National Scholar Updates

There is an acute danger, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch writes, in the Jewish people’s status as a minority community with its own unique foundational texts, traditions, practices, and modes of dress and behavior. The danger is that many minorities—especially minorities that, like the Jews, view themselves as having a special role to play in unfolding historical narrative of human civilization—tend toward insularity, parochialism, and even exclusionary elitism. Certainly, the idea that Jews must carefully police the boundaries of their community in order to preserve the character and integrity of Judaism and Jewish life is strong within the rabbinic tradition. Many instances of rabbinic legislation were designed to keep Jews mindful of this fact in their social interactions with non-Jews, and to hinder Jewish adoption of non-Jewish practices and philosophies.[1] But while the careful preservation of Jewish life and tradition on its own terms is certainly necessary, it is important to keep in mind that it also entails potential pitfalls.

Rabbi Hirsch frames the problem as follows:

There is one particular danger which is to be feared by a Jewish minority. It is what we would like to call a certain intellectual narrow-mindedness. This danger becomes especially acute the more closely a minority clings to its cause and the more anxious it is to preserve that cause. We have already pointed out that . . . a minority depends for its survival on whether it can further and foster within all its members the spirit of the cause it represents. . . . However, precisely such dedication to its cause may easily lead the minority into intellectual one-sidedness. This may well stunt to a degree the development of the minority’s unique intellectual life.[2]

The critical importance of cultivating Torah scholarship and religious dedication within the Jewish community is unquestionable. At the same time, even an appropriate focus on those goals can lead—and has led—many committed and punctiliously observant Jews to regard the knowledge and experiences of those outside of our “daled amot” as unnecessary, worthless, disdainful, and ultimately dangerous to our spiritual and temporal lives. Rabbi Hirsch addresses this concern by encouraging Jews to “regard all truth, wherever it may be found on the outside, as a firm ally” of Torah, “since all truth stems from the same Master of Truth.”[3]

Rabbi Hirsch’s prescription lies at the core of various Modern Orthodox philosophies. From Torah im derekh erets to Torah u’madah and others, Judaism’s religious ideal is understood to entail that traditional rabbinic teachings be combined with the very best of Torah-consistent knowledge produced outside the bet midrash from medicine to physics, economics, law, politics, philosophy, literature, and many others.[4] Typically, members of the Jewish community committed to this approach look to secular disciplines, to the knowledge and insights into the world and the human experience produced by the scholars, researchers, and practitioners of these fields.

Less common, however, is the interest in other faith traditions to see what insights they may have to offer to the continued development and enrichment of Jewish religious thought, practice, and lifestyles. Such hesitancy is not surprising. Jews and Judaism have a long and painful history of interactions with other religious communities, especially those under whose dominion we have lived, often as an unprotected and vulnerable minority.[5] Likewise, the Torah and rabbinic literature are filled with warnings and laws designed to distinguish between Judaism and other faiths, to separate between Jews and gentiles along religious lines, and to distance Jews from being influenced by or adopting the teachings and practices of other religious traditions.[6] Even acknowledging all the legal niceties over whether particular faiths in their contemporary manifestations actually constitute avodah zarah,[7] the underlying tenor of suspicion and separation from other religions looms large.[8] Of course, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s seminal essay, Confrontation, looms large in this conversation as well.[9] The Rav’s strident opposition to many forms of interfaith dialogue, coupled his broader philosophy of Torah and halakha as a comprehensive, internally consistent, closed, and coherent normative system calls into question the integrity and authenticity of learning from, adapting, and integrating the insights and experiences of other faiths and religious communities into our own.[10]

II

Despite this standard hesitancy to engage other religious traditions as sources of insight into Judaism, halakha, and Jewish communal life, my own work as a scholar of Comparative Jewish and Islamic law and legal theory suggests, to me at least, that there is much value in such endeavors. Interactions between the Jewish and Islamic intellectual traditions have a long and fruitful history. The Qur’an contains many rabbinic narratives and teachings, such as the story of Avraham destroying his father’s idols,[11] and the principle that “whoever kills a soul . . . it is as if he has killed all humankind; and whoever saves one soul, it is as if he has saved all humankind.”[12] Moreover, while the history is murky, it is almost beyond doubt that the development of a sophisticated and systematic Islamic jurisprudence in the eighth and ninth centuries owes much to the culture of rabbinic and talmudic learning that Muslim scholars encountered following the conquest and settling of Iraq and Israel.[13] Additionally, hadith, or traditions about the exemplary conduct of Mohammad, have been incorporated into rabbinic texts to teach ethical principles.[14] Furthermore, the stress that medieval Sephardic halakha placed upon authenticity through mesorah may be product of an epistemological culture where information had to be historically accurate to be authoritative, an idea cultivated by Islamic legal theory.[15] Finally, Rambam’s innovative subject classification of halakhic topics in the Mishneh Torah likely owes much to the thematic structure of the furu’ ul-fiqh works written by Muslim jurists.[16]

This kind of borrowing of concepts, teachings, and methods between the Jewish and Islamic traditions is a natural and universal phenomenon. It is an instance of what Alan Watson calls “legal transplants.”[17] Although some of the norms and institutions of most legal systems are relatively fixed, all systems evolve and change, often slowly, in response to social, economic, political, cultural, and other developments. Practitioners and actors facing jurisprudential challenges in their own system often look—either intentionally or subconsciously—to the analogous successes and failures of other legal communities in addressing similar problems. Doctrines, methods, and ideas that have worked well in other comparable contexts may then be adapted and integrated to meet current concerns.[18]

To be clear, as a committed halakha-observant Jew and rabbi, I do not think that Judaism should, or even really can, uncritically adopt teachings, practices, or ideas from the Islamic tradition. I am personally sympathetic to the modest claim that rabbinic Judaism and Jewish law is best understood and implemented from an internal perspective that relies on the truths and methods embraced by its own texts and traditions.[19] At the same time, I think that a famous comment by Rabbi Dr. Isidore Twersky appropriately encapsulates a reasonable and fruitful approach to these kinds of interactions. He wrote,

When you know your way—your point of departure and goals—then use philosophy, science, and the humanities to illumine your exposition, sharpen your categories, probe the profundities and subtleties of the masorah and reveal its charm and majesty; in so doing you should be able to command respect from the alienated and communicate with some who might otherwise be hostile or indifferent to your teaching as well as to increase the sensitivity and spirituality of the committed.[20]

I take Rabbi Twersky to mean that it is not only reasonable and permissible, but helpful to turn to other disciplines and other intellectual traditions as tools for problematizing, clarifying, and ultimately elevating our understanding and practice of Torah. Different thought systems in different disciplines from different times and places have grappled with similar issues in very distinct ways. In some cases, they offer novel answers to familiar questions that for a variety of reasons may not have been fully explored by the rabbinic tradition. In other instances, these “outside” sources raise previously unconsidered issues and questions relevant to our own religious practices and commitments that provide points of departure for new and enriching explorations of Torah and halakha. In both cases, as long as we are firmly and humbly grounded in a search for meaning in Torah and rabbinic thought rather than on a quest to impose meaning from without (and to be sure, how to do this is no small concern, and worthy of another article in its own right), engagement with other thought systems and disciplines can enhance our Judaism.

Two brief examples can help illustrate how our understanding and practice of halakha may be enhanced and enriched by placing traditional rabbinic perspective in conversation with the experiences and insights of Islamic religious law and legal practice. The first concerns Islamic law’s rich tradition of systematic legal philosophy, a discipline that is largely absent from rabbinic legal thought, but which could help address several contemporary challenges to the integrity of and public trust in halakhic decision making. The second relates to important lessons that Jews can learn from the Muslim experiences with the centralization of Islamic religious law and legal authority in government agencies, backed ultimately by the state monopoly on the use of coercive force to enforce the law.

III

Very early in Islamic legal history, Muslim jurists developed highly systematic ways of thinking about Islamic religious law in jurisprudential terms.[21] Systematic jurisprudential analysis is largely absent from traditional rabbinic writings; there are a variety of reasons for this, the exploration of which is beyond the scope of this short piece. Unlike the rabbinic tradition, the kinds of questions and concerns associated with what we in the West call legal philosophy, or what Muslim scholars call usul ul-fiqh (the roots of [legal] understanding) are central to Islamic legal though and practice. As a result, the Islamic tradition has a rich literature considering questions such as what is the relationship between God’s law and revelatory sources; what makes a source of law authoritative; how does one know that a source is authoritative; what determines the meaning of a material or rational source of law; how does one know what a particular source means; what is the relationship between God’s law and human understandings of God’s law; is human reason a legitimate source of law; what kinds of analytic and interpretive methods provide a reliable cognitive bridge between God’s law and Man’s mind; what makes a legal opinion a legitimate basis for religious practice; what is the relationship between law and language, law and ethics, law and custom, law and the coercive powers of government?[22]

These are important questions. They are questions that, if applied to halakha, go to the very heart of many contemporary debates within the observant Jewish world about what halakha is, how it works, and what halakhic authorities, communities, opinions, and modes of practice can be regarded as legitimate within the rubric of eilu v’eilu divrei Elokim hayyim. Of course, we can and have constructed responses to many of these concerns from the perspective of rabbinic thought by drawing on widely dispersed talmudic and midrashic teachings,[23] kelalei horaah,[24] codified prescriptions in Mishnah Torah, Arbah Turim, Shulkhan Arukh,[25] and helpful glimpses into the legal methodologies and theories of prominent posekim gleaned from rabbinic responsa.[26] Rabbinic treatments of these issues rarely manifest as systematic responses to particular jurisprudential questions, however. They do not evince comprehensive theory of what halakha is and how halakha works.[27]

As mentioned earlier, there are good internal reasons why halakhic scholars have been largely unconcerned with developing any systematic jurisprudence. Nevertheless, at least today, the failure to do so is at least partly responsible for poor understandings of the internal logic and simultaneously principled and pragmatic methods of halakhic decision making. Moreover, the lack of a comprehensive halakhic legal philosophy contributes to popular deprecations of contemporary halakhic decision making, especially in “hard cases”—such as igun, women’s ritual, industrial kashruth, geirut, and others—as political, subjective, and unprincipled.[28] It is true, to be sure, that developing halakhic doctrine in these and other fields entails substantial considerations of policy in addition to the formal application of rules;[29] and it is true, too, that halakhic judgment almost always entails a measure of subjectivity, whether in the apprehension and classification of relevant facts, the assessment of sources, or the analyses and application of texts.[30] But this does not also mean that halakhic decision making is necessarily unprincipled, arbitrary, or illegitimate. Other legal systems developed systematic approached to jurisprudence as responses to just these kinds of concerns.[31] The ways in which Islamic legal theory addresses these issues can be particularly adaptive and helpful in the halakhic context, since the workings of both systems—grounded in both textual and oral revelation, eternally relevant for their adherents, legally binding but not typically formally enforceable, decentralized, etc.—are so similar.

IV

Many observers associate Islamic religious law with the kinds of strict regulations and harsh punitive practices of modern Muslim-majority states such as Saudi Arabia, Iran, and Pakistan. These countries do, of course, present themselves as Islamic states governed by Shari’a law,[32] but viewed in historical context the marriage of religious legal authority and government power exemplified by these nations departs substantially from traditional relationships between law, politics, and religion in Islamic societies. For much of Islamic history, religious law and political power were kept separate from each other.[33] Islamic religious norms were formulated by scholars and jurists, or fuqaha, working privately or under the patronage of charitable trusts known as waqfs, which supported schools, mosques, and educational chairs.[34] While the judges who staffed religious courts were indeed paid by the ruler, they did not apply laws made by the sultan or local prince, but relied on the doctrinal rulings and scholarship produced by the fuqaha who typically avoided entanglements with the government.[35] In this context, local rulers routinely supported a plurality of religio-legal norms; several different religious courts, each representing one of the several distinct schools of Islamic jurisprudence, typically coexisted in any given jurisdiction at the same time, and Muslim citizens were free to bring their cases to whichever courts they wished.[36] Moreover, matters of private religious practice—things we would classify as mitzvoth bein adam l’Makom—were usually beyond the jurisdiction of the courts entirely. When individual Muslims had religious questions—about what to eat, how to pray, when to fast, whom to marry, or how much charity to give—they asked for and received fataawa, or legal opinions from whichever religious scholar they happened to identify with at the time.[37] The state did make law, to be sure, but it neither controlled religious legal scholarship nor determined the right answers to religious questions.[38] The role of government was understood to be limited to areas of policy and discretion left unregulated by religious standards.[39]

This changed drastically beginning in the early sixteenth century, when the Ottoman sultans sought to consolidate and unify their large empire by controlling Islamic religious law. They began by adopting the doctrinal positions of only one of the four schools of Sunni Muslim jurisprudence, the Hanafi school, as the official law of the empire.[40] They also appointed Hanafi jurists to newly created positions as official legal authorities for cities, provinces, and the entire empire. By marrying religious and political authority, the Ottoman sultans were able to harness the religious commitments of their Muslim subjects to reinforce their own power.[41] Whereas Islamic religious law and practice had previously been pluralistic, decentralized, private, and largely voluntary, under the Ottomans it became centralized and hierarchical, unitary, and subject to coercive government enforcement.

For a variety of reasons associated with the rise of Wahhabism and similar ideologies as a religious movement in eighteenth-century Arabia, the experiences of Muslim societies with European colonial powers and colonial law, and economic and the geopolitical circumstances under which many Muslim states gained independence during the twentieth century, many Muslim countries continued the trend toward the centralization of religious authority in government functionaries begun by the Ottomans.[42] Today, almost every Muslim country from Morocco to Malaysia has adopted some aspects of Islamic law—usually religious family and personal status laws—as the law of the state.[43] Some countries, such as Saudi Arabia and Iran, have gone farther, adopting at least in name the entirely of Islamic religious law as state law.[44] In doing so, however, these countries have qualitatively changed the traditional way Islamic law operated, and have created a strange hybrid of religious doctrine, politics, and state policy.  

In most cases, these changes have brought substantial problems to the Islamic religion, Muslim citizens and religious adherents, and the states themselves. When religious law and observance existed independent of state power, religion and government operated in delicate balance, providing mutual checks on extremism in either sphere. Islamic law was dynamic, pragmatic, and adaptable; divorced from state control, there did not have to be a single official answer to most legal questions. Instead, jurists of different school of Islamic thought offered a range of alternative avenues for legitimate religious observance that Muslims were largely free to adopt or reject on a voluntary basis. This encouraged scholars to be responsive to local and temporal economic and social concerns, promoting congruity between religious law and life. State control over religious authorities and religious legal norms substantially undermined many of these positive characteristics. In their stead, Islamic religious law in the coercive hands of government has become formalistic and unresponsive to real world conditions, and has come to be viewed by many as draconian, repressive, and distinctly unworthy of respect or reverence.[45]

The Jewish people, too, are currently contending with questions related to the centralization of religious authority, and the relationship between halakha and government power in a Jewish state.[46] Any casual observer of Israeli religious politics is familiar with at least some of the issues that revolve around the official Israeli rabbinate, and in particular its government mandate of bureaucratic control over marriage, divorce, personal status, conversion, kashruth, and a variety of other issues related to the intersection of halakha and public life in Israel. Numerous articles and personal testimonies have suggested that this centralization and coercive enforcement of particular understandings of Jewish law have negatively impacted many Israeli’s and Jews’ respect for Judaism, halakha, and religious leadership.[47]

The issue is not limited to Israel. In the United States, too, there is substantial discontent, cynicism, and distrust with attempts to create centralized, uniform halakhic standards in areas like kashruth and geirut. Uniform policy, consistency, the establishment of best practices, predictability, and oversight are, to be sure, only some of the benefits of more centralized, organized, and uniform standards of halakhic practice.[48] But there are drawbacks as well.[49] Uniformity and centralization of religious authority and standards makes it harder for properly committed but unique and independent-minded members of our communities to find contexts conducive to their religious growth. Formal policies and bureaucratic regulatory processes also leave many halakhically legitimate modes of practice outside the mainstream. Although this is problematic in its own right, it has the added detriment of potentially contributing to a stagnation of creative and enriching developments in Jewish thought and halakhic practice. Several authorities have noted the importance of preserving non-normative viewpoints in order to maintain the potential for alternative modes of practice when circumstances call for it, l’fi haMakom v’haZeman. This becomes more difficult when religious standards are set from the top down, and communities and rabbinic leaders are expected to conform in order to situate themselves within broader centralized frameworks.

As we grapple with such issues, it may be helpful to look beyond our own daled amot to the experiences of other communities with characteristics similar to our own that have also experimented with various forms of centralized religio-legal authority and associations between religious law and state power. The Muslim example is a powerful one. Of course, the two situations are not exactly the same; important historical, cultural, political, and sociological differences urge thoughtfulness and caution in drawing uncritical conclusions about how Jews should think about these issues. Nevertheless, it is helpful to expand our horizons and consider what we can learn from others—even from other faith communities, including the Islamic tradition. If we are clear about our own commitments and objectives, we can use such interactions to enhance Jewish life and practice, raising the esteem of Torah and God in the process.

The Literary, Social and Cultural Life of the Judeo-Spanish
Sephardim During the Immigrant Generation (Early 1900's)

By Marc D. Angel

Proceedings of a Conference in NYC April 5, 1981

In his book, THE PROMISED CITY, Moses Rischin describes New York's Jews during the period from 1870 until 1914. This was an amazing period in American-Jewish history, with hundreds of thousands of Jews pouring into New York. The lower East Side became the most densely populated section of the city, with many thousands of Jews peopling its tenements and staffing its industry.

This book, as could be expected, focuses almost entirely on the Yiddish-speaking Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe. There are a few scattered references to "Levantine Jews", and these references are quite superficial and contain inaccuracies. Rischin's book is a valuable study of Jewish life on the lower East Side and it is also a valuable reflection of the general ignorance concerning the Sephardic dimension of the Jewish life of the lower East Side.

Historians have not taken the time to study the experience of the Sephardic immigrants of the early 20th century. This is not very surprising. Even at the time when thousands of Sephardim were arriving in New York, the general non-Sephardic community was relatively unaware of their existence. Since they did not speak Yiddish, since they did not fit into the "normal" Jewish patterns of life, for the most part they were either ignored or misunderstood.

Over 25,000 Sephardic Jews from Turkey, the Balkan countries, Syria and elsewhere migrated to the United States during the first two decades of the 20th century. The vast majority settled in New York mostly on the lower East Side. The largest group of these immigrants spoke Judeo-Spanish. There were also smaller groups of Sephardim who spoke Arabic or Greek. Our concern in this paper is with the Jews of Judeo-Spanish background.

Some of my research on these Sephardim appeared in an article in the American Jewish Year Book of 1973. That article included a historical background of Sephardic life in the United States, the reasons for their migration here, some of the early communal and cultural efforts; the article also includes a sociological survey of American-born Sephardim which attempts to describe the effects of the Americanization process on this group. I have also written a book, published by the Jewish Publication Society, based on the Judeo-Spanish newspaper, La America, which appeared during the years of 1910 through 1925. These works provide a comprehensive picture of the Sephardic experience in New York -- and indeed in the United States -- and this paper will only touch on some of the major points.

The Judeo-Spanish speaking Jews formed their own unique society in the lower East Side. They brought with them their cultural heritage from the Sephardic communities of Turkey and the Balkan countries. They were quick to establish restaurants and coffee houses to cater to their culinary tastes. They established their own self-help groups, their own synagogue services, their own burial societies, and their own communal organizations. Sephardim naturally gravitated to streets and buildings which were already inhabited by other of their countrymen. There were buildings and streets which were populated almost exclusively by Sephardim. By living in these enclaves, the new immigrants could feel as if their social context had not been completely uprooted, that they were still living among their own people. In particular, Sephardim were concentrated on Chrystie Street, Forsythe Street, Allen Street, Broome Street, Orchard Street, Eldridge Street and the streets in the general vicinity.

The lower East Side was hardly a beautiful place to live. Jack Farhi, writing in the summer of 1912 in La America, described the situation of the Sephardim of the lower East Side: "We live in New York! In an oven of fire, in the midst of dirt and filth. We live in dark and narrow dwellings which inspire disgust. We work from morning to night without giving ourselves even one day a week for rest. We sleep badly, eat badly, dress ourselves badly..... We are very frugal, saving our money to send to our relatives in the old country or just hoarding it for a rainy day. We are losing the best days of our lives, the time of our youth..."

Because the setting of their lives was so dismal and so disorienting, Sephardim sought opportunities to meet their co-religionists in order to reminisce or just to pass the time of day. The Sephardic coffee houses and restaurants mirrored the hopes of the immigrants and also their frustrations. They would pass the time playing cards, drinking Turkish coffee, and discussing topics of concern to them. Because of their popularity, coffee houses not only served as recreational centers but also as intellectual and political centers. Any cause or movement which needed to win adherents would seek them in the coffee houses. Orators would make their speeches. Publicists would post their flyers and circulars on the walls. Yet the coffee houses also mirrored problems within the community. They became hangouts for idle and unemployed people, many of whom had become despondent. Also, some of the customers were short-tempered. It was not uncommon for disputes and even fistfights to break out for one reason or another.

In 1910, Mr. Moise Gadol -- a Bulgarian Sephardic Jew -- came to New York to visit relatives. He visited a coffee house and was surprised to find so many young people frequenting it when he thought they should have been at work. When he learned that they were unemployed, he was shocked. Gadol himself was a man of great culture, an active businessman in Europe, and a master of eleven languages. The poverty and despair which he saw among his Sephardic co-religionist on the lower East Side stirred him. So many of them seemed helpless. They did not know where to turn to find jobs. The programs of the Jewish community to help immigrants learn English were geared to Yiddish-speaking immigrants. The Sephardim could not benefit from these programs at all. Jewish organizations which attempted to assist immigrants often did not even recognize that the Sephardim were Jews. Many a Sephardic immigrant would complain that they were believed to be Italians, Greeks or Turks by Jewish officials. Life on the lower East Side was difficult even for the many thousands of Yiddish-speaking Jews; how much more so for the Sephardic Jews who were left almost entirely on their own.

Gadol decided to remain in New York and publish a Judeo-Spanish newspaper, La America. He felt by doing this he would be able to provide practical advice to his readers as well as to give them general enlightenment and intellectual guidance. Moreover, Gadol convinced the leaders of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society to establish an Oriental Bureau in order to help the "Oriental" Jews -- those who were coming from Levantine countries. Gadol himself served as the secretary of the Oriental Bureau, initially as a volunteer, and spent many hours helping newly arrived Sephardic immigrants -- that others would have ignored -- to get through the immigration procedures. He also helped many people find jobs and gave advice on how to keep their jobs. In the pages of La America, he printed a glossary in order to teach Sephardim English. Interestingly, he also included Yiddish definitions, believing that since many Sephardim worked for Yiddish-speaking employers, Sephardim needed to know Yiddish in order to advance in America.

The pages of La America are a fascinating reflection of the literary, cultural and social life of the immigrant generation of Sephardim. Gadol was a brilliant journalist. Even when reading his editorials now, so many years after they were written, one senses the energy and vitality of the author. The newspaper included news items about Sephardic communities in the United States and abroad. It included poetry and some literary work. It was a forceful spokesman for Zionism, for the advancement of workers, for individual initiative. Gadol printed several articles by a person who signed her name simply as Miss A, which argued for the equality of women.

But for all the good he intended, Gadol did not achieve notable financial success with his newspaper. Quite the contrary. The paper was constantly plagued by financial problems and he would work at other jobs in order to subsidize his newspaper. None of his partnerships lasted very long, because his partners did not share his dedication to La America. They preferred to make money.

There were other Judeo-Spanish publications that appeared among the Sephardic community. The most well-known is the successor of La America, La Vara. La Vara continued publishing until the late 1940's.

The Judeo-Spanish press in New York deserves special attention. These journalistic achievements must be counted among the most important cultural ventures of American Sephardim and are testimony to the literary and creative impulses within the immigrant Sephardic community. The newspapers provided a medium for articulate Sephardic thinkers, for poets and essayists, for political activists, for religious teachers. The newspapers brought to the Sephardic masses a world of ideas and imagination and helped lift them from the dreariness of their everyday lives. Both La America and La Vara had subscribers throughout the United States and even in foreign countries. The Judeo-Spanish newspapers are clearly the most important literary productions of the immigrant Sephardic generation.

But it was not always easy to find appreciative readers and subscribers. Due to their poverty and lack of formal education in the old country, many Sephardic immigrants had little interest in the newspapers. Enlightened and dedicated Sephardic leaders exerted great effort to stimulate the minds of the Sephardic community. One such man, Mr. Albert Amateau, noted his frustrations in an article in La America, November 29, 1912. He stated that he tried very hard to assist the Sephardim to advance. "But I found myself isolated on all sides and it was impossible for me to work against this apathy alone, without help from anywhere." This sentiment is echoed many times by Moise Gadol and by others. Professor Mair Jose Benardete, who was then a young man, accompanied the venerable Mr. Nessim Behar who sought to encourage Sephardim to attend English classes. Benardete recalls: "We went up and down the malodorous tenements, knocking at the doors of those humble, temporary homes of the new arrivals at the very hour when the men were having their supper after working long hours at very unhealthy and unremunerative jobs. Nessim Behar, the apostle, expected these bodies, whose energies had been squeezed out of them, to have enough physical stamina to respond to the appeal of the spirit." And, Behar was successful in a great many cases.

Along with these efforts to educate and enlighten the Sephardic masses, there were also efforts to organize the community into a cohesive unit. The Sephardim of Judeo-Spanish background spoke the same language; yet they too were divided into many small groups. Usually, Sephardim tended to form societies based on their city of origin. Instead of uniting into large organizations or congregations, the Sephardic immigrant, sponsored a host of small self-help groups, synagogues, and religious schools. A number of Sephardic leaders called for a united community, and one of the outspoken advocates of this idea was Moise Gadol. In 1912, the Federation of Oriental Jews was established. It served as an umbrella organization for a number of Sephardic societies which affiliated with it. While it had some success, it was a short-lived venture. None of the societies wanted to give up any of its autonomy to a more general organization. There were a variety of subsequent efforts to form a central Sephardic community, none of which had lasting success. Yet, the efforts themselves are noteworthy and testify to the progressive and broad-visioned leadership that did exist within the community. Unfortunately, this leadership could not completely succeed among the immigrants.

The individual societies -- and there were many of them -- attempted to provide a number of services to their members. Usually, the major benefit was burial. Gadol frequently argued that the Sephardim needed an organization that would take care of them while they were alive, not just societies to care for them once they were dead. As time went on, the various societies did try to expand their services to include such things as medical care and legal advice. The societies also sponsored picnics and social events to bring their members together. Most also sponsored religious services for the High Holy Days. Some of the societies had literary groups associated with them.

It should be noted here that the Sisterhood of the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue had a settlement house on the Lower East Side to assist the Sephardic immigrants. It was first located at 86 Orchard Street, but ultimately moved to larger quarters at 133 Eldridge Street. This building housed a synagogue, Berith Shalom, as well as a Talmud Torah, clubs for children, classes for adults, social services and much more. It became a beehive of activity. While relations between the new Sephardic immigrants and the old established Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue were not always cordial, there was much to be proud of in the relationship.

No discussion of Sephardic life would be complete without mention of the dramatic productions in Judeo-Spanish. There were virtually hundreds of performances of plays sponsored by Sephardic societies in New York, and the enthusiasm for drama was also evident in other cities of Sephardic settlement. Often enough, the plays would be of Biblical themes; some would be translations of French plays; others would be original works by Sephardim in Turkey or even the United States. Dramatic productions were put on to large and enthusiastic audiences. The pages of La America report that plays drew capacity crowds, some numbering over a thousand people. Since the Yiddish theatre and English theatre were not comprehensible to the Sephardim, they developed their own dramatic programs and catered to their own interests.

These productions are significant because they provided creative outlets for Sephardic producers and actors, as well as writers. While the quality of the productions was mixed, individuals could aspire to play important roles before large audiences. Some of the plays were quite elaborate, with rented costumes and special theatrical effects.

A vital part of the cultural life of the Sephardic community was oratory. In those days, before the emergence of television, people were entertained and enlightened by gifted orators who could stir their emotions and give them ideas. The Sephardic community could boast of a number of individuals who earned distinction as notable orators. One of the best known was Mr. Albert Matarasso, who came to the United States from Salonika. Matarasso was well-educated in his native city, and brought with him substantial rabbinic and general knowledge. He spoke with force and enthusiasm. People still remember him as an orator "with a silver tongue", a man who was invited to speak at many a communal gathering. We should also recall the name of Mr. David N. Barocas who spoke with eloquence and precision. For these men, oratory was an art form.

The Sephardim created their own literary, social and cultural institutions as manifestations of their own unique cultural background. They were Spanish-speaking -- but did not come from a Spanish-speaking land; they came from countries in the Levant -- but they were separated by religion from others who had come from the same lands; they were Jews -- but were culturally far different from the overwhelming majority of Jews in the United States. Consequently, they were a separate and, to a certain extent, isolated entity.

BOOK REVIEW

THE INESCAPABLE TRUTH

by Rabbi Dr. Sanford H. Shudnow

"It has already become clear that 'good' is life, and 'evil' is death. True ideas are referred to as 'life' and the untenable as 'death.'"

-- from The Guide of the Perplexed, Book I:42

by Moses Maimonides, 12th Century

            Perhaps the name of the review should be a "Retrospective on the book The Inescapable Truth and its author, Rabbi Eliezer Y. Gottlieb." The reason is partly because Rabbi Gottlieb had a profound affect upon me in my younger years. It was a privilege seeing him in class, and his kind and patient way, especially with some of our younger students. I was one of his older students.

            It's about time for this review. More than enough time has passed since my teacher Rabbi Eliezer Y. Gottlieb had written his book The Inescapable Truth. I was studying at the Hebrew Theological College in Skokie, Illinois, the famed Skokie Yeshiva. Rabbi Gottlieb, was my teacher in Talmud. He was a wonderful, friendly, brilliant teacher, who requested of me that I write a book review of his newly released book.

            Rabbi Gottlieb was especially hoping that I might write a favorable review that would appear in a variety of rabbinic journals of the day. I thought  at the time that I could do this for my beloved teacher, but once I started reading the book, I felt that it was a little too fanciful and could only be accepted by serious so-called 'Torah True' believers. I kept my thoughts to myself and did not write the expected review

            It is now over forty years since those days, and only now do I feel the need to write a review of Rabbi Gottlieb's book. Perhaps it is really a retrospective on Rabbi Gottlieb, as well as on his book. Why now, and why write from my home in Sydney, a world away from the Skokie Yeshiva in the suburbs of Chicago?

            I was sitting in the newly refurbished beit midrash (chapel), in our local synagogue in the eastern suburbs of Sydney, and noticed on one of the book shelves of the new library, Rabbi Gottlieb's distinctive 1971 book, its lovely yellow dust jacket adorned with the Star of David motif. More than nine thousand miles (fifteen thousand kilometers) from the scene of my unfulfilled promise, that book on the shelf served as a witness, pointing a finger at me, saying, "Haim Shudnow, you know what you promised your teacher in July of 1972. Now do it."

            I thought a great deal about the book and Rabbi Gottlieb. I waited until I returned to my home outside Washington, DC and retrieved my copy of the book from my personal collection there. I knew exactly where it was.

            The book with his handwritten Hebrew inscription to me is precious and personal. He had bestowed the book upon me, inscribed the frontispiece with a moving, flowery message, writing  a blessing of excellence in Torah and pure fear of God and that I may cause light to shine. It is signed E.Y. Gottlieb.

            I pulled the book gently off the shelf and looked at it, reread the impressive blurb on the author, learning things about him that I never fully realized, of his birth in Kolno, Poland and intensive Torah learning under the greatest rabbinic sages, including Rabbi Elchanan Wasserman, and receiving his semicha (ordination) under Rabbi Aharon Kotler, He then managed to escape from Poland to Lithuania, and from there to Japan in 1941.

            While I knew nothing about his earlier years when studying with Rabbi Gottlieb, I am now so personally touched, since my own mother was born in Poland and I spent three years as a U.S. Navy Chaplain stationed in Japan. While in Japan, I heard many stories of the yeshiva students saved during the Holocaust, having sought refuge in Japan.

            Looking to see the name of the publisher, I was amazed to realize that my teacher's book was published by the premier Jewish publishing house -- Philipp Feldheim Inc. Once I started my rabbinic studies in Manhattan, I would spend much time visiting the various Jewish publishers, which especially included Feldheim Publishing and Behrman House, on East Broadway.

            I should have known then, that if Rabbi Gottlieb's book was worthy of being published by Feldheim, it must be a truly worthy book; but I didn't realize that in those halcyon days.

            Why didn't I write a review of the book back then in 1972?  The simple answer is, after having delved into the book and reading his perspective, it didn't fit with my Jewish Torah worldview at the time. My problem was that Rabbi Gottlieb's belief system was so deep in Torah Min Ha-Shamayim -- Heavenly or Divine Torah -- trying to prove that the Torah could not possibly have been written by human beings, and that all of our Judaism, all of the Torah -- everything, comes directly from Heaven

            Rabbi Gottlieb set about proving this premise. Today, I believe that his proofs are persuasive, eloquently presented and fit with what eventually became my perspective on Torah.

            The intended purpose of The Inescapable Truth is clearly set forth at the outset in the preface. Rabbi Gottlieb writes:

"The purpose for which this book is intended is twofold. Its first and principal aim is to share with the many who hold true Orthodox beliefs identical to my own . . . . These are the ideas which have formed the basis for my own strong beliefs in Orthodox religious ideology."

"Secondly, I fervently hope that most of what is expounded herein may have a convincing effect upon many people who were heretofore skeptics about religion in general, and Orthodox Judaism in particular." (p. ix)

            In retrospect, I find that many of his ideas, while quite extreme, are convincing. For instance, the Sabbatical laws: if one is trying to establish an agrarian-based society that will be successful in the Land of Israel, how could it be that any human author/leader would set up laws requiring the land to lie fallow for an entire year?  That is, that one would not plant, not tend the crops or harvest them, nor sell the produce. This means a full year and into the next. That year is known as Sh'nat Ha-Shemita.

            The Jubilee year, which is the 50th year -- the Sh'nat Ha-Yovel -- is also to be observed. What is the actual meaning of the Jubilee Year? The society observes the usual Shemita or 49th year, which is 7×7 plus the 50th year or the Jubilee year and then into the next year, the 51st year, in reality the first year of the next cycle. That is almost three years that the land has not been worked. It would take months to bring the fields and farm land back into condition for productive agriculture.

Why would any human being write and impose such unworkable laws? Only God could have given these commandments and assured the people that He would provide them sustenance during those years.

            Rabbi Gottlieb adds that even if a human being came up with such a system, he would eventually retract the rules, since he would in no way wish for the next generation -- for his children, for his grandchildren to suffer such restrictions and burdens. He would have to admit that he had made up the laws himself, and that they are no longer obligatory.

            Looking at the chapter headings, it is easy to see what amazing an undertaking Rabbi Gottlieb had taken upon himself. There are ten chapter headings: Positive Skepticism, Nature Testifies To Its Creator, Why Religion?, Which Religion?, The One and Only True Judaism, Torah From Heaven, Free Will Vs. Secular and Religious Determinism, The Immortality of the Soul, Christianity and Zoological Anti-Semitism, Did The Catholic Church Finally Ordain The Truth?.

            My particular focus on Rabbi Gottlieb's book has been his chapter six: Torah From Heaven. This chapter includes subheadings that could make one's head spin: Ten Proofs, Acceptance of the Burden on Themselves and Their Progeny, Uniqueness of Judaism's Beginning, The Obvious Necessity of the Epic of Sinai, Liars or Fools, Beliefs Transformed into Historical Facts, The Ordinance of the Sabbatical Year, etc.

            Sitting here in Sydney in my usual prayer seat and pondering many of the learned challenges emerging from The Inescapable Truth, I realize just how brilliant and profound the teachings of Rabbi Gottlieb are and the profound impact he made upon his many students.

            Rabbi Eliezer Y. Gottlieb may not be a household name and his book may not be on everyone's book shelf, but he and his book deserve a second look and deep thought. We must all revisit the questions raised in his book. Rabbi Gottlieb was very clear, very correct, and his perspective in seeing the Torah as a Divine document, not only a divinely inspired document, rather Torah Min Ha-Shamayim --Torah From Heaven.

            I hope and pray that this retrospective review of Rabbi Gottlieb's book will lead to it receiving proper recognition. It is quite a brilliant and beautifully written exposition, dealing with many of the questions that arise as we endeavor develop a deeper connection with our Jewish heritage. This is my prayer.

            To our members and friends,

            I now have completed my fourth year of working as the National Scholar of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals. It has been an honor and privilege working to promote our vision nationwide primarily through teaching and teacher training, and also through writing and internet classes. This report summarizes my various projects and activities over the past year.

            My major areas of focus have been:

·        Teacher Training:

o   One of our central goals is to train rabbis and educators to spread our vision of Torah to schools and communities. We build bridges with people in the field to work together, and have a greater impact on students and communities across the country and beyond.

o   I taught a course to Honors Rabbinical students at Yeshiva University, on Teaching Bible in Synagogues. The success of this course, which began in 2012, has made it a regular feature of the Honors Rabbinical program.

o   I have been working regularly with the Community Hebrew Academy of Toronto (CHAT), doing teacher trainings in person and also serving as a resource for their entire Bible faculty as they develop a new curriculum.

o   I participate annually at Yeshivat Chovevei Torah’s Bible Study days in June.

·        Community Education:

o   There is a serious thirst for the kind of learning represented by our Institute, and a sizable number of communities have invited me to give individual lectures, Shabbat scholar-in-residence programs, and classes in Tanakh and Religious Philosophy. Through a combination these programs, we reach thousands of adults directly each year.

o   Most frequently, I served in my capacity of Rabbinic Scholar at Kehilath Jeshurun. This involved speaking in the KJ Sephardic minyan weekly and giving regular classes in KJ, including a survey of the entire Bible, a History at Home series in Great Biblical Scandals, and running symposia co-sponsored by the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.

o   In October, I gave the annual Levy Lecture at Queens College.

o   In January, I spoke at Citi Field as part of the Orthodox Union’s “Torah in the City” convention. Approximately 1500 people attended the convention.

o   In February-March, I gave a six-part series as part of the Yeshiva University Community Beit Midrash program.

o   In May, I was the keynote scholar at the Chicago Board of Rabbis learning convention.

o   In addition to the many weekday classes and programs, it was gratifying to visit communities as a Shabbat or Yom Tov scholar-in-residence in Thornhill, Ontario; New York, NY; Palo Alto, California; and Teaneck, New Jersey.

·        Publications:

o   This year, I published two books:

o   Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi: Prophecy in an Age of Uncertainty (Jerusalem: Maggid, 2016). In March, I was featured on the radio show, “Rabbi Wechsler Teaches” to discuss this book.

o   Increasing Peace Through Balanced Torah Study. Conversations 27 (New York: Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, 2017). This book contains essays that lie at the heart of the Institute’s religious ideology.  We have distributed it to communities across the country, including communities that invite me to be a scholar in residence.

o   I have begun working on a new collection of essays on Bible, focusing on the interaction between tradition and academic methods of study.

I thank the co-sponsors of the two books, who made their publication and distribution possible.

For Haggai-Zechariah-Malachi: Levy Family Foundation, Sephardic Publication Foundation.

Thank you also to those with whom I have learned Torah who contributed: Linda and Shlomo Brody; Margy and Perry Davis; Faith Fogelman; Simon Gerson; Simone and Elias Hannema; Joseph Jerome; Joel Marcus; Jane Mushabac; Judy Nadelson; Ron Platzer; Bina Presser; Gideon and Shara Schor; Karen and Roy Simon; Joan Weber; and several others who wished to remain anonymous.

For Conversations 27: S. Daniel Abraham; Joshua Angel; in memory of his wife, Rita Angel; Bengualid Family Foundation in memory of Sylvia Knafou Bengualid; Marco Dilaurenti; Levy Family Foundation in memory of Leon and Elsi Levy; Alan and Kathleen Shamoon; Ronald and Adele Tauber; Sephardic Publication Foundation.

·        Internet Learning:

o   We have significantly expanded our Online Learning section on our website, https://www.jewishideas.org//online-learning.

Below is an itemized listing of the various classes and programs I have given over the past year in my capacity as National Scholar of the Institute.

·        June 19-20: Three lectures at Yeshivat Chovevei Torah Annual Bible study days.

·        June 28: Community Hebrew Academy of Toronto teacher training.

·        July 7-28: Four-part mini-series at Lamdeinu, Teaneck.

·        September 14-28: Three-part mini-series at Lamdeinu, Teaneck.

·        September 23-24: Shabbat scholar-in-residence at BAYT in Thornhill, Ontario.

·        October 27: Annual Levy Lecture at Queens College.

·        November 12: History at Home Lecture at Kehilath Jeshurun in Manhattan.

·        December 17: History at Home Lecture at Kehilath Jeshurun in Manhattan.

·        January 14: History at Home Lecture at Kehilath Jeshurun in Manhattan.

·        January 15: Lecture at the Orthodox Union’s Torah in the City at Citi Field.

·        January-April: Ten-part series for Honors Rabbinical Students on Teaching Bible in Synagogues.

·        February-March: Six-part series for Yeshiva University’s Community Beit Midrash.

·        February-March: Six-part series at Lamdeinu, Teaneck.

·        March 5: Guest on Rabbi Wechsler Teachers radio show.

·        March 10-11: Shabbat scholar-in-residence at the Edmond J. Safra Synagogue in New York City.

·        March 31-April 1: Shabbat scholar-in-residence at Congregation Emek Beracha in Palo Alto, California.

·        April 6: Lecture at New York University.

·        May 15-22: Two-part mini-series at Lamdeinu, Teaneck.

·        May 17: Guest scholar at the annual Kallah of the Chicago Board of Rabbis.

·        May 30-31: Two Shavuot lectures at Congregation Ohr Saadya, Teaneck, New Jersey.

·        October-May: Seventeen Lectures surveying the Bible at Kehilath Jeshurun in Manhattan.

I also continue to teach courses to advanced undergraduates at Yeshiva University, something I have done since 1996. This past year, I taught for the first time a course on the opportunities and challenges that arise from the interface of traditional and academic Bible study. I look forward to bringing elements of that course into future teacher trainings and scholar-in-residence weekends across the country.

Thank you all for your support and enthusiasm, and I look forward to promoting our Torah vision for many years to come.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

It’s not too late to prevent a catastrophe

An open letter to Chief Rabbi Mirvis regarding the Dweck Affair

Dear Chief Rabbi Mirvis,

The Jewish community is looking to you for wise guidance regarding the Dweck Affair, and appreciates your desire to respond sensitively and carefully. At the same time, your statements (and your silences) to date have not been reassuring.

I’m writing as a member of three communities: as a British citizen, as an Orthodox Jew, and as a long-time member of the Spanish and Portuguese community. I speak only for myself, but I am confident that others share my views on this matter. Indeed, I’m somewhat reluctant to express such unoriginal thoughts, but I believe that it is important to speak up at times like this.

The fundamental question at stake here is how to respond to attacks on a rabbi when those attacks, even if based on legitimate differences of opinion, are expressed as bile-filled rants, and focus on the character of the speaker rather than the issues under debate.

First, as a British citizen, I understand that it is undesirable for internal Jewish disputes to be aired in public. But communities, especially religious ones, are judged by how they treat the extremists within their midst. Remaining silent in the face of egregious character assassination makes us accomplices. Extremism within our own Jewish community must be repudiated by responsible religious leadership—just as we demand of the leaders of other communities—and we should not be viewed as passive onlookers when our Jewish (and British) values are being trampled upon.

Second, as an Orthodox Jew, I interpret the silence of the centrist Orthodox rabbinate in response to charedi provocations as a sign that, yet again, we will cave readily to extremism, and lack the courage of our convictions. Rabbi Marc Angel has written extensively about the damage that this phenomenon has caused. The mistaken belief that the confidence of the ultra-Orthodox can be retained while responding to the needs of the larger Orthodox community, especially its youth, is naive. Young people are looking to leaders such as Rabbi Dweck, and to you, to help them navigate the reality in which homophobia is no longer socially acceptable, and many of them have friends who are gay and wanting to live lives of Torah and mitzvot. They do not expect the Rambam to be sensitive to LGBT issues, but they will not forgive contemporary rabbis who minimize the problem, and speak glibly of the pain suffered by a significant part of the community. And perhaps worst of all is the message this affair sends about our values as an Orthodox community: that even as we begin the period of Bein HaMetzarim, we are more concerned about ideological purity than sinat chinam.

Third, as a member of the Spanish and Portuguese community, I am hoping that you will stand up for the traditional principles of rabbinic independence and local governance. You have an important role to play as a spiritual leader. But Judaism is not Catholicism, and the Chief Rabbi (whether of Britain or Israel) is not the Pope. So I would expect your first reaction to any calls that you “fire” a rabbi, from whatever source, to be a clarification that this rabbi is not employed by you and does not serve at your pleasure.

You recently conveyed through your spokesman that you are assuming full "responsibility for bringing this episode to a suitable conclusion” and that you will “establish a dignified and appropriate format which will allow for concerns relating to a wide range of Rabbi Joseph Dweck’s teachings and halachic rulings to be considered”.

The most “suitable conclusion” to this matter, in my view, would be to announce that you have looked into the lecture given by Rabbi Dweck and have found nothing in it to justify the vile attacks that followed; and that ad hominem attacks against distinguished rabbis are unacceptable. Such a statement would neither refute nor endorse the views of Rabbi Dweck, but would give you an opportunity to remind the community that we celebrate machloket leshem shamayim, and that conformance with your opinions—or indeed the opinions of any other rabbi—is not a condition for serving as a rabbi in the UK. Nevertheless, the community is no doubt eager to hear your own analysis of the halakhic, moral and social aspects of this issue, perhaps in a lecture at a later point in which you address the substantive arguments made by Rabbi Dweck and others.

But I fear a different ending, which in my view would be disastrous: namely, that you announce that an investigation has been conducted; that Rabbi Dweck has “clarified” his comments; and that you nevertheless deem him fit to continue to serve the community. Such an outcome would, by omission, fail to address the real issue as I’ve outlined above. But it would also have a chilling effect on the Orthodox community in the UK, by signalling that rabbis should avoid addressing controversial issues, lest they be subject to an inquisition. Young rabbis are looking to you to reaffirm their right to speak honestly and freely, and to follow their consciences without fear of prosecution. And the damage would extend beyond the shores of the UK, as rabbis the world over who might consider posts in Britain reflect on the humiliation of one of their most talented and thoughtful colleagues.

Yours,

Daniel Jackson

Connections in a Modern World

On the eve of Rosh HaShana 1948 (5706), the first Reform rabbi to be officially appointed in Germany since 1936 arrived in Berlin to cater to the needs of the local community. Rabbi Steven Schwarzschild, a young HUC-ordained rabbi who fled to the United States with his parents at the beginning of WWII, returned to Germany despite huge opposition by the Orthodox establishment both within Germany and within the relief organizations that were heavily influenced by the American and British Orthodox circles.

This opposition was not based only on theological divisions or the question of denominational differences. The demographic conditions within the Jewish community in Berlin at the time were such that a large part of the community survived the war only due to the fact they were in interfaith marriages. At that time, almost all liberal rabbis before and after the Holocaust did not acknowledge interfaith couples. When members of the Jewish community received food parcels from relief organization in post-war-shattered Berlin, conversion was a central issue. Both the Orthodox circles and the relief organizations feared that the arrival of a Reform rabbi would create an influx of “New Jews” who survived the war as Aryan Germans. The political faction of the Zionists and Orthodox Jews within the Berlin Geminde (community) board repeatedly warned that the Jewish community would become divided and might even disappear as "a Reform approach to conversion will alter our Jewish identity."

However, none of this actually took place. Upon arrival, Rabbi Schwarzschild did not know how to solve the flood of conversion requests. After consulting with several rabbis, he decided to adopt in full the conversion criteria issued by Rabbi Munk, the Berlin Orthodox Rabbi who preceded Schwarzschild. Those criteria were written with the support of the Belsen (Hareidi) rabbinical board, Chief Rabbi Herzog, and the Reform Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver. He was then criticized by the Liberal faction of the Geminde but was appointed an honorary president of Mizrachi-Germany (the Zionist-Orthodox party).

Today this seems, however, to be a somewhat naive approach. The gap between the Liberal denominations and Orthodoxy is not only theologically and halakhically huge, but it is also based on different philosophical, religious, and social foundations. It is very hard to imagine a situation such as the one that took place in Berlin or the one in Bombay taking place today. How could Orthodox institutions and rabbis work with Liberal denominations in a reality where the possibility of finding a common ground on the difficult questions (for example, kiddushin and gittin, LGTBQ matters, patrilineal decent, egalitarian synagogues, etc.) does not seem to exist? In this reality, cooperation limits itself to political matters (Israel, federation issues, anti-Semitism) and acting “civil” within the large community.

The Paradigm Is Different

A few months ago Rabbi Tzfania Drori was interviewed about Minister Naftali Benet's visit to a Solomon Shechter school. The visit created a stir within Israeli politics as it was perceived as a de-facto recognition of the validity of Conservative Judaism. Within that context Rabbi Drori, said

The first thing I did when I came to NYC in the 1960s was to go to a Reform synagogue and see what it's about… .Later in Los Angeles I went to see their schools…. I can't say I wasn't interested. I've seen the positive as well as the negative within them….We must not excommunicate or boycott anybody.

This statement, which in the past might have caused another round of statements about Liberal denominations, went almost unnoticed. This was not because nobody heard about it; it reached the front page of leading news websites. It also was not because Rabbi Drori is an unimportant figure. On the contrary, at 79, Drori, Rosh Yeshivat Kiryat Shmona and a student of Rabbi Tzvi Yehuda Kook, is one of the leaders of National-Orthodoxy in Israel. The message was quietly received because his statement didn't call for a change in politics nor for a change in halakha. He simply reiterated the need to know what “they” are about and to get to know “them.”

The frame of the conversation about Liberal denominations is changing. The postmodern reality we live in negates the need to always find solutions. In the past we would aspire to find a solution because the very existence of Liberal denominations jeopardized one of the foundations of Orthodoxy – securing the truth with regard to God's revelation. Today the reality allows us to live within our own individual narrative.

Rav Shagar z"l writes

Meeting different types of believers and non-believers will not weaken my faith but strengthen it. As Hasidic Jews tend to do, I will be able to recognize the divine in everything. The theological question of "which faith is better?" becomes meaningless in a postmodern world, but this does not harm my attachment to my tradition.

(Broken Vessels, 2003)

The postmodern reality, as Rav Shagar illustrated in his writings, changes the foundation of the way we act religiously. In today's world we can create a different landscape when interacting on a denominational level with Liberal Jews. Meetings are not about a need to seek solutions to halakhic questions and matters of politics. People can simply enjoy a conversation or just appreciate meeting other Jews and try to bridge over decades of mutual suspicion.

Orthodoxy itself is a modern being. While maintaining the traditional approach to halakha and minhag, Orthodoxy functions in a way that was constructed in a modern setting and dealt with a Jewish community that believed and thought in modern terms. Although Orthodoxy will probably continue to thrive, as recent surveys show both in Israel and in North America, the way Orthodoxy is dealing with new and old phenomena is changing. New approaches that allow observing a traditional way of life in a postmodern reality are popping up across the spectrum. When dealing with Liberal denominations, here too, new ways are arriving and we must listen to the voices that are fighting to preserve a traditional halakha while living in a narrative-based reality.

Unlike Rav Kook, due to multiculturalism that is a characteristic of the postmodern reality, I am no longer in need to justify myself in front of the other or to identify him within myself—not the Jewish “other” nor the non-Jewish “other”…

(Rav Shager, To Illuminate the Openings, 2013)

Orthodox Jews no longer live in a reality where the existence of “other” Jewish denominations is a threat. This does not mean that Orthodoxy became pluralistic and believe all denominations are a reflection of truth. In a world where Truth is no longer a goal, we all know we live within different narratives. Orthodoxy is not threatened by the existence of other narratives. In fact, one can argue that the postmodern reality allows more room for a “simple” traditional way of life that does not attempt to bridge between the reality and tradition (by modernizing Jewish values and converting modern values). As Rav Shagar writes, no one needs to justify anything anymore nor does he need to convince anyone. Communities can simply live side by side and try to meet without solving the gaps between them but rather accept the gaps.

Working in a Different Reality

In the past two years I have been fortunate to lead the Mechadshey Kedem initiative, which seeks to create conversations between Israeli Zionist-Orthodoxy and North American Liberal denominations. This initiative is founded on the spiritual and existential value that all Jews have a shared destiny and that we are all part of the Jewish people. Those thoughts, while obvious to many, are not always reflected in the way Orthodox and non-Orthodox denominations relate to each other.

As part of this initiative we go to yeshivot and midrashot (in Israel) and ask them to open the door to Liberal rabbinic students from HUC, JTS, or other rabbinic schools. Last year alone we had more than 100 participants in this new initiative. In almost every place we visit, from Haredi-Leumi yeshivot to the Kibbutz HaDati midrashot, there is never an apparent expectation that the Liberal Jews who are guests will “see the light” or “repent in Teshuva” as a result of the meetings. Instead, it seems most rabbis and students are interested in knowing more about other Jews who think and observe differently. The fact that we don't know each other is becoming a real threat to the very nature of the Jewish people.

The willingness to sit and share Talmud Torah with a rabbinical student who is representing, more or less, the opposite of the yeshiva concept of its graduate, is not merely a kiruv moment or a political gesture. In a postmodern reality, one can be a zealot for halakha and at the same time learn with a fellow Jew who thinks differently. One does not need to accept the core value of pluralism and to view the Other as a legitimate reflection of truth. One can hold firmly to the halakhic world view, while agreeing to be in touch with Jews who think, believe, and operate differently. We must not see this as pragmatism or as a new-age style of Ahavat Yisrael. There is something much more profound that is possible in the relationship of Orthodoxy and Liberal denominations.

Some Final Thoughts

The postmodern reality allows us to bring back the notion of a joint-family to the discussion table of the Jewish people. Family members argue with each other all the time. However, even when they strongly disagree, they will still sit around the same Shabbat table and share the same worries and laughs.

I can vouch that in all sessions we held, I have never seen anyone try to raise a solution to the big questions thinking he will convince a member of the other side. Instead, people were sharing life experiences, insights on verses, on Gemara and prayer. People were getting to know each other. They felt connected, they argued for hours, sometimes shouting over this question or the other, but they didn't try to convince. They tried to interact.

In the past few decades, Orthodox Jews preferred not to interact at the peer-to-peer level with other denominations. The discussion was left to the rabbinic elite and the connection between denominations was limited to non-religious issues and social gatherings. I do not believe the Kahal should take the place of the rabbis, leaders, and posekim. However, the postmodern reality allows us to interact without trying to solve everything. It allows the Kahal to redeem the relationship within the Jewish people and it also allows the rabbis and leaders to be in touch without constantly seeking solutions but rather connect amongst each other.

We all have experienced a Seder, a holiday meal, or Shabbat with family members with whom we do not agree. We argued… but then shared the last piece of cake. I truly believe that if we will learn how to establish a real relationship, the cake will follow—and by then we might even know how to share it.

“Linda, please take my advice. Travel abroad when you are young and strong. Don’t wait until you are old because it might become too difficult to get around. Save America for last—when you are retired.”       

—Mae Axelrod

My passion in life was first ignited by listening to the wisdom of my paternal grandmother. Her name was Mae, an immigrant from Kiev, and she was the one who instilled in me the idea to start traveling as soon as I could. Mae was a cultured and very curious woman who always yearned to visit Europe. She constantly dreamed and talked about walking the winding streets of Italy to see some of the greatest works of art and architecture.

            So finally, she and my grandfather made a trip to Europe. But when she finally fulfilled her lifelong dream of a voyage to Italy by boat in 1954, my grandfather had trouble walking, and it was difficult for him to move around. The trip was tiresome; he had no stamina, and the broken old streets were a challenge for both of them. They had waited too long, she told me, to go on a sightseeing trip. Needless to say, it was very disappointing. They finally took that trip and could hardly see what they set sail to experience.

And so it was—upon graduating from college with an art degree and wanting to see all the great works of art—traveling became my greatest desire and passion. And following the advice of my grandmother, whom I greatly loved and adored, I listened to her wise words and was ready to hit the road as soon as I could. Never once did I consider a trip to the Caribbean. I wanted to see the exotic and culturally rich places first. After all, at 22 years of age, youth and strength were on my side, and although I had a small budget as a teacher, it made it all that much better, as I loved staying in tiny hostels and taking public transportation wherever possible. I did have the summertime free to explore, so I was not going to waste any time.

Then when I met my husband Josef, who seemed to share my passion. He agreed to close his business a few weeks in the summer so that we could take a trip. It all worked after a bit of maneuvering, and together we have spent our life visiting and exploring places that offered us the most interesting glimpse into other worlds. We loved meeting a variety of people, and we did it without organized tours, with only a carry-on suitcase, one pair of hiking boots, a copy of the Lonely Planet Guidebook, and a great deal of enthusiasm, curiosity, and guts.

We spent each year researching countries of interest and what was accessible to us for a visit. And this was even before computers, internet, and hotels.com. Little did we know that traveling would soon become an addiction, and I can say without question, it has been the most enriching thing we could do for ourselves. You find your real self while traveling, and the world is a true classroom for those who are interested in learning through experiences.

And then when we had our son Zohar, he also learned to share our passion and came with us on all our summer trips. We started him at five years old, and we knew that he would get much more out of traveling the world than going to camp or playing basketball. We equipped him with his own carry-on suitcase, taught him how to do his own laundry in the shower, and gave him a small allowance for purchasing souvenirs of his choice. It was because of him that we were actually able to get an invitation to visit Bhutan from the Royal Government. But that story is for later in this article. So from the age of five until he was 16, Zohar was part of our travel expeditions.

Of course, you can’t get to remote places, especially on a limited budget, without putting up with some discomforts. That is a given. Zohar was a real trooper, and I have to admit, so were we. But if the sights are worth it, then who cares about the lack of running water, no electricity, snakes in the room, filthy streets, and frightening modes of transportation, not to mention having to take a slew of inoculations before going. It all goes with the territory, as they say.

But there was another added plus to our adventures that we had never anticipated. Traveling can take you on a spiritual journey into yourself. It can change how you interact with every aspect of the world, both as a person, and also surprisingly as a Jew. You get to know yourself better in so many different ways and on so many different levels. So, with nothing more than being lucky enough to have been raised in America where air travel is a possibility, I have been blessed with the opportunity and time to see the world and have reaped so many benefits. My adventures have given me the richest experiences to call upon to help me navigate through life’s challenges. Whether it was that visit to Mother Teresa’s hospital, or peering through the bushes as the African women sang together while doing their laundry along the river banks, those experiences and faces of the people are embedded in my very being. They continually define me as a person and I call upon those memories to help keep me grounded.

The following travel vignettes are just a few of my stories where I felt stronger as a Jew spiritually and humbled as a human being. I have been traveling for 45 years and have never missed a summer trip. I still haven’t seen America. That will come last, as my grandmother advised. I invite you through this article to come on a journey with me through some of my most wonderful, notable, and spiritual travel experiences.

“Mom, Dad, why can’t we go to Disneyworld like the rest of my friends? Where is Haran?”

                         —Zohar Kastner, age 12

Trip to Haran, Eastern Turkey

In keeping with our desire to see the world and all that it has to offer, it was my husband Josef’s idea to find out where Haran is located, since Zohar’s bar mitzvah parasha was Lekh Lekha, and what a unique bar mitzvah experience it would be for our son to be in the actual place where God told Abraham to leave Ur and travel the road to Israel. After doing some research, we located Haran, which is in Eastern Turkey. We planned a summer trip there, and as soon as school was out, off we went. After landing in Erzurum, Turkey, we rented a car and drove miles to this remote place called Haran. It is situated near the headwaters of the Euphrates River, and nearly all the traffic between Mesopotamia and Canaan, Egypt, and the Hittite Empire had to pass through Haran. What a place it was and still is.

Standing there was standing in ancient Jewish history. There was nothing modern about Haran. The city itself was full of ruins, and the locals even showed us where Abraham’s father was buried. But it was the beehive structures where the people and animals lived that really put us in a time machine back thousands of years. We were invited into one of them, and we actually felt like we had returned to archaic times. I guess we actually did. It was thrilling. The road that took us to Haran through the plains of Turkey were traveled by Abraham as he was looking for a homeland. He slept in one of these conical houses. This place was truly a treasure of our faith and how great it was to stand in such a place with my son Zohar, before reading Lekh Lekha. The three of us were overwhelmed by the experience, and if anything, this made his bar mitzvah parasha authentic and jump out of the pages of the Torah when he read 10 weeks later at the Kotel in Jerusalem.

“When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them.”

—Isaiah 41:17

Trip to Mali, Africa

Josef and I, loving architecture and art, decided to visit Mali, Africa. We chose Mali for three reasons: First, it is known for the greatest African art, in particular, the famous Chiwara antelope wood carving. Second, we wanted to see the famous Sudanese mud architecture, specifically, the Djenne Mosque complex in the desert. Mud architecture is a skill passed down through generations, and the buildings are entirely molded by human hands. Third, we wanted to visit Timbuktu, an entire sand city in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

Most people who visit Mali are with organizations such as Save the Children or Doctors without Borders. It is an extremely poor place. But then there was us—off to see some Unesco-protected works of human achievement with only our copy of the Lonely Planet guidebook. Never did I think that I would encounter situations and make decisions that were totally out of my consciousness. After all, I was raised in New York City and lived here my entire life and had no problem navigating the subway system and protecting myself against local robbers and scam artists.

But what do you do when you encounter 30 people, dehydrated from lack of water, running toward your vehicle in the middle of the desert, wanting to take the water that you filled in your jerrican, which was sitting on the roof our jeep? It was terrifying. Would they kill us for the water? Would they kidnap us? Would they leave us to die in the desert of dehydration? And if we gave them our water, then we would have none to continue our desert journey or worse yet, to return from where we started. I turned to Josef, who was not as panic stricken as I was, and he responded by quoting a line from the bible about giving water. He turned to the bible for answers to this serious dilemma. I was stunned at first, but where on earth could I come up with an answer to such a vexing dilemma. I went completely numb from fear of dying in the desert and becoming one of those bleached skeletons in the sand that artist Georgia O’Keeffe painted so strikingly. Should I put on my red t-shirt at this point, so my dried up bones would be visible from the air when they hopefully came looking for us, if they came looking for us? What do we do?

Josef on the other hand had faith in the people that they would not harm us and just needed to drink water badly. He also looked at the map and said we would probably find water in a few hours at the Niger River. What kind of river? I thought. The kind with parasites and diseases? But we stopped the jeep regardless of my panic. The thirsty group all came charging at us, and we poured them water, hoping for the best. Much to my surprise, they even thanked us in in Bambara. Somehow we were guided by our faith in Judaism, although this situation was beyond anything I ever thought I could encounter in my lifetime. But following Josef’s lead, relying on the wisdom from Isaiah, we helped them. We did find water later on and I was sure to say thank you to God as well!

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

 —Isaiah 41:10

Timbuktu, Mali

But the story did not end here. The following week we decided to drive to Timbuktu, which is a sand city in the middle of the Sahara Desert. Josef, now a bit more experienced after the water experience, now decided to check out the road to Timbuktu with the Minister of Roads. Could you imagine walking into the office of the Minister of Roads unannounced? We did and had a lovely chat with the man in charge. After getting the logistics, we left with a land rover, which was an animal of a vehicle, a driver speaking only Bambara, and ourselves. This time, being smarter, we took a case of water and a few sandwiches. One small detail that was left out by the Minister of Roads, was that roads in the Sahara were only tracks from the jeep that traveled before you. Asphalt, which I earned a new respect for in Africa, ended one hour into our journey and we were only following faint tracks in the sand. It was nerve-racking, and I was asking myself all the way how I allowed myself to get into this situation. It was like my travel passion had run away with my brain power.

But we made it after 13 hours of travel to this magnificent sand city with a glorious skyline as we approached. The Tuareg tribe people, clothed in indigo blue robes, riding camels, were in the entrance of the city to greet us, as if they knew we were coming. We found the one hotel to stay in, while our driver Ollie insisted on sleeping on the roof of the jeep. I was not particularly excited about returning the same way back to Bamako, the capital, so when four stranded young people from the Peace Corp asked if they could hitchhike back with us, I said “yes” and was thrilled to have some youth and muscle along for the scary ride. We walked around Timbuktu for two days in sheer amazement that a city could be built from sand. It was really one giant sand castle. Of course it needed constant repair, which you could see happening on every building. And while they were repairing, the sandstorms were constantly blowing, making it even more of a challenge to keep the city from being swallowed up by the forces of nature. It was fascinating, and we even got to meet the mayor of the sand town and his two wives.

But getting back to the hitchhikers, it was a good thing that they came with us, because on the way back, our jeep sank into quicksand, like in one of those horror movies, sinking half-way down until it hit solid sand. We could not even open the door of the car and had to climb out the window. Apparently it had rained and it was our hard luck that not only did the sand turn to mud, but the tracks in the sand from the car before us (the so-called road) had disappeared. The car went down, there was no road and now we had no direction. We only had the compass to rely on that Josef to this day wears on his watchband. So, with only our bare hands and steel plates that our driver had luckily brought along, we all took turns digging the car out with our bare hands. It was hours of tiresome work, and did I mention—we had no water left. We formed a dam to help stop the mud from flowing but as the sun was setting, the desert started to cool off and the mud started to crack and dry up.

After an intense powwow, it was decided that we were not going to attempt moving the car until morning. So we all decided to go to sleep at this point to conserve our energy. We slept either in the jeep, under it, on top of it, on the side of it, or near it until morning. I never closed my eyes, as a hoot here and there kept my panic attack going and with eyes wide open, I became a terrified night watchman. We considered at one point walking 50 kilometers at night which was the estimation of the nearest town, but everyone was too exhausted for that. And who knew how long our flashlight batteries would last.

And so it was—we waited until morning to push the car out of the sand. We did manage to get the jeep going eventually, and with long broken-off petrified tree branches, Josef and the Peace Corp boys surveyed the terrain looking for safe places to drive the car. The girls and I were filtering mud through a handkerchief and added a few drops of emergency iodine drops to the bit of water that we managed to salvage. We would of course only drink it if we were at death’s door as it was a watery mud cocktail. Yuck!

We did finally make it back to a town, starving and thirsty, and the two boys were dropped at the hospital as they were suffering from malaria. The luggage rack of the car was kaput at this point and fell off. The jeep literally plowed through trees and anything in the way and we even had to cross a river with the vehicle. Stones were put in the water to keep us afloat.

Now you might ask at this point what this experience did for me spiritually, except for the fact that I had to turn to God at many moments to pray that we come out of this adventure alive. Josef quite honestly was worried about making it back to the hotel before Shabbat. But I will attempt to answer this question on a different level. I have come to realize through this harrowing experience that the circumstances of our life are not always in control. Humankind likes to think in straight lines. We leave from a departure point and arrive at our destination. But the dessert terrain throws you completely off. Maybe I experienced something like the Israelites felt when they left Egypt and took all the riches with them. What good did the riches do in the desert? I actually thought of them while undergoing this experience. Can I ever again take water for granted, or solitude, or a road, or food, or a compass or a comfortable bed to sleep in? The desert tests you, and I managed to pass the test, perhaps with a very low grade, but I passed. And the Israelites wandered the desert for 40 years? What a remarkable people!

“The opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference.”

—Elie Wiesel

Trip to Crete, Greece

Just this past summer, Josef and I took a trip to Crete, Greece. Oh, those gorgeous Greek islands where people come from all over the world to just swim, sun, and rejoice in one of God’s paradises. It is stunning in scenery and just a place to enjoy nature at its finest. We try to go each summer, and this year, we met a delightful couple who were staying in our 10-room hotel. They were about our age, and they both recently retired and chose Crete as their first stop to celebrate their newfound freedom. They were from Germany.

Since we were the only two couples staying in this small hotel, we ended up eating our meals together on the lovely tavern overlooking the Libyan Sea. We told them about our life, children, and work and shared experiences about traveling. They did the same. It was only during Shabbat while sitting on the taverna that they asked which town we would be driving to today. They knew we liked to explore the towns and really didn’t take a swim until very late in the day. We told them that it was Saturday and we don’t drive on Saturdays. They asked why. We told them that we were Jewish and Saturday is our Sabbath. She froze. Had she never met a Jew before? She looked at us with piercing eyes. Now I know why you have never visited Germany she said. We responded, “yes.” Then her eyes filled with tears and she came over to me and put her arms around me with a tight hug. She said, “What can I say about such an ugly part of history that is so difficult to understand. I apologize for my country,” she said, “I apologize for Germany for what we did to your people. I apologize, I am so sorry.” She continued to weep. I had never encountered any German person who apologized to me personally for their country and the atrocities that they committed. We were both silent and I honored the silence. She did too.

“In school, my friends called me ‘Fish.’ As a child, my grandmother used to prepare gefilte fish, using the bathtub as an aquarium until it was time for the slaughter. The fish and its scales have been a recurring image in my architecture, probably because the scent of the fish has clung to me all these years.”                          

—Frank Gehry

Trip to Bilbao, Spain

Frank Gehry, whose Hebrew name is Ephraim, is acclaimed as being the greatest architect of the twenty-first century. He just recently received a Medal of Freedom award from President Obama. He is most well-known for his exquisite masterpiece—The Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain, which is a magnificent example of the most groundbreaking architecture done in titanium with undulating curves that were all conceived and designed on a computer. It is innovative, highly unique, and world-famous.

 Wanting to see it, Josef and I traveled to Bilbao, Spain for a long weekend, just to see this architectural wonder. We rented the audio tour to take around the museum with us. As I was listening to the recording about the inspiration for the design of the museum, I was shocked to hear about Gehry’s description of his childhood experience of fish-watching. What I mean by fish-watching is that when he was a child, his parents, who were the children of Russian and Polish immigrants used to keep fish swimming in the bathtub before the Jewish Holidays. As a youngster, this vision must have been a bit disturbing, but right before the holiday, his mom would scoop the fish from the tub, club the fish to death, and then take it to the kitchen to prepare a special fish concoction for the holiday meal. Of course I thought, as I remembered hearing those stories from my grandmother! This was all in preparation for the making of the gefilte fish. Fresh fish, swimming around in the bathtub until it was time to grind it into that molded lump of sweet boneless cold fish stewed with carrots and onions and covered with horseradish.

But it was this sight of the fish wiggling and slithering around in the tub that became the influence for one of the world’s greatest innovative pieces of architecture. The image of the shiny scales of the fish were turned into titanium rectangles strategically placed in an undulating pattern with curves that captured the movement of the fish squirming in the limited space of a bathtub. Who would ever imagine that one of the most sophisticated works of architecture in the world would all be credited to the Jewish Holidays and the start of a holiday meal with that delicious piece of gefilte fish? Go figure that the power of building in a new and different way with the use of a computer could come from a traditional Ashkenazic food. That piece of sweet fish to commence a holiday meal has now risen to the heights of sophistication and actually does taste better after seeing the influence that it has had on the modern world.

 Then you will go safely on your way, and you will not hurt your foot. When you lie down, you will not be afraid.               

—Proverbs 3:23–24

Trip to Bali, Indonesia

One of the most beautiful places in the world is Bali, Indonesia. Bali is the only island in Indonesia that is Hindu. It is an artist’s paradise filled with beautiful wood and stone carvings of Hindu deities, and the Balinese people are often taught from a young age how to make these beautiful sculptures. Their artistry is part of a tradition that is passed down from generation to generation. And when we do get the opportunity to visit Bali, we even like to stay in a wood-carving village called Mas, where we can watch the artisans at work enjoy their traditional craft.

Josef and I went twice in our life to this exotic paradise, and both times we were blown away by the natural beauty and by the peacefulness of the island. Bali has an aura of being truly blessed and the people seem to appreciate all that they have. One beautiful sight you see everywhere is the people bringing offerings to the gods at the temples. These offerings are shallow baskets made out of leaves with incense sticks protruding out, along with and an assortment of oils and other beautiful things. For example, if you just had rice and meat for lunch, a little bit of it goes into the offering, which eventually will be left at a chosen religious statue or in front of a home. It is the here and the now that is representational of the Hindu culture, and it is in those offerings to the gods that they express their appreciation for what they have. It is another way of giving thanks.

One morning, when Josef and I were ready to embark on a journey around the island and we checked out of our hotel, there was a surprise waiting for us outside. Our rented car was surrounded by garlands of jasmine flowers and incense. Local people were gathered around our vehicle and they were praying for our safe journey. They thanked both Josef and me and their gods for bringing us to their beautiful island. It reminded me of the prayer that we say before a journey for a safe trip, Tefilat haDerekh. Of course the color, the smell of the flowers, and the incense added to the prayers, but the wish was the same. Halfway around the world, strangers wish each other safe travels. Every time I say the Tefilat haDerekh prayer before a trip, I think of the Balinese people who so elaborately demonstrated their wish for us.

“A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin, and culture is like a tree without roots.”

—Marcus Garvey

Trip to Sfax, Tunisia

One of our most interesting trips was to Tunisia. Sfax, which is the second largest city in Tunisia, is not a particularly touristy place, but after doing much research, we decided to make our way to Sfax, which has two old beautiful synagogues, a medina, and some old ruins. We had a picture and an address of the old synagogue, so that was going to be our first stop. The streets were difficult to navigate so we had to keep asking for help along the way.

Finally, we were led to a synagogue, the Azria synagogue, but it looked nothing at all like the picture that we had. We asked a man on the street if there was another synagogue and he said to follow him. He took us into a shop and we looked for a person who spoke English. The woman in the shop said, wait here. In a few minutes, a man of about 65 came to the store and told us his name was Azriel. We told him we were looking for an old synagogue and showed him the picture. He told us to follow him. The event made me a bit nervous as I was now following a stranger through the streets of a foreign country looking for a synagogue. But along the way he was greeted with friendly hellos by young people who he said were his students. He was a math professor at the University. I felt a bit relieved. He also quietly told us that he was Jewish and there were only six Jews left in the town of Sfax, which was once a thriving community.

And then suddenly we spotted the synagogue—the same one that was in the photograph. It was called The Beth El synagogue, and it was large and had a place of prominence on the street. There was broken glass and garbage littering the porch and barricades around it with a security guard stationed in a small booth. We asked our new friend Azriel if we could see the inside and he looked at us puzzled. Do you want to really go inside? We said yes, very much so. So he said to wait and he will return shortly. So we waited patiently next to the security guard, trying to make conversation, and after about an hour, a taxi pulled up with Azriel and a very old hunched over man. The man carried a large keychain with rusty castle like keys dangling from the ring. He spoke no English, so Azriel was our translator. Azriel, the old man, two detectives and the security guard were now all trying to open the front door to the synagogue with those rusty old keys. It took a while until they found the right one.

And so we entered this once beautiful building where bird droppings and broken glass littered the floor. The old man still had very little to say and Josef tried to talk to him but it went nowhere. He asked if he was Jewish and he didn’t respond. Perhaps he was fearful with the two detectives. Then Josef thought how nice it would be to chant the popular psalm “Asherei yoshevei veitekha.” The old man lit up and continued to chant out loud with “Od yehalelukha selah.” And so they continued. He knew it all by heart and was glowing as he recited the words. They were singing to God in an old deserted synagogue, and it was glorious. It was probably many years since the walls of that synagogue heard Jewish prayers. I was watching in amazement and as I looked at the two detectives, the security guard, and Azriel, all of us with tears streaming down our faces. What an emotional experience!

Azriel then took the castle keys out again and attempted to open the lock attached to a long bar that opened the cabinet to the Sifrei Torah. I felt like Indiana Jones who just raided the lost ark. They were very elaborate and we offered to arrange to have them brought to Israel where they would be preserved, since this synagogue had obviously seen better days. They declined. We imagined that the Torahs are believed to protect the entire town and it was out of the question to remove them. But how precious a moment for us, that we got the rare opportunity to be with the last few Jews in Sfax, in an old synagogue, with two Muslim detectives. Who would believe the treasures we found were these two elderly Jewish men, singing to God in an abandoned synagogue!

“If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one.”

—Mother Teresa

Trip to Kolkata, India

One of the creepiest places that we visited was Calcutta, India in the 1980s. It was not only poor, but many of the inhabitants lived on the streets in shabby dwellings with no sewage or basic amenities. There was disease and malnutrition all around us, and it was shockingly sad to see. And all of this was amidst some exquisite colonial architecture. But it was a part of the world too, so we decided to go. I am glad that we did.

There were many volunteers from many foreign countries who came to help. Mother Teresa spent much time in Kolkata, and her famous hospital called “Mother Teresa’s Hospital for the Dead and Dying” was a landmark where we got the opportunity to meet some extraordinary young people who came even on their honeymoon through their churches to help out in her hospital. This was a far cry from the usual honeymoon vacation that we know about in the states. One such couple that we met at breakfast invited us to join them in their morning assignment in the hospital. We decided to do it, so we went with them. I was surprised seeing the name on the front of the hospital—Hospital for the Dead and Dying—as it really struck me as strange to put such a name on a hospital. Don’t we go to the hospital to try to get better?

We stepped through the door and both Josef and I stopped in our tracks. There were wall-to-wall cots with a skeleton human being in each bed. It was horrifying. Terrified, we entered and asked this young couple what they were dying of. The purpose of the volunteers they told us was to make their existence easier and more comfortable before their death. They told me that they were dying of malnutrition and infections, things that we conquered a long time ago with antibiotics, vitamins, and nutritious food. I asked if I could run back to my hotel and bring antibiotics from my suitcase, or a bag of peanuts, or some juice. Perhaps I could save just one life? Was there any reason why these poor souls had to die when the cures were so in reach? I am still soul-searching to come up with answers to this question. To keep them just comfortable with a cool washcloth or a smile seemed useless to me, when I had the cure with me in my hotel room. But I was discouraged to do so and was told it would not help. That picture never leaves me. It certainly makes you realize how important it is to give charity to food banks, hospitals, and research to help people where solutions can be made available. The intelligence behind the concept of relieving the plight of the poor and underprivileged in Judaism certainly took on a more pronounced meaning for me in Kolkata. Nobody in the world should enter a hospital for the dead and dying from malnutrition and ailments we have cures for. Nobody.

  “Look at situations from all angles and you will become more open.”

—Dalai Lama

Trip to Bhutan and Tibet

Two of our most amazing trips were to Bhutan and Tibet. Bhutan is a small kingdom sandwiched between India and China, and it has only recently put itself on the tourist map, allowing the west to penetrate into this very secluded Tibetan Buddhist culture. It is also a very expensive country to visit because of its remoteness and limited number of visas that are allotted each year. Unfortunately, the standard of living in Bhutan is quite low, although there is a good educational system and plenty of food and medical facilities. Strangely, there is still a national dress which is mandatory for residents and a national style of architecture.

At the time of our trip about 23 years ago, television and movies were banned there, and you could not even find Coca-Cola. The king, who was in full command, was happily married to four sisters, each with her own house, situated on a mountain slope in close proximity to each other. It certainly makes it easier on the king to have only one set of in-laws! And people in Bhutan are known to be very happy, living in their Himalayan Shangri-La amidst the highest mountains in the world dotted with ancient temples and monastic life.

I had my eyes set on Bhutan for years as I wanted to see this extraordinary place. But it was very difficult to get a visa, as they only allowed a small amount of tourists in each year, and the government was very selective about granting visas. So, year after year, I tried to get a visa through the consulate with no luck. Eventually, only by taking a stroll on Shabbat with Zohar and Josef and striking up a conversation with the salesman in a carpet shop, did we get three visas to enter Bhutan as guests of the Royal Government. Zohar was the one who noticed the sign on the store—Tibetan carpets. Apparently, the Tibetan rug salesman was a relative of the governor of Thimpu, the capital of Bhutan, and through his contacts the three of us got two-week visas to visit any part of Bhutan we chose along with a private guide and driver. We also got permits to enter many of the Buddhist Dzongs, which are temple complexes, many of them over 1,000 years old. And all of this for the grand total of $200.00 for the three of us.

In addition, part of the visa requirement was for me to visit the art school to see traditional Bhutanese painting and to tell them about American art education. And so it was. We flew to Bhutan with Zohar sitting in the cockpit next to the pilot. Flying over the Himalayas was jaw-dropping. Once arriving, our first stop had to be the art school, and I was indeed shocked to see that students were human Xerox machines, having to draw complicated and detailed dragons over and over again until the image was etched into their memories. It had to be a perfect replica and after they mastered one, they were then given another Xerox to copy. If art was their chosen field, which their parents decided at an early age, they were put into the art school, where they only learned English and art. There was not an ounce of creativity to be found anywhere in the art school, and I was shocked to see that a school like this existed.

            One of the students asked me to look at his own personal art and offer some constructive criticism. For that, we had to drive to his home. He did a beautiful painting, an exact rendering of a temple as he saw it. I told him it would be fun to add some mountain flowers in the foreground to give it more life and interest, but he was puzzled by my suggestion as there were no flowers in front of the temple. He could not comprehend that you could add something into a work of art from your imagination. I wish I could have painted the expression on his face. He was shocked and actually threatened by such an idea. Even Zohar was shocked by his response. I told him to just think about it for a few days, hoping he would get used to the idea. He never did.

But the most intriguing of our experiences in Bhutan were the long discussions we would have with our young guide named Timlay. And here is where Judaism came into play. While sipping Tibetan tea on a mountain slope, taking in the stunning scenery, Timlay was describing his belief in Buddhism. Josef then asked Timlay, “If you found $200 (which is equivalent in the United States to $200,000) on the ground, what would you do with it?” Timlay did not even stop to contemplate an answer. He immediately said he would give half to a poor person and half to the Buddhist temple. Then he asked Josef what he would do with the money. Josef said he would use the money to invest and participate in a local business where he could make much more money, and then perhaps he could feed everybody in the monastery from the business. Timlay found it very hard to understand such a concept and it troubled him for days. The question is, of course, how does a nation flourish and progress? Josef repeated to Timlay that the two of them could work in the local business and provide food every day and give goods to the poor and give charity as well to the temple. This is perhaps a more constructive solution for the $200 found money. Timlay’s mentality was that there could only be one solution. He was never allowed to contemplate finding various solutions to a problem. In Judaism, we encourage creative thinking to find solutions. This is a concept that we take for granted. It was shocking for Josef and me and even Zohar that this young man from another culture could not understand this.

“You cannot create experience. You must undergo it.”

—Albert Camus

Trip to Istanbul, Turkey

On one of our trips to Istanbul, we got the rare opportunity through a Muslim friend of ours to attend a mosque service that included the Sufi Whirling Dervishes, a mystical branch of Islam, with fascinating rituals. The Sufis are an old sect who believe that closeness with God is achieved by elaborate whirling that slowly and methodically leads you into a trance. Our friend Omer drove us to this elaborate mosque complex, and I was instructed to go upstairs, where the women were seated on the floor. I also had to cover my hair completely with the traditional scarf. This was not a tourist show, but the real thing, and Josef and I were very excited to have the rare opportunity to not only witness it, but to participate in it. Josef was seated downstairs next to our friend Omer. They were kind enough to bring him a chair.

Once it started, I realized that I was totally sandwiched in between rows of women and there would be no way to leave if I wanted to get out. There wasn’t an ounce of empty space and no passage for a quick escape if it got too intense for me. And so it was, the men below were chanting and twirling in a frightening rhythm, starting slowly and getting more intense as he continued. The women were swaying and undulating while sitting shoulder to shoulder to a much defined rhythmic pattern. It kept getting louder and fiercer and it actually was quite frightening. And as the twirling leader gained momentum with his whirling and spinning, so did his voice and so did we. I didn’t have to move. The women moved me, while one of them was constantly pushing any stray hair that had fallen out from under my head scarf back in. It was forbidden to show any hair in this mosque. I could very well see how people could fall into a hypnotic trance or an altered state of consciousness by the repetition, swaying, and voice of the leader. It was strong and unnerving, like a sort of run-away train getting louder and louder and more intense. I was very much relieved when it was all over and was anxious to meet Josef and Omer outside to hear of their experience. I definitely entered a surreal place both mentally and physically and was happy to be out of there. I couldn’t help but think of the Zohar, not my son Zohar, but the mystical Kabbalists in Judaism. Being unfamiliar with both the Sufis and the Kabbalists, I did realize one thing. Both seek to unlock some inner world or offer some spiritual advancement. Is it really possible to transcend time and space by performing spinning rituals or studying the Zohar? Is it all to seek an escape from the chaotic world around us? All I know is that I will take that night at the mosque to the grave with me. But until then, I will continue to ponder that night of mysticism that I was so fortunate to participate in. When Omer comes to visit New York next time, I must find an equal enlightening experience in Judaism to share with him. Any ideas?

 “Blessed are YOU, Lord our God, King of the Universe,

Who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us about removing the hametz.”

Las Fallas Festival in Valencia, Spain

On the 15^th through the 19^th of March every year, a crazy festival takes place in Valencia, Spain. One year we were lucky enough to stumble upon it by accident, and it was so insane but so fantastic, that we have been returning ever since. It is called Las Fallas, and it is a festival of loud noise, fire, fireworks, pageantry, and incredible artistry. Enormous cardboard, wooden, plastic, cork, plaster, and papier mâché figures of enormous size, sometimes reaching over 60 feet high, are constructed during the year by chosen artists. These are placed in various plazas in Valencia. Some of the figures are well-known local personalities, and some are made especially for children. But most are satirical versions of international politicians and celebrities.

All day long, as tourists look at these sculptures, there are processions taking place and pyrotechnical explosions all over the city. You feel the earth shake, and it sounds like you are in a war zone—smoke and all. At the end of this festival there is a fire parade at night through the city, and all of these sculptures are stuffed with fireworks and are blown up. Yes, the fire department is there and surrounds each sculpture to put out the fires while the crowd watches in excitement, cheering as these fantastic works of art meet their demise. It is one big bizarre street festival and is great fun to see.

The origin of this festival, as explained to us, is a celebration of Saint Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters. It was a Middle Age custom to burn candle holders that held their candles during the dark winter months. When spring comes, they don’t need the candle holders anymore, so they set them on fire. That has been the standard explanation of Las Fallas. But recently, while traveling in Madrid and visiting the Sofia Reina museum to see Picasso’s most famous painting, Guernica, we stumbled upon the real explanation of the Las Fallas Festival, or at least an explanation that made more sense. We were lucky enough to take an English tour with an expert of Picasso and Guernica. He was so knowledgeable about the details in the painting and so intelligent, that I could not resist asking him at the end of the tour, if he knew anything about Las Fallas festival in Valencia and its origin.

He responded with an affirmative yes, and he then asked us if we ever heard of the Jews. Not wanting to blow our cover, we responded that yes, we have heard of the Jews. He then told us that each spring the Jews who lived in Spain had a strange custom of doing a sort of spring cleaning and then they would burn food in bonfires outside their homes. He told us that this was the real origin of Las Fallas Festival. Josef and I looked at each other and we said to him with a big smile, I think that it had something to do with a holiday called Passover. He responded, “Yes!”

Now I always have said that “You don’t come to Spain to be Jewish.” Spain has other things to offer, but Jewish history was wiped out with the stroke of a pen by Isabella and Ferdinand in 1492. That is, unless of course you come to Las Fallas festival in Valencia. Here, through fire and caricature, the Jews and their culture left their influence in a grandiose, fiery, and cunningly creative way.

“How numerous are thy works, O Lord! You made them all in wisdom;

 The earth is full of your creations.”

—Psalms 104:24

Of course an article such as this would not be complete without mentioning Mother Nature and all of the wonders of the world. If one ever doubted the existence of God, just take a safari in South Africa to see the animals in their natural habitat. Can you imagine what the Ark must have looked like with all of those magnificent creatures? Don’t miss the Taj Mahal in Agra, India, which in my opinion is the most beautiful piece of architecture ever created in memory of a beloved departed wife. Mt. Everest in Tibet is a powerful sight along with the Karakorum Highway in Pakistan, and Annapurna mountain range in Nepal. They are a constant reminder that nature can be challenged but inevitably is in control. Try traveling the silk route across China on public transportation and marvel at the variety of people and places along the way. Sleep in the sand under the stars of Sinai, visit the Zen Gardens of Japan, feast your eyes on the sunflower fields in Spain, and watch the people worship the Ganges as they cremate their dead along the river banks. Machu Picchu, the pyramids of Giza, the 2,000 pagodas in Pagan, Burma, along with the Angor Wat in Cambodia are all well worth a trip. They will never cease to amaze and whether they were God-created or the gift of creativity given by God to humanity, the world has some astonishing things to see and are well worth going beyond our daled amot, to take a look. All of these wonders are an affirmation of God’s handiwork and are among my favorites. But let’s not forget what tops the list of the awesome and powerful. The airplane. We are blessed to live in the jet age that includes kosher food, movies, and even wi-fi on board. I am forever grateful to Orville and Wilbur Wright for sticking with their idea against all odds. Without them, all of this would be impossible.

“The purpose of life is to perfect ones character.”

—The Vilna Gaon

My Final Thoughts

So here ends just a few of my experiences with Josef and Zohar that not only influenced my life, but in the process, confirmed to me the genius of the Jewish people. Travel is and will always remain a wonderful way to invest in yourself, and the world is a great classroom. That is why I will continue to travel as long as I can. I still hear my grandmother’s wise words, and I know that she is sitting on my shoulder for every trip. By exploring, growing, making new friends, witnessing other cultures, and walking the streets of history, I have far more to think about and reflect upon as I grow older. I have been truly blessed with not only rich memories of colorful places and people, but through my personal lens of travel, I have also developed a much deeper appreciation of the gift of Judaism.  

Encounters outside the daled amot can be challenging. And the more religious one is, the higher the stakes. Still, the higher the stakes, the greater the potential returns, so for the most observant, interfaith encounters can be greatly enriching and enlightening. What happens when Orthodox Jews take part in serious conversation with religious leaders from other faiths? The following discussion will draw on years of experience in the world of interfaith encounters and, in particular, a program of the Center on Religion, Culture and Conflict at Drew University, where we invited young emerging leaders from religious communities around the world for an interfaith seminar. We will discuss some of the challenges faced, as well as benefits and lessons learned by our Jewish participants during these interfaith interactions, as outlined by the participants themselves, and in their own words.

During the summers of 2013 and 2016, more than 50 young leaders—Jews, Christians and Muslims from around the world—visited Drew University and the Center on Religion, Culture and Conflict (CRCC) to take part in a three-to-four-week program on interfaith engagement and peacebuilding.[1] Our goal with this ongoing program, the Drew Institute on Religion and Conflict Transformation, is to facilitate greater understanding among people of different faiths, namely, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, through dialogue, social interaction, and shared living. Our long-term goal is to build a generation of strong interfaith leaders and peacebuilders around the globe.

Our participants over the first two years have included Indonesians, Pakistanis, Nigerians, Egyptians, Israelis, Palestinians, and Ukrainians who lived on campus for three to four weeks. Much of our time was spent in formal sessions where we discussed a wide array of subjects. We walked back and forth across campus together each day and shared virtually every meal. We visited each other’s houses of worship: prominent cathedrals, mosques, and synagogues in New York City, including a visit with Rabbi Marc Angel at Shearith Israel, the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue. We even prayed together on a few occasions; or, at least, we prayed in each other’s presence. Blessings over food, a virtually universal practice, were common at the Institute. We mourned together at each other’s houses of worship just days after the terrorist attack on July 14, 2016 in Nice, France.

Jewish delegations to the institute have included Jews from Israel, Indonesia, and Ukraine. The Israelis were all Orthodox Jews from towns throughout Israel and the West Bank. One participant from the latter commented on the irony of coming from a situation where Jews and Muslims live as neighbors, yet are hostile toward one another. She explained that the relationships that do occur are usually of an employer-employee nature, and even when personal connections are created, opportunities to engage in religious matters are virtually non-existent. For this young woman, the Drew Institute presented her first serious exposure to people of different religions, and by the end, she described her experience as “three weeks of fascinating religious dialogue that were deep and fruitful.”

Our formal sessions varied in length, format, and structure. In some cases, we were grouped by faith, in others by country, and many sessions were in plenary. Topics of the sessions ranged from how to do effective community organizing to tools for facilitating interfaith dialogue. We began by providing a basic introduction to Christianity, Judaism, and Islam and continued to move into increasingly complex exchanges about deeper theological and social/political questions.

Before we could do any of this, however, it was critical to build trust among the participants. With participants coming from regions where people of different faiths are often highly suspicious of one another, cultivating such an environment took time. The formal sessions pushed people to be honest and open, allowing them to build confidence in one another. There were the many interactions outside the classroom—over meals, in the dorms, on field trips, and in social events—that contributed to the building of trust. We quickly learned that even in places such as Nigeria and Israel-Palestine, where religious groups are generally segregated, it is rare that communities are completely homogenous. Hence, in theory, inter-religious interactions could happen any time. Typically, however, they do not.

The rustic feel of Drew’s campus (aka “the Forest”) in the summer offered respite from the frequently tense and sometimes violent environments in which many of our participants normally live. There is no doubt that this setting contributed to an atmosphere more conducive to honest dialogue and fresher, clearer thinking. We had selected our invitees based on their open-minded attitudes and eagerness to meet “others.” All signed statements pledging to come with an open mind and to be respectful at all times. We also took into account the importance of building trust gradually when designing the institute’s curriculum. We took time to build rapport and relationships prior to moving into some of the deeper, richer, and riskier conversations.

In doing interfaith work, one should strive to maintain balance between what is often called a “safe space” and what leading conflict resolution expert Dan Shapiro, in his book Negotiating the Nonnegotiable,[2] calls “brave space.” The latter term can be used to describe an environment where there is a level of trust, respect, and courage sufficient to allow exploration of areas that involve greater sensitivities. In truth, many interfaith interactions remain within the boundaries of the safe space, while the touchier, taboo subjects are generally avoided. In some cases, this may be for the best; if adequate precautions are not taken and without someone with at least some skills and experience in facilitating difficult conversations, bold can quickly turn to reckless. The brave space is where people feel more than safe; they feel protected and emboldened enough to venture into more sensitive areas. It means treating with dignity people with whom you disagree, often on the most fundamental questions about how the world works and the nature of God. It means feeling comfortable enough to be candid, yet without being confrontational. The brave space is riskier than the safe space, but it can yield much higher dividends. After all, what is the point of assembling such a fascinating group of people from around the world across the faith divide, just to play it safe. And thus we pushed on, venturing into uncharted territory.  

What were some of those riskier conversations? And what was the benefit of having those conversations? In one session, a world-renowned Modern Orthodox rabbi associated with the settler movement addressed the group, asking the Muslim leaders why, if they abhor the violence and hatred of groups such as Daesh (aka, ISIS) and Al Qaeda, do they not do more to condemn and challenge the extremists that are claiming to act in the name of their faith. This led to a rather lively discussion, with participants responding that they, indeed, do regularly respond and condemn Islamic extremism as un-Islamic. They also turned the question back to the rabbi about violence perpetrated by aggressive Jewish groups. Muslims and Christians posed complex theological questions directly to each other; for example, the question of Jesus’s divinity. Some of these conversations were difficult, but the participants expressed their immense gratitude in having an opportunity to ask tough questions and share their honest views.

Over the three-to-four-week period, we engaged in different forms of interfaith dialogue. For the more formal dialogue sessions, we employed two closely related methods known as Textual Reasoning (TR) and Scriptural Reasoning (SR). Scriptural Reasoning is where religious people of different faiths meet to read and reflect on their scriptures together. Textual Reasoning is similar in technique, but in TR the conversation is between people of the same faith tradition; in other words, intra-faith dialogue. The idea is that participants engage in substantive exchanges about the texts without surrendering the particularity of their own tradition. Cambridge University’s SR.org emphasizes this point, stating, “It is not about seeking agreement but rather exploring the texts and their possible interpretations across faith boundaries, and learning to ‘disagree better’. The result is often a deeper understanding of others' and one’s own scriptures, as well as the development of strong bonds across faith communities.”[3]

One experience common to all of the Orthodox Jewish participants was that their sustained interactions with people of other faiths, whether in the formal sessions or informal conversations, moved them to reflect even more deeply on their own faith. In fact, it is often the case with people of all religions that encounters with the “other” push them to take a fresh look at their own faith. One of our participants, for example, said that seeing similarities between Judaism and Islam caused her to imagine “Jewish laws through a more universal lens.” One Orthodox rabbi also emphasized the reflexive aspect of his inter-religious encounters, concluding that this is not “an outside issue, but rather, is a core Jewish issue” because it triggered thinking about his own conception of what religion is, what Judaism is, and what, ultimately, is truly unique about Judaism. This sentiment was echoed by another Orthodox rabbi who suggested that the greatest benefit of interacting with a broader religious world, outside of our daled amot, is the opportunity to view Judaism within a broader context. More specifically, he told me, “my understanding of various religious aspects—halakhot, mitzvot, beliefs, social-religious aspects, and religious motifs—were profoundly influenced by the inter-religious conversations. Thanks to the dialogue, what was always obvious became special, and amazing. This experience is both very intellectually interesting and religiously strengthening.” One young woman said that she came to the institute with an “open heart to learn and understand.” Though apprehensive at first, she quickly arrived at a place where she actually felt much safer in her own faith. This would ultimately translate into a feeling of becoming wiser. In the end, interacting and exchanging ideas with people of other faiths actually strengthened her conviction in her own religious beliefs and practices. 

At the same time that Orthodox Jews discovered a renewed love for their own unique beliefs and practices, they also came to see the many places where there are great similarities between religions. This was especially true with regard to affinities felt between Jewish and Muslim women. Several Orthodox Jewish women said that some of the most exciting and memorable conversations they had during the institute were with Muslim women on issues related to the status of women in their respective faith traditions. While the Jewish women had certainly heard about sexism in Muslim countries, direct and personal exchanges with women from some of those countries offered them a much better understanding of how the women themselves experience and perceive the religious restrictions on them. Even more eye-opening was their discovery that Muslim and Jewish women often deal with many of the same issues, discovering parallels in religious laws and practices that are restrictive of women. Questions regarding hair covering, modesty, marriage and divorce, and women's religious leadership were discussed at length. Our visits to each other’s houses of worship stimulated fascinating conversations about women’s participation in religious ceremonies. Attending Friday jumma prayer in a large Islamic center in New York, one Orthodox Jewish woman noted feeling the same sense of marginalization she often experienced in her own synagogue. Women were seated far from the center of activity, where they could neither see nor hear. Inspired by this common bond, they began to explore the complex ways in which observant women in both faiths struggle to negotiate between a deep love for their religion and frustration with sexism within the tradition. This raises questions about intersectionality, where various identities—religious, ethnic, national, gender—come into play at once.  For while this dialogue between women challenged certain conventions and thus exposed points of tension within the faith, it also fostered a feeling of kinship between women, specifically the Muslim and Jewish women. “In this way,” asserted one Jewish woman, “maybe inter-faith work can be dangerous to one's own faith.”

The Drew Institute participants found SR and TR valuable for several reasons. To begin, these sessions helped them to expand their understanding of the other religions with which they had very little contact prior to the institute, even in situations where they were living virtually side-by-side. One participant felt that the SR/TR sessions elevated the overall intellectual atmosphere of the institute, stimulating scholarly discussions. Another found the SR/TR sessions inspiring, shifting the conversation from what he described as “stagnant interpretations of sacred scripture toward reinterpretation, with contextual wisdom and contemporary minds.” As it turns out, SR is one of the tools employed at the institute that many participants are now implementing as they build interfaith dialogue programs back in their home countries. In truth, TR is what many of the Jews do every day: discuss, dissect, and debate the meaning of Jewish scripture together with other Jews. It is the experience of discussing their scripture with non-Jews, as well as the reading and discussion of non-Jewish texts, that makes SR so novel, and thus requires a great deal of courage and, well, chutzpa.

            Along with all the wonderful parallels, many substantial differences were revealed, but our participants did not shy away from this difference. It is a common misconception with regard to interfaith dialogue that the goal is to simply identify and celebrate points of similarity. While there can certainly be great joy in the eureka moments of "we do virtually the same thing," this is ultimately not the point. Rather, finding these affinities can serve as a point of departure toward much deeper levels of engagement and exchange of ideas. For one young rabbi, the encounter not only strengthened his own conviction in Judaism, but it convinced him that certain differences were so significant that they rendered these three faiths incompatible, at least theologically. This young man built many meaningful relationships with people of different backgrounds and understood that virtually any differences could be bridged through friendship. Yet, during the deep immersion into the theological dimensions of the seminar, he discovered core differences between himself and his Christian and Muslim friends, differences that reflect entirely different ways of viewing the world. 

In truth, the acknowledgement and articulation of differences can be much more interesting and inspiring. Take, for instance, the joy of learning a new language. The richness is not in the identification of cognates, but rather, in discovering the ways that differences in language reflect varying patterns of thought between different peoples and cultures. “What we can do together,” suggested one rabbi after attending the institute, “is listen to the perspective of the other, and that the very difference and strangeness may offer me something that I am lacking.”

Another valuable feature of inter-religious interchange is that in speaking face-to-face with practitioners of other faiths, we have the occasion to present our religion directly to the other. This often provides an opportunity to dispel basic misconceptions about one’s faith. During the sustained dialogue and intimate environment of the institute, Jewish participants took advantage of new openings to explicate and elaborate on some of the more complex and controversial ideas in Judaism. In a deep conversation with an Anglican bishop, for example, one rabbi took time to articulate the dream of rebuilding the Temple in Jerusalem, what it means to many Jews and what it means to him personally. According to the rabbi, his Anglican counterpart, “for the first time in his life, began to understand and even to empathize with our dream.” In another candid conversation, this time with an Egyptian Coptic Christian leader, he disclosed that many Jews do not appreciate the term “Old Testament.” He explained that this term implies the scriptures are outdated and irrelevant today, or worse, that “Old” reflects the attitudes of the people who hold those scriptures. It is important to note that this principle worked both ways; for example, one Muslim from Pakistan said, “During the three weeks, my interactions with Jews, Christians, and Muslims who had come from diverse backgrounds, cultures, faiths, and traditions have enlightened me [and] enabled me to understand the different perspectives of these communities with greater insight and also prepared me to counter the mutual stereotypes against each other’s religions.” Another Islamic scholar from Pakistan wanted to dispel misconceptions about Islam as a violent faith. In grappling with verses from the Koran that talk about war and killing, he turned to the rabbi to ask about tools the Oral Torah has for dealing with problematic passages.

Indeed, this last point leads to one of the most compelling reasons for Orthodox Jews to engage in interfaith dialogue: Jews have an obligation to contribute to collective world wisdom. In the words of one rabbi, “[the interfaith encounters] helped me back to one of our main roles as Jews —to be light to all nations, to be Or l’Goyim.” He explained that as an Israeli Modern Orthodox rabbi and leader facing the challenges associated with the rebuilding of Israeli society after thousands of years, he often feels pressure to focus solely on the inner Jewish-Israeli challenges, inside the daled amot. “You have neither time nor 'free-space' in your mind to deal with 'outside' issues.” During the institute the rabbi came to the sudden realization that this mitzvah, to be a light to all nations, is not about some abstract, Utopian dream, but rather, it is all about the here and now, in our reality today. “I started to think in my prayers about other nations, and to pray for many problems around the world with which I had suddenly become familiar. This is exactly what I consider going beyond the daled amot.”

As one participant put it, the modern and postmodern world present challenges for traditional orthodox societies. As such, it would seem paradoxical that interaction and exchange with highly religious people of other faiths could contribute to a strengthening of contemporary Judaism. However, we need only consider a few historical examples to see that this apparent paradox is not new. Great sages throughout Jewish history, most notably, Maimonides, were integrated to varying degrees into the surrounding non-Jewish world. They influenced and were influenced by their surrounding world, producing vital contributions to Jewish thought.

There are many benefits, both secular and spiritual, to engaging in interfaith interactions. Inter-religious dialogue can serve to reduce hostilities among people of different backgrounds. As SR pioneer Prof. Peter Ochs[4] told the institute in 2013, the reading of scripture tends to warm people, because it brings us close to our spiritual hearth. One participant found that “interfaith work can foster cooperation toward common goals, and even cooperation to resolve common problems for all of us as human beings.” Christianity and Islam share Judaism’s concern with looking after the ill and impoverished, and activity around these values can provide powerful opportunities for interfaith service. The many productive conversations between our Israeli and Palestinian participants are a testament to this, and in fact, groups from every nation that joined the institute have already begun to incorporate their learning into constructive interfaith projects back home.

Of course, there are great spiritual rewards that result from encounters outside the daled amot. For one Orthodox rabbi, he found that this is a way to deepen one’s own faith commitment while simultaneously deepening engagement with members of other faiths. The interface with different religious leaders had a significant impact on his worldview not just as a person but also as an Orthodox rabbi.

“There is much that we share, and much that divides us,” declared one of our participants. The question is how do we learn from both our similarities and our differences.

To our members and friends,

Here are some upcoming classes I will be giving that are open to the public:

On Mondays May 15 and 22, 1:00-2:15pm, I will give a two-part mini-series about Shavuot:

Torah holidays in peshat and in our religious observance

‘The Righteous Shall Live by His Faith’: The Message of Habakkuk and Shavuot.

It is with Lamdeinu Teaneck, located at Congregation Beth Aaron, 950 Queen Anne Road, Teaneck, NJ. To register, go to lamdeinu.org.

Over Shavuot, I will give two shiurim at Congregation Ohr Saadya, 554 Queen Anne Road, Teaneck, NJ.

On Erev Shavuot (May 30) between Minhah-Arvit: The Ten Commandments: Classical Commentary and Contemporary Scholarship

On the First Day (May 31) pre-Minhah: The Celestial Chariot: Principles of Prophecy

For more information, go to Congregation Ohr Saadya’s website, https://www.ohrsaadya.org.

On Sunday-Monday, June 25-26, I will present four talks at the Yeshivat Chovevei Torah annual Yemei Iyyun. It is located at SAR High School, 503 W 259th St, Riverdale, NY. For complete schedule and registration information, go to  http://www.yctorah.org/giving/yemeiiyun/

I look forward to learning together with you!

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals