National Scholar Updates

What could be a better place to work for a traditionally observant Jew than a Jewish organization? Jewish holidays are not considered vacation days, and there is little resistance, if any, to the need to leave early on a Friday to reach home and prepare before the start of Shabbat. So when I moved from the for-profit world to a Jewish non-profit 20 years ago, I never anticipated any Jewish dilemmas. In retrospect, that was a deliciously naïve perspective.

In reality, a professional who is an Orthodox Jew faces both challenges and opportunities in a secular Jewish organization. The challenges are considerable, because this world is a 24/7 place, with people expecting instant response and constant connection. Unplugging and being off the grid for the 25 hours of Shabbat was tolerated. But when I became unreachable for three days because of Shabbat followed by a two-day holiday, being unavailable became an obstacle. On one such occasion, my boss asked if I could take her calls, “just this once” because “we had an event coming up.” Unexpectedly, I confronted a world in which many of my Jewish practices were considered “other,” even though I worked exclusively with Jews. I had simply assumed working in the Jewish world that observing the holidays would have been a given.

The challenges began to mount. After a while, donors with whom I was friendly began inviting me to semahot that took place on Shabbat, or that were not kosher. I found myself trying to repeatedly explain why I could not check email on a holiday that a majority of Jews in our community don’t celebrate, such as Shemini Atzeret, and so forth. Should I hire a qualified candidate who was interviewed off-site at her request and who ordered a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich during our breakfast meeting? The response to these quandaries has significant impact. In fact, it is the quintessential opportunity. But first, a more detailed look at the challenges.

On the same day that I began my job at a small Jewish Federation in 1996, a Chabad House opened its doors in a town where, at the time, people still felt the need to say “Shana Tova” in a whisper at the supermarket. An influential board member took me out for coffee to tell me that if I ran an article in the Federation newspaper about Chabad being in town, I would be responsible “for the collapse of the Federation and for thousands of Jews going hungry in Israel and around the world.” His position was that the Jewish community was not ready for Chabad, and that the community would want to distance itself from the Federation if we were seen as supporting their operation. This man belonged to a Conservative synagogue, and was deeply connected to Judaism—and I was new on the job.

So when the editorial meeting took place, I suggested we hold off on the announcement. After all, I did not want to be responsible for the destruction of the Jewish community! The editor, an equally influential board member, affiliated with the Reform movement and self-avowedly secular, informed me that withholding the announcement was unethical. She said she would abide by a decision to delay for one month, but if the news that a new Jewish organization—albeit one that did not have even one follower in town—was omitted from the next publication, she would resign. I was stunned. The editor had no allegiance to Chabad, but she had a strong allegiance to the local community and to doing the right thing.

My 30-something-year-old-Orthodox-self went home with more questions than answers. How could I have missed that I was being pressured into protecting a political interest? How could I, observant and committed, have been so willing to make an unethical editorial call? I was taught that my Judaism was supposed to guide me in every situation—religious or secular— but this time it eluded me. The lesson I learned here came not from my own Jewish center but from hers—and so began my experience of wisdom that comes from learning from every person. We ran the article. The irony? Chabad has become one of the most successful synagogues for young families in town, engaging them in sold-out and standing-room-only religious, educational, and social programming; day camp; and preschool. All of this in the same town that was not “ready” for Chabad 20 years ago.

A few months after I was hired, several donors suggested that we hire a kosher caterer for our annual gala. For as many years as the Federation had hosted a gala, a non-kosher caterer had always catered it—serving dairy foods and fish with the explicit instruction not to prepare or serve any meat or shellfish products. At that time not one donor had a religious problem with eating dairy or fish when eating out, and I do not know for sure what prompted the request. A special executive committee meeting was called, and the president of the Federation asked me to come to his office a few days prior to the meeting. He wanted me to prepare a few remarks and to recommend a position. “I can’t,” I told him. I tried to explain the concept of nogeiah ba’davar, that I had an interest in the outcome of the vote. “I don’t understand. Why would you care one way or the other?” he asked. “Because I keep kosher. I would have to recommend that we use a kosher caterer. I am Orthodox.” He looked at me for a minute and mused, almost to himself, “I wonder if we knew that when we hired you—if we would have hired you.”

I was more surprised than he was. How could he not know? How could being Orthodox be viewed as a negative attribute for an employee in a Jewish organization? Over the years, I came to learn that he meant no harm; he was a mensch, kind, generous, and above all, fair. I think he was just wondering aloud, but a small part of me knew he was right: had my observance been revealed in advance, it might have been an impediment in this overwhelmingly secular community in a town that didn’t warmly embrace Jews. I clearly didn’t fit the stereotype that those who interviewed me might have held, but for the first time, I was sensitized to the fact that I needed to be cautious in some way about my newly revealed Orthodoxy.

In the end, we decided not to create a policy on kashruth, despite the fact that the outcome of the vote was to hire a kosher caterer. That board meeting was very contentious, and the call for a kosher caterer was won by only one vote—not a decisive majority. Because the conversation focused essentially on the issue of inclusion and making it possible for any Jew to eat at our events, we decided that as a community organization, decisions like this would be backed by our most critical values—and one of those was the value of being welcoming and inclusive. Since then, whenever an event chairperson asked what the policy was on kosher catering, we told them we did not have a policy. We did, however, have a guiding principle of inclusivity. If event chairs wanted to make a case to the board that fancier presentation or a more sophisticated menu trumped inclusion, we would hire a non-kosher caterer and have a dairy menu. No one has ever opted for the non-kosher caterer. Today, no one even asks the question. We simply have kosher events. It required restraint on my part to distance myself from that debate and not offer my personal point of view. And I learned to try to keep strong boundaries between my personal ritual observance and beliefs and my professional decisions. The community always comes first—as long as I do not violate my standards of observance.

Several years after the kashruth vote, I went out for a drink with a divorced lay leader and her boyfriend, whom she had wanted me to meet. She was a board member and a friend. I knew three things about this man: that he was important to her, that he was separated but not divorced from his wife, and that he had a daughter. While we were in the restaurant, other members of the board saw us and came over to say hello. The next day, I got a call from a friend of one of the board members who greeted us in the restaurant, who was also a board member, “summoning” me to Starbucks. “I heard you were out with so and so and her married boyfriend for a drink. What a shock that you would stoop so low! How dare you be seen with her and a married man—if your father could see you, he would be rolling over in his grave with shame. You, who are the moral compass of this community, have lost all credibility.”

There is a lot to say about this conversation, including the fact that while she knew and respected my uncle, who was an Orthodox rabbi, she had never met my father. She could not know that my father had once instructed me never to stick my nose into other people’s significant relationships or to pass judgment on them. I wanted to say that it takes tremendous chutzpah to invoke the imagined disapproval of my recently deceased father, that it is God who judges these situations, not I, and that my moral compass was in the same place it was the day before. But I wanted to keep my job, so I stayed silent. When I got back to the office, I started calling board members who still held my trust. “Is this a violation of my position? Am I not to go out socially with board members if I, or others in the community, disapprove of their relationships?” It took only a few calls for a couple of things to become clear: first, that no one else on my board agreed with the woman who had scolded me, but that being Orthodox held me to a different standard from everyone else; second, that I could see that in a few short years, being Orthodox was no longer a negative—I was seen as the moral compass. Or was that just another assumption?

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I, too, had bought into some well-worn stereotypes. The setting was the Melton Adult Education course that I team-taught several years ago with an Orthodox rabbi. At one session, a participant in the class indicated that she thought Orthodox women were enslaved by the routine of cleaning and cooking prior to Shabbat, and then serving and cleaning up after the meals, especially when dishwasher use was forbidden. She imagined that on Friday night, all a woman could be was exhausted. I told her that in my home, although it may not be the norm, these tasks were shared equally, but that she should ask the rabbi what he thought the following week. Although I made a mental note to warn him, I forgot.

As he came out of the class, I asked him if the notion of women being enslaved on Shabbat came up. He nodded. “Oh no! I am so sorry—I meant to give you a heads up. What did you say?” I admit to having been a little panicked. “I told the truth,” he said. My spirits were dashed. “What’s the truth?” Without even breaking a smile, he said, “My wife has a full-time job and I am home on Fridays. So the entire responsibility of preparing for Shabbat falls to me.” Why did I think I needed to warn him? Because the archetypal image of the exhausted woman was in my mind, too: the wife, preparing everything and the man coming home from shul to a warm, clean house and a delicious meal that he had no part in preparing had been branded in my consciousness from childhood stories—and perhaps from a bit of childhood experience.

Another colleague also made me confront my stereotypical assumptions. When filling out forms for the annual Federation conference and the shabbaton that preceded it, she blurted out “I am so offended by this form!” I was filling out the same form and found nothing offensive in its request for standard information: name, address, credit card, and a box to check if I was Sabbath observant, presumably so I would be housed on a lower floor in the hotel. “What offends you about this?” I asked. She, clearly upset, said, “I am assuming that the boxes ‘I am Sabbath observant’ and ‘I am not Sabbath observant’ have to do with the elevator on Shabbat. How should someone like me answer this? I light candles every week. I go to shul often. I always observe the Sabbath—just not the same way you do, not by Orthodox standards. It’s offensive to me that I should have to write that I am not Sabbath observant!” I saw her point. I shrugged and said, “So, write that you are,” which seemed like a logical response to me. “But then I am potentially taking away a room on a lower floor from someone who really needs it. That’s not right, either.” Despite her being offended, she exhibited respect for others and their personal needs. There was another moral compass in the office, one who understood that language matters, that many Jews “Remember the Sabbath day,” perhaps not in the same way Orthodox Jews remember.

Yet there are times when my personal observance inevitably collides with my ethical and professional obligations to the organization in a more complicated way. Although ritual observance is important to me personally, caring for vulnerable Jewish populations is part of my personal practice as well as my professional mission. Every extra dollar spent might deprive a person in need; charity dollars are to be allocated carefully.

On the Thursday before a weekend when Yom Kippur fell on Shabbat, a Jewish colleague informed me that, after morning Yom Kippur services, she would be picking up the van we needed for an event the next day. “Why would you do that on Yom Kippur?” I wanted to know. “First of all, it’s $90 cheaper. Second of all, that bothers you, not me. There is a break in the services for a couple of hours, and it fits my schedule better to do it this way.” I was stunned. She was an affiliated Reform Jew, deeply committed to the Jewish people, Israel, and the community.

“I don’t understand. Do you think we, as an organization, should be renting a van on Yom Kippur? Doesn’t it strike you as incongruous?” I was feeling a twang of guilt both for being holier than thou and for suggesting the extra expense. “Well, if we were a synagogue, I would feel differently. But we are a secular Jewish organization. It’s not part of the mission statement. Our mission is to help people and to use the charity funds in a responsible way.” I couldn’t help but feel that, just as certain basic ethics in the Torah are not spelled out but nonetheless expected, not doing business on Yom Kippur was implicit. Her argument, however, was crystal clear. She worked for a Jewish organization but, like the people who supported us, ritual observance by Orthodox standards did not define her as an individual or a professional. I walked away. It gnawed at me all day as I tried to keep those personal and professional standards separate and clear. But I could not. I went into her office before heading home. “I don’t want you to pick up the van on Yom Kippur. And I don’t want the Federation to incur additional cost. So please, pick up the van on Friday afternoon. I will donate the $90.”

And so I did. We had no time to get an official policy from the board, and it was not clear to me if a secular Jewish organization should limit how and when employees conduct business through the lens of ritual observance. The interaction has been a springboard for many conversations about how we see the Jewish world, our obligations or responsibilities as Jews, and what being a “good Jew” looks like, if there is such a thing. Most importantly, it opened the door for us to engage in exchanges about our deepest Jewish values and priorities, to determine where we have common ground, and to accept the merit of the other’s perspective. Hours of debate and conversation have led us to adopt our own policies that seem to work for the community and for each other. We have learned to recognize in advance when colliding values will put us in a position of conflict, so we now have the luxury of time to creatively resolve it. But both of my colleagues showed me that my own lens was too narrow; that language matters, and the expression “observant Jews” is not synonymous with “Orthodox Jews.” They both helped me understand that there are other negative perceptions about Orthodox Jews: that we set the rules; that we don’t make room for people to observe differently from the way we do; that we want to impose our language and our standards on others because we judge them. In judging them, or making them feel that we do, we alienate them.

