National Scholar Updates

And it was after these things that God tested Abraham and said to him, “Abraham,” and he replied, “Here I am.” And He said, “Please take your son, your only one, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the land of Moriah; bring him up there as an offering upon one of the mountains which I shall tell you.” So Abraham woke up early in the morning, and he saddled his donkey. He took his two young men with him and Isaac, his son….(Bereishith 22:1–3)

Isaac faces the supreme test of his religious obedience: the Akeida, the “binding of Isaac.” Countless articles and books have been written to describe Abraham’s test of faith. Most surprisingly, however, is the fact that there is no textual reference describing Sarah’s response to the Akeida. From the moment God commands Abraham to heed Sarah’s voice following her directive to send away Hagar and Ishmael, “Whatever Sarah says, listen to her voice,” (Bereishith 21:12), not only does Sarah never speak again, but she is not even mentioned again in the Torah text until it records her death. (Bereishith 23:1) Her entire life has been bound up with her passion to mother the covenantal son; now, that dream—and her son’s very life—appear threatened, yet we hear not one word from Sarah herself, or even a textual mention of Sarah during those endless days that Abraham and Isaac are away.

The commentaries themselves are aware of this thunderous silence and attempt, with various explanations, to fill in the gap. The commentaries differ on what Sarah “knew” and how she responded to that knowledge. Sefer Tosafot haShalem proposes that Sarah knew nothing of Abraham’s plans. Worried about Sarah’s response to his true mission, the commentary states that Abraham told Sarah he was taking Isaac away in order to educate him. Ohr haHayyim concurs, stating that Abraham entreated Sarah to allow Isaac to accompany him to learn Torah. Rashi adds that by the text’s placement of the event of Sarah’s death in the chapter immediately following that of the Akeida, we learn that there exists a cause and effect relationship between the two events.

The relationship between Sarah’s death and the Akeida is imagined by several commentaries. Pirkei d’Rabi Eliezer describes a disgruntled Satan who had sought Isaac’s death—perceiving that Isaac is alive and well—turning his evil intentions to Sarah. He approaches her saying, “Your old man took your son, Isaac, and sacrificed him on an altar to His God. And the boy was crying out and wailing, and there was no one to save him.” Assuming that her son was slaughtered, Sarah cries out three times, her soul departs, and she dies. The commentary states that the blasts of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah immortalize Sarah’s anguished cries. According to Siftei Hakhamim, the messenger of doom need not have been Satan, who convinces Sarah, incorrectly, that her son is dead, but only an ordinary wayfarer from Mount Moriah, who relates the true story of the Akeida. Before he could finish the story, however—with the happy ending that Isaac was saved from death—he pauses for a brief instant to catch his breath, and in that instant, Sarah is overwhelmed by his tale, her soul departs, and she dies. In both of these interpretations, Sarah is led to believe that her beloved son Isaac is dead. Rashi posits another story. According to Rashi, Sara in fact learns that Isaac has survived the Akeida, narrowly escaping death. In that instant, Sara realizes that although Isaac survived, her entire life could have been annihilated by the razor’s edge of Abraham’s sword. According to Rashi, this knowledge resulted in extreme anguish and existential angst, which caused her death.

These three commentaries give Sarah a presence during the time of the Akeida. Ultimately, with these interpretations, however, one must certainly wonder about Sarah’s faith—or rather lack of faith—at this most important moment. The Akeida confirms Abraham’s supreme faith in God, and by inference from these scenarios, Sarah dies by what appears to be a supreme lack of faith! Sefer Tosafot haShalem, however, draws the opposite conclusion, by asking rhetorically, “How could Sarah, a woman of such enormous faith in God, have grieved over God’s choice of her son as a sacrifice. On the contrary, her faith is so great, that she was able to extract undiluted joy from the fact that, for whatever reason, God had chosen her son.” According to this commentary, Sarah then dies of the powerful flood of emotion, which resulted not from grief, but from overwhelming joy.

In all these scenarios, however, Sarah appears to be a passive bystander to the Akeida—the Akeida is Abraham’s test of faith—not Sarah’s. What I would like to suggest is that Sarah is not passive in this story—quite the contrary. She is actively by Abraham’s side—as she has always been—if not physically, then emotionally and spiritually. The Akeida, therefore, becomes her own test of faith as well.

From the very first, Sarah is an equal and active partner at Abraham’s side. She is his counterpart in his mission to introduce his God to the Canaanite world. The text states that Abram takes his wife, Sarai, Lot, his brother’s son, all their possessions, and the souls they made in Haran. Midrash Rabba explains the use of the plural—they. The midrash states that the souls they made were converts. Abram converted the males, and Sarai converted the females. Thus, the text credits them equally in the creation of converts to monotheism. Although God has promised Abraham a child to continue the covenant between Him and Abraham, time passes and Sarah remains barren. Sarah realizes that despite God’s promise of fertility, she remains unable to conceive. She offers her handmaiden, Hagar—the first surrogate—to her husband, hoping that Hagar will bear Abraham’s child for them. “And Abraham listened to Sarah’s voice” (Bereishith 15:3). Sarah hopes that she and Abraham will raise this child as their own. Perhaps God’s promise was to be fulfilled biologically through Abraham only, and was not to be Sarah’s biological child.

In contrast to Sarah’s lifetime of barrenness, Hagar becomes pregnant immediately with Abraham’s child. Hagar ridicules Sarah about her infertility compared to her own success in conceiving a child, and Sarah complains to Abraham. Abraham instructs Sarah to deal with the matter as she sees fit. The relationship between Sarah and Hagar becomes untenable for Hagar, and she flees. An angel accosts Hagar in the desert, promising her a strong nation from the son she will bear—and Hagar returns. A child, Ishmael is born of that pregnancy. It is following the birth of Ishmael that God changes their names from Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah, and instructs Abraham that the covenantal child will not be Ishmael, but will be born from Abraham and Sarah. God sends messenger angels who reiterate His promise; within the year, Sarah is blessed with her only child, Isaac. As the boys grow, Sarah observes a negative influence that Ishmael, Hagar’s son, has on Isaac, and wants to banish both Hagar and her son. Abraham is greatly distressed at Sarah’s desire to banish his firstborn son—and perhaps the mother as well—but God clearly commands him, “All that Sarah says, listen to her voice.” Abraham obeys God’s command to listen to Sarah, and sends away Hagar and Ishmael. It is only twelve sentences later—after a brief description of a covenant of peace between Abimelekh and Abraham—that the test of the Akeida appears.

Abraham listens to Sarah when she offers him a surrogate, Hagar, to bear him a child. He is reluctant, however, to listen to Sarah, when she urges him to banish Hagar and their son, Ishmael. It is here that God actually commands him to listen to “all” Sarah says to him—and Abraham does listen to Sarah, and expels Hagar. God does not say to Abraham to listen to Sarah in this instance only—expelling Hagar—but explicitly states, “All that Sarah says, listen to her voice, for your offspring will be perpetuated through Isaac.” Thus, God tells Abraham to accept Sarah’s advice always, for through Isaac will Abraham’s seed be recognized. Rashi fleshes this sentence out further, playing on the Torah text’s unusual use of the preposition “Be” meaning within, rather than “Le” meaning, to. Rashi would then read the sentence as, “Listen to the voice of divine inspiration from within her.” Analyzing this amazing sentence, we see two apparently disparate, but connected thoughts. First, God commands Abraham to listen to whatever Sarah says. The first part of the statement is, by itself, an astounding proclamation by God to Abraham. God commands him to listen to everything that his wife says! In addition, the second half of the sentence, usually considered less revealing and often omitted when the first part of the sentence is quoted, may be even more astounding—“for your offspring will be perpetuated through Isaac.” Not only is God giving Abraham a general command to obey Sarah, but He is stating the reason—because all that God has promised Abraham—the blessing and the covenant, will be passed down through Isaac’s—not Ishmael’s—progeny, through the child that Abraham has conceived with Sarah, not the child he has conceived with Hagar.

Surprisingly, after this explicit command to Abraham, until the death of Sarah, there is nothing written about Sarah advising Abraham, or of Abraham accepting Sarah’s advice. It seems strange that God tells Abraham to do whatever Sarah says, and then, she says nothing! It would seem therefore to be reasonable to assume that Sarah did in fact give Abraham advice regarding their son Isaac, but for some reason the Torah alludes to it, without explicitly stating it.

In the Torah text, Sarah is portrayed as a woman of words. Interestingly, however, there are two episodes, other than the Akeida, when her voice is not heard. In the two episodes where Abraham describes Sarah as his “sister” rather than as his wife, Sarah is mute. In these stories Sarah’s own honor and existence as she has known it are at stake. She is carried off into the bedchamber—first—of the Pharaoh, King of Egypt, and at a later date to that of Abimelekh, King of Gerar. She does not cry to Abraham, nor plead for herself before the kings, nor even raise her voice in prayer to God. We are not privy to her innermost thoughts. Here, as later at the Akeida, we thirst for her thoughts and words, but we only hear the sounds of silence.

Shofetim, the book of Judges (Chapter 4) relates the oppression of the Israelites by Yabin, king of Canaan and his general, Sisera during the time of the reign of Deborah, the prophet, and her general, Barak the son of Abinoam. At Deborah’s command, Barak assembled ten thousand able bodied men and confronted Sisera’s entire force, which was equipped with nine hundred iron chariots. In the ensuing battle, Sisera’s army was decimated. Sisera abandoned his chariot and escaped by foot, fleeing for his life. War weary, tired and thirsty, he arrived at the tent of Yael, the wife of Hever the Kenite.

“Come in, come in to me; fear not,” she said, offering him refuge. And he pleaded, “Give me a little water, for I am thirsty.” Yael gave the shivering man a blanket to warm himself, and a jug of milk. And he said to her, “Stand in the doorway of the tent, and if anyone asks you if there is a man here, say, ‘There is not.’” Weary from battle fatigue, he fell asleep. Yael quickly took a hammer and an iron tent-pin, thrust the pin deep into his temple, and he died. (Shofetim 4:18–21)

Pursuing the escaping Sisera, Barak arrived at Yael’s tent. Yael came out to meet him. “Come and I will show you the man whom you seek.” And behold, Sisera lay dead, the pin in his temple. Upon his return, Deborah and Barak exalt God with a song of victory, an expression of cognizance and gratitude to God. The song encompasses the entire period of the Judges up to Deborah’s time, including the battle of the defeat of Sisera. In the song, Deborah blesses and praises Yael’s deed. Surprisingly, in this concise ballad of their recent Jewish history, Deborah devotes several sentences to the response of Sisera’s mother to the delayed return of her son from the battlefield.

Through the window, Sisera’s mother looked out, and peered through the window. “Why is his chariot late in coming? Why tarry the wheels of the chariots?” The wisest of her friends answered her, and so she consoles herself, “He is finding and dividing the spoils of war—one woman, no, two, to each man, valuable embroidered garments….” (Shofetim 5:28–30)

Why does Deborah incorporate these sentences into her victory song? What are we to learn from the reactions of Sisera’s mother and her friends?

Two mothers—Sarah, Isaac’s mother, and the unnamed mother of Sisera: both mothers have sons who have left the safety of their homes and their mother’s protective watch. Sisera’s mother has watched her son, regal in military attire go off to war in his iron chariot in the service of Yabin, the Canaanite King. Sarah, whether she actually saw Isaac leave with Abraham, or does not realize they had gone until she awakes later that morning, must know that her son has gone off somewhere—in the service of God. Both mothers wait expectantly at home, not knowing what is happening to their sons, or when they will return. Will a sacrifice be made, or will they return safely, each to his waiting mother’s arms?

I would suggest that the responses of the mothers represent the secular and the religious responses to the anxiety of the unknown—to existential angst.

Staring out of the window, as seconds stretch into minutes, and minutes seem like hours, Sisera’s mother is unable to live with this heart-wrenching anxiety. She bursts forth, verbalizing her innermost thoughts, “Where is he? Why don’t I hear the sound of his chariot? Why the total silence on the road?” What she is expressing is her deep worry that something has happened to her son—something that has stopped that iron chariot from returning home, something that has stopped it from bringing back her victorious son with rowdy cheering crowds accompanying him. She knows, deep in her innermost soul, that something is very wrong. Unable to live with that thought, and with the help of her well-meaning friends, she considers an alternative ending. The chariot must be delayed because her son is busying himself with the rewards of war—raping young women, stealing the valuables of the men. He will of course be home later—now is the time for celebration. She tries to find a measure of peace with that alternative rationalization.

I would suggest that the secular or psychological response to not knowing the outcome and moreover, being unable to affect it—absolute helplessness in an intolerable situation—is exemplified in the response of Sisera’s mother. One can imagine the worst or one can imagine the best. One can become deeply anxious and depressed, or one can perhaps delude oneself into accepting a more satisfying ending. Neither depression—anticipating the worst, nor delusion—anticipating the best, will affect the outcome. The outcome is beyond oneself, whatever one’s temporary response is while waiting to hear what has ultimately transpired.

Contrast Sisera’s mother’s response to that which we can glean from the biblical text and commentaries regarding Sarah’s response. Isaac has gone off with Abraham. The midrashic sources cited above relate varying hypotheses as to the depth of her foreknowledge. Certainly, at some point Sarah knows that Isaac is not home—and that she does not know when he will be home. How odd, it appears that the Bible relates the response of Sisera’s mother to her son’s absence, and not Sarah’s response to her son’s absence! Why should we learn of a heathen’s response, and not the response of that of our Matriarch Sarah? I would like to suggest that perhaps Sarah’s response is there. We only have to look carefully for it.

Perhaps the answer is her silence—the divine inspiration within her. It is this inspiration, this faith, that let her be led away—twice, into the bedchambers of kings. And it is this faith that now enables her to watch her son being led away by her husband. Sarah knew that her God would protect her, as she was led away by foreign kings, and as she now knows that He will protect her son.

Notwithstanding that most of the commentaries and midrashim state that Sarah knew nothing of Abraham’s plans, and in fact relate her death to her hearing of the Akeida, I suggest that Sarah knew everything about God’s command to Abraham to take Isaac up that famous mountain and to bind him upon the altar. Sara and Abraham were partners. They converted multitudes of people to monotheism together; they travelled together; they welcomed and fed travelers in their tent together; they took action to have a family together. It is inconceivable that Abraham would not discuss God’s ultimate command with his life partner, Sarah—seeking her wise advice, and listening to all that she would say, knowing that God Himself would accept his consulting with Sarah, and obeying her decisions.

So, where can we hear Sarah’s words about the Akeida? Certainly not before Abraham sets out with Isaac early that morning—but then, we hear no words from Abraham either. God commands him to take his son and bind him upon the altar, and Abraham immediately obeys, in silence. He awakens early, saddles his donkey, splits the wood for the offering, and sets out with his son Isaac, and his two aides. Isaac looks at his father, questioningly, “Father?” “I am here, my son,” Abraham answers. “Here are the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the offering?” Abraham answers, “God will show him—lo—the lamb for the offering, my son. And the two of them went together.”

“God will show him the lamb for the offering, my son.” These are the only words uttered by Abraham during the Akeida. The pronouns are confusing. Abraham does not say, “God will show both of us, or you Isaac, or me, the lamb; rather, Abraham says, “God will show him the lamb.” Whom will God show? Given the confusion of the pronouns, several commentaries explicate the Hebrew word “lo” as reflexive—“God will show Himself the lamb for the offering.” Perhaps that solves the problem, but I wonder if that interpretation adds to the confusion? How does God’s showing Himself the lamb answer Isaac’s question? I would suggest, with some trepidation, that perhaps the pronouns fit better if Sarah initially said this sentence to Abraham. Perhaps she said these words to him at the end of an all night discussion before his early morning departure with Isaac. Abraham’s own faith intact, perhaps he discussed with Sarah how to answer Isaac if he asked the question. Sarah then answers—“God will show him—meaning Isaac—the lamb for the offering.”

Sarah, then, knowing that God has commanded Abraham to listen carefully to the inner meaning of her words, comforts him with her faith—the faith that is strongest at those moments of existential crisis in her life. Sarah’s faith is deep and strong. She is neither depressed nor delusional. She accepts that her son’s fate is in God’s hands, and she conveys this acceptance to Abraham. She knows it must end well, for God has promised that the covenant would be fulfilled through Isaac. “Don’t worry about how to allay Isaac’s fears,” she may have told Abraham. “God will show him the lamb for the offering.” It is perhaps her words of faith and encouragement that Abraham quotes verbatim to Isaac, as he answers his question—the words from within her, the words of divine inspiration—revealed to her husband Abraham as he sets out on the trial of his life.

As he approaches the mountain he orders his two aides to remain behind, and Abraham goes forward with Isaac. In silence, Abraham places his son on the firewood, and ties him to the altar. A voice cries out, ordering Abraham not to lay a hand on Isaac or hurt him in any way, for now God knows of Abraham’s awe of God, that he has yirat Hashem. He too, has passed the test.

Give Grateful Credit

Book Review

Spiritual Activism: A Jewish Guide to Leadership and Repairing the World by Rabbi Avraham Weiss.

The spiritual activist is the person whose activism is both inspired by the relationship with God and in turn inspires others to expand their relationship with God. No rabbi or Jew has been a more consistent and greater spiritual activist in the last five decades than Rabbi Avi Weiss. Luckily for us, Rabbi Weiss took a break from his many duties to author a masterpiece, Spiritual Activism: A Jewish Guide to Leadership and Repairing the World (Jewish Lights Publishing, 2008).

Rabbi Weiss writes of the difficulty of being an activist as well as a communal rabbi. The activist is by nature a tenacious fighter, wedded to ideals and horrified at compromise. The activist calls people out when they are wrong and even embarrasses those leaders who are corrupt and shameful. The rabbinate, as practiced by Rabbi Weiss (and I had the opportunity to witness this first hand when serving as the Assistant Rabbi of Rabbi Weiss’s congregation, the Hebrew Institute of Riverdale), loves everyone regardless of their baggage and with great difficulty attempts to judge no one.

This paradox often causes most rabbis to avoid the realm of activism in favor of focusing on their congregational needs. But Rabbi Weiss rejects that approach; not because he craves the excitement of activism or seeks the limelight, but rather because he feels that it is the responsibility of the rabbi to be the voice of moral conscience in the community.

A major tenet of Rabbi Weiss’s activism is to follow an injustice that is not being addressed by the establishment organizations of the Jewish community. He writes that he is not anti-establishment, but non-establishment. Because he is not a full-time professional activist, in the sense that he has two other full-time jobs, Rabbi Weiss focuses his activism on areas where others are not speaking out.

In this sense, Rabbi Weiss has often become the lodestar and conscience for the Jewish community. Rabbi Weiss’s book recounts the many times he spoke out on an issue of great importance to the Jewish community only to be criticized by the Jewish establishment. In retrospect, we can all be grateful for Rabbi Weiss’s prescience.

For example, Rabbi Weiss spoke out on the struggle for Soviet Jewry before the Jewish community organizations recognized this great human struggle. Rabbi Weiss recounts how he fought against leaders of the Jewish community for the passage of the Jackson-Vannik amendment, the critical piece of legislation that was responsible for the freeing of Soviet Jewry.

He tells of confronting the Israeli government about the need to rescue the Ethiopian Jewish community only to be dismissed disrespectfully. Today the world recognizes Israel’s rescue of Ethiopian Jewry as an action by Israel that was a light unto the nations.

When the muckety-mucks of the America Jewish community were giving honor to President Carlos Menem of Argentina, Rabbi Weiss protested and was carried face-first down the steps of the posh, Pierre Hotel. As he was being carried out by police officers, some guests managed to put down their cocktails long enough to shout at Rabbi Weiss, “You are dishonoring the Jewish people.” Ten years later The New York Times ran a story on the front page proving that Menem was involved in the July 1994 bombing of the Jewish Community Center in Argentina.

There are countless stories like these in Rabbi Weiss’s book and countless others that he leaves out. Such is the life of the activist. He speaks out because he feels it is the right thing to do, even though it is very often not the popular thing to do. Indeed, almost by definition, Rabbi Weiss will usually only speak out when it is the unpopular thing to do, since if it is popular, he will feel that others are already making the case.

All this is not to say that Rabbi Weiss does not appreciate the defense organizations of the Jewish community. He recognizes that they play an important role in the symphony of the Jewish community. His goal is parallel to theirs. His goal is to inspire other individuals in the community to assume responsibility and rise up for the Jewish community.

Rabbi Weiss tells the stories of individuals or “students and simple housewives” such as Avital Sharansky, who have become some of the greatest activists in Jewish history. This is the ultimate teaching of Rabbi Weiss: The great activists speak out because they feel a religious need to do so. The great activists do not shirk responsibility but rather embrace it.

But even the greatest activists need a guide, so Rabbi Weiss offers a “street manual” to people who seek to become activists. In this respect, he religiously follows the principles of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He absolutely rejects violence by activists, even when being physically attacked. He demands absolute integrity in dealing with the media and even in dealing with opponents. Furthermore, he reminds us that no matter how pitched the battle, we can never forget that the people we are protesting against are human beings.

Some people think that the life of an activist is glorious. After all, they will often see the activist on television or in the newspaper or meeting with elected officials. I have had the great honor of standing next to Rabbi Weiss on many occasions during his moments of activism. For every successful rally of thousands of people there are literally tens, if not hundreds of rallies, with just a few committed souls. Spiritual activism is not for those who wish to hobnob with the “big shots” of the world. It is a tough, never-ending struggle for the soul of the community. It is often thankless and physically and mentally consuming.

The publication of Rabbi Weiss’s book is an opportunity for all of us to step back and be grateful for what he has given our community. There is, however, one important omission in this book that is necessary to correct.

Rabbi Weiss notes that in March 2002, on short notice and with little advertising, he and a small group of like-minded rabbis organized a rally for Israel in New York City that was attended by more than 12,000 people. At this rally, Rabbi Weiss called for a much larger rally to take place the next week in Washington, D.C. He said that the Jewish establishment should organize such a rally—and if they do not do it, then we will do it ourselves.

Within twenty-four hours, the Conference of Presidents of Major Jewish Organizations met and decided that it would hold a rally in Washington the very next week. The ensuing rally was attended by well over a hundred thousand people and will forever be remembered as one of the bright spots in American Jewish history.

Unfortunately, the organizers of the Washington rally decided to completely freeze out Rabbi Weiss and his rabbinic partners from the rally. These rabbis attended but were given no credit. Such is to be expected. Such is the role of the activist.

But in this one instance, The New York Jewish Week decided to write an editorial giving credit where credit is due. Here is the passage as it appears on page 122 of Rabbi Weiss’s book:

Kol Hakavod (give grateful credit) … for not only spearheading the highly successful rally outside the United Nations on Sunday, but for no doubt convincing the Jewish establishment—some would say shaming them into acknowledging—that passion and commitment go farther than endless planning when it comes to staging an impressive pro-Israel event.

The rabbis have staged several rallies for Israel since June, but Sunday’s was by far the largest, attracting at least 10,000 people—some say many more—to voice their support for Israel in its time of crisis…. By contrast, the organized Jewish community of federations and national organizations has been slow to respond to the crisis in Israel, now in its 18^th month, at least in terms of public displays of support.

In his great modesty Rabbi Weiss omits four key words from this paragraph. The original editorial in The Jewish Week stated, “Kol Hakavod (give grateful credit) to Rabbi Avi Weiss….” Indeed!

The rabbinic roots of the Fetaya family can be traced back to Hakham Reuven David Nawi (1770–1821). Hakham Reuven was disciple of Hakham Moshe Haim, the father of the Ben Ish Hai, and was described by the latter as “the great scholar, master of the Torah, our master….” Hakham Reuven passed away at a young age, and only one of his halakhic works, Yehi Reuven, has been published. His grandson Hakham Moshe Yeshua Yehezkel Fetaya (1830–1905) was a mystic and a poet. He founded one of the first printing houses in Baghdad in 1866, with his brother Aharon and their partner Rahamim ben Reuven. Fifty-five books were printed by the printing house until 1882, but Hakham Moshe’s own poems, covering a range of themes from mysticism to stories of personal miracles and prayers for redemption, were printed only in 1909 by his son, my great-grandfather, Hakham Yehudah.

I have heard the following story from my grandfather, Hakham Shaul Fetaya, regarding the initiation of his father into the wisdom of Kabbalah. Hakham Yosef Haim, better known as the Ben Ish Hai, who was 25 years Hakham Yehudah’s senior, used to deliver a sermon on Shabbat afternoon at the great synagogue of Baghdad, Midrash bet Zilkha, also known as Slat il-Kbiri. The Ben Ish Hai was a mesmerizing orator, and his sermons lasted several hours and included halakha, Torah commentary, ethical teachings, and Kabbalah.

In 1869, when Hakham Yehudah Fetaya was only nine years old, he came home crying one Shabbat afternoon. To his father’s inquiry, he answered that he attended the Ben Ish Hai’s sermon and felt frustrated that he could not understand the Kabbalah part of it. His father was moved by his son’s genuine interest and promised him that he would teach him Kabbalah. He did so until his son Yehudah turned 12, at which point his father told him that he has taught him all that he knows and that the time had come to search for a greater master. Young Yehudah duly enrolled in the Rabbinic Seminary of Hakham Abdallah Somekh (1813–1889), the most prominent of Baghdad’s rabbis in the nineteenth century.

In 1876, four years into his studies with Hakham Abdallah Somekh, the Hakham asked 16-year-old Yehudah to be the Hazzan for Minha at the Rabbinic Seminary. One of the older rabbis who was present protested, claiming that a Hazzan must be a married man with a full beard, but Hakham Abdallah Somekh insisted that the teenager he chose will be the Hazzan. “I cannot make his beard grow,” he said, “or marry him off right now, but since everyone agrees that a rabbi can serve as a Hazzan, I will now ordain him.” And so young Yehudah Fetaya was ordained, as a rabbi, at the age of 16.

The honor bestowed upon Hakham Yehudah by his great master did not quench his thirst for knowledge. Alongside his studies of Talmud and halakha under Hakham Abdallah, he learned Kabbalah under Hakham Shimon Agassi and the Ben Ish Hai, eventually becoming their colleague.

Hakham Yehudah was a prolific author, who wrote his first commentary on Kabbalah at the age of 23. The book, which he called Afiquei Mayim, is a commentary on Rabbi Haim Vital’s Etz Hayim, and was only published in a facsimile edition. He later expanded the commentary to what has become his magnum opus, the two-volume commentary on Etz Haim known as Beth Lehem Yehuda. This commentary was praised when first published and is still considered by leading scholars in the field as “The Rashi” on Etz Haim. Hakham Yehudah also wrote commentaries on portions of the Zohar, Yain HaReqah, on the portions known as Idera Raba and Idera Zuta, and Matoq LaNefesh on the Zohar of Parashat Mishpatim. He chose to write a commentary on those portion because they were widely studied during anniversaries for the deceased, and he wanted people to better understand what they were reading.

In general, one could say that despite his lofty field of study, Hakham Yehudah was very much down to earth and involved with the people. His house was open for all and he addressed questions and counseled people constantly. In his private diary, which is kept by my family, he describes a period in his life in which he experienced great closeness to God, a meditative state known as Devekut. He writes how his legs would carry him to his destination, while his mind and soul were elsewhere, but when he got to the yeshiva to deliver a class on Talmud, he reconnected with reality. I find that story intriguing not only because of the meditative state it describes, but for the ability of Hakham Yehudah to detach himself from this state of spiritual bliss for the sake of his students.

Among the many books of Hakham Yehudah, there are anthologies of commentaries on the Torah and Pirkei Avot, original prayers, and mystical writings, but the most popular of his works is no doubt the one he calls a notebook. That book, Minhat Yehudah, is basically a kabbalistic commentary on the Bible, but in several places, the author segues to discuss the interpretation of dreams and issues related to reincarnation. In the introduction to the book he writes that his main purpose in writing the book was to inform people of the full spiritual scope of their life in this world and the world to come and to encourage them to repent.

Among the many disciples in the field of Kabbalah were H. Sasson Mizrahi, H. Yitzhak Khadouri, H. Salman Moutzafi, and H. Salman Eliyahu, father of H. Mordecahi Eliyahu, Chief Rabbi of Israel and a very close friend of my grandfather and my family, but although his printed works focus on Kabblah, H. Yehudah’s activism and teachings were not limited to the esoteric. In one of his few halakhic responses that were preserved, he uses harsh words to criticize men who take advantage of women desperate to get married. He calls on the other judges to amend the situation where all the power was in the man’s hand, saying that women should not need to suffer by being summoned to court, or by feeling that they are tied in marriage to a man against their will.

He was also concerned with the physical and mental health of the people who came to him for a blessing or to seek help. My mother, who was eight years old when her grandfather passed away, told me that people used to say about him in Arabic “idou khudhra”—his hands are green—meaning that they felt special spiritual energy when he blessed them. She herself felt it, and I have experienced it as a child when my grandfather, H. Shaul, took care of me after I was frightened by a dog and could not sleep several nights. He sat me on his lap, placed his hand on my chest and recited verses, and I felt a pleasant warmth spreading through my body and soul. Years later, when my own children went through similar experiences, I tried to do the same, thinking that it might have been a placebo effect, but I failed.

There are many stories about H. Yehudah as a miracle worker, but the one that is close to my heart is one that can be emulated by all of us, and does not require an expertise in Kabbalah. The story is about one of his students in Baghdad, whose wife was expecting. H. Yehudah was concerned that the due date had passed, and asked the man about his wife’s health and whether she gave birth already, but his student dodged the question. The Hakham understood that something was wrong and kept pressing, until finally the man admitted that his wife was acting in a strange manner after she gave birth, and so she was sent by the embarrassed family to live with a Muslim foster family in a village outside the city. H. Yehudah asked for the name of the family and their whereabouts, and then immediately left the Rabbinic Seminary and went home. He asked his daughter Lulu, who was 17 at the time to join him, and together they traveled several hours until they arrived at the foster family’s house. They found the woman, who suffered from what today is known as postpartum depression, in a miserable condition. Besides the shock of being rejected by her family and separated from her young daughter, she was weak and emaciated, since she refused to eat non-kasher food.

H. Yehudah promised the woman that he would help her. He then traveled with his daughter Lulu to the nearest Jewish settlement and went directly to the local rabbi’s house. The rabbi was amazed to see the great hakham at his door. H. Yehudah explained that he was traveling with his daughter to Baghdad and that they were very hungry, and asked if the rabbi can offer them a hearty meal. Once the meal was ready, however, Hakham Yehudah said that he cannot delay and asked the perplexed host to pack the food “to go.” The Hakham and his daughter returned to the woman’s bedside where they fed and took care of her until she was strong enough to travel back to the city of Baghdad. When they arrived there, the women in H. Yehudah’s household took care of the woman for several months until she recovered physically and mentally. H. Yehudah then called the husband and reintroduced him to his wife, not before rebuking him for abandoning her at her darkest hour.

This story, which I have heard at a very young age, is engraved in my mind in a way which overshadows all the other stories about miracles attributed to H. Yehudah Fetaya. It is important because it teaches something that we are all capable of doing, even if we are not prodigies or great mystics. The Hakham’s great sensitivity and understanding of human nature shines through this story.

He was concerned not only with the learning of his students, but with the well-being of their families; and when he heard of the crisis he dropped everything and rushed to the woman’s help, but did not rebuke the husband yet, knowing that he would not listen to him. He traveled with his daughter, because he wanted the woman to feel comfortable with Lulu taking care of her. When visiting the rabbi’s house, he did not reveal the real reason he was asking for food, and would rather cast himself in a negative light, barging into a home and asking for food to go, in order not to embarrass the woman who needed the food. Finally, after returning to Baghdad, he made sure that the woman has fully recovered and then orchestrated her reunion with her husband and daughter.

The many halakhot that can be gleaned from this story cannot be found in any halakhic compilation, and they should be for us a guiding light in our dealings with others. This is but one example of his tireless work for the people of Baghdad and Israel.

Hakham Yehudah’s fame reached the Iraqi diaspora in India, and he was offered a position with that thriving Iraqi community, an offer that he rejected since his aspiration was to migrate to the Land of Israel. He settled in Israel in 1905, but returned to Baghdad after several years. He made a second attempt at aliya in 1923, and finally fulfilled his wish in 1934, at the age of 74. He initially lived in Ramat Gan, where there was a concentration of Iraqi Jews, but eventually moved to Jerusalem, where he was actively involved in the study circles of the kabbalist school Beth El, as well as Shoshanim LeDavid and Ohel Rahel, not far from Mahane Yehudah.

Bound by Hope

Hakham Yehudah Fetaya passed away the 27^th of Menahem Av, 74 years ago. My grandfather told me that during the funeral the sky was covered with dark clouds and heavy rain started pouring. Being that this is very atypical to the Israeli summer, people felt that the heavens were weeping for his death. Since then, each year on the anniversary of his death (except between 1948–1967), hundreds of people ascend to his grave on Har HaZetim (Mount of Olives), to read the special prayers he composed for tumultuous times, and specifically the Holocaust. He kept abreast of the news from Europe and conducted prayers for the Jews of Germany years before the Holocaust. When the war started, Hakham Yehudah’s efforts intensified. Besides running, with his son, Hakham Shaul, a center for distributing basic food staples to poor families, he wrote and published special prayers in a booklet he titled Asirei haTikva, Bound by Hope, a name that conveys the message that despite all the difficulties, we are still bound to God by our faith and hope.

The introduction to the first edition, printed in 1940, reads:

The order of prayers in this booklet is what we had to do, with great sorrow, in the holy city of Jerusalem, in the year 1940 (corresponding to the Hebrew date alluded to in the verse: Sound a great shofar and bring forth our freedom), as we were drowning in the tidal waves of disaster [in Europe]. We had to publish it to make it available for all, so we can join together, with one heart, to plead with prayer and supplications before God, and hope that He will have mercy for the remnant of his flock and will not let their blood spill like water….

Those special prayers, which Hakham Yehudah conducted almost daily at Rachel’s Tomb and other sites, were not his only effort in trying to help the Jewish People. At one point, he procured an airplane from the RAF, and with a minyan of kabbalists performed a service of Kapparot over the Land of Israel.[1]

One of the dramatic stories I heard from my grandfather was of the time his father summoned God to trial. Hakham Yehudah gathered all the sages and kabbalists of the famed Beth El and Ohel Rahel academies in Jerusalem, and summoned God to a Din Torah, a trial, with the specific purpose of acquitting the Jews and proving that God must stop the massacre in Germany. In order to have a fair trial, he appointed both a prosecutor and a defense attorney [himself, obviously] for the Jews. My grandfather told me emphatically of the warning his father issued to the prosecutor: “Speak briefly. Do not cast the Jews in a negative light. After all, they all are good people.” The trial came to an abrupt stop when the prosecutor went on a blaming rampage against the Jewish People, and would not stop despite threats and supplications. My mother added to that story that the man lost his sanity afterward. The message of that story guided my grandfather, and since he was my master, guides also me until this very day in dealing with questions of halakha, education, and working with the community. This unique event is typical of Hakham Yehudah, as well of his son, Hakham Shaul, who did not shy away from confrontations with God Himself.

The booklet Asirei haTikva offers an example of his unabated love for the Jewish People, his deep pain for their suffering, and his willingness to argue with God.

When people visited his grave on the anniversary of his death, these gatherings did not include dancing, eating, or lighting candles at the grave. Rather, the prayers he composed were read by the public in what was an awe-inspiring event that left a very deep impression on me as a young child. My grandfather, Hakham Shaul, our cantor, Gurji Yair, and many elders of the Iraqi community would go around the grave seven times, reading the prayers Hakham Yehudah composed during the Holocaust.

Hakham Shaul, following in the pathways of his great father, felt the pain of the needy and the poor, the Holocaust survivors whose spirit was broken, and those who felt imperfect, whether spiritually or physically, and his prayers echoed his pain.

The pinnacle of the prayers at Hakham Yehudah’s gravesite were the special poems he composed in honor of our Mothers, Sarah, Rivka, Rahel, and Leah. He wrote these poems in the early 1900s as an addition to the traditional Haqqafot, which mention only men. One might say that he wrote the first modern feminist Midrash. Hakham Yehudah wrote four poems, one for each one of the mothers, but Rahel received a special treatment. Her poem, Zekhut Rahel, is three times as long as all the others combined. The special affinity of Hakham Yehudah for Rahel was a product of his kabbalistic background, and of the special attention given to her by the prophet Jeremiah and the midrashic literature, but it also had a personal element. His wife’s name was Rahel (affectionately, in Iraqi Arabic: Chahla), and they had lost several children in their infancy. They had also suffered the blow of losing their married daughter Simha and her husband Shimon during the plague of 1914, and had taken the couple’s little orphaned daughter, Haviva, under their wing. The tragic life of our matriarch Rahel, was for him much more than a biblical image and a mystical metaphor for the Shekhina, it was the real-life story of a bereaved father sharing the pain with his beloved wife Rahel.

In the poem, he pleads with God but also argues bitterly with Him, demanding a better treatment for the nation and the individual. Here is the full text of the poem with my translation:

For Rahel’s Sake

 Recall, God, the merit of Rahel, for her wandering children.

She who has brought her adversary under her own bridal canopy in a sleepless night.

She hid under the bed and responded from there [instead of her sister].

Please, from your seat on high, hear her bewail and lament.

Her thundering voice, shattering walls, can be heard from great distances.

She who was buried at the crossroads, is wailing and asking:

“Where is Joseph, where is the one who hugged me? Woe to me for my sweet child!

Where is Ben Oni, who never saw me, who never rested on my chest?”

She went and asked the Patriarchs: “Where are my dear children?”

[They said:] “Go ask ben Amram, who is buried on Mount Avarim!”

“My son Moshe, please speak up, where have you abandoned the flocks?”

From the grave, speaking to her, rose a mournful, lamenting voice: 

“Why are you wandering on the mountains, what are you searching for, dear aunt?”

[She answered:] “Now is not a time for idle talk, as I have to mend the broken wall.”

Moshe, in deep sorrow, answered: “I have handed them to your son, Yehoshua.”

 [She told him:] “Yehoshua my son, please answer me, where are the tribes?”

Faced with her agony and lament, he responded with his own tears

And the voice of their crying and wailing rose to the heavens.

“Please mother” [cried Yehoshua], “please stop, before I die and perish;”

“I have handed them to the elders and to the shepherd kings of the House of David.”

 She left him and rushed to the grave sites of the city of Zion.

[The kings] told her: “On the Temple Mount, there they shall be sought and found.”

Alas, when Rahel saw that there are no walls nor fences,

And the Temple has been burnt to the ground,

And that there are no priests nor Levites, and no Ark nor Cherubim,

She shrieked in agony, and cast away her shoes.

She tore the striped robe, and her scarf, and her dresses.

She wore sackcloth and rolled on the rocks,

Slapping her flesh to mourn her lost son.

Clad in sorrow for God’s people, she was howling in grief.

 Hurriedly she leapt above, towards God, sitting on high,

Speaking for the People of Zion, and raising her voice with tears, [she demanded:]

“Please Father, see my pain, and heed my plea with mercy!

 My Rock, My Hope, will Your people be forever lost?

How could You tear a bride from her husband’s lap and send her into exile?

How could You shoo the nesting mother, but not take care of the fledglings?

How could You abandon Your sheep among devouring lions?

How can you remain quiet while the People of Edom [Germany] turn them into sacrifices?

Were they not punished enough, were they not engulfed by vicious waters?

Are a thousand years not enough for You?

The sun is already setting on the second millennium, and the pain is not letting.

Where is the miraculous sign? When is the Time of Times?

When will you have mercy? When will you console us?

You keep putting us away, day after day!

Almighty God, redeem us already! Do not soothe us with words!”

 A voice was then heard from the Divine Throne: “Hush my daughter, oh bride of the mighty!

Let your eyes stop crying; Let your voice rest from supplications.

Because of your tears and lament, the heavenly worlds are now in exile.

And He rose up above, and mercy has been invoked.

 I shall not rest until I revenge the spilled blood of my servants,

And shortly I will sever and destroy the wicked.

I will cut the stone, smash the idol, breaking it to shards.

I will open the sealed coffers and release the swallowed souls.

Rise up, shake away your sorrow, and wear your precious clothes.”

I hear the voice of my nation saying:

“Though we are sinners, do for Your great name’s sake!”

The Midrashic Origin of Rahel’s Merit

This poem, in which Hakham Yehudah Fetaya casts Rahel as a defense attorney for her children, is based on two midrashic sources, which are in turn inter-connected. The first Midrash[2] has been made famous by Rashi, who included it in his commentary on Genesis,[3] in order to explain the mystery of how Yaakov was tricked into marrying Leah instead of Rahel. According to that Midrash, Yaakov and Rahel suspected that Lavan would attempt a deception, and so decided on a secret password to enable Yaakov to identify his bride. At the last moment, however, when Rahel realized that her father was determined to lead her sister down the aisle, she felt sorry for her and gave her the password so as not to shame her.

The second, less-known Midrash, is found in the introduction to Eikha Rabbah,[4] the midrashic commentary on the Book of Lamentations, and is based on a verse from Jeremiah[5] which describes Rahel’s agony after the destruction of the Temple:

A voice is heard in Ramah [also: a strong voice is heard]. It is the sound of wailing and bitter tears. It is the voice of Rahel, mourning her children, refuses to be consoled for her sons who are now gone!

In the dramatic narrative of the Midrash, Abraham, Yitzhak, Yaakov, and Moshe are pleading with God on behalf of the Jewish People. Each of the men steps forward and asks God that as a reward for his many sacrifices and dedication to God, the Jewish People will be forgiven and redeemed, but none of them is answered. Rahel then jumps the line, apparently uninvited, and speaks to God about her own experience with her sister. She describes how despite her great love for Yaakov she was willing to let her sister Leah take her place because she did not want her to suffer disgrace, and then levels this question at God:

I am but flesh and blood, dust and ashes, yet I was not jealous of my rival [Leah] and did not cause her shame and disgrace! You, Eternal and Merciful King, why were You jealous of idolatry, which has no value? How could you send my sons go in exile, be killed by the sword, and handed over to their enemies to do with them as they wish?

Unlike God’s treatment of the men who spoke before Rahel, He hears her request and promises redemption, using the subsequent verses in Jeremiah:[6]

Let your voice mourn no more, let your eyes shed no more tears, for your deeds are rewarded… they shall return from enemy lands… your destiny is filled with hope… as the exiled sons will come back home….

Feminine and Masculine Perspectives

At first glance it seems that Rahel’s argument follows the same pattern as the men, and that the only reason the midrashic author makes God answer her and not the others, is that Jeremiah spoke of the dialogue between Rahel and God. A more thorough and comparative reading, however, will reveal deep insights on the nature of men and women and on our understanding of divine justice.

Abraham, Yitzhak, Yaakov, and Moshe, appear before God as if they were in court. They maintain decorum, and each one presents a similar argument: “I did this and that, so I deserve a reward.” Each one of them is ignored, and they interpret it as a sign that their request is turned down, and do not argue any more. Rahel, the bereaved mother, breaks the rules. Like a wounded lioness, she pushes her way past the men and speaks uninvited, as if rebuking them for giving up and retreating.

Rahel is not asking for a reward, but rather lectures God, telling Him that He should learn from her. She suggests that she, a mortal woman, was able to overcome her natural selfishness and jealousy, and that God should follow her example and not be jealous of the “second wife” of the Israelites—the idols.

The audacity of the author of the Midrash is shocking. He questions one of the fundamental prohibitions of the Torah, arguing that God should not punish His children so harshly for worshipping idols. The author speaks more as a loving mother than as a disciplinary leader we know from the stories of the judges and the prophets. I am certain that my great-grandfather understood the pain of all mothers, and of course of his own wife Rahel, and that he took the role of defender of the Jewish people to new levels.

Mother Rahel = Hakham Yehudah

Hakham Yehudah uses the midrashic Rahel to present his theological dispute. From behind Rahel’s mask we can hear the voice of Hakham Yehudah, who conveys both his personal pain and his shock at the terrible massacre of Jews in Europe, while emphasizing the different approach of the forefathers and the one mother.

The poet uses Rahel as a symbol for the nation, and in few lines, sketches Rahel’s tragic life. He speaks of her grief for her lost descendants, and simultaneously of the grief of her immediate sons Joseph and Benjamin. Joseph is described as a toddler who is very close to his mother. In the original Hebrew, he is said to be hovering, conjuring the image of a mother and child huddling together, deriving comfort and joy from each other’s company. Benjamin is referred to here as Ben Oni, the name given to him by Rahel at birth. The name has a double entendre; it could mean the son of my sorrow, or the son of my [last] strength. Rahel is lamenting not being able to breastfeed her son, depriving him, as if it were, of the important role of the mother for the child, that of a nurturer and giver of life. Finally, as if to add insult to pain, she is buried at the crossroads, as if she were not important enough to be have proper burial.[7]

After her initial shock and mourning, she rises from the dust and takes action, going from one male leader to another to inquire about her children. In the original Midrash there is no interaction between the men and Rahel, but Hakham Yehudah creates a dialogue which intensifies the image of Rahel the bereaved mother. She uses terms of endearment when talking of her children, and includes not only her direct descendants, Joseph and Benjamin, but all 12 tribes. She uses harsh words when talking to Moshe, first accusing him of abandoning his people, and then telling him that he is wasting his time in trying to calm her.

In Rahel’s encounter with Yehoshua there is a new element. Not only does she exchange words with him, but her tears and mourning affect him so powerfully that he pleads for his life, even though the readers are aware that he speaks from the grave. The protagonists address each other as direct relatives: aunt, mother, son, showing that a true leader cares for the people the way relatives care for each other, with unconditional love. The poem shows gradual progress as Rahel moves from one man to another. The patriarchs shake away the responsibility and refer her to Moshe. Moshe tries to talk her out of worrying but she would not hear of it. Finally, Yehoshua is influenced by her emotions but it is too much for him to bear and he pleads with her to stop.

Rahel finally arrives at the Temple Mount and witnesses the destruction and desolation. Her spirit broken, she expresses her grief by slapping her flesh, a practice mentioned in the Bible[8] and still common in the Middle East. She tears her striped robe, a reference to Joseph, as well as the attack on Tamar by her brother Amnon.[9] The robe embodies the suffering of Rahel as a mother whose son was torn from her arms.

The following stanza is a turning point in the poem, and it is based on the line in the Midrash which describes Rahel as “jumping” and speaking out of turn.

 Hurriedly she leapt… she demanded… Father, see my pain, and heed my plea with mercy… How could You tear a bride from her husband’s lap and send her into exile? How could You shoo the nesting mother, but not take care of the fledglings?

Unlike the men, who remain passive in their grief, Rahel is able to rise from the crushing pain and take action. She approaches God with harsh words that are, of course, the words of Hakham Yehudah Fetaya. He again uses the language of blood relations, as he makes Rahel address God as “Father” and speaks of the Jewish People as a bride who is driven away. Of all the arguments presented here, the boldest is the analogy Hakham Yehudah draws between the people in exile and the nesting bird. This analogy refers to the commandment of sending away a nesting bird while taking its eggs or fledglings.[10] Obviously, the Torah did not mean to say that one is obligated to separate the mother from its offspring, but rather that if one needs the eggs or fledglings, he should spare the mother. The analogy Hakham Yehudah makes is bold and daring because the talmudic sages specifically said about this commandment that one is not allowed to use it to invoke divine mercy:[11]

If [the one leading the services] says: May You show mercy to us as toy did to the nesting bird… he must be silenced.

The Talmud offers two explanations that seem to suggest that the rabbis feared that such statements will encourage a discussion of theodicy, or divine justice, which was a very sensitive issue for post-destruction Judaism. Not only does Hakham Yehudah Fetaya not shy away from this issue, practically accusing God of treating Jews unfairly and of abandoning them, he very cleverly changes the dynamics of the analogy, making it more dramatic. Whereas the commandment calls for releasing the mother and taking the eggs or fledglings for consumption, in the analogy the mother is sent into exile and the fledglings become the responsibility of the hunter, which in this case is God.

Here, the evolution of Hakham Yehudah’s Rahel is complete. She first transitioned from a bereaved mother to a wandering mourner, and she now becomes a fierce advocate for the Jewish people, firing a rapid succession of 14 arguments against God’s treatment of her children. Through Rahel, Hakham Yehudah speaks of his deep pain over the Holocaust, using midrashic Edom to refer to Germany. He pleads with God but does not hesitate to use an accusatory tone, saying that God has abandoned us and that He does not keep His promises.  

The poem concludes with a promise of redemption with many mystical elements, but its essence is a replay of what has transpired between Rahel and Yehoshua. Just as Yehoshua begs Rahel to calm down because he is overwhelmed by the emotions she stirred in him, God now tells Rahel to stop crying, using the verse from Jeremiah. The reason for that request, according to Hakham Yehudah, is that her powerful prayers caused the Divine worlds to commiserate with her suffering and as a result they are now in exile. Using Rahel as a mask, Hakham Yehudah issues a call to all Jews to be relentless in their efforts to usher in the redemption.

The way to do it, as he signaled in his poem about Rahel, as well as in his teachings and leadership, is to be active and not sink into depression, indifference, and apathy. He taught us that we cannot keep quiet when people suffer and that we must constantly challenge ourselves, and God, until we have a perfect world.
 

Halakha and Kabbalah

Hakham Yehudah Fetaya is considered one of the leading kabbalists of the twentieth century, both in terms of his outstanding disciples and colleagues, and his very important commentaries. It is therefore extremely important to hear his view on the role of Kabbalah in Jewish law, as was conveyed by his son, Hakham Shaul Fetaya. My grandfather explained that halakhot influenced by or instituted by Kabbalah were never meant for the public, but rather only for the true kabbalists. That is because the idea at the basis of these laws and practices is that by performing a certain act in this world, one impacts and changes the divine worlds. Let us consider a famous example of a practice stemming from this kabbalistic approach.

Sweetening the Harsh Judgment

The Talmud says in the name of Rava that one must add water to the wine of Kiddush, or else it will be undrinkable and undeserving of being called wine.[12] Rava’s rationale is that without adding water the wine is too strong. Rava’s opinion was not accepted as binding but rather as a recommendation, and Rabbi Yosef Karo writes that one is allowed to make Kiddush with a very strong wine. He does add that it is preferable to dilute the wine, as long as it is done properly, meaning that the final product is better than the original. Rabbi Moshe Isserles, the Rema, comments on that: “Our wines are better as they are, without diluting.”[13]

According to both Rabbi Karo and the Rema, the practice of diluting wine with water should have disappeared in the modern age, as most wines are drinkable, without any addition of water. This is indeed the case for most Ashkenazim; but the Sephardic world, under the influence of Kabbalah, took a different course. The practice of adding water to wine was explained by kabbalists as an act which weakens, or sweetens, the harsh judgment, as water represents mercy and wine represents rigor.[14] To avoid extreme dilution of the wine, the Kabbalists recommended adding three drops of water to the Kiddush cup, a practice kept in many Sephardic households.

The idea that a person can change God’s mind by adding three drops of water to the Kiddush cup could be deeply disturbing to anyone who is familiar with Maimonides’ principles of faith, and specifically the one that states that God is immutable.

There are several ways to reconcile this contradiction. One is to reject all Kabbalah-influenced practices, while another is to find deeper symbolism and meditative tools in the kabbalistic principles. In the case of water and wine, for example, when one adds the water to the wine, he should contemplate his behavior and decide to make a special effort to override his anger and be more kind and sensitive.

The third approach, that of Hakham Yehudah Fetaya, is that there might be a way in which humans induce change in God’s world. However, this is a role reserved for people with a very high spiritual level, namely the true kabbalists. Hakham Shaul, faithful to his father’s teachings, taught us not to add water to wine and not to wash our hands with Last Water, another practice that would have disappeared if not for Kabbalah. In general, Hakham Shaul was uncomfortable with the popularization of Kabbalah study, as he felt that the study is technical and superficial, and that no attention is paid to spiritual growth and interpersonal relationships. He was also opposed to the phenomenon of seeking blessings from “kabbalists” and rabbis who charge for their services. He told me that Hakham Yehudah Fetaya had a very clear opinion on this issue, which is that one is not allowed to seek advice, guidance, blessings, or prayers, from anyone who expects something in return for those services.

He explained that God does not need middlemen, and if there exists a person who was invested by God with special powers or access to Him, that person should care enough for others as to offer prayers and blessings without asking for a penny. My grandfather added that even if the rabbi does not ask for a payment, but says that he will bless a couple with a child on the condition that he will serve as the Sandak, one should decline the offer.

My grandfather, Hakham Shaul Fetaya (1910–1982), refused to serve as a rabbi, and instead dedicated his life to help people from all walks of life. He was a member of the Etzel underground and helped organize caravans to Jerusalem during the War of Independence. He fought for the inclusion of Iraqi and Sephardic Jews in the administrative offices of the newly born State of Israel, and continued his father’s tradition of helping the poor and needy.

He took care not only of material needs, by personally delivering supplies to immigrant families, but also of spiritual needs, counseling and advising thousands in his little store-office near Mahane Yehuda. His method of dream interpretation was studied by Dr. Yoram Bilu, who was astounded to discover a whole world of symbolism in the mystical teachings of Hakham Shaul and his father.

In the late 1970s Hakham Shaul launched a new initiative with his daughter Simha, my mother, and Dr. Hannah and Israel Openheimer, who were Holocaust survivors. That initiative was an occupational habilitation center in which people with physical and mental disabilities learned new skills or revived old ones, in order to integrate into the regular work market. My grandfather’s motto was the verse from Job (31:15): “His maker made me as well, and we were formed in one womb.” Hakham Shaul extended his belief in equality to the religious realm as well and taught his disciples and grandchildren not to use words such as religious and secular to describe factions in Israeli society. To our question what term to use, he replied that all Jews are observant, but each one chooses to observe different mitzvoth. He taught us that religiosity is not judged by external elements, and that there is much we need to learn about others. In the spirit of equality, he also encouraged my older sisters to have a Bat Mitzvah, as early as 1969, when this was not a popular practice among observant Sephardim in Israel.

My grandfather was the epitome of a Sephardic Hakham. He knew the Bible by heart; he read and wrote poetry; he was an activist, a philanthropist, and a philosopher. He did not believe in leading from above, and preached for loving and respecting one another. His approach to halakha was accommodating and understanding. He never forced anyone to drink wine or eat matzah on Seder night, and he tried to avoid Kabbalah-influenced practices.  I remember very well how on Yom Kippur, when I was seven years old, when speaking about Shabbat observance, he said that he knows that many people watch television on Shabbat, and that he just asks them not to switch channels or play with the volume. His approach of understanding and respect has guided me in my halakhic writings and my community work.

Here is a passage from his book Hirhurim (Musings), in which he addresses the religious elected officials and Knesset members, whom he viewed as enslaved to their seats:

…Enough PR, arguments, and animosity… instead of the noise and storms, come down to the people, walk with the people. It will not take away from your honor, it will only augment it. Didn’t God Himself come down on Mount Sinai, and doesn’t it say that Moshe came down to the people? But you… you rest on the comfortable chairs in your offices and never come down… and when you do you go to synagogues and study halls, but not to the “commoners”…

Please, if you ever decide to come down to the nation, don’t go only to those who know the values and principles, who apparently do not keep them, and who despite all this are called holy people…

Because this nation is wise, intelligent, and willing to listen, they will understand you, they are thirsty for knowledge, especially the youth, the knowledge of Jewish insight, the principles, values, and Israeli tradition. Speak to the youth. Speak to their heart. Explain gently, with love, sensitivity, and attention, and they will listen…

Teach the rabbis, the newly minted and the veterans, to be wise and not use the Torah as a tool to aggrandize themselves, so people will learn from them noble and worthy values.

Talk to the rock—it will give forth water… do not cause pain…

These words epitomize my grandfather, Hakham Shaul Fetaya. My grandfather’s love for scholarship, Bible, poetry, and music, as well his activism has deeply influenced me and my siblings, who all continued aspects of his legacy in one way or another. My oldest sister Haviva Pedaya is a professor of Jewish Philosophy and Kabbalah and a poet, and the second, Hannah, is the founder and manager of the Firqat al-Nur orchestra, and she spearheads the revival of Sephardic music and liturgy in Israel. My brother Yehudah is the rabbi of my grandfather’s synagogue in Jerusalem, Minhat Yehudah, and he teaches and maintains the unique Baghdadi traditions of Hakham Shaul. My sister Ayyala is an activist, a playwright, and a poet.

As a family, we feel now that there is an awakening, a thirst and longing for the legacy of Sephardic and Mediterranean Jews, and we hope that this legacy will contribute to the creation of bridges of understanding and mutual respect.

Mediation, Jewish Marriage, Jewish Divorce, and Agunah

                                           By Rabbi Martin Rosenfeld

The late Rabbi Harry Wohlberg Z’L taught Medrash at Yeshiva University to generations of Semicha students.  He asked his students on one occasion to explain why the Talmud states that the Mizbaeach itself cries for the couple going through a divorce proceeding.  Why was this metaphor of a “crying altar” used?  Rabbi Wohlberg explained that the altar was the scene of bloody activity on a daily basis, it had become de-sensitized to blood and gore, but yet it could not tolerate the scene of a couple seeking to end their marital relationship.

Divorce takes its toll on many individuals, in a ripple effect.  It is no wonder that divorce is frequently listed among the 5 biggest traumas in the adult experience.  Unfortunately, its negative impact affects multiple generations, with children often the greatest victims of all.

It is estimated that more than half of the marriages in the U.S. will end up in divorce.  I have not seen comparable statistics for Jewish marriages but we know intuitively that this rate of divorce is growing significantly.  In my post-rabbinic career, I have chosen to work in the field of divorce as a Divorce Mediator.  I find this work to be both satisfying and greatly needed.  I can think no situation, with the possible exception of custody disputes, where mediation is not infinitely more beneficial and therapeutic that that which can be found in the traditional adversarial system of battling attorneys.

Mediation, unlike litigation, fully involves the couple in an open discussion and negotiation concerning the conditions of the divorce settlement.  This discussion is facilitated by a mediator who serves as a neutral party, assisting the couple in reaching an agreement.  Mediation is an optimistic profession in that it believes that adults, even when they possess variant interest and needs, can reach an accord that will be fair and balanced.  Mediation utilizes skills that the couple will need to use even after the divorce if they share e.g. children.  Mediation allows the couple to close the door on their marriage, but not slam it.  It is an example of what constructive communication can yield.

There is a Chassidic “vort” that defines Pesach as the combination of two words: Peh Sach.  “The mouth began to speak”.  We show our most basic humanity when we become free enough to state opinions, wants and needs.  Through the medium of speech we can define problems and we can then begin to seek solutions.  The ability of a couple, even in the midst of divorce, to seek solutions rather than blame, lies at the heart of mediation.  More importantly, mediation trains the couple in the power of working collaboratively towards a shard goal.  The need for such positive and focused conversation can serve us on the communal level as well.

A question that occurs to me often is why our society expects a couple to marry as Bnai Torah and yet allows them (frequently) to divorce as battle-hardened mercenaries.  Judaic values are often observed only in their breach when many couples negotiate their divorce settlement.  This situation is aggravated exponentially when the rancor becomes so great that the Get becomes a bargaining chip. It is, at times, to our chagrin, withheld (or not accepted) by the recalcitrant spouse.   I would like to propose in an outline form below some suggestions that deal with Jewish divorce and the painful status of the Jewish Agunah. (Additional thoughts may be found at my website, www.glattyashar.com).  Many of these thoughts derive from the model of mediation where finger-pointing is rejected in favor of constructive searches for solutions and frank discussion.  However, one caveat is in order.  In order to discuss Jewish divorce, we first need to discuss Jewish marriage.  In like manner, in order to discuss Agunah concerns, we must communally first address Jewish marriage as it currently exists.

                                                            II

Social critics have often commented on how society tests for driving competence before it issues a motor vehicle license, but does not do so before it issues a marriage license.  How do we prepare our future generation for married life in a society which becomes accepts “disposable” relationships as a cardinal principle of romantic faith?  I believe we need to apply our education paradigms towards martial preparation and counseling.  Many communities have begun projects, often called Chupah Project” “Shalom Project” etc.  In some communities, such programs involve an interface between e.g. Jewish Family Services and the rabbinic community. The purpose of these programs is to offer sessions with the newly-engaged couples in order to teach communication skills, introduce halachic norms, and offer guidance on issues that will need to be negotiated in marital life.  For many couples, this will represent their first opportunity to meet community professionals in the religious sphere as well as that of the mental health arena.  The group setting offers the couple a chance to listen and also a chance to dialogue.  They are introduced to potential challenges and also strategies for a successful resolution of the same.  The couple learns to listen, to talk, and to problem-solve these are qualities that serve us all well in our daily exchanges.

I have seen in recent years a dramatic growth of mental health professionals who are well-versed in both Jewish law and social theory and practice.  It is no longer unusual to see a young man/woman go through many years of Yeshiva education and then choose to serve her/his community by electing to serve as a mental health practitioner.  The rabbinate and the mental health professionals need to work hand-in-hand and cross-refer when appropriate in this area.  It would be a worthy project to have a national roster of such professionals whose expertise in the areas of marital life and Shalom Bayit make them a natural resource for married couples.  I know of no organization that is limited to those who specialize in issues affecting married life but I think the need for such a group is self-evident.

The role of Roshei Yeshiva has been discussed and debated in multiple journal entries.  I will only offer the observation that the influence of these leaders among our young adults is undeniably great.  I do believe that their role in stressing the need to learn proper communication skills would be most valuable.  These rabbinic leaders should encourage students to seek professional intervention when this is called for.  Their lectures should stress the need for positive communication and the need to seek solutions in a spirit of collaboration. Finally, these leaders, and others, when confronting the reality of the dissolution of a marriage, should encourage the positive method of mediation rather than the divisive alternative of lengthy confrontation and litigation. (As an aside, mediated divorces have been projected as representing 20% of the cost of a litigated divorce.  The money savings is however far from being the real benefit of such an approach.).  We need, in short, to teach the skills needed for a positive home life, reinforce them, give Chizuk where needed and set a tone for an integration of Jewish values couples with insights from contemporary social thought.  We also need to remember the advice that “Values are not taught, they are caught”.

Preparation for married life needs to be a prime focus of our educational and communal curricula.  We must ask how are we to train our students for the life skills they will need for successful married life.  Yemei Iyun on such topics as communication skills, pre-nuptial agreements, Jewish sexuality need to be more widespread.  More importantly, we need to ask what objectives we seek, and how to we plan to get there.  It might be appropriate to recall the thought that “If you don’t know where you are going, all roads will take you there”.  I daresay that we know where we are going.  My question is directed at the query as to whether we know how to get there.

                                                            III

There is an oft-quoted story about the young child who saw some starfish awash on the seashore.  She took them one at a time and hurled them back into the sea.  She was asked “There are so many starfish here, do you think you can possibly help them all?” She answered: “I don’t know but I just made a difference in the life of the the one I sent back to the ocean”.  I do not have a solution which will remedy the “Agunah problem”. I do believe however, that like the girl in the story, we need to focus attention on the micro as much as the macro, i.e. why do we have an Agunah problem, and can we make a difference?”

A few years ago, Attorney Joseph Rackman, wrote an article about a registry that would contain the names of recalcitrant spouses.  Their respective communities would put the appropriate pressure on such individuals to hopefully bring about the desired effect of effecting the granting of Gittin.  I met with Attorney Rackman to discuss his proposal and made a suggestion.  Should we not first meet with each spouse who was acting in such a defiant fashion and explore what was sparking their unacceptable behavior?  It is easy to accuse all recalcitrant spouses of being “money-hungry” and manipulative. However, this may not have been the original trigger.  There may have been a call for “someone to listen” that was never heeded. There may have been a negative experience with a Bait Din. There may have been pre-existing threats from the opposing spouse. Idle legal threats may have caused a violent reaction. We will never know unless we try to reach out and communicate. Our system is not fool-proof and neither are our appointed representatives.  In our zeal to help one spouse (as sacred as that work is) we dare not demonize the other without first trying to hear from them.  Communal pressure ultimately is quite important and a desideratum.  But let us not forget the need to first enter into conversation with those who flaunt our halachic norms.

One of the organizations working with this issue, ORA, has offered couples pro bono mediation when there is a hope that communication can still be productive.  Even if we fail in our attempts to reach out to these individuals, we will gain a wealth of insight into how our community structure has “broken done” and why we have failed to impress some community members with the thought that “Her ways are ways of peace”.

We have much to gain by offering mediation assistance to couples who are unable to find the proper manner to dissolve their marriage and its attendant issues.

I do not believe we have made the institution of marriage a communal priority in terms of education ,outreach and financial support. To cite one example, the Catholic groups have Family institutions, seminars, lecture bureaus, etc. Prominent Church leaders head such efforts and have even become national figures.  What have we done in our community to try to emulate such work?  (On a personal note, I have communicated with 5 major Jewish organizations, in order to volunteer to try to initiate some of the proposals outlined herein. Only 1 of the 5 actually responded.)  Marital life is probably the most vital Jewish institution to ensure continuity of our value system.  What have we invested in such an undertaking? Where are our communal structures?

If we felt the pressing need, we could convene a meeting on Agunah and divorce. Papers could be presented, issues debated, and dialogue begun.  With every year that we fail to do something of this nature, we miss an opportunity that is desperately needed.  Indeed our national conferences always have the occasional session on issues of Jewish marriage.  But don’t we need and deserve more?  We have organizations for Agunah.  Do we have similar organizations that deal with Jewish marriage, Jewish divorce, and the halachic norms that surround them?

To the above, I would add the need for blogs so that community members with specific needs have a place to go for direction and inspiration. I maintain such a website for those who seek a Get but do not know where to turn.  A great Kiruv opportunity exists if we make the effort to explain to the non-Orthodox what a Get entails, help them find a proper Bait Din, and organize volunteers to help them through their Get process.  We shout about the tragedy of Agunah but yet we allow the non-Orthodox to be unaware of the Get process, thus dooming future generations to our community’s ultimate rejection; i.e. mamzerut.  Surely there is more work that can engage us in this area.

The Maggid , according to Rabbi Krohn, was stymied by a lack of success in a project he had undertaken.  He visited the Brisker Rav, who explained to him why he failed.  The bracha for Torah is “La’Asok” “Esek” means business. To succed as Torah Jews, the Brisker Rav stated, we need to be business-like. We need to have a mission statement, objectives, and resources, in addition to moral commitment.  This is the regimen we would undertake for our business and this must be our charge as Torah leaders. There is work to be done in the area of Ishut, and all that the term entails. We all have ideas and strategies.  Perhaps the time for “Peh Sach” has arrived.  We need to dialogue, talk, and listen. We need to work collaboratively.  If we apply such an approach, the challenges presented in the areas of Jewish Marriage, Jewish Divorce, and Agunah, we will be worthy of Bilaam’s coerced admission: “How goodly are your tents Jacob”. I can think of no greater praise, or goal, than that.

I have always aspired to be a Jewish leader. The specific shape that this kind of service might take has never been clear. Since I was young, the future of service that I have envisioned is one combining teaching, halakhic decision-making, pastoral counseling, social activism, and spiritual guiding. However, as I grow older it has become increasingly clear that the greatest impediment to the actualization of this dream is neither communal attitudes nor halakhic considerations. Rather, the fiercest obstruction is education.

In Judaism, certainly in Orthodoxy, no single form of religious expression is more emphasized and valued than Torah education. And this makes sense. We are a people shaped by the texts we produce and subsequently study with fervor. It goes without saying, then, that we expect our religious leaders to not only be familiar with our intellectual canon but also to be creative innovators of Torah themselves. Surely religious leadership takes many shapes, but none can themselves be divorced from serious Torah study; “greater is study, for study leads to action.” Although Torah study takes many forms and each style is itself comprised of various methods and manners, few can dispute the centrality that Talmud study has played and continues to play in the shaping of our communal intellectual identity and, by extension, expression of our Judaism. In fact, unfamiliarity with Talmud is a crippling scar on anyone who hopes to serve one’s people from within a normative religious framework and signifies the greatest impediment to women’s ascension to leadership of this kind.

Don’t get me wrong—we have certainly come a long way. Women have been granted unprecedented opportunities and exposure to text study in recent years. It is now taken as a given that young girls, like young boys, will be taught Torah throughout their childhood, well into their adulthood and beyond. Midrashot for women abound as do classes, lectures, and hevruta opportunities geared specifically toward them.

Nevertheless, the highly knowledgeable and scholarly women educators and leaders that we have are few and far between. Who can name a sefer authored by a woman outside of the realm of Tanakh, when even within that niche there are so few? When we have a halakhic query (outside the domain of taharat haMishpahah), how many of us will turn to a woman for guidance? And even when we have a question or confront a difficulty while learning, we inevitably run to ask a man. How might this reality be accounted for?

            I was twelve years old when my mother first introduced me to the rigor of Talmud study. It was about that time that my twin brother began studying Talmud seriously with our father. However, as we progressed in grade school and then in high school the disparities in our education began to emerge. And, although I excelled in my high-school Talmud and halakha classes and studied scrupulously with my father in the evenings, by the end of my Shanah Aleph, the first year of study in Israel, at Migdal Oz of Yeshivat Har Etzion, it was clear that I was too far behind my male peers to ever catch up.

            This realization was very difficult to swallow. It just did not seem to make much sense; I was banking in roughly the same amount of time for Talmud that my male friends were and I was a devoted student, at the top of the class. Yet, by the end of Shanah Aleph, and certainly Shanah Bet, my second year of study, these boys were light-years ahead of me and my female friends. This realization led to a series of frustrated conversations amongst my friends and a handful of meetings with our teachers devoted to figuring out how to raise the bar during our preparation and class time. It seemed as if we were hitting a brick wall, but I was unwilling to let this awareness slow me down. Returning from Israel, I attended Stern College for Women, where I enrolled in its Honors Advanced Talmud course and later began studying in the Graduate Program for women in Advanced Talmudic Study at Yeshiva University. By then, my male friends were so far ahead of me and my female friends in “learning” that the attempt to catch up seemed simply futile.

            Although the Talmud itself cautions against teaching women Talmud, calling it “tiflut” (and there is no shortage of disparaging remarks in our traditional canon about women’s cognitive abilities), arguments of this kind are not palatable to the twenty-first century ear. That is to say, blaming the gender disparity in learning on women’s intellectual capacities is simply ludicrous. Clearly there is something more here, but what?

             Years ago we could have blamed this on the fact that women were uneducated. But now, when we have so many schools and study opportunities for women there seem to be no excuses for this reality. Certainly not all women are taught Talmud from a young age, but some of us are exposed to these texts at the same time that boys begin to explore them because we study in co-ed classrooms. Often, when we have separate gender classes in grade school the curricula are different, with men’s studies emphasizing Talmud text learning while women’s classes focused more on Tanakh. This differentiation carries over into the yeshiva and midrashah world and helps explain the deep disparity between men’s scholarship and women’s, and thereby accounts for the dearth of competent and proficient female educators and by extension leaders. For, although some of us attend co-educational schools throughout high school, studying Talmud alongside our male peers, once we graduate and go to Israel for our years of study, we are placed in separate environments, which inevitably bear different products and account for my own experiences and that of my friends as well.

Obviously there is no single reason that might account for these disparities, but surely a combination of factors explains them. For one, most women’s institutions do not offer Talmud courses and even in those that do, the time allotted and the quality of the study is significantly lower than that found in men’s yeshivot. Sometimes this is because the women entering these institutions do not have the requisite background to jump in and learn in the same way that their male counterparts are able to. Additionally, even in schools that do provide women with the choice to spend many hours studying Talmud, it is nevertheless a choice and not a requirement as it is in most men’s institutions. The choice to study Talmud for women is taken at the expense of other important areas of study such as Tanakh, halakha, and philosophy. That is to say, for a woman to choose to study Talmud is itself a choice of sacrifice. On the other hand, for men, for better or for worse, it is taken as a given that they will consecrate most of their studying time specifically to Talmud. Moreover, even in the institutions that offer women significant courses of study in Talmud, this is seldom the bread and butter of the experience as it is in men’s yeshivot.

Teachers also play a major role in this reality. The most competent and knowledgeable teachers of Talmud both for men and women tend to be men. At times, though not across the board, the most competent among these choose to teach in men’s institutions and inevitably women students are left with second-rate educators.  Additionally, male teachers cultivate relationships with their male students that they are unable to nurture with their female students. This rebbe-talmid bond and even pressure, coupled with a certain element of competition amongst the students, often push the student to maximize his learning, which engenders a unique environment not replicated in women’s institutions of higher learning.

            Another major factor contributing to the disparity between women’s and men’s learning is that there are few women role models for girls and young women to aspire to be like. When a girl grows up and all of her most knowledgeable Talmud teachers are men, this sends her a message that this domain is not something women can ever have a portion in. And so, as studies have shown in the corporate world, this has a discouraging affect on women, telling them this is not something they might ever accomplish. The obvious solution to this would be to produce more competent women educators. But how might we accomplish this? Clearly, the current formula in having different institutions for men and women has not succeeded in building women scholars comparable to men.

            Although the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified in 1868, it was not until 1954 that the Supreme Court overturned precedent establishing the racial doctrine of “separate but equal” as unconstitutional. The Court argued, referring to racial segregation that “Separate educational facilities are inherently unequal” (Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, 347 U.S. 483 (1954)). It is time that the Orthodox community confronts this reality and recognizes not only that separate-gender yeshivot are inherently unequal, but that because of this and until this is rectified we cannot hope to ever have women religious leaders on par with men.

            Some might argue that blaming the gender disparity in learning on separate educational facilities is pinpointing the symptom but not the cause. That is to say, it is clear that these institutions are not equal but this reality reflects the values of our community—if we valued women’s education more than we do now, surely we would build better curricula for them, give them more skilled teachers, and encourage them from a younger age to pursue Talmud study. Or more, this disparity is a reflection of the fact that men are obligated in the commandment of Torah study while women are not. Although there is no way to escape the reality of the latter argument, with regard to the former, certainly there are factions within our community who do very much value women’s Torah study and would like them to have the same educational opportunities awarded men. And even if this is not the case, integrating women into our yeshivot, like forced desegregation, might be ahead of the times, but nevertheless a necessary move.

            Integrating women into our yeshivot is the first step to producing competent and knowledgeable women leaders. Moreover, once the community sees that women are as able as men are in terms of scholarship and skills, this will likely affect their views not only on women’s education but on the possibilities of women’s leadership as well.

Recently, there have certainly been exciting developments for women’s education and, by extension, their leadership. However, until women learn alongside men in their yeshivot, women will continue to be the recipients of different materials, methods, and even values than their male counterparts. Consequently, women will forever be less competent and less impressive Jewish leaders.

It is difficult to think about my own future. Although there are a handful of institutions dedicated to advanced Jewish studies for women, and I am grateful to have studied and to continue studying in these places, there is nowhere for women to advance beyond these schools. Moreover, because all Orthodox institutions are gender-separate, they are inherently unequal. This means that practically it will be very difficult for me and my peers to ever achieve the same level of competence in text and knowledge as our male counterparts do. Must my dream of becoming a Jewish leader wait until we have the same educational opportunities as men, until we collectively demand, “Give unto us a possession among the brethren of our father?” (Numbers 27:4).

One of the enduring themes of my religious life has been the reconciliation of my Jewish and American cultural identities. As the daughter of a Modern Orthodox rabbi who taught me to look critically at the ways in which religion can be variously used and practiced, I became very aware of the pushes and pulls of different religious factions and how they have informed by beliefs. As a student of science, I gained insight into the importance of empirical knowledge and learned to look critically at the claims of universality and objectivity of research theories. My own framework for understanding differences in religious philosophy has developed over time, and centers around my personal struggles with the resolution of the cultural tension between my experience as an American—steeped in pervasive scientific values based on rational knowledge—and my experience as a Jew—with a set of mores and beliefs about the world that are strongly held but grounded within a framework that seems incompatible with the uncertainty that intellectual analysis brings.

The center of the internal struggle to integrate these seemingly incompatible aspects of myself crystallizes around my understanding of the observer effect. In science, the term observer effect refers to changes that the act of observing will make on the phenomenon being observed. Thus, every experiment is necessarily influenced by the presence of the investigator, and no researcher can be factored out of an experimental system. An elaboration of this discovery has led to the idea that as humans we inevitably try to impose order on a fundamentally chaotic universe; thus the way we structure our studies is implicitly biased and colored by human experience. This radical principle revolutionized the way we think about science and has led to a paradigm shift in the way we conceptualize and study other fields as well, comprising a vital component of postmodern scholarship.

Postmodern ideas now permeate almost every scholarly enterprise, from literature and history to psychology and sociology. Serious scholarship in many fields requires an open acknowledgment of the perspectives that provide the lens through which ideas are given meaning. The intellectual ramifications of the observer effect pervade twentieth-century intellectual thought and are an implicit part of a Western cultural sensibility. Despite its importance to our scholarship, this paradigm has not seriously influenced the way large segments of the Modern Orthodox world think about or treat religion and religious study. This disparity, as I see it, is one of the fundamental problems facing Modern Orthodoxy today. Since Judaism is taught in a factual way, while at the same time uncertainty permeates every other faction of our life, religion can become encapsulated or split off as a result.

In my various experiences growing up and living in different Jewish communities, I have found that Orthodox Jewish thought is often taught and learned in a categorical way that does not take into account differing viewpoints. As students, we are not taught to think critically about religious material or our religious leadership but must learn to do so on our own, outside of traditional educational systems. Religion is taught unequivocally, in a way that leaves out the doubts and subtleties each teacher necessarily brings to the material he or she teaches.

Under the current mainstream yeshiva system, pertinent information is selected and taught by instructors whose students are expected to grasp and apply it without significant evaluation of its merits. Teachers' formulations and interpretations are often implicitly presented and accepted as objective truths to be assimilated by their students. In this educational system, many learning experiences are characterized by acquiescence to the expertise of the teacher-as-authority. This method of indoctrination makes sense for young children as the stability and structure of an educational institution provide a sense of security, granting refuge from an ambiguous understanding of ideas. Yeshiva schooling constitutes a safe environment that provides a secure, though embryonic foundation for the understanding of religious knowledge.

The problem arises when this culture of indoctrination continues into our experiences as adult members of Orthodox communities. The dominant contemporary explanations of Jewish theology are generally given over in a way that precludes open debate or critical assessment of merit. In my experience, many religious leaders tend to be more concerned with making a point than with openly approaching others as an interpreter with a culturally bound perspective; this reluctance to address uncertainty extends to common religious discourse as well.

For many who do not acknowledge their participation in American culture, this does not pose a problem. They are content in being handed over objective knowledge, secure in the truth of their belief. But for those who choose to engage in Western culture and concomitantly adopt its cultural ethos, the struggle to integrate their American and Jewish sides is more difficult. It is not necessarily the content of the religious teachings that makes this challenging, but the way that knowledge is confused with or presented as objective truth. The prevailing methods for the dissemination of Jewish religious thought within communities are definitive and conclusive, as though the injection of any doubt or uncertainty into the discussion could lead the child or layperson astray. This trend can be alienating to those whose belief is influenced by American culture, as it leaves little space for a personal relationship with religious material. This can make it difficult to assimilate meaningful interpretations of religious information—and in effect widens the cultural divide between religious and secular selves.

The first time this conflict came starkly into my awareness was in my freshman year of college, in a humanities class covering a scholarly reading of the Old Testament. I had never before come into contact with this material—and its effects were gut-wrenching. I responded to what felt like an assault on my beliefs by holding on to my religious understanding of the Bible, defending it at all costs. As I listened to myself debate my classmates on the merits of these theories, I realized that I was approaching the issue from within a cultural perspective that was different from many of my fellow students. My only previous experience with the Bible had occurred within the framework of religious study, with an eye for one objective truth.

In this new, intellectual environment, my religious views seemed undeveloped; my beliefs were fundamental to my way of thinking but had never been challenged by the lens of historical scholarship. My previous yeshiva training had formed a secure basis for my religious beliefs but had not prepared me for impingement by the general prevailing cultural standards for critical thought. Because I could not locate my belief within a context, I was not equipped to effectively engage in intellectual discourse on the topic.

Years have passed since that shock of self-awareness, and yet I still find myself struggling with the same issues.  How is it possible to incorporate a fundamental religious belief system with a world based in critical rationality? I believe that the first step in bridging this divide would start with a growing awareness of the subjective nature of our beliefs. We may posit the existence of a set of objective religious beliefs, but as human beings interpreting these truths, our knowledge is necessarily bounded, even flawed. Even objective truths based in religious faith must be filtered through our subjectivity. The observer effect has taught us that because we are a part of the system we are studying, there is no way of standing apart, separate from our cultural milieu.

Acknowledging the biases with which we enter religious debate is never an easy task. Religion is the scaffolding on which our society is built and has provided a vital function for humanity. It forms the underpinnings for Western civilization and the guidelines by which many of us live our lives. Perhaps the centrality of Judaism’s position in our lives makes this struggle such a poignant one. It feels dangerous to subject our faith to critical examination as it may lead to a cynical deconstruction of our traditional Jewish beliefs. On the other hand, denying that our environment informs our perspective closes us off from seeing reality.

Each person must engage in his or her own quest for navigating meaning in religious tradition and modernity. For me, this has involved the reconciliation of the dueling sensibilities of my American and Jewish identities. The observer effect has helped me to locate my religious beliefs within a context. When viewed through a prism of critical rationality, Judaism becomes more complex, and is cast with ambiguity and nuance. And although it is decidedly more multifaceted and difficult, I am at peace with the uncertainty of my perspective, as it feels more compatible with the overarching environment in which I live. As humans our knowledge is necessarily limited; in our fallibility, we may take comfort in having others join in our struggle with uncertainty.

Mishlei 1:2-3

“To know wisdom and discipline, to comprehend words of understanding; To receive the discipline of wisdom, righteousness, justice, and equity; To give prudence to the simple, knowledge and discretion to the youth. Let the wise man hear and increase learning. The understanding man shall acquire wise counsels to understand an allegory and a figure, the words of the wise and their riddles. The fear of Hashem is the beginning of knowledge; fools despise wisdom and discipline.”

Introduction

One of the last conversations I had with my paternal grandmother before she passed away changed my life in ways that I initially could not imagine. At the timeת my grandmother was 94 years old and her memory was starting to fade a bit. From her 80’s into her 90’s she was a bastion of family history and information with a memory that spanned decades and generations. I grew up far from most of my family and after my father died my contact with my grandmother was my main source of connection to them.

In her last years, my grandmother’s conversations were often repetitive due to her advanced age with “How have you been, where have you been, I have’t seen you in a long time, etc.” being the most common points of return for her. Yet, from time to time an almost eerie sense of clarity would come over her and she would say things to me that were often profound; things that she had never told me in the past.

During one such conversation my grandmother kept returning to trivial matters until all of a sudden out of the blue she asked me, “What do you believe in?” The question caught me off guard because it was sudden and had nothing to do with the subject of the conversation. The reality was that time of my life I was in a state of flux, intellectually, even though I thought I had it all figured out.

I stumbled through various ways of trying to answer grandmother’s question, not sure why I couldn’t find the words to explain myself. After a few moments of not giving her a clear and conclusive answer she stopped me and made one of the most profound statements anyone has ever made to me.

“Let me tell you that a day is coming where you will have to be something and believe in something not because of anything I told you, not because of anything your mother has told you, and not because of anything anyone has told you. No, the day is coming when you will have to be something and believe in something because you have investigated it and you know it to be true!”

With that statement her memory faded and she fell back into the trivial conversation we were having before. From that moment forth nothing was ever the same and even though I spent many years trying to come to grips with her statement eventually it came front and center when I chose to dedicate my life to the truth like she told me. That choice led me to ground myself in the reality of Torath Mosheh to the best of my personal ability while learning how to divest myself from falsehoods.

“Through the intellect man distinguishes between the true and the false. This faculty Adam possessed perfectly and completely. The right and the wrong are terms employed in the science of apparent truths (morals), not in that of necessary truths, as, e.g., it is not correct to say, in reference to the proposition "the heavens are spherical," it is "good" or to declare the assertion that "the earth is flat" to be "bad": but we say of the one it is true, of the other it is false. Similarly our language expresses the idea of true and false by the terms emet and sheker, of the morally right and the morally wrong, by tov and ra’. Thus it is the function of the intellect to discriminate between the true and the false--a distinction which is applicable to all objects of intellectual perception.” [1]

A Minority Report

The truth, speak about it in the wrong sectors and you can get strange glances. Have a conversation about the truth with someone in modern-western based society and you may end up in argument about how there is no such thing as absolutes. I can’t even count the number of times someone, with no real experience a particular topic, would tell me something is an absolute truth when in reality due to my own research I knew it was theoretical. Some of the same people, while discussing a topic they term as “religious,” have treated my presentation of facts as problematic when they can’t find contradictions. In many of these cases they often fall back on the, “How can anyone know what the truth is?” or “Nothing can be established as the truth” method of avoiding the issue. In many cases the people who fall into this category are often are not able to see any further than their own perspectives because they are often using the wrong tools for the wrong job while not recognizing the fault in their philosophical approach.

What I mean by this is that if one wants to know if there is a possibility that the Source of Creation spoke to Am Yisrael, as the Torah describes[2], one would not pull out arguments on theoretical physics, chemistry, or mathematics. These fields of study may answer the “how” such an event may have taken place but they cannot answer “if” something actually took place. No, one would first use a historical model which is sometimes termed as a “convergence of facts” or a convergence of evidence.[3] [4] On the other hand, if one wants to make sense of the various statements made by Hazal about human perceived natural events and extra-natural events that Torath Mosheh describes as having sources from Hashem, one would not use the models for historical analysis and instead would use what is currently known in the various sciences.

Thus, when I approach any challenge or any question as to what I hold by[5], what I don’t understand, or what I desire to establish I use my experience as an electrical and an EMC Engineer in line with my studies of Torah to make decisions and come to conclusions. This, as a practice, does not take place once or a few times but is something that I interact with every day as someone who is focused on trying to understand the truth of every matter that affects my personal life and my daily philosophy.

"Adam the first, majestic man of dominion and success, and Adam the second, the lonely man of faith, obedience and defeat, are not two different people locked in an external confrontation ... but one person who is involved in self-confrontation. ...In every one of us abide two personae - the creative majestic Adam the first, and the submissive, humble Adam the second." [6]

Truth – A Daily Companion

My confrontations and struggles with living out the truth, many times as the as a singular individual from a minority or as a minority within that minority, have been varied and numerous. They have spanned my travels in America, Israel, Ethiopia, Italy, and Japan and covered numerous topics. My ammunition has been the study of texts and keeping aware of how one determines the truth in realistic situations; using the right tools for the right situation. An unexpected result of this way of life is that at times it has caused me to stand alone in a crowd, even when surrounded by people who are also Jewish. The truth and one’s dedication to it can sometimes be a lonely place but the benefits of such a stance are well worth it.

It is important note that the point here is not what about one thinks or believes about a particular matter, because both thought and belief are subjective, but instead what one “knows” to be true and can with high level of confidence and certainty establish.[7] This is something substantiated by the Tanakh and the writings of Hazal, such as the comment made by Saadya HaGaon:

“And knowledge has two sides, truth and falsehood, the knowledge of truth is known as a matter that is “from the many is many, the few is few, black is black, white is white, available/established is available/established, and lacking is lacking. Falsehood is known as a matter that is from the many are few, the few are many, black is white, white is black, available/established is lacking, and lacking is available/established.” [8]

In order to unpack these ideas and place them into real word applications, I will detail of number of situations from my life.

Struggling with the Past – New York

For seven years while living between New Jersey and Manhattan I worked at a high tech company in Pearl River, NY. During my day to day functions the truth of the Torah was an integral part of my interactions with my coworkers both Jewish and non-Jewish. I was not the only Jew working for the company but I was the only Jew who openly wore a kippa and tzitziyot. Further, within a group of about ten Jews out of about 200 non-Jews I was one of three Jews who kept Shabbat and Haggim[9] and I was further the only Jew who kept kosher. Given these facts it didn’t take long for me to become the resident answer man for Judaism and it was due to this status that I came into contact with a coworker who took much interest in discussing life issues with me.

He was a Jew with a Christian name and though that may not be so strange in the U.S. it does speak to some of the inner conflicts and contradictions he had. Over the course of the seven years we worked for the same company I had many conversations with him, many of which addressed whether or not the concept of Hashem was logical or not. Because of my willingness to address any topic without reservation or coercion he felt comfortable enough to let down his guard on many personal topics.

During one of his visits to my lab he told me that he was angry because his wife was forcing him to start preparations for their eight year old son to eventually have a Bar Mitzvah. My coworker was actually perturbed by his wife’s request since in his mind this involved years of financial expense, joining a synagogue – another expense, and personal stress for him. I listened to his complaints and when he was finished I responded in the following way.

“I am sorry to hear about your turmoil but let me ask you one question. Is this your Bar Mitzvah or your son’s? Based on what you described you obviously feel strongly about this but your son is a Jew. Do you really want to possibly face him ten or twenty years from now with him asking you why you didn’t give him a Bar Mitzvah? What if he comes to you and states that all of his friends had Bar Mitzvahs and he wants to know why he didn’t receive one? What happens when you give him your answer and he may be angry with you because you robbed him of an experience of his youth? Are you willing to face the possibility of him telling you that this was his experience and not yours to deny him?”

I told my co-worker that if the expense was the problem that there are a number of options that would cost him either nothing or close to nothing. I even offered that I could talk to people at the local Yemenite synagogue in Manhattan where I prayed because all children under the age of 13 receive the 6^th aliyah.[10] As a joke, I even told him to call the local Chabad and tell them he is giving up on all of Judaism unless his son gets a Bar Mitzvah. The joke being that there would shiluchim knocking on his door within minutes to help him for free. I stressed that the important thing is that if we are Jews and if we value our culture and history to deny his son an essential part of the normal modern development would be a sad and shameful thing for a father to do.

After my response my coworker had a silent moment and before leaving he thanked me for my response. A few weeks later he came to me and told me that after speaking with his wife he wanted me to come by their house to help get their son interested in learning Hebrew; to put him on the path of a Bar Mitzvah. I in fact did help teach his son some basic Hebrew after which his daughter proclaimed the she also wanted to learn.

My co-worker eventually opened up even more to be and I began to understand where his anger over thנקe issue of the Bar Mitzvah came from. He explained to me that he grew up in an “extremely secular” Jewish household with a mother who was a scholar and researcher.  What I mean by “extremely secular” is that he once told me that his mother the scholar made it clear that the Torah was utterly and emphatically “wrong.”

My co-worker further explained that he never realized how distant he was from his culture as a Jew until he recently attended a Passover Seder with his wife’s family. His wife’s family were at various stages of the Reform Movement but he said that he felt bad at the seder because he was the only attendant who didn’t know what they were doing. They would sing songs or perform actions as a part of the seder and he was not aware of what to say or do. He explained that during his childhood, while every other Jewish families were doing a seder on Pesah, his mother would sit he and his siblings down to explain how the haggadah was wrong and that there was no Yetziath Mitzrayim (Exodus).

Even with all of that, he was conflicted because he had an appreciation for the importance of being a Jew and he saw the relevance in the existence of the modern state of Israel but no matter how he felt he was always in the shadow of the way he was raised. My words to him were the same as what my grandmother once said to me about the importance of knowing from self-evaluation the truth. His critical decision was to determine and develop his understanding of what is the truth – Torath Mosheh vs. the path that his mother placed him on.

It is interesting to note that I had the opportunity to meet his mother at an art exhibit for his father and upon seeing my kippa and tzitziyoth her first words to me were, “You do know that whole exodus in the Haggada is wrong!” Thus began a classic debate with her stating that she had traveled to Egypt and performed research there finding no sign of any proof of such an event and that the haggada had been invented within the last 2,000 years. I course was not willing to let her statement stand unchallenged since I knew she had not done her researching using Jewish sources written in Hebrew and Aramaic from across the spectrum of the ancient Jewish world. As the argument heated up my coworker stepped in by changing the topic knowing that neither his mother nor I would give ground on the topic.

In 2007, after seven years of work I left that job in order to take on the ultimate challenge of my life - making Aliyah. After moving to Israel I only had a few sporadic contacts with my former co-worker. He left me a short message once on my former blog wishing me luck and thanking me for our interactions. I have no way of knowing what effect I had on him or his family but the truth of the matter is that maybe by being that one Jew out of several to try to walk the path of Torah publically and privately I may have been a part of a shuva process for him or maybe his children.

We Don’t Need the Har HaBayit! – Nachshonim, Israel

Thinking back on my time living in America, it is not hard to imagine situations where a Torah based Jew can feel like a singularity simply due to the lower percentage of Jews to the majority population. It is also a given that the social and professional pressure to be loose on areas of Torah such as Kashrut and Shabbat can be intense even when a handful of Jews are present. In situations where more Torah based Jews are present it isn’t so strange to have someone else who won’t eat with everyone else when business and restaurants excursions take place. In those kind of environments a Jew may feel like less of a minority in a minority but simply like one Jew of several in a non-Jewish environment – just a minority.

By like token, one would expect that it would be a lot easier to not feel isolated with these topics in Israel. We are talking about the modern state with a Jewish majority and a place where supposedly there is more respect for Torah based Jewish values, right? All I have to say is for those who have never spent more than a year here at one time you may be surprised.

I have worked in both hi-tech and in patent law here in Israel, I have also lived in at least 3 different regions of the countries, traveled at least 4 different sectors of the country, and the reality is that there can be situations where Jews who keep Torah are the minority within a secular Jewish majority; after which in contrast to the rest of the Middle East we are thus a minority within a minority.

From my professional experience here in Israel there have been numerous times when secular Israelis have called my kippa “that thing on your head” or my tzitzyoth “that stuff you are wearing.” Of course with Shabbat being an official day where no one is required to work[11] as well as the abundance of “kosher” restaurants Torah in every city; Torah based life is a lot easier to maintain in Israel than outside of it.[12] Yet, there is still the reality that the majority of the Jewish population here does not keep Torah and there are conflicts at times between so called “religious/Hereidi/Daati Leumi” interests and secular interests.

I find myself being in a weird type of middle ground where I don’t feel the need to personally enforce the Torah I hold by on others but at the same time I don’t accept, on any level, encroachment on the standard that I hold dear. At the same time, I have also felt the reach of secular elements of Israeli society which at times does everything it can to distance itself from Torath Mosheh.

I also recognize that the modern state can’t continue as it is and fulfill the prophecies that talk about Yamoth Mashiah, the establishment of an official Sanhedrin in Jerusalem, the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash, and the return the exiles to Eretz Yisrael. The truth for me is that something major would have to change in all facets of Israeli governance, life, and thought to facilitate such a complete worldwide social change and thus this is the contradiction of the situation.

This brings me to 2006 when I took part in a volunteer program on two military bases in the Mercaz region of Israel. During my interview process for the program it had been noticed that I wore a kippa, tzitziyoth, and also that I spoke about Torah. I was informed by the person performing the interview to not talk about “religion” when I arrived on the base since it would be frowned upon. I agreed and upon arrival when I entered my room at the barracks and met my room-mates I changed into a uniform while trying to hurry and remove my tallit katan but it was noticed by some of the guys in the room.

By chance after being asked to say the bracha for lighting the candles for Hanukha I became the answer guy since the majority of people in the area didn’t publically wear tzitziyoth. On one occasion I was asked about whether halakha allowed the use of marijuana, on another about male and female relationships, at times why does the Torah say this or that, and on another occasion why I would wake up every day at 04:00 a.m., shower, and head out.

My response to that last question led to interesting situation when I told my roommate that I was heading to the Beith Keneset to pray Shachrit at netz. He asked me, “There is a Beith Keneset here? Where is it?” I described the location to him and then I packed up my things and left. As usual, at that time of the morning there was only two of us praying in the Beit Keneseth but after finishing I noticed my roommate sitting in the back of the Beit Keneset without a tallit and without tefillin. He simple crouched himself over the chair in front of him and prayed. I went to him and asked if he wanted to borrow my tallit and tefillin but he quietly said that that was okay and he continued.

Yet, the highlight of that time was during a conversation with two younger soldiers in a conversation that turned into issues against Arabs. One of them mentioned how he hated Arabs and didn’t trust them for of course obvious and realistic reasons. Yet, before he could go any further the other young man chimed in and asked if we could change the subject because his mother was Jewish and his father was Arab/Muslim.

It was that same young man who turned to me and said he had a question for me. He asked, “You have a kippa and tzitzityoth. Tell me do you believe what the Torah says about the Luchoth HaBrith, the Aron HaQodesh, etc.” I responded, “Yes I do.” He in turned, “If all that stuff is true how come we have never found any of it?” Without pause I responded, “Let me ask you a question. The Har HaBayith (the Temple Mount), is it important or is it not important? Do we need it?” He responded, “No we don’t’ need the Har HaBayth we only need the Kotel.” It was then that I returned with the following statement.

You know it is interesting that you say that because there was a time when for the most part no Jew would have agreed with you. Today you say we don’t need the Har HaBayit, we only need the Kotel, and tomorrow your children will say we don’t need the Kotel we only need Jerusalem outside of the old city. After them your grandchildren will say that we don’t need Jerusalem we only need Tel Aviv. Finally, their children will claim that we don’t need Tel Aviv or Eretz Yisrael at all. You know if that is the case I don’t blame Hashem for hiding things from us because based on what you are telling me we don’t want them.

From there the conversation had to stop since their commanding officer walked in and things had to go back to normal. Yet, the truth of the matter is that maybe it didn’t. In reality, who knows what effect the conversation had on all involved.

Close Encounters, Palestinians vs Israelis – A coffee shop in Jerusalem

Several years ago I had the opportunity to meet with a professor from the United States who was researching how mixed ethnicity is viewed around the world in comparison to the U.S. We met at a coffee shop in Jerusalem and she arrived with a friend whose background I did not know and for most of the initial conversation her friend only listened attentively while taking notes. I explained my perspectives to the professor about how family background, language, and passed down traditional practices plays a major role in how one defines Middle Eastern cultures. I detailed, from my view, how the social affects, parameters, and issues of being mixed in more ancient traditional societies has more far sweeping implications than what exists for the most part in the U.S. for reasons that I spoke at length about.

As an example, I asked the professor’s friend about her family background since she had been quiet during the conversation. She responded to me that I may not want to know her background, to which I expressed no reservations. She identified herself as an American born Palestinian – her parents having been born in the Shomron region and having moved to the U.S. before she was born. I responded that I still had no problem and from there the conversation took a different turn into the realm of politics. She expressed to me that even though she identified with being a Palestinian and she was a very vocal advocate for a Palestinian state, as a secular American Palestinian she was terrified of such a state becoming Islamic and thus being no different than the existing extremist Islamic countries in the region.

I expressed that I could not imagine such a “potential Palestinian state” without some form of Islamic focus as it the only cultural background I have seen any Palestinian attach themselves to. Sure, I have heard some anti-Israel types claim that modern day Palestinians are descendants of Canaanites and the like but I have yet to see any linguistic or cultural practices in their societies that can identified as Canaanite. Further, during the entire time I have lived in Israel and traveled in the Shomron, Gush Etzion, and the Negev I have also never met a an Arab who used this claim.

The young woman had personally never heard of the claim that Palestinians were Canaanites and I explained that the reason was that the claim started as a grasp at straws to make any claim why Jews have no right to be here. Further, I asked her what kind of culture can override the one that currently exists and what common ground does it have the current Israeli one. I could tell by her facial reactions that these were also considerations she had never taken into account and to this point she had no answer.

Her response was to return to the political perspective and she stated that she could not understand why we could not all just live in peace. My retort to her was to ask the obvious questions of, “What exactly is peace, how do you maintain/obtain it on a day to day basis, when was the last time in world history that such a peace was achieved, and why does it not still stand now?” She did not have answers to my questions, and on one some level I think she had never even considered them before. It is also possible that no Jew had ever interacted with her in this way so I continued with the following statement:

“As you can hopefully see that situation is a lot more complicated than what you have considered. Yet, in all honesty I can’t tell you that you don’t have a right to fight for PA State that you or others envision using whatever means you see fit. That would be hypocritical to some degree since I have no divine mandate to dictate what you should dedicate your life to.

I do know that in reality if we Jews can’t maintain ourselves and if we don’t build the society that can withstand claims to the contrary or attacks on our perceived rights to be here then maybe we don’t have a right to be here – using basic rules of survival of the fittest.

Yet, if we can survive all of the claims against us and if we can overcome all those who are against us and if we Israelis can build a society that makes sense, what right does anyone have to oppose the reality as it would stand in that situation?

You though face a different problem; you face the challenges of authentic history and straight forward logic. Historically speaking there has never been an independent and locally elected government which defined itself as “Palestinian” here in this region. If such a nation did exist what was its currency, who were its locally elected officials, what was its local language, what ancient cultural elements can still be seen today, and why is Islam and Christianity the only two religions found being practiced by virtually all Palestinians, even by those who are secular, when these religions are respectfully between 2,000 to 1,400 years old?”

As she considered my questions, I went even further by asking her what her family’s last name is. She responded that it is “Hamdani” to which I asked what was the Hamdani family’s cultural and religion prior to the entrance of Islam in the region from Arabia. She shifted a bit and stated that she didn’t know but a moment later she claimed that more than likely they were a religion-less people. I stated that I didn’t believe that such a people existed here given the fact that we only receive rain during the winter with a delicate eco-system that can be disrupted by either too little or too much rain. That alone may cause any ancient/traditional people to pray to something, even if they didn’t do so on a regular basis.

Lastly, I informed her that Egyptian, Babylonian, Syrian, Greek and Roman accounts describe the local culture for the last few thousand years being Israeli/Jewish and during the 2^nd Temple period in the region of Shomron were the Samaritans so “if” the Hamdani family is of local ancestry, and not by import, they must have at one time been Jewish or Samaritan, one of the two. This statement seemed to shock her because it was not a part of the historical picture she had ever considered; if she had every considered one at all. So, seeing an opening I closed our conversation with the following:

What you need to do is go back to your family in the Shomron and ask the oldest members what were the Hamdanis before the entrance of Islam into this region. You may find some answers in that question that may make your future more focused.

You talked about peace. Maybe, just maybe, if we Jews and you so called Palestinians sat down and talked about ancestry and history we may find that we are from the same source, prior to the entrance of Islam in this region. We may find that at one time a number of so called Palestinians had Jewish or Samaritan ancestry – which is something that is already known to be true in a number of towns in the “so called West Bank.” [13] [14]

Yet, if this is the case this means that you and others may have a decision to make. If you find out that prior to the rise of Islam in this region the Hamdanis were either Jewish or Samaritan this may change the focus of what you are looking for on the national level. This may mean that a conflict between us is fruitless and a coexistence based on our common ancestry shouldn’t be a problem. Yet, who is willing to take these kinds of steps? It takes a bravery that some people may not want to take on because of their personal political agendas.

Listen, it is not my intent to sway you in one way or the other but if the two of us can sit here and discuss history and ancestry and do so in a civil manner why can’t those who are our so called leaders? Maybe, if they were to take this approach we could either settle this over coffee or worse, the other thing.

We parted ways that day agreeing to be who we chose to be – whatever that may have meant for her. In truth, I am not sure where her life has taken her since that point but I did sense that she walked away with a different perspective than what she entered the conversation with.

I also know, looking back, that very few people would have approached the conversation the way I did and there was a time in the past when I would have not been so “open” as I was with her. Yet, even if I am alone in how I handled the situation the truth dictates that I hold by it even if it may seem like an uneasy position to take.

Further, as much as I may have been teaching her I was also taught a lesson about the importance of making the truth the source of one’s perceived political stances and how even in the most unexpected places the pursuit of the truth can bring understanding.

Torath Mosheh vs. Unsourced Religionism

As a last consideration, I feel it necessary to discuss the times I have been at odds with my responsibility to the truth as it relates to the people whom I come into contact from the nations on the internet. I mean this in the sense of both non-Jews and even at times Jews who follow what I term as “Unsourced Religionism.”

I define Unsourced Religionism as the practices and customs that one comes up with which do not adhere to any proven historical or logical methodologies. The truth is of course in stark contrast to this method of living and often Unsourced Religionisim is the source of some of the strife found in the world. Whether it be false religious concepts that lead people astray, worthless Atheist vs. Religious debates, or the various forms of fanaticism - the lack of contact with the truth has had devastating effects on human history.

This can be seen in the various cults throughout history that have risen up and convinced both the rational and irrational to throw away their logic and replace it with feel-good brain-washing. There was a time when I would have believed that it was not worth the time to confront the falsehoods of such groups but that changed when I came to know several individuals who had been drawn into religious cults – forcing me to use the truth of the Torah to fight an intellectual war against the falsehoods.

One such incident involves one of several cults that falls under the rubric of the title “Sacred Name Movement.” This movement is made up of former Christians who have come to believe that the more prevalent forms of Christianity are influenced by paganism and that specifically the four letter name of Hashem must be pronounced/uttered in order to have salvation. Though these cults believe that the various forms of historical Christianity practices have pagan origins, they use of the New Testament and their culture involves some type of belief in Jesus being divine although they believe his name originally had the two letter name of Hashem in it.

I recognize full well that debating this type of cult is an activity that most Jews would not engage in; especially given the fact that most Jews have never even heard of them. The time and energy needed to confront these types of falsehoods can take a certain toll on a person’s personal life and often the question may be asked, “is this thing I am doing having any true effect of the world at large?” Yet, even with all the reservations I have had in the past about my involvement in this type of activity I have learned that there are times when not expressing the truth can have a negative effect on the world around us.

With that in mind, I once spent an entire year defending a book review I did against a Sacred Name cult’s supposed translation of the Tanakh due to having personally known several non-Jews who were considering involvement in these cults.[15]

The back story of this situation is that more than a decade ago I came into contact with a non-Jewish friend who had purchased a supposed translation of the Tanakh produced by said cult based on Abiline, TX. I skimmed over the book and noticed that this cult was taking huge liberties with the text with no basis in Tanakh and accurate mesorah. Because the cult used a flashy apocalyptic end of times message and prided itself on revealing things to Christians who were already exploring the so called “Jewish roots of Christianity” I realized that I needed to do something to warn those who may be tricked into joining them.

At a certain point I decided to write a review against the so called translation, spending much time on methodically breaking down how unfaithful this cult’s book was to both the original Hebrew Tanakh and also to the historical mesorah[16] of the text. I ended my review by advising all who were interested in the book to instead spend time trying to learn Hebrew and Aramaic since the people who I knew who were interested in the sacred name cults were searching for the truth but had little or no tools to determine it.

My review garnered numerous positive responses as being helpful, several personal emails requesting help with finding a more accurate translation, and requests for assistance in finding resources to learn Hebrew but it also drew the attention of the cult that created the text. Several of them, and even one of them that someone informed me was most likely the cult’s leader, wrote nasty messages to me in the comments section. I wasted no time in responding to their false accusations and claims by using both textual and historical proof to make my points. As the back and forth continued the cult members resorted to name calling and condemnations of hellfire against me and anyone who favored my review. The language they used and their refusal to prove the accuracy of their work, by providing the source text they supposedly translated from, caused a number of parties who were originally interested in their text to abandon their interest while thanking me from preventing them from wasting their money and time.

As the cult’s members descended into even more non-sense with their responses, such as calling me a Catholic at one point, the next calling me a Pharisee, and later a Saducee, the site that the review was found on started deleting the cult member’s comments since they had received so many marks as being useless in the review process of the book. As more and more potential victims of the cult began to see that joining said cult would have been a waste of time I was reminded of the Rambam’s comment in his responsa concerning teaching Torah to Christians.[17]

Yet, even with this victory there is another side of this issue and that is when I have had to do mental battle with missionary/messianic cults and organizations. Most of them are evangelical types but in one case I was approached by an Islamic organization that focuses on trying to convince Jews to convert to Islam. In the case of the latter I was engaged in a two month back and forth with a member of said Islamic organization concerning what they claimed were inaccuracies in Judaism that are only understood correctly in Islam. Having had a background in Islamic studies, I knew the claims and was able to counter them in an honest and respectful manner. I had to do so though remembering that though the truth can break through any argument the Rambam advised in one of his responses against teaching Torah to Muslims since they could in turn use that information against us.[18]

The Truth: For What It’s Worth

Whether it is being responding to falsehoods on the internet or defending the truth of Torath Mosheh against falsehood the question at times may be – what is the benefit? For what reason would a person need to interact in this way with these types of people? The answer to me comes in two forms – one for Am Yisrael and the second for all of humanity. In several instances through my responses I was able to convince missionaries to become Noachides and in a couple of instances those who debated with me became interested in becoming Jewish. Even in situations where neither of these outcomes happen I feel that I have a responsibility as a Jew to stand for the truth when possible for the sake of being an active participant in Tikun HaOlam. Further, I know of situations where Jews have been lost to Torah completely simply because no one in their immediate area stood up for the truth in a strong, public, and dignified way. To this point, I was once pleased to come across a video of a famous Kiruv rabbi here in Israel who was asked by a secular young man why should a person who is good and doesn’t do anything to hurt people make teshuva to the Torah. The rabbi calmly but boldly declared, “There is no reason except for the sake of the Truth.”

[The deception is so great] that even the best of the chasidim [faithful] among our men [scholars] of Torah, think that they are true but forbidden because the Torah forbids them. They do not realize that they are nonsensical false things that the Torah warned against, just as it warned us against [believing in] falsehoods.[19]

In Closing

Years ago I would never imagined that my grandmother’s words would have the type of effect they have had on me for all of these years. I could not have imagined the path her words would have set me on or the completeness it brought me. She passed away before I could thank her but in a small way she may have known the result. The last time I saw her, before she passed away in 2002, she stated that there were things that she told me that she never told anyone else because when my father passed away she knew that I needed something more than everyone else.

When I open my eyes and take a look around I see that there are numerous others who are also seeking to have a love affair with the truth that Hashem has placed upon us. No matter how isolated I may feel at times I must remember to look to the hills where there are others waving the banner of truth; lighting the fires of Torah to draw the attention of any willing to observe. In reality, a life dedicated to truth has a way of changing the world whether it be in passive observance or active participation.

That when judgement is made of truth it is the truth that establishes the world. It brings peace to the world. Thus Hazal teach in the Misnhah on three things the world is established, on the judgment, on the truth, and the peace. The three of them are spoken of in the pasuk (Zecharyah 5) “Truth and justice of peace you will judge your gates.” Because when judgement is done/established, the truth is done/established. And because when the truth is done the peace is done/established. [20]

Thus, I must close with saying that the truth no matter where it places a person has a way of making them jump for joy when they know they have it. The truth has a way of turning sadness to content. It can make conflict into compromise and it has the ability to empower the lonely.

With this constant wrestling with truth of the Torah we in turn fulfill the prophecy that one day Hashem would cause us to become a light to the nations because as the prophets tell us, “ten men from the nations will grab the garment corner of a Jew and state: We have received falsehoods from our fathers. Take us with you because we have heard that Hashem is with you.”[21]   

“Tzedeq, tzedeq [Correctness, correctness][22], pursue; on account you will inherit the land which Hashem your Elokim is giving to you.” (Devarim 16:20)

[23]

In his Yad haHazakah, Rambam writes:

If someone is bitten by a scorpion or a snake it is permitted to recite a charm over the wound, even on Shabbat, in order to calm the patient and give him encouragement. Although such a thing is of no [objective] benefit whatsoever, since a life is in danger they [the rabbis] permitted it lest the victim suffer mental anguish [should it appear that not every effort was being made]. (Abodah Zarah 11:11)

This ruling of Rambam was adopted by Rabbi Yosef Karo (Shulhan Arukh, Y.D. 179:13)—to the great annoyance of the Vilna Gaon, as evidenced by his following comment:

This opinion is the Rambam’s [as expressed in the latter’s Laws of Abodah Zarah 11: 11–16]. He also wrote [similarly in] Perush haMishnah, A. Z. 4:7. But all subsequent authorities disagreed with him because of the numerous charms recorded in the Gemara. He, however, was drawn by the accursed philosophy, and that is why he wrote that witchcraft, names, charms, demons and amulets are all deception. But he has been thoroughly refuted on the strength of the innumerable stories found in the Talmud such as that of the matron who uttered words and immobilized a ship [Shabbat 81b, Hullin 105b] ... or that of the rabbis who every Friday studied the halakhot of creation, and would create a “tertiary calf” [Sanhedrin 67b] and R. Joshua who pronounced a name and was suspended between heaven and earth [Bekhoroth 8b] ... But philosophy with her blandishments misled him to explain all such stories allegorically and to uproot them from their literal meaning. As for myself, Heaven forefend that I should accept any of those allegorical explanations...” (Biur haGra Yore De‘ah, 179:13).

            The foregoing dispute reflects an age-old clash between two worldviews. Rambam reads the texts of the Talmud in a manner that does not violate reason or contradict the results of empirical knowledge. Rabbi Elijah of Vilna, on the other hand, prefers to uphold a literalist reading of the same texts. Indeed, his evident commitment to literalism propels him to accept superstition! As for the “accursed philosophy,” Rabbi Elijah blames for Rambam’s metaphorical interpretations of difficult aggadot, we cannot be sure what he had in mind. Certainly Rambam himself shows no awareness of being a victim of philosophical deception when he expounds his opposition to literalist readings of improbable aggadot. No, if Rambam is to be believed, his anti-literalism arose from deep convictions regarding the Sage’s essential rationality:

Know that the words of the Sages of blessed memory, are understood differently by three groups of people.

Regarding the first, from observing them, reading their books and hearing about them, they are the largest [group]…. They understand the teaching of the Sages only in their literal sense, in spite of the fact that some of their teachings, when taken literally, seem so fantastic and irrational that if one were to repeat them literally, even to the uneducated... their amazement would prompt them to ask how anyone in the world could believe such things true, much less edifying.

The members of this group are so poor in knowledge that it pains one [to think] of their folly. Their very effort to honor and to exalt the Sages in accordance with their own meager understanding actually humiliates them! As God lives, this group destroys the glory of the Torah and darkens its light, for they make the Torah of God say the opposite of what it intended. God said in the perfect Torah, “The nations who hear of these statutes shall say: ‘Surely this great nation is a wise and understanding people’” (Deut. 4:6). But this group expounds the teachings of our Sages in such a way that when the other peoples hear them they say, “How foolish and worthless is this insignificant group of people!” The worst offenders are preachers who preach and expound to the masses what they themselves do not understand. Would that they keep silent about what they do not know, as it is written: “If only they would be utterly silent, it would be accounted to them as wisdom” (Job 13:5).

The second group is also a numerous one. It too consists of persons who, having read or heard the words of the Sages, understand them according to their simple literal sense and believe that the Sages intended nothing else than what may be learned from their literal interpretation. Inevitably, they ultimately declare the Sages to be fools, and hold them up to contempt...

There is a third group. Its members are so few in number that it is hardly appropriate to call them a group—except in the sense in which one speaks of the sun as a group of which it is the only member. To this group the greatness of our Sages is clear. They recognize the superiority of their intelligence from their words, which point to exceedingly profound truths.... The members of this group understand that the Sages knew as clearly as we do the difference between the impossibility of the impossible and the existence of that which must exist. They know that the Sages did not speak nonsense....Thus, whenever the Sages spoke of things that seem impossible, they were employing the style of riddle and parable, which is the method of truly great thinkers. (Rambam, Hakdamah lePerek Helek. Cf. Isadore Twersky, A Maimonides Reader, West Orange, NJ: Berman House, 1972, 407–409)

Rabbi Yehudah Halevi shared Rambam’s fear of the threat to Torah posed by excessive irrationality.

See that we are not any different than our ancestors. If the details of ancient idolatrous practices were widely known today, we would also be lured astray—just like we are [at present] by other popular vanities such as astrology, incantation, talismans, and other actions [alchemy?] that mean to change physical nature—despite the fact that the Torah has commanded us to stay far away from these practices! (Kuzari, end of 4:23. Cf. Sanhedrin 102b; Rambam, Guide, III:37)

It is meet to come clean and state up front that I incline toward the Maimonidean position. That is to say, the Sages’ acknowledgment of nature’s basic predictability and their manifest scientific curiosity do not allow me to think of them as irrational. It is hardly necessary to add that such keen study of nature’s laws in no way debars a person’s openness to miracles and the power of God to change the world. That holds for the Sages, for Rambam, and for us humble latter-day folks. Yet, because they studied nature so closely, the Sages were in the best position to recognize miracles for what they are—the exceptional intervention on the part of the Creator for God’s own moral purposes.

            You may be wondering what this literalist debate has to do with the topic I’ve been invited to write about, namely Torah education from the perspective of a parent. Answer: the debate per se, nothing; its ramifications, plenty. A major pedagogic disappointment I have encountered over and over again is the seemingly indiscriminate way teachers in many Day Schools introduce young children to material far above the average child’s intellectual and emotional age. I know that some parents read Grimm’s fairy tales to their kids in the hope that a child will understand it as mere fancy. Be that as it may, sacred texts are another story. It seems to me that because the child approaches these texts with a different level of receptiveness, the educator needs to exercise extra care about what material to teach. Particular perturbation is caused to children when hard aggadot are set before them in the raw.

Let’s take the following text from Megillah 12b as an example:

“And Queen Vashti refused” (Esther 1:12). Since she [too] was immodest, as the master said above, that both of them had an immoral purpose, why then would she not come? Rabbi Jose bar Hannina said: This teaches that leprosy broke out on her. In a Baraitha it was taught that Gabriel came and made her a tail.

What goes through a teacher’s mind before deciding to share such an aggada with his or her class? Surely the teacher has considered at least the obvious questions it raises: Why did this great miracle of the tail occur—even if Vashti’s vanity was off the charts?! Or was the tail’s advent something less than a miracle? We recall that in the rabbinic corpus, a human changing into an ape is not precluded.

Rabbi Yirmiyah bar Elazar said: They [dor haPalagah] split up into three parties. One said, ‘Let us ascend and dwell there;’ the second, ‘Let us ascend and serve idols;’ and the third said, ‘Let us ascend and wage war [with God].’ The party that proposed…‘Let us ascend and wage war’ were turned to apes, spirits, devils, and night-demons… (Sanhedrin 109a).

So maybe our Sages believed that humans were created with the potential to turn into (revert to?) apes—but back to the question about Vashti. What was the size of her tail? It would have to be imagined as too long and voluminous to hide under the normal train of a queenly robe. What was it about Vashti’s sin that merited so vile a metamorphosis? If, on the other hand, humans were not endowed with simian latency, then why would the Creator choose to revise creation?

Unless the teacher has thought all this through, surely he or she is ill-advised presenting it to impressionable children, even if he or she emphasizes its sociological aspect. (There are those who see this aggada’s point as an attempt to downplay non-Jewish Vashti’s virtue in order to boost our collective Jewish ego.) Still, whether presented as entertainment, myth, or anthropology, this aggada, with its inescapable grotesqueness, is best saved for advanced students who are able to articulate any problems they might have with it.

            Another aggada, though seemingly innocuous, can cause considerable bafflement. Noah is told to provide the Ark with a “tsohar” (Genesis 6:16). This rare word, tsohar, is generally understood as a porthole by writers ancient and modern. However, one aggada identifies tsohar as a light-giving gemstone. Now, although jewels can sparkle and reflect light, they cannot generate it. Therefore telling children that stones can be luminous is plain wrong.

Besides choosing their material wisely, teachers would do well to prepare themselves both intellectually and emotionally for questions their students might throw at them. Years ago, my daughter was paying attention to a lesson about kapparot that her elementary school teacher gave in advance of Yom Kippur. When the teacher had finished explaining the mechanics and purpose of that practice, my daughter asked, “If all the sins of a person went into the chicken, was it not unfair to give the chicken to the poor? They would be inheriting all those very sins that had been purged from the first person!” The teacher gave the child a blank stare, and without any response, moved on to another topic.

Of course one is not advocating the sanitization of texts—or even an avoidance of charged ones. Most teachers are responsible, but often labor under the notion that anything found in our sacred literature must be edifying for all and sundry. The Mishnah thought otherwise: “[A child of] five years [is ready] for Scripture, ten years for Mishnah…fifteen years for Talmud…” (Aboth 5:21). Entrusted with the stewardship of Torah for the next generation, it behooves every one of us educators to rethink many current pedagogic practices.

Daily Birkat Kohanim in the Diaspora

By Daniel Sperber[1]

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Question: May Kohanim outside the Land of Israel give the priestly blessing (Birkat Kohanim, or Nesiat Kapayim) on weekdays and on regular Shabbatot?

Answer: The Torah explicitly requires the Kohanim to bless the people (Numbers 6:23), but does not tell us where or when they should do so. Rambam (Sefer haMitzvot, Mitzvat Assei 26) gives no details, but refers us to B. Megillah 24b, Taanit 2b, and Sotah 37b, to work out the details. However, there are versions of the Rambam's text (edited by R. Hayyim Heller and R. Yosef Kefir), where there are the additional words "every day,” and this, indeed, is his ruling in the heading of his Hilkhot Tefillah and Birkat Kohanim. (See further ibid., chapter 14; this also is the ruling in Sefer haHinukh, Mitzvah 367). However, there we find the additions that "the mitzvah applies in all places at all times…". Hagahot Maimoniyot, to Rambam Hilkhot Tefillah 15:12 note 9 writes, on the basis of R. Yehoshua ha Levi's statement in B. Sotah 38b, that any Kohen who does not bless the people transgresses three commandments, splitting as it were the biblical verse in Numbers thus: "So shall you bless the children of Israel: say unto them,” adding verse 27 ibid., "And they shall put my name upon the children of Israel…". The Hagahot Mordechai modifies this by adding that if the Kohen has not been summoned to bless the people, he does not transgress by not doing so, referring to the Yerushalmi text, and this view is accepted by the Beit Yosef, Orah Hayyim 128. There is also a minority view, rejected by mainstream authorities, that of Rabbenu Manoah, that even if the Kohen was not called, if he did not bless the people, he transgresses at least one commandment.

Outside Israel it is the practice in many congregations for the Kohanim not to give the priestly blessing, and for the congregation not to request that they do so—with the exception of musaf on the foot-festivals and Yom Kippur—even during Neilah. The Beit Yosef was very perturbed by this practice. He writes (Orah Hayyim 128):

The Agur wrote that Mahari Kolin [the Maharil] was asked why the Kohanim do not give the priestly blessing every day, since it is a positive commandment. And he answered that it was the custom of the priests to make a ritual ablution [in the Mikvah] before blessing, as is recorded in Hagahot Mordechai, and to do so every day in the winter would be very difficult for them. Hence, the custom evolved to do so only on the festivals. Furthermore, [doing so] would curtail the business activities (mi-taam bitul melakhah), and in any case if the Kohen is not summoned he does not transgress.

However, the Beit Yosef continues:

He forced himself to justify his local custom; but the reasoning is insufficient. For that which he said that they were accustomed to make a ritual ablution every day, this is a stringency—i.e., it is not really required—which leads to leniency… Since ritual ablution as a requirement for the priestly blessing is not mentioned in the Talmud. And even if they took upon themselves this stringency, why would they cancel three commandments, even if they were not transgressing since they had not been summoned. Surely it would be better that they carry out these three commandments clearly and not make the ritual ablutions, since there are not required, and by not doing so they could fulfill the three commandments.

He ends by saying:

And praise be to the inhabitants of Eretz Yisrael and all Egypt who give the priestly blessing every day, and do not make ritual ablutions for it.

Indeed there are some congregations that still follow the Beit Yosef's position. Thus, the Syrian community has birkat Kohanim every day, (see H. C. Dobrinsky, A Treasury of Sephardic Laws and Customs, Hoboken N.J., New York 1986, p.168). This, too, was the Amsterdam custom of the Portuguese community (Shemtob Gaguine, Keter Shem Tov, vol.1, Kédainiai 1934, pp. 222–227, note 268, who also quotes Even Sapir, that this was the practice in Yemen, and possibly in some Moroccan congregations), while in Djerba they did it on Shabbatot and festivals (R. Moshe HaCohen, Berit Kehunah, Orah Hayyim, pp.101–102, and note 30). Thus, there are ample precedents for this practice.

However, the Ashkenazi Rema, R. Mosheh Isserles, in his Darkei Mosheh, ibid., 21, seeks to justify the Ashkenazi custom. He writes:

Because [doing so] would curtail business activities for the people in these countries, for the Kohanim are struggling to support themselves in the exile, and they can barely support their families, other than the bread they gather by the sweat of their brows daily, and they are not happy. And it is for this reason that they do not carry out the priestly blessing, which leads to bitul melakhah la-am. And even on Shabbat they do not do so, because they are troubled and concerned about their future…, and they are only joyful on the festivals. And thus the custom evolved only to bless the people on the festivals. So it would appear to me.

The notion that the Kohen must be joyful when blessing the congregation has its roots in the early Rishonim (in Rash's teacher, R. Yitzhak ben Yehudah).

The Mateh Efraim, of R. Efraim Zalman Margaliot, added that this was an ancient practice, even more than 500 years old, going back to the Tashbetz haKatan, a disciple of the Maharam Mi-Rothenberg, and the Kol Bo sect. 128, and accepted by the Maharit, the Agur, the Darkei Mosheh, etc., "and one may not stir from this custom." He also gives additional reasons to support this custom.

The Sephardic Kaf haHayyim, R. Yaakov Hayyim Sofer, on the other hand (Orah Hayyim, ibid., note 16), cites French R. Yaakov of Mervais, (in his Shut Min-ha-Shamayim no. 38), who writes that

In a place where there are suitable Kohanim to bless the people, and they do not do so even once a year, both the congregation that do not call them to do so, and the Kohanim themselves, who do not make the blessing, transgress, also because they seem not to be relying on their Father in Heaven.

This was cited by the Egyptian Radbaz, R. David ben Zimra, and especially the Hesed leAvraham of R. Avraham Azulai, who writes at length censuring those who do not bless the people, enumerating the negative effects of their flawed thinking, concluding that "it is proper to do so in every place, and not to seek out strategies to avoid doing so."

And even the Ashkenazic Hafetz Hayyim, in his Mishnah Berurah 128:12 in the Beur Halakha wrote:

It is only because of weakness that the Kohanim can go out and not go up [to bless the people. For if not so, certainly they are not acting well to needlessly nullify a positive commandment.

Indeed, there are some Ashkenazic congregations where they do carry out the priestly blessing at least once a month, as we learn from the Sefer haMitzvot, or even every Shabbat, as is mentioned in the Mateh Efraim.

Finally, we may cite the words of R. Yehiel Michel Epstein, in his Arukh haShulhan, Orah Hayyim 128:4:

And behold, it is certainly the case that there is no good reason to nullify the mitzvah of birkat Kohanim the whole year long, and [it is] a bad custom. And I have heard that two great authorities of former generations—probably the Gaon Eliyahu of Vilna and R. Hayyim of Volozin—each one wished to reestablish birkat Kohanim daily in their location, and when they decided on a given day [to begin], the issue become confused and they did not succeed, and they said that from Heaven it was thus decreed.

In view of all the above we may state that Birkat Kohanim does not require ritual ablution, and in present-day diaspora countries, blessing the people will not affect or curtail any business activities, and people in the diaspora are not downtrodden, nor do they live in permanent misery so that they cannot be joyful enough to bless the congregation. And according to some opinions (e.g., the Pri Hadash) even if they are not called to give the blessing, they may/should do so, (see e.g. Piskei Maharitz, Orah Hayyim vol.1, Bnei Brak 1987, pp. 259–260, with the note of R. Yitzhak Ratzabi ibid., Note 7, ibid., Be’erot Yitzhak). Thus, the reasons given for avoiding giving the priestly blessing are for the main part largely irrelevant in present-day diaspora conditions.

On the other hand, not doing so means not carrying out three positive biblical commandments, and according to some, albeit minority, opinions this is also the case when the congregation does not summon the Kohanim. Some, somewhat mystical sources also stress the great spiritual benefits of the priestly blessing, and the considerable negative effect of their absence. Furthermore, we have seen evidence that in some Ashkenazic communities Birkat Kohanim was practiced on Shabbatot or monthly, and not merely on the festivals.

Taking into account all of the above, I would think that nowadays, there is little justification for not carrying out the priestly blessing daily in our diaspora congregations.

I would like to end by again referring to the Hesed le-Avraham:

…The Kohen who fears the word of the Lord and desires His commandments will not transgress by refraining to give the blessing to give satisfaction to his Creator, for it is good in the eyes of God to bless Israel. How good and pleasant is the practice in some places, where the Kohanim give the priestly blessing each day. This is the fitting way to practice in all places, and not to seek excuses for annulling a positive commandment from the Torah.

To summarize:

1. It is a biblical commandment that obligates the Kohanim to bless the people.
2. Not doing so means not fulfilling that biblical commandment, and, according to some authorities, even transgressing three biblical commandments.

Here we may add yet another element to our discussion. There is a well-known opinion of R. Eliezer Azikri, in his Sefer Haredim chapter 4 (with the commentary of R. Yitzhak Leib Schwarz, Kunszentmiklos 1935, p. 19), that "those who stand before the Kohanim in silence and direct their hearts to receive the benedictions as the words of God, they too are included in the mitzvah as parts of the 613 [mitzvot].”

The commentator, ad loc. (note 18–19) discusses this opinion, pointing out that it is a subject of considerable controversy among the greatest of authorities, but he quotes the author of the Haflaah, R. Pinhas ha-Levi Horowitz, (in his notes to Ketubot 24b and Rashi ibid.), that just as there is a commandment to the Kohanim to bless Israel, so too is there a commandment to Israel to be blessed by the Kohanim. He states that there are other examples where the Torah, explicitly commands only the active partner and not the passive recipient, but nonetheless both are obligated. He brings as one example to mitzvah of yibum, which devolves both on the levir (yavam) as well as the sister-in-law (yevamah), even though the Torah commandment is directed toward the levir alone. The Sefer Haredim's novum was widely accepted, even though his source remained unclear to many.

This being the case, surely we should not deprive Am Yisrael in the diaspora from having opportunity to participate in this important mitzvah.

The reasons given by the various authorities for not fulfilling this mitzvah regularly in the diaspora are in and of themselves problematic, but in any case quite irrelevant to present-day diaspora communities. There exist precedents in different congregations, even outside Eretz Yisrael, for daily, weekly, or monthly priestly blessings.

In Jerusalem and in some parts of Eretz Yisrael the priestly blessing is carried out daily.

In view of all of the above, it follows that the daily, or at least weekly, blessing on the part of the Kohanim be performed in diaspora communities.

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 January and 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 and Mending Rifts through Tanakh Scholarship.” Books will be available for purchase and signing.

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.

On Mondays January 8 and 15, and Wednesday January 24, 8:00-9:00 pm, I will be teaching a three-part series at the Young Israel of Scarsdale (1313 Weaver Street, Scarsdale, New York):

Torah Study in a Modern World: Conflict & Resolution

Monday, January 8: Orthodoxy and Confrontation with Modern Biblical Scholarship

Monday, January 15: Traditional Commentary and Biblical Archeology: Friends or Foes?

Wednesday,  January 24: The Bible, as a Book of Literature vs. The Torah, as a Sacred Text

Copies of my new book, The Keys to the Palace, as well as several other titles, will be available for purchase and signing at the final lecture on January 24.

The classes are free and open to the public.

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 (83-10 188^th Street, Jamaica, New York) on Megillat Esther.

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 in the coming year.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals