National Scholar Updates

Can We Prevent the Hareidization of Orthodox Judaism?

 

 

In the past generation, Orthodox Jewry in Israel has increasingly become more extreme and has isolated itself from mainstream Israeli society. There is a continued distance and alienation of the Orthodox population from the non-Orthodox community, and a seeming lack of interest in integrating halakha and Torah with the concerns and circumstances of modern life. A similar tendency can be seen in the American Modern Orthodox community, having shifted in the past years toward the right (both religiously and politically). This phenomenon is known as “the Hareidization of Orthodox Jewry.”

This article introduces an Israeli organization that strives to promote an alternative route for Israeli Orthodoxy, mainly by returning to the core values of Torah im derekh erets, a religious worldview promulgated by the great nineteenth-century rabbi, Samson Raphael Hirsch.

 

Ne'emanei Torah vaAvodah (NTA)

 

Ne'emanei Torah vaAvodah (NTA) is a religious Zionist non-political organization founded in 1978 as a reaction to the hareidization of Orthodox Jewry. It is highly committed to strengthening and restoring the foundations of religious Zionism. NTA promotes tolerance, equality, and social justice as key values within the religious community. We believe these values to be the ones that positively influence and define the unique Jewish and democratic character of Israeli society. The members of NTA, men and women, young and old, rabbis and academics, have come together to volunteer their time and energy in actualizing the potential of religious Zionism in Israel. NTA is committed to halakha and strives for an open, contemplative, and self-critical religious culture engaged in evolving halakhic discourse that is willing to address the challenges of our time.

 In order to achieve these goals, the organization focuses on education and advocacy for modification and improvement of the religious public services offered in Israel, as well as high-quality publications, and public relations to bring our ideas into the forefront of the social-religious discourse. A few of NTA main activities will be described here.

 

The De'ot Journal

 

In the religious world, many social and educational issues are considered taboo and are therefore never discussed seriously. Religious discussions are often restricted to the holiness of the land and ritualistic stringency, whereas the values of human rights, human dignity, and democracy are pushed into a forgotten corner. We strongly believe the discourse must not exclude any of those issues, and we promote a pluralistic discussion within Orthodox society.

NTA publishes a journal, De'ot. Our main goal is to advance an open and courageous discussion within the Orthodox community of contemporary challenges, on the basis of a commitment to halakha combined with sensitivity to social issues. The journal offers a unique platform for presenting different approaches that deal with issues, difficulties, and problems that are largely ignored within the religious community. The writers of the De'ot journal are affiliated with a broad spectrum of the Orthodox community.

De'ot was the first journal to discuss publicly a variety of sensitive and complex topics in Orthodox society. Among those issues are: the participation of women in prayer and in the public reading of the Torah; homosexuality in the religious community; domestic violence in religious society; halakhic rulings regarding the Internet and their implications; premarital sex, and so forth. In addition, the journal also includes essays on a wide range of topics concerning the shaping of a Jewish-Israeli identity, in which alternative ways of thinking are formulated. In fact, De'ot is unique in being the only Orthodox journal in Israel that permits the publication of viewpoints that dissent from “conventional” opinions in the Orthodox community.

 

Et liDrosh ("A Time to Interpret")

 

Another publication that is meant to broaden the cultural and religious discourse is a Shabbath-Portion leaflet by the name of Et liDrosh, whose purpose is to provide a platform for a wide range of opinions, and in this way to enrich and vary the Orthodox discussions that are conducted by means of the Shabbat-Portion leaflets. Young people in the organization produce the leaflet, which deals with issues of particular concern to them and their outlook. The leaflet discusses religious and Israeli topics in an effort to bridge the religious and modern worlds. The writers of Et liDrosh are prominent cultural figures from religious and Israeli society, alongside young leaders who seek to take part in shaping the face of society. Past interviewees include Rabbi Yuval Cherlow and Rabbi Yehuda Gilad, Prof. Aviezer Ravizky, Ilana Dayan, and Ehud Banai. We believe that the exposure of the Orthodox public to different voices is likely to assist a formation of openness, tolerance, and attentiveness to different approaches.

 

Bet Midrash Re'im

 

The Orthodox community offers many institutions for Orthodox youth that are dedicated to the study of Torah. However, while the vast majority of Torah study institutions are run separately for women and for men, Re’im encourages men and women to learn together. We believe that the separation of men and women in the Bet Midrash detaches the experience of learning from life, and creates a reality in which the place where young people study Torah does not reflect their way of life.

For the past few years, NTA has operated a unique Orthodox Bet Midrash, named Re'im (Companions) open to both men and women. The Bet Midrash is composed of a group of young Orthodox men and women in their twenties, most of them students, graduates of institutes of higher Jewish learning. In the Bet Midrash Re'im, participants diligently study the Bible and Talmud and discuss issues in Jewish Thought, including a wide spectrum of topics connected to the general world's culture. The teachers combine in their lessons different historical and cultural perspectives, and special emphasis is given to the relevance to the critical issues that concern day-to-day life in Israeli society in the twenty-first century.

 

Activities to Improve Religious Services in Israel

 

Religious services in the State of Israel are in a serious crisis. The lack of proper marriage and divorce proceedings, burial arrangements that are not always conducted with due sensitivity, the piling up of difficulties in the conversion process, and other issues that are not addressed properly—these all create situations of injustice and anguish to a wide sector of the Israeli and Jewish society who come into contact with the institutions responsible for religious services in Israel. These problems cause a severance of the general public from religious institutions and ultimately from Judaism itself. The public's lack of trust—and the increasing discoveries of corruption—have brought about the dismantling of the Ministry of Religious Affairs; but a solution has not yet been put into place for providing appropriate, well-administered religious services.

In an attempt to address these problems, NTA established a committee of experts, including rabbis and academics, whose task was to formulate a comprehensive program that will provide religious services in Israel. The committee, which operates on a volunteer basis, formulated its recommendations in a report entitled "Report of the Religious Services Committee," whose main conclusion speaks of the need to transfer administrative responsibility for matters pertaining to religion from the political echelon to the civilian realm.

NTA promotes the implementation of the Committee's recommendations through activities on the political level through an effort to form a lobby in the Knesset (the Israeli Parliament) for changing the current structure of religious services in Israel. There is also a level of public awareness: our efforts are focused on exposing the wider public to the religious services crisis, and to offering possible solutions for addressing this situation.

NTA is the only organization in Israel that has dealt in a comprehensive way with the issues of religious services and has formulated a detailed proposal for changes. In this regard, the organization has dealt not only with the problem of marriage and divorce—with which many women's organizations are also involved—but also with the entirety of the issues related to the connection between religion and state. The implementation of the Report’s recommendations has the potential to initiate substantial, positive change in the relationship of citizens to religious services, and to constitute a turning point in the Jewish character of the State of Israel.

 NTA cooperates with other organizations in working for a solution to specific problems in the area of religious services. In the Ikar coalition, we work together with organizations struggling for a solution to the problem of aginut, in which women whose husbands have refused to grant them a religious divorce are not free to remarry.

  We take part in running the non-profit organization, Menuha Nekhona–Jerusalem. This organization was founded in order to provide an inclusive burial procedure for all Jews (Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, and unaffiliated) in Jerusalem. It is a known fact that an exclusively Hareidi monopoly runs all of the religious services in Israel, including all the burial procedures. This reality is even further emphasized in Jerusalem's cemetery, which is dominated by strict hlakhic rules. A daughter is not permitted to say Kaddish, a wife may not eulogize her husband, and a non-Orthodox Jew won't be buried unless approved by the Hareidi officials in charge. These are just a few examples of the problems of an exclusive Orthodox monopoly. NTA, together with Menuha Nekhona, strives to change this reality, and offers inclusive burial procedures in Jerusalem's cemetery. We already received approval from the Israeli Supreme Court for a burial area in Jerusalem's cemetery, and we plan to start using this area in the coming year.

Together with the women’s organizations Mavoi Satum and Kolekh, we are teaming up with Modern Orthodox rabbinic groups in Israel and in America in a landmark initiative to create an alternative rabbinical court. This is an attempt to create a real change in the religious apparatus that chains woman, converts, immigrants, non-Orthodox Jews, and others, and holds the entire country hostage to an antiquated system of a Hareidi monopoly. We believe that this alternative Bet Din could be the way to break this monopoly, and we hope that it will start functioning in the coming months.

  In conclusion, let me return to the title of this article: Can we prevent the hareidization of Modern Orthodox Judaism? There isn't, of course, any sure way to know how Orthodox Jewry will develop. We can promise, though, that in NTA we are doing everything possible within our means to promote a more pluralistic, tolerant, and inclusive Judaism that will restore the basic values of combining Torah with derekh erets; halakha with morality and human rights; the ancient Jewish tradition with the modern world. We hope we will succeed in preventing, to the extent possible, the hareidization of Modern Orthodox Jewry.

For comments please contact us by email: [email protected].

 

 

 

Done With Brain Death

 

Over the last two decades much ink that has been spilled regarding the halachic analysis of whether or not brain-stem death is equivalent to halachic death. So much has been written, in fact, that from a substantive point of view, little, if anything, new can be said.

 

The debate, far from being theoretical, has far reaching implications. When the brain-stem dies, if the patient had previously been connected to a ventilator, the heart may continue beating for a few more days before it too dies. Since organs – for the purposes of life saving transplantation - typically need to be recovered before the heart stops beating, we need to know if halacha views a beating heart as a sign of life. If so, organ transplantation would be forbidden since removing the organs would be akin to killing the donor.

 

Halachic Analysis

Many, if not all, of the halachic articles written in English and Hebrew over the past 25 years, both accepting and rejecting brain-stem death as halachic death, may be found at the website of the Halachic Organ Donor Society (www.hods.org).  The primary halachic sources are Talmud Yoma page 85a and Mishna Ohalot 1:6.

 

Institutional Positions

Among the orthodox rabbinic institutions that take a position on this issue are the Chief Rabbinate of Israel and the Rabbinical Council of America who both accept brain death as halachic death and support organ donation. The Halachic committee of the Chief Rabbinate issued its ruling with unanimous consent in 1986. In 1991 the Rabbinical Council of America held a three day convention at Spring Glen, N.Y. where halachic presentations were heard both for and against brain-stem death.

The RCA membership then voted to adopt a resolution accepting brain-stem death as halachic death and supporting organ donation. [Even though no new medical information has surfaced that was not considered in their deliberations before the vote in 1991, the RCA is currently reviewing its position on this issue.]

This RCA resolution, the article in the NY Times announcing the RCA’s newly adopted position, and the RCA’s Living Will which explicitly promotes heart transplants from people who have died brain-stem death are available at www.hods.org.

 

 

Rabbinic Positions

While the rabbis who reject brain-stem death succeed in making their voices heard, less well known are the prominent rabbinic figures that accept brain-stem death and support organ donation. They are former Chief Rabbis Avraham Shapiro z”l, Rabbi Mordechai Eliyahu and Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef, current Sephardic Chief Rabbi Shlomo Amar, Rabbi Shaul Yisraeli z”l, Rabbi Zalman Nechemia Goldberg, Rabbi Avraham Shlush, Rabbi Nachum Rabinovitch, and Rabbi Dr. Avraham Steinberg.

 

While Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach and Rabbi Yosef Dov Solevitchik accepted brain-stem death as halachic death their positions are often challenged as being mischaracterized. Instead of revisiting their writings, as has been done ad nauseum, I think it important to note the oral testimonies given by people who spoke with them about this issue.  (All of the following oral testimonies are available to be seen on video at www.hods.org)

Rabbi Moshe Feinstein

Rabbi Moshe Tendler, Rabbi Mordechai Tendler, Rabbi Shabtai Rappaport, and Dr. Ira Greifer testified that they heard many times Rabbi Moshe Feinstein state that he was of the opinion, and rule in actual cases, that a person in a state of unconsciousness and irreversible cessation of respiration, as confirmed by brain-stem death, is halachicly dead – even though the heart continues to beat – and should be an organ donor.
 

The following is a partial transcript of Rav Dovid Feinstein’s emphatic and unambiguous testimony:

“My father’s position was very simply that the stopping of breathing is death. It doesn’t matter if the heart is functioning or not functioning… that is the way he explained the gmorah in Yoma… I don’t think anyone ever argued that point [when he was alive]. It is very simple - cessation of breathing. I don’t think anyone ever said any differently… it doesn’t matter if his heart is working or is not working. If a patient is available for a heart transplant… he would definitely encourage it.”

 

Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach

Rabbi Auerbach, after initially rejecting brain-stem death, ultimately accepted it as halachic death after the famous sheep experiment showed that a decapitated (thus ‘brain-stem dead’) pregnant sheep attached to a ventilator could have its blood pressure and heart beat maintained and fetus kept alive. He did, however, require proof that every cell in the brain was dead. He dictated his position to Rabbi Dr. Avraham Steinberg and had the ruling published in ASSIA magazine (no 53-54, 1994). Rav Steinberg states:

“Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach told me, specifically… I have written his words and he checked it and agreed for it to be published, and his position clearly was that the heart, per se, is not necessarily a sign of life and death. In other words, a person can be defined as dead even though his heart is still functioning. What is important to Rav Auerbach was brain function.”

 

Rabbi Yosef Dov Soloveitchik

There are students and family members of Rabbi Soloveitchik who claim they never heard the Rav accept brain –stem death as halachic death. This is not tantamount to asserting that they heard the Rav reject the idea. It is possible that those people simply never heard him state his position on the issue.

Since the RCA had a policy of accepting Rav Soloveitchik’s position on all halachic matters, Rabbi Benjamin Walfish, former Executive Director of the RCA, turned to Rav Soloveitchik when he was asked about brain-stem death by RCA member Rabbi David Silver z”l : Rabbi Walfish states:

“I met with Rav Soloveitchik in 1983…84 to discuss this concept of brain-stem death and Rabbi Soloveitchik told me personally that he accepted it… I’ll testify to that. As far as the gmorah’s definition of death, the Rav felt that it was the stopping of breathing that was the definition of death according to the gmorah [Talmud Yoma 85a].
…Rabbi Tendler told me about the Harvard criteria and brain-stem death and so on and I went to see the Rav on the subject…He asked me whether Rabbi [Moshe] Tendler is certain that this test [Apnea test]is conclusive without any doubt and that it has been tested and it’s accepted as conclusive proof that the brain-stem is dead.  I said yes. I offered to have Rabbi Tendler call the Rav and the Rav said no it’s not necessary. If Rabbi Tendler says this is so he knows what he is talking about in these matters and we can accept it.’ And that is when I wrote the letter to Rabbi [David] Silver explaining to him the procedure and telling him the exact language that should be written into the Pennsylvania law as the definition of death.”

 

Done with Brain Death

After all is said and done, there remains a legitimate halachic debate as to whether or not brain-stem death is halachic death. There are enough living halachic authorities on both sides of the divide that one is forced to recognize a plurality of halachic positions on this issue as there are with many halachic issues. The Halachic Organ Donor Society offers a unique organ donor card for the Jewish community that allows people to define death either at brain-stem death or at cessation of heartbeat.  At either point, one may become an organ donor and help save lives. No matter what your definition of death is, everyone is warmly invited to register for an organ donor card on-line at www.hods.org to fulfill the mitzvah of pickuah nefesh.  “Lo ta’amod al dam re’echa – Don’t stand idly by the blood of your brother.” Leviticus 19:16.

 

Homework: Helpful or Hurtful?

As adults with jobs, children, and endless responsibilities,
we often think back to our childhoods, the “good old
days,” when everything was easy and carefree. We played
in the park, played with our friends, played sports, and played imaginative
games with our siblings. We didn’t have to worry about feeding our families,
paying bills, staying up with our babies at night, and then trying to be
functional the next day! We just had to be kids!

Now, being a parent myself, I often wonder how carefree our children feel today.
Young children attending Day Schools have long days full of learning
both General Studies and Judaic Studies. The day starts at approximately
8:00 A.M. and can go as long as 4:30 P.M. The children practice and learn
new skills that enable them to become articulate, educated, and successful
adults. There is no greater gift then seeing your child read for the first
time, write a creative book about dinosaurs, and translate a biblical verse
better than you can yourself. We owe this to the great schools our children
attend, and to the wonderful teachers who are dedicated to giving our children
these amazing skills. However, what exactly is the role of homework?

Educators agree that homework increases a child’s learning—as long
as it isn’t busy work and is kept within certain time boundaries. However,
if given too much, the results, I believe, could be detrimental to both child
and parent. When school-aged children get home from a long day of learning,
they need time to turn off their brains for a while. Just as we all need
“down time” at the end of the day, to watch television or read the paper or
a good novel, so do our children. Not only do they need down time, but
they can use this time to develop other important hobbies and skills.
Whether curling up with a book or a magazine, playing sports, taking a
musical instrument lesson, having a playdate with a friend, playing board
games with their siblings, or even just having a chat with their parents
unrelated to school or homework—down time like this is valuable for
growing up, building self-esteem, and developing good conversational and
social skills.

The amount of homework continues to grow year by year. As children
get older, more is expected of them. Thirty minutes of homework becomes
an hour, an hour becomes two… When does it stop?

As I wrote before,the work not only affects the children, but the parents as well. As my oldest
child began getting homework, afternoons became battles. It is clear to
me now why it took my son a seemingly endless time to do his homework!
He needed to shut his brain down for a while! But back then, we
used to fight. A lot. I would tell him if he would finish quickly that he
would have a chunk of free time. I would offer rewards. I would sit with
him. I would stay in the other room, then come back to check in.

My afternoons became so stressful; not only were my nerves shot, but it obviously
affected my son and my other children. I strongly resented the idea that
I was ignoring my other children, yet I wasn’t spending quality time with
my son and his homework!

As much as I understand the need to review the day’s work, I did not
understand the need for more than that. Our kids do as they are supposed
to, just as we did as kids. There may be groaning and moaning about it,
but it does become routine, and complaints aren’t as strong as they were.
But does that mean it’s acceptable? Does that mean that our kids don’t
need periods of time to choose activities that interest them?

Some parents I know have no problem with the amount of homework given, and wouldn’t
mind if there was even more! They feel that not only is it enhancing
their children’s learning, but provides educational structure for the
evening. They think that learning, as all of us would agree, is more productive
than playing video games or other mindless activities. However,
with some monitoring of duration, playing such games is a good way to
tune out for a bit. In excess, video game playing is probably not the best
idea! But there are so many ways that kids could have down time other
than video games. It is up to us as parents to give our children good choices
and guidance.

On the other end of the spectrum, there are parents who struggle, as
I do, with the evening juggling act of balancing our housework, tending
to younger children, helping more than one child with homework, cooking
dinner, and so forth. I know many people who have to hire tutors or
homework helpers just to physically have someone there to sit with their
child, because they are either working parents, or just don’t have the time
or the patience! Some kids can sit down to do their own work, but there
are many others who need help with the content of the work given, or
help focusing into the work after a long day at school.

If homework is such an important aid for our children, why does it create such havoc in our
homes? Why should our children be sitting doing work at home after sitting
for the majority of the school day? Our children need to move, to be
silly, to choose their nightly activities after working all day. Our children
just need time to be.

There has to be some type of happy medium, where children have
some time to review what they have learned over the course of the day, but
it shouldn’t take over the whole evening! Homework is given over the
weekend; homework is given over summer vacation! They never get a
period of time without it!

The problem is that, unfortunately, I do not think this will change much.

I just hope for the sanity of children and parents
everywhere, homework will be more review and less busywork. I
wish there would be more creative assignments, something that might be
less repetitive than what they have been working on in school. School is
the place for going through the basic drills and building on them. Afterschool
time should be time for opportunities for other, very important
skills to be learned, practiced, and enjoyed. We want our children to know
their ABC’s and 123’s, but at what expense? Will my child not get into college
or find a job without doing two hours of long division every night?
Are seven hours of school not enough?

Maybe my tuition is so highbecause it accounts for the two hours of extra work at home! Kids need
time to be kids, and parents need time to be parents. If children cannot do
their homework in a reasonable time, then it should not be done at home.
There is still something called schoolwork, right?

Social Justice and Activism in Our Synagogues

 

My name is Jeannie Appleman.  I’m an organizer with the Jewish Funds for Justice.  My family and I  daven at the modern orthodox synagogue near us in Long Island.  I organize and train rabbinical and cantorial students, including from Chovevei Torah, and Rabbis, from all four movements in a particular approach to transforming our synagogues into “covenantal communities.”

 

What do I mean by covenantal community? I mean a community whose members believe and act on a premise that each of our futures is inextricably intertwined, and that we have a stake in each others’ future.  I mean a community whose members truly partner with and act to improve our city with others across race, class and religious lines based on shared interests and common vision. I mean a community where  congregants are engaged around their talents and dreams, not tasks; where developing people takes precedence over providing programs for every need; where private struggles are voiced, and change is achieved.   Covenantal communities stand up for the collective good as well as our own synagogue’s interests. Shearith Israel’s history is full of this type of covenantal behavior.  

 

I will begin by posing some questions and then laying out a new opportunity to engage in covenantal community – both within your synagogue and with your Manhattan neighbors, with whom you share a common fate.  

 

Here are a few questions to consider: What is the current chapter of community engagement that you are writing as a congregation? What legacy, in the spirit of Emma Lazarus, a former congregant, will you leave to your grandchildren?  In addition to this aesthetic structure, and the vibrant tefilla, Torah study, and chesed work, for what courageous community involvement will Shearith Israel be known, in this time and place?  What does it mean to be a covenantal community in Manhattan, in 2008?

 

         Just as particular events and experiences shaped Shearith Israel’s journey and choices in community involvement, so too my journey as an organizer and as a Jew has been shaped by a series of experiences.  I grew up in a Catholic family in a racially-mixed, working class neighborhood in South Bend, Indiana. When I was 16, and I learned about the prophets, I thought they were talking to me and my family; I felt like WE were the widow and orphan that the prophets spoke of that the Almighty protected, when my father nearly lost his factory job -- the best of the three jobs he worked to put food on our table – because of the unbridled greed of the owner.  That was the beginning of my journey to becoming an organizer.  When I asked my religion teacher about Jews, he told me to go ask a Rabbi.  So I looked in the yellow pages and picked one out – Rabbi Chaim Kuperman, straight out of YU doing kiruv at a traditional synagogue.  I showed up at Sinai Synagogue in my school uniform – plaid skirt and navy jacket and bobbie socks - and he was kind enough to mentor me in my journey towards Judaism.  I have found in modern orthodoxy an authentic and holistic way of life, where every act has meaning and purpose, and every occasion has a bracha.  And I’m proud that our community has written the book on caring for our own.  And yet I struggle with how little impact we have had in the broader community.

 

         In today’s Parsha, Mishpatim, and later in Devarim, that in order to walk in the ways of Hashem (G-d), You shall love the stranger for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”  Some commentators  broaden the commandment to include not only converts, but also all strangers .   The Ramban contends that WE should learn from our Egyptian experience that the Almighty does not tolerate the mistreatment of strangers.  When I read this passage, I am reminded that we have not yet reached our potential for acting powerfully in the public square on the full range of our community’s interests or the collective good in our cities, including Manhattan.   What are we doing right here in NYC, in 2008 to harness our people power to hold our public officials accountable for their commitments to make our city safer and cleaner, to create more affordable housing and quality education, and affordable health care options for every New Yorker? 

        

           What do I mean by power?  Many of us believe that the access that our Rabbis and big donors have to decision-makers is power.  But I would call this influence. It’s easy to confuse the two. Power is what happens when we join together with our neighbors to voice our collective concerns to politicians and negotiate face-to-face and publicly, not just through back-room deal.  It is what we need to do if we want public policy to address the needs of our community and the broader society.

           

       Congregation Shearith Israel has a long and rich history of community involvement, of standing up for yourselves and for others.  It seems to have begun from the very founding of SI!  The pioneers who created this synagogue refused to be bystanders to their own struggle, and that of other Jews and non-Jews alike in their new country, America, particularly in this political powederkeg of an island, called Manhattan!  It all started with 23 Jewish pioneers from Dutch Brazil standing up to the dictatorial Governor of New York in 1654 – Peter Stuyvesant – who ran NY like his personal fiefdom, for the right to settle here.  

   

          The history includes initiating settlement houses for immigrants and Jewish poor; opening a homeless shelter and partnering with NY institutions to address homelessness; engaging armies of volunteers to mentor and guide troubled young people.   In Rabbi Marc Angel’s Remnant of Israel book he writes “Through one-to-one relationships, the ‘big sisters’ would help guide the ‘little sisters’ to lead constructive and fulfilling lives.”  These SI leaders knew how to build a covenantal community – one relationship at a time.  Shearith Israel’s history of being a “caring” community for its members, the Jewish community, and society at large, is an impressive one; this Congregation has a big heart.  There is also a rich history of engaging in interfaith efforts with Lutherans, Episcopaleans and Catholics starting in the late 1600s.

 

         I would propose to you, that in 2008, SI has the opportunity to EXPAND how it acts as a covenantal community by joining with other faith communities and communal organizations to create a truly “covenantal community” here in Manhattan.  There is a congregation-based community organization that operates as a covenantal community – Manhattan Together -- that negotiates collectively and directly with the city’s and state’s “powers that be” on the matters that affect many of our lives. They’re waiting for more synagogues who share this vision to join them. 

                                                                                                          

          There are nearly 100 synagogues nationally, who are employing this particular approach to creating covenantal community, within the context of multi-faith and multi-ethnic organizations, invented  by Saul Alinsky and the Industrial Areas Foundation in the 1940s.  The Jewish Funds for Justice has worked successfully over the last several years to connect synagogues to these organizations. 

 

          Let me describe one synagogue’s experience, that a fellow organizer, Meir Lakein, is working with in Boston, called Temple Emanuel.  They held 42 small group meetings where over 400 of its congregants met together in each other’s living rooms, to tell stories of their concerns, and hopes and dreams.   They didn’t kvetch, they didn’t argue ideology; they didn’t even discuss a “social justice” issue.  Instead they told stories about their experiences that helped their fellow congregants get a better sense of who they were, stories that surfaced some of their core interests and values.   What emerged were stories of struggle as congregants attempted to navigate the long-term care systems that made it hard to age with dignity, or to care for their aging parents.                                                                                   

       

     Then they held a synagogue-wide meeting of over 420 congregants at which they launched synagogue-wide chesed initiatives to not only expand chesed, but to make it the instinctive NORM of the community.  They launched an organizing drive to press local and state legislators, to commit new resources and support for the long-term care system that would make it easier for seniors to stay in their homes, if they so chose.  Shortly after, the synagogue joined a multi-ethnic, interfaith community organization, Greater Boston Interfaith Organization (GBIO), affiliated with the Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF)  with several synagogue members, so they could build covenantal community across faith and ethnic lines.

 

 Many of us would find it hard to believe that synagogues and Haitian 7th Day Adventist churches would have anything in common.  But as members of GBIO, several synagogues discovered that they did.  Both communities needed to change nursing home care.  Leaders at Temple Israel needed better nursing care for their parents and grandparents who were living in unsanitary and inexcusable conditions in the homes. The Haitians who staffed the nursing homes were mistreated, overworked and underpaid. When they heard each others’ stories in small group meetings, these stories led to action. GBIO held a large community meeting and invited the Massachusetts Attorney General to ask him to issue an unprecedented advisory enforced stricter monitoring of both nursing home care, and that would improve conditions for workers.  The Attorney General came to the meeting prepared to decline this request.  But he was so moved by the immigrant stories he heard and was impressed by the united power he saw, that he changed his mind. He was reminded of his own mother’s story of exploitation and mistreatment as an Irish immigrant.  When he committed to issue the advisory, he was nearly drowned out by the cheering.   

 

          As synagogues, we cannot pretend that our own members are immune from skyrocketing health care and housing costs, from unemployment, from the cost of aging, and the challenge of supporting aging parents while underwriting our children’s escalating education costs.   Unless we’re willing to share our stories of struggle and hope with each other, and with other communities, I don’t believe we will achieve the fullest possible covenantal community in the broader society either.  If we park our own interests and stories at the door and hide our own struggles, we imply, that only people of other ethnicities and faiths struggle, and we’re there just to fix them, instead of partnering with them to create a joint future for all our children.  

My great-grandfather died when my grandmother was very young, leaving my great-grandmother penniless, and with five children to support.   But since she had no means of support, the local authorities threatened to tear her and her siblings away from their mother, and dump them in an orphanage. The young priest at their church stood up to the authorities, and provided my great-grandmother with odd jobs at the Church, rent, and groceries.   

While it saved my family, BY ITSELF, this approach of “meeting individual needs” of congregants, fell short.  My family’s shame about this experience kept them isolated from the rest of their congregation because no one ever spoke about “private” matters. Like many synagogues today, they attended each other’s weddings and funerals, but never spoke to each other of their struggles or dreams.  If this had been a covenantal community that encouraged my great-grandmother to share her story, she would have met others who had also suffered under the crushing weight of abusive power, and they could have joined together and fought for laws that protected families.  But my grandmother didn’t belong to a covenantal community.

         Achieving covenantal community requires taking big risks and trusting our fellow congregants and other community members from diverse backgrounds enough to share our stories. This kind of community calls us to be open to hearing their stories and being changed by them.  It requires the courage to recognize that a shared covenant that ties our destinies is not cemented only with words – it is signed with action.  In the covenant we made with the Holy One, our ancestors committed, “We will do and we will hear.”  Can we really expect any less of ourselves, today? 

 

An Educational Manifesto

 

  1.  

For a long time, traditional Judaism was based on authoritarian structures that paralleled structures of the general pre-Modern world. Most significantly, faith in a Creator had long been a nearly universal norm. Thus, while Judaism, per se, was not consonant with society around it, God was at the center of how people understood their world.

Although  this is not the place to properly review changes brought about by the Modern era, it may be helpful to remind the reader about some of the great upheavals that directly impact on religious continuity. Modern thinking opened up all realms to free inquiry, leaving nothing to dogma. One of my first teachers, perhaps inadvertently, summarized the impact on Judaism when he said that contemporary acceptance of the Torah is no longer characterized by na'aseh venishma (we will do and we will understand), but rather by nishma vena'aseh (we will understand and we will do). Whether we are conscious of it or not, our zeitgeist impels us to understand what we believe and why we believe it.

Modernity also challenged the authority of the elites by pronouncing all humans to be equal. As such, rabbinic authority was severely compromised, opening the way for the various movements that arose independently of the traditional rabbinate's hegemony on ideology.

In our own times, as Modernity continues to unfold and develop, the last authoritarian stronghold to fall is the family. In accordance with the Democratic idea, older children are choosing whether or not to listen to their parents. Of all structures, this is arguably the most critical to Judaism. And yet, we see it falling nonetheless.

Moreover, today we see faith in a virtual state of siege. Even those who proclaim to believe in a Creator rarely explain the world around them in more than mechanistic terms. This is undeniably having an impact on our own ranks, as reflected in the following quotation from a  talk by Rav Shlomo Wolbe zt’l:

It seems to me that education in faith is really weak today. You have to start talking about faith already in heder, telling the students that they were created from God, explaining how it is God who gives them life. God gave the Torah that they are learning. Then later in yeshiva ... you have to talk more about faith.

Such an educational need has arisen because these things are no longer assumed in the surrounding society. Schools do not teach that we need to eat food or that the sun keeps us warm, because these ideas are universally accepted. Once faith has lost its universal acceptance, attentive teachers like Rav Wolbe will see a need to "teach" it.
 

In spite of Orthodoxy's extremely mixed record, the dominant approach in this sector toward Modernity has been to isolate ourselves from general society, its paradigms, and questions. This has not only been the approach to education, but to thought as well, as the philosophical investigations of the Rishonim (medieval scholars) were shunned for more narrow textual study, focusing mostly on understanding the how and when as opposed to the what and why.

The ability to isolate ourselves from the assumptions of society around us, however, has of late become severely compromised. Two trends have made Orthodox society permeable, to the point where Modernity is confronting the previously most isolationist segments of our society. The first trend is the increasing dependence on media, and particularly the Internet, necessitated by participation in the marketplace. The second trend is the greater exposure to the non-Orthodox brought about by the influx of ba'alei teshuvah in the last few decades (as well as our contact with a greater number of defections from the Orthodox community). Thus, the continued usefulness of the isolationist strategy is becoming more and more questionable.

Almost all Jews today live part of their lives in contact with modern Western culture. In many subtle ways, this culture competes with Judaism for our loyalty. Unconsciously, many of its values become incorporated into our worldview without our even realizing it. An obvious and dangerous example is the growth of consumerism among all but the most careful circles. Consumerism is defined here as spending inordinate amounts of time and effort on consumer choices and believing that these choices help define our identity.

The above analysis leads to the conclusion that Jewish faith and values can no longer be assumed as cultural norms—even within the most conservative segments of Orthodoxy. As such, we must consciously and explicitly teach our beliefs to ourselves and our children, with the realization that the assumptions and freedom of modern society ultimately give our children a much greater prerogative to reject these values. Although these assumptions may not be ones with which we agree, under the present circumstances we have no choice but to work within them, believing that we have good reason to expect success in the free market of ideas and lifestyles. Thus, we must learn how to compete for the hearts and minds of our own children as well as for the hearts and minds of others. In our time, there are few, if any, voices presenting a clear strategy on how to do this. Rather, we muddle along, focusing on performance of mitzvoth and Torah study in a cultural vacuum.

Instead of designing a plan to deal with the causes of the current malaise that exists in Orthodoxy, people are merely dealing with the symptoms. Although we may salute the courage of the Jewish Observer in acknowledging and addressing the issue of dropouts, like the vast majority of efforts, it isolates the problem to the individuals and not to problems with the system as a whole. The same can be said of the myriad forums that are trying to deal with the variety of marriage/family/parenting issues that are more and more apparent within our ranks. Focusing on individuals is much more palatable to the dominant conservative forces within Orthodoxy, but in the long run it is doing us a disservice.

One obvious arena that must be addressed in dealing with the problem outlined above is our educational system. Essentially based on the Eastern European yeshiva model, its focus is on giving students the ability to study texts. The European yeshiva curriculum was aimed at providing two goals for its elite student body: 1) proper mastery of the Talmud and accompanying literature to provide the necessary expertise from which to reach halakhic decisions, and 2) enhancing the spirituality of the students in a mystical fashion, grounded in the questionable idea that more involvement in Torah study will bring about a stronger connection to God. In the contemporary context these two goals are clearly insufficient. Although traditional study itself, if done well, can be invigorating, it is not enough to give today's culturally ambivalent students an understanding and internalization of classical Jewish beliefs and values, and thus motivate them to devote their lives to God.

What is needed, therefore, is a complete reevaluation of what we study and how we study it, in accordance with what most of our children will need in order to flourish within our religious tradition.

 

II.

 

Many of us owe a great deal to the yeshiva system. Even more important than knowledge and skills, our religious inspiration was largely formed by the years spent within the yeshiva walls. Clearly, there is much to be gained by carrying over certain aspects of the yeshiva model.

It is our thesis that the yeshiva curriculum is totally unsuited to the needs of the Jewish masses. Still, there are at least three components of the yeshiva experience that are invaluable: 1) the atmosphere of intensity, 2) the rigor of approach to text and, hopefully, truth, and 3) success in bringing about strict adherence to halakha.
 

[H2] Intensity
Former High Court Judge Menachem Elon once recalled the unmatched intensity of his days at Yeshivat Hevron. The single-minded pursuit of understanding that exists in the classical yeshiva is clearly invigorating. Elon described it as a pursuit unlimited by time or schedule. In spite of its overwhelmingly intellectual nature, the complete dedication of self to religious pursuits experienced in the yeshiva is something that leaves an indelible mark upon a person.

 

Similar dedication to a more holistic curriculum and setting may be harder to bring about. The key may be in the schedule, logistics, and perhaps most important, in the leadership of the new schools. When the rosh yeshiva exhibits sincere and complete dedication, it sets the tone for the entire yeshiva. This will presumably also be true of the new schools that we envision.

 

[H2] The Search for Truth

One of the appealing facets of the yeshiva is its democratic approach to truth. A rebbe's shiur does not stand if he cannot appropriately address a logical flaw pointed out by even the weakest student. In fact, stumping the rebbe is the aspiration of every yeshiva student worth his salt. In a proper yeshiva, all are equal before the truth. The soundness of this approach speaks for itself, allowing the natural ambition of the students to motivate them toward achievement.

 

As we propose to move away from the uniquely cerebral approach of the yeshiva, we must ensure that rigorous pursuit of truth not be sacrificed. Even as we put more emphasis on personal expression, we must hold teachers and students accountable for their ideas. If their ideas are not properly rooted, we will be following in the ways of all antinomian sects, a risk that must be taken very seriously.

 

[H2] Adherence to Halakha

One of the major goals of the yeshiva is to create punctilious loyalty to halakha. While yeshiva dropouts may often reject halakha completely, successful graduates are usually highly dedicated to the halakha, which they see as directly emanating from the texts that they have studied.

 

One of my students observed that it often appears as if yeshiva graduates worship halakha instead of God. Even as I believe this to be a very insightful observation, historical experience shows that halakhic rigor serves as the backbone of Jewish spirituality. In our efforts to correct the situation by putting God back in the center of Judaism, we must make sure that we formulate a convincing motivational scheme to engender strict adherence to halakha among our students.

 

The uninterrupted tradition of learning has given us a justified self-confidence in giving over a quality experience in the traditional yeshiva. The creativity, rigor, and depth involved in traditional study of the Talmud and its commentaries are appealing to the best of minds. There is no equally developed body of literature in other Jewish realms, such as aggada, Jewish Thought, and prayer. Thus, it is only natural that we are happy to stay with something in which we are proficient. Such reticence to expand our horizons is understandable, yet it is ultimately untenable. In today's field of “mass” Jewish education, the traditional yeshiva curriculum is as archaic as the typewriter. One can create a typewriter that is literally a work of art. Even one who can create such a typewriter and is not yet sure how to build a computer, has no choice but to learn how to do the latter, if he expects any appreciation and use outside of a museum.

 

In sum, we have no choice but to move past the yeshiva model in setting up schools for the masses. This will require much experimentation in order to create a quality experience. That being the case, we have everything to gain by making use of every successful facet of our learning tradition. Rigor, intensity and stress on normative behavior must be central to new institutions of learning if they are to form the next link in the transmission of Judaism from one generation to the next.

 

III.

 

The dichotomy between the Jewish educational system and its cultural context is perhaps greater today than ever before. The Jewish people, including all segments of Orthodoxy, has never been so fully integrated within a culture that often espouses a competing set of values and assumptions. This integration creates a serious challenge to the cultural integrity of the Jewish people.

In spite of this challenge, we find ourselves relying upon an educational model that unrealistically expects an automatic internalization of Jewish values and modes of behavior. Thus, religious schools expend most of their energy teaching text for its own sake. These schools assume that this quality experience will magically inspire our children to accept any values, ideas, or behaviors that are associated with Judaism. The equation the current system depends upon is:  "If I love (see the quality in) learning and learning is exclusive to Judaism, than I must also love (see the quality in), and will adhere to, all of Judaism."

Lack of true analysis of how and whether the schools meet our religious goals is a sure harbinger of catastrophe. As a result, the only way to prevent the impending crisis is to give sober and unsentimental thought to our goals as a people, and the role of Jewish education in accomplishing these goals. Once we do that, we will feel compelled to embark on a fundamental reformulation of the contents and methods of Jewish education.

Obviously, serious reformulation of Jewish education will take years, probably even decades. Nonetheless, initiating this discussion is long overdue. Below are a few modest suggestions to get the ball rolling:

It must be understood that the main job of Jewish schools is to create balanced and secure, truly religious Jews. If our students end up becoming talmidei hakhamim so much the better, but that must remain a secondary goal. In a world where individuals choose their beliefs and lifestyles, the societal norm is to understand one's choices. In this cultural context, we clearly cannot expect great success without giving our children some background knowledge as to why Jews are supposed to act in a certain way. Our schools need to transmit an understanding of the Jewish belief system and code of conduct. This will then give our children a sense that they know the raison d'ếtre of the Jewish enterprise. In short, our children must be shown that Judaism as an organic system is the most effective way to a meaningful and holy life.

Curricula must be selected that will explicitly communicate Torah values—their sources and implications. Mitzvoth should be studied in their broader ideological context—from a philosophical, as well as legal, perspective. Teaching the beauty of individual mitzvoth without plugging them into something more systemic is a big mistake that may well have been a prime cause of the "hithaberut" phenomenon in Israel, where young people pick and choose which mitzvoth to observe based on how relevant to their own lives they perceive them to be. It is for this reason that Rav Kook was in favor of teaching Kabbalah on a mass level in Modern times.

We must teach our belief system and faith. This means that students need to know how Jews historically have understood the nature of God, prophecy, and other such matters. As a simple example, someone who has not studied Rambam's discussion on prophecy in Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah will probably be unclear about how we can categorically deny the claims of other religions. Since today's individual will be exposed to other faiths, such information is indispensable.

More important than anything else is the creation and internalization of students' relationship with God. Prayer is central to this. It should be taken for granted that students have to understand what they are saying, the meaning of the words as well as the ideas behind them. We must teach kavana. Children must be taught meditation skills as well as the ability to be comfortable with silence and being alone. It is true that such concepts are not easily imparted. Their central value, however, should force us to spend a great amount of time and effort on developing and perfecting the strategies needed to internalize these skills. If this means working in small groups or one-on-one, it is well worth the extra cost in personnel. 

Finally, texts must be chosen based on their content and in line with educational goals. As such, we must spend more time on Tanakh and Jewish Thought and less time on Talmud. It is worth noting that as far as halakha is concerned, Tanakh is the only subject that a father has to make sure his son learns (Y.D. 245:6, see Taz and Gra).

Concerning method, we must prioritize religious socialization over the acquisition of information. Thus, the educational relationship that must be created between teacher and student should be in the form of apprenticeship. Apprenticeship is teaching by theory followed by practical example. The apprentice is then tested on his or her own ability to use the theory as best as he or she can under the scrutiny of the master. A good master will allow the apprentice to develop his own unique style with the tools that the master has taught.

Indeed, we will need to spend more time with our students and invite them into our lives. Students need to see how truly religious Jews interact with their children, what they do with their free time, how they eat and make berakhot, and so forth. Students need to see how Jews celebrate and why they celebrate; they must see how and why Jews mourn. Correspondingly, teachers need to be role models worthy of emulation.

Even within the classroom, we have to take the phrase na’aseh venishma (we will do and we will understand) more seriously. As most educators know, a hands-on experiential lesson is almost always a successful lesson. Beyond learning about mitzvoth, their performance must be fully experienced. A full mitzvah experience should obviously have more than a physical component. When a teacher shakes a lulav, he or she should find strategies how to prepare for the mitzvah with his or her students, through meditation, song, inspiring stories, and the like. There is often no greater source of motivation than seeing and being involved in a properly performed mitzvah.

Students also need to be exposed to the outstanding role models of our generation. It is important for them to hear about tsaddikim—and see them firsthand. People need living heroes. If we do not provide them, children will look elsewhere. One should not underestimate the role of heroes in personal values development. In this, one must be careful to distinguish between tsaddikim and gedolim. While all gedolim worthy of the name have many outstanding traits, sadly they may also have painfully visible flaws and consequently exposure to such people can be disconcerting for students. While their teachers' flaws, within reason, help to make them more human and thus more accessible as role models, we have to be careful about whom we acclaim to be heroes.

The first step in overhauling the current educational system is to give teachers (current and future) the ability and knowledge to do so. Teachers are in an ideal place to be the foot soldiers of the revolution that we would like to implement.

New teachers must be trained to view themselves as religious facilitators. They have to understand that they hold the keys to the next generation's spiritual development, or lack thereof. As a result, a great responsibility will be given to them and, by the same token, the unparalleled merit will be theirs if they can meet this challenge successfully. They would be making a major contribution to epic history.
 

We live in a time that demands bold thinking. Indeed, we live in a time that also demands bold action. More than ever, it is an "et la'asot lashem"—a time when we require the courage to act for the sake of the Divine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Philosophical-Ideological Platform for Modern Orthodox Education

 

 

Wisdom has built her house on seven hewn pillars.” (Mishlei 9:1)

My first inclination was to decline to respond to this symposium on the grounds that I am not a school leader—or even a practitioner for that matter—and therefore unable to answer such situational questions as you have posed. My next inclination was to formulate alternative, theoretical, questions that are better suited for a broad-based conversation. In the end, I followed neither inclination; my remarks hover intentionally in the ether that separates theory from practice—but, on the other hand, also connects them to one another.

         *         *         *

Is there a coherent and cohesive philosophical preference or prejudice that ought to animate Modern Orthodox Jewish education? Some of our educational policies (notably, those that pertain to limmudei kodesh) resemble the “perennialist” approach associated with traditional education, while others (notably, those of General Studies) tend to look more like the “pragmatic” approach identified with progressive education. Are we philosophically hermaphroditic (possessing the distinctive characteristics of both philosophies), androgynous (having neither philosophy’s idiosyncratic characteristics), or, perhaps, are we agnostics, content to conduct educational business as usual without admitting to any particular philosophy? In an unintended parody of Descartes, do we appear to proclaim: “I think not, therefore I can do whatever I please!”?

         *         *         *

The absence of a clearly articulated educational philosophy does not serve us well. The road of curriculum design, development, and implementation is notable for its many obstacles (insufficient time, inadequate resources, and so forth) that frequently compel detours from the derekh haMelekh of nineteenth-century Eastern Europe, twelfth-century Muslim Spain, fifth-century Sura and Pumbedita, first-century Alexandria, or whatever historical precedent we cite in affirmation of our received educational practice. At these critical junctures, a philosophy is a lodestar whose sighting keeps us securely on our chosen path and acts as surety for our eventual arrival at our proposed destination. Without a clear philosophy, we are only star-gazing—and as inspirational as that may occasionally be, it only thwarts our purpose and obscures our objective.

Schools—not their current (and, regrettably, all too transitory) leaders—should have educational visions that “drive” their missions. A school that is “mission-driven” without the mission itself being motivated by a coherent philosophy is a will-o’-the-wisp. It gives the external appearance of direction and purpose while actually lacking both. A school’s approach to “gender equality,” like its views on “integration,” should similarly be determined by its philosophical predisposition.

How do schools acquire philosophies? Unless a school community is blessed with an informed philosopher, the best way I know is via committee. The “dromedary principle” admonishes us that in its desire to fashion a horse, the committee may produce a camel; still, a camel is superior to no transportation at all. We are not looking for philosophical purity but for contemplative introspection, and a synthetic philosophy is patently acceptable.

         *         *         *

In this light, I should like to offer for your consideration a platform comprising seven philosophical-ideological positions that I would advocate for a school that wishes to be recognized as Modern Orthodox. (These principles are the products of a consultation undertaken several years ago. I am grateful to Dr. Joel Wolowelsky of the Yeshiva of Flatbush for his input, the responsibility for their formulation rests entirely with me.)

 

Modern Orthodox Day Schools and yeshiva high schools should recognize:

  The preeminence of Torah and the fulfillment of mitzvoth according to halakha

A Modern Orthodox school will give priority in funding, staffing, and scheduling to those classes and activities that promote the study of Torah and the fulfillment of mitzvoth. It will concern itself with students' religious behavior and attitudes both in school and outside. It will, if necessary, engage in parent education (in conjunction with synagogues, if possible) to ensure proper modeling of religious behavior.

  The need for excellence in both General and Jewish Studies

Modern Orthodoxy sees the accomplishments of modern science and culture as expressions of the biblical imperatives to conquer the earth and preserve it. A Modern Orthodox school will provide all its students with an acquaintance with the basic principles of science, disciplines in the behavioral and social sciences, and in the humanities. It will likewise ensure that the pursuit of these disciplines does not become a goal unto itself, divorced from their Jewish identities and responsibilities.

The primacy of moral virtue and ethical integrity in personal, business, and professional life

A Modern Orthodox school will implement curricula that provide instruction in both mitzvot bein adam laMakom (laws that govern our relationship to God) and mitzvot bein adam leHaveiro (laws that govern interpersonal relationships) and nurture a school culture that values and promotes the ideal of hessed (such as community service or social action). It will not condone unethical behavior on the part of its staff and students and will condemn such behavior on the part of any member of the Jewish community.

The need to set common educational goals for boys and girls, young men and young women

In a Modern Orthodox school, boys and girls will be given equal opportunities to study Torah and halakha. The equality of opportunity does not necessarily mean identical curricula, but no subject in Jewish studies should be officially declared "off limits" to any student. Modern Orthodoxy neither promotes nor prohibits coeducation; it supports individual schools in the educational decisions that are best for them.

The centrality of the State of Israel to the religious and national existence of the Jewish people

A Modern Orthodox school will advise all its students to personally experience life in Israel, to be cognizant of its needs and goals, and to have a working knowledge of Modern Hebrew. It may also call upon them to plan for aliyah to Israel, and to become actively involved in promoting Religious Zionist values in both Israel and the Diaspora. A Modern Orthodox school will say Hallel on Yom Ha'Atzma'ut and Yom Yerushalayim.

The value of all segments of the Jewish community

A Modern Orthodox school will emphasize to its students that the major events of Jewish history, which have shaped our national identity, have involved and affected all Jews. It will admonish its graduates to love all Jews, maintain contact with them, and work with them on communal issues without regard to their denominational affiliation. It will not decline to participate in Jewish communal events due to the participation of non-Orthodox Jews.

  The Torah as the possession of all Jews

A Modern Orthodox Day School will enroll children of non-Orthodox, non-observant homes as students in the belief that the opportunity to study Torah should not be denied to anyone of the Jewish faith.

 

Agents of Social Change in Israel

 

 

   Rabbi Chaim Meimran, born and raised in Kiryat Gat, sees himself as an agent of social change within his community and within Israeli society. He is the founder of the Social Yeshiva High School in Kiryat Gat and after two years of study in the Merhav-Rabbinic Leadership for Social Change program at Memizrach Shemesh, he decided to introduce a Social Justice curriculum and rewrite the mission of the school to include an emphasis on the Jewish social values of solidarity and justice. These changes to the school are especially important in Rabbi Meimran's community where poverty and social inequalities are prevalent. Rabbi Meimran enjoyed his experience in the Merhav program. "Studying at Memizrach Shemesh made me look at my role as a Rabbi through a different prism; I understand now the important responsibility I have towards my community."

   Rabbi Memiran is one of many Israelis who have been inspired by Memizrach Shemesh, the Center for Jewish Social Leadership based in Jerusalem. Since 2000, Memizrach Shemesh has promoted a language of Jewish social responsibility in Israel. The Center, inspired by Mizrachi and Sephardi Jewish experience, philosophy and commentaries, trains social activists and fosters leadership that is committed to the Jewish values of social responsibility and community action. The aim of the Center is to strengthen a Jewish identity in Israel that emphasizes social values; by placing these values of communal responsibility and tikkun olam (repairing the world) at the center of Jewish identity, Memizrach Shemesh graduates will work to mitigate social gaps and at the same time reduce ideological polarization within Israeli society.

   Eli Bareket, Executive Director of Memizrach Shemesh, says that this emphasis on social values is imperative for the future of Israel. "The work we do can have a significant effect on the way Israeli society deals with social challenges like poverty and inequality; we have the opportunity to make a change using Jewish text study as our tool."

   The learning methods employed at Memizrach Shemesh are based on individual journeys and the use of personal stories in a Beit Midrash setting. Memizrach Shemesh participants meet weekly to study Jewish texts relating to social issues such as poverty, racism, inequality, education policy, community organizing and empowerment. Each session begins on a personal note, followed by Jewish text study and ending with a current event related to the social issue learned. The center initiates programming for rabbis, youth, students, educators, parents and activists.  Many Memizrach Shemesh alumnae continue on to become leaders within their communities:  on campus, in Israel's geographic or economic periphery and in the Israeli public school system.

   The Center's curriculum puts a special emphasis on Jewish texts, commentaries and responsa of Sephardic Rabbis. The philosophy and writings of these Rabbis are significant, because of their dynamic and fruitful encounter with modernity and assimilation, an encounter that was drastically different than the strict dichotomy between religious and secular that was evident in Ashkenazi Jewish communities following the Emancipation in Europe. This tolerant and inclusive Judaism has a lot to contribute to Israeli society today. The tools these rabbis used to deal with the challenges of assimilation and social conflicts within their communities can serve as a guide for Israeli society and Jewish life in the 21st Century.

    Memizrach Shemesh recognizes the increased need for Jewish social justice learning in Israeli society today. Every year the Israeli Social Security Authority announces that there are more and more families living under the poverty line. Also, there are growing ideological gaps between religious and secular Jews. If more Israelis connect to the idea that the guiding principles of Judaism are those of solidarity and justice, Israeli society can be unified and strengthened. With the help of Rabbi Meimran, his colleagues and many other Memizrach Shemesh alumnae, we envision a future of peace, unity and strength in the State of Israel.

 

For more info on Memizrach Shemesh, the Center for Jewish Social Leadership in Jerusalem, visit www.mizrach.org.il

 

 

 

 

The Music of Chance: On the Origin of Species from a Jewish Perspective

The title of this article, “The Music of Chance,” comes from a novel by Paul Auster, although that is the article’s only link to the novel. I chose this title because I would like to convey the message that even though life developed on Earth as a result of chance (as well as of necessity), which is one of the major tenets of the modern evolutionary theory, this fact should not scare us, as observant and devoted Jewish people. Randomness is entirely consistent with biblical and rabbinic sources. However, we should rethink our views on creation of life and humankind.

Chance occurs in the evolution of life at different levels. On the cellular level, the sorting of paternal and maternal chromosomes is an instance of randomness. At the molecular level, mutations take place in the genetic material (DNA or RNA) either spontaneously, during its replication, or due to external causes, such as radiation or chemicals. Moreover, genes or entire parts of chromosomes may recombine. These are random events because there is no way to predict them. Only their frequency could be estimated, but not the exact place where the mutation or the fusion between different DNA segments will occur (unless artificially induced). These kinds of events are routinely observed in any laboratory of molecular biology all over the world.

On the macroscopic level, chance (or, as it is often called, historical contingency) occurs in the environment in which living organisms are found. Natural catastrophes such as earthquakes, floods, meteorite impacts, and so on are the most dramatic events. But there are other, less spectacular instances that could be random, such as the migration of a small, particular group of individuals into an isolated place (genetic drift). These contingent events could direct the evolution into one direction instead of another.

An important point should be stressed. All these changes, at a genetic level as well as at a macroscopic one, are not to be considered accidents that it would be preferable to avoid. The opposite is true. If the DNA replication machinery were extremely defective, by inserting many errors in each cycle of replication, then life could not be perpetuated; however, on the other hand, if the same mechanism were absolutely perfect, no evolution would occur. Genetic shuffling and mutations are the engine that promotes evolution. The same could be said regarding environmental changes. A fixed ecosystem would not allow the selection of new variants, and thus would prohibit evolution.

Primo Levi, the renowned Italian-Jewish writer and chemist and survivor of Auschwitz, makes a similar point, though in a different context, adding a very stimulating analogy. In The Periodic Table, he speculates on the resistance of pure zinc to chemical reactivity. Here are his words:

 

One could draw from this two conflicting philosophical conclusions: the praise of purity, which protects from evil like a coat of mail; the praise of impurity, which gives rise to changes, in other words to life. I discarded the first, disgustingly moralistic, and I lingered to consider the second, which I found to be more congenial. In order for the wheel to turn, for life to be lived, impurities are needed and the impurities of impurities in the soil too, as is known, if it is to be fertile. Dissension, diversity, the grain of salt and mustard are needed: Fascism does not want them, forbids them… it wants everybody to be the same […] I am Jewish…I am the impurity that makes the zinc react, I am the grain of salt or mustard. Impurity, certainly, since just during those months the publication of the magazine Defense of the Race had begun, and there was much talk about purity and I had begun to be proud of being impure. (P. Levi, The Periodic Table, “Zinc,” translated from the Italian by Raymond Rosenthal, Everyman 1995).

 

What was the Jewish reaction to the theory of evolution, after its appearance in the years 1858 (in a short, joint communication by Charles Darwin and Alfred Wallace) and 1859 (with the publication of Darwin’s 400-page book The Origin of Species? The first important Jewish philosopher who dealt with Darwin was probably the Italian Rabbi and kabbalist Eliyahu Benamozegh (1822–1900). He referred repeatedly to Darwin and to natural selection in a long passage in his commentary to the Torah (Em laMikra, Devarim 22:10, Livorno 1863, pp. 87a–88b). R. Benamozegh highly estimated Darwin, quoting him throughout several of his writings. Although R. Benamozegh did not consider Darwin’s theory convincing, he did not see an essential contradiction between Darwin’s view and the Torah (see Jose Faur, “The Hebrew Species Concept and the Origin of Evolution: R. Benamozegh’s Response to Darwin, La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 63, 3, 1997, pp. 42–66, where the entire passage by R. Benamozegh is quoted in its original Hebrew and in English translation).

Among the not-many Jewish thinkers and rabbis who addressed the theory of evolution, Rabbi Shimshon Rephael Hirsch (1808–1888) wrote that although at that time he did not consider it a solid hypothesis, if science ever did prove the factuality of evolution, it would not pose a problem to Judaism's beliefs [at the end of this article I will quote a remarkable passage from R. Hirsch’s writings].

In the twentieth century, Rabbi Avraham Isaac Kook (1865–1935), the first Chief [DEA2] Rabbi of Eretz Israel, treated evolution in many works and letters, pointing to a general agreement between this theory and the Torah. See, for example, the following two extracts (from “Abraham Isaac Kook on Evolution: How evolutionary theory supports a mystical worldview,” by Shai Cherry, Three Twentieth-Century Jewish Responses to Evolutionary Theory, Aleph: Historical Studies in Science and Judaism, 3, 2003 ):

The theory of evolution (hitpattehut) is increasingly conquering the world at this time, and, more so than all other philosophical theories, conforms to the kabbalistic secrets of the world. Evolution, which proceeds on a path of ascendancy, provides an optimistic foundation for the world. How is it possible to despair at a time when we see that everything evolves and ascends? When we penetrate the inner meaning of ascending evolution, we find in it the divine element shining with absolute brilliance. It is precisely the Ein Sof in actu which manages to bring to realization that which is Ein Sof in potentia. (Rav Kook, Orot Hakodesh II:537)

 

Even if it were clear to us that the order of creation was through the evolution of the species, there would still be no contradiction. We calculate time according to the literal sense of the biblical verses, which is far more relevant to us than is ancient history .... The Torah obviously obscures the account of creation and speaks in allusions and parables. Everyone knows that the account of creation is part of the secrets of the Torah. And if all these statements were taken literally, what secrets would there be? ... The essence [of the Genesis narrative] is the knowledge of God and the truly moral life. (Letters of Rav Kook, Letter 91.)

 

If we now examine the approach of contemporary Jewish thinkers, it could be seen that among religious physicists, not only Jewish, the theory of evolution is often considered to be unconvincing and incomplete. This viewpoint is well described in an excellent paper by Dr. Baruch Sterman:

 

The attitude of people who reject Darwin and his theories usually ranges from condescending dismissal to indignant derision. The tacit respect afforded physics or chemistry (often grudgingly) is conspicuously absent with regard to evolutionary biology. Evidence such statements by the Lubavitcher rebbe [ztzl] as, “If you are still troubled by the theory of evolution, I can tell you without fear of contradiction that it has not a shred of evidence to support it” [Challenge: Torah Views on Science and its Problems, A. Carmell and C. Domb, eds. (Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1976), p. 148]. Even the great advocate of harmony between Science and Torah, Prof. Leo Levi, derides the theory in his discussion of evolution: “Looking at this theory [Darwinian evolution] as an attempt at a scientific formulation, it is very unconvincing, to say the least. Despite the beautiful and convincing descriptions in popular science books and high school texts, with their persuasive pictures, not only is the theory of evolution totally unproven, it is practically disproven” [Leo Levi, Torah and Science, (Jerusalem: Feldheim 1983), p. 105].

Evolution nevertheless evokes a disposition of derision and contempt in religious thinkers, even among those who are generally favorably disposed to Torah uMadda. It is constantly adorned with pejoratives: the “so-called” or “alleged” theory is unscientific, implausible, disproven…

Professor Nathan Aviezer, a physicist at Bar-Ilan University, recently published a book, In the Beginning, … [in which he] has no problem accepting virtually all the regnant scientific theories including the Big Bang theory and the fifteen billion year age of the universe… Prof. Aviezer's tone is markedly different in his discussion of evolution than in the rest of his book. Whereas throughout his work he tries to reconcile regnant scientific thought with the Torah, here he goes out of his way to show that the theory of evolution, at least in its most popular form, is not valid scientifically. One reason for Aviezer's presentation is that evolution is seen as the scientific theory most at odds with Judaism. Many believing Jews are unwilling to accept the notion that there can be compatibility between the two. (B. Sterman, “Judaism and Darwinian Evolution,” Tradition 29,1, 1994).

 

Prof. Aviezer’s case is an interesting one, and he has been attacked from two opposite sides. The Hareidi community could not accept that he, as a religious and observant Jew, wrote that the universe was created billions of years ago, that dinosaurs existed in the past, and that life evolved in some manner. From the other side, he has been very sharply criticized by some evolutionary scientists, such as Prof. Raphael Falk from the Department of Genetics of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, who wrote that Prof. Aviezer is a “fundamentalist,” writing “pseudo-science,” “manipulating scientific evidence,” “committing scientific rape,” and so forth. (See both authors in Alpayim—A Multidisciplinary Publication for Contemporary Thought and Literature 9, 1994, [in Hebrew]; see also N. Aviezer, “The Anthropic Principle,” B’Or Ha’Torah 17 (5768/2007), pp. 69–84 and especially p. 78.)

The situation is quite different for observant Jewish life-scientists, who are generally much more well-disposed toward the theory of evolution. See for example the following excerpt from a valuable paper by Dr. Carl Feit, Head of Biology Department at Yeshiva University:

 

The theory of evolution … is not a dead theory as some have claimed, but I believe it to be central to the whole enterprise of biology today…[and] stands as the central pillar of modern biology. It provides a way of explaining and predicting scientific results as any good theory should, with thousands of facts as its empirical base. At the moment, there is no alternative or competing scientific theory to explain the phenomena with which it deals…. The theory of evolution is a firmly rooted one, on the level of the theories of quantum mechanics, relativity, electricity and other well established ways of explaining reality. Indeed, the theory of evolution is the scientific theory of contemporary biology. (C. Feit, “Darwin and Drash: The interplay of Torah and Biology,” The Torah U-Madda Journal, 1990, II, pp. 29–30)

 

Or, as Dr. Sterman puts it in the above-cited Tradition paper:

 

Anyone who has ever been instructed to take antibiotics for a full ten days in order to avoid selection of strains that are resistant to the medicine, should be aware of the basic mechanism of Darwinian evolution. That mutations occur and that organisms better suited to an environment are most likely to survive are facts that virtually no one would question or doubt. It is clear that evolution as Darwin described it is currently taking place, continually and consistently.

 

   This favorable attitude of biologists to the theory of evolution, however, is not always well accepted. Recently, a big scandal has arisen around Rabbi Natan (Nosson) Slifkin, the so-called “Zoo Rabbi.” This young England-born Orthodox rabbi, now living in Israel, has become known for his interests in biology and zoology, on which he wrote several books. His works were quite popular in the Orthodox and even the Hareidi world, until somebody discovered in them several concepts that were considered “heretical.” As a consequence, in 2004, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Rabbi Slifkin was requested by four important rabbis of the Hareidi camp to retract his books at once. Since Rabbi Slifkin did not agree with the charge and did not retract his books, the rabbis’ public condemnations were posted on synagogue walls a few hours before Kol Nidre. Eventually, about twenty important Hareidi rabbis in Israel and in the United States put a ban concerning all Slifkin’s books. The ban caused a strong debate, mainly on the Internet, in which rabbis and scholars with different positions participated all over the world. (The entire story and a lot of texts and documentation could be found in Rabbi Slifkin’s website, www.zootorah.com.)

After the ban, Rabbi Slifkin wrote The Challenge of Creation, Judaism’s Encounter with Science, Cosmology and Evolution (Yashar Books, New York, 2006, 2008), which is a revised and expanded edition of his previous work The Science of Torah (Targum Press, 2001—this publisher discontinued distribution of Slifkin’s books after the ban). The Challenge of Creation is an extremely and unusual lucid book on the relationship between Torah and Science in general, and on evolution in particular. It is an invaluable resource on these subjects, certainly the best work after the collective volume edited by Rabbi Aryeh Carmell and Prof. Cyril Domb, Challenge: Torah Views on Science and its Problems (Feldheim, 1976). It is worth to quote the beginning paragraph of Rabbi Slifkin’s book (in the following part of this artoc;e. I will quote several other passages):

 

This book was written for those who are committed to the tenets of Judaism, but also respect the modern scientific enterprise and are aware of its findings, and who are therefore disturbed by the challenges that are raised for their understanding of Torah. It addresses these challenges by following the approach of Rambam (Maimonides) and other similar Torah scholars towards these issues, which, while firmly within the framework of authentic Orthodox Judaism, is not the method of choice in many segments of the ultra-Orthodox community. But many have found that no other approach works as well in solving these difficulties. Other people may not possess as extensive a background in the sciences or may dispute the validity of the modern scientific enterprise. They may therefore simply not be bothered by the questions discussed in this book, or they may have different ways of dealing with such conflicts. Such people are not the intended audience of this book and they are advised not to read it. (N. Slifkin, The Challenge of Creation, p. 11)

 

That the way of thinking in some Jewish environments is not at all favorable to the theory of evolution is well illustrated by an account reported by Rabbi Marc Angel. A ten-year old boy was told by his Torah teacher that dinosaurs never existed. The boy then said to him that he had visited the Museum of Natural History in New York City and had seen dinosaurs with his own eyes. No problem, the teacher said. They were not dinosaur bones, but dog bones that became swollen during Noah’s flood (Marc D. Angel, “Reflections on Torah Education and Mis-Education,” Tradition 41:2, 2008, pp. 10–23; see also the comments in Tradition 42:1, 2009, pp. 108–110.)

            Why is there such a strong resistance to accept evolution by religious believers, even, or perhaps, especially among the educated individuals?

            In order to illustrate where the problem lies, it is useful to make a comparison with another great case of the past in which science and religion came into conflict—the “Galileo affair.” Today, there is no disagreement about the Copernican theory, which Galileo supported and because of which was consequently taken to court by the Church twice, in 1616 and in 1633, until he was condemned to house arrest. From a theological and doctrinal standpoint, it does not make any difference whether the sun revolves around the Earth or the other way. It is an issue that solely concerns historians of science and of its relation with religion. Today, nobody would ever dream of saying that the statement “the Earth revolves around itself and the sun” is incorrect and heretical. Likewise, nobody is of the opinion that the fact that we are no longer located at the center of the universe, but rather on a small planet that revolves around an average-size star in a peripheral area of one out of billions of existing galaxies, should be conceived as a serious problem from a religious point of view.

            Regarding Darwin’s theory of evolution, however, it’s a different story. The problem is still alive. We are not dealing only with the fact that science provides us with a different description from that of a literal and plain reading of the biblical text. If this were the only problem, then, just like we have read differently the (few) biblical references that talk about the mobility of the sun and the fixity of the Earth and interpreted them not literally, so too we could do the same when reading the first chapters of Bereshith that talk about the creation of the world. There are plenty of classical sources that allow a non-literal interpretation of some passages of the Torah. Rambam deals with the allegorical interpretations in several works: see for example in the Guide of the Perplexed, Introduction, and Part II, chapters 25 and 29; Letter on the resurrection of the dead. (For other classical and modern commentators, see N. Slifkin, The Challenge of Creation, chapter 7; Carmell and Domb (eds.), Challenge; Rabbi Dr. Avraham Steinberg, “Creation and the Theory of Evolution,” in Encyclopedia of Jewish Medical Ethics, translated by Dr. Fred Rosner, Feldheim, Jerusalem-New York, vol. I, pp. 151–166).

Why wouldn’t it be sufficient to explain the biblical text in a non-literal way? The problem is that at the foundation of the theory of evolution lies the notion of chance and contingency. These are not the only components; there is also a remarkable amount of “necessity,” yet the aspect of chance is certainly fundamental. To use Stephen J. Gould’s famous image, if we rewound back the film of the history of life on Earth and then play it forward again, we would not get the same film. And we, all human beings, would most likely not be part of this film. In his own words:

 

Let the “tape of life” play again from the identical starting point, and the chance is vanishingly small that anything like human intelligence would grace the replay.

It fills us with amazement (because of its improbability) that human beings exist at all. Replay the tape a million times from the same beginning, and I doubt that Homo sapiens would ever appear again. It is, indeed, a wonderful life.

Consciousness would not have appeared on our planet if a cosmic catastrophe had not claimed the dinosaurs as victims. In a literal sense, we owe our existence, as large reasoning mammals, to our lucky stars. (S. J. Gould, Wonderful Life, New York: W.W. Norton, 1989, p. 14, p. 289, p. 318)

 

On the same line of thought was Jacques Monod, one of the founders of molecular biology, Nobel prize winner in 1965, who stated in his best-seller Le Hasard et la Necessite: “The Universe was not pregnant with life, nor the biosphere with man” (Chance and Necessity, trans. A. Wainhouse, New York: Knopf, 1971, p. 145).

In truth, not everyone agrees with this idea. C. de Duve, a Belgian biochemist, Nobel prize winner in1974, maintains, on the contrary, that the appearance of life and intelligence are ineluctable phenomena, judging by the physical and chemical characteristics of the universe, and that therefore we would have eventually made our appearance on the scenery of the Earth. To Monod, de Duve responded sharply: “You are wrong.”

 

My reasons for seeing the universe as meaningful lie in what I perceive as its built-in necessities. Monod stressed the improbability of life and mind and the preponderant role of chance in their emergence, hence the lack of design in the universe, hence its absurdity and pointlessness. My reading of the same facts is different. It gives chance the same role, but acting within such a stringent set of constraints as to produce life and mind obligatorily, not once but many times. To Monod's famous sentence "The universe was not pregnant with life, nor the biosphere with man," I reply: "You are wrong. They were." (C. de Duve, Vital Dust: Life as a Cosmic Imperative, Basic Books, New York, 1995, p. 300)

 

The same divergence of opinions can be traced regarding the probability of finding life (and intelligent beings) on other planets. If we think that the appearance of life is a coincidental event, a fortunate number that came up in the lottery, then it is very likely that the appearance of life on the Earth is a unique case in the whole universe. If, on the contrary, wherever there are conditions that are similar to those of the Earth, it is probable—or rather, inevitable—that life has arisen on other planets as well (on this issue, see Amir D. Aczel, Probability 1, Little Brown, 1998).

There is no doubt that de Duve’s and others’ (like Simon Conway Morris) opinions pose less questions from a theological point of view: The Creator puts the Universe in motion, in the beginning of time, and life (and Man) will eventually appear. The concept of “eternity of God” actually means that it makes no difference, to the Creator, whether life and Man appear after 10 or 20 or 100 billion years after the Big Bang. God is eternal and is, so to speak, patient. Whenever Man comes, he comes.

On the contrary, the other opinion, shared by Gould, Monod and many other scientists, is not as easily acceptable within the religious dimension. It is no longer enough to claim that God is the primum movens. According to this opinion, giving the world “the first push” and letting it follow its course would not necessarily generate life or humanity. Thus, if we are the fruit of mere chance and contingence, what’s the point of speaking about a Creator? This is indeed a “formidable difficulty,” as B. Sterman says in a note of his Tradition paper (but without dealing with this problem and only referring to Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ article on evolution in Issues in Jewish Thought, United Synagogue Publication, 1982).

            Is it possible to accept randomness within a religious and, specifically, Jewish view? My answer is: Yes, it is.

            One way to reconcile the idea of a living world (a world that includes humanity) born by chance with a religious view and with the concept of God as Creator may be the assertion that whatever appears to our eyes as accidental, it really isn’t and is in fact “directed” by the Creator. It could be imagined that God sometimes “gives a push” to some meteorite, such as the one that hit the Earth 65 million years ago (specifically, in the Yucatan peninsula) and determined the extinction of the dinosaurs, thus allowing the mammals and, ultimately, humans to take over. We are not meant to know the way God can carry out such a thing. Almost 3,000 years ago, the prophet Isaiah said already: “For My thoughts are not as your thoughts, nor are your ways as My ways, says God” (Isaiah 55:8). Another quotation that is particularly appropriate in this context is from Darwin himself:

 

On the other hand I cannot anyhow be contented to view this wonderful universe and especially the nature of man, and to conclude that everything is the result of brute force…. I feel most deeply that the whole subject [the theological view of evolution] is too profound for the human intellect. A dog might as well speculate on the mind of Newton (Ch. Darwin, Letter to Asa Gray, May 22, 1860)

 

            The idea that what appears as random is in reality guided by a supreme being is followed by a great number of believer and devoted Jewish scientists. They accept evolution as a given, even though they confer a theological explanation to it. A biblical support for this concept is a passage in the Book of Proverbs (16:33): “[When] the lot is cast in the lap, its entire verdict has been decided by God.” On this verse, the Malbim, one of the most important commentators in the XIX century, elaborates:

 

There are things that appear given to chance but are actually providentially determined by God... “the lot is cast in the lap,” hidden from the eye of man, handed over to chance, but nevertheless the eye of God’s providence is displayed in it, and the verdict that the lot brings up is not chance but is from God; just as with the apportioning of the land [see Bemidbar 26:52–56; Talmud, Baba Batra 122a] and so on, where the lot was under God’s providence. (Malbim, Commentary ad loc., transl. by R. Slifkin in The Challenge of Creation, p. 292)

 

The story of Purim is another example of how seemingly random events are, in truth, guided by Divine Providence. The same could be said for Jonah and the terrible storm that came upon the ship he was in.

            However, the idea that God sometimes pulls some strings here and there is not easily acceptable from both a scientific-philosophic and a theological point of view. After all, this way of thinking would not be so different from the theory that asserts that there exists an Intelligent Designer who designed cellular structures and components of biochemical reactions. Scientifically speaking, the Intelligent Design (ID) theory is rejected since it implies the existence of something real that is not explicable in rational terms. Theologically speaking, it is not easily tenable since it depicts a “God of the gaps,” a Creator who is invoked whenever we don’t have a valid scientific explanation, and then becomes unnecessary when the explanation is finally found. Still, it could be argued that the intervention of the Creator is not believable on a cellular and microscopic level (in order to design the bacterial flagellum or the blood-clotting system—two favorite examples of the ID movement), yet it may be so on a macroscopic level (mass extinctions, and so forth). The latter case would be similar to the miracles that the Torah tells about, such as the crossing of the Red Sea and others. This seems to be the way many believer Jewish scientist see the matter, as Gerald Schroeder in his best-seller Genesis and the Big Bang.

            There is a second way to reconcile the idea of chance with a religious view, which seems preferable. A known Midrash by Rabbi Yehudah bar Shimon, interpreting the verse from the Torah “and it was evening, and it was morning” (Bereshith 1:5), states that before the first day there was a “succession of times” (seder zemanim). In response to the question of what God was doing during this primordial time, Rabbi Abbahu replies: “He created worlds and destroyed them, saying: I like this one (world), I disliked the previous ones.” (Bereshith Rabbah 83; see also in Torah Shelemah by Rabbi Menachem Kasher, I, 423). It is true that the Rambam, in the Guide of the Perplexed (II, 30), regards this Midrash as “incongruous” (Pines’ translation; megunne in the Hebrew translation by Ibn Tibbon), because it seems to point at the concept of an eternal universe; however, we may hypothesize that had the Rambam known, as we know today, that the Earth has indeed undertaken several mass extinctions, he would have probably taken R. Abbahu’s statement with more benevolence, as Rabbi Yehudah Halevi in fact did in the Kuzari, I, 67.

Im lo de-mistaphina, I would dare to say that R. Abbahu may be saying that not even the Creator Himself knew, as He began the creation, how it would have turned out. In other words, there wasn’t a completely pre-arranged scheme of the creation; rather, the creation was a sort of “work in progress,” with a development that was also dependent on chance and contingency. When finally, in the last created world (or, if we may, after the last mass extinction), the Homo sapiens makes his appearance, God reveals Himself to him and begins to interact with mankind. God has at last someone to talk to. After all, the history of the relationship between God and Human is that of God seeking Human, who sometimes answers back, and vice versa.

Rabbi Slifkin comments on this Midrash as follows:

 

The “loving deity” clearly manifests His love in more subtle ways than by simply letting everything live forever. Some may still ask how the idea of “trial and error” fits with the concept of a God Who knows the consequences of His actions. Still, it is clear from this Midrash that such was part of the Jewish understanding of God many thousands of years before extinctions were discovered by science. If such phenomena were always our understanding of how God works, then the explanation of the physical mechanisms via evolution cannot be said to challenge religion. (N. Slifkin, The Challenge of Creation, p. 315)

 

            Even the words, which recur several times in the beginning of Bereshith, “and God saw that what He had done was good,” point at this interpretation. This is how the Malbim interprets them:

 

Everywhere in the creation narrative, it concludes with, “And God saw that it was good.” This was meant to emphasize that notwithstanding the fact that each successive stage of creation was yesh mi-yesh [existing from existing], which means that it came about at the expense of the destruction of what had been before—in the pattern of God creating worlds and then destroying them—and all annihilation is evil from the perspective of that which is annihilated, nevertheless, since its purpose was to effect an improvement, a higher stage in creation, it was seen by God as good. (Malbim, Commentary to Genesis 1:4, in Rabbi Slifkin’s translation, The Challenge of Creation, pp. 315–316)

 

Randomness has been discussed by several contemporary observant and religious Jewish

thinkers, as David W. Weiss (see “Randomness and determinism in nature: a consideration,” in his book The Wings of the Dove, Jewish Values, Science and Halachah, B’nai B’rith Books, Washington, D.C., 1987; “Judaism and Evolutionary Hypotheses in Biology: Reflections on Judaism by a Jewish Scientist,” Tradition 19(1), 1981, pp. 3–27). [If I can add a personal note, both Prof. Weiss and the above-quoted Prof. Falk, who has been called a “militant secularist,” were my teachers at the Life Science Department of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I report this fact to emphasize how two opposite approaches can be equally reconciled with the theory of evolution.]

A discussion on the “theology of randomness” can be also found in a valuable paper by Dr. John D. Loike and Rabbi Prof. Moshe D. Tendler, together with many other relevant points and references. Specifically, these authors refer to the Ramban and the Netziv and conclude in this way:

 

In short, randomness is not a synonym for atheism and need not conflict with a Torah-based outlook. When evidence of randomness is used to deny the existence of a supreme being, we have a non sequitur that rests on a simplistic understanding of theology, the persistence of which may reflect an antecedent personal belief or bias. (J. D. Loike and M. D. Tendler, “Molecular Genetics, Evolution, and Torah Principles,” The Torah u-Madda Journal, 14, 2006–07, pp. 173–192)

 

The concept of randomness is not at all a new one in philosophy and theology. The Rambam says in his Guide:

 

As for my own belief with regard to this fundamental principle, I mean divine providence [hashgaha elokit, in Ibn Tibbon’s translation], [… it is] nearer than [the other opinions] to intellectual reasoning. For I for one believe that […] divine providence watches only over the individuals belonging to the human species and that in this species alone all the circumstances of the individuals and the good and the evil that befall them are consequent upon the deserts, just as it says: For all His ways are judgment [Devarim 32:4]. But regarding all the other animals and, all the more, the plants and other things, my opinion is that of Aristotle. For I do not by any means believe that this particular leaf has fallen because of a providence watching over it; nor that this spider has devoured this fly because God has now decreed and willed something concerning individuals; nor that the spittle spat by Zayd [Reuven] has moved till it came down in one particular place upon a gnat and killed it by a divine decree and judgment; nor that when this fish snatched this worm from the face of the water, this happened in virtue of a divine volition concerning individuals. For all this is in my opinion due to pure chance [mikre gamur], just as Aristotle holds. […] If, as he [Aristotle] states, the foundering of a ship and the drowning of those who were in it and the falling down of a roof upon those who were in the house, are due to pure chance, the fact that the people in the ship went on board and that the people in the house were sitting in it is, according to our opinion, not due to chance, but to divine will in accordance with the deserts of those people as determined in His judgments, the rule of which cannot be attained by our intellects. (Rambam, The Guide of the Perplexed, II, 17, transl. by Sh. Pines, The University of Chicago Press, 1963) [This passage should be read in conjunction with chapter 51 of Part III, in particular the passage beginning with: “A most extraordinary speculation has occurred to me just now through which doubts may be dispelled and divine secrets revealed.”]

 

Rambam’s words, where he says that there is no divine providence when a spider devours a fly or the like, are quite similar to Darwin’s words in the above-quoted letter to Asa Gray about a dog and Newton’s mind:

 

But I own that I cannot see, as plainly as others do, and I should wish to do, evidence of design and beneficence on all sides of us. There seems to be too much misery in the world. I cannot persuade myself that a beneficent and omnipotent God would have designedly created the Ichneumonidae (a wasp with parasitic larvae) with the express intention of their feeding within the living bodies of caterpillars, or that a cat should play with mice. (Ch. Darwin, Letter to Asa Gray, May 22, 1860)         

 

In conclusion, Rabbi Slifkin’s own final words are appropriate:

 

Each generation attains new insights into both Torah and the natural world. The revelations of science, which have challenged scientists to account for the extraordinary lawfulness of the universe, have enhanced our appreciation of the wonders of God’s creation. They have enhanced our grasp of the unity of existence. And they have also enhanced our under standing of the “creative wisdom” of God, as Rabbi Hirsch phrased it. There is grandeur in this view of Creation. (N. Slifkin, The Challenge of Creation, p. 345)    

 

And surely it is no coincidence that his last words refer to Darwin’s conclusive words:

 

There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed [by the Creator] into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved. (Ch. Darwin, On the Origin of Species, 6th edition, 1872; the words in brackets are not present in previous editions)

 

Two hundred years after Darwin’s birth, this idea should sound reasonable and acceptable to every open-minded person. It certainly was reasonable to Rabbi Shimshon Rephael Hirsch, who wrote the following words in the XIX century:

 

This will never change, not even if the latest scientific notion that the genesis of all the multitudes of organic forms on earth can be traced back to one single, most primitive, primeval form of life should ever appear to be anything more than what it is today, a vague hypothesis still unsupported by fact. Even if this notion were ever to gain complete acceptance by the scientific world, Jewish thought, unlike the reasoning of the high priest of that notion, would nonetheless never summon us to revere a still extant representative of this primal form as the supposed ancestor of us all. Rather, Judaism in that case would call upon its adherents to give even greater reverence than ever before to the one, sole God Who, in His boundless creative wisdom and eternal omnipotence, needed to bring into existence no more than one single, amorphous nucleus and one single law of "adaptation and heredity" in order to bring forth, from what seemed chaos but was in fact a very definite order, the infinite variety of species we know today, each with its unique characteristics that sets it apart from all other creatures. (R. Hirsch, Collected Writings, vol. 7 pp. 263–264)

 


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Do not say that earlier days were better than these!

—Kohelet 7:10

 

My late father, Rabbi Kopul Rosen died in 1962, at the age of 49. He was a remarkably charismatic personality, tall and elegant, an orator and public speaker of a type and style no longer to be found. He was arguably the most influential and certainly the most popular rabbi in the Britain of his day. But he was also the symbol of a kind of rabbi and a style of Orthodoxy that has all but disappeared.

My father was born in London in 1913 to a very modest family, and his gifts were recognized at an early age. He was invited to preach in various synagogues from the age of 13. He was taken under the wing of the great Rabbi Yechezkel Abramsky, Av Bet Din in London at the time and he was sent to learn at Mir in Lithuania, where he received his semikha from the Rav of the town and the Rosh Yeshiva. There he came under the powerful influence of the great mussar mashgiah, R. Yeruham Levovitz, and indeed he gave me his Hebrew name. Mussar became the most significant element in my father's early spiritual life.

He returned to England in 1937 and was appointed the Rav of a prominent synagogue in Manchester before being promoted as Communal Rabbi of Glasgow in 1944. Despite his responsibilities, he found time to travel once a month to Gateshead to learn with the great Rav Dessler who was staying there at that time before he moved to Israel.

In 1954, my father was called to London to become the Principal Rabbi of the Federation of Synagogues. It had been established by Lord Swaythling as a more Orthodox alternative to the dominant United Synagogue. It was a meteoric rise for a man in his early thirties. While he was in the rabbinate my father wore the “old-style” square cappel and frock coat. By contrast, my mother, although a model rebbetzin, did not normally cover her hair. My father, together with other distinguished “heimishe” rabbis, ate at the “unsupervised” vegan restaurant in Leicester Square and enjoyed the opera at Covent Garden. But this was a time when the United Synagogue itself possessed not one working kosher mikvah, and hardly any of its officers, let alone its members, were Shomer Shabbat.

After Chief Rabbi Hertz died in 1946, my father, only 32 at the time, was one of two final candidates to succeed him. Not only his youth but his independence told against him. He felt that the options open to him in the rabbinate were so limited that he increasingly focused on education, as this was a distraction from the pettiness and wrangling of communal affairs.

While still with the Federation, my father founded a Jewish boarding school, Carmel College, in the Berkshire countryside in 1948. It was modelled on the great English public schools, with their outstanding academic standards and well-rounded cultural and sporting programs. He wanted, in his own words, to offer the very best of Jerusalem and Athens. In his opinion, a Judaism that was not based on serious study would not survive. But equally, a person who could not find his way in the modern world and feel at home in Western culture would be lacking too. His vision of “authentic” Judaism was Maimonidean both in its elitism and its breadth of scholarship. His worldview had a lot in common both with R. Shimshon Raphael Hirsch on the one hand and Rav J. B. Soloveitchik on the other (with the caveat that many who purport to speak in their names nowadays do not).

In 1949, my father resigned from the rabbinate. Coincidentally, he also resigned as president of the Mizrahi Movement in the UK when it went into politics in Israel. He was adamantly opposed to religious political parties. He believed, correctly with hindsight, that religion would end up, in his words, “prostituting itself” for political gain. Yet he was always a religious Zionist and insisted on our using Havara Sepharadit when speaking Ivrit. His dream was to settle in Israel. At the time that he died, he had been negotiating to establish a school similar to Carmel College in Israel, outside Petah Tikvah.

Our family moved to the school campus of Carmel at Greenham Common outside Newbury. Three years later the school transferred to Mongewell Park some ten miles south of Oxford, and that was where we were brought up, in rural splendour—but isolated from the main London community.

Religious life at Carmel was self-sufficient, a little community of its own in which we were all encouraged to participate. When the school was in recess it became a sort of intellectual retreat for staff and visitors, rabbinic and academic, who would come down for weekends. My father particularly delighted in hosting visitors from Oxford University and from Israel. I remember their exchanges, the sparring on matters secular and religious and the constant appearance of stacks of books of all kinds that one had to read.

We were constantly being exposed to ideas of all kinds. I recall his constant reiteration of the need to understand and feel comfortable in dealing with the dominant culture and the best way of doing that was by being confident and well grounded in one's own. He was not in favour of enclavism, of hiding within a mental ghetto to protect oneself from outside challenges. Rather, he espoused confronting these challenges and learning how to either reconcile, accept, or reject. He was inclusive in his attitude toward individuals of all types of Jewish identity while holding strongly to his Orthodoxy and having no patience for Reform ideology. When he returned from a visit to America he told us how he was taken aback by the prominent rabbis and communal leaders he met who held any degree of religious practice in contempt.

Most of my father's pupils did not come from religious backgrounds, and he therefore saw his role as one of educating and encouraging, of winning over by presenting Judaism as both a vibrant experience and a great storehouse of learning and wisdom. Above all, he was lenient in his halakhic decisions, for others if not for himself.

This was the atmosphere in which I grew up—an atmosphere that was religiously and intellectually stimulating and yet on the fringes of the community, neither part of it yet neither completely detached. In 1967, my father sent me, a rebellious teenager, to Kol Torah yeshiva in Bayit veGan in Jerusalem. He believed that only an intensive “old-world” yeshiva education could give a Jew that profound respect and love for Torah that was essential for informed religious commitment, in the same way that he urged pupils to get a thorough and intense education in Western culture and science.

In Israel at this time you could count the number of “foreign” yeshiva bahurim on the fingers of your hands. Israel was still a poor, struggling, and largely socialist country. The daily diet revolved around TCP (tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers), together with coarse black bread and margarine, and the universal eggplant. Meat was almost unavailable; we might get chicken for Shabbat if we were lucky. Hardly anyone had a car, apart from government ministers, and one contemporary who was fortunate enough to have a Vespa was regarded as something of a Rothschild. But there was an amazing pioneering atmosphere that is now largely lost.

The extent of the antagonism that existed to religion after the State was founded is largely forgotten. The divide in Israel between the Old Yishuv and the left-wing, secular pioneers, goes back a very long way. I arrived in Haifa by boat from Marseilles. Haifa was the most secular of Israeli cities and so left-wing that it was nicknamed “Red Haifa.” It was the only place in Israel where public transport continued on Shabbat. I was made fun of for wearing my cappel and was even spat at by a wild woman on Nof haCarmel. I was authoritatively informed that I did not need religion any more now that I had left the ghetto and come to this socialist paradise of liberated Jews. I asked for candles on Friday night at a Tiberias youth hostel. The caretaker told me I did not need to keep Shabbat any more now that there was Jewish State, and besides he did not fight for Israeli independence for people like me to drag the State back into the Middle Ages.

Employment was almost entirely controlled by the Histadrut, Ahdut haAvodah, and left-wing parties. It was unheard of to see men or women with head coverings working in public service. The League Against Religious Coercion used to send tenders full of brawny Kibbutzniks into Mea Shearim on a Shabbat spoiling for a fight. It is true the divide today remains as bitter as ever, but then the Orthodox were written off as unwanted fossils. Now there is a political battle for supremacy between rivals that count large followings, and both sides are more nuanced.

The yeshiva world then was dominated by the mighty institutions of Hevron and Mir in Jerusalem and Ponevez and Slabodka in B’nei Brak. The only Hassidic yeshiva of note at that time was that of the Tchebiner Rov. The Brisker Rov and the legacy of the Hazon Ish were powerful influences but not yet institutionalized. There were other smaller yeshivot in Bnei Brak and Jerusalem, and some rural ones like Kfar Hassidim. The once great Merkaz haRav Kook, torchbearer of religious Zionism, was a small collection of incompatible individuals living on its glorious past, around a courtyard at the back of the old Egged terminal on Rehov Kook. There was no such thing as a “modern” or a ba’al-teshuva yeshiva, much less institutions for American kids on one-year excursions.

Kol Torah was the new institution then, unique in that its old Mir Rashei Yeshiva had determined to build a clean, modern yeshiva with running water, baths, and the sort of facilities not available elsewhere. It was impressive, but too clinical for me. I was invited to the poorer, more primitive and less institutionalized yeshiva of Be'er Yaakov, for a Shabbat, and I was hooked.

Be'er Yaakov had recently started up, amongst the orchards and jackals of the coastal plane. It was a collection of bedbug-ridden huts dominated by an unlikely pair of master teachers with their rival groups of devotees, the intellectually brilliant and jovial Moshe Shapiro and the somber mussar giant Shlomo Volbe, both graduates of Mir in Lithuania. It was intense, passionate, and totally inspirational, such a contrast to insipid Anglo Jewry. Here one could experience the passion of prayer, the introspection of serious Mussar, and the excitement of intense Torah study. Perhaps it was its smallness that enabled it to be so different, and of course as it grew it lost its initial pioneering magic.

Rav Volbe was rumored to have studied philosophy in Germany before rejecting its values and moving to Mir. Certainly his Mussar had an analytical and intellectual aspect to it. When I heard him talk about Rambam's concept of “The Perfect Unity of God” I dared to confide that I did not understand what a perfect unity was and asked if this did not conflict with Rambam's suggestion that one could only say what God was not. He smiled at me, his gray eyes fixing me through his bottle round glasses, “Don't worry, young man. Learn Torah and one day you'll understand.” In all my years in yeshiva this was the nearest I ever got to discussing philosophy.

Be'er Yaakov was where I met Brooklyn boys for the first time. They seemed to have a social scale of values that all Jews were better than all white non-Jews, all white non-Jews were automatically better than all black non-Jews, and the only exceptions to the rule were Lubavitch Hassidim who were worse than the worst black non-Jews. This was my first intimation that I was seriously out of intellectual step with a significant part of the Orthodox world!

After two different periods at Be'er Yaakov, I wanted to add other dimensions to my yeshiva curriculum and transferred to Merkaz haRav Kook, largely because of the Nazir's evening lectures on mysticism and philosophy. I was disappointed by the yeshiva itself because of its heavy involvement in Israeli politics, which I found unsavory and corrupt. (Only later did I discover that my father had resigned from Presidency of the Mizrahi organization in Britain when the Israeli branch entered the Knesset. He had never discussed it with me. He later told me he wanted me to come to my own conclusions.)

One lesson I learnt from Merkaz was that it is “The Hour that Maketh the Man.” Rav Zvi Yehuda Kook had a small coterie of faithful students around him. Most of them are now prominent in Israeli religious life. But he was largely ignored both by the rest of the yeshiva and certainly by the outside world as a man of weird and messianic views. After 1966, when the West Bank was captured and the wave of idealism swept the country, Rav Zvi Yehuda was transformed overnight into the voice of radical territorial messianism.

Thousands came to hear him repeat the same ideas that a year or two earlier had been all but ignored. This taught me, too, that tides of opinion and ideology, political and religious, go in and out according to external factors that the individual cannot hope to predict or control. I found this frustrating in one way, because it meant one's opinions mattered less than what was fashionable at the time. But it was also ultimately comforting. Even if my perception of the spiritual life was currently out of fashion, eventually the circle would turn.

I returned to the UK because my father had insisted I have, if not a career, at least qualifications that would enable me to be self-sufficient. My yeshiva contemporaries tried all sorts of devices to prevent me from leaving, moral and spiritual blackmail. And I tried. But my father, fortunately and thankfully, stood firm. When we discussed my future, I suggested I might want to go into Jewish education or the rabbinate. Even if secretly my father might have been pleased, his jaundiced view of a rabbi's life led him to insist that I have another career as a fall-back, so I applied to Cambridge University to study architecture. Tragically, he lost his battle with leukemia and died just a few months into his 50th year. Now there was no doubt in my mind I had to try my best to follow in his footsteps.

My plan was to get the most I could out of Cambridge. I switched my field of study to philosophy. They called it “moral science” in those days, although it was neither moral nor scientific. But it was a wonderful introduction to rational thought, and in particular, to linguistic analysis, which stood me in great stead in my life as a teacher. I loved Cambridge and delighted in all the cultural and sporting as well as intellectual opportunities it offered. Although there was a small vibrant community of yeshiva graduates and a little student synagogue with Shabbat meals and regular services, nevertheless my Jewish soul went into a kind of hibernation.

Eventually it was time to exchange one world for another and I wanted it to be as intense and overwhelming an experience in Torah as I had just experienced in Western culture. So I wrote to Reb Leizer Yehuda Finkel of Mir, asking if I could come to learn there. I chose Mir because I was now in my twenties and wanted older company. In those days Mir was almost entirely a Kollel. I also wanted to be in the intense atmosphere of Mea Shearim and Bet Yisrael. It was hemmed into its own little extreme Ghetto, close to the Jordanian border in a divided Jerusalem, near the Mandlebaum Gate the only crossing point east. It was as far from Cambridge as one could get. Reb Leizer Yehuda replied, accepting me. Of course it was nothing to do with my achievements, but simply his policy of accepting the sons of old Mir alumni.

By the time I arrived in Mir in 1965, Reb Leizer Yehuda had died. I was ushered into his son Reb Chaim Zev Finkel “Chazap,” who received me kindly. I told him I wanted to learn in Mir. He asked me where I had come from. I said from Cambridge.

“Oh,” he said, “this is not the right yeshiva for you, and anyway we are very full. We have no space.”

“But I was at Be'er Yaakov before that,” I replied.

“Well, that is different. But tell me what did you study at Cambridge?”

“Philosophy,” I replied.

“No, this is definitely not the place for you. Try Merkaz haRav Kook.”

“But I have a letter here from Reb Leizer Yehuda accepting me.” I produced my trump card.

He took it and read it. “Oh, so you are the son of Kopul. Well, I cannot go against my father. But I warn you, if you talk any philosophy here in the yeshiva you will be thrown out.”

What was I going to say, that the philosophy I had studied was not anti-religious? It was not at all interested in religion because God was non-empirical? As A. J. Ayer had said, any statement that could not be empirically verified was “non-sense” (not rubbish, simply a subject there was no point in discussing rationally). Or that as Wittgenstein had said, “That about which we cannot speak we must remain silent?” Besides, I had no intention of spending any time on anything other than Torah. I knew that I would have to suppress the rational side of my mind. So I was only too happy to agree and thus began my years in Mir.

The traditional yeshiva was neither designed to deal with theological issues nor with intellectual doubt. The assumption was and remains that everyone had bought into the essential principles and ideas of its world. The question of belief in God or a definition of “truth” would never arise in such an environment. Certainly there was no one there who would have known how to respond to a challenge from outside its own parameters. In many ways, it makes sense for an institution to concentrate on its core expertise. But it meant that for the person who thought independently or who had questions that required rational answers, the traditional yeshiva was unable to meet those needs.

Much later, different types of yeshiva emerged in which discussion and debate were encouraged, mainly what are called ba’al-teshuva or outreach yeshivot. But even then the debate is usually within defined parameters and from a theological rather than a philosophical point of view. That is to say, theology is committed to its conclusions even before a word is spoken; whereas philosophy tries to discover what the answer might be or might not be. Still I have my doubts as to whether it is worth diluting a specialized institution. Anyway, it did not matter to me. I had my fill of rational argument at Cambridge. Abstractions had lost much of their attraction. I really did want to leave that behind while I concentrated on a totally different sphere of religious experience.

Sadly “Chazap” himself soon died and that left Reb Chaim Shmulevitz as the Rosh Yeshiva and his son-in-law Reb Nochum “Trokker” as the power behind the throne. Reb Beinish Finkel was also a Rosh Yeshiva, but despite his impressive appearance he was not in the same caliber as Reb Chaim, and devoted most his time to fundraising.

When, in my second year, Reb Chaim began to give mussar talks as well as his talmudic tours de force he was simply extending his brilliant talmudic method to the realms of midrash instead of halakha or pilpul. Reb Chaim would occasionally launch into the political arena. He said he would not allow any of his pupils to teach in a Yeshiva Tikhonit. And during election time he said he knew that the major religious party that spoke for the Hareidi world at that stage, Agguda, was corrupt but that everyone should vote Agguda because that would benefit the Yeshiva world most. The only way I could get out of being press-ganged into working for Agguda was by declaring myself a member of Neturei Karta! Actually a significant proportion of Mir Kolleniks at that time were loyal to Neturei Karta, including the first “foreign minister” of the movement, the American Moshe Hirsch.                      

Mir was a shadow then of its present incarnation. The main building was the same on the outside then as it is today. In those days, though, you entered to the smell of the urinals on the ground floor that everyone in the area took advantage of, and the bedrooms next to them were the refuge of waifs and strays in Bet Yisrael. The main Bet Midrash upstairs was half its present size. It filled up only during the mornings, when many Yerushalmi kollel men chose to come and study in Mir. It was packed again for the shiurim given by Reb Chaim and Reb Nochum. But otherwise in the evenings it was all but empty except for the small number of single men who had no home to go back to. In winter the improvised paraffin metal stove that heated the hall emitted noxious fumes and clouds of smoke. But for the few late-night learners it was a haven, as well as a place where the local beggars could come and warm themselves against the fierce Yerushalmi winters. The north side of the building housed the rashei yeshiva and their families and the place had an air of run down familiarity. Mir then was small, intimate, and familial, with only a handful of “foreign” students.

I was given a bed in a room on the third floor with two forty-year-old bachelors. The room was a garbage dump. My roommates spent a good part of each day lying on their beds, chain smoking, making notes and comments on the Gemara. They seemed impervious to the filth, the smell, the dirty laundry, the ash, the dirt, and the bugs crawling up the wall. Initially I was in a state of shock, close to tears. I wondered if this was a last ditch attempt to stop me from coming to Mir. But I soon set to work, cleaned and disinfected. All the while, the two old bachelors continued to ignore me. I imposed my standards of cleanliness, bought them ashtrays, and within six months they had both left to get married. The only thing I could not clean or repair was the one bathroom, which served as a general dumping ground and storeroom. And so visits to Zupnick's mikvah became the only opportunities for hot water.

The contrast with university could not have been greater, especially the notion of study for study's sake, not to pass exams or to graduate. It was far more demanding than any other sort of study I had experienced. The dedication of men of all ages was tangible, completely immersed and living every moment they could in Torah. It was intoxicating. Now my soul came alive and the values of Cambridge receded into the past. It was easy to spend 16 to 18 hours a day in study, and I had so much to catch up on. It was seductive. I considered making it my life. The shidukhim I was offered all required that I devote myself entirely to the yeshiva world. But I knew my loyalty to my father's memory required me to go back out into the world of disappearing Jewry and tilt at windmills.

I stayed at Mir throughout the year, not like nowadays when flights are cheap and visits home or for vacation are considered the norm. I left only one summer to go to Southern Rhodesia, as it was then, on a mission to help the community in Bulawayo. Afterward, it was arranged that I would meet up with Rav Beinish in Johannesburg to help his fundraising campaign. I asked Reb Chaim what he thought I ought to do about Apartheid and racial discrimination. He said, to his credit, that he did not know enough about the situation to give me an opinion and I should make up my own mind. How unlike so many current rashei yeshiva who seem to have received “Daas Torah” on every possible situation. My Rhodesia experience was electrifying and confirmed my desire to preach, teach and outreach.

Another year, I returned to England for a summer break to be with my widowed mother and family. Otherwise, though I say it myself, I was a complete “matmid.” I had no time or interest in anything else—no books, newspapers, music, or other distraction.

The only external influences I allowed myself were when occasionally on a Shabbat I would emerge from the depths of Mea Shearim and venture into Rehavia. Either I would visit the former Chief Rabbi of South Africa, Louis Rabinowitz, or Yaacov and Penina Herzog. Louis was primarily concerned with my future as a community rabbi. He kept insisting that I should not lose myself in the ivory tower of yeshiva, but prepare myself for the outside world and absorb as much knowledge as I could of Bible, history, and thought. He was a great raconteur and liked to entertain with stories of his rabbinical battles, either for Zionism or against Apartheid. His emphasis on national and universal issues had a significant influence on me.

The Herzog house was altogether more ethereal. The younger son of former Chief Rabbi Herzog, Yaacov Herzog, had been the Israeli Ambassador to Canada and had argued publicly with the notoriously anti-Jewish historian Arnold Toynbee, who found no room in his history of the world for the Jews. A career diplomat, he was then the Director of the Foreign Ministry. His rabbinical credentials were impressive, but it was his combination of Jewish and Western culture in such an elegant and appealing way that really had a greater impact on me than anyone other than my father. He was actually appointed Chief Rabbi of the UK, but illness intervened, and yet another brilliant mind and magnetic personality died far too early.

Another of his regular guests was Haym Soloveitchik, brilliant, incisive, and critical of the religious distortions he saw around him. He too was a strong influence on me in emphasizing the importance of academic analysis and discipline. I was tempted to consider academia. But I could not envision myself in an ivory tower. I did however realize that one of the most important elements in a good education is to have the privilege of meeting and getting to know great minds and listening to alternative perspectives.

Eventually, I devoted myself to Yoreh Deah with a brilliant but strange Alter Mirrer, an old bachelor called Sobel who knew every word of every commentary by heart. Although he always brought his own text with him, he never seemed to need to consult it. He was also an expert in linguistics and I was always being asked to order books by the great Danish linguists for him.

I jumped through the hoops and passed the exams and interrogations of various dayanim until I came finally to ask Reb Chaim for semikha. He asked me to go and speak to Reb Nochum, because he had some things he wanted to ask me. I walked with trepidation down to his subterranean apartment. We had only had a few extended personal conversations of significance during my time in Mir. One was when he wanted suggest a shidukh. Another was one Pesah I stayed in yeshiva and we had a conversation over the divide between the secular and the religious in Israel. He told me that he did not really understand what the problem was. His children realized and understood the problem but did not know how to deal with it. Perhaps, he suggested, his grandchildren would be able to rectify matters.

I can only recall one conversation with Reb Chaim. It was some years after I had left and had come back to recharge my batteries. It was over the limits of leniency in halakha and the room for change. I talked about the pressures in the rabbinate for change, particularly on women's issues. He said that in his opinion, though he was not paskening, so long as I could find two Rishonim who agreed with what I wanted to do, I could, within my own community, permit what custom had not.

Reb Nochum was always wise, measured, and friendly. But I did not know what to expect this time. He sat me down and then, with that twinkle in his eye and half-smile, he started.

“Before I can recommend Reb Chaim to give you semikha I want to clarify a few things that I have heard that you said.”

My stomach churned. I had behaved impeccably. I had studied diligently. I had not, to my memory, ever stepped out of line in any way or raised any controversial issues. But clearly I had been spied upon relentlessly. What was going to come out?

“I heard that you said that shlogging kapporos (slaughtering chickens before Yom Kippur as a ceremonial of atonement) is barbaric.”

“Yes,” I admitted. I had, after all, been sick after my first practical shehita lesson. I could not eat meat for months after visiting an abattoir. I admitted I found the kapporos business barbaric.

“Actually, I agree with you. We never did kapporos back in Lithuania. But if you are going to be a Rav in a community you need to be very careful what language you use. Barbaric is a very harsh word and people will get the wrong impression. Do you understand me?”

“Yes. I understand what you are saying and of course you are right. Hakhamim hizaharu beDivreikhem.”

“Yes, but you also said that Rambam cannot answer our problems because he based himself on Aristotle and nowadays no one thinks the way Aristotle did.” I admitted that error too, relieved if after years of being observed this was all they had against me.

He continued, “Look, if the Jews then were on a much higher level than the Jews nowadays, which of course you will agree, so it must be that the great non-Jews then were greater than the non-Jews nowadays. So how can someone nowadays say Aristotle was wrong?”

What could I say? He looked searchingly at me. I looked down in capitulation. I was not going to dig a bigger hole for myself.

“And I heard you said that if Noah’s flood had covered all of the earth, why were there kangaroos only in Australia? What does that mean?”

I started to explain what the problem was, and that these were the sorts of issues that a rabbi going out into the secular world would have to deal with, and I was just looking for answers.”

He must have been satisfied because he told me to go upstairs again to Reb Chaim, who wrote out a semikha that I am embarrassed to read to this day, so generous is the wording. I often went back over the summer to relive the past, to see that, despite the enlargements and new building, that traces of the hole could still be seen, where a shell hit the yeshiva in the Six-Day War of 1967 as everyone huddled down in the kitchen. Illness struck yet another member of the family and Reb Nochum bravely battled it. But it was sad to see his slow deterioration. His untimely death was a terrible loss to the Torah world in more ways than one. I don't know what it was about Mir that so much talent expired before its time. Perhaps the fire burnt so powerfully it burnt itself out. Or, to borrow from another culture, “Those whom the gods love, die young.”

The world I entered when I returned to Britain to become a pulpit rabbi was a very different one. Despite my time in Cambridge, it was still a culture shock. Religion was and is so much more a matter of social convention and conformity than spiritual excitement. Adjusting to a world outwardly mine, but in fact very far removed, was a challenge. Unlike in the United States, nominal Orthodoxy is the dominant denomination in Britain. Reform and Conservative have always been minority interests. Most of the rabbis or reverends in the Anglo-Jewish world of the 1960s were graduates of Jews College, with its academic approach to Jewish Studies. Homiletics, liturgy, history, and pastoral skills vied with Talmud for a place in the curriculum. (Insofar as I had any knowledge or expertise in these areas I was completely self-taught.)

Most of those I knew were admirers of the controversial Rabbi Louis Jacobs, who ended up being effectively driven out of the Orthodox community. But given the nature of Anglo Jewry, most of them decided to remain silent and keep their jobs. I on the other hand, was the first of a trickle that turned into a tidal wave of rabbis trained in black-hat yeshivot. The only alternative to the established rabbinate at that time was the fledgling Chabad movement. The ba’al-teshuva and outreach organizations were years away.

So when I started in the rabbinate I was coming from the right wing. It is true that my background gave me a more open and cultured approach, which helped me a great deal in reaching out to disaffected youngsters. But certainly my loyalty was more with what would later come to be known as the Hareidi world than the more flaccid Rabbinical School brand of Judaism. I found the United Synagogue a very uncomfortable, pompous and alienating place with its bureaucratic centralized authority. So I looked for independent Orthodox synagogues where I would be the Mara D'Atra rather than a cog in the wheel.

My first position was in Glasgow, where many still remembered my father with awe and affection. It had at the time some 15,000 Jews. My synagogue, Giffnock, was huge, nearly a thousand families—but only a small core of religiously committed individuals. Its ethos and origins were strongly Lithuanian. The vast majority of the community, particularly the younger generation, was uninterested and disaffected. The rabbinate in the city was riven by rivalry and its status was low. It was the perfect place for me because I could both provide for the old guard with daily Gemara and other shiurim and reach out to the youngsters, going where I knew I could find them and trying to present a different image of Judaism than the stuffy and killjoy one that they had previously seen. I wanted to show that one could be a modern citizen of the world and enjoy its many legitimate experiences while still adhering strictly to Torah. I tried to make the services more accessible. I would often interrupt the congregation's talking, not to shut them up directly, but to interest them in the relevant text with an explanation or observation. It helped relieve the boredom of those who understood little and cared less.

And I went out of my way to court controversy. Most of my congregants ate out in the city. I caused a stir by suggesting that if they ate smoked salmon or salad on cold plates instead of eating outright treif, they would avoid breaking any laws. As word spread, I was called by various scandalized colleagues asking me how I could justify salads without a proper check for bugs. I assured them I would give a lecture on the subject.

My methods succeeded. The synagogue began to fill up and my time in Glasgow was exciting and rewarding, the community warm and appreciative. It was hard work—almost 300 weddings and bar mitzvas in three years and constant sick visiting, funerals, and shiva houses to attend. But I made many friends who have stayed in touch ever since. Outside of its decaying industrial centres, Glasgow was a wonderful place to live, an hour's drive from the Highlands or the sea. It was only the accident of the premature resignation of the headmaster of Carmel College, my father's school, that enticed me away from my Scottish idyll. I was certainly not going to turn down the opportunity of trying to continue my father's work.

The next fourteen years of my life as Principal of Carmel College were an opportunity for me to teach my religious attitudes and values to some three hundred 11- to 19-year-old pupils a year, from around the world. That too was an exciting and highly rewarding experience, but education is a different field than the rabbinate.

After a sabbatical in Israel in 1984, I returned to the rabbinate in London to the only old style Orthodox independent synagogue, the Western Synagogue, which was two hundred years old. The observant Jewish community had all but abandoned central London for the northern suburbs, leaving the Western without a significant local constituency. It survived because it owned its own lucrative burial grounds and its own building. I chose it precisely because of its independence and my insistence on not putting myself in a position where authority or pressure to conform would in any way hamper my style.

The demands of the community were not excessive and this gave me a great deal of time to contribute to wider issues. The synagogue also had a community centre that attracted attendance during the week from those who lived throughout the London area. But there were too many declining and virtually empty Orthodox synagogues in the West End of London and it seemed only sensible to merge. The nearest synagogue was Marble Arch, a constituent of the mainstream United Synagogue. I encouraged the merger, hoping the new combined synagogue would be independent too. But when it transpired that a condition of the merger would be the absorption of the Western into the United Synagogue, I knew that even if it was in everyone else's interests, it was not in mine. So in 1990 I decided to leave the rabbinate again.

During my time in the Western I had encountered so many examples of religious bureaucracy and politics in the United Synagogue and its Bet Din, examples of pressure brought to bear on recalcitrant or simply independently minded rabbis, that it was clear my old antipathies towards the Establishment were justified as ever. In general, a more exclusivist and intolerant mood was prevailing on such issues as excessive and unrealistic demands on genuine converts, increasing strictness on matters of kashruth and interaction with other, less Orthodox parts of the community. With the retirement of Chief Rabbi Jakobovits, whom I admired and worked for on Interfaith issues, there was no one left who could still hold the line, the writing was on the wall. I went off on my travels.

A few years later I returned to the UK to head YAKAR, the adult education center my brother, Mickey, had founded and named after our father, Yaakov Kopul Rosen. It stood for all the values I cherished: deep commitment to halakha combined with social responsibility, tolerance, and independent thought. But the UK was not and is not a welcoming place for nonconformity. Pressure to belong and to be seen to conform, fear of being perceived as an outsider, eventually tame and silence rebels, or drive them away. Some good and creative things have indeed happened in Anglo Jewry, but they are invariably from outside of the mainstream and the establishment. This is probably why most of my talented contemporaries have left the UK for either Israel or the United States.

Much of this may sound strange to American readers used to each synagogue being independent and self-sufficient, without the European tradition of state-recognized institutional religion, where pressure can be brought on individual rabbis and communities. Sadly, the European model was imported into Israel where a government-supported rabbinate and the politicized nature of religious life have combined to make religion a business and power game rather than a spiritual inspiration and a model of ethical values. The strength of American Judaism was always the laissez faire atmosphere of individual synagogue autonomy.

But the fact is that the disease of religious pressure to conform is spreading. Perhaps not in the structural style of Napoleonic Europe, but certainly in the way pressure is being brought positively and by default. Too many rabbis are worried about being regarded suspiciously by extreme opinion. There is a natural but disappointing need to conform to the authority and influence of more fundamentalist powers and movements. If this is positive in the way it emphasizes the importance of obedience to halakhic norms, it is regrettable in that it restricts variety. In addition there is the gap that has opened up so that halakhic authority and expertise do not automatically go together with wisdom and breadth of vision. In the United States, the increasing voice of extremism used to be balanced by outstanding alternative giants. In their absence, the alternative paradigm of popular absolutism is becoming the norm.

The space for innovation within halakha and freedom of thought is shrinking. On the other hand, there are signs of a fight back through institutions such as Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, Drisha, the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, and the few still prepared to stand up for their views. Edah, although it no longer functions, still lives on in spirit. But there are mixed signals; some synagogues are prepared to take risks, others not. It is still too early and we are too close to the events to know how this will play out, but my optimism stems from the historical fact of cycles in thought and fashion. What I have noticed is that in the absence of significant religious leaders and authorities to do battle, so-called modern or moderate Orthodoxy has become a grassroots movement of significance and if anything it is growing rather than shrinking.

After over 40 years in the rabbinate, my own ideas have changed little but the Jewish world itself is transformed, I would say hijacked, by the increasing fundamentalism of the Hareidi world. Whereas once Be’er Yaakov and Mir stood for the Lithuanian alternative to Hassidic populism and anti intellectualism, now even the yeshiva world has adopted Hassidic attitudes toward authority, credulity, and conformity. The politicization of religion has worsened and the capitulation of the Israeli Chief Rabbinate to the Hareidi world must be making the bodies of such great rabbanim as Rabbis Herzog, Goren, Amiel, and Uzziel to mention only the most obvious, turn in their graves.

Yet the fact is that the Hareidi world for all its abuses, misuses, and hypocrisies does contain the fastest growing core of Torah-committed Jews, devoted to study to an extent never before seen. And I sometimes wonder why it is that now that I, so far to the left of virtually all their theological and social positions, still consider myself more loyal to that world than to any other. And I hazard the suggestion that maybe the times require it. Perhaps the pressures of a secular, self-indulgent, material world are so strong and pervasive that the only way for the mass of Jews to survive religiously is through this inward looking self protective enclavism. Maybe this is a time of Hora’at Shaah leMigdar Milta. And if God controls the ebbs and flows of history, this is His way of talking to us today. But even so, this does not mean each individual has to follow this path. The individual must remain true to himself or herself.

How did I come to be the nonconformist and independently minded Orthodox person I am? Of course I owe most of it to the example of my father. His persona and the way religious life was a delight rather than a burden certainly played their part. But I think his pendulum theory, perhaps borrowed from Rambam, is significant. Ideally one must experience the most intense examples of two different approaches to life in order to find a balance in the middle. Of course that is not easy and not everyone can tolerate the strains such bifurcation imposes. Above all one needs to have confidence in oneself to be a minority within a minority within a minority. Certainly knowledge of text, experience of the living Judaism, of the attitudes and ideas of previous generations, together with the passion of intense religious experience can give one the confidence to feel one is walking in the footsteps of giants. For all my criticisms I know that Jewish life in the Diaspora, as well as in Israel is stronger than it has been for thousands of years even if we are lacking the individual giants we once had. Perhaps this is the nature of modernity and individuality. If so, I welcome it.

 

 

In the Synagogue: Navigating between Halakha and Women's Participation

 

 

 

 

                        In the spring of 2003, a handful of young people in Cambridge, Massachusetts, who regularly attended the only Orthodox minyan in town, were looking for a change. I was among them, and like the others  who had attended Darkhei Noam in New York or Shira Hadasha in Jerusalem, I was inspired by the possibility of praying in a minyan that was grounded in a commitment to halakha, but that created a prayer space that  belonged to men and women alike.

Prior to our first prayer together, it was unclear how many people would show up, or how long the minyan might continue to function. Today, six years later, Minyan Tehillah is still around, and has continued to go strong ever since. As testimony to its feeling of permanence, the board conducted its first survey in the spring of 2008 in an effort to gain insight into who Tehillah’s members are, what they like about the minyan, and in what areas they would like to see the minyan grow. The first part of this article draws on the survey results to provide a demographic description of the minyan, while the second part of the article discusses a number of challenges Tehillah faces as a minyan that works to negotiate a delicate line between Orthodoxy and feminism.

Tehilla’s adult members number approximately 100, with slightly more marrieds than singles. Our minyan is relatively young, with the bulk of our members—some 70 percent— being between the ages of 26 and 34. Among the married people, about two-thirds have children, the overwhelming majority of whom are ages three and under. Tehillah holds services two Shabbat mornings a month and one Friday evening a month. We meet in a variety of spaces, which we rent from established Jewish institutions in Cambridge. Our decision not to meet every Shabbat is a pragmatic one as well as an ideological one. On the pragmatic side, it takes tremendous energy to organize a service each time we meet. This is in part due to the fact that we are a lay-led, relatively transient community, and in part due to the fact that we are thinly spread across Cambridge, with very few people living close to the synagogue where we generally meet on Shabbat mornings. In fact, the majority of our members live over a mile-walk away from this locale. Because we do not begin the Shaharit service without the presence of both ten men and ten women, each time we meet we work to get a commitment from twenty people to arrive on time—a difficult task, given the distance combined with the fact that a large portion of our minyan is composed of young families.

But there are also social and ideological reasons for not meeting each week. The Tehillah community overlaps very strongly with several other prayer communities in town. Indeed, almost all of our members regularly attend other minyanim in Cambridge on the weeks that Tehillah does not meet. The strongest overlap is with the Harvard Hillel Orthodox Minyan, and the next strongest overlap is with Cambridge Minyan, which is traditional-egalitarian. One of the reasons people are satisfied with Tehillah meeting only every other week, is because they are loathe to give up their connections with the other prayer communities to which belong.

Although Tehillah was started by a group of people who all identified as Orthodox and were all committed to a feminist mission, it has filled other sorts of religious and social needs as well. First, the spirited and intentional tefilla is one of the attractions of Tehillah. From the minyan’s inception, great effort has been placed on creating a spiritually uplifting service; led by hazzanim who are well-prepared, who engage the kahal with lively tunes, and who lead the service with seriousness of purpose. Secondly, the minyan fills an important demographic niche in Cambridge for people who are no longer students or for those who want to be part a prayer community that is not affiliated with the university, but is their own. More than that, Tehillah is a creative project, run by people with tremendous energy, commitment, and imagination. In this sense, it offers a place for religious expression that is fresh, relevant, and meaningful—an aspect of tefilla that often feels absent in well-established and structured institutional life.

In short, Tehillah fills a number of complex needs for the variety of people who attend. It is a warm, open social space, which provides an environment that bridges the long-standing traditional American religious divide between Orthodox and Conservative. Yet, despite this innovation, Tehillah is also quite conservative (with a lowercase c). We have developed our own set of customs, and are relatively resistant to change. As a community, we are focused primarily on the prayer service itself, with almost no emphasis on social justice programs, or social events not linked to prayer.

With this background, I will turn now to discuss three of the pressing issues and challenges that the minyan currently faces. Perhaps the most complicated issue among them are questions surrounding halakhic authority and religious decision-making. Like other minyanim that are working to negotiate the difficult relationship between halakha and feminism (and which have been classified by the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance as “Partnership Minyanim”), Minyan Tehillah has not been sanctioned by widely recognized religious authorities. There are, of course, rabbis with Orthodox semikha who do support minyanim like ours, but they are on the margins of what is widely considered to be the Orthodox establishment. For this reason, some argue that it is illegitimate for us to call ourselves—or even think of ourselves—as Orthodox. “And why bother?” they may press, “Just join the Conservative movement; women can lead davening there.”

I propose a two-part answer to this challenge. First, it is not un-Orthodox to address the spiritual needs of women—needs that are inherently defined by the cultural and social contingencies of time and place; that is to say—needs that are very different today than they were in the past. Secondly, what we have consciously done at Tehillah is to separate between contemporary Orthodox institutional life—on the one hand—and the Orthodox halakhic process on the other. While we may be marginalized from the first, we understand ourselves to be squarely within the parameters of the second.

This approach helps to resolve the angst—at least for some of us—surrounding questions about the legitimacy of our work. But it still leaves us with a very practical set of problems. How should ritual decisions be made, and who should be invested with the power to make such decisions?

Classically, a community brings its religious questions to its rabbi. In our effort to address the spiritual needs of women, however, we are acutely aware of the fact that we are living in a time when women are able to receive the same level of religious education and knowledge as men, in institutions that are sanctioned by the Orthodox establishment. Yet the title Rabbi comes from passing an exam that women are simply not allowed to take.

There is a logical inconsistency here, which I believe has led to some loss of credibility for the office. We cannot help but ask: What does it really mean to be a halakhic authority and a community’s religious leader? And if it need not necessarily be a Rabbi whom we turn to, then who, and based on what criteria? These are serious questions that we face at Tehillah and for which we have not yet come up with a definitive answer.

Along these lines, there is another more subtle and vexing problem: One of the reasons that Tehillah is such a success is because it offers a prayer service that people refer to as meaningful. This is in contrast to a sense that can pervade established religious institutions, where the service may feel stale and impersonal. I think it is not a coincidence that at Tehillah the quest for personal relevance in tefilla is accompanied by a desire to be involved in the process of religious decision-making. Rather than handing over this responsibility to a religious authority who does the work and then provides an answer that must be passively accepted, there is an interest in being actively involved in the process: in the learning, understanding, and questioning that goes on when a halakhic decision is made. This approach calls for a new model or new way of thinking about religious authority.

The second pressing issue that Tehillah faces is that of gender, and its place in the service. Currently, gender plays a strong role in Tehillah. A mehitsa runs down the middle of our sanctuary, and we do not begin the service until both ten men and ten women are present. Women and men alike may receive aliyot and read from the Torah, however, when a woman is slotted to read from the Torah, only a woman may be called up for that aliya, and vice versa. In all of these examples we might say that male and female are separate but equal: The gender category is preserved, while still allowing both men and women to be full participants in the tefilla.

In the critical area of leading the service, however, this is not the case. Women are permitted to lead parts of the service, but not all, whereas men are permitted to lead all. For me, this difference is palpable each time I lead pesukei deZimrah for the congregation. When I get to the last paragraph, I cannot help but grapple with the fact that a man will—and must—take over from me because as a woman I may not lead Shaharit, although this same man may have led pesukei deZimrah in place of me. This transition is a difficult point in the service because it raises questions about what we are ultimately looking for. Are we looking to find a halakhic way in which women, like men,  can be full participants in all parts of the service? That is to say, are we working toward erasing gender as a category? If this is the case than the current form of our service appears to be only one step towards fully egalitarian roles in the synagogue. Or are we looking to keep gender as a salient aspect of our prayer experience. I would suggest that some of us (myself included) do want to recognize our femininity (or masculinity) as an essential aspect of the way in which we address God and come together as a community. In this case, the key question is whether we might occupy the synagogue as women (or men) and pray as women (or men), while simultaneously being fully integrated in the synagogue service, and remaining within the parameters of halakha.

The third pressing issue facing Tehillah is the question of the minyan’s sustainability and the place that it occupies within the wider Jewish world. We currently rent space from established institutions at a very low rate and we have no salaried staff. These factors allow our membership dues to remain nominal—which is critical for our relatively young, transient population.

The result of such low financial stakes is a tremendous amount of freedom and independence in making decisions and running our organization. On the other hand, this leaves us in a childlike position, where we are drawing on the larger local community’s resources without being full contributors. And as long as we remain in this position, our feminist, Orthodox project cannot be fully realized. Right now there are some ten to fifteen Partnership Minyanim across the globe, but they are mostly all in urban centers and college campuses. I ask myself every Shabbat—where is my family going to pray if and when we leave Cambridge? For our project to be taken seriously, and for it to expand beyond the centers that it now occupies, we need institutional backing, educational resources, and professional leadership. As we move forward, the challenge will be to build and maintain communal infrastructure while still remaining fresh, innovative and meaningful.