National Scholar Updates

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!

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

           

           

           

           

 

           

 

 

 

National Scholar February 2018 Report

We continue to reach thousands of people annually through our National Scholar program, combining classes, teacher trainings, and publications to promote the core values of our Institute.

            There are several upcoming classes and programs in February:

On Wednesday, February 14, 7:30 pm, there will be a book reception for my latest book, The Keys to the Palace: Essays Exploring the Religious Value of Reading the Bible. It will be held at Ben Porat Yosef Yeshiva Day School, 243 Frisch Court, Paramus, New Jersey. I will give a talk on “Building Bridges in Scholarship and Jewish Community.” Books will be available for purchase and signing. For the flyer with more information, please see https://www.jewishideas.org/keys-palace

 

Since the beginning of September, I have served as the Tanakh Education Scholar at Ben Porat Yeshiva Day School, in Paramus, New Jersey. I am developing a new Tanakh curriculum for grades 1-8, that reflects our core religious values at the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals. I also have given lectures to the Ben Porat Yosef parent community in this capacity.

 

I also will be giving several classes in various locations:

On Mondays, February 5, 12, 26, March 5, 12, 19: Mondays 1:00-2:15 pm, I will teach a six-part mini-series at Lamdeinu Teaneck on: The book of Chronicles: A Glimpse into the Mind of the Prophets. Classes are held at Congregation Beth Aaron, 950 Queen Anne Road, Teaneck, New Jersey.

For more information and to register, go to http://www.lamdeinu.org/

 

On Shabbat, February 9-10, I will be a scholar-in-residence at the Baron Hirsch Synagogue in Memphis, Tennessee (400 South Yates Rd, Memphis, TN).

The classes are free and open to the public.

 

On Sundays, February 18 and 25, 7:30-8:30 pm, I will teach a two-part series at the Young Israel of Jamaica Estates in Queens (83-10 188th Street, Jamaica, New York) on Megillat Esther: What They Didn’t Teach in Yeshiva Day School.

The classes are free and open to the public.

 

Our University Network, which I now coordinate, continues to do incredible work to promote our religious ideology and vision on campuses across the United States and Canada. We have added several new campuses and fellows this semester. Please see my December report on our Campus Fellows on our website: https://www.jewishideas.org/article/campus-fellows-report-december-2017

 

As always, I thank you for your support and encouragement, and look forward to promoting our core values through these and many more venues.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

Thoughts on Judeo-Spanish Civilization

I can still hear the voices of my grandparents, parents and elder relatives speaking and singing in Judeo-Spanish. Although they have passed away years ago, I still feel their presence especially on Shabbat and holidays and at family celebrations.

I grew up in Seattle among Jews who had come from Turkey and the Island of Rhodes and whose mother-tongue was Judeo-Spanish. It did not occur to me to ask: why were people from Turkey and Rhodes speaking a Hispanic language? Why did they carry themselves with such self-respect and pride, even though many of them were simple laborers with modest formal education? What was the link between my relatives and medieval Sephardic Jewry in the Iberian Peninsula? What was the nature of the Judeo-Spanish civilization of the past centuries that produced the worldview and practices that imbued the lives of the elders of my family?

As I grew older, it began to dawn on me that my generation is the last to have lived among people who spoke Judeo-Spanish as their mother tongue, and whose lives were thoroughly shaped by Judeo-Spanish civilization. The language and many of the cultural characteristics are coming to the end of their historical lives. The new generations no longer speak Judeo-Spanish as their native language, and do not live in a communal context that is conducive to maintaining the language and traditions.

And yet, the voices of our elders stay with us and want to be heard. They-and their ancestors going back 500 years and more-were part of a vital, thriving and powerful Sephardic civilization that spanned the Ottoman Empire and stretched into Europe and the New World. This civilization produced great sages, poets, writers, journalists, dramatists, intellectuals; it fostered a lively, optimistic folk culture. Judeo-Spanish civilization is a treasure not just for members of our group, but for the entire Jewish people. But so little scholarly attention has been given to Jews of the Judeo-Spanish tradition, to trying to understand who they were, what they felt and believed.

It is not possible to bring Judeo-Spanish civilization back to life. Yes, there is a resurgence of interest in Ladino folk songs; there are Ladino chat rooms on the internet; there is more scholarly attention being given to the language and literature of the Sephardim of the Ottoman Empire. Yet, none of these things can restore the old civilization as a natural, living communal organism.

If I still hear the voices of my ancestors, the echo of those voices will diminish with each passing generation-as children and grandchildren will not have had the direct experience and interaction with these ancestors. But their story is not over; it is only transitioning into a new phase.

Judeo-Spanish civilization has fostered significant ideas and values. Our task is to study that civilization as deeply as we can, and to draw out and transmit that which is meaningful to us and future generations. Some of the lasting teachings relate to personal pride and self-respect; humor; a natural, healthy view of religion and our relationship with God; optimism; aesthetics and proper comportment; love of life.

In my book, "Foundations of Sephardic Spirituality: The Inner Life of Jews of the Ottoman Empire", I present a study of Judeo-Spanish civilization-providing historical context, but focusing on the inner life of our people-the ideas, values and traditions that shaped generations of Sephardic Jews-and that can still help shape future generations of our people. I call my book "a nostalgic history", since it is written not as a scholarly outsider, but as one who is himself a product of the Judeo-Spanish tradition.

My grandfather, Marco Romey, used to say-based on a kabbalistic teaching-that each person was put on earth to accomplish a unique mission. I think this is true not just for individuals, but for civilizations. The Judeo-Spanish era thrived for five centuries and has now entered its historical sunset. Yet, its mission is far from over. As we study and ponder the manifold aspects of Judeo-Spanish civilization, we will find that it has much to teach us-and much to give to future generations. The voices of our ancestors are not silenced, and will not be silenced.

We can get a glimpse of a people's values through their everyday proverbs. Here's a small sampling of Judeo-Spanish proverbs, originally collected by my Uncle Dave Romey in the 1950s among the Sephardim of Seattle.

Self-worth, Self-reliance

El rey es kon la gente—The king is with the people-- true nobility is characterized by closeness to the people, not haughty aloofness

En lo ke estamos bendigamos—We bless God for what we have—enjoy what you have, don’t be greedy or jealous

No es este banko, otro mas alto—If not this bench, another one even higher—don’t be frustrated by failure; next time you’ll do even better.

Poko ke sea mio ke sea—Let it be little but let it be mine.

Un dia en la siya del rey es un dia— One day on the throne of the king is one day. All people are essentially equal.

Good Manners, Concern for the Feelings of Others

Un bukado un dukado—One mouthful is worth one ducat—a nice compliment to someone who has served you tasty food

El harto no cree al hambierto—The one who is sated does not believe the one who is hungry—have empathy for the less fortunate

Va ande te yaman y no ande te keren

Go where you are invited, not where (you think) you are wanted…don’t impose yourself on others.

Observations on Human Nature

Muncha miel bulanea—Too much honey nauseates. People who try too hard to be sweet…are repulsive.

El prove piedre tiempo en kontando la rikeza del rico

The poor man wastes time counting the wealth of the rich.

Una piedresika ke no pensas rompe la kavesa

A tiny pebble which you don’t think about-- can break your head. Pay attention to seemingly small dangers

De los ocho fina los ochenta—From eight to eighty—one’s character doesn’t change from childhood through old age.

Humorous Witticisms

Kuando te yaman azno, mira si tienes kola

When they call you a jackass, look to see if you have a tail. Perhaps there’s truth when people criticize you.

Fuyi del prexil me kresio en la nariz

I ran from the parsley, it grew on my nose!—you try to get away from someone or some problem, and all of a sudden you confront it in spite of your efforts to escape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living in the Throes of Paradox

“I waited for some answers to many theological questions but answers not as abstract as in a theological treatise, just on that border between the intellect and our imagination, a border so rarely explored today in religious thinking.”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           —C. Milosz, in a letter to Thomas Merton

 

I.   Introduction: Religious Sensibility

Abraham Joshua Heschel sits comfortably between philosophy and poetry. His classic, God in Search of Man, provides lyrical perception and insight, religious and philosophic, not to be forgotten. A critic, skeptical of Heschel’s preference for poetry over theology, remarked, “You think it’s all just poetry?!” He responded (roughly), “Just poetry? What could be more elevated.”

Some years back, having returned to religious life in part inspired by Heschel, I was attending some lectures on Maimonides at UCLA. The contrast between Heschel and Maimonides, a philosopher’s philosopher, was stark. With Heschel I was exploring themes in Midrash, its parables and imaginative flights, some by way of biblical interpretation, some by way of reflection on religious life, religious ideas. For the midrashic imagination, God is anthropomorphically conceived: He nurtures, bestows gifts of love, He forgives, He judges righteously…. On the darker side, He is subject to anger, sometimes rage, to jealousy (for example, in Hosea, directed at Israel and her lovers). These lists can of course be lengthened.

Heschel’s view of prophecy is especially pertinent to the contrast with Maimonides. The prophet is, for Heschel, in a unique position vis-à-vis God and humanity. The prophet “gets” us; he knows from inside, as it were, what it’s like for us, what we think, what and how we feel. But, unlike the rest of us, he also gets God (much better than we do); the prophet understands, empathizes with, the divine pathos. The costs of such dual empathy are substantial. The prophet lives in painful elevation; despite his blessings he is appreciated by few, resented by many.

I’m not sure it’s accurate to report Maimonides as taking such views of God and prophecy to be heretical. But it’s not off by much. Maimonides is an Aristotelean; he takes Aristotle’s God and the Jewish God to be one and the same, surely not subject to any such human ways. Maimonides’ anti-anthropomorphism is as strict as it can be, on a par with that of the modern arch-naturalist Spinoza. The comparison with goes deep. Maimonides’s great philosophic work, Guide of the Perplexed, is in part a translation manual, one that reveals the anthropomorphic biblical imagery to be nothing more than what Bishop Berkeley called “speaking with the vulgar,” (all the while “thinking with the learned”).[1]

The Maimonides lectures at UCLA were given by Rabbi David Hartman, z’l. Hartman painted a vivid picture: The religious outlook of the Guide rejects the idea of God as caring, loving, forgiving, or angry, vengeful, and the rest. God was beyond all that, a Perfect Being, remote rather than available, for example, for interaction. God’s remoteness was not that of someone hiding (the Bible speaks of God hiding His face). God’s remoteness was more like that of a mathematical equation. Perhaps impersonal would be more to the point.

How in the world, I wanted to know, might these two conceptions reside in the same religious tradition? How could Maimonides fail to engage in a more human way, a less reductive way, with the powerful anthropomorphic text of Tanakh, not to speak of the sometimes hyper-anthropomorphic Midrash, the rabbinic religious imagination? Seeing God as loving, as caring about us, about justice—these are no throwaways; they seem central to Jewish tradition, and more generally to religious life.[2]

Hartman responded that Maimonides and the midrashic imagination represent different “religious sensibilities.” The phrase, not common currency in my experience, seized my imagination. The idea increasingly took on importance. One might pray—in the same pew—with one who inhabits a very different religious sensibility. One might experience the world through the biblical religious imagination; one’s fellow might eschew anthropomorphism. Or, one might see the divine in terms of the metaphysically supernatural and the other’s approach might be more naturalistic. At the same time, one’s religious sensibility might well be shared by another in a very different religious tradition. Religious sensibility seemed to me, and still does, important, and relatively underexplored.

Religious sensibility, as I conceive it, is analogous to musical sensibility.[3] “Sensibility” is related of course to “sense” (think: sense organs, but also “my sense of him”) and “sensation.” It’s something like a way of sensing or a taste/preference in the realm of sense, as with musical sensibility. There is some resonance here of the bodily, something I appreciate in connection with my thinking of faith as a stance, an attitude (in an almost nautical sense) of the whole person, this as opposed to a matter of cognitive assent to a proposition. As William James suggests, religion is largely a matter of the gut, surely not purely of the head.

II.Rabbinic Sensibility and the Rabbinic Project

Maimonides’s religious sensibility, at least as suggested in the Guide, is grounded in a philosophic outlook. It’s from philosophy, thinks Maimonides, that we know that God could not really be human-like, as described in Tanakh and Midrash. Maimonides suggests at the end of the Guide that the moment of solitary philosophic contemplation is the religious moment. This is striking; the contrast is with thinking of paradigm religious moments as standing before God in prayer—often communal prayer— or deeply engaged with talmudic issues.

The Rabbis of the talmud, skeptical about philosophy, inhabited a different sensibility, one to which Heschel’s outlook is closer. Max Kadushin, in The Rabbinic Mind, presents a compelling sketch: The Rabbis did not begin with a concept of God. In a way, they had no such concept, certainly not a philosophically well-developed one. What they had was their experience of God (of course against the background of the tradition and the biblical text). And that experience was of a God who loves, who provides, who cares, who is sometimes remote—at a great distance—and sometimes almost immediate, who may be angry and inscrutable; in short, the God of biblical imagination. But—and here’s the rub—that same experience yielded the sense that somehow God was altogether beyond all of this, that He could not be so like us.

Their touchstone experience thus yields two incompatible ideas. How does one live with such paradox? Is there a resolution in the offing? And what does such paradoxical experience yield by way of religious sensibility?

There is a wonderful scene in Woody Allen’s Hannah and Her Sisters in which a Jewish mother responds to her son’s question of where God was during the Holocaust with this remark: “Max, you tell him.” Max’s response: “How the hell do I know why there were Nazis? I don't know how the can opener works!” It goes deep in our tradition that our understanding of God’s ways is severely limited, that seeing God’s back—perhaps in a rear-view mirror—is about as close as anyone gets. Buber perhaps exaggerates when he writes that while everyone can speak to God, none can speak (coherently) about Him. In in important sense, we don’t know of what we speak. Accordingly, the Rabbis did not presume to resolve the paradox; nor even to address it. They had no pretensions of being theorists of God—the word is “theologian.” They appear to have had little patience for (what they knew of) philosophy. They were more akin to craftsmen or artists. They lived in the throes of the paradox.

The Rabbis were developing what we now know as Jewish religious practice. After the destruction of the Temple, their task was to find a way to reclaim Jewish religious life in the absence of its former central modes of worship. They were also practitioners of that life. They were thus craftspeople/artists in two senses: first, constructing and embellishing forms of worship, and second, creatively engaging in the practices. Their faith played a vital role in both of these modes. In the first, developing the practices, their ear, their sense of what it is to serve/worship/love/stand in awe of God, was foundational. In the second, the creative engagement with the practices, they were not unlike us, their descendants, seeing the life as a vocation and attending to it in that spirit.

To see the life as a vocation is to bring to bear great focus, imagination, and energy, to engage with it with the seriousness one (ideally) brings to one’s intimate relationships. No one loves quite the way anyone else does, but each (again ideally) brings himself to it with care, nuance, and focus. No one is a mother or father in quite the way others are. Parents, at their best times, do it creatively, with great attention to detail, with art one might say.

Needless to say, any such creativity—as craft or as art—requires solid grounding in the basics. In the case of actual art, say painting, one needs to know a great deal: about paint and its properties, the history of the art, and lots more. Much of the day to day, minute to minute, work tends toward the mundane. And so too with religious life. It’s at the odd moment that insight hits; insight, creativity, powerful realization and the like.[4]

I believe that the analogy with artistic endeavor goes deep. My teacher, Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, used to speak of a virtue of deep engagement with Talmud: One learns to navigate life in terms of God’s categories.[5] A great artist like Cezanne tries with all his soul to capture a vision. Looking back on his work he may point to various paintings, some coming closer, others not as close. Hazal, steeped in the tradition, were trying to capture the taste, the feel, the spirit of the Torah they inherited. 

I’ve been describing a religious sensibility that is suggested by much in rabbinic tradition. Unlike Maimonides’s way, it is not attendant to, almost a consequence of, a philosophic outlook. Rather it takes its leave from religious life and experience. From this perspective, the medieval philosophical turn will seem paradigmatic of what Wittgenstein takes to be an occupational hazard of philosophy: the attempt to illuminate by reinterpreting the subject matter in terms we are equipped to handle. Faith then gives way to belief: cognitive assent to propositions. Mystery, the sense that we are over our heads in theorizing about God, gives way to doctrine.[6], [7]

III.Truth

The dominant conception of truth among philosophers is “truth as correspondence.” The idea is that a thought or a sentence is true just in case it corresponds to, matches the facts. The sentence “John is seven feet tall” (or the thought it expresses) is true just in case the person in question, John, is actually that height. Nothing mysterious here; it’s very intuitive and understandable. The question is whether such an idea of truth can apply to a religious position. And if it can’t, where does that leave us? We certainly want to think of our religious ways as capturing the truth.

Paramount here is what appears to be the unresolvable paradox: God’s anthropomorphic properties and His being beyond any such human-like properties. Logically speaking, you can’t have it both ways. But which is it? If Maimonides had his way, and our God became the God beyond anthropomorphism, we would have resolved the paradox. But then we lose the God who cares, forgives, with whom we live and share intimacy. Might we go the other way? Might we deny God’s radical otherness, His being beyond human ways? We would still have the anthropomorphic God to whom we relate. But in denying this far side of God, as it were, we sacrifice another aspect of our relationship with God, our standing in awe in the presence of mystery.[8] God’s transcendence is not any more optional than is his closeness. This is not a paradox to be resolved! Each of God’s incompatible aspects is absolutely essential to religious life. Giving either of them up, or reducing one to the other, no matter the intellectual attractiveness of resolving paradox, would cripple religious life. So the intellectual puzzle persists, thank God, one might say. But how then might our outlook be seen as a candidate for truth? The reality that is God cannot both have and lack anthropomorphic properties.

Perhaps the concept of truth does not always function in just the way the philosopher’s correspondence idea suggests.[9] When we speak of the truth of our vision of God, perhaps we are coming at truth in a different way. We speak, after all, of a “true friend,” and “true” there has nothing to do with correspondence; we mean a genuine friend. And it’s said that our concept of truth derives originally from expressions like “true saw” and “true North.” The root notion may be something like straight ahead, or one-to-be-trusted, or without distortion. (“Yashar” in Hebrew works here.) If we give pride of place to that idea, we might see a true thought as one that is to be trusted, one that does not distort. Still, in many contexts the idea of correspondence works well. But for the general case, there is no such simple formula.  

This way of approaching truth is perhaps on the road to something satisfactory, but more needs to be said. As Maimonides and friends will be happy to point out, we are still living with paradox. But the situation vis-à-vis truth is even more dire. If Maimonides’s theological view were seen as canonical in Jewish tradition, if it were seen as the only legitimate Jewish outlook, then paradox would evaporate. The cost would be the loss of anthropomorphism. I can’t myself fathom it, but Maimonides seems fine with it in the Guide. However, Maimonides’s philosophical view never did become canonical in our tradition. Jewish tradition is rich in diverse religious sensibilities and their attendant theological directions. There is no felt need to have a canonical theology, something that seems to go deep in the tradition’s sense of itself.[10] That is not to say that advocates of particular theological ways necessarily see themselves as advancing an optional outlook. I’m certain that Maimonides did not see his own view in that light. But still there are a multiplicity of ways to proceed and in the end, they are all available for purchase, so to speak. It’s as if the tradition overrules any claim to exclusivity.

The extent of theological diversity is almost astounding. I’ve spoken of Maimonides and the contrast with Hazal. But there are also the approaches of the Kabbalists, their elaborate theologies. And then there are lots of views that cut across these already mentioned differences, like the contrast between the Hassidim (a number of approaches there) and the Mitnagdim. And the view of Rabbi S. R. Hirsch, those deriving from the Mussar movement, and the existentialism/phenomenology of Rabbi J. B. Soloveitchik, not to mention the various trends in modern Sephardic thought.

Jewish tradition has an intriguing way with unresolvable halakhic differences of opinion. In the face of fierce reasoned opposition about the correct outcome of a legal dispute—where each seeks the truth and may oppose his opponents view as simply wrong—the tradition in its overview of the situation has it that both are “the words of the living God.”[11] It’s perhaps even more intriguing to contemplate the application of that idea to the philosophic/theological disputes in question. While none of these theological approaches is taken by the larger historical religious community as the correct one, each reflects something that itself approaches a vocation, a kind of calling, something to which its adherents pour their energies, l’shem shamayim, to come to grips with God and religion. Each represents a distinctive inflection of religious life, each with its own insights. Each is a reflection of the living God, in the sense that when one fully lives the tradition, one brings to it one’s own imagination, emotional life, and distinctive intelligence, this in the context of the contingencies of one’s family, one’s education, and prior influences.

If I am on the right track here, then the problem about truth reappears in a more general way. The paradox about God’s anthropomorphic properties made it difficult to apply the notion of truth, what I called “correspondence truth.” But now, even putting aside the paradox, given the multiplicity of legitimate theological orientations, how might truth apply? If each represents “the word of the living God,” where can the truth lie?

It’s tempting to suppose that what’s really true is what they all have in common, basic theological doctrines like the thesis of monotheism. If we were to go in that direction, this would apply as well to the paradox discussed above: While the paradoxical overall outlook cannot be true (in the sense of correspondence truth), it shares with all these theological orientations the basic thesis of monotheism. But here things get even more complicated. First, this approach—what the various views have in common—does not rescue the truth of a full-blooded religious outlook but rather a thin slice of such an outlook, like the idea of monotheism. In this way, it is reminiscent of people who say, “I’m not an adherent of a religion but I do believe in a God.”[12] Second, perhaps more significant, do these divergent outlooks really mean or think the same thing when they say that God exists and is unique? For example, Aristotle’s God—the Active Intellect, with which Maimonides identifies the God of Jewish tradition—may well not be that of Yehuda HaLevi. And the Lurianic Kabbalists seem to go in quite another direction.

At this point, I am not sure how to proceed. One might say that even if their conceptions of God differ, it’s the same God of whom they speak, the unique God about whom they offer different conceptions. Or in philosophic parlance, their concepts may differ but the intended divine referent is the same. Maybe. But the matter seems less than clear.

My inclination is to think about truth in another key, one suggested above in my discussion of Hazal. When we think of our religious outlook as capturing truth, we gesture toward something very large, something toward which we  can only gesture: toward how deep the religious vision goes, how it underscores, alerts us, sensitizes us, to features of reality that are as significant as they are elusive; how it can play a key role in constructing a life characterized by genuineness, yashrut. This is not truth as correspondence, but a way of thinking about truth that connects it more closely with the way literature and the arts capture truth.

If this is correct, we give up on the claim that our theology is true, that we have the true theory in this domain. But wasn’t it always part and parcel of our outlook that God is beyond our ken, that our privilege extends only to seeing his back, as it were? Why then suppose that we can get any closer than one or another of these attempts, l’shem shamayim, to bring to bear the best of our thinking and feeling on the subject. Nor can we get beyond the by-now well-rehearsed paradox, thank God.[13]

 

 



[1] Still, there may be significant social utility to the theoretically deficient mode of characterizing God. For an illuminating discussion of this and other aspects of Maimonides’s views relevant to my discussion, see Moshe Halbertal, Maimonides, especially Chapters 7 and 8.

[2] No doubt Maimonides prayed, as we try to, with great focus and intensity. How do we integrate Maimonides’s philosophic outlook in the Guide especially with his life but also with his other writings? This is, as is well-known, immensely challenging.

[3] Cf. Woody Allen’s Crimes and Misdemeanors: “his faith is like an ear for music or the talent to draw.”

[4] I am describing one sort of religious engagement. This is not to say that this is the only legitimate way. One could live a life of piety, highly intentional and focused religious behavior, without invoking a great deal of imagination, as we all do much of the time. People are very different from one another; they love differently; they live differently.

[5] Needless to say, I’m putting this in my own terms; as I remember my rebbe’s comment from many years ago.

[6] Vance Ricks, a philosopher at Guilford College, once commented, “How did we ever get from mystery to certainty?”

[7] The details of Maimonides’s views in the Guide preclude any simple rendition in terms of doctrine. See Halbertal’s discussion in Maimonides. Too briefly: Maimonides, the philosopher’s philosopher, brings philosophical theorizing to bear on the tradition. This would ordinarily suggest that his is a “doctrine approach” to religion. This is also suggested by the well-known Maimonidean Principles of Faith. However, as Halbertal and others have pointed out, Maimonides’s philosophical view in the Guide appears to be that knowledge of God, Himself (so to speak), is impossible for us; at most we know of His actions, what He has done in the world. What then of the Principles of Faith; their statement would appear to violate Maimonidean strictures on what we can know about God? The answer would appear to be that such principles, despite their theoretical inadequacy, do important practical work in maintaining the social order. Robert Bellah, a Christian thinker and sociologist, says the same of principles of faith generally. See his illuminating Beyond Belief (University of California Press, 1970).

[8] I had long seen, with the help of Kadushin’s book, that Hazal sensed this far side of God. Jeff Helmreich pointed out that it isn’t just an important feature of God, but it is also crucial to our relationship with Him. He attributes this insight to the German Pietists (Chasidei Ashkenaz).

[9] In The Magic Prism: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language (Oxford University Press, 2004), I argue that there are many contexts in which truth does not function according to such expectations, contexts that have nothing to do with religion.

[10] Mark Wrathall tells me that something similar is the case with his Mormon faith: there are lots of stories but no official interpretation.

[11] “For three years there was a dispute between Beit [the School of] Hillel and Beit [the School of] Shammai, the former asserting, ‘The law is in agreement with our views,’ and the latter contending, ‘The law is in agreement with our views.’ Then a bat kol, a voice from heaven, announced, Eilu v’eilu divrei Elohim hayyim, ‘These and those are the words of the Living God,’ adding, ‘but the law is in agreement with the rulings of Beit Hillel’” (Talmid Bavli, Eruvin 13b).

[12] Not to speak of problems presented by monotheists who come at their god in a very different way, like the arguably monotheistic Pharaoh, Akhenaten, who took the one god to be the sun. Or so it’s said about Akhenaten.

[13] With great thanks to Jeff Helmreich for comments and illuminating discussion. Thanks as well to Rabbi Marc Angel for helpful comments on an earlier draft

DACA and Halakha: Concern for Immigrants

President Donald Trump and Congress are in the midst of discussions to legislatively address the status of DACA recipients. These are 800,000 young people who had arrived in the U.S. ten or more years ago at age 16 or younger. If Congress fails to restore the terms of DACA, a vast number of young people may face deportation, even though they have lived most of their lives in the United States. They are students, workers, dreamers who have hoped for better lives as constructive members of American society. Every society must have rule of law, and the US must have and must enforce its immigration laws. At the same time, every good society practices compassion and wisdom in dealing with complicated issues.

Below is an article I wrote some time ago, relating to our responsibility to “the stranger.”

 “Do not afflict or oppress the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 22:20)

“Do not oppress the stranger, for you know the soul of the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23:9)

“When a stranger lives with you in your land, do not afflict him. As one of your citizens, the stranger who lives with you shall be to you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt, I am the Lord your God.”   ( Lev. 19:33-34)

These and other verses in the Torah underscore our responsibility to not only be sympathetic to, but to identify with, those who are “strangers.” The Talmud (Bava Metsia 59b) posits that oppressing a stranger violates 36—and some say 46—Torah prohibitions.

The Torah obviously is teaching us to be compassionate and charitable. But in delineating the obligation to care for the stranger, it uses surprising language. The Torah could have said: have mercy on the oppressed, because you were oppressed in Egypt; or have compassion on slaves because you were slaves in Egypt.  But it does not say these things. Rather, it invokes our experience in Egypt as an impetus for us to identify with and help the stranger.

Who is a stranger? In the biblical times, this was a non-Israelite who lived among Israelites. (In later rabbinic thought, the stranger was identified as a proselyte.) In our days, it applies to a person of different nationality—an immigrant.

What is the nature of being a stranger?  The stranger is an “outsider,” someone not of our kin or clan, someone from another culture or religion, someone who is not “one of us.” We might naturally feel responsibility for our own group: but why should we be concerned with strangers?

The Torah—remarkably—commands us to love the stranger as ourselves.  The Torah justifies this commandment: “for you know the soul of the stranger.”  Because of our early experience as strangers in Egypt, we know first-hand what it means to be considered an alien. We not only suffered physical abuse as slaves in Egypt; we suffered psychological abuse. We were considered as lesser human beings; we were thought to be unworthy of basic human rights. We know deep in our own soul what it’s like to be a stranger; we are uniquely qualified to understand “the soul of the stranger.”

This lesson from antiquity has had ongoing meaning for Jews throughout our history. During the modern era, there have been dramatic demographic changes in the world. Most of the Jews today are living in countries different from those in which our ancestors of 150 years ago were living. Indeed, a huge percentage of Jews are themselves immigrants, children or grandchildren of immigrants.  We know the “soul of the stranger” because our families have been strangers. They have migrated to new lands to escape persecution or to find a better life for themselves and their children. They have made aliyah to Israel in fulfillment of Zionist dreams. They have had to learn new languages, adapt to new cultures. Our immigrant forebears often came to new lands with little money…but with great hope. They had to face physical hardships; and they had to cope with psychological sufferings.

Because we have been immigrants, we “know the soul” of immigrants. We have an inherent understanding of the challenges they face. We recognize the importance of helping them adapt to their new lands and to enable them to overcome the psychological stigma of being outsiders.

If the Torah needed to issue 36 commandments about caring for strangers, it means that we have a strong tendency not to be concerned for them. Indeed, there are many voices in contemporary society that take a dim view toward receiving immigrants. After all, these “outsiders” may be criminals or terrorists. They will cost us a lot of money in order to provide them social, educational and health services. They may take away jobs from native-born citizens. They can change the nature of our society if they come in excessively large numbers.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 109a) suggests that the wicked city of Sodom was characterized by a policy that excluded immigrants. The Sodomites reasoned: why should we share our blessings with outsiders? Why should we make sacrifices for foreigners? It was this attitude that resulted in God’s punishment of Sodom for its iniquity.

As a rule, people do not become immigrants unless there are compelling reasons for them to leave their own lands. They are fleeing wars, violence, or terrorism. They are fleeing from oppressive governments. They are escaping desperate poverty. They seek a better life for themselves and their families.  Our instinctive response must be to lend a helping hand. We “know the soul of strangers” because we and our forebears were strangers.

Rabbi Yitzhak Shemuel Reggio, a 19th century Italian Torah commentator, commented on the verse in Leviticus (19:18) commanding us to love our neighbor as ourselves. He pointed out that the verse should be understood to be saying: love your neighbor, because your neighbor is like yourself. Your neighbor is also created in the image of God.

The same comment applies to the commandment to love the stranger as ourselves. All human beings have a unique kinship. Instead of seeing others as “outsiders,” we need to see them as sharing a universal humanity based on all of us having been created by the Almighty.

The Torah knows that it is difficult to achieve this high level of understanding. That’s why it has underscored the obligation to care for the stranger 36 times. But it also knows that we are capable of achieving this level of understanding. And when we do, we not only fulfill God’s commandments; we fulfill our own humanity.

 

 

 

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik and Coeducational Jewish Education

 

 

     There is little question that Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s decision to maintain a coeducational framework at the Maimonides School in Boston has been repercussive.  Rabbi Soloveitchik, or “The Rav” as he was known to his students, was a towering intellectual figure of American Orthodoxy in the twentieth century; and thus, his opinions and approaches carried and still carry significant weight in contemporary Jewish practice and thought.  It is not surprising, therefore, that the Rav’s approach has been the subject of much debate, particularly as Orthodoxy has gained a greater foothold in American Jewish life, and as conservative ideologies which accentuate traditional roles (and who insist upon a maximalist position regarding gender separation) have gained greater currency.[i]  Although the historical record demonstrates that Rabbi Soloveitchik had addressed his opinion regarding girls studying alongside boys, and we now can read his response with clarity, questions still remain regarding the application of his ideas to contemporary Jewish life.

 

     In the last decade, new material has emerged regarding Rabbi Soloveitchik’s position on this critical dimension of Jewish education.  Nati Helfgot published two letters from Rabbi Soloveitchik addressed to Rabbi Leonard Rosenfeld, the then director of the Education Committee of the Hebrew Institute of Long Island (HILI), whose principal at the time was Rabbi Harold Leiman.  These letters make a strong case for coeducation in the context that I described in my book about Maimonides School.

 

     This essay publishes for the first time, two of the letters written by Rabbi Rosenfeld to Rabbi Soloveitchik, which facilitated the response of Rabbi Soloveitchik (published by Helfgot).  These letters illuminate Rabbi Soloveitchik’s attitude and provide vital context to Rabbi Soloveitchik’s letters regarding Torah education for girls.

 

Background[ii]

 

     More than thirty years ago, the prominent Israeli educator Mordechai Bar Lev visited the Maimonides School in Boston and was shocked by what he saw: “For an Israeli visitor like myself,” he wrote, “the phenomenon of coeducation through all grades was striking.”[iii]  The fact that Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, an Orthodox scholar from a decidedly yeshiva oriented family, was the founder of the Maimonides School and continued to serve as the spiritual force behind its educational philosophy, certainly puzzled Bar Lev.

 

In fact, the question of coeducation at Maimonides has plagued scholars and educators for years, given that coeducation is generally not associated with the Orthodox community. One of the most prominent students of Rabbi Soloveitchik, Rabbi Hershel Schachter, expressed one point of view:

When a religious high school opened in a large North American city, and it was mentioned to our rabbi [Soloveitchik] that the classes were mixed and that boys and girls studied together based on the model of yeshivat Rambam in Boston, our rabbi was amazed.  He said: “But in that city there were always separate schools for boys and girls, and what circumstance forced them to open a new mixed school?  In Boston [Rabbi Soloveitchik] was forced to behave this way for he only had two options: to be guilty of limiting education for girls or to be guilty of opening a coeducational school.  He was forced into choosing the lesser of two evils, and he reasoned that given the contemporary circumstances, this decision was less problematic.  But in other times in other places, where there are already schools that separate boys and girls and there is no need to act as such, it is certainly completely incorrect to do so.[iv]

 

According to Rabbi Schachter, Rabbi Soloveitchik was forced into organizing a coeducational school because of pressing circumstances.  Coeducation, in Rabbi Schachter’s view, was the lesser of two evils, the alternative being no schooling for girls at all.  Rabbi Schachter does not deny that the school was coeducational or that coeducation was an innovation.  Instead, he suggests that given the considerations of the time, coeducation was the best alternative for Rabbi Soloveitchik.  Rabbi Schachter’s evaluation of Rabbi Soloveitchik’s innovation implies that the primary motivation for creating a coeducational school was based on practical and pragmatic considerations, not on educational or halakhic ones.[v] Striking in Rabbi Schachter’s formulation is the testimony regarding the applicability of the Maimonides School model around America, without the knowledge of Rabbi Soloveitchik, and apparently –according to Rabbi Schachter – against Rabbi Soloveitchik’s will.

             A second group of Rabbi Soloveitchik’s students asserted that coeducation was perceived by Rabbi Soloveitchik as an educational ideal or at least an educational issue.  This perspective was advanced by Benny Brama, a former teacher at the Maimonides School, in an interview with the International Bnei Akiva movement.  Brama suggested that Rabbi Soloveitchik anticipated the value of mixed education and that he deliberately and consciously created a school that implemented this belief.

Coeducation causes less sexual and social tension and brings, both within and without the yeshiva or school, a richer and healthier social life.  Particularly in light of the sexual impropriety and the looseness that may be found all over America, Rabbi Soloveitchik’s educational approach in the Rambam Yeshiva in Boston stands out positively, ([for] all the classes in the yeshiva are mixed, and the boys and girls are required to conform to the daily schedule that includes shacharit and mincha).

Only a great thinker and halakhist like him, who understands that one should confront rather than flee from contemporary realities, could have established a yeshiva with this educational approach.[vi]

Another student of Rabbi Soloveitchik also wrote about Rabbi Soloveitchik and coeducation.

The co-educational nature of Maimonides School leaves many, even avowed disciples of the Rav, uncomfortable.  Contrary to reasons offered in certain circles, I understood that the Rav viewed co-education not as a halakhic issue, but rather as an educational question, one to be examined through the prism of sound educational philosophy and tested in the laboratory of life.[vii]

Brama’s argument suggests that the decision to implement coeducation at Maimonides should be understood as part of Rabbi Soloveitchik’s broader interest in integrating Jewish and modern culture.

A third group of Rabbi Soloveitchik’s students did not attempt to justify the innovations as did Rabbi Schachter, or represent them as an educational ideal, as Meier and Brama did, but rather, denied that such an innovation ever obtained. Rabbi Leon Mozeson, a teacher at the school in the 1960s wrote that Meier’s statements were “simply not true” and that Rabbi Soloveitchik had instructed him to separate boys and girls in his classroom.[viii]  Rabbi Mozeson’s testimony as to his personal classroom conduct cannot be disputed but it is clear that most of the faculty at the school did not adopt his rigorous conservative posture.  When Rabbi Soloveitchik visited classrooms, he was well aware that students were intermingled and sat and studied together.

 

     When I last addressed this issue in writing, I wrote that Rabbi Soloveitchik left no written testimony that might explain the ideology behind coeducation. However, subsequent to the publication of my book, two letters were published by Nati Helfgot that illustrate Rabbi Soloveitchik’s attitude towards coeducation in the contemporary context. It is to these letters that we now turn our attention.

 

The Rosenfeld Letters

 

     In the introductory paragraph to Rabbi Soloveitchik’s letters on girls studying Talmud, Helfgot writes that

 

Rabbi Leonard Rosenfeld…wrote the Rav with a series of questions regarding the teaching of Talmud to elementary and high school age girls….The Rav… soon replied indicating that he would not answer these questions directly until he was assured that the education committee would agree to strictly abide by his rulings and guidelines.

 

 

The full text of Rabbi Soloveitchik’s letter, as published by Helfgot reads

 

Dear Rabbi Rosenfeld,

I acknowledge receipt of your letter. In my answer to your previous inquiry concerning the permissibility of instruction of girls in Talmud I stressed that unless I am assured in advance by the school administration that my recommendations will be followed I would not take the trouble to investigate the matter. Since such an official assurance has been withheld (your letter did not contain any such commitment) I must decline to consider the controversial problem.  The reason for my reluctance to engage in this controversial issue is the unique stand taken by many of our Jews on matters of Law and tradition. We have reached a stage at which party lines and political ideologies influence our halakhic thinking to the extent that people cannot rise above partisan issue to the level of Halakhah-objectivity.  Some are in a perennial quest for “liberalization” of the Law and its subordination to the majority opinion of a political legislative body, while others would like to see the Halakhah fossilized and completely shut out of life. I am not inclined to give any of these factions an opportunity for nonsensical debates. [ix]

 

This letter is suggestive on three fronts. First of all, it indicates that the letter was not the first time that Rabbi Rosenfeld and Rabbi Soloveitchik had discussed this issue.  In fact, the response of Rabbi Soloveitchik (or perhaps more accurately, his unwillingness to respond) was precipitated by the inability to receive guarantees that his position would be adhered to.  Secondly, Rabbi Soloveitchik suggests that he needed to investigate the matter.  It is unclear whether he means that what had been taking place at Maimonides School (for at least six years prior to these letters) was not investigated, or that the model of Maimonides would be irrelevant to the school in Long Island.  But most importantly, this letter makes it abundantly clear that the Rav was well aware of the political hot-potato that girls studying Talmud represented (as well as the issue of coeducation as will become clear below) and that he was cognizant of the fact that this issue was not only controversial but also repercussive. Unlike Rabbi Schachter’s assertion, Rabbi Soloveitchik seems in this letter to be writing decisively and consciously. 

 

     Rabbi Soloveitchik’s engagement in the issue of women studying Talmud and coeducation becomes illuminated by the letter which yielded the response above.

On January 12, 1953, Rabbi Rosenfeld wrote that the issue of girls studying Talmud at HILI (and ostensibly, coeducation as well) had been the subject of discussions and letters between Rabbi Rosenfeld and Rabbi Soloveitchik Before addressing a set of questions to Rabbi Soloveitchik, Rabbi Rosenfeld’s letter begins:

A while back I contacted your honor orally and in writing regarding the teaching of Torah She B’al Peh to girls in elementary yeshivot (and in high schools) in general, and in the Yeshiva of Far Rockaway specifically. In your answer, you set forth conditions upon which you would investigate the matter and the details of the Halakhot connected to them. I am pleased to report that I passed on your words to the education committee of the yeshiva, and we concluded that we would be very grateful if you would consider investigating this question and we certainly from our side, will accept all the conditions.  [x]

From the letter it is clear that Rabbi Soloveitchik’s response, particularly the words “investigate the matter”, were drawn from Rosenfeld’s letter.  But while Rabbi Soloveitchik adopted the terminology, he added the words “controversial” leaving no doubt that Rabbi Soloveitchik was aware of the consequences of what he would ultimately write. 

     The questions of the Educational Committee were, as cited in the letter from Rabbi Rosenfeld to Rabbi Soloveitchik:

  1. Is it desirable to teach the Oral law to girls?
  2. Is it permitted to teach the Oral law to girls?
  3. Is there a halakhic difference between Talmud, Mishna, Aggada, and Halakha Psuka?
  4. Is there a halakhic difference between surface study and in depth study?

As the above cited letter indicates, Rabbi Soloveitchik initially refused to respond.  However four days later, Rabbi Rosenfeld issued a clarification.  In a letter (this time, typed in English rather than handwritten in Hebrew, not  printed on school stationery, and addressed curiously to Dr. Joseph Soloveitchik), dated January 27, 1953, Rabbi Rosenfeld again turned to the Rav. He wrote:

I am terribly sorry if my letter outlining the question was not as clear as I thought it was.

The matter was thoroughly discussed in the committee as well as the entire Board. It was moved, adopted and so recorded in the minutes that we shall be bound by your decision on the matter. There is thus a binding commitment on our part that this is halakha l’maaseh and not just derush ve-kabel s’khar.

I, therefore, hope that since this condition has now been fulfilled that you will favor us with your responsum.

This question is framed in halakhic terminology. But more importantly, it illustrates the extent to which the topic of girls’ education was discussed on multiple levels within the Long Island Orthodox community of the 1950s.  Clearly Rabbi Soloveitchik understood, at least at this point, that whatever answers he provided would be taken seriously, both as halakhic decisions, and as policy. 

     It took Rabbi Soloveitchik more than four months to respond. In the interim, it appears that Rabbi Rosenfeld sent Rabbi Soloveitchik a number of additional letters as well.  On May 27th, 1953, Rabbi Soloveitchik wrote a letter to Rabbi Rosenfeld through the offices of Rabbi Leo Jung. 

 

Dear Rabbi Rosenfeld:

Please accept my apologies for not answering your letters sooner. The delay was due to my overcrowded schedule.  As to your question with regard to a curriculum in a coeducational school, I expressed my opinion to you long ago that it would be a very regrettable oversight on our part if we were to arrange separate Hebrew courses for girls. Not only is the teaching of Torah she-be-al peh to girls permissible but it is nowadays an absolute imperative. This policy of discrimination between the sexes as to subject matter and method of instruction which is still advocated by certain groups within our Orthodox community has contributed greatly to the deterioration and downfall of traditional Judaism.  Boys and girls alike should be introduced to the inner halls of Torah she-be-al peh.

I hope to prepare in the near future a halakhic brief on the same problem which will exhaust the various aspects of the same. In the meantime I heartily endorse a uniform program for the entire student body.

 

     To be sure, this letter makes it very clear that Rabbi Soloveitchik was disdainful of a model of Torah education that discriminated against girls. Moreover, he ascribes to unequal education a desiccating quality that he feels partly rendered Orthodoxy irrelevant on the contemporary scene. His lashing out against the ultra-Orthodox, who at the time were only a small percentage of American Orthodoxy, is remarkable, given his Lithuanian Orthodox background.

 

     Rabbi Soloveitchik’s response does not frontally address the issue of coeducation as a halakhic desideratum.  Rather, it takes for granted that, in the case that was presented to him, coeducation is a norm. Nonetheless, he is careful to note that having separate Hebrew courses for boys and girls is ultimately problematic for a resilient Orthodoxy, at least as long as the girls will not be treated as seriously as the boys.

 

     It is always tempting to seek to apply one response, given in one set of circumstances, to a wider set of circumstances.  Rabbi Soloveitchik, in fact, did not support coeducation in the Yeshiva College campus,[xi] even though he was probably aware that at the time, the women of Stern College would not receive the same Torah education as the men of Yeshiva College.

     Nonetheless, each situation must be viewed within and through the local prism.  It is conceivable that two locales might share Orthodox ideologies, but emerge with two radically different schools, depending on whether the instructors are capable and willing to provide equal education for boys and girls. Within contemporary Jewish life, this situation can vary from community to community.

     In the two letters cited above, Rabbi Soloveitchik affirms, in remarkably stark terminology, that equal (and qualitative) Torah education for boys and girls is a necessary component of a vibrant and dynamic contemporary Jewish life. Since the Rav was aware of the opposition to his approach within the ultra-Orthodox community, he had planned to write a more detailed paper. One can only speculate whether he meant for such a detailed brief to serve as a road map for contemporary Orthodox girls’ education, since no such paper has, as of yet, been published.

 

Conclusion

     Rabbi Soloveitchik’s affirmation of coeducation as a legitimate educational alternative continues to be repercussive, often in ironic ways.  In her striking defense of single sex education, Elana Maryles Sztokman recently wrote

    “This topic is of particular interest in the Jewish world, in which single sex education is often seen as "old" while coed is seen as more progressive. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, for example, promoted the Maimonides coed Orthodox day school in the 1950s, as a "modern" answer to single-sex education. In practice, however, just because
boys and girls are in the same building, and possibly even learning the same texts, they are not experiencing the same educational experiences and opportunities. The problems that exist in coed classes in public schools - boys dominating math and science, boys interrupting and harassing girls, boys dominating teacher attention - undoubtedly exist in Jewish schools as well. They may even be bigger problems in Jewish schools. We would not know because the subject of gender in the Jewish day school system has not been adequately researched.” [xii]

     The stationery of the Hebrew Institute of Long Island carries the motto “To carry on the golden tradition of Jewish learning in a progressive American school.”  HILI, Maimonides, and many other Orthodox day schools have continued the practice of coeducation since the 1960s, even though its progressive character might today be questioned. The fact that coeducation in the general Orthodox community has not been adopted,[xiii] should not deter the Jewish community from stating what the evidence demonstrates: Rabbi Soloveitchik understood that the only way to ensure equal education was to provide a coeducational environment.  In many communities that was true in the 1950s. And in many communities, that remains true today.

 

 

 

 

 

[i] See Seth Farber, An American Orthodox Dreamer (Hanover:2004), 68-87.

[ii] Much of this section is a reiteration of the section in my book that addresses this issue.

[iii]   Mordechai Bar-Lev, “Tatzpit al Shtei me-Archot shel Chinuch Yehudi ba-Gola,” Niv HaMidrashia 2 (1979), p. 310.

[iv] H. Schachter, p. 55.  Rabbi Schachter’s opinion echoes that of an earlier halakhic authority, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein.  See Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, Igrot Moshe Yoreh De’ah 1:137; Yoreh De’ah 3:78; Yoreh De’ah 4:28.  Rabbi Feinstein begrudgingly granted that circumstances might force a coeducational school to operate for younger students, but he refused to allow older students to study together.  Notwithstanding the conservative approach of Rabbi Feinstein, many modern Orthodox schools were coeducational though the practice of segregating boys and girls for limmudei kodesh became commonplace in the 1960s.

[v] Rabbi Schachter cites Rabbi Soloveitchik’s son-in-law, Rabbi Yitzchak Twersky, as a source for this statement.  This statement could not be fully corroborated, and Rabbi Twersky’s full engagement with all aspects of the school until his death in 1997 suggests that he did not subscribe to such a belief.  Dr. Atarah Twersky, Rabbi Soloveitchik’s daughter, was similarly involved with the school despite the coeducational format.  All of Rabbi Soloveitchik’s grandchildren who lived in Boston attended the school.

[vi]  Benny Brama, “Al Shitat ha-Rav Soloveitchik,” in Amnon Shapira (ed.), Chevrah Meurevet Banim u’Banot be-Bnei Akiva be-Yameynu (Bnei Akiva, 1981), pp. 58-59.

[vii]  Menachem Meier, “Maimonides School and the Rav,” Tradition 31:3 (1997), p. 116.

[viii] Leon Mozeson, “Maimonides School and the Rav,” Tradition 32:1 (Fall, 1997), pp. 101-102.

[ix] Helfgot, 82.

[x] My thanks to Ezra Rosenfeld who provided me with copies of his father’s letters.

[xi] See Yehudah L.  Rosenblatt, “The Conundrum of Coeducation at Yeshiva” in Commentator, November 29, 2006.

[xii] “When Segregated Education Works,” Jerusalem Post, April 1, 2008.

[xiii]  Elizabeth Weil, “Should Boys and Girls Be Taught Separately,” The New York Times Magazine, March 2, 2008.

 

Spirituality of the Moment

The Midrash describes the Torah as black fire on white fire (Midrash Tanhuma, Bereishith 1).  On its simplest level, the black fire represents the letters of the Torah, while the white fire is the space between the letters. On a deeper level, the black fire may be compared to the halakha, the formal, clear-cut law that emerges from the Torah. Parallel to the halakha is the white fire, which may represent the spiritual element of the law. Spirituality is to halakha as heaven is to earth; as soul is to body—giving that which is anchored the ability to soar.

This is not always the case. Halakha is a complex system of law that can sometimes become a barrier rather than a conduit to feeling God’s presence. Our essential teaching is that halakha ought to interface with spirituality.

This essay is an abridged version of part of a chapter of my upcoming book, Spiritual Encounters: Searching for Meaning in Prayer, scheduled to be published by Toby press in the spring of 2011. Our goal here will be to define spirituality and then show how it forms an integral part of the halakhic system. The particular ways in which spirituality interfaces with tefillah (prayer), particularly with kavanah (proper concentration) is left for a larger discussion in the book.

 

In Life

 

My working definition of spirituality is rather simple. Spirituality means encountering the moment, being conscious of the moment, while recognizing God’s role in that moment.

 

Consciousness of Moment

One of the most important concepts of the Torah is found at the end of Devarim, when God declares: “I call heaven and earth as witnesses today, that I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse; therefore choose life, that you may live, you and your seed” (Devarim, 30:19).

For other faith communities, this is a radical idea. In these belief systems, death is venerated. The goal in this world is to limit physical pleasure, to limit living life so that one can merit true life, life in the next world. Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik makes this point in his Ish haHalakhah when describing the homo religiosus, the universal religious person.

Judaism declares—no. What counts most is this world is life as we know it. The next world is one of eternal reward. This world is one of doing, acting, fixing, repairing, redeeming; it is one of choosing life. For Rabbi Soloveitchik, this is the credo of “halakhic man.”

The sentence from Devarim that implores us to choose life includes the mandate that we do so haYom—today. The portion in which the word haYom appears in this sentence is generally read on the Sabbath between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Indeed, on the High Holy Days, we end the service with the prayer haYom, repeating that refrain over and over. On these awesome days, we remind ourselves that the challenge of life is to live haYom, every day—fully—to be conscious of every moment being experienced.

We live in a world of memory and anticipation. So absorbed are human beings in remembering the past and being concerned about the future that the moment is fleeting and rarely experienced. We sing about “Yesterday” and “Tomorrow” but rarely about “Today.” Even when we are experiencing important events, we are often too excited or worried about what is yet to happen; in the process of waiting for the next moment we fail to experience the power of what is before us in the very present.

The importance of today is underscored in the Talmud which records Alexander the Great asking the sages of Israel the following question: “What should a person do to live?” The sages respond: “Let him mortify himself [i.e., “kill himself” with study and hard work]” (Tamid 32a). On a deeper level, Rabbi Ahron Soloveichik suggests Alexander Macedon was asking “What shall a person do to live,” i.e., what is the secret to life? The sages respond: “Let every individual imagine that death is imminent,” that the moment being experienced is one’s last. Such thinking, the sages believe, will inspire people to live life more fully.

It is nothing less than the story of the rabbi who turns to one of his students who has strayed and says, “Fear not. If you repent, even at the last moment of life, all is forgiven.” The student was at first relieved. After thinking about it, however, he became alarmed, and asked his teacher, “But how do you know which moment is the last you will live?” “That’s my point” the rabbi said. “Live every moment as if it’s your last.” Here, the rabbi’s intent is not that his student be burdened with fear of death; rather it was a teaching to inspire his student to live every moment in a qualitative way—never taking life for granted. To paraphrase Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra: “A person is concerned about the loss of money and not the loss of days. Money can be replenished; days cannot.”

The idea that spirituality is attained by living every moment, every instant of life is hinted in the very first question God asked Adam. Adam had just disobeyed God and eaten from the forbidden tree. God appears and asks, ayeka—“Where are you?” (Bereishith 3:9).

It has been noted that God obviously knew where Adam was. Ayeka, however, may be an existential question, one that God is constantly asking not only Adam but all of his descendants. “Where are you,” God asks all of us. Have you done your share in fixing and perfecting and making this world a better one?

Perhaps even more, ayeka is a kind of mystical question, in which God encourages all of humankind to be aware of their surroundings, to be fully appreciative of all that we are experiencing, to be absolutely immersed in every nuance of life.

Thus, the first step in spirituality is choosing life in all its minutiae. It is becoming fully conscious of the I, and, by extension, the moment the I is experiencing. Yes, there are many who believe spirituality is the escape from the real world. But for Judaism, spirituality emerges from fully encountering and being completely involved in the moment.

Judaism is not unique in this formulation of spirituality. In some eastern religions, for example, the moment being experienced is so overpowering, one feels a sense of nothingness, a negation of being. Total consciousness of moment can yield a sense of worthlessness in the face of all that is unfolding.

The opposite feeling can also take place. Consciousness of moment can elevate one to feel a sense of self-importance, to be totally self-absorbed. Spirituality from this perspective yields an approach to life which is anthropocentric, narcissistic, revolving completely around the human being.

In Judaism, we find echoes of these positions, from Chabad’s bitul haYesh—nullification of self—to Slobodka’s vaTehasreihu me’at meElohim—the human being is just a little less than angels (Psalms 8:6). However, our critical contribution is that consciousness of moment can be a synthesis of these positions. It is the dialectic of humility and self-confidence; of the two notes carried by Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa. One read veAnohi afar v’efer—“I am but dust and ashes.” The other read, bishvili nivra haOlam—“the world was created for me.”

 

Recognizing God’s Role

Most important, spirituality is inextricably linked with God and God’s role in the moment being experienced. In the Torah framework, consciousness of moment should lead to an encounter with God—i.e., an awareness of the presence of God and God’s role in bringing about, nurturing, and giving meaning to the particular experience.

Awareness of God is a central element of the Jewish concept of kedushah—commonly translated as holiness. While most faiths see holiness as an out-of-body experience, distinct and apart from the physical every day, Judaism sees holiness as an in-body experience where the everyday is sanctified by being open to God.

The biblical source for kedushah is found in vaYikra where God mandates the human being to be holy (19:2). One wonders why there needs to be a specific command to be holy. Shouldn’t the sum total of observance of the whole of the Torah by definition lead one to a holy life?

It is here that Nachmanides puts forth a startling concept. He suggests that one can, in fact, keep the minutia of Torah law, and at the same time live an unholy life. One could keep the details of the law, and yet, in Nachmanides’ words, still “be an abomination with the permission of the Torah.” (Nachmanides, vaYikra 19:2).

For this reason, the Torah says: be holy. Kedushah teaches the critical importance of infusing the letter of the law with the spirit of the law—with meaning, with purpose, with holiness, with kedushah, yes—with Godliness.

Could it be that the word (k-d-sh) kadosh is a compound of k and d-sh. The k, which begins the word, represents the Name of God. In fact, the very word kadosh is an abbreviated form of God’s name, the Holy One, Blessed Be He. D-sh means to thresh. Kadosh therefore means to bring God into everything, to have God as a threshing force, omnipresent in all that we do.

Martin Buber in Hasidism and Modern Man approaches kedushah in this way.

 

“God dwells where man lets Him in!” The hallowing of man means this “letting in.” Basically the holy in our world is what is open to God, as the profane is what is closed off from Him, and hallowing is the event of opening out…

 

In this spirit, the students of Rabbi Avraham Yitzchak haCohen Kook have quoted their teacher as saying, “There is no such thing as the unholy. There is only the holy and the not yet holy.” For Rabbi Kook, the way one eats, engages in business, or makes love is no less holy than fasting, meditation, or prayer. Every act of life has the potential to be suffused with kedushah —with Godly spirituality.

A story: A Hassid living in Minsk decided to seek the heavenly world, which he had been told was in Pinsk. Overnight, he slept in an open field, having carefully left his shoes pointed in the direction of Pinsk. As he slept, a scoundrel came by and turned his shoes around. The next morning, the Hassid continued on in the direction that he found his shoes to be pointing. When he reached his destination, he noticed landscape, streets, homes and people that all seemed familiar. He was puzzled, but delighted to have found heavenly bliss. Heaven on earth.

Kedushah is finding spirituality in earthliness. In a broader sense, it is the bringing of God into the world. Hence, my definition: Spirituality means being conscious of the moment while recognizing God’s role in that moment.

 

In Ritual

 

Rituals, especially rituals associated with life’s rites of passage, are examples of how spirituality can be experienced by encountering and taking cognizance of the moment while feeling God’s nearness. A good idea is to have those directly involved, together with family and friends, offer personal reflections about what this experience means to them. Although the ritual is a rite of passage, the challenge is to have time stand still, to ponder the religious significance and spiritual power of the moment.

Consider the ritual on our most joyous and mournful occasions—marriage and death. Some may find it spiritually uplifting to read under the huppah (wedding canopy) words of blessing that bride and groom have written to each other. The rabbi can then ask for a moment of introspection wherein all present offer their blessings to bride and groom.  Or, during shiva and especially as it ends, it can be meaningful for the mourner to offer a personal reflection about the deceased. Such moments of personal introspection are similarly meaningful when concluding the month or year of mourning, or when reciting the last kaddish or during a memorial service.

It is here that spirituality faces a formidable challenge. The idea that the foundation of spirituality involves living in the moment makes many people uncomfortable. We are, by and large, not happy coming face to face with who we are: our physical beings, our emotions, our relationships, our inner essence. When challenged to encounter our inner “I,” we often feel vulnerable; it is a place at which we often do not want to be.

For example, a wedding of spiritual meaning, where aspects of love are touched upon, may conjure up for many in attendance matters related to the inadequacies of their own marriages. Or personal reflections from a mourner can stir deep feelings, positive or negative, within the mourner or among those in attendance about their own relationships.

Virtually nothing of meaning comes easily. Because spirituality is potentially exhilarating, it is equally daunting. All we can do is be sensitive to the challenges of consciousness of moment while carefully forging ahead.

In fact, halakha may show the way by introducing laws that encourage and sometimes compel one to fully experience the moment. For example, the Mishnah which declares that a groom should not recite Shema on his wedding night is based on the principle of haOsek beMitzvah patur min haMitzvah. Bride and groom should be so immersed in the moment that even if they could find time to say Shema, they should not. (The normative halakha today does not follow this Mishnah.) The Mishnah is insisting that bride and groom not be distracted from full concentration on each other. Similarly, during shiva, the mourner may be prohibited from learning Torah so that he or she fully feels the emotions of shiva and does not escape into deep Torah study.

Not coincidentally, the ritual at both ends of the spectrum—the exhilaration of marriage and emotional pain of mourning—is suffused with symbols and words that mirror the constant presence of God.

The huppah can be viewed as a covering symbolizing the heavens, the abode of God. It is suspended over the heads of bride and groom much like the imagery of God hovering over His people like a mother bird gently protecting its fledglings (Devarim 32:11). God hovers but doesn’t press down, giving a sense of infinite care while allowing bride and groom the space to be themselves.

And at the shiva, visitors (according to Ashkenazic practice) recite the words, “May God comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” The Hebrew term for God used here is unusual—haMakom. But haMakom literally means “the Place,” in this case referring to God’s omnipresence. In other words, even in a house of mourning, where the bereaved may feel God has abandoned them—even there, God is present.

As taught by Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik,

 

The Name…haMakom, the Omnipresent, suggests that God is indeed everywhere, even in those places and at those times when we may not readily sense His presence.

We thus find, for example, that a mourner, who certainly feels as though God has turned away from him, is to be consoled with a phrase that uses this Name, May the Omnipresent console you…). (See Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Yom Kippur Mahzor)

 

Thus, the halakha serves as a foundation for spirituality. Often, it is seen as constricting, limiting one’s spirituality; we become so involved in the minutiae of halakha that it blocks our connection to God. It should not be this way. Halakha is the base, giving wings to the spiritual moment, helping us encounter God Himself.

David Mamet: The Return of the Native

 

 

*For Anthony Polimeni, on assuming the Vice Presidency

 of Touro College.

 

 

  1. The Native

 

            If by chance, a curious stranger were possibly permitted to enter David Mamet’s private study, he would suddenly find himself facing, among an assortment of general works, copies of his host’s many publications, all reflecting his catholic interests and tastes. Those publications consist of 36 plays and five collections of them; six screenplays; three novels; 13 prose works; three children’s books; 15 film scripts; 21 critical and biographical studies of his life; and, undoubtedly, the current and past issues of the Mamet Quarterly, which dealt critically with his life and works.

            The visitor will undoubtedly find, prominently displayed on one of the shelves, a copy of one of Mamet’s latest works—at least one or two more have already appeared as we write—entitled The Wicked Son[i], a sequence of reflections on, among other things, the nature of anti-Semitism, hostile Jewish estrangement, and the current condition of American Jewry. And the intrigued visitor, reading that, or any other of his works, will immediately become aware that they are all written by a master literary craftsman, in impeccable prose, that captivates, fascinates, and exhilarates the common reader. The title of this work, as anyone marginally acquainted with the liturgy of the Haggadah, recited annually at the Passover Seder, will immediately recognize that it refers to the “Wicked Son,” or second of the four sons highlighted there—the other three being the “Wise” one, the “Simple” one, and the one “Unable to Formulate a Question”—who has [DEA1] 

removed himself from his historic inheritance to become a menace to himself and his people.

            But before tracing that Wicked Son’s estrangement from his inheritance, as Mamet perceives it, the reader might be interested to learn, briefly, some of the story of our author’s family life, as well as his relationship with his own past. His mother’s family came from Warsaw, his father’s from the town of Hrubezow, in Poland, who on arriving on American shores during the early years of the last century, would “rehearse the rituals, perform the rites of their faith,” but generally did so not “without some embarrassment . . . the religious part of their Jewishness was hollowed out.” Of course, they “shared Jewish food, language, and jokes, which consoled them in their strange new land, but never with a conviction of their old religion.” In fact, we learn that his paternal grandfather “divorced his wife before he reached American shores, leaving her to arrive later, alone, with his child.” What they all wished, ultimately, to achieve on these shores was to move into the mainstream of American life by “modifying, omitting, suppressing, and acting their old faith.” Or, in Mamet’s own summation: “assimilation, apparently, was their ultimate goal.”

            Small wonder, therefore, that it became Mamet’s lot to live with that ambiguity: to deny what he was, and to live a life of hypocrisy for much of his youth. Consider this confessional:

It pleased me to think that I was putting myself over in myself . . . living in Vermont and doing things that it seemed were not acceptable behavior for a nice Jewish boy, whose family had the gene of liberalism—spending a lot of time gambling, hunting, fishing, etc. while hanging out in poolrooms, and I enjoyed life there.

Of some other memories of his youth he speaks with uncommon bitterness. Of his bar mitzvah, for instance, he has only this to say: “It seemed to me a watercolor of Jewishness, American good citizenship . . . with a sense of unfortunately Asiatic overtones.” And of his own Reform Jewish parents, he confesses, “they were determined to be so stalwart, so American, so non-Jewish,” that they overwhelmed him. To which he adds, not without some vitriol directed at his own parents: “Reform Judaism allowed faith to become a lifestyle”—including his own parents—“a mere modification of some central cultural truth out of supposedly secular but patent Christian culture.

            A good number of years later, however, something occurred in Mamet’s life that, among other experiences, “shook the foundations of my being.” He attended the bat mitzvah of his niece in apparently a traditional house of worship. While there, it suddenly occurred to him that he “hadn’t attended a synagogue service for some thirty years.” He was chagrined and shocked to find that it had something to do with a sense not only of assimilation, but also of self-hatred that was nobody’s fulfillment but his own. “And I thought I could remedy that.” In fact, in some three of his pays, he actually attempts to accomplish just that: Homicide, The Old Neighborhood, and The Old Religion. And in Some Freaks, another play, he has one of his characters exclaim: “God bless those in all generations who have embraced Jewishness . . . we are a beautiful people and a good people.”

            Obviously, therefore, it is with such people—his people—that Mamet now wishes to belong. So that during a television broadcast with Charlie Rose, he proclaimed: “To deny who you are, to deny what you want, is to live the life of hypocrisy, which leads to self-loathing.” Whether one belongs to the stage, or the movie set, or any other hermetic group, he finds “filial piety—a responsibility to learn and to instruct the heritage of one’s people—of primal significance.”

            And for Mamet, what better place to begin that search of his heritage than the ancient story of the Exodus of the Jewish people from Egypt, as described in the Passover Haggadah, with its famous “Four Questions” and “Four Sons”—especially the “Wicked One,” who also becomes for Mamet a metaphor for all that ails American Jewry. He learned all that during the Seder, the “longest continuing ceremony in the history of the world.”

 

  1. The Wicked Sons

 

 

            “Modern Epicureanism” as we know it broke out in the “Wild Sixties.” American and world youth, of whatever faith and tradition, and in surprisingly vast numbers, began to assert that the long-trusted beliefs and observances of their respected faiths and practices limited an individual’s freedom. Look instead, their argument ran, to all traditions and practices, since there is much to learn from all of them. The time has surely come, their cry rang out, when we must discard the “old” and adopt the “new,” forgetting, along the way, that such an act of submission to the new has long been known as “DeClarembault’s Syndrome,” usually described “as a condition of individuals and society, characterized by a breakdown or absence of social norms and values, as in the case of an uprooted people.”

            To better understand this condition of modern Jewry, Mamet chose the infamous “Wicked Son” of the Passover Haggadah, who, questioning and rejecting the tradition, rituals, and practices of his people, is moved to “purge the Jew in himself in order, eventually, to identify the Jews as others.” Or, as often proclaimed by these newfound Epicureans: “I’m not observant but my parents were . . . .” Yet, despite all or such similar declarations, “that Son suffers from a self-loathing, never wishing to admit that he is a Jew, that the world is not fond of Jews, and his only choice of safety lies with the Jews.” In his panic to escape his alienated condition of abandoning his Jewish heritage, the Wicked Son “prefers the irrationality of some new faith imported to the danger of his psyche of the truth.”

            In order to clarify how the Wicked Son, without anchor, suffers from, among other sicknesses, DeClarembault’s Syndrome, Mamet proceeds to present him as masquerading in three guises in certain unaccustomed roles, and in a delusional flight from his common past. They are “Apostate,” “Apikores” (or heretic), and “Assimilationist.”

 

The Apostate

 

Unlike the “Conversos” of Spain in the fourteenth century, who escaped the Inquisition by identifying themselves as Roman Catholic in public while practicing Judaism in the privacy of their homes, the Apostate  remains Jewish only by identification (“I’m not observant but my parents were . . .) in order to be accepted on life’s stage by the Christian community. Ignorant of all aspects of his religion, the Apostate will argue that because “my ancestors suffered persecution and prevailed, I will renounce their struggle and call my ingratitude enlightenment.”

            Now freed to enjoy an ongoing doctrine of lassitude and privilege by the same fathers whose religion he currently discards, the Apostate begins to believe that “ignorance and his supercilious superiority to its practices is a licensed diversion.” After transferring his fealty to those he considers the stronger group, accepting their authority and many practices, he forgets entirely, Mamet claims, “that his Christian friends and neighbors will never accept him. As a result, he is left with a certain anomie of restlessness, of purposelessness, in order to adopt the views of his enemies, the anti-Semites, so as to be accepted by them.”

            The Apostate may indeed convert, and often does, but he must still “guard himself against the inevitable scorn of those to whom he proclaims his freedom from his despised heritage.” To lessen that threat, he may one day seek his fellow Jews to no avail, for “the world,” Mamet wisely reminds the reader, “hates a turncoat.” Furthermore, in his hasty flight from his roots, the Apostate may one day adopt a new faith, and often does, but his “rejection of the old becomes anomie, a degradation of his self-image. And since the Christian may never accept him, he has adopted a new religion which offers him no peace.”

            And however much the Apostate might think of himself as superior to the members of his tribe because of his detachment, is he not aware, Mamet wonders bitterly, that a significant number of Arab and Hamas leaders, jihadists, and others of their ilk, often declare publicly—and multitudes privately—their plans to annihilate the State of Israel and its people? And that, sad to record, some 65 years after the Holocaust? To individuate himself, if ever, among his own people, “the Apostate must,” Mamet argues, “first deal with the trauma of human savagery. Only then will he be equipped to return to the ranks of his people.”

 

 

The Apikoros

 

In his glossary at the very end of this book, Mamet defines the term apikoros, derived from the name of the Greek philosopher Epicurus, “as a heretic learned in Judaism but rejects it.” Truthfully, however, one is moved to remind Mamet that his definition of this term is entirely different from the one used in classic Jewish sources, with which he may be only marginally acquainted. For the definition found in the Talmud and summarized definitively by Maimonides, among others, in his Book of Repentance 3:8, reads as follows: an Apikoros is anyone who “denies the concept of prophecy, which reaches from God to the heart of man, or, anyone who denies the prophetic powers of Moses; or anyone who denies God’s knowledge of man’s actions, deeds, or works.” Obviously, then, one need not be a “learned person” to be called an Apikoros: It is enough that he dismisses any of the fundamental principles of the Torah.

            One of those principles—the ritual of circumcision—first established by Abraham, the biblical father of Jews and Judaism, has often been declared, by liberal fanatics and their cohorts, as nothing more than a “savage mutilation . . . irrational and ludicrous, an empty ceremony, which is not the continuation of Judaism but may also be some sort of ritual ceremony by a secret society.” But this particular ritual has literally been central to the survival of the Jewish people. Anyone denying its validity and historical relevance Mamet calls an Apikoros, who will inevitably find himself immortalized into nothingness.

            In that world of nothingness, the modern Apikoros commits, in addition, the most heinous of all sins, summarized in biblical terms, as the worship of the “golden calf.” If “modern man cannot control the gods,” his argument runs, “they do not exist . . . how then may I control them, through gold . . . I will therefore worship gold.” The “gold” in that argument, surprisingly, is in Mamet’s considered view the current bar and bat mitzvah celebration. It is standard practice, for the wealthy parents of the young celebrant, aided and directed by a professional “party manager,” to plan the most ostentatious of all such celebrations. And whoever has attended such a Saturday night affair will immediately recall that, on entering the vast ballroom, two blazing orchestras are in full swing, the endless platters of hors d’oeuvres are served by gracious waitresses, the seven- or eight-course dinner, the after dinner refreshments, the dancing girls, the singers, crooners, comedians, the stacked bars every few feet, and even a professional clown for the entertainment of the little ones in attendance. All ends with the rising sun the next morning.

            After that night of revelry, the previous morning’s prayer service, the Torah reading, the confirmant’s speech, the sermon, have long been forgotten in this consuming worship of the “golden calf.” All of which results in Mamet’s bitter reaction to such “idolatry,” with a warning that such celebrations are “not the continuation but the death of Judaism . . . for even if parents mime their devotion, the children are aware of the sham; they will endure as they must, but most will be reluctant to impose that tax on their offspring, which the next generation may likely turn against all things Jewish.”

            To prevent that next generation from renouncing all forms of Jewish life, except perhaps the acknowledgment of their birth, Mamet seriously suggests that all such worshippers of this “golden calf” return to the ancient doctrine of teshuva, or repentance. In fact, Mamet actually devotes a chapter in this work, entitled “Lies or Teshuva” heralding the need for a total transformation of this Apikoros’ personality from his alienated status as a Jew only by a quirk of heredity, who “refers to his forbearer, much as a wealthy man might allude to an ancestor as a horse thief.”

            Repentance for this wicked son must begin, Mamet insists, not in, say, a Temple, where the “members of the spiritually inert may praise each other’s monetary contributions as true Judaism, and still remain an unaligned Jew.” Should this Apikoros truly search for authenticity, he must begin, Mamet strongly recommends, in a “classic shul, or synagogue, without any gilding: no golden pews, gymnasia, organ music, abbreviated services, or mixed choirs.” This Apikoros might even begin his transformation, argues Mamet, in an old-fashioned shtiebel, or small, sometimes even unkempt room, or hall, where wealth is pointless. To be sure, “wealthy support would surely be welcome, but wealth is definitely not worshipped.” Such services are often led by a pious rabbi, who owns a sound knowledge of Bible, Talmud, Midrash, and their commentaries, as well as “a strong sympathetic concern for the underprivileged, the depressed, the forlorn, and the poor.” Were this idol-worshipping Apikoros to avail himself regularly of such an environment, he “might find himself radically transformed into a Jew again, with no false gods, no idols,” and, of course, no mixing of milk and meat.

 

The Assimilationist

 

            The “Assimilationist Jew,” as Mamet depicts him is basically a “winter Jew.” Torn between the conflicting claims of the solstice holidays—Hanukka and Christmas—the Assimilationist will argue that we dare never deprive our children of a “deserved treat” by denying them the pleasure of celebrating Christmas, “while posturing themselves before the waning sun, singing heartily a wide variety of carols,” thereby confirming that “Jewish guilt” and “Jewish anxiety” are not necessarily Jewish at all but “rather a universal desire to revert to paganism.” For that hurtful “abandonment of his own race and culture, the Assimilationist will suffer the pangs of his treason. For the trimming of a ‘Hanukka bush’ is really a desire of man to revert to paganism.”

            But religion came into being, Mamet argues, to supplant the anomie and excess of paganism. Humans, individually, and all religions, generally, have always been caught in a “dynamic struggle between reverting or deciding to supersede the pagan.” Hence the answer for the Christian should naturally be Christianity and for the Jew, Judaism. But because the modern Jew, in the main, is less aware of his own religion and “its opportunities for the fundamental,” he may suppose that the “errors he finds in his own religion can only be cured by the embrace of another,” resulting, of course, in a vast increase of current Assimilationsts.

            Of all the many Assimilationists roaming our present American Jewish world, Mamet chose for a healthy share of opprobrium none other than Noam Chomsky, the famous, or is it infamous, professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Displaying a special dislike of him, Mamet derides this disaffected Jew, who declares consistently, among other things, that “Zionism is criminal,” and nothing more than a late twentieth-century affirmation that all Jews are “business cheats.” And though Chomsky may argue that “to endorse a vendetta against the innocent based on religion is obscene criminality,” he still sees fit “to understand such vendettas, as long as they are carried out against the Jews generally, and Israel in particular.” Hence, our distinguished academic refuses to recognize Israel as a Jewish state, referring to it only as a “phantom state with no right to exist.”

            Furthermore, though Chomsky would argue that Jews in France, for example, have “a right to live unmolested lives” but that “Israel has no right to protect its citizens.”

Small wonder, therefore, that those who follow Chomsky repeat constantly this jarring assertion: “My parents were Jewish but I do not consider myself Jewish . . . .” To such disoriented negativists, Mamet raises this inevitable question: “Are over four thousand years of cultural, genetic, and religious affirmatives now to be abrogated by the hearty embrace of secularity?” To which Mamet replies: “Should Chomsky and his variety of assimilationists ever find themselves in trouble in either the Arab, French, or in any other country across the globe they so lovingly admire, they should forever know that “Israel would offer them a home under the ‘Right of Return.’”

            Taken together these three “brotherly” representatives of the Wicked Son, seeking to acculturate or assimilate into American life, have willfully separated themselves from the faith of their fathers. The religious past of their Jewishness was, obviously, also hollowed out. How thin and fragile, therefore, their grasp of the old world they left behind and the new world they swiftly adopted. Moving rapidly into the mainstream of American life, they apparently persuaded themselves to modify, omit, or suppress the traditions of their own people.

            This de-emphasis of their heritage, cultural identity, and religious observance actually mirrors, in good part, Mamet’s own life. For he too recognizes that his early disassociation with his people was the “result not only of assimilation but even of self-hatred, something that was no one’s fault but his own.” As indicated above, it took an attendance at the bat mitzvah services for his niece, among some other such experiences, to connect him with his race, people, Israel, his own history, and the wisdom and solace of his own tradition.

            In addition to tradition, one is motivated to ask, is there possibly a cure for the Wicked Sons of our day? Chief among the cures, Mamet frequently suggests, is the element of “belonging.” In fact, he devotes a chapter in this work to the absolute need for the same, entitled “Belonging.” “To me,” he begins with this glowing assertion, “life consists in belonging . . . because the opposite of tribal life is a life of anxiety, loneliness, and loss.” And for him, the ultimate virtue of “belonging,” of course, is the theater, movies, and the arts. Of all the hermetic groups he has ever joined in his life, the theater remains most impressive and consistent because it revolves around “filial piety.” While working there, he constantly experienced its “human language, responsibility to learn, to instruct, and its sense of timelessness and history.” Lessons, too, of how to control “anger, sloth, lust on the one hand, and on the other, acts of kindness, helpfulness forbearance, or even silence,” all of which came naturally to him while on the set.

            Needless to say, however, not everyone could be as fortunate as Mamet. Others can experience similar virtues by joining any of a host of organizations dealing with poverty, health care, senior citizens, orphans, and so forth, all of which confirms Mamet’s own view that the “Jew is not only made and instructed but also commanded to live in the world and enjoy those things God has permitted him.”

            But we also know that, lest we continue raising additional generations of “Wicked Sons,” the Jew is instructed, first and foremost, as mentioned above, to become a Jew. It begins simply, as Mamet agrees, with daily prayer, to be followed ideally with an hour or two of study of some classic Judaic texts, fully translated and annotated, of Bible, Talmud, Midrash, Jewish history, ethics—alone or with friends. And, lest we dare forget—the Passover Haggadah.

            And if Mamet boasts that he never walked through a “stage door or onto a movie set without the thrill of belonging,” he was fortunate in experiencing that thrill while attending, and participating, in the celebration of the Passover Seder. He proudly records that experience for the common reader: “This love of community, this love of knowledge, this joy of immersion in history, this thirst for group approval, for moral perfection, this endless variety of vertical and horizontal connection, these are all open to the Jew as both his right and his responsibility.”

 

  1. Anti-Semitism

 

 

            Whatever their present or future orientation on the American and/or world scene, these “Four Sons” will inevitably face a condition that has plagued world Jewry for four millennia, or ever since the birth of the biblical brothers Isaac and Ishmael, and Jacob and Esau. And that, of course, is the question of anti-Semitism, in all its raging and grisly forms ever since then, up to our very own day. For throughout the history of mankind, anti-Semitism “has been inevitable, at times waxing or waning, but always inevitable.” What troubles Mamet most, however, is that it has become so rampant in our own day, especially since the establishment of the State of Israel, some 60 years ago, that it has “morphed into the rhetoric of reason.”

            In fact, Mamet actually categorizes the general arguments of our average Christian neighbors, past and present, in these terms: a) I have nothing against the Jews per se, I am merely speaking against Israel; b) I am merely stating the obvious, for I mean no harm to individual Jews or the Jewish people, but it is a fact that Jews control . . . . I do not say this is good or bad, only that it is so; c) Jews killed the Christian god. I do not say this should influence our contemporary thinking but there it is in the Gospels.” And in the Arab world, Israel is denounced as a modern instance of the “blood libel,” with Muslim replacing Christian blood. And Israel’s response to the constant bombings of its innocent citizens is listed by them as “reprisals and retaliation,” when, in fact, they are made by Israel only in self-defense, or in its unending struggle for survival.

            All of which is not to say that Mamet has in this, and other recent works, suddenly awakened to the ravages of anti-Semitism everywhere in the world, especially in or about Israel. It is the result, in good measure, to the recent awakening of the Jew inside himself, in addition to the continued ferment in his mind of the condition of world Jewry. For, outside the theater and movie set, he has searched his own beginnings to find not only what may be missing in his life but also the life of his fellow Jews in America. For how else explain his extended critique of American Jewry in this work—and under what authority? But when one truly cares, authority may not always be necessary. And Mamet cares.

            Cares enough, in fact, that some 12 years ago, in another volume of short essays, Make-Believe Town, he reasoned more powerfully—for this reader, at least—than in The Wicked Son the shallowness of our general reasoning of the causes of anti-Semitism. It demands a careful reading:

Jew hating is not caused by Jews. It does not even arise out of a misconception. It does not even arise of a need to hate Jews. It arises from a need to hate. We Jews are not the cause of anti-Semitism, nothing we have done caused it. We are just its approved victim . . . . we cannot cure it, and it is not only folly but self-destructive to try. We can only defend ourselves against it. Explanation, reason, and, importantly, tolerance in response to anti-Semitism are disastrous forces . . . . It is not that anti-Semites will make the problem worse, but they will distract us from the danger of defenselessness. Reason is not a defense against anti-Semitism. The least appearance of race hatred is a questioning whose end is murder . . . . anti-Semitism is not ignorance, it is insanity—human rage against a target deemed both allowed and unprotected. It is caused by the victim.

To all that genuine reasoning, the common reader would say “Amen.”

            Mamet, in his sympathetic mood, adds this postscript: “Should the Wise Son ever ask: ‘Why the Holocaust?’ he is expressing a wish that this generation should be spared.”

 

  1. The Exogamist as Wicked Son

 

 

            Of all the fascinating titles Mamet assigned to each of the 37 short chapters of this work, none is more intriguing than the one he chose for the thirty-third: “Judaism: the House that Ruth Built.” It moves the reader to wonder at once: What do Yankee Stadium in the Bronx and Babe Ruth have in common with Judaism? Obviously, one realizes immediately: really nothing. For Mamet’s clever reference here is rather to the biblical Ruth, who, after much personal suffering, built a “Ruthian” home of historical and future royalty in Bethlehem, millennia ago. For Mamet, apparently, the biblical Ruth became the paradigm for “exogamy,” or “marriage outside of a specific tribe, or a similar social unit.”

            Deciding to employ this clever metaphor to his promotion of exogamy as a possible solution to some of Jewry’s problems of survival, he apparently forgot to study a little more carefully the Book of Ruth, itself a “little epic and idyllic whole,” with some of its classical commentaries. Had he done so, he would have learned the historical significance of two unforgettable statements Ruth uttered when Naomi, her destitute mother-in-law, suggested sadly that Ruth, in her own widowhood, return to her Moabite people and their past. Ruth refused—utterly! She intoned, instead, her two heartrending replies, after insisting on cleaving to Naomi: “Thy people shall be my people and thy God my God.” By which she obviously meant to convey, of course, her unalterable commitment to His laws given at Sinai, including, as Rashi adds, “all the various punishments for their transgressions.” In other words: no compromises!

            And, if destiny should decide one day that Ruth would marry the “kinsman” who would “redeem” her, he too would be required to observe the laws and customs appertaining to exogamy, as defined in chapter four of her Book. All of which Boaz, her “kinsman,” performed unconditionally, of course, in front of a group of Judges and an assembly of scholarly witnesses.

            What puzzles this reader, however, is why Mamet, lecturing the multitude of “fallen away” Jews on the issue of their Jewish survival, did not first cite those famous earlier lines, uttered by his own favorite biblical figure, the patriarch Abraham, the father of his people? Seriously concerned about his son’s marital life, we need only recall, Abraham uttered his unforgettably restrictive words to his senior servant, before sending him on his way, to search for the appropriate wife for his son. “And Abraham said: I will make you swear by the Lord . . . that you will not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell, but will go to the land of my birth and get a wife for my son Isaac . . . . The Lord . . . will send his angel before you and you will get a wife for my son from there” (Gen. 24:1–6).

            And Rebecca, in turn, thinking of her son Jacob’s future married life, cried, in her angst, to Isaac: “I am disgusted with my life because of the Hittite women. If Jacob marries a Hittite woman . . . what good would my life be to me?” (Gen. 27:46).

            So Isaac sent for Jacob and blessed him. He instructed him, saying: “You shall not take a wife from the Canaanite women. Go to Padden-Aram to the house of Bethuel, your mother’s father, and take a wife from the daughters of Laban, your mother’s brother . . . . Jacob obeyed his father and mother and had gone to Paddan-Aram” (Gen. 28:1–6).

            And even Esau, the incarnation of the “Wicked Son,” realizing his parents’ objection to exogamy, followed suit and went to Ishmael, and took a wife in addition to those he already had: Mahalath, the daughter of Ishmael, son of Abraham, sister of Nabaioth . . . .” (Gen. 28:1–7).

            Lest one conclude that the Jewish denunciation of exogamy remained forever buried in ancient biblical times, we are repeatedly reminded that what Abraham rigorously championed filtered down steadily through the ages till all the laws prohibiting exogamy were clearly enumerated at Sinai, as recorded formally in the Talmud and later incorporated in Maimonides and the Codes of Civil Law. And thereafter discussed endlessly, in all of its legal, social, and communal intricacies in the vast responsa literature written and published since then to our very day. What happened in Bethlehem merely reaffirmed what was previously formulated at Sinai and practiced faithfully since then in all instances.

            Nevertheless, Mamet persists in believing that “Ruthian homes,” built on “modern exogamy,” should be spread across America. So that he opens this chapter with a little story he had often heard about a “fallen away Jew,” who when asked “Why did you give it up?” (it meaning Judaism), replies: “I had a bad experience with a rabbi.” And he defends himself further with a tautology: “I left because rabbis are bad; rabbis are bad because Judaism is bad; I know this because I met a bad rabbi.” If “bad rabbis” cause that continuing “falling away of so many Jews,” why then does Mamet continue to quote, approvingly, a formal statement by a large contingent of rabbis, who promote exogamy, to save the many “fallen away Jews,” who continue “to give it up?”

            Here, then, is that statement:

Many contemporary rabbis have written most positively about the benefits of modern intermarriage. It is not, they point out, the non-Jews who dilute and threaten the community with so many ‘fallen away Jews.’ We have seen frequent examples of the non-Jewish partners bringing his or her spouse back to Judaism.

One is tempted to inquire immediately whether one of these “nameless rabbis” may have been responsible for denying him a meaningful bar mitzvah celebration he laments so bitterly. Or maybe one or two of them, or more, ratified his personal experiences with exogamy? And how many of these rabbis may have added, sadly, to the countless “fallen away Jews” who now constitute some 48 to 51 percent of American Jewry and have left the fold permanently? Or, were they motivated to spread exogamy to fill some of their own diminishing membership files?

            And even if, as Mamet argues further, exogamy might encourage the non-Jewish partner to persuade his or her spouse to attend Sabbath services, neither one knows or understands the barest meaning of the prayer book, its traditions, or practices. Even the most modern translation of that book hardly ever results in any greater religious practice, unless one is first taught by competent instructors, or highly educated and concerned teachers of whatever rank the classic meaning of prayers. Otherwise, confusion and uninterest follow. “Belonging” alone, despite Mamet’s advocacy of it, shall not, as indicated above, accomplish any significant change in the exogamist. As everyone should know, the laws, practices, and traditions or any other aspect of Judaism demands consistent study, reading, practice, and meaningful experience.

            Truthfully, need one really have to remind Mamet that even in the House that Ruth built in the Bronx, or in any other of such “Ruthian houses” across America, there exist any number of works—the most current being Official Rules Book of Major League Baseball of some 224-page length—without which nothing could proceed successfully on, or off, the playing field? And woe unto the umpire or baseball executive who, failing to recall consistently—especially umpires—any of those rules during a challenged play or other crisis, would then find themselves threatened, or verbally assaulted, by players and fans, or worse, demoted to the minor leagues, or even to the amateur little leagues. True of baseball, it is no less true—even more so, in fact—of the house that “Ruth” built in Bethlehem. All of which moves this sympathetic reader to conclude that, lest infatuation trump judgment, Mamet, in chapter 27 of this engaging book, finds himself striking out.

            Before returning this book to the shelves of Mamet’s “self-authored” library, this reader was moved to recall, interestingly, Clem Yeobright, the native in Thomas Hardy’s novel The Return of the Native. For Clem, “inwoven” with the heath of his boyhood, severed his relations, with his roots by, of all things, working for a jeweler in Paris, a “place and occupation at the opposite pole from the heath.” In returning to the “heath,” Clem “unconsciously wishes to recover the organic connections with his roots.” But, having acquired radical ideas in Paris, he genuinely aims to educate and modernize the “heath” folk, without realizing that he would, by making them self-consciously critical, destroy the organic community he wishes to rejoin.

            In some ways Mamet, too, left his people to gain national and international acclaim as one of America’s leading playwrights and movie producers. Having acquired some new and radical ideas in Hollywood, theaters, and movies across the country, including “exogamy,” he now wishes to modernize the “heath” folk of his own past with some new ideas, such as advanced in this book, by promoting “Ruthian homes” across the country. All of which would certainly have a deleterious effect on the American Jewish community. The return of this native’s ideas would surely create chaos, a chaos that would sadly rob the Jew of his identity.

            And yet, it becomes abundantly clear to any Mamet enthusiast, if asked to which “House” does our renowned playwright belong, the House in the Bronx, or the House in Bethlehem, should direct the questioner to the following passage in this work: “Judaism as a spiritual, ethical, or social practice has at its core a mystery so deep that not only is its existence hidden from the uninitiated, but its practices are hated, scorned, reviled, and murdered as necromancers. What is the fear the Jew engenders that manifests itself as hatred? Perhaps it is caused by his historical absolute, terrifying with certainty, that there is a God.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[i] David Mamet: The Wicked Son, New York, Schocken Books, 2006.

 


 [DEA1]David—I don’t know how to get rid of this line. Please remove. Thanks!

 

Toward a Truer Jewish Cultural Literacy

Being Sephardic is one of the most central aspects of my Jewish identity. While there is certainly the ethnic component with family history that goes back to places such as Spain, Portugal, Italy, and Macedonia, there are the equally important dimensions that are philosophical and spiritual. These include a relentless optimism and an ability to look outward and be engaged in the world while also having a deep interiority in matters of the spirit. 

Strangely, though, my Sephardic identity was largely dormant for half of my life. When my Jewish identity was ignited in my late teenage years, it would still be some time before having a robust exposure to the cultural and ideological wealth of Sephardic Judaism that would make it the dynamic force in my life that it has been ever since. Part of the reason for that is because Sephardic Judaism, beyond its external ethnic trappings, has yet to fully emerge into what one might call “Jewish cultural literacy.” In looking at the curriculum of Jewish life and thought that is dominant in America, one gets the impression that there have been no significant developments in the Sephardic world since Maimonides and R. Yosef Karo. In synagogue and university classes I attended, there were no discussions of enlightenment thinkers such as Isaac Cardoso, David Nieto, or Grace Aguilar alongside Mendelssohn; nor assigned readings in modern rabbis such as Rabbis Benzion Uziel, Hayyim David Halevy or Yitzhak Dayyan to consider together with luminaries such as R. Heschel and R. Soloveitchik. Yet, the Sephardic figures I just mentioned, among many others, represent remarkable strands of Jewish thought in realms such as ethics, political philosophy, theology, spirituality, and Jewish law.

And so, in my initial Jewish education, the ether was full of many extraordinary thinkers (which I do not by any means seek to disparage) but was largely lacking Sephardic tropes. Thankfully, I was blessed to meet Sephardic mentors who were able to transmit much of this remarkable heritage and fill in this lacuna. It is important to emphasize, however, that Sephardim do not have a special sensitivity that makes Sephardic thinkers compelling to us, any more than Ashkenazim have a special cultural sensitivity that makes R. Soloveitchik or R. Heschel great. Their greatness, along with lesser-known Sephardic thinkers, is inherent to the religious genius they embodied. Nevertheless, what Sephardim do have is a cultural appreciation and literacy to access Sephardic thinkers. In essence, this comes back to the notion of cultural literacy previously mentioned, and it brings us to the world of Jewish education.

The energetic debate around the virtues and vices of cultural literacy is not new. Proponents argue that cultural literacy, a common cultural vocabulary of historical figures, ideas, stories, and mythologies, is essential for the health of a nation as well as to ensure that there is greater social equality by giving all students in schools equal access to this vocabulary. Detractors criticize that too often these cultural reference points are monolithic in their European whiteness and maleness, offering a very narrow perspective about who and what is worthy of attention in our society. A parallel debate exists in Jewish education but has yet to emerge into a powerful discussion about the appropriateness of its cultural canon. Regarding the American cultural literacy debate, Eric Liu, president of Citizen University and former policy adviser to the Clinton administration, convincingly argues that “The more serious challenge, for Americans new and old, is to make a common culture that’s greater than the sum of our increasingly diverse parts.”[1]

Like the American people, the Jewish community is diverse, with elements from every part of the globe, and our sense of cultural literacy should reflect that. If implemented successfully, a new Jewish cultural literacy can accomplish two critical goals. First, Jewish education can empower those whose cultural history has hitherto been under-represented. Second, it can create a sense of shared culture that draws from a truer, more diverse Jewish world that belongs to all of us, giving many more access points to students who may find their vibrant Jewish connection in a voice that is simply not being presented at this time. The presence of Sephardic perspectives in this endeavor is central. Said eloquently by Rabbi Dr. Herbert C. Dobrinsky, “...for those who seek a better appreciation for the ‘unity in diversity’ which has always been a hallmark of Judaism, the enlarged understanding of Sephardic Jewry’s contributions to the preservation of our religious heritage is essential.”[2]

In my own practice as an educator, I have laid out a personal goal of introducing my students to major thinkers and figures from the modern Sephardic world. Not only does this resonate with my students with family roots in places like Greece, Italy, and Iraq, but the perspectives offered by these presentations also serve as fresh insight for which other students demonstrate a profound appreciation.

This begs the question as to best practices regarding the project of bringing greater diversity into the cultural literacy we teach in our schools. There are three major areas into which we can introduce such practices—and all are necessary if we are going to accomplish a genuine paradigm shift. The first is in teacher preparation. After all, we teach, draw resources from, and are passionate about, what we know. Next is in the realm of generating literacy lists, which must be done by a group of individuals in a school that reflect an exposure to the diversity that is being sought. Last is the realm of translation, which has a unique role given that a significant obstacle to bringing Sephardic thinkers into larger Jewish cultural literacy is the lack of available English translations of key works. In looking at these three areas and the daunting feeling that emerges upon doing so, I call to all our minds two of our classic teachings, “In every bit of toil there is some gain”[3] and “it is not upon you to finish the work but neither are you free to absent yourself from it.”[4] In other words, any progress we can make in this arena will be very beneficial, a substantial improvement from where we currently are. It is incumbent upon us to move things forward in the ways we can.

Additionally, we have a chance in such a project as this to lay out not only the particular result we seek to achieve (in this case about Sephardic voices) but also to establish a model to ensure that Jewish Studies curricula continue to strive to be a reflection of the diversity that is a truer representation of the Jewish people.

Teacher preparation is at the base of the three aforementioned areas since it allows for a greater presence of Sephardic thinkers in classroom curricula, allows teachers to become representatives for currently under-represented thinkers or traditions, and requires some de facto translation work. The most organic way for a teacher to prepare in a way that allows her or him to bring Sephardic voices into the curriculum can take at least two forms. Both begin with choosing a particular thinker to become versed in. I recommend using works like Rabbi Marc Angel’s Voices in Exile and Professor Zvi Zohar’s Rabbinic Creativity in the Modern Middle East. These books, written with remarkable style and clarity, present a world of Sephardic thinkers in a way that makes their relevance immediately perceivable. A teacher can then delve deeper into a thinker that resonates with her through the bibliographies provided in each of these books. For those comfortable with Hebrew resources, the organization Mizrach Shemesh has developed classroom resources organized topically. From any of these points of departure, teachers can either present their thinker of choice in lessons centering around them as part of a series of major figures in Jewish thought or bring a thinker’s perspective to bear on a theme-based unit. For instance, during a unit that teaches Mendelssohn and the emphasis on the universal ethic of Judaism, equal time can and should be given to Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan of Aleppo, Syria, whose articulation of the universal dimensions of Judaism’s theology, practice, and mission is an invaluable voice. Alternatively, a teacher could, in the midst of a unit on Judaism and Civil Rights, take his class on a journey through the writings and activism of American Sephardic Rabbi Sabato Morais on behalf of immigrants and his moral charges denouncing slavery and the economic habits that encouraged it during the course of the American Civil War in addition to a lesson on Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s writings and activism with Dr. Martin Luther King Junior. In essence, Sephardic thinkers need to become a part of teachers’ toolkits if they are to be become a significant dimension of their teaching, both because of the intrinsically valuable presentation of Jewish cultural diversity, as well as the fact that these thinkers represent unique approaches in areas to which they speak.

With the presence of teachers in receipt of this culturally diverse toolkit, they can play a role in another essential aspect of developing a more representative cultural literacy, namely, literacy lists. The idea of a cultural literacy list, as well as the term itself, were made popular by the educational theorist E. D. Hirsch in 1987. We have seen echoes of these types of lists in works such as Rabbi Joseph Telushkin’s Jewish Literacy and George Robinson’s Essential Judaism. Many Jewish Studies’ staffs also develop some type of list that contain items that “a graduate of a Jewish Day School must know.” Such lists can be very helpful as organizing ideas for curricula and as significant touch points for curriculum spirals; however, they can also fall into the trap of becoming a force for cultural hegemony. For that reason, lists should be developed by groups with diverse exposure, and it is teachers with significant knowledge of the Sephardic world who can help ensure that diversity. Furthermore, cultural diversity should be a stated goal of the list.

But what represents an adequately diverse cultural literacy list? There is not a single answer for all situations; however, an important guide comes from a parallel process to cultural literacy known as critical literacy. Critical literacy recognizes that the act of learning should not be viewed as “encoding and decoding meaning” and that “we need to understand that the messages of authors and the interpretations of the readers are bound by cultural, historical, and political lenses.”[5]

Additionally, critical literacy pushes us to ask, “What is this text trying to do to me as a reader? Who is the intended audience of the text? Whose voice is included in the text, and who is left out?” In looking at lists generated by any Jewish Studies department, these are precisely the questions teachers should ask. Additionally, they should think about what answers their students would have to these questions, or even better, share potential lists with students to see what their responses are. Upon doing so, departments can then reflect about whether the answers to these questions are satisfactory and reshape the list based upon this process. It is important to remember, however, that the teacher preparation described above is a necessary prerequisite to this endeavor, since a person who has never encountered Rabbi Benzion Uziel, for example, will not be in a position to be aware that his or his tradition’s voice is absent. Upon completion of that preparation, however, both the clear statement of cultural diversity in literacy as a goal, as well as the meta questions provided by critical literacy help set Jewish Studies departments on an appropriate path to a more representative Jewish cultural literacy.

            Last, those teachers in a position to do so must take upon themselves to engage in the work of translating the Sephardic works that they bring to bear in their planning. As previously stated, the lack of materials available in English has been a significant factor in its absence in American Jewish schools. Works in Modern Spanish, Ladino, Judeo-Arabic, French, and above all, Hebrew, must be made readily available to teachers to weave into their curricula. Similar to the case of teacher preparation, a teacher who feels capable of this type of work can select a single larger text to translate or even major selections that help encapsulate a particular thinker’s voice. With multiple committed individuals engaging in this, much progress can be made toward making these works available.

The requisite impact, however, necessitates a central repository for these translations from which educators can draw. Discussions have begun about possibilities for such a repository at the Sephardic Educational Center in Los Angeles, while the University of Washington has already done remarkable work creating a digital library of Sephardic works, particularly those from the Ladino-speaking tradition. Sefaria.org has also mainstreamed the open source approach for translations and perhaps developing a relationship with them to upload Sephardic texts of interest can be helpful. What is clear is that we can no longer wait for someone to translate these texts; any who are able to do so must decide that they are the ones to bring the Sephardic to a wider readership.

            For the purposes of this article I have focused on thinkers, but the model can be applied to customs, music, liturgy, and more. What is essential is the vision of a Jewish cultural literacy that more truly represents the Jewish people. One day, a Jewish student, regardless of his or her individual ethnic background, will see Syria and Poland as equal chapters in the Jewish story. Jewish schools will present voices from Lithuania and Turkey in beautiful harmony. “Jewish Heritage” will be a term that holds Morocco and Algeria as comfortably as Germany or Hungary, and each will be experienced as essentially Jewish as the other.

 

           

 

 

[1] Liu, Eric. “What Every American Should Know.” The Atlantic, July 3, 2015, https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/07/what-every-american-should-know/397334/.

[2] Dobrinsky, Herbert C. A Treasury of Sephardic Laws and Customs. (Ktav, 2001) p. XVIII.

[3] Proverbs 14:23.

[4] Avot 2:16.

[5] Gainer, Jesse. “21st-Century Mentor Texts: Developing Critical Literacies in the Information Age.” Journal of Adolescent & Adult Literacy, vol. 57, no. 1, 2013, pp. 16–19., www.jstor.org/stable/24034322.