Consider the way we refer to formerly Orthodox Jews; we say they are “off the derekh” which implies that there is in fact, only one way to be Jewish and this language implies criticism and condescension. We are in a unique position to change these perceptions among colleagues and lay leaders by choosing our words more carefully and widening our embrace of the diverse ways Jews connect to Judaism and to community. We need to stop believing that we have the monopoly on truth and that our observance of rituals or Shabbat somehow makes us better Jews than non-Orthodox Jews. The greatest opportunity of being an Orthodox professional in a secular world is that you can begin to shatter the stereotypes.

            It takes a little tzimtzum, self-contracting and humility, for any Orthodox Jew—not only professionals in Jewish organizations—to be part of the secular Jewish world, and to set boundaries, when possible, between one’s personal standards and professional ones. I can attend a simha without making the baalei simha feel bad about the food or the timing or the place. It is not always necessary to say, “I need a kosher meal.” Sometimes, you just don’t eat where you can’t eat. If I can’t be there until two hours into the simha, rather than deliver an explanation about Shabbat and its restrictions, I simply ask, “Would it be okay if we arrive a couple of hours late?” Hamevin yavin. (Those who understand will understand.)  The many years in this job have reminded continually that there are two equally important aspects to being an observant Jew—the rituals and the interpersonal mitzvoth. Orthodox Day Schools provide a great deal of training about what to do and what not to do when it comes to Jewish ritual observance. But Rabbi Joseph Telushkin said “the greatest disservice we do is to equate religion only with ritual observance.” It is the stereotype of equating being Orthodox with being religious.

            We need to consider that there are secular Jews who are as scrupulous about observing the mitzvoth that govern interpersonal behavior as Orthodox Jews are about trying to observe both. Since the Torah dictates both sets of mitzvoth, we must find room to consider those Jews who are philanthropists, honest, and stringent about their ethics and commitment to social justice as Jewishly observant.

            The gold standard clearly is commitment to both the ritual and interpersonal rules. The word “observant” seems never used to describe how we treat others. But it should be. For Orthodox Jews to meet that gold standard, they would have to be both Orthodox and observant, paying the same careful attention to caring for the needs of others individually and communally, and to using language that demonstrates dignity and respect to all Jews, despite our differences. Ultimately, we need to use our commitment to Torah and mitzvoth to exhibit that traditional ritual observance is not only about accepting Torah obligations; it is a commitment that should lead us to become more compassionate and ethical, to be a moral compass, not the moral compass in our diverse Jewish communities.

This week's Torah portion includes a strange episode. A "mixed multitude" (asafsuf) riled up the Israelites so that they complained bitterly about their situation. They longed to eat meat. They reminisced about the diet they had in Egypt--fish, cucumbers, melons, leeks, onion and garlic.  The miraculous mannah from heaven, that was delivered to them daily in the wilderness, did not satisfy them.

Rabbinic commentators generally assume that the "asafsuf" was the non-Israelite group that attached itself to Israel at the time of the exodus from Egypt. Yet, this is a problematic assumption. Why would the Israelites have paid attention to complaints raised by the mixed multitude? They could have pointed out the obvious: we were slaves in Egypt! We would much rather eat mannah as free people, than whatever the Egyptians fed us when we were slaves.

The word "asafsuf" has the connotation of "adding on", or "gathering to". Instead of applying this term to the non-Israelites who attached themselves to Israel, I suggest that the term actually refers to charismatic Israelites who gathered people around them. These were demagogues who knew how to incite the public, to play on their fears and anxieties. Even though their message was easily refuted by facts, they were able to cause discontent among the masses by means of their fear-mongering and their complaining. Demagogues have that talent: they can talk nonsense and still arouse the public to panic.

When Moses was confronted by the angry masses of Israelites, he called to God in despair. He could not handle the situation. He needed help.

God replied: "Gather (esfah) unto Me seventy men of the elders of Israel whom you know to be the elders of the people and officers over them." God said He would give these men some of Moses' spirit, so that they would share in leadership with him. By using the word "esfah"--with the same root as "asafsuf"--the Torah is pointing out that demagogues can be quelled only by equally articulate and charismatic opponents who speak truth.

The Torah tells us that Moses "gathered seventy men of the elders of the people". These men "prophesied but they did so no more" (va-yitnabe'u ve-lo yasafu). This verse is generally understood to mean that these men prophesied only this one time, but did not continue with this power subsequently. This would seem odd. Why would their prophecy be so short-lived?

I think "lo yasafu"--from the same root as "asafsuf" and "esfah"-- should be understood to mean: they did not gather people around them; they were not successful against the demagogues. Why were they unsuccessful? Because Moses did not follow God's instructions correctly.

God had commanded Moses to choose seventy men who were elders and who were officers over the people. But when Moses chose these men, the Torah tells us that he chose elders--not that these elders were also officers. The occasion called not just for elders who were wise and reasonable--but for officers, who had the power and courage to act, to stand up against the crowd. To combat demagoguery, a correct message often is not enough. What is needed is strong, persuasive leadership who can rally people around them.

The "asafsuf" were charismatic Israelite trouble-makers and demagogues. Moses was told to gather--"esfah"--a team that could counterbalance the demagogues. But the team he chose did not have the requisite fortitude and eloquence to draw the public to them--"lo yasafu".

The world always seems to have no shortage of demagogues who preach lies and vanities--and who nonetheless gather large crowds around themselves. To combat these demagogues, a true message does not necessarily persuade the masses. What is needed is not only a true message, but the courage and commitment to speak and lead clearly and passionately--to draw the masses to truth and away from demagoguery.

To fight the demagogues--we need real pedagogues, those who teach the truth in a powerful and convincing way.

For the past 15 years, I have toiled in the vineyards of Jewish-Christian relations, trying to carve out an ennobling Torah path toward my interactions with non-Jews. Can I see Tzelem Elokim in the face of a gentile Other? If so, how does this shared divine endowment guide our relationship? And perhaps more important, how does it shape my religious commitment to the Torah's demand that Jews play a crucial role in sacred history?

I came to Orthodoxy from the outside—from an ethnically Jewish home in a typical American pluralistic New Jersey suburb. There I learned early that non-Jews were not so different from Jews. Some were refined, others coarse; some were moral, others not. And just like Jews, they were idealistic and pragmatic, smart and intellectually dull, sensitive and unresponsive. Experience taught me that there is no essential difference between Jews and gentiles and that I can learn important life lessons from people beyond the daled amot of our Jewish community. These lessons have been repeatedly confirmed in my adult life, so that now I hold these convictions so deeply that no text, no rabbi, nor any halakhic opinion can convince me otherwise. 

I have been indelibly touched by modernity and its values of equality, autonomy, universal human rights, freedom, and pluralism. They are essential to my spiritual life and deep sense of self. For better or worse, I do not pine for pre-Emancipation times when Jews were largely insulated from broader human culture, when rabbinic authority had no competition for truth, when there was no Jewish alternative to Orthodoxy (although the term “Orthodoxy” was first coined in response to modernity), and when secular ethics were unthinkable. To the contrary, I yearn to be open to all humanity and constructive human culture.

There is much beauty in Orthodoxy and its Torah: the warmth of community and the calming guidance of a structured life in the face of the chaos of postmodern culture, routine selfless acts of hesed that nourish the better angels of our souls, dedication to living according to principles and values, striving for God and transcendence—in sum, a life committed to meaning and helping others.

Yet there is much in Orthodox life that runs counter to modern values. From the time I grew committed to Torah and its halakhic expressions, retaining my commitment to modern values has not been an easy journey. At times it led me to profound spiritual restlessness and cognitive dissonance. It has sometimes put me at odds with popular attitudes in our Orthodox community, and brought me into conflict with well accepted halakhic positions that were formulated in pre-modern times when the dominant Jewish assumptions were that "gentiles always treat us brutally," that “Jewish belief is more reasonable than Christianity,” and that "religious Christians want only to convert Jews." Rooted in Jewish historical experience, those assumptions differed radically from my personal relationships with Christians that were regularly characterized by dignity, respect, and equality. Despite the tensions, the conflict has been redemptive, forcing me to better understand the mystery of others even as I ponder our differences and sameness. In the end, this struggle has proven to be a blessing because it broadened my spiritual world and taught me to understand myself and the Torah more deeply.

My interest in interfaith relations grew out of a near instinctive dedication to ethics. How we understand and act toward others is the stuff of ethical living, and our greatest moral tests come in acting toward people different from us and who disagree with us. If the bitter history of Jewish persecution has taught us anything—both cognitively and viscerally—it is the importance of adhering to moral values when we deal with others. So how a Torah Jew living in the modern pluralistic world regards gentiles and how he or she should behave toward them are live issues today that flow naturally out of ethical concern.

II.

Of course we can always choose to hunker down in monolithic ghettos—even gilded suburban ones—and almost never come into serious contact with gentiles, thereby avoiding the practical issues relating to non-Jews and their faiths. This dynamic turns us inward spiritually so that we focus exclusively on ourselves and our own survival. We can choose to emulate the Amish—good people who simply wish for the world to leave them alone to live quietly among themselves.

I have found that this strategy is rarely ethically neutral. In such a mode, it is too easy to become indifferent, callous, and even hateful toward those outside our culture. By not engaging gentiles panim el panim, we feel no accountability toward them as real human beings. Sometimes we objectify them by understanding them merely as theological or literary categories. And being unaccountable, we can too easily say incorrect and insensitive things about them, spin false hostile stereotypes, and even demonize them to strengthen our internal solidarity. In isolation, we are spared the need to empirically test our opinions or correct our prejudices.

Unfortunately, many Orthodox leaders today have taken this turn, as if it somehow it demonstrates their Jewish bona fides. Worse, some of our centrist rabbinic leaders not only eschew goyim, they refuse to talk seriously with heterodox Jews, feminist Jews, Open Orthodox Jews, or secular authorities on social, ethical, or cultural matters.[1]

All this withdrawal comes at a terrible spiritual, moral, and intellectual cost. Theologically, it means giving up on God’s covenant with the Jewish people, which demands that Abraham’s children somehow be the agents of blessing to all humanity. This challenge was given to Abraham by God at the birth of the Jewish people: “Be a blessing…and through you all the nations of the earth will be blessed” (Gen. 12:1–3), and to Moses at Sinai: “You shall be for Me a mamlekhet kohanim”—a kingdom of priests” (Ex. 19:6). The primary functions of priests are blessing and teaching others, and if all Israel are priests, who is left for Israel to bless? It can only be the gentiles of the world. This covenantal demand was repeated to our prophets, who ask us in God’s name to “be a light unto the nations.” The Torah’s vision is for covenantal Jews to be central actors in human history—the central actors. All this is quite logical. Is it conceivable that the One Creator of Heaven and Earth, who is a “Rahaman al ha-kol,” would be concerned only with the welfare of .01% of His[2] children, the Jews? If not, should we not emulate God’s pathos and involvement with all humans? God does not wish us to be “Amish with tzitzith,” focused exclusively on our own survival. He demands greater things, nobler things of us. I sense this instinctively and ache for my Jewishness to play a larger, more meaningful role. I yearn to expand my religious consciousness to my experiences with all human beings.

Morally, withdrawal can easily induce a kind of numbness, a resolute blindness to ethical wisdom outside the bet midrash and impede developing sensitive caring for past largely ignored groups such as women, LGBT individuals, and oppressed people or disaster victims outside our community.[3] And intellectually, refusing to engage seriously with people with whom we disagree stunts us. Humans learn by wrestling seriously with people who have different opinions. As R. Ovadia Mi-Bartenura understood, “[Only] through makhloket can truth emerge.”[4] Makhloket is not a shallow verbal game played out in the halls of a yeshiva, but an arduous life commitment experienced in the living presence of those who think differently from us. True intellectual integrity entails never saying something that we would not defend in the presence of someone who disagrees with us. In the end, refusing to discuss vital spiritual and halakhic issues with knowledgeable dissenting others is a sign of tepid conviction, weak argument, and intellectual flimsiness.

Perhaps all the harsh past gentile persecutions of Jews have so badly traumatized us that we now suffer from a form of “battered wife syndrome.” Yet this reflexive all-consuming inwardness was never the Torah’s ideal, and in America where anti-Semitism is no longer a substantive phenomenon, I see no need for a strategy of spiritual withdrawal and intellectual avoidance.

III.

I feel blessed to live today, in an era of miracles. One is the miracle of the Jewish people returning to their covenantal home and gaining sovereign independence in the Jewish State. A second is Christianity’s change toward Judaism and the Jewish people. Current Christian teachings about us were unimaginable to our grandparents and rabbis only two generations ago. And they have largely filtered down to create warm attitudes toward Jews among Christian religious leaders and laity in the West.

A simple historical contrast indicates this miraculous change. In 1897, an article appeared in the Vatican periodical “Civilta Cattolica” explaining that Jews are required to live as humiliated servants in exile until the end of days, a fate to be avoided only by their conversion to Christianity. So when Theodore Herzl approached Pius X in 1904 to enlist his support for the Jewish return to Zion, the pope declined:

It is not in our power to prevent you to go to Jerusalem, but we will never give our support. As the head of the Church, I cannot give you any other answer. The Jews do not recognize our Lord, hence we cannot recognize the Jewish people. When you come to Palestine, we will be there to baptize all of you.[5]

Only 96 years later, in March 2000, Pope John Paul II made an official visit to Israel, met with the Jewish State’s President and Chief Rabbis, and prayed at Jerusalem’s Western Wall for the welfare of the Jewish people as his elder brothers and who remain the people of God’s covenant.

Christianity was deeply implicated in the infinite Jewish suffering during the Shoah. Its traditional supercessionist teachings toward Jews and Judaism were toxic and helped prepare European Christians to more easily accept the Nazi plan to exterminate Jews. After the war, many Christian thinkers from popes down through clergy and educated laypersons began a process of sincere din v’heshbon to examine Christianity’s role in this heinous event. This introspection resulted in a radical change in Christian theology regarding Jews and Judaism that began in the late 1950s and that continues unabated until today. One Christian theologian summed up present Catholic[6] teachings about Jews as “the six R’s”: 1) the repudiation of anti-Semitism, (2) the rejection of the charge of deicide, (3) repentance after the Shoah, (4) review of teaching about Jews and Judaism, (5) recognition of Israel, and (6) rethinking of proselytizing Jews.[7] This is nothing less than a Copernican revolution away from Christianity’s past hostile teachings about us.

Today many believing Christians understand that their faith emerged from Judaism, that Jews remain God’s beloved chosen, that there is still a living covenant between God and the Jewish people, and that Christians cannot fully understand themselves without knowing more about us and our faith.[8]

Because of the horrible past we experienced at the hands of Christians, many Jews were rightfully skeptical at the start of this process regarding Christianity’s ability to do teshuvah. But any serious analysis of the facts today and the experience of warm relations between Jews and high Christian officials should convince us that the present is different from the past—and most importantly, that our grandchildren’s future with Christians can be much brighter than was our grandparents’ past.

In the Middle Ages R. Shimon bar Yohai’s famous claim, “Esav Soneh le-Ya’akov” (“Esau hates Jacob”) about the Roman Empire accurately characterized the hostility of Christians toward us as well as Jewish thinking about Christians. Today, however, the wisdom of Netziv comes closer to the reality of Jewish-Church relations:

“Both of them wept”: Ya’akov also wept and felt brotherly compassion when Esav recognized the descendants and merits of Israel. When this occurs, then we, the people of Israel, will also recognize that Esav is indeed our brother too.[9]

All this has opened up the field of honest Jewish-Christian dialogue, on both universal practical and specific theological issues. Jews can approach Jewish-Christian dialogue without fear of Christians attempting to convert them. In fact, refraining from conversionary attempts is an explicit ground rule of dialogue. While most Orthodox Jews and their organizations still shun religious conversations with Christians as a matter of policy,[10] there is no halakhic problem with interreligious relations and dialogue conducted under today’s parameters.[11]

The old fear was that discussing issues of faith with Christians could lead to conversion out of Judaism, but my experience has been precisely the opposite: Nearly every Jewish participant I know who has participated in dialogue with church officials has emerged with his/her faith strengthened and his/her Jewish identity reinforced. Interreligious dialogue is no longer a zero-sum affair, like theological disputation or debate. It is more accurately an expression of religious anthropology in which each side respectfully learns from the other and provides strength to live a religious life in the face of contemporary all-consuming materialistic culture. What a great irony it is that R. Joseph Soloveitchik, the great bard of spiritual loneliness who relentlessly sought for relief from this curse, opposed interfaith religious dialogue. Most of us who engage in this dialogue find some measure of relief from our spiritual loneliness when we engage pious Christians experiencing the same modern spiritual isolation.[12] I have found this engagement spiritually liberating and edifying, broadening my horizons and sensitizing me to the divine spark in all God’s children and the wonder of how others reach for Eternity.

Because thoughtful Modern Orthodox Jews are knowledgeable, God-oriented personalities, it is no accident that they have grown to constitute a near majority of Jewish participants in religious dialogue.[13] They are questing God in every corner and in every possible experience, and religious Christians are seeking out Orthodox Jews specifically as their dialogue partners because they know them to be authentic representatives of Jewish tradition from whom they can learn both about Judaism and the dilemmas of modern spiritual life. Our struggles often mirror and illuminate theirs—and theirs, ours.

Not long ago I experienced a touching moment at a conference in Salerno, Italy, where Orthodox rabbis and Catholic clergy spoke to more than 400 people for three days. Before the Catholic priests left to return home, they asked the rabbis to bless them. These priests understood the holiness of Jewish tradition and recognized that the Jewish people is dear to God and remain His chosen people. Affirming the present teachings of the Church, these priests understood that we are indeed a mamlekhet kohanim and they wanted us to bestow God’s blessing on them.

It is a great privilege to live in an era that Netziv could only dream about more than 100 years ago. God has blessed us by bringing the Jewish people home and giving us Medinat Yisrael, as well as providing the opportunity for Christian reconciliation with Judaism and the Jewish people. Many Christians have gone from being our bitterest enemies to being our most understanding friends, and it is in both our religious and physical interests to realize that we no longer live in Rashbi’s era of Jewish-gentile warfare. The twin enemies of Christianity—radical jihadism from the right and radical secularism from the left—are also our enemies. In many ways religious Jews and Christians share the same spiritual universe and political challenges.

On a practical level we help ourselves, Am Yisrael and Torat Yisrael when Jews learn about who Christians really are today and constructively interact with them. With this knowledge religious Jews can come to understand that as friends, Christians can be our allies against both the physical and religious challenges that face our people.

Spiritually, I have learned that participating in serious Jewish-Christian engagement, has expanded my religious universe by opening up the possibility of finding my Creator in distant, unexpected corners of His universe, and providing me with the privilege of learning from and teaching all His children.

These are no small matters. In the Torah’s words, “Be a blessing.”

I confess I also like a good introduction, so I thank you, President Samuelson, for such a generous one, and for inviting me to be with you this morning. I have the greatest admiration for this university’s work in educating minds, ennobling spirits, and inspiring in your students a commitment to the words etched in stone at the entrance to this great campus: “Enter to learn, go forth to serve.” There is a warm ecumenical spirit that flows through this campus, and I feel a strong connection to BYU because of the core principles it stands for, which are at once rooted in the tradition of the Mormon faith, but also in the fundamental values that are shared by all Americans and all people of faith.

In this vein, I am reminded of something that happened to me almost exactly three years ago, during the last presidential election. As many of you know, I made the decision back in 2008 to support my friend John McCain for president, even though he was a Republican and I am a Democrat. The most intense and stressful period in any presidential campaign is the final stretch—and I was traveling around the country, trying to rally support for John and his running mate, Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska. It was the eve of the vice presidential debate that would pit Governor Palin against Barack Obama’s running mate, Joe Biden, and the McCain team was increasingly nervous. I had been the Democratic vice presidential nominee in 2000, when Al Gore was running for President against George W. Bush, and so the McCain team asked me to go to Philadelphia, where Governor Palin was practicing for the debate, to see if I could help her prepare. When I arrived at the Westin Hotel in downtown Philadelphia for the debate prep session, Governor Palin seemed tired and frustrated, and the McCain team was fast approaching a full-blown panic.

One advisor turned to me and said: “Senator, we need your help. Please go in there and talk to her. You have something in common with Governor Palin that none of the rest of us has. You are both religious people.”

Now, this was a wonderful moment, I thought, because although Sarah Palin is Christian and I am Jewish, this advisor sensed there might be a special bond between us based on our religious beliefs and observance. And I discovered that there was. I began our conversation by asking her if she was familiar with the biblical story of Queen Esther, in which the young queen is called upon to consider her destiny and, with tremendous courage and faith, stand up to the genocidal Haman and save the Jewish people. Governor Palin was indeed very familiar with the story—and I suspect many of you may be as well—so, I reminded her that, as people of faith, we share a belief that we are not here by accident— that we are here on earth for a reason and a purpose. Like Queen Esther, Governor Palin was at a moment of personal destiny. “You have been given a big opportunity,” I said, “and you have a choice to make about whether or not you will seize it and your destiny. So be yourself and have faith, and God will see you through this.”

Governor Palin told me that my words meant a lot to her. The conversation meant a lot to me too because it reminded me that irrespective of theological or political differences, there is a common bond between people of faith. Indeed, people of faith have a shared gratitude for what we have been given—beginning first and foremost with our lives. We also believe what both the Bible and the Declaration of Independence tell us: that each and every one of us is a child of God, and that as such, every person enjoys certain basic rights, liberties, capabilities, and responsibilities. We believe that each of us has his or her own destiny, and that this great nation that we are all part of has a destiny too.

In this spirit, the subject I would like to discuss with you this morning is the relationship between religion and politics in America, a subject that is very personal to me. You see, my Jewish faith is central to my life, including my career in politics. My faith has provided me with a foundation, an order, and indeed a purpose, and has so much to do with the way I navigate through each day, both personally and professionally, in ways both large and small. It also means that, like you, I observe the Sabbath, or Shabbat, as it is called in Hebrew. This means that, for me and other observant Jews, from before sunset on Friday until after sunset on Saturday, I turn off my Blackberry. I do not drive or ride in a car. If there is a vote in the Senate, I will walk there from my home a few miles away.

My observance of the Sabbath is also the subject of the book I recently wrote. Now, I know some people may wonder why a United States Senator would write a book about a religious subject like the Sabbath. The reason is simple: I love the Sabbath and believe that it is at once and commandment we must keep, but also a gift from God that “keeps” and nurtures those of us who observe it. That has certainly been true for me, and I wrote this book because I want to share the Sabbath with everyone, in the hope that they will grow to love it as much as I do.

Before I talk about my own spiritual path and career in politics, however, I think it is important to put all of this in a broader context. Of course, we are at the start of another presidential campaign, one in which discussions and debates about the relationship between politics and religion have already played a prominent role. But in fact, these are questions that are very old—going all the way back to the Founders of our country, who wrote the Declaration of Independence and later the Constitution. The vision of our Founders is relevant because it reminds us that, from the beginning, America has been a nation that has been defined not by our borders, but by our values. One of those founding values was a belief in a higher power—a belief in God. The United States was formed, as the Declaration of Independence says, to secure for the people of this country the “inalienable rights” of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” that were endowed by our Creator. In that way, the United States of America was and is a faith-based initiative. What is equally striking and remarkable is that although our Founders were overwhelmingly men of the same Christian faith, the founding documents they bequeathed us guarantee religious freedom, including the right of every American to hold elective office regardless of his or her religion.

It is Article VI of our great Constitution that explicitly bans religious tests for elective officials, allowing Americans to hold office irrespective of their faith. And it is the First Amendment of our Constitution that prohibits the “establishment” of an official religion, ensuring for every American the right to worship—or not to worship—as he or she so chooses. Succeeding generations have been inspired by this founding vision and endeavored to make real its full promise, which I have always believed is a promise of freedom of religion, not freedom from religion. America’s religious freedom has created a unique public square in which there is no establishment of one religion but freedom for all religions. And that means there is tolerance for different religions throughout our country and in our public life. Perhaps that is why from 1776 to today, America has been a uniquely religious country.

Alexis de Tocqueville, the famous French student of America, noted the remarkable religiosity of Americans in his definitive account of the United States in the nineteenth century. He wrote that there is no country in which religion “retains greater influence over the souls of men than in America,” and added that “there can be no greater proof of its utility and its conformity to human nature than that its influence is powerfully felt over the most enlightened and free nation on earth.” This observation is still true today: Over 90 percent of Americans say they believe in God, and the majority of Americans regularly attend a house of worship. Tocqueville also observed that although Americans were divided by religious sects, “they all look upon their religion in the same light,” as he put it. He recognized that though characterized by different and diverse belief systems, there are universal values that unite all Americans, which is a second consequence of our country’s commitment to religious freedom. Indeed, religious freedom in America has given birth to the development of a set of shared religious values that constitute what President Abraham Lincoln called America’s “political religion” and Walt Whitman praised as “a sublime and serious Religious Democracy” in this nation.

In American history, the sublime and serious combination of religion and democracy has been a force for good in our public life. Some of the great movements of conscience in America emerged from the convictions of religious people and used the language and liturgy of faith to build support. It was this spirit that animated the abolitionist movement, which fought to end the evil of slavery in the mid-nineteenth century. It was this spirit that also animated the suffragist activists of the twentieth century who fought for the right of women to vote and participate in our civic life as equals. And it was this spirit that I was personally privileged to witness when I was in college at Yale in the early 1960s during the civil rights movement in America, which aimed to end racial discrimination and empower African Americans to reclaim their voting rights in southern states. I was inspired to join the civil rights movement because of the values it represented, which were deeply rooted in my faith: the values of equality, inclusiveness, tolerance, and service to others. The purpose of the movement was best expressed by the words of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in his soaring “I Have Dream” speech. This speech—which was a call for freedom, for justice, and for a return to America’s founding values—represented the culmination of the historic March on Washington, a movement I took part in, in which thousands of us, of all religions, races, and nationalities, joined together peacefully and powerfully to petition our government to right the wrong of racial bigotry.

For me, the March on Washington was America at its best. It was America as my family and faith had encouraged me to believe it could be.

During the early 1960s, I felt a boundless sense of hope and possibility about the future that lay ahead for our nation. It was also while I was at college that another important barrier was broken. It was in the fall of my freshman year that a Roman Catholic, John F. Kennedy, was elected to the presidency for the first time in American history. At the time, I felt a sense of possibility that because of President Kennedy's election, doors were going to open for me too and for others who were part of minority faiths, races, and ethnicities. President Kennedy’s historic election embodies the tolerance and respect Americans generally have for religions different from their own—religions whose adherents are a minority in our country.

In 2000, when Al Gore gave me the privilege of being the first Jewish American to be nominated for national office, I personally experienced the American people’s generosity of spirit, fairness, and acceptance of religious diversity. One African American minister said to me on the day I was nominated, “In America, when a barrier is broken for one group, the doors of opportunity open wider for every American.” I felt that warm sense of shared progress throughout the campaign. I also felt free—indeed I was encouraged—to talk about my religion and the central role observance plays in my life. I have some wonderful memories that make this clear in living anecdotes, several of which I write about in my book on the Sabbath. A veteran Secret Service agent who had worked several national campaigns told me he had never heard so many people say “God bless you” to a candidate. It was a reflection, I think, of how Americans embrace the faith that we share, even though we may be of different religions.

On another occasion, I remember once speaking to a rally of Latino Americans and seeing in the front row a woman who had created a poster which perhaps best expressed the sense of shared values and shared aspirations that I am speaking about now in two powerful words that I don't think ever appeared together before: "Viva Chutzpah!" These Americans, like so many others across the country, were moved by the fundamental American principle of equal opportunity and respect for diversity of religious belief that has been at the heart of our American story from the beginning. In the end, the Gore-Lieberman ticket received over a half-million more votes than the Bush-Cheney ticket. I do not cite these matters to relitigate the nettlesome matter of Florida’s electoral votes, but rather as unambiguous proof that our ticket was judged on our qualifications and policies, not on the basis of my religion. That’s the way our Founders wanted it to be and the way it should be.

As we begin the 2012 presidential election cycle, faith and politics have once again become a source of some interest, controversy and perhaps apprehension. For instance, some have expressed anxiety about open professions of faith by a few of the candidates in the Republican primary. I do not share these anxieties. First, a candidate does not give up his or her freedom to exercise freedom of speech during a presidential campaign. If a candidate wants to discuss his or her faith that is their right, just as it is everyone else’s right to decide how they feel about those expressions of faith. I welcome the opportunity to hear about a candidate’s faith; I find it helpful, in fact, because it tells me more about the kind of leader he or she would be. Now we also have two Mormon candidates running for president in 2012, and one of them, Governor Mitt Romney, a distinguished graduate of this university, may well end up as the Republican nominee. If that happens, a new barrier will be broken—and the door of opportunity in our country will once again be wider for all of us. I also hope that no candidate will be judged solely on the basis of his or her faith. Our national candidates should be judged in the best American way—that is, on the basis of their capabilities and policies, their experience, and their vision.

In 1960, when John F. Kennedy was running for president, it was at a time when there was still significant anti-Catholic prejudice in the country. On the eve of the vote, he spoke about this challenge, and his words remain as true today as they did then. He said, “If this election is decided on the basis that 40 million Americans lost their chance of being president on the day they were baptized then it is the whole nation that will be the loser—in the eyes of Catholics and non-Catholics around the world, in the eyes of history, and in the eyes of our own people.”

The same will be true if Americans judge Governor Romney and Governor Huntsman based on their Mormon faith alone. In America, there cannot be a religious test for serving in elective office and I hope and believe that Americans of all faiths—and of no faith—will not base their votes on the fact that Governor Romney’s Mormon faith is different from their own. Just as Americans rose above differences when John F. Kennedy’s Roman Catholic faith was “different” in 1960, and 16 years later when Jimmy Carter’s Christian evangelical faith was “different,” and again in 2000 when my Jewish faith was “different,” Governor Romney must be judged on his personal qualities, his leadership, his experience, and his ideas for America’s future. My experience in 2000 gives me great confidence that the American people will again reject any sectarian religious tests for office and show their strong character, instinctive fairness and steadfast belief in our Declaration of Independence and in our Constitution. That truly is the American way.

Let me conclude by saying that there is one more way in which I believe that the religion of the American people is profoundly important to the current time of American life: a time when millions of Americans can't find work; when millions of Americans are worried about whether they will have their jobs next year; when millions of Americans are pessimistic about America's future; and when people all over the world worry or, in the case of our opponents and enemies, hope that America has begun an irreversible decline. I don’t buy into this pessimism about America's future at all. I believe that this twenty-first century will be another great century for America. One of the big reasons for my optimism is those numbers I cited earlier—that more than 90 percent of the American people believe in God and more than half of Americans regularly attend a house of worship. Now why is that important? It is important because faith in God, love of Country, a sense of unity, and confidence in the power of every individual have carried America through crises greater than the one we face today and will, I am sure, propel us forward again.

People of faith are also strengthened by their faith in God to make clear and proper distinctions and choices. This view is antithetical to moral relativism—it is a positive, affirmative worldview that is not only deeply American, but that is a crucial ingredient to any culture that aspires to be free and prosperous. After all, the greatest source of America’s strength and hope is not in the divisive politics of Washington. It is in the broadly shared values of the American people and the unity of action so many of us derive from the strength we find in the varied houses of worship we attend. My time here with you at BYU has also made me optimistic about the future and the great American century that lies ahead. You inspire optimism in me because I am confident that when you go forth from these gates, guided by your faith, your service will help to make America the more perfect union it has always aspired to be.

COLBEH, 32W 39TH ST, NEW YORK CITY

VIP Reception – 5:30 PM

Cocktails – 6:00 PM

Dinner and Program – 7:00 PM

HONORED SPEAKER SENATOR JOE LIEBERMAN

Introduction

In what way are humans and animals distinct? Throughout history, arguments have been made on various grounds including: reason, emotional capacity, language, moral intuition, freedom of will, physical capabilities, and the ability to create sustainable social systems. If humans are created in the image of God,[i] then there must be something unique about our essence.[ii] However, with time, each of the above proposals for human uniqueness has been exposed to have flaws. For example, a human without the ability to speak or hear certainly is not lacking in his or her definitional or moral status as human, nor is one who is missing a limb or has a lower-than-average I.Q. Additionally, more and more research has shown that many other species have a sophisticated capacity for communication, reasoning, deliberation, emotional life, the moral enterprise, and perhaps even self-consciousness within limits. It is now a well-known fact that humans share 98 percent of our genetic makeup with chimpanzees.

Most convincing perhaps is the suggestion that humans have unique responsibilities. Viktor Frankl, the great Holocaust survivor and psychoanalyst, suggested that “Being human means being conscious and being responsible.” This can be read normatively rather than descriptively, that we are not inherently different but have a higher moral calling to responsibility.

What makes humans most similar to God? What makes us most distinct from animals? The answer to these questions will help us to understand our fundamental relationship to all three (the divine, our fellow humans, and the animal world).

Human Responsibility to Creation

In the Creation story, humans are commanded to rule over all creatures.[iii] This can and should be seen as both a mandate to elevate human existence as well as to care for other creatures dependent on human mercy. We are empowered to emulate God, who is “good to all, and whose mercy is upon all works” (Psalms 145:9). The Rambam explains that the human subjugation of the animal world is descriptive, rather than prescriptive. That is to say, we allow ourselves to subjugate creatures—but we are not obligated to do so.[iv] The Rambam explains further that animals have their own teleological purpose—that they are created for their own sake. 

Rav Soloveitchik taught that we are imbued with a capacity and imperative for “majesty and humility.” The Rav charges us to see our human limitations in a world that God creates and controls, while also fully embracing our unique human capacities and responsibilities that we, as humans, have been created to exercise and fulfill.

The great fourteenth-century Jewish French philosopher Ibn Caspi explains (on Deuteronomy 22:6) that animals are “ke-Ilu avoteinu,” that they are like our forefathers since they preceded us in creation and are similar to us in substance. This is a pre-Darwinian notion of evolution, which claims that humans have not only a moral but also a sacred responsibility to show compassion to God’s sentient creatures. By the nature of their sentient capacity (although animals have duties as well according to the Torah; see Genesis 1:22), humans clearly have unique obligations and responsibilities that animals do not. We can now pose the question: Are the rights of animals comparable to the rights of humans?

Philosophical Construct of “Rights”

Rights are normative principles often understood as entitlements or freedoms. By being human, one might suggest that one has the right to pursue self-interest and happiness. The origin, and even validity, of these rights has been a matter of great debate. Rights are granted to humans based upon a social contract, or, according to some, upon an inherent dignity bestowed by God. Can these philosophical foundations allow for the extension of these same rights to non-humans?

In many ancient societies, animals were perceived through a purely anthropocentric lens as mere tools to human fulfillment, a means to our ends. According to this mindset, non-human beings do not have their own telos, but are merely instrumental. Even by the time of the Enlightenment, some still argued for the strongest bifurcation between humans and animals. In the seventeenth century, during the Enlightenment, Descartes argued that animals lack souls, minds, and reason, based on his suppositions of animal consciousness and epistemic capacity.[v]

The first piece of legislation prohibiting animal cruelty did not emerge in an English-speaking society until 1635 in Ireland. Introduced by Richard Ryder, it forbade the ripping of wool off of sheep and tails off of horses.[vi] In 1641, the first legal code was passed in North America to protect domesticated animals from cruel treatment. Many cultures at this time still engaged in forms of animal torture for entertainment such as cock fighting and throwing, bull baiting and running, and dog fighting.

            Centuries later, sports consisting of animal cruelty have unfortunately not gone extinct. In fact, with the advent of new production technologies, the disregard for the welfare of the animal kingdom, many have argued, is greater than ever before. At the same time, the animal rights movement has emerged in the past few decades to view animals as sentient beings that not only deserve human compassion but that have a right to exist and thrive. Martha Nussbaum has called this the “neo-Aristotelian capabilities approach.”[vii] She suggests that all beings that have a capacity (to exist, to learn, to be free, etc.) have the right to fulfill that capacity as long as its fulfillment does not harm another.

There are two primary approaches to the issue of animal rights—the utilitarian approach and the rights approach. Peter Singer, a bioethicist at Princeton, a utilitarian philosopher, and the author of Animal Liberation, has argued for decades that vegetarianism is a moral imperative due to our knowledge of animal suffering. Singer has called modern meat production to be cruel and damaging to the ecosystem. A human desire for light pleasure does not allow for gross afflictions and death of animals. The pleasure does not match the pain.

Tom Regan and Gary Francione represent the rights based approach. Regan suggests that animals are “subjects-of-life” and thus have a right to life and the same moral rights as humans. Francione argues for the rights of animals to be free from ownership. The Torah takes a different approach from both of these two philosophical schools of thought.

Jewish Animal Rights and Concomitant Human Virtues

The Torah articulates a myriad of animal rights and ties them together with mitzvoth (opportunities for the cultivation of Jewish virtues). The Torah grants the right of rest on the Sabbath not only to humans, but to animals as well (see Exodus 20:10). To put the Torah’s incredible command of rest for animals into perspective, until the end of the nineteenth century, employees in the United States were still expected to work seven-day work weeks. Additionally, the Torah teaches that, during the week, an owner must be conscious of how his or her animals are being employed. One may not plow with an ox and mule harnessed together since both animals, being of unequal size and strength, will suffer (Deuteronomy 22:10). Perhaps most famously, the case of shiluakh haKan (the mitzvah to send away the mother bird before taking the chick) creates the imperative to concern oneself with the emotional state of animals as well as their physical state.[viii] Also out of concern for an animal’s emotional well-being, one may not slaughter an animal along with its young (see Leviticus 22:28).

The Rambam argues that there is no difference between the pain that humans feel and that which animals feel in this regard; between the love that a human mother feels for her child and the love that an animal mother feels for her young.[ix] When one encounters two animals and one is crouching under its burden and the other is unburdened because the owner needs someone to help him load it, he is obligated to first unload the burdened animal because of the commandment to prevent suffering to animals. The Gemara in Baba Metsia 32 teaches us that avoiding the suffering of animals is a biblical law that pushes off rabbinic law.[x] The Rambam teaches us here of the importance of animal welfare via a radical suggestion that the suffering of the animal takes precedence, at times, over the burden of a fellow human being!

            In one teshuva, Rav Moshe Feinstein rules that for “those who produce veal, there is definitely the prohibition of tsa’ar ba’alei hayyim.” In the same teshuva, he argues that “It is forbidden to cause pain to an animal to feed it food from which it derives no benefit, and that causes it pain in the process of eating, and that also brings about diseases, and they suffer from the diseases.  Because it was for the sake of this benefit, that they can deceive people and it is forbidden from the perspective of tsa’ar ba’alei hayyim, on a biblical level, because for the sake of such purposes it is not permitted for people to cause suffering to animals.”[xi]

After all, we learn from the Shulhan Arukh that “if an animal has been fattened with forbidden foods, it is permitted. However, if it has been fattened exclusively for its entire life with forbidden foods, it is forbidden.”[xii]

The Talmud (Berakhot 40a) teaches us that one must indeed make personal sacrifices for the welfare of animals. One of the best known instances of animal protection is that one may not eat until having fed one’s animals. This is not only Jewish law but it is also interpreted as the epitome of Jewish virtue. In fact, the Midrash states that Moshe was chosen as the leader and prophet for the Israelite people because of his consideration for animals. It is not only the prophets who are so often portrayed as compassionate shepherds; this is also a popular way of personifying God: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” (Psalms 23:1). One may not treat one’s animal merely as property to be sold as one wishes. Rather, we are told that one may not sell one’s animal to a non-virtuous person out of fear for how they will treat that animal.[xiii] The Gemara (Baba Metsia 85a) explains that the great Rabbi Yehuda HaNassi, the redactor of the Mishnah, experienced years of suffering because of one act of cruelty shown to an animal when he ruled that it should be killed because that was the purpose of its creation. It was not until he showed significant mercy to animals that he was cured of his painful ailments.

The rabbis (in Eruvin 100b) even went so far as to suggest that animals themselves have moral attributes that we can directly learn from. “If the Torah had not been given, we could have learned modesty from the cat, honesty from the ant, chastity from the dove, and good manners from the rooster, who first coaxes then mates.” Natural law, and animals, can be great teachers of virtue.

The halakhot of kosher slaughtering can help to ensure that animals are treated more humanely. Those laws concerning the separation of milk and meat, Rav Ephraim Lunchitz suggests, are designed to limit meat intake and cultivate a spiritual awareness of how one consumes animal products. [xiv] Interestingly, while there are special blessings designated for bread, wine, fruit, and vegetables, there is no special blessing reserved for the consumption of meat. Could a blessing be made if we were truly spiritually conscious of what we were consuming: “haMotzi basar min haHai?”

How far must we take these sensitivities? Some choose not to hunt, others to limit meat intake, while others refrain completely. How can the Torah guide us?

Vegetarianism and Halakha

Vegetarianism has been a growing trend in the American Jewish community for the past few decades as the Jewish community has become more educated about the detrimental effects meat production has upon human health, animal suffering, the environment, and global hunger. Well-known statistics demonstrate how much food in developing countries, later shipped to the United States, has gone to feeding cattle, rather than impoverished humans. This reality is due to the fact that cattle around the world consume an amount of food equal what 8.7 billion people need. Even further, cattle in the United States consume ten times the grain that Americans themselves eat.[xv]

Over 200 million Americans are eating enough food, much of which is grain-fed livestock that could feed over one billion people in developing countries.[xvi] Jean Mayer, a Harvard nutritionist, claims that 60 million hungry individuals could be fed if people reduced their meat intake by just 10 percent.[xvii] Exploring the details of these serious harms to human health, poverty, animal treatment and the planet are beyond the scope of this article. Our question here is: How do halakha and Jewish ethics look upon vegetarianism for those who feel a moral obligation to limit or cease their meat intake?

A Gemara (Sanhedrin 59b) frames the biblical history of vegetarianism quite succinctly: “Rav Yehudah stated in the name of Rav, ‘Adam was not permitted meat for purposes of eating as it is written, ‘for you it shall be for food and to all animals of the earth,’ [Genesis 1:29] but not animals of the earth for you. But when the sons of Noah came (God) permitted them (the animals of the earth) as it is said, ‘as the green grass I have given to you everything,’ [Genesis 9:3]” We can suggest that the biblical history of meat consumption experienced three distinct eras. In the Garden of Eden, humans did not consume animals (era 1). After the flood, God saw the violent and sinful nature of humans and permitted meat consumption as a concession (era 2). We then learn that meat was only permitted as a sacrifice to God and then ultimately it became permitted outside of sacrificial worship as well (era 3). These three eras mark an evolution from an ideal to a religious pragmatism. I would argue that with the advent of mass production and corporate factory farms that we have entered a fourth era, one that requires a new religious perspective on the consumption of meat (to be explored below). We now must ask whether shehita (ritual slaughter) in an age of mass production has lost its sanctity. Rabbi David Rosen, the former Chief Rabbi of Ireland, wrote[xviii] that “The current treatment of animals in the livestock trade definitely renders the consumption of meat halakhically unacceptable as the product of illegitimate means.” Rabbi Rosen argues that in theory kosher meat is perfectly kosher and acceptable to consume—but that in today’s system of mass abuse, it is no longer kosher, that is, no longer fit for consumption. He goes on to suggest that “In contemporary society, more than ever before, vegetarianism should be an imperative for Jews who seek to live in accordance with Judaism’s most sublime teachings.”

The Gemara (Pesahim 49b) declares that an ignoramus may not eat meat. The Maharsha explains that if one is not extremely knowledgeable and pious, too many mistakes can be made. The Rama (Teshuvot Rama 65) argued that an ignoramus is not well-versed in the laws of shehita (ritual slaughter). In addition to scrupulousness in kashruth, it seems that one would need to be a very ethically conscious person to truly appreciate what goes into meat production today. The Talmud (Kiddushin 56b) taught that a consumer is more culpable than producers in a certain sense. The demander of a certain product that harms (i.e., the consumer) is really the one responsible for the pain caused.

At least two Rishonim also view vegetarianism as a moral ideal. R. Yitzchak Abarbanel[xix] and R. Yosef Albo[xx] both suggest that it is a moral ideal since the slaughtering process can lead one to cultivate cruel character traits. In the early twentieth century, Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaCohen Kook argued for the eschatological ideal of vegetarianism.[xxi] Even though certain ideals won’t be fully actualized until the messianic era, Jewish theology instructs that the Jewish people must act in spiritual and moral ways that attempt to bring the messianic ideals to reality. The book of Isaiah in its prophesy for the messianic age (11:6, 8) famously teaches that even animals will be vegetarian: “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid. And the lion, like the ox, shall eat straw.” The S’dei Hemed suggested, in a different vein, that refraining from wine and meat consumption can be a positive practice to expiate sin.[xxii]

It is important to note that with the Torah’s full permission to allow the consumption of kosher meat, it did not become an obligation to consume meat. Rather it grants permission for those who desire it. The Torah says “you say: ‘I will eat meat’ because your soul desires to eat meat; with all the desire of your soul may you eat meat” (Deuteronomy 12:20). Meat may be consumed when there is real desire—but there is not a need to consume it if there is not desire, and certainly one need not eat meat if one finds it repugnant (physically, morally, or spiritually). The Gemara (Hullin 84a) goes even further in explaining this Torah verse and states “A person should not eat meat unless he has a special craving for it.” Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, the Chief Rabbi of Efrat, has written that “The dietary laws are intended to teach us compassion and lead us gently to vegetarianism.”[xxiii] The sources show that one need not eat meat. The three valid positions are that it is: 1. Permissible to eat meat, 2. Permissible not to eat meat, 3. Ideal not to eat meat.[xxiv]

Stranger today still, within a very anthropocentric worldview, some have also argued that it is ideal to eat meat since animals were merely created for human purpose. This seems to be a very narrow view, and flies in the face of the interpreters of the Torah’s values and the bediavad (un-ideal) evolution to finally allow meat consumption. When animals were created in the beginning of the book of Genesis, it is clear from the text and commentaries that they were not created for human consumption.

A very peculiar Orthodox culture has evolved in certain segments of the Jewish community that sees the consumption of meat almost as a marker of frumkeit, and that any religiously observant individual should feel obliged to engage in a hedonistic consumption of meat and that any truly religious celebration must have meat, especially on Jewish holidays. This desire has taken priority in many communities over religious virtues and the spirituality of the joyous occasion.

Simhat Yom Tov?

Some have claimed that even if one chooses to be a vegetarian during the week, it is not permissible to refrain from meat on Jewish festivals since we are obligated in simha (joy) and “ein simha ela basar veYayyin” (there is no joy without meat and wine).

To treat this approach as conclusive is incorrect. Halakha takes the notion of simha (joy) very seriously and does not enforce practices that individuals do not find joyous. Furthermore, for many posekim, the consumption of meat as a fulfillment of the mitzvah to be joyous on holidays existed only in a historical context. The Gemara (Pesahim 109a) reads: “R. Judah ben Beteira declared, ‘During the time that the Temple existed there was no ‘rejoicing’ other than with meat as it is said, ‘and you shall slaughter peace-offerings and you shall eat there; and you shall rejoice before the Lord your God.’” R. Judah ben Beteira goes on to conclude “but now that the temple does not exist there is no rejoicing other than wine.” Another Gemara (Pesahim 71a; Baba Batra 60b) explains that the obligation to be joyous on festivals was not fulfilled through the consumption of meat but through the wearing of clean clothes and drinking of wine. Medieval Jewish legal authorities held that there is no longer any obligation to consume meat on festivals.[xxv] Some Rishonim go even further to argue that eating meat was not even an obligation in the times when the temple stood! [xxvi] Based upon these sources, the Bet Yosef questions those who suggested that one must eat meat on festivals.[xxvii] The Magen Avraham[xxviii] explains explicitly that there is no obligation to eat meat on festivals since the temple was destroyed. [xxix] Although there are posekim who require the eating of meat on festivals, there ample basis to refrain if one will not get enjoyment and spiritual satisfaction.

It is now time that those committed to halakha and living an ethically conscious life stand and courageously articulate their vegetarian convictions. At the Shabbat table, one may ask: “How can you forbid something that the Ribbono Shel Olam permitted?” or “How can you cast aspersions on our ancestors?, or “How can you possibly experience oneg and simhah on Shabbat and Yom Tov without cholent and brisket?” Halakhic vegetarians can and should proudly quote the Torah sources without feeling any shame for their ethical convictions.

Conclusion

After fleeing from Poland during Nazi persecutions, Nobel laureate Isaac Bashevis Singer argued that animal rights were the purest form of social justice, since animals are the most vulnerable of beings. Our moral response to factory farming is a test of how we respond to the cries of the voiceless and powerless in our world.

According to Jewish tradition, humans were imbued with a level of dignity that is not granted to animals. However, elevating humans to a unique existence with special rights and obligations does not preclude the possibility for some level of rights and obligations to exist for animals nor does it call into question humans as the pinnacle of existence. In the twenty-first-century nation-state, we must consider seeing sentient beings as holders of rights imbued by divine laws and confirmed by human law. It has become apparent that the new age of mass production in factory farms immensely violates tsa’ar ba’alei hayyim (the Torah prohibition against inflicting pain upon animals). One may no longer plead ignorance—only indifference. In addition to the cruelty of how these animals are caged, fed, tortured, and slaughtered, new findings have shown the detrimental effect that meat consumption has upon human health. Additionally, in a major recession where our charity is needed more than ever and as meat prices increase, this luxury of meat products may need to be the first thing to go from the shelves of a truly pious home. However, this is not an ascetic ideal. Alternative meat options are now more similar in taste to meat, accessible, and affordable than ever. In an age where vegetarianism must be viewed as a halakhic and Jewish ethical ideal, it must be considered as part of our pursuits in striving for truth, justice, peace, and holiness.  

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For the first time, American Psychoanalytic Association’s annual conference dedicated a panel to discussing the intersection of Orthodoxy and LGBT identity from a clinical standpoint. The panel addressed how mental health providers could approach counseling someone struggling with Orthodox Judaism and LGBT identity.

Entitled Symposium: Psychoanalytic Perspectives on Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity, and Jewish Identity, the panel opened with Dr. Alan Slomowitz noting that he and his colleagues are “concerned with theory and praxis.” He noted that as mental health professionals, “who each of us is in this room is, affects us in acknowledged and unacknowledged ways and [affects] how we respond to and work with our patients.”

To explain the societal elements at play in the Orthodox community, he quoted Rabbi Ari Segal, head of Shalhevet High School in Los Angeles who recently wrote [http://www.shalhevetboilingpoint.com/opinion/2016/09/14/the-biggest-challenge-to-emunah-of-our-time/] “the reconciliation of the Torah’s discussion of homosexuality represents the single most formidable religious challenge for our young people today.” He went on to explain to the audience, many of whom did not have in depth knowledge of Orthodoxy, that “Orthodox Judaism has many different strands.”

When Dr. Alison Feit took the microphone, she opened by saying “we stand and we speak about things in the world that have meaning…” We speak, she explained, so we can gain “if not the ability to fix a problem...to at least name it and make it visible with all its contours.” That is what she and Dr. Slomowitz have done in their clinical work.

Much of both of their talks were based on findings and observations laid out in their paper, “Does God Write Referrals? Orthodox Judaism and Homosexuality.”

Questions abound after Feit, Slomowitz, and the other two panelists, Rabbi Mark Dratch, and Dr. Mark Blechner finished presenting. Some people asked about their specific clients and patients, and others asked for general resources, in which case they were referred to the Jewish Queer Youth (JQY) and Eshel websites, which are the only two LGBT organizations serving the Orthodox community.

“It would be safe to say that this was the first session on the combination of Orthodoxy and LGBT issues,” explained Wylie Tene, the APA’s Director of Public Affairs, who was present at the symposium.

The panel was inspired by a similar event [https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/apr/24/orthodox-jews-gay-rights-conversion-therapy-conference hosted at Columbia University two years ago, in which the four of them presented the topic from a similar vantage point. That conference coincided with the height of the controversy around gay conversion therapy and JONAH [http://www.tabletmag.com/scroll/196116/judge-orders-jonah-a-jewish-gay-conversion-therapy-group-to-shut-down] [http://www.tabletmag.com/scroll/191819/new-jersey-jury-jonahs-gay-conversion-therapies-are-fraudulent] , a Jewish conversion therapy organization that has since been closed due to court order.

Orthodox Judaism has traditionally taken a strong stance against homosexuality, due to the biblical verse in Leviticus 18:22, which outlines the prohibition. The right wing rabbinic position is outlined in a document known as the Torah Declaration. Their stance denies the possibility of a gay identity altogether. It also states that “same-sex attraction can be modified and healed,” which is why these rabbinic figures still refer LGBT community members to conversion therapists-- even after it was proven to be fraudulent by a court of law in 2015. These rabbis – both ultra-Orthodox and modern Orthodox – will still not engage in any form of dialogue about the matter.

But in the last five years, and even more so in the last two years, many Orthodox rabbis have recognized the need for empathy and have started what will be a long and difficult conversation for them to figure out how to reconcile halakha and the reality on the ground.    The discourse no longer surrounds the question of is it possible to be gay and Orthodox, because facts on the ground-- the existence of Orthodox gay couples-- indicate that it is possible.

One such rabbi is Mark Dratch, the director of the Rabbinical Council of America, a leading body of Orthodox rabbis in the country, which boasts nearly 1,000 members.

Dratch, who spoke on the APA panel, had a marked shift in tone compared to how he spoke about the issue two years ago at Columbia University. Whereas in 2015 he was very up front and quotes a Hebrew verse meaning “I know that I don’t know,” and asking LGBT members of the audience to educate him, now he spoke with authority that there needs to be a communal push to be more inclusive. “Any rabbi that's worth his salt won't just deal with matters based on traditional Jewish text, although that is that starting point and that is the framework in which he is going to operate, but is going to by necessity understand the complexities and the details of the larger world,” he said, saying this needs to be taken account into LGBTQ issues as well. “A rabbi dealing with LGBTQ issues cannot operate in a vacuum.” This is a radical shift it dialogue, one of which has not been seen by a major Orthodox rabbi before.   

One of the most contentious religious issues to roil Israeli society ever since the creation of the State has been the role of women in national service in general and in the military in particular. Israel was one of the first states to draft women into the military; the government gave religious young women the option of entering national service.  Haredi authorities considered even national service as a most serious violation of halacha, indeed an outright sin. R. Avraham Yeshaya Karelitz, the undisputed leader Israel’s Ashkenazi Haredi community when the state was proclaimed (he is generally known by the title of his best known writings as Chazon Ish), was unequivocal in his opposition. He asserted that national service was the virtual equivalent of adultery, idolatry and murder, three sins which Jews are mandated to resist even at the cost of their lives (yehareg ve’al ya’avor).[1] Needless to say, military service was totally out of the question as well. Indeed, R. Zvi Pesach Frank, the head of Haredi Beit Din and Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem for 36 years until his passing in 1961, explicitly stated that the drafting of women into the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) was a gzerat shmad, a decree compelling Jews to abandon their faith for another.[2]  Such hyperbolic statements reflect the depth of opposition that the Haredi leadership[3]evinced toward the policy of drafting women into the military.

The starting point for R. Karelitz’ opposition, and that of his many colleagues and followers, was the Biblical verse that forbids a woman to wear a man’s implements: “A woman shall not wear that which pertains to a man.”[4] Onkelos, whose translation of the Torah from Hebrew to Aramaic was one of the few that were accepted by the rabbis of the Talmud, interpreted the passage to read, “a woman should not wear men’s armaments.” Similarly, the Talmudic sage R. Eliezer b. Yaakov asked, “How do we know that a woman should not go to war bearing arms? Scripture says, 'A woman shall not wear that which pertains to a man.'[5]

Of course, in Onkelos’ time, and that of R. Eliezer b. Yaakov, women did not join military forces or go to war.  As the Talmud pointed out, “it is the practice of man to wage war, not of woman to do so.”[6] Or again as R. Ile'a replied in the name of R. Eleazar son of R. Simeon: “Scripture stated, ‘And replenish the earth, and subdue it;’  it is the nature of a man to conquer but it is not the nature of a woman to conquer.[7]”

Commentators in the more recent past expressed a similar viewpoint. Writing in the late nineteenth century, R. Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, known by his acronym Netziv) focused on the inherent differences between the sexes:

Men and women are different both by nature and by custom [i.e. nurture]. It is impossible to change one’s nature in an instant, except through habit, which essentially creates a second nature. And the verse warned against… changing nature by virtue of having a woman bear a man’s equipment, that is, a woman by nature would be unable to carry a sword unless she trained herself to do so over time, and this, in turn would be preparation for her to circulate among men.[8]

R. Berlin did not even bother to note the terrible consequences that naturally would follow: he clearly thought they were self-evident.

The early twentieth century, R. Baruch Halevi Epstein observed in his popular commentary Torah Temimah, “War and conquest are carried out by means of armaments, and since women do not engage in such matters, these implements are meant solely for men.” His observation remained valid until well into the past century. Indeed, it precisely because this view was universally held by Jews and non-Jews alike that the Greek myth of the Amazons, and centuries later, the saga of Joan of Arc, never ceased to capture the popular imagination.

The fact that non-Jews did not conscript women into their armies was cited by R. Eliezer Waldenberg asserted in a lengthy essay in his volume entitled “The Laws of the State” (Hilchot Medina). As he put it after arguing the case from Biblical references,

 We learn from all of the foregoing that it is both a Biblical injunction and a matter of societal      practice conducted and accepted from the beginning of time by the kings of the Nations that women are exempted from the obligation to participate in warfare, whatever its purpose, and is not even obliged to guard installations since her honor is purely focused on the management and sustenance of her household, and it is in this she prides herself.[9]

R. Waldenberg wrote these words in the early 1950s, when the State of Israel was virtually alone in drafting women into the military. He was basing himself on the writings of previous Torah leaders, for whom not only was a woman bearing arms a practice that the “nations” frowned upon, but for whom the notion of a Jewish military was as remote as that of a Jewish state. The laws relating to military matters were laws for Messiah’s times; Maimonides, alone among the greatest of the codifiers, chose to include these laws in his classic compendium, Yad Hahazaka.

Women in Contemporary Armed Forces

Today’s situation is truly different. The State of Israel is a reality that was unimaginable to halachists writing before the 1940s, and indeed, virtually until May 1948. As for women in the military, they now not only serve in the armed forces of most countries, but also serve in combat. The United States enables women to serve in land, air, sea and undersea combat units; since Jewish women, and some number of Orthodox Jewish women, are also serving in the American armed forces, they too are in a position to serve in combat units, indeed they may well be assigned to them.

 Women also have risen to achieve the highest ranks within the US armed forces.  General Lori Robinson, United States Air Force, currently serves as Commander of the Northern Command. Her four-star rank is the highest than can be achieved in peacetime. Admiral Michelle Howard, United States Navy, also a four-star, is commander of US Naval Forces Europe and Africa, and previously served as the four-star Vice Chief of Naval Operations.  The first American female four-star general was Ann Dunwoody, who in 2008 was named commander of the Army Materiel Command, the unit that equips, outfits, and arms U.S. soldiers. While the Material Command is a supporting command, both General Robinson and Admiral Howard are commanding combat forces.  No American Jewish woman has as yet risen to such lofty heights, but Jewish women are serving in the chain of command; indeed, all Jewish graduates of the military academies, like their non-Jewish counterparts, immediately join the active forces as junior officers.

America is certainly not the only military power whose senior commanding officers are females, nor whose women serve in combat roles. Valerie Andre was France’s first three star general; prior to her appointment in 1981, she had served as a combat search and rescue helicopter pilot.  Admiral Anne Cullere became France’s first three-star admiral in 2015; she previously had commanded French maritime forces in the Pacific . Other states that currently have women serving in combat roles include Australia, Canada, Denmark, Germany, New Zealand, Norway and Sweden. Clearly, the argument that “societal practice conducted and accepted from the beginning of time by the kings of the Nations that women are exempted from the obligation to participate in warfare,” no longer is valid.

The Dangers of Fraternization

There is, of course, a second reason why the rabbis forbade, and Haredi rabbis continue to forbid, women to serve in the military: their long-standing concern regarding the mixing of the sexes.  In this view, women have but one mission in life, to procreate, and they should not engage in activities that are certain to lead them to illicit sexual behavior. Thus, the twelfth century Spanish Biblical commentator Abraham ibn Ezra asserted that “a woman was only created to procreate and if she were to join men in war she would alight on the path of adultery.”[10] The thirteenth century scholar R. Hezekiah b. Manoah, better known as Hizkuni proffered a similar opinion in almost identical language:  a woman should never bear arms because “doing so is disgraceful and licentious. For that reason,” he continued, “Yael [the heroine of the Book of Judges] used neither sword nor spear but a sledgehammer and stake to crush [the Midianite general] Sisera’s brain …a woman was created only to procreate and if she goes off to war she will accustom herself to harlotry.”[11]  R. Bahya b. Asher, better known as Rabbeinu Behaye (1255-1340), likewise interpreted the passage forbidding a woman to wear a man’s equipment as an explicit ban on a woman going to war “which will be a cause of harlotry.”[12]

Basing himself of the writings of Ibn Ezra, as well as on Hizkuni, R. Waldenberg extended the prohibition on a woman bearing arms to service in the military even if she did not bear arms at all.  He derived this view from the fact that the medievalists were concerned about a woman being susceptible to harlotry, which could result either from her own inclination, or through seduction by her male counterparts. R. Waldenberg therefore concluded that “the prohibition promulgated by the geniuses and giants of Torah that it drafting women in a military framework of any kind violates a major prohibition, and any law that will be passed by those…who do not heed the Torah will not be binding on the Jewish nation that is bound by its belief, tradition and lifestyle by the Torah.”[13]

R. Zvi Pesach Frank likewise opposed women’s service in the Israeli military on the grounds that it fostered licentiousness. He made it clear that interpreting Talmudic rulings one way or the other was irrelevant because, as he put it,

we see the bitter consequences of drafting girls, for the majority of them were corrupted by their service in the military and the majority of parents [of these girls] ended up in tears seeing their daughters absorbed by apostasy…what is the point of discussing a girl’s entering the military when the matter is clear that the outcome will be her rejection of any element of Judaism and she will be as impure as one guilty of illicit relations.[14]

 R. Ovadia Yosef, whose support for the State of Israel was beyond doubt,[15] nevertheless opposed women’s service in the Israel Defense Forces. For example, in the course of discussing whether one could testify in court under oath that a girl was religious and therefore exempt from military service, he observed that doing so “is certainly a great and good deed (mitzva rabba) and one should not be too self-righteous so as not to testify.”[16] Another leading Sephardi rabbi, R. Haim David Halevy, the former Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv and like R. Yosef, a moderate on many halachic issues, unequivocally opposed the notion of women bearing arms in a military context, though he permitted them both to train and bear arms for domestic self-defense purposes.[17]

Most recently, Chief Rabbi Yitzhak Yosef, son of R. Ovadia, has reasserted his, and the Chief Rabbinate’s, opposition to women serving in combat roles, or indeed any military role, or even undertaking national service. As he has stated, “it is the ruling of all the great rabbis of the generations, including Israel’s chief rabbis, the position of the Chief Rabbinate—it has always been their position that girls must not enlist in the army…there are female pilots, all sorts of stuff. Is that the way of the Torah?! That’s not the way of the Torah.” Like rabbis of previous generations, he too is deeply concerned about female modesty, stating that “women who went [to war]…didn’t wear uniforms and pants and the likes, of course not. They went in modesty, in purity.”[18]

Is Milhemet Mitzvah the Great Exception?

Despite the prohibition on a woman bearing arms, the rabbis appear to have identified one exception to the principle that a woman should not engage in warfare. This was the case of a milhmet mitzvah, a mandated war. In such a case, the Mishna states: “In obligatory wars all go forth, even a bridegroom from his chamber and a bride from her canopy.[19]” Maimonides asserted that defending Israel from an adversary (ezrat Yisrael miyad tzar) qualified as a mandatory war,[20] and therefore, women were called upon to participate in its operations.[21] R. Moshe di Trani (known as Mabi”t), whose published a volume that listed the sources and/or rationales for Maimonides’ rulings, quoted his statement verbatim, with no additional comment, clearly indicating that he supported Maimonides’ position.[22]

Maimonides did not provide sources for his rulings, but he appears to have derived his position from a discussion in the Talmud Yerushalmi explaining the circumstances under which the Mishna asserted that all were called into battle. The Yerushalmi differentiated between a defensive war that involved repelling an attack on the Jewish homeland, and a preemptive operation to prevent such an attack. It was in the case of the former type of conflict that Maimonides issued his ruling, as his employment of the phrase ezrat Yisrael min hatzar haba eleihem (defending Israel from an enemy that was attacking them) clearly attests.[23]

R. David ibn Zimra, the seventeenth century leader of Egyptian Jewry known by his acronym RadVaZ, and one of the foremost decisors of his or any era, explained that Maimonides was referring to what the military in our times terms “service support.” As he put it,” the provision of water and food for their husbands,” with the term “husbands” referring generically to menfolk. Importantly, he cited as the basis for his assertion not a Biblical or Talmudic passage but rather the practice of his time among non-Jewish armies.  He noted: “this is the custom today among the Arabs.”[24]

While at first glance it would appear that RadVaz was writing about women supporting their husbands and no one else, later rabbis, ranging from the nineteenth century Talmudic commentator, R. Shmuel Shtrashun to R. Shmuel Vozner, revered in the Haredi world as one of its leading contemporary decisors, interpreted his statement to mean that women could support all soldiers, not just their husbands.[25]

R. Israel Lifschitz (1782-1860) went further than RadVaz by expanding the range of support permissible to females. Acknowledging that “a woman is not a warrior” he then stated “she can emerge [i.e. even from her wedding canopy] to provide food and fix roads.”[26] And he added that she could do so in both h a mandatory war against Amalek and one against the Seven Nations.   It is noteworthy that neither he, nor RadVaz stated that women could not provide support under fire. In other words, a woman’s role in combat service support could extend what in modern terms would be combat engineering, a task that in American forces is carried out both by a variety of Army battalions as well as by Navy Seabees (Construction Brigades) and the Air Force’s RED HORSE (Rapid Engineer Deployable Heavy Operational Squadron Engineer) squadrons.

Whether Israel’s wars are indeed mandatory has been the subject of controversy since the founding of the State, and begin with varying interpretation of the aggadic assertion that prior to the exile Jewish people swore not to attempt to retake the land of Israel by force of arms and not to rebel against the nations of the world.[27] The logic behind this aggada was unimpeachable at the time. The first vow derived from the reality that the Roman Emperor Hadrian had utterly crushed the Bar Kochba rebellion of 132-135 CE which had constituted the second armed uprising against Rome in less than a century. While the earlier rebellion in 70 CE had resulted in the destruction of the Temple, the Bar Kochba revolt resulted in the loss of tens of thousands of Jewish lives and the utter destruction of Jerusalem. The failed uprising of the North African Jewish Diaspora against Rome (115-17) during the reign of Trajan, Hadrian’s predecessor, clearly prompted the second vow. The issue that confronted rabbinic leaders with the emergence of the Zionist movement and the prospective creation of a Jewish state was whether the vows still applied under radically different international political circumstances.

Those rabbis who supported the State’s creation and the War of Independence that followed immediately thereafter offered arguments along the lines of those that  the logic that R. Shlomo Yosef Zevin offered in an article that appeared many years later. R. Zevin marshalled several arguments to support his assertion that the two oaths no longer were in force and indeed, may never have been. He pointed out that according to some authorities, the oaths actually were administered to unborn souls to whom they would apply at some future time. R. Zevin noted that such oaths had no halachic validity. Moreover, even if the oaths actually applied in a real sense, the Balfour Declaration, and the vote of the United Nations indicated that the nations of the world accepted the State’s creation and therefore no rebellion was involved. Finally, since the Talmud also records that the nations vowed not to oppress the Jews excessively, an oath which the Holocaust clearly violated, the oaths imposed on Israel no longer were binding.[28]

In addition to the aforementioned arguments, there was the reality that the War of Independence was a defensive war, that fit neatly into Maimonides’ category of ezrat Yisrael miyad tzar as indeed were those of 1948, 1956, 1967 and 1973, as well as the 2006 war against Hezbollah and the various incursions into Gaza in response to rocket attacks on Israeli territory. All of these wars and operations have been what Richard Haass has called “wars of necessity” and therefore mandatory.[29] It is in this light that R. Nahum Rabinovitch has written, “In our current situation where enemies threaten us from every direction…there is no greater milhemet mitzvah, for it is the essence of rescuing Israel from an adversary.”[30]

On the other hand, Haredi rabbis who were ambivalent about the State because of its secular leadership, and even some more modern, but halachically conservative rabbis, have been far more circumspect about designating Israel’s wars as mandatory, while the most extreme of that group, notably R. Yoel Teitelbaum, the Satmar Rebbe, actually saw such wars as the work of the devil.[31]

Female Military Service in Israel’s Mandatory Wars

Even those rabbis who view Israel’s wars as mandatory do not agree among themselves regarding the role, if any, of women in the military.

As noted above, RadVaz accepted that women could support men in battle with food and other provisions. R. Yitzhak Yosef appears to have adopted that position in a very literal manner, when he has stated that the only tasks women could carry out in support of –but not as part of—the IDF, are cooking and laundering.[32]  There is, however, an alternative interpretation of RadVaz’ dictum.

Nowadays, the activities that RadVaz permitted are termed combat service support, which, in the United States is often shared between unarmed contractors and uniformed military who may be armed.[33] The range of combat service support activities has, not surprisingly, markedly expanded since the sixteenth century, when RadVaz articulated his views. It applies both at home and in the combat theater, and includes materiel and supply chain management, maintenance, transportation, health services, all of which are geared to enable air and ground forces to accomplish their missions in combat. Beyond these roles are the piloting of unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs), which can take place literally thousands of miles from the combat theatre. While not strictly speaking combat support, much less service support, such operations involve a degree of safety that is at least equal to, if not greater, than in-theatre combat service support activities. Moreover, non-military agencies also fly what are popularly known as drones; is it simply a matter, then, of wearing a uniform? In any event, it is arguable that, according to RadVaz, at a minimum, women could serve as combat service support contractors, and perhaps even in military service support units, since they would probably only carry small arms for self-defense, which, as noted, R. Haim Yosef Halevy would permit.

The anonymous author of Sefer HaHinuch wrote that women were commanded to participate in military operations against the Seven Nations indigenous to the Land of Israel; these operations were mandated by the commandment to eliminate all vestiges of these Nations.[34] On the other hand, when addressing h the commandment to destroy Amalek—another archetype of a mandatory war— he seemed to discount the Mishnaic statement regarding the role of women in such a conflict, writing that it was solely the province of males, “for it is for them to prosecute a war and revenge against the enemy, and not for women.”[35]

The nineteenth-century commentator R. Yosef Babad, author of Minhat Hinuch, the authoritative commentary on the thirteenth century Sefer Hahinuch noted that whereas the Hinuch limited to men the conduct of warfare against Amalek, he included women in another milhemet mitzva, namely the war against the Seven Nations.[36] R. Babad therefore concluded that the Hinuch’s limitation in the case of Amalek was not a prohibition per se, but simply a description of usual practice.[37]

R. Yehuda Hertz Henkin goes beyond R. Halevy in permitting women to bear arms, as in his opinion arms are no longer unique to men. At a minimum, they can do so bediavad (that is, having borne arms, they can continue to do so—and once they have been drafted into the army they are certainly in a bediavad circumstance, as they must follow orders. Though he accepts the reality of women serving in the IDF, he prefers that they not do so and he certainly sees no obligation that they do so. He asserts that the Maimonidean formulation of ezrat Yisrael miyad tzor does not ipso facto mean going to war; one can “help Israel in the face of an enemy” in ways other than by conducting military operations, and, by extension, one need not serve in the military in order to “help Israel.”[38]

R. Yehuda Shaviv does not challenge the generally held notion that ezrat Yisrael miyad tzor is subsumed under the category of milhement mitzva. He also accepts that women can have some roles in the military; indeed, he does not seem to insist that they only do so bediavad. Like RadVaz, he emphasizes logistics support. But he conditions his acquiescence on women being separated from men in the course of their duties.[39] In practical terms, this would mean that women would serve in units segregated by sex, such as the Women’s Army Corps and the Navy’s Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service, or Waves that the United States organized during World War II. Such units no longer exist in fully modern militaries. In his view, therefore, women’s service in integrated units cannot be reconciled with the religious prohibitions on relations between the sexes. Therefore, it is difficult to see how R. Shaviv would permit women to perform even medical support, though in peacetime Orthodox women do so alongside men on a daily basis in Israel’s hospitals.

Contrary to R. Yitzhak Yosef’s assertion, noted above, that the Chief Rabbinate opposed any form of women’s military service, Rabbis Isaac Herzog and Isaac Nissim both permitted women to serve in the religious units of the Nahal brigade, the unique combat unit that David Ben Gurion created in 1948 that combined part-time military service with agricultural activities to support newly founded kibbutzim.[40] R. Isser Unterman went even further, permitting women to serve in regular units, as long as they kept their religious traditions.[41]

R. Shlomo Goren likewise took a fully permissive position on this issue. In his volume of responsa on military matters published while Chief Rabbi of the Israel Defense Forces, R. Goren devoted an entire section to the female soldier’s religious obligations on Shabbat.[42] For example, he addressed the question of a female soldier lighting candles for Shabbat. When questions such as this one were posed to him, he could easily have replied that a woman should seek to leave the military as soon as possible. Instead, he dealt with the questions at hand; in the case of Shabbat candles he replied that a woman could light them while serving, and that either a man or a woman could do so on behalf of entire units if they were assembled in dining facilities.[43]

Finally, R. Shemariah Menashe Adler devoted an entire volume of his multi-volume work Mar’eh Cohen to make the case that female service in the military was not optional but rather mandatory, and that arguments about nature of the war in question were beside the point. As Marc Shapiro has written:

[R. Adler’s] fundamental point is…If the wars in Israel are to be considered milhemet reshut then there is no difference between men and women; both are forbidden to join the army. On the other hand, if the wars are in the category of milhemet mitzvah, all are obligated to fight. This is a commandment which cannot be annulled simply because of the fear of immodest behavior.”[44]

On the other hand, there are those who would make the case that there is no role for a woman in the military even in a mandatory war. Drawing upon the language of the Sefer HaHinuch in the context of the war with Amalek R. Waldenberg asserted that not only were women not required to participate in a milhemet mitzva, they were absolutely forbidden to do so. He based his opinion not on the prohibition on women carrying arms but, in alignment with R. Frank, to the need to “distance our holy nation from promiscuity.”[45]

R. Yehuda Gershuni also worried about licentiousness, but not on the part of the woman. Reflecting a view that has long been widespread in the Haredi community, he argued that a woman herself would not give in to temptation, or even be tempted. Instead, by circulating among her male counterparts, she would instill a spirit of licentiousness in them. Therefore, better than a woman not serve in the military than that she cause others to sin.[46] As noted above, however, it is questionable whether speculations about human nature that have never been demonstrated scientifically can override an obligation imposed by the Torah.

 R. Shlomo Min Hahar concluded that women could not serve in any military capacity, including combat service support. He offered two justifications for his position. Expanding the argument that others had made before him, he focused on licentiousness during combat, since the same impulses that led a man to kill would also lead to lust.[47] He also offered a second reason: that the Biblical injunction against permitting the fearful to engage in combat would eliminate any females from doing so. Since the majority of women would be fearful, one could ignore the minority who are not.[48] The facts do not support this latter case however: American females have been wounded and killed in battle, yet they continue to volunteer for military service. Since females can avoid military service in the IDF, should they choose to do so, those who serve are essentially volunteers. And there is absolutely no evidence that the majority of women who volunteer fear entering a combat zone, or engaging in combat operations.

Because he was writing in 1983, before the spread of UAVs to many states (and even non-state actors such as Hezbollah), R. Min Hahar did not address the question of a woman. But it would appear that he also would not permit women operating on a base far from the combat zone. Although his argument about females fearing to engage in battle would not be relevant in this case, presumably, he would still be concerned about improper fraternization on base.

R. Avigdor Nebenzahl, rabbi of the Jewish Quarter in the Old City, also rejected the idea of any form of military service for women, even in the context of a “war of necessity.” In his view, women never participated in a milhemet mitzva.[49] Therefore the type of service is irrelevant. He too did not address the issue of “piloting” drones, but his unequivocal opposition to any role for women in the military would seem to indicate that he would make no distinction between service in-theater or out of it.

For those who would accept that a woman can both bear arms and serve in the military, at least in the context of fighting in a defensive or mandatory war—which R. Rabinovitch and others would characterize as a sad but permanent and ongoing condition for the State of Israel for the foreseeable future—there arises the question of whether a woman could command other troops, specifically male troops. Avihud Shvartz has posited that women could only command other women. For him, the issue of fraternization of the sexes is the paramount concern when considering the role of women in the military.[50]

It is arguable, however, that if the basis for determining the role of women in the military is that of what other nations do, per RadVaz, a case could be made that women could indeed assume command of male troops, for, as noted, in many countries today, women not only serve, but are senior military commanders. Certainly, if one is prepared to accept that women can serve in a combat service support role, functioning in a manner that hardly differs, if it differs at all, from that of civilian contractors, it is difficult to see how their command of men in military units would be any different from their assuming management positions in a contractors performing an identical mission.

The Evolving Nature of both Military Operations and the Treatment of Women in the Military

As in many cases where contemporary developments pose particular conundrums for halachot that were promulgated in different times and under different circumstances, decisors and rabbinic legislators are far from in agreement. In the meantime, both the nature of military operations continues to evolve, and with it the role of humans in those operations. The interface between man and machine has yet to be fully consummated: the Department of Defense has only recently launched an initiative that seeks to exploit and expand upon the nature of that interface. The role of the female soldier, sailor and airman, already increasingly integrated into her military unit and service, will also continue to evolve alongside the changing nature of warfare. Indeed, the United States has taken major steps to ensure that “fraternization”—which initially had prompted the enraged outbursts from Hazon Ish and others, is also being reduced, and, when it has taken place, is being dealt with severely under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Moreover, no officer is exempt from punishment for violating the code, no matter how high his or her rank.

There is no denying that fraternization was a major issue that the IDF chose to ignore for decades. The IDF has in recent years taken a much harder line in this matter as well. In part its stance is due to anger among the female troops that the IDF was not responsive to their own concerns about being violated by men. Perhaps, too, the increased presence of Haredi men in the IDF, as well as the growing number of Orthodox women serving in the Israeli military, has been a factor as well. In any event, as in the United States, fraternization is no longer as common or as widespread in the IDF as it once was.

America’s wars are, of course, fundamentally different from those of Israel, since the latter, as a Jewish State, is ideally meant to function according to halacha. Still, as R. Herschel Shachter has written, other nations “are only justified in waging wars that are parallel in nature to what would be considered milchemet mitzvah for the Jewish nation. It appears that milchemet mitzvah refers not only to wars of self-defense, but also to wars in defense of one’s country.”[51] Therefore, while it is clearly not the case that wars in which America engages are milhemet mitzvah, it is also arguable that since American military operations are designed to protect its citizens, including its Jewish citizens, it may be possible to stretch the definition of ezrat Yisrael miyad tzor to include such operations as well. After all, many American Jewish congregations, including modern Orthodox ones, pray for the welfare of America’s troops precisely because they are fighting to protect all Americans, among them Jewish Americans. This argument has even more force given the fact that the threats against which America is fighting today are terrorists and other non-state actors who target not only Americans in general, but Jews in particular, and, for that , matter the State of Israel as well.

It is doubtful that the ongoing changes in both the means by which war is fought, and the treatment of women in the military, will have the slightest effect on many Haredi decisors. Their opinions regarding the intermingling of the sexes has hardened in recent years; and neither the evolution of combat operations, nor any regulations adopted either by non-Jewish militaries, or the IDF, will convince them to moderate their views. On the other hand, these changes may further moderate the views of those decisors who have chosen to address in constructive manner the issues of female membership in the military; the military occupational specialties (MOS) they might assume; and the commands to which they could ascend, whether in Israel, the United States, or other freedom-loving democracies.

To our members and friends,

We are in the middle of a very exciting semester of classes with the Institute. Here is a brief schedule of upcoming classes and events:

On Shabbat March 10-11, I will be the scholar-in-residence at the Edmond J. Safra Synagogue in Manhattan (11 East 63^rd Street, between Fifth and Madison Avenue). Free and open to the public.

On Shabbat March 31-April 1, I will be the scholar-in-residence at Congregation Emek Beracha, in Palo Alto, California (4102 El Camino Real). Free and open to the public.

On three Mondays, March 20, 27, and April 3 (1:00pm-2:15pm), I will be teaching a three-part series on the Haggadah at Lamdeinu Teaneck (950 Queen Anne Road, at Congregation Beth Aaron). For registration information, go to http://www.lamdeinu.org/.

My weekly course in Navigating Nach: A Survey of the Prophets, continues with sessions on Esther, Lamentations, and Kohelet on March 8, 15, 22. Wednesdays from 7:00-8:00pm, at Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun, 125 East 85^th Street (between Park and Lexington Avenue).

Previous lectures from this series are on our website, jewishideas.org, at Online Learning.

The course is taught at a high scholarly level but is accessible to people of all levels of Jewish learning. Newcomers always welcome. Free and open to the public.
 

Conversations 27: Increasing Peace Through Balanced Torah Study

It is gratifying to have published a collection of essays discussing some of the underlying ideology we promote through our work at the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals. We have been distributing this special issue of Conversations, free of charge, to communities and schools where I teach. We also had a book reception at Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in Manhattan on February 15 to celebrate its publication.

Thank you to the sponsors of this volume: S. Daniel Abraham, Joshua Angel, the Bengualid Family Foundation, Marco Dilaurenti, the Levy Family Foundation, Alan and Kathleen Shamoon, Ronald and Adele Tauber, and the Sephardic Publication Foundation. Their generous support enables our Institute to spread its vision to people and communities across America and beyond.

Radio Broadcast on my new commentary on Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi.

Rabbi Harlan Wechler hosted me on his radio show, “Rabbi Wechsler Teaches,” on SiriusXM. We discussed my new commentary, Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi: Prophecy in an Age of Uncertainty (Maggid Press).

You can listen to the broadcast on SiriusXM channel 109 Sunday, March 5, 8:00 pm (or at 4:00 am) Eastern Standard Time. Starting Sunday night, it will be available on demand on the SiriusXM app and wel player at siriusxm.com/player.

Citi Field Lecture with the Orthodox Union now online:

On January 15, I presented at the “Torah in the City” program at Citi Field hosted by the Orthodox Union. Nearly 1500 people were in attendance at this remarkable day of learning. They have posted videos of all the lectures at https://www.ou.org/convention/shiur/.

Teacher Training

I am teaching a ten-part series to the Honors Rabbinical Students at Yeshiva University, on Teaching Bible in Synagogues. The goal is to expose students to some of the challenges and opportunities in synagogue education, and to bring traditional Bible study to a contemporary, educated audience. 

I also have been working with the Bible faculty at the Community Hebrew Academy of Toronto (CHAT) on developing a new curriculum that integrates traditional and contemporary scholarship in a manner that is relevant and meaningful to High School students.

As always, I am grateful to our members and supporters who enable us to carry out our educational programs, teacher trainings, campus lectures, and publications to disseminate our Institute’s vision far and wide.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar