desserts for his failure to assume a more vigorous opposition to the murder of the kohanim of Nov. This provides us with our second important insight into the halakhot of obedience: It may not be sufficient to abstain from obeying an illegal order; you might have to offer more than your resignation.

Indeed, the Talmud (Shabbat 55a), in elaborating on Ezekiel 9:4 (“Go through the streets of Jerusalem and place a mark on the foreheads of all who sigh and groan over the abominations committed in her”), makes the point that it is not enough to refrain from committing evil when one can also take a determined stand against it.

 

Exhibit Three: Joab and DisobedienceA Contrast

 

Given the aggadic penchant for validating the aphorism, “According to the measure that one metes out so is it meted out to him,” we should not be surprised to discover that the disobedience that goes around comes around. The same talmudic passage with which we began (Sanhedrin 49a), continues:

 

God brought [Joab’s] guilt down upon his own head for having struck down two more righteous and better men than he [i.e., Abner and Amasa]. Better, in that they construed the “but’s and only’s,” while he did not. More righteous, in that they refused a command that came orally, while he obeyed a command that came in writing.

 

Elaboration:

 

Whereas Abner and Amasa defied a questionable command that, by virtue of its verbal nature, carried an inherent note of ambiguity (and, thereby, could have provided them with “cover” should they have chosen to obey it), Joab failed to defy a written order (which contains no such uncertainty and therefore offers no acceptable alternative to disobedience)to place Uriah the Hittite in the line of fire.

 

Exhibit Four: Crime and Agency

 

The Talmud in Kiddushin (43a) stipulates:

 

If one commissions an agent to commit murder and he complies, the agent is guilty and the principal is exempt. Shammai the Elder said in the name of the prophet Haggai, the principal is guilty, as it states [of David, regarding Uriah]: “You slew Uriah… by the sword… and killed him by the sword of the Ammonites” (2 Samuel 12:9).

 

Elaboration:

 

Given their negative assessment of Joab’s morality (see Exhibit Three), why do the Sages not rebuke him openly for his complicity in Uriah’s death by applying Shammai’s principle[8] that every individual bears responsibility for his own deeds and cannot abrogate that responsibility by arguing that he was only “following orders”?  The contemplation of this question leads us to our third and final observation on the halakhot of obedience: The rule of delegated responsibility stops short of the throne.

Just above, we cited the verse: “You slew Uriah… by the sword… and killed him by the sword of the Ammonites” (2 Samuel 12:9).  R. David Kimhi (Radak; Provence, 1160–1235), commenting on the ostensible redundancy (“slew...killed”), notes that soldierseven commandersin the heat of battle, are entitled to take for granted that their commander-in-chief, the king, has done the necessary values clarification and they may therefore assume, implicitly, that any order he gives is legal:

 

   You slew him: As though you had slain him [personally] by instructing Joab to place him in harm's way. You killed him: [Why the repetition?] You have compounded the felony by having him slain by the Ammonites, the enemies of Israel.

   Our Sages have said: Although the universal rule is, "there is no agency for the commission of a crime" and in every case the agentand not the principalis culpable, here the situation differs since the verse calls [David] a killer. Why is this? Since he was the king and his word was law, it is as though he did the killing himself. Similarly, when Saul ordered the killing of the kohanim of Nov, it was as though he killed them himself.

   Generally, a person should refrain from following the king's orders in such a case. We have explained, apropos of "Anyone who defies your word shall die" (Joshua 1:18), that this does not include the commission of a crime, as the verse states: "Only" [be firm and resolute; i.e., excluding instructions that violate Torah law].

   Not everyone, however, is capable of construing "but's" and "only's." The onus [punishment], therefore, is on the king.

 

Exhibit Five: What Goes Around…

 

The principle of royal responsibility articulated by Radak takes on additional significance when viewed in the context of David and Joab’s later interaction in a comparable situation. According to 2 Samuel 24:1 ff. (and 1 Chronicles 21:1 ff.), David is induced to commission a census of Israel and instructs Joab to carry it out. The text of 2 Samuel 24: 1–4 reports:

 

And again the anger of God was kindled against Israel, and He moved David against them, saying: 'Go, number Israel and Judah'. And the king said to Joab the captain of the host that was with him: 'Go now to and fro through all the tribes of Israel, from Dan even to Beersheba, and number the people, that I may know the sum of the people.'

And Joab said unto the king: 'Now the Lord thy God add unto the people, how many they may be, a hundredfold, and may the eyes of my lord the king see it; but why doth my lord the king delight in this thing?' Notwithstanding, the king's word prevailed against Joab, and against the captains of the host. And Joab and the captains of the host went out from the presence of the king, to number the people of Israel.

 

Joab initially opposes the mission, saying, according to 2 Samuel: “What do you need it for?” (lamah hafetz ba-davar ha-zeh) and adding, according to 1 Chronicles: “Why cause Israel guilt? (lamah yihyeh le-ashmah le-Yisrael). This clearly implies that while Joab ultimately submitted to the order on account of the rule of royal responsibility (va-yehezak devar ha-melekh el Yoav), he, again, recognizes its essential illegality or, at least, impropriety.[9] While Abner and Amasa, in a similar situation (see Exhibit Two), tendered their resignations to Saul; Joab, as was his wont, abdicated his moral responsibility albeit remaining strictly within the limits of the letter of the law.

 

Epilogue

 

The sources we have presented indicate that the responsibility for ensuring that orders issued to frontline soldiers are legal and moral belongs, foremost, to the king in his capacity as Commander-in-Chief. Officers of lower grades—including the Chief of Staff!—may assume his orders to be proper, particularly if they are in the heat of battle and lack the necessary leisure to evaluate them on their own. However, if they definitively know a particular order to be illegal or immoral, they must refuse to carry it out and, if necessary, suffer the consequences of their disobedience to the point of surrendering their commissions. In some cases, given the patently egregious nature of the illegal order, they must also protest it publicly.

 

Operative/Normative Conclusions

 

In conclusion, we cite several "codifications" of the laws of military obedience.

 

  1. Rambam Hilkhot Melakhim (3:9):

Whoever defies a royal order on account of preoccupation with mitzvot, even of a minor variety, is not culpable. When the master and the servant both speak, the master's words take precedence. It goes without saying [however] that if the king commanded that a mitzvah be annulled, he is not to be obeyed.

 

  1. HaRav Shelomo Min-HaHar: Dinei Tzava U-Milhamah (Laws pertaining to the army and warfare, #28):

The regulations of the General Staff and the Military Rabbinate are available to assist soldiers in all cases. According to regulations, orders that contravene halakha are invalid.

 

  1. U.S. Dept. Of the Army, Field Manual: The Law of Land Warfare 182:

[Military courts are admonished] to take into consideration the fact that obedience to lawful orders is the duty of every member of the armed forces; that the latter cannot be expected, in conditions of war discipline, to weigh scrupulously the legal merits of the orders received.

 

  1. The American Law Institute: Model Penal Code, Military Orders (2.10):

It is an affirmative defense that the actor, in engaging in the conduct charged to constitute an offense, does no more than execute an order of his superior in the armed forces which he does not know to be unlawful.

 

 

Practical Pedagogy

Have students consider the following questions while preparing the sources:

 

Re: 1 Kings 2:28 ff.:

On what charge is Joab is condemned to death?

How did Joab think to evade his fate?

Why was he unsuccessful?

 

Re: Sanhedrin 49a:

How does Joab justify his killing of Abner?

Of Amasa?

What is Solomon’s challenge to that justification?

What is the final disposition of Joab’s case?

 

Re: 1 Samuel 22:17 + Yerushalmi Sanhedrin + Sanhedrin 20a + 49a:

What do Abner and Amasa have in common?

How does this reflect on Joab?

What do these sources teach us about protesting illegal orders?

 

Re: Shabbat 55a:

What does Ezekiel chapter 9 teach us about protest?

How does it apply to the case of Joab?

 

Re: Kiddushin 43a + Radak 1 Samuel 12:9:

What is the limitation placed here on the law of “agency” (shelihut)?

What bearing does it have on the case of David and Uriah? On Joab?

Whose is the ultimate responsibility for morality in warfare?

 

Re: Rambam Hilkhot Melakhim 3:9:

Which of our sources is Rambam’s, too?

Does he agree or disagree with Radak?

Would he have convicted Joab as charged?

 

Re: 2 Samuel 24:1 ff., and 1 Chronicles 21:1 ff.:

What does 1 Chronicles 21:3 add to 2 Samuel 24:3?

Why did David’s census invite “guilt”? (Cf. Exodus 30:12 and commentaries)

 

What conclusion(s) may we come to regarding obedience to doubtful orders?

 

 

Notes

 

 

[1] We have excluded from consideration here the otherwise enlightening precedent of the midwives who disobeyed Pharaoh’s orders to commit genocide. First of all, it does not necessarily involve Jews who would be bound by halakha and, in any event, because it falls outside of the scope of military discipline. I do treat the subject in, “The Obligation to Intervene in Halakhah and Tradition,” PRISM: An Interdisciplinary Journal for Holocaust Educators, vol. 1 issue 2 (Spring, 2010), p. 59.

[2] While we will not pursue the element of sanctuary, per se, any further, it bears investigation. See Exodus 21:14, with commentaries, and BT Makkot 12a.

[3] Blood vengeance is an acceptable form of retribution according to Torah law. Cf. Numbers 35:19.

[4] Asael thereby becomes a rodef, pursuer, and may be stymied even at the cost of his life—providing there is no alternative. Cf. BT Sanhedrin 49a.

[5] El ha-homesh (2 Samuel 2:23). Significantly, Joab’s killing of Amasa is described in the identical terms (op. cit., 20:10).

[6] Akhim ve-rakim.

[7] See the prerogatives of royalty in Deuteronomy 17:14–20.

[8] Expressed as both: ein shali’ah li-devar aveirah; there is no agency for a crime, and: divrei ha-rav, ve-divrei ha-talmid; divrei mi shom`im?; if instructed by a master (God) and a disciple (David), to whom does one listen? [Obviously, to the master.]

[9] See Exodus 30:12 and the commentaries there and in 2 Samuel.

Always Connect

I

 

The aim of Jewish Tanakh study is to encounter the word of God. There are, of course, other motives for studying Tanakh: It provides information about ancient Hebrew and Aramaic of use to linguists, and information about ancient history for specialists in that field; familiarity with the Bible is essential background for the study of Western culture and modern Hebrew literature and thus pertinent to a good liberal arts education; it serves those secularists who are curious about religious belief; not least, the Bible provides a subject of conversation and an opportunity to display one’s cleverness. From a religious perspective, however, such motives are ancillary, helping one to get at the meaning, or trivial distractions from the meaning. If you received a passionate message and contented yourself with analyzing the style, commenting on the grammar and typography and social mores, while keeping your distance from the person addressing you, you would be mocking the author. To do the same in the study of Torah is a mockery of religious commitment.

“The days of our lives are seventy years and with strength eighty years,” says the Psalmist. Our current life expectancy, though finite, is a bit longer than the biblical life span, yet our days are still frightfully brief and fugitive. How we allocate the few hours we devote to Torah, which includes Talmud, halakhah, Jewish thought inter alia, and within that harsh budget, what to do with the portion for Tanakh, must be governed by our goal in that study. One consideration is how best to pursue the primary goal of encountering God. A secondary question is how to benefit from the ancillary disciplines such as Semitics, archaeology, and the like when our time and attention are so severely limited.

Unfortunately, what is viable for the full-time talmid hakham (Torah scholar), in this regard, is not what is good for the layperson. Those of us who can devote the bulk of our time to Torah study have an advantage. Not only do we know more, we are also preoccupied with Torah, day and night, to a degree that others have difficulty achieving. At home with a significant range of text, context, and tradition, much of which is kept constantly in use, we can aspire to carry our learning lightly, and thus we may hope, with relative ease, to integrate different kinds of knowledge, traditional and secular, and to harness different kinds of insight from within Torah and from our life experience. There are days when the sun stands still, and despite everything, we seem to have time for everything.

Naturally I am speaking now for the scholar who holds paramount the religious dimension of Torah study. In an age of specialization and secularization, academics engaged in Jewish studies, even those who are nominally practicing Jews, are liable to misplace their sense of priority. Sometimes the result is heresy or indifference to normative belief, and/or a flippant, even cynical attitude toward religious conviction and religious reverence. Otherwise the compartmentalization of religion and scholarship declares itself in a bizarre alienation between one’s professed religious orientation and one’s actual full-time intellectual life. This troubling phenomenon of disconnect between the human being who aspires to edify himself or herself through the study of Torah in the service of God and the bleached soul of the neutral or cynical practitioner of academic studies, is a warning to us all not to take for granted the proper integration of intellectual activity and life.

The layperson, however sincere, generally cannot acquire the mastery required to control substantial areas of learning and to keep them in permanent repair.  (I am not even mentioning the many intelligent men and women whose language skills are deficient.) There are exceptions, non-professionals who are able, through commitment of will and nurturing circumstance, to “hold in” learning, as they say in the yeshivot. It is a sign of vigor in our community, when such an individual makes a contribution to the community, even to the point of producing material worthy of publication. It is an even more wonderful mark of wholesomeness when such productivity grows out of yirat Shamayim, the genuine fear of Heaven, and not merely as a highly skilled avocation. Our concern here is with those who are not so proficient or fortunate, at least not yet.

Should the Torah education of the layperson, be it via lecture or solitary reading, stress accumulating information, or should it prize creative engagement? Information is necessary for knowledge, but if the goal is religious reading, surely active study is far superior to passive reception. The problem is how to respond actively without sufficient knowledge and, even more important, without the continuous preoccupation that brings with it the ability to distinguish important questions from trivial ones, the ready command that makes it possible to apply what one knows to the question at hand and to avoid being overwhelmed by unfamiliar data.

If our goal as educators is to encourage active, thoughtful religious reading, our teaching must exemplify active, thoughtful religious reading. The primary orientation of our teaching should not be conveying information alone, nor should it be reporting our original contributions, however important. We are not fulfilling our main task unless we communicate information and ideas and modes of reasoning in a manner that enables our audience to think along with us.  If we succeed in doing so, our listeners are likely to engage in religious reading with us, and they are likely to develop the habits of thought and feeling, the analytic aptitude and the sensitive reverence that will enable them to encounter the text on their own, if they have the minimal literacy.

What is involved in communicating our engagement in religious reading? As we are preoccupied with the disciplined study of Tanakh in the light of traditional Jewish approaches, from Hazal down to the present, so must the non-professional student. That is one facet of our task. As we utilize information, insight, and sometimes theoretical constructions from other sources, we should make available the same for the non-professional as well. That is another facet of our task. Regarding the former, the major gap to overcome is one of knowledge and training within the traditional literature of Torah. Regarding the latter, there is another difficulty: Given the pressure of time, how does one make room for such sources without undermining the balance between ancillary informational instruments and the encounter with God to which they are subservient?

II

The primary texts of Jewish Bible study are available in almost every synagogue and school; many are found in the average home: the standard rabbinic sources; the commentators in the various Mikra’ot Gedolot editions; the major figures of modern times. In her volumes of studies on the Torah (and even more so in her Gilyonot) the twentieth century’s master teacher, Professor Nehama Leibowitz (who preferred to be known simply as Nehama), showed how these texts can be deployed educationally: what it means to read a commentator carefully, to notice what motivates his remarks, how and why he differs from other commentators, and so forth. If you are searching on your own for a viable derekh ha-limmud, a way to study Tanakh, one that will link you to the chain of Jewish understanding, then prolonged exposure to her work remains the royal road to religious reading.  Assuming the validity of her position, let me append some pedagogical notes, and address one question of intellectual substance.

The approach I advocate here, one that Nehama illustrates, privileges analysis over interpretation or thesis-mongering. By that I mean that the goal of teaching is not to communicate conclusions alone, but to make transparent the way conclusions are reached. This can be justified on academic grounds: What is more honest than making one’s considerations transparent, showing the alternatives not chosen, and enabling the listener to assess your choice? Here I am making the educational point. If you want your audience to be engaged in your study and to encourage them to do likewise, the only way to do it is to convene the commentators you have studied and allow your students to participate in your dialogue with them.

This sounds obvious to me. There is, however, a tendency among some teachers to present interpretations in which the give and take with the traditional literature is either absent or very well concealed. Often practitioners of this approach have done their homework but are wary of inflicting it on their audience; they fear that burdening their listeners with a blow-by-blow account of their transactions with their predecessors, trailing clouds of footnotes, is liable to prove a distraction rather than a boon. Sometimes they are so taken by the freshness and the compelling power of their insight that they can do without such dialogue.  Long experience makes me sympathetic to the concern about over-documentation and the “weariness of making citations without end”; writers and lecturers should take the trouble to be selective. Long experience also tells me that enthusiastically pushed interpretations produced in a vacuum are usually not as brilliant or as plausible or even as original as their champions presume. However that may be, the danger I perceive on the educational front is that those who hear these interpretations are liable to go and do likewise, with predictably arbitrary or whimsical results that do not honor the best among those who inspire them.

The corpus of Jewish biblical exegesis includes many topics and arguments that do not promise moral-religious edification: for example, lengthy discussions of grammar and vocabulary, geography, as the exegetes grasped it, even some of the sections dealing with halakhah. If the goal of Tanakh study is to bring us into closer relationship with God, such matters would seem to be of less relevance to the non-specialist student. Indeed, it is evident that Nehama chose her topics and her selections from the commentators with an eye to moral and religious edification. On one occasion, when a young teacher told her she had been assigned the opening chapters of Leviticus, dealing with the order of the sacrifices, Nehama expressed strong disagreement. In her opinion, the portion of Kedoshim (chapters 19–20) should be highlighted in Leviticus, not the details of the sacrifices, because the former has greater moral value. Of course, Torah is Torah; moreover, in the right context, the passages describing the manner in which God enables human beings to come close to Him through the various offerings is surely not religiously indifferent.  Nonetheless, it seems odd and unbalanced to struggle with esoteric halakhic subjects, to discuss, for example, the subtle interaction between peshat and derash (the “plain” meaning of a verse and the interpretation handed down or elaborated through the oral tradition) when students do not yet control sufficient information to appreciate the debate, or to invest disproportionate time in clearing philological underbrush at the expense of more directly relevant religious factors.

III

The major criticism of Nehama’s program is that it substitutes the study of the commentators for the study of Tanakh. Her method achieves insight into Rashi or Ramban’s understanding of the biblical text but does not ask what the biblical text means on its own. This criticism has two aspects: one is that an approach devoted entirely to classical Jewish works, from Hazal through the medieval literature through the parshanut (interpretation) of the last 200 years omits consideration of new discoveries, be they linguistic or archaeological; the other is that her approach ignores questions that may be important for us today but are not addressed systematically by the classical mefarshim (commentators).

            Nehama vigorously opposed R. Yoel Bin-Nun’s attempt to revise the Bible curriculum in Israeli high schools to make room for non-exegetical data such as geography.  On grounds of intellectual integrity he was surely right. Ramban rejoiced when he reached the land of Israel, where he gained a better grasp of her geography and saw with his own eyes the Paleo-Hebrew script he had only read about. If we are indeed Ramban’s disciples, it ill behooves us to ignore such realia as become available to us. As we have seen, the educational question is not so clear. How much time, and how much emphasis, should such information merit?

To keep our discussion simple, let’s limit ourselves to cases where the pertinence of the new information is undeniable:

  1. I Samuel 13:21 mentions ha-petzirah pim. Traditional commentators say this refers to an implement with two edges (pim as plural of peh=mouth).  We now know that pim is the name of an ancient unit of weight. The verse is saying that the Israelites were charged a pim to fix their petzirah (sharpening). The new explanation is uncontroversial. Assuming that communicating it does not take an inordinate amount of attention away from religiously significant matters, there is no reason not to adopt it.
  2. Ezekiel 14 refers to three righteous men—“Noah, Danel, and Job.”  Traditional commentators had no choice but to identify Danel with the biblical Daniel, despite the slight difference in spelling. We now believe that Danel, king of Keret, who is known from Ugaritic literature, fits the context better. If this view is accepted none of the three righteous men are Jewish. This affects the theological message of the chapter, which deals with righteous individuals in a corrupt society. While the traditional identification is still of value for our study of the history of exegesis, there is no reason not to adopt the new one, and adjust our reading of the prophecy accordingly.
  3. II Kings 18:13–16 reports a confrontation between Hezekiah and Sennacherib that ends with Hezekiah’s submission. This is followed by further demands by the Assyrian king’s representative culminating in the almost capture of Jerusalem that is aborted by a plague among the Assyrians. Ralbag (on Kings) held that the text records two separate episodes: the second confrontation occurred when Hezekiah rebelled years later. Abarbanel believed there was only one confrontation: Hezekiah’s capitulation was deemed insufficient. Which view we adopt affects our assessment of Hezekiah’s strategy, his courage and his trust in God. Sennacherib’s Annals have been recovered: scholars have debated the One Campaign vs. Two Campaign theories based on these records which depict the king’s successes but carefully avoid ascribing victory to him in the siege of Jerusalem. Here the Annals can make a real difference in determining which medieval parshan came closer to the historical truth. Again the only question is how much attention and emphasis this discussion deserves given the limits on time and the primacy of the religious motive for study.
  4. Rambam (Guide III:48) proposed that the prohibition of “cooking the kid in its mother’s milk” is to be understood against the background of idolatrous practices of the time. When the Ugaritic archives were unearthed early in the past century, a line of poetry was deciphered to imply that cooking meat and dairy together was indeed part of Northwest Semitic rite, thus confirming Maimonides. For the past four decades this reading has been dismissed, so we are back where we started, though the word has not yet reached some popular Orthodox and non-Orthodox authors and lecturers, who continue to parade this example.

These examples demonstrate the potential relevance of “outside” information; the last demonstrates what happens when pathways once welcomed become dead ends. How are laypeople (or scholars who are not always up to the minute on every question) to keep abreast of these developments? How many journals can even scholars plow through?  For some purposes the twentieth-century Da’at Mikra commentary on Tanakh (Mossad HaRav Kook) is a reliable source of information. But these works are not infallible and they age. I have no solution to this problem, which has its parallel in all other liberal arts. The point is that contending with it cannot take priority over our fundamental commitment to religious reading. If we take Ramban’s multifarious interests as a model, we must be sure to look to his sense of religious priorities as well.

IV

The second criticism of the exegesis-centered approach was made by R. Mordekhai Breuer. Take the Documentary Hypothesis, which maintains, among other things, that apparent redundancy in the Torah is evidence of multiple authors.  Thus the creation story of Genesis 1, in which God is called Elokim, was written by a different author than the creation story of Genesis 2, where He is called by the Tetragrammaton. In Lonely Man of Faith R. Joseph Soloveitchik listed many thematic differences between the two chapters, regarding humanity’s place in nature, the relations between the sexes, and God’s mission for humanity. R. Soloveitchik concluded that the juxtaposition of the two stories does not reflect multiple authors, but rather a complex view of the human condition. On his own, R. Breuer had arrived at a similar methodology—that God speaks in multiple voices, so that grasping the Torah’s message requires us to examine each section alone, but also in the context of other sections. Along these lines he studied the Torah systematically against the backdrop of one version of the Documentary Hypothesis. He believed that the questions raised by the critics helped to incubate his awareness of this complexity in the Torah’s narrative and legal portions. Thus thinking about these questions is valuable for Orthodox Bible study in our time.

According to Breuer, Nehama rejected his program.  When R. Soloveitchik did it, it was legitimate in her eyes. But the Rav’s rabbinic license did not extend to others. Again, from a purely intellectual perspective R. Breuer is right. If some of the questions raised by the critics are valid, and if, as I hold, R. Breuer’s approach is on the right track (regardless of criticisms I have made elsewhere), then we understand Tanakh better by considering them; Breuer would also insist that by doing so we gain much for our analysis of the classical commentators and again I agree with him.

By the same token: If Rambam was right in thinking that knowledge of the cultural background of Tanakh could add something of worth, then, in principle, we are justified in examining that cultural background in whatever depth and breadth we are capable of. At the same time, the explosion of knowledge in the field of ancient history makes it impossible for all but the few to engage it actively. It is one thing, for example, to read Sennacherib’s Annals in translation; it is a another to consider whether there was something distinctive about the cult of Assur that affected the confrontation between Assyrian religion and Israelite faith in God. It is one thing to contrast Hammurabi’s Code with Mishpatim, as was commonly done a hundred years ago during the “Bible-Babel” affair. It is another to weigh several Near Eastern law codes and to consider which is more pertinent to the background of biblical law and why.

Once again: if our goal in studying Tanakh is to encounter the word of God, then it is not only what  we learn that is important but how. R. Breuer carries on his massive project of appropriating what he finds valuable in the questions of the Bible critics. It is instructive that he does so while hardly ever mentioning their solutions. The questions are important; debating against heretical positions is a distraction from that task. It profits us less than nothing if we gain a whole world of scholarly tools and lose our souls.  This is true of the scholar of whom the Mishnah states that “he whose knowledge precedes his fear of Heaven, his knowledge is not sustained.” Even more is it true of the person whose time is husbanded and who must therefore be more anxious to employ it in a balanced and well-integrated way. We who teach must both communicate the truth and exemplify it.

V

What kind of background information is to be presupposed in our study of Tanakh is not set in stone. Nehama herself did not shy away from calling upon European literature or literary criticism to further her analysis, occasionally she used non-Jewish or non-traditional Bible translations to illustrate various options, and she took from Martin Buber or Benno Jacob what she needed and could not learn elsewhere. The goal of her study, however, could not be mistaken, and neither can ours. I have already warned of the danger posed by the putatively sophisticated disconnection between academic activity and the encompassing intellectual-religious response demanded by Judaism. This is due not only to increased flirtation with orthopraxy, in the narrow sense of the word, with its rejection of normative belief and indifference to the cognitive dimension in the Jew’s personal relationship with God, but also, perhaps even more so, it is associated with a studied irreverence toward God and Torah that borders, if it does not pass over into vulgarization, and undermines that personal relationship. It is also the error of those within Orthodoxy who define intellectual deviance only in terms of propositional heresy, regarding Torah mi-Sinai or the integrity of Torah she-be’al Peh, without taking into account debunking attitudes that stop short of propositional heresy.

Many are lured by these siren songs, not only through the desire to assimilate the  indifference and mild contempt for the intellectual content of religious belief that is prevalent in influential circles and is attached to the prestige enjoyed in some circles by academics, but also due to the absence of a visible alternative. We have outlined a derekh ha-limmud along the lines practiced by Nehama, supplemented perhaps by talmidei hakhamim such as R. Mordekhai Breuer or R. Yoel Bin-Nun, who bring the tradition into interaction with new questions, or guided by masters such as R. Joseph Soloveitchik, who took what he wanted from modern scholarship only to concentrate relentlessly on the human condition, as Judaism illuminates it, and the personal experience of God and Torah. All too often, these models are ignored by rabbis and teachers.

One factor is no doubt the fact that many of our communal functionaries have not been exposed to serious study of Jewish exegesis at all, or sufficiently to internalize a genuine derekh ha-limmud. Perhaps for that reason, they may deem their own homiletic concoctions and sermonic strains, where the text of Tanakh and the work of the classical commentators serve as pretext without context, more worthy of the ear of their classes and congregations than a careful, patient and submissive thinking along with Ramban or Netziv. Perhaps they regard studying the classical texts less important than whatever “message” or exhortation they wish to communicate to their attentive flock.

Much can be attributed to the moist gabbiness and intellectual shallowness characteristic of the talking professions. Once rabbis and teachers were expected to teach; now they are called upon to preach. As Ann Douglas has shown, Christian preaching in the United States once had hard intellectual content, and only in the nineteenth century did the Protestant sermon lose its cognitive substance. Perhaps this is another aspect of liberal American culture that has infiltrated our Jewish life. Or perhaps we have been brought to believe that only Talmud is intellectually for real, while the study of Tanakh is a game of tennis without a net, and the main goal is to have a good time.

Perhaps what I perceive as intellectual indolence and self-indulgence on the part of our professionals is no more than their adapting to what the congregations and the parents prefer. As someone told me after I delivered an earlier version of this talk at several Orthodox synagogues: Orthodox audiences enjoy hearing about the Holocaust, about acrimonious incidents in Jewish history, or about controversial halakhic rulings; they are not interested in talking about God and their relationship to Him. Yet amid the silence and conviviality, there are listeners who learn that the discussion of Tanakh in our community is an occasion for whimsy or an excuse for political or communal exhortation, and that if one is to study Tanakh seriously, the outlook of academic sterility is the only game in town.

Whether the approach adumbrated here is likely to prove popular should be a matter of indifference.  If, as I hope, there is an appreciative audience for an approach to Tanakh that is intellectually serious and fosters active engagement in the encounter with God and with His revelation, then it is a privilege to minister to that thirst. If, as we are sometimes assured, it is an uphill battle, then it is an even more urgent obligation to subvert that indifference and convert it to connection.

 

Further Reading:

S. Carmy, “To Get the Better of Words: An Apology for Yir’at Shamayim in Academic Jewish Studies,” Torah u-Madda Journal 2 (1990), pp. 7–24.

 

S. Carmy, “A Room with a View, But a Room of Our Own,” Tradition 28:3 (1994), pp. 39–69. Also in Modern Scholarship in the Study of Torah: Contributions and Limitations, ed. Shalom Carmy (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1996), pp. 1–38.

 

S. Carmy, “Homer and the Bible,” Tradition 41:4 (2008), pp. 1–7.

 

S. Carmy, “A Peshat in the Dark: Reflections on the Age of Cary Grant,” Tradition 43:1 (2010), pp. 1–6.

 

S. Carmy “Cold Fury, Hidden Face, the Jealousy of Israel: Two Kinds of Religious Estrangement in the Torah,” Tradition 43:4 (2010), pp. 21–36.

 

S. Carmy, “Concepts of Scripture in Mordechai Breuer,” in Jewish Concepts of Scripture: A Comparative Introduction, ed. Benjamin D. Sommer (New York and London: New York University Press, 2012), pp. 267–279.

 

Poetry, Myth, and Kabbala: Jewish and Christian Intellectual Encounters in Late Medieval Italy

 

 

 

The nature of a diasporic culture—such as the Jewish Italian one—should be understood as an ongoing process of merging and sharing various intellectual materials derived from both the Jewish and the non-Jewish past and present. Throughout the areas where they settled in the Italian peninsula, Jews have both elaborated their own traditional authorities and borrowed non-native elements from the surrounding cultures, influencing the latter in their turn.

In Italy, where Jews had established thriving communities since Roman times, the intellectual cooperation with the non-Jewish society was always especially strong throughout the centuries, in part due to the fact that the Jewish population never became numerically significant, therefore being largely exposed to the cultural influence of the majority.

The small Italian communities kept in constant contact with one another and with major centers of Jewish knowledge outside of Italy—especially when they had to solve juridical or religious questions, which often derived from the merging of non-indigenous Jewish groups into the local ones. Italian Jews moved around, for commercial and educational purposes: often in the double identity of traders and scholars, sometimes as talented physicians or renowned philosophers. By wandering about the whole peninsula—and sometimes reaching to farther destinations—they circulated the products of their variegated formation, becoming cultural mediators among Jews and between Jews and non-Jews. They could influence their interlocutors orally or address them with letters or treatises, written in Hebrew, Latin, or the local vernacular languages.

Such a circulation of knowledge was partly responsible for the intellectual cohesion of the Jewish population in the Italian Diaspora: By making themselves stronger, thanks to the cultures of others, they could awaken a deeper awareness of the risks caused by a too-close contact with the majority. However, being in a position of thoroughly understanding the major intellectual trends of the time, they could show their coreligionists how to adapt them to their canonized heritage without losing their religious identity. Although sometimes provoking disputes, the acceptance of cultural elements derived from “foreign” traditions never triggered in Italy the harsh polemics that characterized the intellectual life of Near-Eastern, Spanish, or German communities. In any case, Jewish scholars could ultimately demonstrate that what they were borrowing had originally been stolen from their own heritage.[1] Such an attempt to trace all traditions back to one cultural identity is very common among minorities. In the case of Jews, since everything could be referred to the Hebrew Scriptures, shared also by the Christians, their interpretation went beyond the communitarian borders and became appealing to their non-Jewish interlocutors. In such a framework, even pagan thought, reread according to the Medieval Islamic philosophers, could be referred to remote Jewish sources. As a matter of fact, what Muslim and Christian theologians had done in the previous centuries in order to allow contemporary scholars to merge religious authorities and rational thinkers into a theological system, had already been experienced by the Jewish scholars working in the Near East in the first centuries of the Common Era, as well as by the Church Fathers. Medieval Jewish mediators were following in the footsteps of their predecessors, who aimed to foster a common intellectual wisdom rooted in a uniquely inspired religious tradition.[2]

Thus, during the Middle Ages, Jewish communities in Italy, mostly in the South and in Rome, while continuing to view the Land of Israel and Babylon as the main spiritual centers of their religious tradition, developed their own rituals, their own distinctive culture, and their own academies, where they offered new interpretations of biblical and rabbinic literature—and also grounding them in non-Jewish speculation.[3] Although they followed trends that were common in the Jewish communities in the East and the Byzantine empire, at least from the ninth century, Jews in Apulia (at the heel of the Italian peninsula), commented upon the Scripture and the Talmud by making use of Hellenistic exegetical methods, which, although rooted in the rabbinic tradition, could leave room to allegorical interpretations based also on Islamic and Byzantine thought.[4]

The age of Frederick II of Hohenstaufen (1194–1250), Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, best known by the title of King of Sicily, should be viewed as the first period when closer intellectual contacts between Jews and Christians were made possible in Italy. This celebrated monarch, who was both admired for his political skill and feared by the Pope for suspicions of heresy, showed a sharp interest in science and philosophy and a multiform cultural curiosity (he could express himself in Latin, Greek, and Arabic, as well as in other vernacular languages spoken in his kingdom). He eagerly invited Jewish scholars to his court, some from distant regions, requesting their services in translating philosophical and scientific manuscripts from Arabic and Hebrew into the Romance languages. Jews were sought both for their competence in biblical interpretation, which obviously represented one of their most important skills, and for their ability to introduce Christians to the most recent achievements of Eastern thought and science, thanks to their knowledge of Arabic. Moreover, since Jews frequently practiced medicine, they were often hired to translate Arabic medical works unknown in Western Europe.

Under the protection of Frederick II Jewish scholars were entitled to share their knowledge with their non-Jewish colleagues.[5] The best-documented episode of such an intellectual exchange is represented by the encounter of the Provencal scholar Jacob Anatoli (first half of the thirteenth century) with the Christian philosopher Michael Scot (d. 1235).[6] Anatoli, who had been invited to Naples by the king, and at whose request translated several Averroistic works, related in his collection of sermons entitled Malmad haTalmidim (Goad to Scholars) that king Frederick possessed a thorough knowledge of Moreh Nevukhim (Guide of the Perplexed), the controversial masterwork of the Andalusian Jewish thinker Moses Maimonides (ca. 1138–1204),[7] whose work and thought were a common subject of debate among the scholars of the court only a few decades after the philosopher’s death. Moreover, Anatoli’s sermons inform us of the various subjects, ranging from the allegorical interpretation of the Bible to the discussion of complex philosophical issues, pertaining to deep theological problems, which were dealt with in meetings of philosophers of different faiths in Frederick’s court. It was not uncommon at that time for a Jewish scholar to support the philosophical interests of a clergyman who was deeply interested in the study of the Scripture—but the opposite case was also frequent. For instance, Moses ben Solomon of Salerno (d. 1279), who had studied in Rome, collaborated with the Dominican Apulian friar Niccolò of Giovinazzo. Moses wrote a commentary on the two first books of Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed, relying on both the Latin and the Hebrew translations of the text (originally composed in Arabic), and often compared Hebrew technical terms with their Latin equivalents. In his Hebrew-Latin philosophical lexicon, Moses resorted to Niccolò of Giovinazzo, and quoted the latter’s explanations on some chapters of the first book of the Guide in his own commentary.[8] The death of Frederick II (1250) and of his son Manfredi (1266), and the events which led Southern Italy to fall into the hands of the Angevins, were probably among the major factors that induced some Jews to leave the Kingdom of Naples, in search of better conditions in the communal freer cities in Northern and Central Italy. Still, the court of Robert of Anjou (d. 1343) in Naples continued to attract Jewish scholars during the first half of the fourteenth century.[9] Among the most outstanding intellectuals of the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century, was Judah ben Moses Romano, a former disciple of Zerahyah Hen from Barcelona. Judah spent many years in Rome, his birthplace, and translated several Hebrew works from Hebrew into Latin for the King of Naples, such as the Liber de Causis (Book on Causes), which had been attributed to Aristotle, but was effectively a Neoplatonic[10] text, as well as Averroes’s De Substantia Orbis (On World’s Substance). At the same time Judah translated into Hebrew Latin works composed by Aegidius Romanus, Albertus Magnus and Alexander of Hales, in addition to writings by Thomas Aquinas. In so doing, Judah was following the tradition of Jewish scholars of previous generations, such as Hillel ben Shmuel of Verona (ca. 1220–1295), who, beside translating Thomas Aquinas’s De Unitate Intellectus (On the Unity of the Intellect), had propagated Maimonidean and Scholastic teachings both in Hebrew and in Latin all around Italy, especially in a school he founded in Capua (near Naples), which was attended, among others, by the famous Spanish kabbalist Avraham ben Shmuel Abulafia (1240–ca. 1291). Even in his biblical interpretation, Judah Romano, like his predecessor Hillel, never hesitated to resort to rationalistic thought. Judah, as well as his cousin Immanuel ben Solomon Romano (ca. 1261–ca. 1328), exerted a substantial influence on Italian Jewish philosophers of later centuries.[11]

Jewish scholars who flourished in late-thirteenth and early-fourteenth-century Rome and Southern Italy took an active part in the contemporary literary trends that were discussed among Italian non-Jewish literati. If Plato and Aristotle, the highest intellectual authorities of the past, denounced the use of poetry as a vehicle for conveying untruthful information to a naïve audience, how could Jewish scholars explain the use of poetry in the Bible, a corpus of writings that had been revealed by God? By founding themselves on the Hebrew Scripture, they could demonstrate that there were different kinds of poetic discourse and that the biblical one was the highest and the truest of all. Following in the steps of the Aristotelian logical tradition, they maintained that, like any other poetic genre, biblical poetry contained metaphors, although these conceived hidden mysteries, whose perfect knowledge would allow scholars to understand the secrets of the Godhead. After all, the ancient prophets were nothing but poets, who had received by God the gift to foresee the events and to express the future in poetic terms.[12] The revival of poetry as prophecy was very significant in the Middle Ages. The later rediscovery, through Byzantium, of ancient Greek prophetic texts, thought to be more ancient than what they really were, made Western scholars more eager to hold discussions with Jews about biblical poetry and prophecy. Therefore, throughout the Middle Ages, the poetic interpretation of the Bible became common and Jews helped their Christian colleagues to reveal the mysteries of the Jewish interpretation of biblical poetry in order to better understand its profound meanings. What Christians did not know (nor possibly Jews) was that the poetic texts by which Jews meant to reveal religious mysteries were not very old but were the result of late-antique pagan speculative sources, which sounded familiar to non-Jewish intellectuals. By holding that the Hebrew texts were more ancient than their Greek sources, both Jews and Christians could prove that pagan authors had been influenced by Jewish traditions in the antiquity. Moreover, the Platonic attack against mythology as related to poetry could be explained against the background of the allegorical reading of biblical poetry. In the case of a prophetic poetry, myth was no longer a danger. That is why Byzantine Christian authors on the Eastern side of the Mediterranean and Spanish Jewish kabbalists on its Western side reintroduced a poetic discourse in their religious traditions that could take myth into account.

It was not by mere chance that in the same generation of Dante Alighieri, the author of the prophetic poem known by later generations as The Divine Comedy, Jewish Italian scholars turned biblical poetry into a prophetic discourse which reread Jewish themes in a philosophic and sometimes mythical perspective. The first known Jewish poet to be involved in this project was Immanuel ben Solomon of Rome, whom some scholars believe to have been on friendly terms with Dante. Immanuel may be seen as the best representative of late Medieval Jewish Italian culture. Born in Rome in the same generation that witnessed the contemporary presence in the city of Jewish scholars coming from the most important centers of the Diaspora, he belonged to a wealthy family of traders and, being a banker himself, wandered around several cities for his commercial activities. At the same time he was a very skilled philosopher, well versed in the Scholastic interpretation of the Scripture, especially knowledgeable in the Maimonidean tradition. Among his exegetic works, his Commentary on the Song of Songs is of special renown. In it he draws upon the homonymous work by the Provencal author Moses ibn Tibbon (flourished in the second half of the thirteenth century), in order to demonstrate the higher status of biblical poetry. His poems, written in elegant Tuscan Italian or biblical Hebrew, followed both the contemporary Italian and Spanish traditions. It is assumed that it was in Immanuel’s generation, and especially in the Roman intellectual environment, that the newly produced or reorganized kabbalistic material was brought from Spain to Italy. Although it is very hard to demonstrate that Dante’s Comedy was influenced by Kabbala, it is likely that this author might have come across some Hebrew mystical interpretations that widely circulated around Italy in the early decades of the fourteenth century. For instance, the role of the Shekhinah, the female aspect of God, who could be identified with the Shulamite of the Song of Songs according to Jewish Medieval interpreters, corresponds to the angelic lady on which the poetry of Dante and his Tuscan contemporaries mainly focused.[13] Like the latter, Immanuel praises women as manifestations of the higher divine world.

Let us examine, for instance, Immanuel’s sixteenth Mahberet (Composition), a chapter from his major literary work entitled Mahbarot (Compositions), which focuses on the nature of the angel-like woman. When Immanuel and his fictitious friend, the “Prince,” meet her first, the mysterious lady looks so beautiful that “everyone who sees her, praises her for her beauty, wisdom and skills”; “her eyes throw arrows that are dipped in the blood of those who passionately long for her” and she is “perfectly aware that by her light she rules over any other light.” She is very modest, though, because she knows fairly well that “were she prouder, when walking in the city streets the angels would not dare meet her….”[14]

All these features attributed by Immanuel to his “Madonna” are clearly reminiscent of the virtues attributed to Beatrix by Dante. [15] Moreover, Immanuel’s Mahbarot, which stylistically originate from the Arabic maqama genre in its mixture of poetry and prose, look similar to Dante’s Vita nova, a prosimetrum, which is a literary work made up of both verse and prose, dealing with the beatific influence of Beatrix’s love.

If the topic of Platonic love known in a Islamicate Aristotelian garb was influential in late-thirteenth and fourteenth-century Italy, it became one of the major issues that were discussed between the first half of the fifteenth century and mid-sixteenth century, when Italian intellectual circles were heavily influenced by Byzantine Neoplatonic theologies introduced into the peninsula—especially during and after the 1439 Council of Florence. This was a political and religious endeavor, aiming to reunite the Western and the Eastern Churches, and was made possible due to the diplomatic and financial activities of the powerful Medici family. The trend to read Christianity in the light of pagan myth thanks to the rediscovery of Greek texts brought to Italy by the Byzantines opened the path to a thorough search of all the mysteries conceived in different religious thoughts. Among those mysteries, hidden in sacred poetry, Jewish Kabbala could become a major tool for a reappraisal of ancient prophetic sources.

Beside Judah and Immanuel Romano, who also made use of kabbalistic motifs associated with Neoplatonic and Aristotelian concepts, the Roman scholar Menahem ben Benjamin of Recanati (active in the first half of the fourteenth century) was among the most important and influential Italian Rabbis of his time, whose work became the most commonly studied among the Italian-Jewish students of the esoteric tradition. In his Commentary on the Pentateuch, composed at the beginning of the fourteenth century, Menahem selected and quoted passages from the most outstanding authorities of Medieval Spanish and Provencal Kabbala, mainly from Sefer haZohar (Book of Splendor)[16] and Sefer haBahir (Bright Book), while concomitantly relying on Maimonides’ rationalistic thought, which—as stated—was widely known and appreciated by both Christian and Jewish scholars in Italy. Menahem was but the first of a long tradition of Italian scholars who demonstrated the possible connections of Jewish Aristotelian thought with the kabbalistic tradition.[17] Another outstanding kabbalistic figure was Abraham Abulafia (1240– ca. 1291), who, though born in Spain, spent a long time in Rome and Southern Italy, where he decided to merge the most deeply mystical traditions of Judaism with Maimonidean thought, thus creating a trend of Kabbala, which has been called ecstatic or prophetic, that was to develop in Sicily, where Abulafia founded a school in the final years of his life.[18]

Unlike philosophical texts, Jewish kabbalistic works were known only within the Jewish communities until the fifteenth century, when this esoteric doctrine became an important object of interest for Christian secular humanists, as well as for Christian clergymen, in the context of the reappraisal of ancient sources coming from the East and allegedly related to prophetic revelations from High.

Giovanni Pico della Mirandola (1463–1494) was a Christian scholar who spent the last years of his brief life in Florence. Inspired by the Greek revival that had taken place in the environment of the Medici family, he studied Platonic and Neoplatonic sources and elaborated on the ancient view according to which an allegorical reading of pagan myths could explain the most hidden mysteries of Christian theology. However, besides merging Plato, Pythagoras, Hermes Trismegistus, and Orpheus according to the Florentine tradition (which had been fostered by the Latin translations of the Greek texts reintroduced in Italy by the Byzantines), Pico decided to include kabbalistic texts in his all-comprehensive analysis of pagan myth. By the end of 1486 he wrote his Latin oration De hominis dignitate (On Man’s Dignity), in which he affirmed that, in order to ascend to God, man needs a medium, which Pico identified as a cherub: his assumption was based on a kabbalistic rereading of Pseudo-Dyonisian angelology.[19] One of Pico’s Jewish assistants, Yohanan ben Yizhaq Alemanno (ca. 1435–ca. 1506), affirmed in his Commentary on the Song of Songs, dedicated to Pico, that angels are the only medium that allow man’s soul to ascend to God.[20] As a matter of fact, a few years before composing his oration, Pico, who was deeply fascinated with Tuscan poetry of the previous centuries, wrote a commentary on one of his friend Girolamo Benivieni’s love poems.[21] The latter had been composed in the Tuscan thirteenth/fourteenth-century style, though they more clearly expressed Platonic and Neoplatonic themes cherished by the scholars of the humanist Florentine environment. Let us take the following of Benivieni’s verses into account:[22]

 

From supernal love derives

the fire by whose virtue

all living creatures exist.

When such fire burns in ourselves,

our heart grows, while dying.

 

Pico wrote that in these words “astonishing and secret mysteries of love”[23] are concealed. The profound sense of Benivieni’s verses ought to be sought in the ability of man’s soul to turn totally to the object of her desire and die by virtue of such passionate love. Those who completely annihilate themselves into intellectual contemplation at exactly the same time when they miss their rational activities, lose their rationality, by acquiring the intellectual level of angels, and, he continues,

 

[the mystic] dies in the world of the senses, being restored to a better life in the world of the intelligibles [...] this is what the wise kabbalists affirm, when they say that Enoch or Metatron, the angel of the Godhead, or any other man can be turned into angels. [24]

 

In the system of thought elaborated by the princeps concordiae, that is, the “prince of the agreement” between the various religious and philosophic doctrines, as Pico della Mirandola was named by his contemporaneous, we can clearly observe his resorting to the most common motifs of Jewish “rational mysticism”: the man who wishes to attain the union with the Active Intellect will encounter the man Enoch, who was turned into the angel Metatron; he will then annihilate his soul in God, by purifying her through the consuming fire of divine love, as affirmed by Benivieni by the words “When such fire burns in ourselves, our heart grows, while dying.” Pico commented on the latter words:

 

That is why, if we assume, following the author’s [Benivieni] words, that divine heavenly love is an intellectual desire [...] which cannot be attained by man before the corporeal part of his soul has not been removed, the poet is totally right when he argues that while the human heart, that is man’s soul who dwells in man’s heart, burns in the fire of love, dies by that fire, and its death is not a diminution, but a growth, since when the soul has been completely burnt off by that flaming ardour, as if offered in the holiest holocaust, as if offered in sacrifice to the first Father, the source of all beauty, she is led, by ineffable [divine] grace to the Temple of Solomon, which is adorned with all spiritual good, the true dwelling of God. This priceless gift of love which makes men equal to angels, is an admirable virtue which gives us life, by bringing us to death.[25]

 

Pico’s conception of divine love considered as an intellectual love, which can be attained solely by freeing one’s soul from corporeal ties and by leading her through the fire of a consuming sacrifice to the Temple of Solomon, “the true dwelling of God,” is strongly reminiscent of analogous views explained, on biblical and kabbalistic bases, in the already mentioned Alemanno’s Commentary on Solomon’s Song of Songs.[26]

This Platonic-mythical-poetic reading of Kabbala, shared by both Jews and Christians, aroused problems in the small Jewish Italian communities. Judah Messer Leon, a fifteenth-century Ashkenazi scholar well versed in Aristotelian philosophy, sent a letter to the members of the Florentine community in which he warned them against any use of Kabbala according to Platonic speculation. He probably feared the possible misunderstandings of Jewish dogmas, when read according to a mythical interpretation. Among Italian Jewish intellectuals, the dogmatic reading of Judaism suggested by Spanish authorities such as Maimonides or the early fifteenth-century Joseph Albo was held in high esteem. This approach to faith allowed Italian Jews to read their faith in parallel terms as Christianity, as a religious system based on dogmas which could be interpreted rationally.

A trace of the polemics against the Florentine community aroused by Messer Leon can be seen in Elijah Hayyim of Genazzano’s treatise Iggeret hamudot (Epistle of Delight), a work on philosophy and Kabbala written in the last decade of the fifteenth century in the form of both a letter and a formal speculative treatise.

Elijah Hayyim of Genazzano (1440 ca.–1510 ca.) was a member of the Jewish banking elite that from the end of the fourteenth century had been allowed to settle in Tuscan cities. Like the other Jewish banking families, the Genazzanos had originally come from Rome and they boasted to descend from the priestly families, which had been deported by Titus to Italy after the destruction of the Second Temple. Roman Jews stressed their distinctive character that made them unique in the Diaspora, thus highlighting the differences from Ashkenazi or Sephardic communities.

Elijah Hayyim wrote his Iggeret hamudot exactly in the period when refugees from the Iberian peninsula were arriving in large numbers to Italy. For many Italian (i.e. Roman) Jews, the presence of the Sephardim was a threat to the good but instable social conditions they had managed to create in the two previous centuries. This is the reason why in his Epistle Genazzano attacks contemporary Sephardic intellectuals, accusing them for their radical ideas whose only aim, according to him, was that of destroying the true Jewish tradition. With this goal in mind, Genazzano responded some intellectual questions addressed to him by his former yeshiva-fellow David, the son of Benjamin ben Joav of Montalcino. Benjamin of Montalcino, the head of a renowned Tuscan yeshiva, had been the target of Judah Messer Leon’s criticisms some forty years earlier.[27]

Genazzano is also known for a poetic debate on woman’s nature, composed in Dante’s and Immanuel’s garb.[28] He was very sensitive to the Neoplatonic atmosphere of Florence and in several passages of his treatise he reveals a thorough knowledge of some of the major trends of the Platonic interpretations of Kabbala, which were common among his Jewish contemporaries and which had been borrowed by Pico della Mirandola.

When dealing with a passage from the Sefer haIqqarim (The Book of Principles), a philosophical and apologetic treatise written by the Spanish Joseph Albo, a work that—as previously stated—had become very influential on fifteenth-century Italian Jewish speculation, Genazzano refutes the dogmatic interpretation of the Jewish faith presented by Albo.

Genazzano objects to the rational dogmatic understanding of Judaism, stressing that such a presentation of his faith has nothing to do with the traditional rabbinic and kabbalistic tradition, the only true tradition that allows Jews to deeply understand Judaism. In other words, Genazzano holds that the traditional kabbalistic reading of rabbinic and liturgical aspects of Judaism is the only way to adhere to the values of his faith, rooted in the Scripture and not in its rational interpretation. What is significant for our analysis is the relief the author gives to contemporary non-Jewish trends of thought in order to support his views rooted in Jewish tradition.

For instance, Genazzano follows the traditional kabbalistic interpretation of the levirate rules which could be read in the Book of the Zohar or in Recanati’s Commentary on the Pentateuch, which was much more popular than the Zohar in fifteenth-century Italy. Genazzano praises the rabbinical-kabbalistic tradition for being of higher value than the rational understanding of Judaism, fostered by Maimonides, Albo and other Spanish authors. He then continues:

 

As a matter of fact, behold, I have found the following statement in an ancient book attributed to a wise man called Zoroaster: “The doctrine of the transmigration of the soul was received by the Indians from the Persians, and by the Persians from the Egyptians; by the Egyptians from the Chaldeans, and by the Chaldeans from Abraham. The Chaldeans expelled him from their land, since they hated him because he held that the soul is the source of movement and that she is the cause of the change in matter and that there are many souls and so on.” [29]

 

In order to support rabbinic authority, Genazzano quotes the Persian Zoroaster, a major authority for the Florentine humanists who read Latin translations of the Greek treatises attributed to this semi-mythical ancient sage in order to find evidence for Christian traditions. The conception of the transmission of divine knowledge through a chain of initiates that had been common among late antique Neoplatonists and had been revived in the fifteenth century by Florentine intellectuals was influential on a Jewish Florentine scholar.[30] Now, in Giovanni Pico della Mirandola’s Platonic Conclusions according to the Arab Adelandus, written a few years before Genazzano’s text, we read that: “All the Indian, Persian, Egyptian and Chaldean sages believed in the doctrine of the transmigration of the souls”:[31] Pico’s words parallel exactly Genazzano’s statement, though the reference to Abraham should be sought in the views of the Byzantine scholar Georgios Gemistus Pletho, a philosopher who had taken part in the 1439 Council of Florence. In his Treatise on the laws Gemistus Pletho maintained in fact that Abraham believed in metempsychosis and attributed this view to Indians, Persians and Egyptians.[32]

Genazzano, who thus demonstrates that he is fully aware of contemporary non-Jewish speculation, resorts to the achievements of Florentine humanists both to demonstrate the higher antiquity of Jewish revelation and to argue against rational dogmatic views held by his coreligionists.

The impact of the local cultures, as well as the changes in the process of transmission of different materials within Jewish Italian communities, shaped the nature of the reception and of the subsequent interpretations of traditional lore, at least until the very end of the fifteenth century. As the revolutionary trends in Renaissance science and thought started to keep separated faith from reason, the modes of intellectual relations between Jews and non-Jews changed accordingly, as well as the official acknowledgement of the role of the Jews in Christian societies.[33]

 

 

 

[1] See N. Roth, “The ‘Theft of Philosophy’ by the Greeks from the Jews,” Classical Folia 22 (1978), pp. 53–67.

[2] See F. Lelli, “Prisca Philosophia and Docta Religio: The Boundaries of Rational Knowledge in Jewish and Christian Humanist Thought,” Jewish Quarterly Review, 91 (2000), pp. 53–100.

[3] On the history of Italian Judaism see The Jews of Italy: Memory and Identity, ed. by B.D. Cooperman and B. Garvin, Maryland 2001.

[4] See R. Bonfil, History and Folklore in a Medieval Jewish Chronicle, Leiden 2009.

[5] See G. Sermoneta, “Federico II e il pensiero ebraico nell’Italia del suo tempo,” in Federico II e l’arte del Duecento italiano, Galatina 1980, pp. 183–197.

[6] See C. Sirat, “Les traducteurs juifs à la cour des rois de Sicile et de Naples,” in Traductions et traducteurs au Moyen Âge, Paris 1989, pp.169–191.

[7] See M. Fox, Interpreting Maimonides. Studies in Methodology, Metaphysics and Moral Philosophy, Chicago 1990.

[8] See G. Sermoneta, Un glossario filosofico ebraico-italiano del XIII secolo, Rome 1969.

[9] Neapolitan and Sicilian Jewish scholars continued to play a very important role in the diffusion of Jewish and Arabic texts into Christian culture still during the fifteenth century.

[10] Neoplatonism was a late Greek-Hellenistic philosophical school, dating from around 200–300 C.E. Its quintessential figure was Plotinus. Neoplatonists considered themselves Platonists, and their influence was considerable during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance.

[11] See G. Sermoneta, “L’incontro culturale tra ebrei e cristiani nel Medioevo e nel Rinascimento,” in Ebrei e Cristiani nell’Italia medievale e moderna: conversioni, scambi, contrasti. Proceedings of the Sixth International Conference of the Italian Association for the Study of Judaism (AISG), ed. by M. Luzzati, M. Olivari, and A. Veronese, Rome 1988, pp. 183–207

[12] See F. Lelli, “Poetic Theology and Jewish Kabbala in Fifteenth-Century Florentine Speculation: Giovanni Pico della Mirandola and Elijah Hayyim ben Benjamin of Genazzano,” Studia Judaica 16 (2008), pp.144–152.

[13] See F. Lelli, “Spuren jüdischer mystischer Motive in italienischer Dichtung des späten Mittelalters und der frühen Renaissance,” Im Gespräch, 7 (2003), pp. 33–51.

[14] See Mahbarot Immanuel haRomi, ed. by D. Yarden, Jerusalem 1957, II, p. 275 (Hebrew).

[15] See, e.g., Dante’s poem Ladies who have intelligence of love, in the nineteenth chapter of the Vita Nova (see https://halogen.georgetown.edu/mydante_test/vita/page/7).

[16] Due to the paucity of copies of Zoharic manuscripts circulating in Italy, Recanati’s commentary soon became the only source for Italian Jews from which to draw passages from the Zohar.

[17] See M. Idel, Rabbi. Menahem Recanati, The Kabbalist, I vol., Jerusalem 1998 (Hebrew).

[18] See M. Idel, The Mystic Experience of R. Abraham Abulafia, Albany 1987; Id., Language, Torah, and Hermeneutics in Abraham Abulafia’s Mystical Thought, New York 1989.

[19] See F. Lelli, “Yohanan Alemanno, Giovanni Pico della Mirandola e la cultura ebraica italiana del XV secolo,” in Giovanni Pico della Mirandola. Convegno internazionale di studi nel cinquecentesimo anniversario della morte (1494–1994), ed. by G.C. Garfagnini, Florence 1997, pp. 317–320; Id., “Alemanno, Yohanan ben Isaac,” in Encyclopedia of the Renaissance, ed. by P.F. Grendler, New York 1999, I, pp. 40–42.

[20] Alemanno’s Commentary is entitled Hesheq Shelomoh (Solomon’s Desire). The title hints at the passionate love of king Solomon for intellectual wisdom, which is the prerequisite, according to Alemanno, for the king’s attainment of both rational and suprarational knowledge of God, which was to result in the mystical union of Solomon’s soul with God.

[21] On Italian love poems written by Pico della Mirandola, see G. Pico della Mirandola, Sonetti, ed. by G. Dilemmi, Torino 1994; M. Martelli, “La poesia giovanile e le opere in volgare di Giovanni Pico della Mirandola,” in Giovanni Pico della Mirandola. Convegno internazionale di studi nel cinquecentesimo anniversario della morte (1494–1994), ed. by G.C. Garfagnini, Florence 1997, pp. 531–541.

[22] G. Pico della Mirandola, De hominis dignitate, Heptaplus, De ente et uno e Scritti vari, ed. by E. Garin, Florence 1942, p. 455, stanza IV, vv. 9–11.

[23] Pico della Mirandola, De hominis dignitate, p. 553. On p. 558 the same verses are interpreted according to the kabbalistic motif of the mystic union caused by God’s kiss: on this issue see F. Lelli, “Un collaboratore ebreo di Giovanni Pico della Mirandola: Yohanan Alemanno,” Vivens Homo, 5,2 (1994), pp. 401–430.

[24] Pico della Mirandola, De hominis dignitate, p. 554.

[25] For a full bibliography of English versions of Pico’s works see http://www.mvdougherty.com/pico.htm

[26] See Lelli, “Yohanan Alemanno, Giovanni Pico della Mirandola,” pp. 319–320. On Alemanno’s Commentary, see A. M. Lesley, The ‘Song of Solomon’s Ascents’ by Yohanan Alemanno. Love and Human Perfection according to a Jewish Associate of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, Univ. of Berkeley, Calif., 1976.

[27] See F. Lelli, “Poetic Theology and Jewish Kabbalah in Fifteenth-Century Florentine Speculation: Giovanni Pico della Mirandola and Elijah Hayyim ben Benjamin of Genazzano.”

[28] See A. Neubauer, “Zum Frauenliteratur,” Israelitische Letterbode 10 (1892), pp. 97–105.

[29] Eliyyah Hayyim ben Binyamin da Genazzano, La lettera preziosa (Iggeret hamudot), ed. by F. Lelli, Florence- Nîmes 2002, p. 152. An English version of Genazzano’s treatise is forthcoming.

[30] See F. Lelli, “Prisca Philosophia and Docta Religio. The Boundaries of Rational Knowledge in Jewish and Christian Humanist Thought.”

[31] See S. A. Farmer, Syncretism in the West: Pico’s 900 Theses (1486): The Evolution of Traditional Religious and Philosophical Systems, Tempe, AZ, 1998.

[32] See M. Idel, “Differing Conceptions of Kabbalah in the Early 17th Century,” in Jewish Thought in the Seventeenth Century, ed. by I. Twersky and B. Septimus, Cambridge, Mass., 1986, pp. 137–200: par. D.

[33] See R. Bonfil, Cultural Change among the Jews of Early Modern Italy, Farnham, Surrey 2010.

 

Ramban’s Integrative Approach to the Reading of Biblical Narrative

Introduction

 

            The commentary of Rabbi Moses ben Nahman (Ramban), a foremost thirteenth-century Spanish exegete, is a rich, incisive medieval resource for the study of the stories of the Torah. The student of Ramban’s interpretation is drawn into the world of these stories—their plots, characters, themes, and didactic messages. How does Ramban succeed in vivifying the narratives and their personae, engrossing his readers and motivating them to want to study more about the biblical stories and their meanings? What is the unique appeal of Ramban’s commentary, such that nowadays his analyses are increasingly studied? I believe that one of the answers lies in discerning his distinctive mode of reading biblical narrative.

            A hallmark feature of Ramban’s exegetical method is his integrative approach to the study of the biblical text and context. Ramban reads globally, associating the different components of a biblical story into a holistic narrative. Building on his predecessors’ insightful analyses, Ramban develops a more extensive interpretative program that reveals the cohesiveness of biblical narrative, which provides the reader with a comprehensive, broad view of the stories. When Ramban reads a biblical story, he reads progressively, but also with an eye to linking what came before with what comes after. Through this amalgamated manner of reading, Ramban delineates the linear sequence of the story line. To facilitate his analysis, Ramban searches for linguistic clues such as key words that are pivotal for interpreting the narrative’s dynamic or repeated words that summon the reader to follow their path in order to decode the wider sense of the narrative. Ramban takes note of changes in time and place as the story unfolds, markers that signal transformations in character experiences. Through his expansive reading, Ramban reconstructs broad portraitures of the biblical personalities by scrutinizing how the narrative describes their thoughts, emotions, speeches, and actions. Extending his integrative approach, Ramban interrelates diverse stories, within the same biblical book or between different biblical books, seeking the linking threads between them that elicit the catalyst for ensuing events, create related character portraitures, and establish the thematic continuum imparted by these narratives.

            The ensuing discussion will illustrate selectively Ramban’s analytical method, which will hopefully  inspire further study of his engaging biblical commentary.

 

Plot Sequence and Timing

 

            The following examples will demonstrate how Ramban’s integrative approach discerns the sequence, structure, and progression of plot events in biblical narrative.

            In his analysis of Exodus 2:10–25, Ramban applies this method of reading in order to clarify the plot sequence from a transitional situation to a complicating event to the final situation that prevails at the conclusion of the narrative. Ramban observes that this text marks a new situation when it references the event of Moshe, the youth, “growing up” in verse 10 (va-yigdal ha-yeled). Ramban interprets this to refer to Moshe’s physical maturation, prompting his mother to bring him to the palace to be raised by Pharaoh’s daughter as a son “who would stand before kings.” This reading intimates how Moshe’s early experiences prepare him for his role as redeemer who will plead Israel’s case before Pharaoh. The second reference to Moshe “growing up” (2:11) specifies the instigating event that initiates the narrative’s turning point. Labeling Moshe as “a man of understanding (ish daՙat),” Ramban (on 2:11, 23) clarifies that Moshe reaches intellectual maturation, and he now becomes aware of his Hebrew origins, causing him to seek out his brethren and assess their oppressive condition. These observations impel him to act immediately and kill the Egyptian taskmaster (2:12), a transformative act that marks the climax of the narrative, as is evident from his confrontation with two wrestling Hebrews on the second day (2:13–14). As Ramban (on 2:14, 23) paraphrases the Hebrew’s retort to Moshe, “Who appointed you as an officer and judge over us? Is it because you intend to kill me as you killed the Egyptian that you are chastising me?”

            Their slander forces Moshe to escape to exile, settling in Midian (2:15), which precipitates God’s charge that he return to Egypt to redeem his people (Exodus 3–4). Noting, however, the significance of the temporal marker in verse 23, “It happened during those many days (va-yehi ba-yamim ha-rabbim ha-hem) that the king of Egypt died and Israel groaned from the work and cried out and their cries went up to God . . .,” Ramban (on 2:23) observes how the narrative provides the reader with a sense of the passage of time between these main action sequences. Assuming that the marked time frame refers to the length of Moshe’s exile,[1] Ramban proposes that Moshe escapes from Egypt when he is less than twenty years old,[2] and, as noted in Exodus 7:7, Moshe appears before Pharaoh at the age of 80. Since he receives the communication from God with only his eldest son, Gershom, having been born, Ramban posits that Moshe wanders for many years, settling in Midian and marrying Tzipporah toward the end of his years in exile (7:21–22).[3] Nevertheless, the narrative condenses its discussion of the wandering sequence as it is a transitional experience. At the end of this time period, while Moshe is in Midian, the Egyptian king dies, prompting God to charge him with his mission.

            Ramban’s linear insight into the narrative’s progression enables the reader to discern a clear sequence and structure that leads to a better understanding of the story’s underlying themes: exile, survival, and salvation.          

            Ramban (on Exod. 4:19–23) also outlines plot progression by tracing the paths of recurrent words within a narrative scene. Through this integrative mode of reading, Ramban makes sense of the episode in Exodus 4:18–21, which is marked by the repeated words, “go (lekh)” and “return (shuv),” that follow the biblical figures’ movements. After Moshe’s experience at the burning bush, the text relates,

18. Moshe went and returned to Jether his father-in-law and said to him, “Let me go now and I will return to my brethren who are in Egypt so that I may see if they are still alive.” Jethro said to Moshe, “Go in peace.” 19. God said to Moshe in Midian, “Go, return to Egypt for all the men who were seeking your life have died.” 20. Moshe took his wife and his sons and mounted them on the donkey, and he returned to the land of Egypt, and Moshe took God’s staff in his hand. 21. God said to Moshe, “When you go to return to Egypt, see all the wonders I have put into your hand and perform them before Pharaoh. But I will harden his heart and he will not release the people. . . ”.

 

            Ramban maintains that the primary focus of this scene involves the transformation of the family relationship, which is precipitated by Moshe’s mission as Israel’s savior. Moshe returns from Mt. Horeb to ask permission from his father-in-law to return to Egypt. The focus on Moshe’s movements, however, intimates that he planned to return “alone, in stealth,” intending only to remain in Egypt temporarily. Apparently, Moshe still feared for his life, seeing a need to conceal his identity. God therefore reassures him, commanding Moshe, according to Ramban’s reading, to return to Egypt and reside there until he liberates his brethren. Accordingly, Moshe takes his family and sets out to return to Egypt. God subsequently reiterates to Moshe that he must diligently perform the wonders with which he has been charged, even though Pharaoh will not listen.[4]

            However, since the text anomalously records that only “he returned” to Egypt (4:20), Ramban integrates the later scene in which Zipporah circumcises her son (4:24­–26) in order to resolve the question of Moshe’s family’s whereabouts while he confronts Pharaoh in Egypt. Presuming that only Gershom, the firstborn, is alive at the time (despite the plural, “sons,” in verse 20, which is attributed to the norm of scriptural style), Ramban suggests that Moshe returns to Egypt with his family, “for this was a sensible idea,” as it would prove “that his heart was firm, trusting” that redemption was imminent. Therefore, Ramban surmises that the second son, Eliezer, was conceived on the way to Egypt or in Egypt, and Gershom is circumcised by Zipporah. Although only Moshe’s return is specified, Ramban assumes that his family accompanies him.

            Alternatively, Ramban examines the family movements from a different perspective. In this reading, Zipporah had already been pregnant with her second child before Moshe receives the divine revelation at Mt. Horeb. When he returns to seek Jethro’s permission to go to Egypt, she gives birth. In his alacrity to fulfill God’s will, Moshe does not circumcise him; when Moshe is confronted by the angel, the newborn is circumcised by Zipporah on the way to Egypt. As Exodus 18:2 suggests that Zipporah was sent away (ahar shiluheha), Ramban speculates that Zipporah and her children turn back to Midian at Moshe’s insistence; not wanting to delay his mission, Moshe leaves his family at the inn where they had stopped (4:24), instructing them to return to Jethro’s home when the newly circumcised child is sufficiently strong.[5] Ramban also suggests that perhaps they all went to Egypt, but, longing for her father, Zipporah is sent home with her children.

            Sensitive to the gaps and ambiguities in this narrative, Ramban integrates its different facets by focusing on the repeated, guiding words that punctuate its context. His interpretations motivate the reader to ponder the relationship between husband and wife and parents and children in association with the broader frame of this narrative, the divine mission to redeem Israel from Egypt.

            Ramban is adept at integrating related narratives within a biblical book, divulging how one pivotal incident serves as the catalyst for subsequent events, influencing their outcome. An illustrative example is how Ramban centralizes Joseph’s dreams (Gen. 37:5–11) as the crux of later episodes in Genesis. From Ramban’s perspective, Joseph does not view his dreams as youthful imaginings, but he sees in them divinely providential import and feels it is his obligation to ensure that they are brought to fruition. Relating Joseph’s reaction to his brothers’ arrival in Egypt to trade for food, Scripture reports, “Joseph recognized his brothers, but they did not recognize him, and Joseph remembered the dreams he had dreamed about them, and he said to them, ‘You are spies. To see the nakedness of the land you have come’” (Gen. 42:8–9). According to Ramban (on Gen. 42:9), when Joseph sees his brothers, he realizes the time has arrived to implement his dreams, and he orchestrates subsequent events to ensure their fulfillment in the order he had dreamed them. “He carried out everything well at its appropriate time in order to realize the dreams, for he knew that they would certainly be realized.”

            In his first dream, Joseph had envisioned eleven sheaves bowing down to his sheaf, signifying his brothers’ obeisance to his sovereignty (Ramban on Gen. 37:7). Since only 10 brothers first arrive in Egypt, Joseph conceals his identity and devises a scenario that will compel the brothers to bring Benjamin down to Egypt so that the first dream will be fulfilled in its entirety and proper sequence (Ramban on Gen. 42:9).

            Ramban (on Gen. 37:10) uniquely interprets that Joseph decodes the symbolic meaning of the second dream (Gen. 37:9) as an indication that Jacob (represented by the sun), Jacob’s entire lineage who were born to his four wives (signified by the moon), including the eleven brothers (that is, the stars), would bow down to Joseph. In order to fulfill this dream, therefore, Joseph must ensure that his entire family is uprooted to Egypt, where they will bow down to him when they “see his great success there.”[6]

            Ramban’s focus on the dreams also explains why Joseph never communicates with his father while in Egypt, even though Egypt is close to Canaan. Joseph deliberately keeps his father ignorant of his whereabouts because revealing himself would jeopardize the realization of his dreams in succession (Ramban on Gen. 42:9). For Ramban, Joseph’s dreams are the proverbial glue that binds the narrative scenes involving Joseph and his family.

 

Characterization

            Ramban’s clear sense of the overall portraiture of the biblical figures emerges from his integrative reading of the narratives in which they appear. This analytical method may be illustrated through his polar characterizations of Noah and Lot. Based on his holistic analysis of the Flood story (Gen. 6–8), Ramban develops a one-sided portrait of Noah, but his global analysis of the episodes in which Lot plays a role leads him to reconstruct a complex portrait of his persona.

            Ramban frames his perception of Noah around a key biblical phrase that, in his view, defines this biblical figure’s character. Genesis 6:9 relates, “Noah ish tzaddik tamim hayah be-dorotav.” According to Ramban, the moral epithet, ish tzaddik, specifies Noah’s righteousness in the particular sense of having been judged innocent of any wrongdoing. Whereas the people of Noah’s time are convicted of a host of crimes, which warrant their destruction, God deems Noah to be completely guiltless. Noah therefore merits, without reservation, to be saved from the Flood catastrophe. The adjective, tamim (complete), accentuates his absolute vindication in judgment. The time frame, “in his generations (be-dorotav),” specifies that although Noah lived a long life, spanning multiple generations, he was never corrupted by his contemporaries’ wicked ways, and, exceptionally, only he was worthy of being saved from the Flood. A midrashic view infers that this temporal qualifier delimits Noah’s sterling character as being only relative to the wicked men of his generations and certainly not measuring up to extraordinarily righteous individuals like the patriarch Abraham. However, Ramban presumes that this proviso aggrandizes Noah’s meritoriousness. As Ramban emphasizes further, only Noah “walked with God” (6:9), exhibiting a spiritual closeness to God that was sorely lacking among his contemporaries.[7]

            Ramban supports his monolithic characterization of Noah by analyzing additional textual indicators. Prior to revealing Noah’s defining quality, Scripture asserts how God is “saddened” that He must eradicate the very humans He created because of their evil ways (6:5–7). However, the text contrastingly observes, “But Noah found favor (matza hen) in God’s eyes” (6:8). While noted predecessors maintain that Noah’s “favorable” effect on God was an activation of His mercy, implying that Noah did not fully merit salvation,[8] Ramban (on Gen. 6:8) claims that this divine “favor” was bestowed upon Noah because “all of his deeds were befitting and pleasing before God.”

            Additionally, Ramban observes that Noah’s praiseworthy character is endorsed by God Himself. In 7:1, God asserts, “Go into the ark, with all your household, for you alone (otekha) have I seen to be innocent (tzaddik) before Me in this generation.” While this confirmation raises the question why Noah’s family was saved, Ramban concludes that Noah’s merit was sufficient to rescue his household as well. This is why his children are mentioned in conjunction with Scripture’s assertion of Noah’s defining feature as a “tzaddik.” Genesis 6:9–10 relates, “This is Noah’s lineage (toledot Noah)—Noah was a completely innocent man in his generations; Noah walked with God—Noah begat three sons . . .”. In Ramban’s view, these opening statements direct the reader to focus on the pivotal figure of Noah, whose merit saves his three sons from whom the world will be rebuilt (9:18–19).[9]

            Ramban’s consistent evaluation of Noah’s persona is highlighted by his striking perspective on the inebriation scene in Genesis 9. While one might think this scene is cause for re-assessing Noah’s positive characterization, Ramban (on Gen. 9:26) asserts that this episode is a commentary on the potency of wine and its ability to fell even the greatest of men; it does not detract from his worthiness to be saved from the Flood. “For the wholly innocent individual (tzaddik tamim), whose merit saved the entire world, even he was brought to sin by wine.”

            One might posit that Ramban’s integrated study of the Flood story leads him to derive a constant portrait of Noah because this characterization answers a central question of this story: Why did Noah merit to be, in essence, the “Second Adam,” whose lineage would be the ancestors of future humanity? By eliciting the narrative’s clear conception of Noah’s portraiture, Ramban leaves no doubt about this figure’s role in the renewal of the world.

            Conversely, Ramban (on Gen. 19:8) perceives that the Torah presents Lot as a multidimensional personality. Considering Lot’s despicable offer of his two daughters to the vicious Sodomites (Gen. 19:7–8), an act that Ramban surmises could only arise from “a wicked heart,” one might question how he deduces that Lot is a complex character. However, Ramban unearths subtle clues that direct him to contemplate Lot’s persona more broadly. Ramban (on Gen. 19:3) credits Lot with a display of good will in his desire to host the (angelic) guests (Gen. 19:1–3). The angels cultivate this merit, which plays a part in helping to save him from destruction, by initially refusing to accept his invitation, which prompts Lot to beseech the angels further. Furthermore, Ramban (on Gen. 18:26) maintains that when Abraham begs God to save the cities of the plain for the sake of the righteous, innocent men who dwelled in them (tzaddikim be-tokh ha-‘ir) (18:24, 26), he effectively seeks salvation for Lot, whom he deems to be sufficiently innocent of the Sodomites’ crimes. Ramban (on Gen. 19:12) observes that Lot’s merit suffices to save his family, and his request averts destruction of the nearby city, Zoar, where he will find refuge (19:18–22).

            At the same time, Ramban (on Gen. 13:13) finds other textual indications that cast a shadow on Lot’s persona. Scripture follows its description of Lot’s choice to live in Sodom with an evaluation of its inhabitants as being exceedingly wicked men (13:12–13) in order to castigate Lot’s new residence. Ramban (on Gen. 19:16) also suggests that the text implies Lot was ultimately saved out of mercy, not merit; as Genesis 19:16 indicates, Lot was hastened out of Sodom by the angels, “while God’s mercy was upon him.”

            Nevertheless, Ramban reveals Lot’s positive qualities in his analysis of Genesis 19:29: “When God demolished the cities of the plain, God remembered Abraham and He sent Lot out from the upheaval . . . ”. In Ramban’s view, this text underscores Lot’s loyalty to Abraham, which earns him the merit to be rescued:

 

. . . Lot had displayed kindness toward the righteous one [Abraham] by going with him, wandering throughout the land wherever he went . . . And therefore he had the merit to save him because of Abraham’s merit. For it was because of him [Abraham] that he [Lot] resided in Sodom. Were it not for Abraham, he would have still been in Haran with his family. And it is implausible that harm should occur to him [Lot] because of Abraham, who had departed by the command of His Creator.

 

By integrating the various narrative scenes in which Lot appears, Ramban directs the reader to appreciate how close reading can reveal the many sides of a biblical personality.

      Furthermore, Ramban’s integrative method develops comparative portraits between related biblical figures who have active roles in different biblical books.

            Representative of this approach is Ramban’s perception of the parallel experiences between Joshua and Moshe, revealing continuity between teacher and student in their leadership roles. Explaining what laws were established after the incident at Marah, where the bitter waters were sweetened (sham sam lo hok u-mishpat, Exod. 15:25), Ramban posits that Moshe institutes daily guidelines for Israel’s interpersonal relationships and between humans and God to ensure stability within the community during their sojourn in the wilderness. Comparatively, Ramban (on Exod. 15:25) observes that the verse in Joshua 24:25, va-yasem lo hok u-mishpat bi-Shekhem, indicates through the same language how Moshe’s successor establishes similar societal standards and practices before his death, after much of the conquest has been accomplished, in order to guarantee success for the newly settled Israelites.

Correlating these biblical figures’ actions, Ramban applies the later episode of the capture of Ai (Josh. 7–8) in order to explain Moshe’s conduct in the war against the Amalekites (Exod. 17). Although Moshe indicates that he will stand on top of the hill with his staff in his hand during the battle (17:9), the ensuing narrative relates only that Moshe raises his hands to ensure the Israelites’ victory (17:11–12). To clarify the staff’s function, Ramban observes that prior to the assault of Ai, God commands Joshua to perform a symbolic gesture signifying the enemy’s defeat: “Stretch out the javelin in your hand toward Ai, for I will give it into your hand” (Josh. 8:18). With his hand and spear outstretched, the ambush rushes out, captures the city, and sets it on fire (8:19, 26). Correspondingly, Ramban (on Exod. 17:9) suggests that when Moshe reaches the top of the hill, he first extends his staff over the Amalekites below to preordain their defeat. However, to reinforce this signification, he prays to God with raised hands, having put the staff away beforehand.

            In an analogous example, Ramban associates the two leaders’ spy expeditions. Noting the disparate accounts in Numbers 13 and Deuteronomy 1 concerning who initiated the spy venture, Ramban posits, in one approach, that although the people introduce the idea of sending spies (Deut. 1:22), Moshe approves their initiative (Deut. 1:23), and God grants His permission (Num. 13:1–2), since the mission’s intent is to plan a military strategy to invade Canaan. To bolster his reading, Ramban notes similar reconnaissance missions, expedited by Moshe (prior to attacking the Amorite lands; Num. 21:32), and by Joshua before attacking Jericho (Josh. 2:1). Referencing the attack on Ai (Josh. 8), Ramban reiterates that it was customary to arm the attackers with knowledge of their enemy to assure victory against them. Ramban (on Num. 13:2) observes further that while the Israelites intended to send only two spies, as was the case before the battle of Jericho, God commands that each tribe send its chieftain as spies to maximize the chances of success.

 

Thematic and Didactic Features

 

            Ramban’s integrative approach divulges the interrelated subjects of the biblical books, illustrating their progressive thematic relationship. A notable example is his introduction to the Book of Exodus, in which he encapsulates the contents of the first two books of the Torah, disclosing their thematic continuum. According to Ramban, in the Book of Genesis, the creation of the world and its creatures narrows to focus on the creation of Israel through “the experiences of the patriarchs, which are a type of creation for their descendants,” as their biographies symbolically preordain Israel’s historical destiny. Ramban’s associative reading suggests how the world cannot exist without a divinely chosen nation that fulfills the purpose for which the world was created. Furthermore, Ramban notes that the promises and decrees foretold in the Book of Genesis come to fruition in the Book of Exodus. The Covenant between the Pieces in Genesis 15 preordains the exile in Egypt and Israel’s redemption, the main events of the Book of Exodus.[10]

            Noting, however, that the Book of Exodus concludes with Tabernacle’s construction, Ramban also applies an integrative reading that circles back to the beginning in order to connect the narratives of both biblical books.

 

For the exile did not end until the day that [Israel] returned to their place, and returned to the high stature of their Patriarchs . . . When they came to Mt. Sinai and built the Mishkan, and God returned and rested His presence among them, then they returned to the heights of their Patriarchs, where the counsel of God dwelled on their tents. . . Then they were considered redeemed.[11]

 

 For Ramban, the crowning distinction of the creation of Israel is its return to the elevated spirituality of its patriarchal ancestors, who felt God’s open presence among them continually. Through the medium of the Tabernacle, Israel will realize the purpose for which God created the world and selected the patriarchs to establish the foundation of the nation of Israel.

            Ramban also elicits the integral didactic features present within a particular narrative. In his introduction to the Jacob-Esau confrontation (Genesis 32–33), Ramban underscores its three primary messages: 1) “God saved His servant and redeemed him from the hand of one more powerful than he. He sent an angel and saved him”; 2) “Jacob did not rely on his righteousness, but he exerted all of his effort for his salvation”; and 3) “All that transpired between our patriarch [Jacob] with his brother Esau will continually happen to us with Esau’s descendants.”

            Ramban (on Gen. 32:22, 23, 25) delineates how each of these edifying elements is present in the scene of Jacob’s struggle with the angel. Illustrating the second message, Ramban observes that Jacob acts as “a man of war,” sleeping outside “in the camp” (32:22), among his servants and shepherds, to guard against his brother’s possible attack. During the night, he checks the water level, transfers his wife and children, and the possessions by means of servants, ultimately being left behind on the wrong side of the river, where the struggle occurs (32:25–26).

            Ramban (on Gen. 18:1; 35:10) analyzes this struggle in the broader context of the confrontation between Jacob and Esau, identifying the “man” as the angelic “prince of Esau.” Accordingly, he intimates that the first didactic feature is expressed in this very event of the struggle, for salvation by an angel does not appear elsewhere in this biblical story. Ramban (on Gen. 32:26) presumes that Jacob needs to endure a struggle with the angel of Esau in order to attain a victory by divine mediation that prevents the angel from mortally harming him, so that Jacob’s triumph over his enemy will be assured.[12]

            Applying midrashic analysis, Ramban exposes the narrative’s third instructive component, its futuristic implications. Jacob’s victory over the angel signifies that while his righteous descendants will suffer an injurious blow at the hands of the Romans—Esau’s descendants, Israel will ultimately prevail. In conjunction with this thematic underpinning, Ramban presumes that this narrative concludes with Jacob’s return to the place of Shalem (33:18), alluding to his arrival whole and unscathed.[13]

             Additionally, Ramban elicits this didactic perspective in his interpolation of the angel’s reaction to Jacob’s demand to know his name (32:30). “Why do you ask for my name: There is no benefit for you to know my name, for the power and capability belongs to God alone. If you call me, I will not answer you; and I will not be able to redeem you from your travails.” Ramban (on Gen. 32:30) suggests that the angel teaches Jacob a lesson for generations: Israel needs to face its enemy by prayer that is directed to God Himself.

 

Conclusion

 

            Ramban’s biblical commentary provides an important interpretative method for the serious study of the stories of the Torah. His integrative approach discerns interlocking connections between the scenes of a biblical narrative or between different narratives, expanding the reader’s scope of analysis. By assimilating the components of biblical narrative into a cohesive whole, Ramban delineates plot sequence and structure, primary themes and messages, and a broad perception of the biblical personalities. Ramban’s interpretations reveal the essence of the biblical stories, which are the backbone of our national history.

 

For Further Study

 

Ben-Meir, Ruth, “Le-Darkhei Parshanuto shel Ramban.” In: Pirkei Nehama: Sefer Zikaron le-Nehama Leibowitz, ed. M. Ahrend, R. Ben-Meir, G. H. Cohen (Jerusalem: Israel Jewish Agency, 2001), pp. 125–141.

 

Elman, Yaakov, “‘It Is No Empty Thing’: Nahmanides and the Search for Omnisignificance,” The Torah U-Madda Journal 4 (1993): 1–83.

 

Gottlieb, Yitzhak, Yesh Seder la-Mikra: Hazal u-Farshanei Yemei ha-Benayyim al Mukdam u-Me’uhar ba-Torah (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, Hebrew University; Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2009).

 

Kanarfogel, Ephraim, “On The Assessment of R. Moses ben Nahman (Nahmanides) and His Literary Oeuvre,” Jewish Book Annual 51 (1993): 158–172.

 

Levine, Michelle J., Nahmanides on Genesis: The Art of Biblical Portraiture (Providence: Brown University Press, 2009).

 

Levine, Michelle J., “Character, Characterization, and Intertextuality in Nahmanides’s Commentary on Biblical Narrative,” Hebrew Studies 53 (2012): 161–182.

 

Melammed, Ezra Zion, Mefarshei ha-Mikra: Darkhehem ve-Shitotehem (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, Hebrew University, 1975), 2:937–1021.

Notes

 

[1] Ramban, Exod. 2:23, however, initially identifies this time frame as the length of Israel’s oppression.

[2] Ramban follows the midrashic view, cited in Shemot Rabbah 1: 27; 5:2.

[3] Ramban, Exod. 2:23, observes that verse 15 states, “He settled in Midian” (not “He went to Midian”), intimating that Moshe wandered a long time before settling down.

[4] Yitzhak Gottlieb also addresses this plot sequence in Yesh Seder la-Mikra: Hazal u-Farshanei Yemei ha-Benayyim al Mukdam u-Me’uhar ba-Torah (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, Hebrew University; Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 2009), p. 357.

[5] This reading is influenced by Ibn Ezra, Exod. 4:20.

[6] Ramban, Gen. 42:9. Ramban, Gen. 37:10, observes that the eleven brothers bow to Joseph in Gen. 43:26 (28). Although he does not specify, it appears (as R. Behaye maintains) that Jacob bows to him on his bed (49:31). Furthermore, even though the text does not record that all of Jacob’s household shows obeisance to Joseph, Ramban seems to maintain that this event happened.

[7] For this extensive analysis, see Ramban, Gen. 6:9. For the qualifying view of “in his generations,” see Rashi’s midrashic citation on 6:9.

[8] Cf. Ibn Ezra, Gen. 6:8.

[9] Ramban, Gen. 6:9. Ramban considers that the sons were as righteous as their father, but ultimately prefers the approach that sets Noah apart from all of his contemporaries, including his family. See Ramban, Gen. 7:1, 8:1, 9:8.

[10] Ramban, Introduction to Exodus, observes that the exile to Egypt, which begins at the end of Genesis with Jacob’s household leaving Canaan, is repeated at the beginning of Exodus to demonstrate the continuity between the narratives of these biblical books.

[11] Ramban, Introduction to Exodus.

[12] Compare Pinchas Yehudah Lieberman, Perush ha-Ramban al ha-Torah: Tuv Yerushalayim, Penei Yerushalayim (Jerusalem, 1985), I:404, notes on Ramban’s introduction to Genesis 32.

[13] Ramban, Gen. 32:26, based on Bereshit Rabbah 77:3; Shir ha-Shirim Rabbah 2:7.

Sparked by Torah

 

I have drawn and painted every single verse in the first three Books of the Torah, (in three enormous murals on canvas), scenes from the lives of King David and King Solomon, all the Jewish holidays, and most of the heroines of Tanakh, and illustrated the Haggadah Shel Pessah and the whole Megillah. And I never had contact with of any of these texts until I was 45 years old! I thus conclude that Torah not only stimulates creativity, but provides a vital link to the divine, enabling miracles to occur which enable the work to be done. I'm 63 now, still praying for this process to continue. In this essay, I will describe how Torah knowledge and life have sparked and sustained my creative efforts.

            Let's begin with my first Torah art job, which brought me to a Sephardic synagogue in Los Angeles called the Pinto Torah Center, to paint outdoor murals for the preschool, an encounter that led to my becoming religiously observant and a Torah Artist. I decided to paint the Garden of Eden; in preparation I read the beginning paperback “Holy Bible” from the bookshelves of my downtown L.A. loft. When I began to paint the wall, I felt guided to anchor the garden scene with an enormous bush, laden with huge, psychedelic blossoms. Rabbi Pinto wondered what was going on! Eventually the rest of the garden appeared, and the mural, (completed in 1993), still glows on that wall. Soon after its completion, I picked up an English translation of the Zohar, which of course I had never heard of in my prior life, and was amazed to read about the giant blossoms I had painted.

            While I painted those early murals, (I also did Noah's Ark, and later added a Holiday Mural showing the cycle of holidays after I experienced them for the first time), the preschool children swirled around me during play time. Periodically, they were called in small groups to go up to the Women's Section, a balcony in those days, for their Hebrew lessons. The wonderful Hazzan, Yakov HaRoche, could be heard bribing the children: “Say it, and you get a cookie.” It occurred to me that I might be able to learn the Alef Bet if those three and four year olds were doing so, and the cookie didn't sound bad either. Later in the synagogue kitchen, as visiting Rabbi Meir boiled a giant pot of fragrant Yemenite soup, Yakov HaRoche coached me, from a traditional “Binah” text, in learning the Aleph Bet.

I found the quaintness and authenticity of these people and their lifestyle to be as inspiring to paint as the Jewish and Torah knowledge which I began slowly to acquire, and I began to make paintings of everything I learned and saw.

A huge jump in learning came when I enrolled in the Crash Course in Hebrew Reading, offered at night by Yeshiva of Los Angeles. Our teacher, Dr. Yehudah Berdugo, greeted us with this statement: “Class, learning Hebrew is like learning no other language, because Hebrew is the language of God.” I was hooked, and Dr. Berdugo's awesome skills and insights made learning a joy and an inspiration. As we moved on to Reading Improvement, he would preface each verse that we studied, by telling us: “Class, this is very beautiful,” and he was right. Learning Hebrew opens up Judaism and is of course the key to the beautiful prayer services.

            Yeshiva of Los Angeles offered a complete night program for adults just at that time, so I took advantage of those classes and learned all I could. I spent months studying each blessing of the Shemoneh Esrei with Cantor Pinchas Rabinovitz, as well as Shemirat haLashon with Rabbi Hillel Adler, the Laws of Prayer, and Humash and Rashi. The head of the program, Rabbi Harry Greenspan, became a life-long teacher, friend, and mentor. Better than being the “Head of the Fox,” which I related to having been a honcho in the downtown L.A. art scene, I was now the “Tail of the Lion”—at the tippy end of an awesome entity led by Torah greats like Rabbi Sauer. Our classes were in the Boys’ High School, but I peeked inside the Bet Midrash, where rows of men and boys sat learning Torah in timeless fashion.

I painted the “Shekhina Comes” Triptych to commemorate this era. In the center panel (of three 7-by-4-foot oil paintings), a giant woman symbolizes the “Presence of Hashem,” the Shekhina, coming into my life. Inside the figure's dress are scenes of learning at YOLA— learning the Alef Bet with Dr. Berdugo, and peeking into the Bet Midrash. Surrounding the figure is a neighborhood landscape, where people walk on Shabbat, wearing prayer shawls and finery; a new sight to me. The second panel shows another large figure, but she is being ripped open by devils; symbolizing my fall from downtown honcho-hood. Figures of each member of the Pinto Torah Center, old and young, float in the sky, while bright magen david designs emerge from the rip; showing my new life-style and community emerging and rescuing me. The third panel celebrates my arrival into a Torah life. The central figure holds a growing tree-—the growth! Decorative diamond shapes contain scenes of different Torah classes, and my own Shabbat table. In a scene of Dr. Berdugo's class, we now learn Pirkei Avot! In a scene of Mrs. Shira Smiles' class, we study a story from Kings, about Eliyahu haNavi withholding rain from the earth. A giant outer diamond shape contains my first biblical narrative: the entire story we studied with Mrs. Smiles is illustrated. I particularly related to painting the scene of the prophet breathing life back into the widow's son. It reminded me of the countless times my eldest daughter was supposed to die from her brain cancer at the age of three; she kept coming back from the edge, was still alive at that time, and lived to be 36.

            Along with my first experience of the cycle of Jewish holidays came my first experience of another momentous cycle: the cycle of Torah readings. My impulse to make a mural on canvas of the whole Book of Bereishith came from gratitude and awe. The six Hebrew letters of the word “Bereishith” correspond to the six days of creation, so I put them together in six large boxes on a 16-foot canvas. I surrounded the boxes with a border filled with symbols of Shabbat, the Seventh Day: kiddush, hallah, candles, and Torah scrolls.

             There is an element to Torah that cannot be shown, and that is the nature of spiritual experience. Non-visual, spiritual forces are symbolized in my work by using the raw bright strength of color in patterns that use constantly shifting complimentary color clashes to generate a visual punch, hinting at the cosmic content of religion. So the symbols of Shabbat in the mural are embedded in brilliant patterns of color.

            Surrounding this border is another border, divided into sections corresponding to each parasha. Each of these sections is filled with tiny paintings of everything that happens in each parasha. In the beginning I held a heavy Humash as I worked, but by vaYera, I switched to a system of making black and white drawings in the back of my “Day Book,” (visual journals kept since 1969), and then made the paintings by following the drawings. Drawing and painting the famous scenes from Bereishith gave me insights into the material. The Matriarchs are behind a lot of the action; Bereishith is practically a woman’s book! In the same parasha as Yaakov's famous ladder, 12 babies are born; to me that's a big deal. The scene of Yaakov arriving to meet Esav with specifically enumerated gifts of livestock, was fun for me to portray. And, I developed strong opinions about Joseph in the pit based on drawing and painting the events.

            When the Bereishith Mural was completed, it was exhibited in a gallery in L.A. that was never open! But at the opening reception, I met Dr. Berdugo's wife, the Hebrew scholar Dr. Vardina Berdugo, and she suggested that with my family history, I should make a painting of Dona Gracia Mendes. An 8-by-6-foot history painting was born; it shows Dona Gracia Mendes surrounded by a map of Europe tracing the flight of Sephardic Jews from the Inquisition in Spain and Portugal, and Dona Gracia's triumphal entry to Constantinople, where it was finally possible to be openly Jewish. I borrowed the map from my old family hard-cover edition of Cecil Roth's definitive biography of Dona Gracia. (Interestingly, the map of my family's sojourns in the biography of my great-grandfather, Henry Pereira Mendes, late Rabbi of Congregation Shearith Israel, is almost identical.) In the painting, the central figure is also surrounded by a banner containing all of the Torah scenes I could fit into it, to symbolize the force which kept our people Jewish despite danger, persecution, and forced conversions. On each side of the painting are vignettes showing men and women engaged in activities of Jewish Life: praying, learning, teaching children, and celebrating holidays. These vignettes are to show the terrible irony of people being chased and persecuted for the crime of a holy lifestyle!

            An artist friend sent me a tiny ad from an art magazine soliciting work for a traveling Jewish Exhibit called “Encountering the Second Commandment.” “Dona Gracia Mendes” was accepted and featured on a 30-foot banner on the side of the Pittsburgh Jewish Community Center; I was stranded there when my ticket to fly home from the opening reception was for September 11, 2001. When the exhibit arrived in Boca Raton, Florida, patrons purchased “Dona Gracia Mendes” for donation to the JCC there, and I was invited to have a solo exhibit in 2002. As I drove across country for that exhibit, I received the news that the “Bereishith Mural” had also been purchased for donation to the JCC.

            And thus I began “The Shemot Mural” upon my return to Los Angeles. This time I carefully drew every verse in pen and ink first. Then I hung up a 6-by-12-foot canvas and outlined larger boxes for the parashiot. Even so, when it came time to paint details of every verse onto canvas, it brought on tendonitis in my finger, and I lost three months of work, because I crammed so much tiny detail into each parasha. I paint everything first in one rose-and-black color, like a giant, intricate drawing. In the process of painting the “Shemot Mural,” I was blessed to paint the kelim of the mishkan about seven times for each of the seven times each is mentioned in Sefer Shemot! Each of the mishpatim, or civil laws, tells a little comic-book-like story; showing rules for eventualities in the lives of maid-servants and others, and things that can go wrong between neighbors—such as an ox falling into a hole, with penalties clearly shown. After every single verse has been rendered into a little picture crammed into the whole, I rub large areas of pale color onto the canvas, using linseed oil and rags. Then I mix my colorful palette of thin oil paint in ice trays, and go back over every area, painting in and shading each tiny figure and scene. When all that is dry, there's another journey around all the details with a very thin outline of black. I forgot to mention that the inner space containing the word “Shemot,” and an outside border, have remained blank until this time. Now is the time to use the symbolic color patterns which are meant to imply the Light of Hashem, in a circular arrangement, radiating out from the center. The whole process took two years to complete, but the day came when the mural was done.

            The Shemot Mural had its debut at the tiny “Museum of the Bible,” or Bet Tanakh, upstairs from Independence Hall, in Tel Aviv, thanks to the efforts of a fellow student from my original Hebrew class, who had moved there. When I arrived home in Los Angeles with the mural, I held a reception to open a gallery in my studio/home in the Pico Robertson area. That's when a great miracle occurred: the Shemot Mural was sold, to be mounted at the Sephardic Educational Center in the Old City of Jerusalem. When I traveled to Jerusalem to make arrangements, I looked up some old friends from the Pinto Torah Center days, now living in Tsefat. A young daughter to whom I had given art lessons when she was little, was doing her National Service in the Old City, so we arranged to meet there. Her service turned out to be in the Temple Institute; I was treated to a private tour of replicas of the kelim I had painted so many times.

            And during which parasha of our yearly cycle did I land in Jerusalem to deliver the Shemot Mural? It was the week of parashat vaYikra, (the beginning of the next Sefer after Shemot!), which I hiked the Temple Mount to hear read at the Kotel. That week, I borrowed a Humash from the SEC, and began the drawings for the “VaYikra Mural.”

            VaYikra is different from Bereishith and Shemot, in that there is far less storytelling, and lots and lots of laws. How will the viewer know for which sacrifice this round of blood is being sprinkled on the altar? The answer was to label the depictions of each of the 859 verses in Sefer VaYikra, by chapter and verse numbers. I made my painting wall bigger, and this time hung up a 6-by-16-foot blank canvas when the pen and ink drawings were finally done. Actually, during this period my beloved daughter Oma, (“Annie”), passed away after her long and amazing survival. Perhaps the rigidity of the task helped ground me in work during the worst of that ghastly grief. Thank God, my younger daughter Kerby, with her husband Jeff and my precious granddaughter, Melody, live nearby.

            The VaYikra Mural took three years to complete. After the 859 numbered verses were completely painted onto the canvas, and the Hebrew in the mural corrected by my mentors the Berdugos during their visits from Israel where they now live, there remained the blank areas of the center and the outer border. I experimented with studies of bright, circular patterns framing narrative areas within and without. On the mural, I let the colors grow crazy patterns until the edges were reached and the mural completed. Fittingly because of the content, the mural has been shown at the KOH Cultural Center of Mosaic Law Congregation in Sacramento, CA. It's currently available for exhibition and sale.

            I want to mention that aside from Torah texts, my art is inspired by friends and life in the Jewish community. My friends the Elyassi family provide me with a model of devout Jewish life, shared with love, amid struggle. I love them and often paint the holy avodah of their home-life. I celebrate happy occasions with gifts of special paintings of the mitzvah child, couple, or baby. If you have participated in a Jewish community for a number of years, you can imagine how many are out there by now!

            If I had been born a man, when I fell in love with Torah learning, I likely would have disappeared into yeshivot and the men's domain of ritual, study, and prayer. If I had been born observant, I may have been busy having a lot more kids and doing a lot more cooking. As it was, I developed into a narrative painter whose art exploded to express every new-found gem of Torah life and learning. I also developed into a terrific visitor of the sick, a mitzvah I still find fulfilling. In fact, I've become comfortable with a more womanized version of Torah living, since I live alone and don't even have to help someone else do the zillion things Orthodox men must do. But I wouldn't want to face life without Shaharit (morning prayers) in Hebrew at home, or the Tehillim, which Dr. Berdugo encouraged me to memorize, ensuring life-long instant access, or the cycle of Torah readings, holidays, and beloved friends that is synagogue life, or the awesome fun of living each yearly cycle in our Jewish community, sharing joys and losses, or the amazing bond I've been honored to forge with the beautiful land of Israel.

            Most of all I would never want to face life again without the sense of closeness to the Creator of the universe that Judaism is all about. I see the hand of Hashem in the above events, and I certainly feel aided and abetted by the Almighty in doing the work I've described. I often wonder why the nature of religion doesn't more accurately reflect the obviously half-female nature of the divine. Oh well! I try to portray it that way in my art. Rabbi Marc Angel has written of the importance of finding one's own mission in life and in Torah. Voila!