National Scholar Updates

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To our members and friends,

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

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

Torah holidays in peshat and in our religious observance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I look forward to learning together with you!

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

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.  

The Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, founded in 2007, offers a vision of Orthodox Judaism that is intellectually sound, spiritually compelling, and emotionally satisfying. Based on an unwavering commitment to the Torah tradition and to the Jewish people, it fosters an appreciation of legitimate diversity within Orthodoxy. It encourages responsible discussion of issues in Jewish law, philosophy, religious world-view, and communal policy. It sees Judaism as a world religion with a profound message for Jews, and for non-Jews as well. It seeks to apply the ancient wisdom of Judaism to the challenges of contemporary society.

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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.