National Scholar Updates

Abraham must have been a very unpopular man in the society and family in which he was raised. He wouldn't likely have been elected to lead the citizenry of Ur Kasdim. He rejected their worldview, smashed their idols, repudiated their (un)ethical system. Who would vote for Abraham? He was a starry-eyed mystic and philosopher, not interested in pandering to the values and interests of his fellow citizens.

A Midrash tells a story that Terah, Abraham's father, was not only an idolater, but did business manufacturing and selling idols. One night, the young Abraham went into his father's shop and smashed all the idols, except one. In that last idol's hand, Abraham placed a hammer. When Terah went to his shop the next morning, he was shocked to see the idols broken to pieces. He asked Abraham: who could have done such a terrible act of vandalism? Abraham answered: the idol holding the hammer must have smashed the other idols. Terah responded: that's impossible, that idol is made of stone, it can't do anything. Abraham retorted: if you don't believe a stone idol can smash other idols, why do you believe it is a powerful god? It's just a piece of powerless stone!

Children like this story because it shows how Abraham outsmarted his father, thereby demonstrating the foolishness of idolatry. Abraham thus made his preliminary case for the truth of ethical monotheism.

As we grow older, though, this story requires a more sophisticated interpretation. After all, we do not think that idolaters really believe that their idols are gods. Rather, the idols are symbols of gods. Terah certainly would never have imagined that one of his idols could act autonomously. He would have thought that his idols were symbols of gods, or that in some way the gods' spirits rested within the idols. So he would not have been impressed with Abraham's question and seeming refutation of idolatry. By analogy, we pledge allegiance to the flag--but the flag is just a piece of cloth, with little intrinsic value. When someone burns the flag, though, we are outraged--not because a piece of cloth was set ablaze, but because that flag is a powerful symbol to us of our nation and our values. Terah would have been outraged to see his idols shattered, in a similar sense to the outrage we feel when our flag is desecrated.

Perhaps that Midrash was alluding to a deeper idea. It was telling us something important about Abraham that would have convinced God to choose Abraham to be father of a new nation.

Abraham was living in Terah's household. He knew his father worshipped idols and promoted idolatry. What young boy wants to rise up against his father's values and his father's business? It would have been so much easier for Abraham to hold his peace, and wait until he was old enough to live on his own before he espoused his monotheistic views. Moreover, even if Abraham chose to argue with his father about the worthlessness of idols, why would he have vandalized his father's shop, an action that was bound to generate a lot of discussion and anger among the townspeople? Furthermore, why would he make a public mockery of idolatry while living in a society full of idolaters? It would have been so much more convenient for Abraham to remain silent, to keep his ideas to himself, to respect the mores of his father, his birthplace, his society.

The Midrash is teaching us that Abraham was a powerful, courageous individual who was not afraid to dissent from the majority when he knew that the majority was wrong. Abraham was willing to risk his own comfort by defying the perverse ideas and values of his father and of the entire idolatrous society. He did not just speak out against idolatry: he had the gumption to smash idols, to bring matters to a head. He was not "diplomatic" in espousing belief in one God and in rejecting idolatry.

Thus, when God saw that Abraham was absolutely not "electable" by his community, God decided that Abraham was His man. God "elected" Abraham--a man of incredible personal strength and vision--to set out on the journey, to leave his society, his birthplace, his father's home. God elected Abraham to establish a new nation, with a new vision, a new idealism, a new ethical system, a new way of relating to God.

The words "lekh lekha" are commonly translated: get thee out. But they can also be translated as: go to yourself. In the latter sense, God was telling Abraham: go to yourself, to your own inner core; don't be misled by your father and his society; don't strive to conform and get along. Stand on your own, be true to yourself. If you "go to yourself" and stay faithful to who you are, you will be the father of a great nation.

            To read Talmud is to experience it in translation. Too often, we prevent ourselves from considering what “Oral Torah” really means. We know that the sages considered it forbidden to write their own teachings down, and that all their material was recorded in human memory rather than on parchment. But a recitation and a reading are not merely presenting the same information in different media; a book is read by a reader, while a sage speaks with a listener. The differences between these two activities are many and profound.

            The sages—especially the Amoraim, who are in general more talkative about their lives—reflect often about their learning as an oral experience. For example, here is what R. Gidol says in the Yerushalmi (Shabbat 1:2):

One who says a tradition—while saying it he should see the teacher of that tradition as if he were standing before him. And what is the reason? “Even in the image should a person walk.” (Tehilim 39)

            Although the verse from Tehilim is normally understood as referring to the precariousness of human existence (“even a person walks around like a shadow”), R. Gidol retunes it to the context of studying Torah. In his reading, tselem does not mean “shadow” but “image” or “impression” in the sense of the facial expression and body language of a speaker, and yithalekh refers to the conduct of the student. Thus, the sense of the verse is that it is not enough to repeat the right words; one must also evoke the very appearance of the original speaker. Something more is drawn out of R. Gidol's remark by commentator Korban HaEdah:

The most essential part of learning from a teacher lies in looking at the face, as it says, “Your eyes should be looking at your teacher.” (Yeshayahu 30, ad loc)

            The most essential part! We modern students are likely not to think about the faces of the sages at all. But consider how fundamental is the information conveyed by facial expression: how the teacher feels about the subject matter (is there something dangerous or reassuring about it, is it sensitive information, or ought we to have known it already?), as well as what is anticipated in the listener's response. The importance of the teacher's facial expression recurs in the Yerushalmi, as in the story from Beitsah (5:5) in which Ribi throws a party on Shabbat, only to hear R. Meir standing outside his house, scolding him for all the noise. When Ribi demands in response, “Who's throwing a chill over us, here in our own house?” R. Meir turns to flee. Ribi, who had evidently burst out of the house to chase him away, has a strange change of mood while contemplating R. Meir's rapidly disappearing back.

            About this incident, he would later say, “I only merited Torah because I saw R. Meir's back.” In (Bavli) Eruvin 13b, his regret seems keener: “And if only I had seen him from the front, I would be even sharper, as it is written (in Yeshayahu 30) “Your eyes should be watching your teacher.”

            We certainly need not imagine that Ribi's wish is based on some mystical association with the front half of the body. Rather, the vital context a facial expression conveys is immediately recognizable to anyone who has attempted delicate conversation by correspondence. Just how angry was R. Meir? The difference between passing crankiness and shocked rage makes all the difference in what R. Meir is communicating about transgressing Shabbat.

            But gaze in the transmission of teaching is not conceived in the Talmud as unidirectional. While the student is absorbed in studying the teacher's face, the teacher, too, is watching the student. For example, in Mishna Nidah 8:3, the glances of R. Akiva's students cause him to completely revise how he expresses an idea:

It happened that a certain woman came before R. Akiva. She said to him, “I saw a stain.” He said to her, “Perhaps you have an injury?” She said to him, “Yes, but it healed.” “Or could you scratch it to bring out the blood?” She said to him, “Yes,” and he ruled that she was tehorah. He saw his students looking at one another. He said to them, “Why should this seem problematic to you? After all, the sages did not speak of this matter [stains] to be stringent, but only to be lenient, as it says and a woman when she becomes a zavah, blood will flow on her flesh (vaYikra 16:19): [flowing blood,] and not a stain!”

            Such a personal, reciprocal influence on a text we often think of as immutable brings me to research on the oral traditions of indigenous peoples in North America. To travel such a cultural distance is necessary, since too much thinking about the Jewish oral tradition amounts to no more than textualist fantasy about what oral tradition must be like—for example, supposing that it is inherently more vulnerable to fraud or error, or that orality necessitates the tight control of information by a highly-trained, distant elite. There is little point debating about the theoretical merit of these conjectures, because scholarship on and by people living in communities with oral tradition shows that reality operates quite differently.[1] Learning from First Nations authors, we can not only correct our misconceptions, but become aware of issues textualists have no reason to think about, such as how ethical and religious norms might be absorbed differently in an oral society. On this point, Anishnaabe poet and scholar Kimberly M. Blaeser writes that the inevitable exchange between speaker and listener, even if the listener remains entirely silent, has the effect of forming important bonds between the people involved—both emotional and in terms of creating social norms that feel “natural” to everyone involved:

Indeed, we become the stories we tell, don't we? We become the people and places of our past because our identity is created, our perspective formed, of their telling. This communal identification comes about most fully when the oral involves an active exchange, when it incites response or a sense of response-ability in the listener.[2]

            Blaeser's insight gives us an unexpected tool for understanding the diversity in the sages' backgrounds. We might expect that in a memory-based culture, learners must begin when they are young children if they want a hope of becoming expert in their people's teaching. Elisha ben Abuya certainly seems to suggest as much in Pirkei Avot 4:20, although the analogy of an older mind to paper which has been smoothed and thinned by erasure, may be more complex than it appears at first glance. In any case, what we find in practice is that the sages include an unusually high number of talented adult learners, both converts and people raised in non-traditional households—as a small sample from among the most famous sages, for example, R. Akiva, R. Meir, and R. Eliezer. Many of Hazal were also haverim, members of a society interested in behaving according to laws of ritual purity and impurity, and it seems according to Tosefta Demai (second chapter) that haverim were usually made rather than born. It is possible that the face-to-face, subtly collaborative nature of Talmud in fact made assimilation and the solidification of a core group ethos a natural, almost self-propelled process. The affect of the teacher conveys information not just about the text, but about the value of the student and of the teacher-student exchange. The newcomer to an oral tradition is already a contributor and companion of their teachers and peers. A newcomer to a textual tradition can do, and usually does, the bulk of study in a solitary and invisible manner, and may never reach a point of literacy at which their own contributions are possible.

            So much for what living speakers can bring to a text; but what about cues for vocal inflection in the text itself? Or is it a hopeless task to recover something so fleeting as the physicality of a speaker who died more than a thousand years ago? It is less impossible than we think, because the Talmud has highly specialised vocabulary to cue the reader to a vanished speaker's intonation.

            Take, for example, this trio of talmudic phrases: Ileima, Iba’it Eima, Im nafshekha lomar. Each of them means “If you want, say...” but they are by no means used interchangeably. The first indicates that whatever will be said will be immediately shown to be untrue. The second is used more neutrally yet no less specifically to introduce the second of two possibilities. The third phrase introduces the second of two possibilities where the very existence of two possibilities is strange, in fact slightly suspect.

            From the perspective of clarity, there is no reason to make such delicate distinctions: Context makes all of these details obvious already, and in any case none of them really changes the substance of what is being said. However, like inverted question marks, each prompts a change in intonation which makes the ideas much easier to follow for a listener—and more human. This is true for much of the other technical language of the Talmud, such as the painstaking distinction made between words for questions which are critical and questions which are curious.

            Sometimes the Talmud's technical terms do not indicate tone, but reduce the cognitive load on people exchanging complex ideas orally. A reader does not need a standardized term such as Iteima (yet another variation of “if you say,” used to introduce a potential alternate author of a tradition), but such repetitive, reliable phrasing is invaluable for a listener who is being asked to hold on to many ideas at once. Here the Talmud is very like the Iliad and the Odyssey, texts that also crystallized from an oral tradition, which employ epithets and catch-phrases to ease the burden on both speaker and audience.

            When people think about Homer, they notice that the little pattern of catch-phrases also happens on a larger scale, in what are called type-scenes. One example would be the arming scene, where a hero puts on his armour prior to battle. In every arming scene, we can expect the same structure: The hero dresses himself in the same pieces of armour in the same order, the narrator lingers on descriptions of the shield, and we finish with the hero picking up his spear.

            The Talmud has its own parallel to these. One example would be where unnamed hakhamim debate with a single sage over whether a law can be deduced from another case, or if the situations cannot be compared, because their individual contexts are importantly unique (the technical term for this being dayo lavo min hadin lihyot kanidon). Nidah 4:6 and Baba Kama 2:5 are of this same type.[3] Another group can be formed from Mishnayot that do permutations of possible actions across different types of social space (Baba Kama 3:7, Baba Kama 5:5, Eruvin 10:5).[4] We might even classify chapters of Mishna in a similar way; for example, there is a kind of chapter where every or almost every Mishna begins with the very same word (Baba Kama 4, “An ox,” Nidah 3, “She miscarries”).

            A reader, even a very learned one, might have to hunt for these patterns, if they were noticed at all. A reciter cannot avoid taking notice; it is the difference between hiking through rocks and walking on a polished floor. Eleven Mishnayot in the middle of the sixth chapter of Nidah, patterned as “all XY but not all YX,” run together into a smooth and lasting speech/memory with only a few moments of focused work. This is powerful architecture to support a high mental burden, and it is important to recognize their function, rather than to try to draw too much localized meaning from the wording of a type—to treat the memory-buttress as if it were a Torah verse to be closely read. It is not meant for reading at all.

            So far we have looked at talmudic text that shows sedimentation of its original life as an oral tradition. But the Talmud also contains explicit descriptions of people engaged in learning. What was the normal process for a sage trying to absorb new material? From Taanit 7b–8a, we see that this is what the Amoraim would do: They would listen to the teaching, and then repeat it in private until it stuck. When they talk about repeating, they do not mean running silent mental laps through the Mishna, but using their full voices and bodies—Beruriah kicked a student in her Bet Midrash for “only” whispering, telling him, “When [the teaching] is set in your two hundred and forty-eight body parts, it will last; if not, it will not last” (Eruvin 53b).

            When students felt sure of themselves, they would return to their teachers and recite the teaching in front of them to be checked. While R. Adda bar Abbahu took 24 repetitions to feel confident, Reish Lakish took 40 (Taanit 8a). I attribute both this and the fact that Reish Lakish does a lot of thinking elsewhere about memorization to the fact that he began his studies later in life. In Taanit 8a, he gives further advice, emphasizing that regularly revisiting (that is, reciting) what one has been taught is the key to mastering it; in the Yerushalmi, he imagines the material he has learned warning him, “Leave me for one day, and I will leave you for two” (Berakhot 9:5).

            How remote all of this seems for the yeshiva student habituated to the rhythm of the morning seder, where the balance of one's gaze is fixed on the page. What does an awareness of this remoteness ask of us, and also say about us? Are we clinging to our tomes like overboard sailors with broken planks, shipwrecked from authentic understanding? One could answer: Was Ribi, when he mourned the impossibility of bringing back R. Meir in order to behold his face? Certainly not, but we see that he registered that absence as meaningful. A cultivated awareness of difference in learning practices can only sharpen our perception of the sages and their literature, as it gives us new and crucial questions to ask the text: What is the tone? How ought the voice to rise or fall? Is the effort of these words bent on drawing the picture for us more precisely, or are they in service of a labored act of speech and memory? We become aware, like R. Gidol, of a demand to picture everything in the most human and physical of terms. Far from alienation, this opens for us the possibility of deep correspondence with the departed other, whose voice now uses our vocal cords, tongue, teeth, even the cavities of our skull to sound. Nor must we fear, according to tradition, that this is hopelessly one-sided; as R. Yohanan said in the name of R. Shimon bar Yohai: “Every talmid hakham, when they say a teaching in his name in this world, his lips flutter in the grave” (Yebamoth 97a).

Festina Lente: Make Haste Slowly
The Changing Status of Orthodox Women in the Twenty-First Century

Festina Lente. This is the ancient Latin term that means "Make haste... slowly." The problem of where to put the emphasis, on "haste" or "slowly," well characterizes the divergence of views regarding the pace of change in women's roles in Orthodox Judaism, and the frequent sense of frustration, conflict, and misunderstanding, with some feeling that the pace is too fast, others too slow.

Let me begin with a disclaimer. I am not a halakhic expert on this or any subject. I have no intention here of offering a halakhic analysis, although halakha will be very much present throughout; one cannot talk about Orthodoxy, whether it pertains to women, men, or children, without referring to halakha, but I make absolutely no claim to authority or expertise in that realm. 
My mother, Nathalie Friedman, who passed away seven years ago, was far ahead of her time on the issue of women's empowerment. First, her professional achievements: She earned a Ph.D. in Sociology and had an active and successful academic career at a time when that was not the norm for women. Second, she jumped on the women's tefilla bandwagon as soon as it swung past her door, and she became a fabulous Torah reader. She was also very active in JOFA, the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance, and as a professional sociologist she conducted illuminating studies on women's roles in Judaism. I have prepared this article in her honor, and in her spirit I will offer a sociological perspective on women's roles in Jewish Orthodoxy.

By "Orthodoxy," I mean what is commonly known as Modern, or mainstream Orthodoxy. We all know that labels can be problematic, but I am deliberately avoiding the topic of women within ultra-right-wing Orthodoxy, where the issues are somewhat different, although that stream of course cannot be completely separated from what I call mainstream Orthodoxy, especially in Israel, where all personal status issues fall under the auspices of the Orthodox rabbinate, which in the last ten to twenty years has transformed into a right wing rabbinate. This transformation has had enormous ramifications on marriage, divorce, burial and conversion, all of which must take place within the parameters of Orthodox ritual as defined by the official rabbinate. I will discuss this further below.

Why is the role of women within Orthodoxy in the twenty-first century even worthy of discussion? The answer is clear and simple, and you must forgive me if I state it rather bluntly: Women do not have equal status with men in any significant sphere of Orthodox Jewish practice. In general society, the status of women has changed dramatically from Talmudic times, or the later period of the codification of halakha, to the present day. Consequently there is now an enormous and growing gap between the role of women in the professional, political, and social spheres of modern life and in Orthodox religious life. I don't think that point is open to dispute. In the words of Susanna Heschel, "Both the most traditional Jew and the most radical feminist would agree that rigid sex-role differentiation is embedded in Judaism. The tension arises from one's response to this reality in the context of modernity" (from the book, On Being a Jewish Feminist).

As a girl growing up in an Orthodox household, I was told that men had their role and women theirs. The women created the Jewish home by raising the children with Jewish values and creating the spiritual home environment that was critical to the life and survival of the Jewish people. When I was in fourth to sixth grades at Ramaz (a New York City Day School), all our classes were co-ed (which at that time was a radical innovation!), except once a week, when the girls had sewing while the boys learned trop, the cherished skill of reading from the Torah. (Although I must state that both prior to and after my time at Ramaz, both boys and girls learned Torah-reading together.) As nice as the traditional role of the Jewish woman sounds, things have changed, especially because of the feminist movement. Often you will hear young women say today, "I'm not a feminist-of course I believe in equal access to education, employment and professional opportunities, equal pay, etc., but I'm not a feminist." Well, sorry, but as much as many may dislike the word, the equality they profess, even take for granted, is the historical achievement of feminism. I understand that what many may object to is post-feminist ideology and radicalism, but this should not negate the basic equal opportunities that are the feminist movement's great achievement.

Sometimes it is difficult to know which traditions are inviolable, etched in stone, and which allow for some flexibility, especially when they were established in circumstances specific to a certain time and place that no longer exist or have become irrelevant. And it is that indefinable area of fluid tradition where much of the discussion takes place regarding the role of women in Orthodoxy. I first heard the concept, "where there is a rabbinic will, there is a halakhic way," close to thirty years ago at a lecture at Kehillath Jeshurun by Blu Greenberg, who is one of the pioneers in the Orthodox women's movement. Her topic was women and the halakha. Her book, On Women and Judaism: A View from Tradition, had just been published, and her observation hit me like a bolt of lightning. It was the first time that I heard about the potentially dynamic nature of halakha. I remember her words then, which were similar to the sentences I quote here from her book: "Halakha was intended to be preserved, and there is a healthy difference between preserving and freezing solid.

Preserving does not preclude bringing to the system human responses that will enhance and expand Torah values. Those who counter this claim with labels of Conservative and Reform are simply playing the name game, an easy way to avoid confronting the issues." 
Why have things become frozen solid? They weren't always so, at least if we are to accept the main argument of Haym Soloveichik's well-known article in Tradition ("Rupture and Reconstruction: The Transformation of Contemporary Orthodoxy," Summer 1994), namely that Jewish traditions and customs embedded in inherited practice have yielded to practice determined solely by written codes. Soloveitchik points out that the "dual tradition of the intellectual and the mimetic, law as taught and law as practiced, which stretched back for centuries," has broken down over the past 100-150 years as Arukh haShulhan and Mishna Berura have become the arbiters of correct halakhic practice. This helps explain how and why we find ourselves today in a somewhat frozen state.

In preparing this article I spoke with another Jewish woman pioneer, Alice Shalvi, who is an Israel Prize laureate for lifetime achievement and contribution to Israeli society in recognition of her wide-ranging work as principal of the Pelech religious experimental high school for girls, as university professor of English, as President of the Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies, and as one of the founders of Israel's women's movement. Alice Shalvi spoke with me about the exclusion of women within three central Jewish institutions: the Bet Midrash, the Bet Kenesset and the Bet Din. This seems a useful framework, and in this presentation we shall use it to examine some twenty-first-century issues, realities, and challenges. These three batim are not entirely separate; they overlap, integrate with and influence one another in numerous ways. And we will discuss these matters with implicit reference to the question implied in Festina Lente: Make haste... slowly. How quickly or slowly? We will see that the pace at which the exclusionary nature of each of these institutions is being modified is not at all the same, and different individuals feel more comfortable with the haste being slow, slower or as slow as possible, while others cannot abide the slow haste and decide to remove themselves entirely from Orthodoxy.

Of those three batim mentioned by Alice Shalvi, there seems to be consensus that the greatest progress for women has been made in the Bet Midrash, the study hall of Torah. My mother's greatest accomplishments were in her own education and in her educating other women. Alice Shalvi's greatest accomplishments have been in the same area-education. And this is all fitting and proper, for education and training of women is the essential beginning, the sine qua non, for progress in any other area.

The credit for starting women's Torah education in modern times probably goes to Sara Schenirer, who in 1918 founded the Beis Yaakov movement in Poland, with approval of the great rabbis of the time. This was a very important first step, but it was also very much a creation within the men's world. I cannot help but wonder how the rabbis who sanctioned Beis Yaacov nearly a century ago, or Sara Shenirer herself, would feel about the changes that have since come about in Jewish study for women, with the establishment of hundreds of women's learning centers, mainly in North America and Israel, and thousands of incredibly learned women studying in Batei Midrash.

We are inevitably reminded of the famous woman scholar from talmudic times, the daughter of Rav Hisda, who married first Rami bar Hama and then Rava (Ketubot 39b, 85a). Her father and then her husbands consulted her on various issues-and yet, we do not even know her name. By contrast, there are women scholars today who are absolute rock stars-Nehama Leibowitz z"l, Aviva Zorenberg, Bryna Levy, Chana Henkin, Malka Bina, Shani Taragin. I know that many readers of this article could each rattle off the names of women scholars with whom they or their children have studied and who have significantly influenced their lives. Yet it is remarkable to think that when I was at Ramaz, studying Torah and Talmud together with the boys back in the 1970s-and Ramaz started teaching Talmud to the girls and boys together in the 1950s-that was a radical, almost unparalleled phenomenon in the world of Orthodox Jewish education. I can't but feel incredibly proud of how brave my grandfather, Rabbi Joseph Lookstein, was in starting this. Actually, learning Talmud in a co-ed setting is still relatively unusual for an Orthodox school, but girls studying Talmud in any setting has entered the mainstream (although it is still prohibited in certain places). In Israel, education for Orthodox girls is actually a bit behind the times. Pelech was the big innovation in the 1970s, and for many years it stood alone. For the past decade, Dr. Beverly Gribetz's schools in Jerusalem have taught Talmud to girls, first Evelina and now Tehilla; and Pelech itself is now establishing a network of schools outside of Jeruslaem, in Yerucham, Rehovot and Zihron Yaakov. The success of Yeshiva Day Schools-elementary and high school-is what has led to the success and strength of the centers of higher learning at seminaries and other advanced learning centers.

But it's all so recent. It was only in 1976 that Rabbi Brovender started Bruria as, so far as I know, the first all-women's Bet Midrash. In 1972, the Pardes Bet Midrash opened and offered a curriculum for women and men studying together. In 1984, the Bruria program (which was initially just for English-speaking women) started its program for girls in their gap year between high school and college. This seminary is now Midreshet Lindenbaum, and offers a post-high school program for Israelis as well. This first Bet Midrash opened by a girls' seminary, with hevruta-style text-based study, had an enormous impact. Now there are dozens of such seminaries. They offer high quality advanced Jewish study for girls, with many including Talmud study. Aside from Midreshet Lindenbaum, there are Migdal Oz, Ein Hanatziv, Stern College, Drisha, Midreshet Moriah, Midreshet Harova, and more.

It is important to note that in Israel, the advances in women's education have taken place predominantly in an Ashkenazi context. That is part of the reason why new schools such as Kama-the Pelech-like school in Yerucham-are so important. Kama is training mainly Sephardi religious girls in a progressive religious education framework based on values of community leadership and educational excellence.

Let me digress for a moment to make a few observations on the issue of Israeli Jews of North African and Asian backgrounds. As I noted, liberal women's efforts in Israel have so far been a largely Ashkenazi phenomenon. The leading organization advancing women's status issues, Kolech, which works on issues ranging from education to tefilla to the agunah issue, has thus far been active mainly in the Ashkenazi community. The NGOs in Israel working to advance this issue are aware of this problem and are now making an effort to outreach to non-Ashkenazi women. Kolech, for example, is opening an office in Ashdod specifically for this purpose. Given space limitations, I cannot detail here all of the exciting outreach efforts now in place relating to women's education and status issues, but they include Rosh Hodesh groups, inter-generational study groups, Batai Midrash, and study forums established for example by the Herzog Center, Kolech, Mimizrach Shemesh-and many of these new grassroots efforts are led now by non-Ashkenazi women.

Returning to the Bet Midrash, the flourishing of women's learning at these marvelous institutions as well as Torah classes in many synagogues, have produced extraordinarily knowledgeable women. With this burgeoning scholarship, are the women hitting a glass ceiling? Perhaps in some settings; but the ceiling is getting higher and women are finding their way into the male-dominated system. A good example are the yoatsot halakha, women halakhic consultants, who graduate from Nishmat. The yoatsot halakha are women certified by a panel of Orthodox rabbis to be a resource for women with questions regarding taharat haMishpahah (the area of Jewish law relating to marriage, sexuality, and women's health). This role was devised to assist women who are more comfortable discussing very personal issues with another woman and where the woman consultant might have more knowledge, sympathy, and understanding of the particular questions at hand. The yoatsot devote two years (over 1,000 hours) to intensive study with rabbinic authorities in taharat haMishpahah. In addition, they receive training from experts in modern medicine and psychology, as well as in gynecology, infertility, women's health, family dynamics, and sexuality. Many rabbis now rely on the yoatsot to help them with the queries they receive, and a hotline for women has been opened.

This is an amazing advance. There are, however, Orthodox women (and men) activists who feel that the yoatsot halakha serve too much as "brokers" for the rabbis and lack adequate authority; still others feel that the yoatsot interpret halakhic issues too rigidly instead of trying to find flexibility within halakha. For example, women who have trouble getting pregnant because their natural monthly cycle does not match the strictures of the family purity laws are advised to take hormones in order to adapt their cycles to the strictures of the purity ritual, rather than, for instance, allowing these women exceptionally to go to the mikvah a few days earlier so that the mikvah night aligns with their ovulation, in fulfillment of a different mitzvah.

However that may be, the study of Talmud by women is an example of a halakhic way established via rabbinic will, despite the fact that there was not full consensus when it started-or even now. I was fascinated to learn that relatively recently, a two-year post-college kollel was established at Stern College for Women of Yeshiva University in New York. What was radical and peripheral is now mainstream. Yet despite the exquisite quality of Jewish women's scholarship, it is still women and men who teach women at these seminaries, but usually only men who teach men, other than in the most liberal or secular institutions, and certainly not at the "serious" yeshivas (with a few isolated exceptions).

We look to these accomplished women both as models for ourselves and for our children in the area of Jewish learning, once the exclusive reserve of men, and also to help us bring about much-needed change in the other two areas, the Bet Kenesset and the Bet Din.

Bet Kenesset
In my discussion with Alice Shalvi, she explained her move from Orthodox to Conservative Judaism 15 years ago, saying that she no longer felt a part of Orthodox Judaism:

I could not pray in an Orthodox synagogue, where I had the feeling that I was being pushed into some obscure corner, particularly on Simhat Torah, which became one of the saddest holidays in the Jewish calendar for me. Nor could I any longer countenance the Orthodox attitude toward agunot (deserted wives) and women whose husbands refuse to give them a get (Jewish divorce decree). Even today, despite all the welcome changes that have occurred in the Orthodox world, egalitarianism does not exist, not even in the most open-minded synagogues. There are too many prohibitions on women.

Alice Shalvi clearly recalls the moment that made her change her viewpoint. It was when, for the first time in her life, she was given an aliya to the Torah. That was in 1979, in a Conservative synagogue in the United States:

Suddenly, I was asked whether I would like to be given an aliya to the Torah. I was very excited. This was the first time I had ever seen an open Torah scroll close up, and, alongside the joy I was privileged to have bestowed upon me when I was given the aliya, I experienced an immense sadness over the fact that I had been forced to wait until age 53 before participating in an experience that is shared by every male Jew from age 13.

I remember when my grandmother, Gertrude Lookstein, had her first aliya at a women's tefila service-and I remember her tears. I could write a separate article just on her and Alice's experience. Things have definitely been moving forward. Simhat Torah is no longer a "sad" holiday for many women at many synagogues where they themselves can dance with the Torah and not just sit on the side as spectators. Women's tefila groups, which were so controversial just 30 years ago, are now common. Things that were once on the fringe are now generally accepted in many Orthodox synagogues.

Very few committed Orthodox women will want to follow Alice Shalvi's lead out of the Orthodox synagogue. And once she has left, her activist voice loses legitimacy within Orthodox circles. But we are finding alternatives to the rigid exclusion of women that led Professor Shalvi to leave. 
Last year, one of my sons, Micha, celebrated his bar mitzvah. I had the incredible experience of leading the Kabbalat Shabbat service for the first time in my life, in a format known as a partnership minyan (also known as "Shira Hadasha" praying, named after a synagogue in Jerusalem, among the innovators of this style of service). This alternative preserves the mehitsa but allows women to lead Kabbalat Shabbat and other parts of the service not defined as davar sheBikdusha, and to be called up to bless and read from the Torah in public.

The conceptual and halakhic foundation of Shira Hadasha is an article published in 2001 on the Edah website by Rabbi Mendel Shapiro, "Kriyat haTora by women: a halachic analysis." Rabbi Shapiro argues that the only tenable halakhic objection to women's aliyot is the reference in the Talmud that the practice violates kevod haTsibbur (dignity of the congregation), and there are thus certain circumstances in which it should be permitted. Significantly, Rabbi Shapiro stresses in his article that although it may be halakhically permitted, there is no live Orthodox tradition of women reading from the Torah, and that further it would be wrong to create dissension in communities and synagogues by challenging hallowed practices that are seen as the hallmark of Orthodox Judaism. Other articles on the subject have pointed out that involved, educated and knowledgeable women would not deliberately cause offense to kevod haTsibbur, especially the tsibbur of this day and age.

The partnership minyan is not an isolated phenomenon, but it is not quite yet a general trend; it is still a very grassroots kind of movement at this stage, but less and less an oddity, as it is embraced by more communities. On the JOFA website, I counted nineteen such synagogues world-wide. There are probably more by now, and I'm sure there are some that are not officially part of a network and didn't make it on to the website. While visiting a cousin in Binghamton, New York, in November 2008, I saw in her home the Broome County Federation newspaper and read of the opening of a new partnership minyan in Toronto. The article pointed out that the kehilla is new, and many of the participants maintain membership in their Orthodox shuls. In the spirit of Mendel Shapiro's thoughts, they did not try to implement the "partnership minyan" changes at their own synagogues. The idea was to start something new and not have to alter the traditions of an existing kehilla.
This point was brought home to me recently when I approached two leading North American rabbis and asked their opinions on the partnership minyan. One said that he recognizes the halakhic validity of such a minyan, but, he said, "I am not willing to be a trailblazer on this issue. We have a tradition and continuity at our synagogue, and I cannot upset it." The other rabbi had just attended a bar mitzvah at Darchei Noam, an Upper West Side group that has adopted the partnership minyan format. When I asked him how he felt about this minyan he said that he had not been inside for the praying since he is not yet persuaded of its halakhic validity, although he acknowledges that more than one opinion is possible. These are both prominent Orthodox rabbis who have divergent views on how the halakha can be understood, but recognize that there is room for debate and even, possibly, change. The end result for both of them is the same, which is to maintain the status quo in their own synagogues.

And that is fine, since continuity in customs and traditions is a legitimate value, quite important for any society. But even cohesive traditions are not above scrutiny, and ones that really don't seem in harmony with other emerging values should be reexamined. There are things that we continue in an unquestioning way (and for each of us these vary) while there are others that do require some scrutiny or reevaluation. One must try to balance respect for heritage and tradition with one's commitment to a sense of right. In the end, we want to pray where we feel comfortable, where our heart is-and sometimes people may compromise on ideology in order to feel a part of the tradition that was handed down to them.

Beyond the partnership minyan, the repercussions of women's vigorous study and scholarly achievement are being felt in Orthodox synagogues. In Shearith Israel on the Upper West Side, a synagogue that is immersed in the traditions of the Sephardi community in North America dating back to the seventeenth century, Lynne Kaye was recently engaged to head their religious school, do pastoral work, give classes and shiurim, and generally to be involved in everything outside the specific ritual areas to which access is barred by halakha. Her official title is Assistant Congregational Leader. Other Orthodox congregations are hiring women in official roles, such as madrikha ruhanit (spiritual counselor), congregational interns, the yoatsot halakha, and so forth. Precedents are rapidly being set. Dina Neiman is now the Rosh Kehilla, or congregational leader, at Kehillat Orech Eliezer on the Upper West Side. Sara Hurwitz, who studied for years with Rabbi Avi Weiss, has recently completed the rabbinical exams of Yeshivat Chovevei Torah; Mimi Feigelson, Haviva Ner David, and Evelyn Goodman-Thau have all received Orthodox ordination (but not in a formal recognized framework) and are all active, practicing teachers and spiritual guides. These women are trailblazers. The entire process of developing women's spiritual leadership in Modern Orthodox congregations is still in its early stages, but enlightened rabbis are recognizing the tremendous added value that the women bring to their professional roles in the congregation.

As I revise this article, in May 2009, there comes the announcement of a new four-year school to train Orthodox women clergy, Yeshivat Maharat (acronym for Leader in Jewish Law, Spiritual Matters, and Torah), established by Rabbi Avi Weiss. The graduates of this new program, according to its founders, will function as full members of the rabbinic clergy, fully capable of carrying out all educational and pastoral functions. This has been a controversial "giant step," and it is yet too early to ascertain how it will play out, with the many questions it evokes. The graduates will not be called "rabbi" but "Maharat." Rabbi Weiss stresses that these new women leaders will strictly observe halakhic limitations on women, with some issues still to be fully worked out. As David Silber, the dean of the Drisha Institute, was quoted in the Forward as saying, "What if she should be a rabbi in a big synagogue and she sat in the balcony. What would she do, slide down a fireman's pole to give the sermon?"

Although some people and communities are seeking ways to loosen halakhic strictures regarding women's leadership roles (both congregationally and ritually), there are strong forces reacting against it as well. This is the inevitable accompaniment to real change. The question is how conflicting forces will eventually resolve. On a recent trip to Syracuse to visit some friends, we went to the Orthodox synagogue that they belong to, which was until recently part of the Young Israel network of synagogues. The synagogue elected a woman president and then elected a second woman president. The Young Israel organization notified the congregation that  Young Israel policy does not allow a woman to serve as president of a Young Israel congregation. The congregation, by a large majority vote, then chose to leave the Young Israel network. Mind you, this is a synagogue which is in every respect quite Orthodox, and is not contemplating giving women aliyot or anything as radical as that.

I was shocked when they told me this story-but shortly after (during the Israeli pre-election period) I saw an article in the Jeruslaem Post about a debate among the rabbis in Israel regarding the halakhic validity of a woman prime minister, in anticipation of Tzipi Livni being elected in February. Rabbis have also discussed whether it is appropriate to have pictures of women candidates in public places. Interestingly, at least in the article, the rabbis did not mention the precedent of Golda Meir. This put the Syracuse Young Israel story somewhat into perspective, since it seemed to represent the same kind of emergent extremism that is zealously guarding what it sees as inviolable boundaries.

It is not surprising that women are beginning to take leadership roles in Orthodox congregations. This development is the direct result of the historically unprecedented number of so many well-educated, knowledgeable, spiritual, and committed women coming out of the new educational programs. The impact of these educated women is being felt in the last bayit remaining to be discussed, the traditionally exclusionary Bet Din, which is where we shall now turn our attention.

BET DIN
Within the Bet Din, rabbinical court, I would like to focus on what is perhaps in a sense the simplest and at the same time the most challenging issue today pertaining to Orthodox women, namely, problems relating to divorce and the difficulties in obtaining a get, the religious divorce decree. There are thousands of agunot (more accurately, mesuravot get), or "anchored women," in Israel and I suspect many hundreds if not thousands in North America and Europe. According to the official Rabbinic Bet Din in Israel, there are only 200 agunot in Israel. But that well illustrates the problem: The rabbis will only categorize a woman as an agunah if the woman has been handed a verdict from the Bet Din that states that there is an obligation for the husband to give the get. It is very rare to get such a written verdict.

The plight of the agunot is not going to be solved just by helping each individual agunah, as critical as emotional and practical support and guidance may be to each distressed woman. The only way the problem will be solved is by challenging and changing the Orthodox rabbinical orientation to the issue, that is, finding flexibility within halakha to eradicate the problem. I believe that, of Orthodox women's issues, this is the one that is the least controversial, there being a near consensus that change is needed. However, when I spoke to Blu Greenberg about this, she said that although the advances in the status of women, especially with regard to the agunah problem, make her feel optimistic, she still sees the glass as half-empty. The recent death of Rabbi Emmanuel Rackman highlighted this for many agunah activists.

In 1996, Rabbi Emanuel Rackman z"l established a rabbinic court in New York that freed women from being agunot by annulling their marriages on the basis of a mistaken transaction. Drawing on Rambam and other sources, Rabbi Rackman suggested marriage annulment to bypass the need for a get in many cases. I will not detail the full rationale behind his halakhic reasoning, but suffice it to say that most Orthodox rabbis in the United States have had a hard time accepting it, and do not regard such women as unmarried. They claim that even if such a woman considers herself single, she is still married, and if she has children from another man, they will be considered mamzerim (illegitimate) according to Jewish law. Nor do rabbinic courts in Israel consider these women single. Other rabbis have also tried to find innovative halakhic solutions, but thus far none has been adopted in any widespread fashion.

What other efforts are being made? There are preventive solutions, and solutions after the fact. So far as preventive solutions are concerned, there is extensive educational work around prenuptial agreements, which is indeed helping the problem. But there are anchored women who were married without a prenuptial agreement, before the practice became more widespread. And, there are others who, although informed of the practice, in the throes of romantic love and "happily ever after" fantasies cannot imagine that this is of any relevance to them. Organizations such as JOFA in North America and ICAR (the International Coalition for Agunah Rights) in Israel offer sample prenuptials and guidance for anyone who wants it. And many rabbis advise the couples in their pre-marriage guidance sessions, encouraging and sometimes even insisting on the prenuptial agreements-although not all rabbis are so responsible and enlightened as to do this as a matter of course.

Advocacy for agunot has been an integral part of JOFA's mission since the organization's founding. They address the issue through education of the Jewish community, grass-roots activism and advocacy efforts on behalf of agunot. Yet as difficult as the problem is in the North American Jewish community, it is that much more acute in Israel. This is where ICAR comes in. ICAR is a coalition of twenty-seven social welfare, women's rights, human rights, and social justice organizations, as well as academic centers, serving as an umbrella organization for groups with differing and varied religious approaches to the problem.

Moreover, thanks to various programs such as that developed by Midreshet Lindenbaum in Israel, under the auspices of Rabbi Riskin's Ohr Torah Stone, there are now toanot, women who serve as rabbinic court advocates. These women provide critical assistance to the agunot, helping them navigate through the intricacies of rabbinic law and the courts. The toanot are a wonderful example of how the newly educated generation of women are infiltrating the Bet Din. Yet the toanot, as critical a role as they often play, with many of them activists in the NGOs that are working to advocate for systemic change, are not in themselves enough to solve the underlying problem, which is the exclusive iron-fisted control which the extreme right-wing Orthodox rabbis have over the entire system.

In Israel, there is no option to get a divorce other than through the rabbinic courts. In the United States, by contrast, if the actual religious get is not as important to a woman or a couple, they can get a civil divorce. Clearly, this does not solve the problem for the Orthodox community, since a woman needs the get to move on; otherwise any children she would have would be mamzerim according to Jewish law. In Israel, even if a couple gets married in a civil ceremony abroad, they cannot divorce without the religious get issued through the state-recognized Orthodox rabbinate. Many couples do get married abroad-specifically because they do not want a traditional Orthodox ceremony (which is the only option there); others get married there simply because they have no other option. There is no civil marriage in Israel. Thus, for example, 350,000 new immigrants from the Former Soviet Union who were encouraged to come to Israel under the Law of Return but are of questionable Jewish identity, have to marry abroad. The destination of choice is Cyprus, and there are currently more Israelis than Cypriots who marry in Cyprus.

Divorce, marriage, and another hotly contested issue, conversion, have shaken people's willingness to tolerate quietly the Orthodox rabbinic hegemony over such vital aspects of their lives in Israel. There are now quite substantial steps being taken to establish an alternative rabbinic authority. NGOs such as Kolech, Mavoi Satum, Ne'emanei Torah vaAvodah and others are working together with rabbis in an effort to establish these alternative authorities and courts. It is expected that these alternative rabbinic authorities will be more responsive to the needs of individuals in Israel, and will allow for a more humane interpretation and enforcement of the halakha for all those who are committed to living their lives according to its precepts. This is the kind of structural change that can have profound consequences in many areas of the life of an individual. The structural solution has to involve rabbinic authorities, but thus far they have shown themselves to be unable or unwilling to make the changes needed.

ICAR lobbied to have a Modern Orthodox woman lawyer appointed to the committee that selects the dayanim (judges) for the religious courts responsible for the get process. This was a major accomplishment, since the selection of the dayanim is well known to be an extreme example of an old-boys' network, with appointments made on the basis of family relationships and favors instead of professional integrity and excellence. Sharon Shinhav, the lawyer to whom I am referring, has in fact been able to influence appointments, especially when the potential dayan has a "bad" agunah track record. Through her, activists have been able to gain a slight entry into the Bet Din world. Sharon Shinhav is backed up by the broad coalition of organizations who demonstrate at the courts and at the Rabbinate, and bring the issue to the attention of the public at large. They employ innovative public-relations strategies. Last year they held a fashion show in Tel Aviv, with Israel's leading designers creating special wedding dresses that symbolized the plight of the anchored woman, the highlight being a ten-foot tall chained wedding gown. This made the headlines. They created a postage stamp with artwork showing a chained wedding ring and arranged for screenings of the powerful film, Mekudeshet, directed by Anat Tzuria, that follows the heartbreaking stories of a number of agunot.

Mekudeshet, aside from telling the moving individual stories, powerfully brings to light the lack of sympathy of the dayanim within the courts, who sometimes don't show up to scheduled hearings for which women have been anxiously waiting, sometimes many months (or years), or who speak harshly to the women in order to compel them to cave in and give up all sorts of rights in exchange for the get. The message is: You are anchoring yourselves if you don't cooperate. Yet the ability of the husband to use extortionist methods for material gains has been restricted most recently in Israel, where on November 5, 2008 a new law was passed. This law was actually a revision of the Marital Property Law from 1974, which linked the division of marital property to the get and thus facilitated extortion in exchange for the get. The new law allows for a civil separation of property prior to a get, so that the property issue cannot be a factor in the get process. This law took years of work on the part of ICAR and its member NGOs as they employed a strategic advocacy campaign that used the legislative system in Israel to advance this bill, with the help of a number of key Knesset members, such as Menachem Ben Sasson, Rabbi Michael Melchior and Zevulun Orlev. This synergy among NGOs, government representatives, and the court system brought about needed change to the system and helped ease the process for many women.

Festina Lente. Are we making haste too hastily or too slowly?

There are numerous studies on the changing nature of the family in the twenty-first century-with later marriages, later child-rearing. Singlehood is a more socially accepted norm. How should this impact on the Jewish mitzvah of marriage? Mishnah Kiddushin delves into women's exemption from time-triggered positive commandments, mitzvot ‘aseh shehaZeman gerama. There are various theories about why women are not obligated to perform these positive commandments. Some of the theories center on the potential conflict to a crying baby, other household obligations and even a conflict with the husband's needs. But what if a woman's life does not have those potential conflicts? The Talmud reflects the norms of its time, as does later halakhic literature. The many limitations regarding the status of women in Orthodoxy directly relate to their lack of obligation for some of the mitzvot. Current social realities are so different from the norms of talmudic and medieval times, and this fact should be taken into account when exploring Orthodox women's status.

On the other hand, why do women even want all this added responsibility? Many women are very pleased with the status quo. It's comfortable. It's nice to sleep later on Shabbat and to not have the added burden of rushing to synagogue to make the minyan. It is no wonder that many women are quite satisfied with the status quo-why make life harder?

Many Orthodox men stay out of the limelight and avoid extensive public participation. If the rules of the game were different from the beginning, and women were more on a par with men, I have a hunch that in a natural way some would immerse themselves in ritual and others would take a more minimalist route, in the same way that men's ritual involvement varies from individual to individual. As much as I do believe in some real "hard wiring" differences between men and women, I doubt anyone in the twenty-first century, raised in a reasonably modern environment, would say that there is different genetic wiring for men and women's ability to participate in Jewish ritual, study, and congregational leadership.

In the United States, women did not vote until the 1920s. The suffragettes, whose origins were in the United Kingdom, were radicals in their day. Their demand for equal public participation was considered a break with tradition, condemned as representing unseemly values. Total rigidity and lack of deviation from traditions would stifle our society. There is a long list of things that we take for granted today that are the result of a small group of people's inability to accept the unjust status quo-minimum wage, civil rights, the freedom of Russian Jewry, and so forth. Of course I recognize that women's voting rights and women's rights in Judaism are not fully analogous: modifying public policies through legislation is not entirely comparable to working within halakha; but sometimes the underlying social mechanism is or can be the same.

I do not believe in anarchy, whether it be in politics or in religion. But this world would look very different if we did not sometimes examine things and say that it is time to make a change. I guess it is relatively clear where I stand on the Festina Lente continuum, I'm more on the side of Festina (making haste). I recognize that not everyone wants a fast pace, but I do think that it is important for each of us-men and women-to reflect on these issues. In the end, we believe that Judaism is a just and humane religion, and although it does not need to accommodate all the "isms" of the twenty-first century, some of the values purveyed by such "isms" are fundamentally important.
And I believe that my mother would be finding her balance. I have a feeling that she would continue to pray at Kehilath Jeshurun (which was the synagogue where she grew up and felt most at home-as I said earlier, we like to pray where our heart is). But I am also certain that she would be an active member in a partnership minyan. She would appreciate this step forward in the participation of women within an Orthodox setting, where some of the exclusionary walls are lifted, although she would recognize that it is not fully egalitarian. That would work for her-but she might look at her great granddaughters and hope that the twenty-first century would continue to open new doors to them for full participation in Jewish life.

The Worldview of Prophets and Utopians: A Study in Contrasts

By Miriam Krupka Berger

(Miriam Krupka Berger is Chair of the Tanakh Department of the Upper School of Ramaz. This article appears in issue 26 of Conversations, the journal of the Instsitute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.)

No, do the best you can to make the present production a success— don't spoil the entire play just because you happen to think of another one that you'd enjoy rather more.
                               —Thomas More, Utopia

In 1516, the British social philosopher Thomas More published his narrative Utopia, a work that would become central to the way in which humanity understood its ability to progress, to march toward perfectibility. The book compares social and economic conditions in Europe with those of an ideal society on an imaginary island located off the coast of the Americas. The title, Utopia, combines the Greek words ou ("no, not") and topos ("place”) to imply that the perfect conditions of this land were purely fictional and could never exist in reality. The current use of the word utopia as referring to “an ideal place or society” references More’s original meaning and includes the connotation of non-existence; a modern “utopia” is a place that reflects imaginable, but unattainable perfection—whether in political, social, cultural or economic terms.

Michael Weingrad, in a Spring 2010 essay in the Jewish Review of Books, explores why it is that, both historically and in contemporary times, Jewish authors do not engage in the writing of fantasy literature. He specifically questions why Jews do not utilize the genre to discuss questions of theology or to paint fantastical pictures that probe deeper social and religious questions:

Indeed, one wonders why, amidst all the initiatives to solve the crisis in Jewish    continuity, no one has yet proposed commissioning a Jewish fantasy series that might plumb the theological depths like Lewis or at least thrill Jewish preteens with tales of Potterish derring-do.[i]

The question is intriguing; there is no work of Jewish theology packaged in fictional fantasies like the tales of Lewis or Tolkien. However, the biblical canon does contain a wealth of “other-worldly” literature. Although they are not writers of fantasy literature, the prophets do describe the strangely utopian world of the Messianic Era.

Herein lie our questions: First, in what way is messianic prophecy similar to classic utopian writing, and in what way does it differ in its context and goals? Second, can biblical messianic literature be classified as an inspiration for, or early genre of, utopian literature? Finally, can our theological understanding of this specific messianic genre of nevuot, be enhanced through such an analysis?

To fully develop this comparison, we must begin with the following basic question: In addition to functioning as entertaining fairy tales, what did the envisioning and writing of utopias accomplish? Lyman Tower Sargent, renowned professor of utopian studies, notes that although utopias are multi-dimensional in form, all utopias represent some form of “social dreaming” that may or may not involve any active component.[ii] Sargent then acknowledges, however, that many “dreams” are accompanied minimally by thoughtful reasoning, and often, by the acting of the dreamer upon the dream.[iii] It was often the hope of certain “utopian socialists” that their fictional worlds would send a message to their society of what “perfection” looked like in the hope that their audience would progress toward that world by thinking about policies and ideas to improve the current reality. Regardless of whether the authors expected their readership to act upon these visions, utopias were commonly written as critiques of social or political ills in the writer’s environment. Edward Bellamy’s well-known Looking Backward is of a genre of utopias that speak of a world without money and with an idealized equal distribution of goods. It was Bellamy’s way of criticizing the growth of capitalism in the early nineteenth century.

In terms of this specific function, the prophet Isaiah really was the earliest utopian writer. As were many utopian works, many of Isaiah’s prophecies were written in war-torn and economically difficult periods.[iv] When he speaks of a world in which “nation shall not lift up sword against nation,”[v] or that all people will follow a unified path of religious and societal truth,[vi] he shapes the vision of this utopian world as a critique of the environment in which he finds himself. In Isaiah 2, the verses subsequent to the messianic elements quite clearly state this assumed critique; the people have abandoned God and worship power, wealth, and pride.[vii] The chapter then ends with a description of a world in which all humankind is humbled; idolatry is abandoned; and silver and gold become irrelevant in light of the truth (2:20).[viii] The straightforward social criticism in the subsequent verses clearly reveals Isaiah’s vision of the perfect world that he describes as a tool for the creation of a “beneficial reality.”[ix] Therefore, the biblical reader of messianic prophecy must remember that his work is less descriptive than it is prescriptive. And, in fact, was not one of the primary purposes of the biblical prophet to function as a critic of society? Why should the messianic prophecies be any different? By forecasting the future, the prophet hopes to create a more perfect tomorrow.

Interestingly, utopian literature itself came into being when humanity began to believe in the idea of progress and perfectibility. As societies moved from an “eat to live” mentality in which getting to the next day was all the future they could see, they began to think of bigger ideas like equality, economic equitability, and nationalism.[x] James Bury, in his well-known treatise The Idea of Progress points out that in most systems of ancient thought, time was regarded as “the enemy of humanity,” and change meant “corruption and disaster.” This was due to a “tendency characteristic of Greek philosophical thinkers to idealise the immutable as possessing a higher value than that which varies.” Because of this, any form of change, especially when it came to social speculation, was often viewed negatively.[xi] As society shifted to a more hopeful view of social change and revolution, utopian thinkers reflected social thought, and mimicked the prophets in describing how spans of time could possibly harbor positive future change.

This is something the prophets understood for a long time; that human relations could be improved over time, and that personal and national status or character were not predetermined or unchangeable constructs. Indeed, by describing the messianic world as “Aharit haYamim” or the “End of the Days,” Isaiah proposes and champions the idea that change can and must happen, even if it requires an extended period of time. Messianic prophecy functions with an eye toward the far future, a concept that first gained traction in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and that focused on the idea of existence and progress as more than just daily survival.[xii]

But if the reader of prophetic messianism allows the comparison to end there, we will have ignored what it is that makes these nevuot truly unique. Let’s start by focusing on three of the messianic constructs that Isaiah discusses: 1) theological clarity, 2) political unity, and 3) fulfillment of a national mission or destiny. Isaiah envisions a world in which all nations recognize a single religious truth (2:2–3); judgment of the poor is pure and uncorrupted (11:2–5); the world is at peace (2:4); and the Jewish nation is settled in Zion. To the prophet, these are all one construct—a result of the first factor on the list; once the world recognizes a single religious truth, the natural result of that truth will be social and political peace. This is the first key to understanding prophetic messianism in contrast to utopianism. While both views imagine that the world will one day be a peaceful and socially just place, messianism is based on a belief in a God who wants those things, and that belief is how those ideals will be achieved. In other words, the only way to stage a successful long-term social revolution is if we all serve a Higher Power external to humanity. If we don’t, like Orwell’s critique of socialist utopias in Animal Farm, one person or group of people in the construct, will inevitably succumb to the fatal flaw of power or pride. Prophetic messianism requires a belief in a Being outside of humanity who controls the world, without which cohesion of humankind is unattainable. Theological clarity is a necessary precursor to other ideals.

Secondly, regarding political unity, prophetic messianism revolves around the human figure of a political leader who is a descendant of the Davidic dynasty.[xiii] In fact, the very term messiah, meaning “savior” or “anointed one,” comes from the term used to describe the anointing of the kings of Israel. This is an important distinction from classic utopian writing. As one utopian literary analyst understood, “[Messianism] requires pulling everybody into the scheme of a leader. Whereas utopianism basically consists in co-opting people to build things together.”[xiv] For many utopian writers (especially those of socialist utopias), government was the evil that needed to be eradicated, and humanity could never be happy until all political authority and institutions disappeared. This is a fascinating contrast similar to the first point about a God-centered society. Isaiah insists that humanity must follow a central political leader in order to achieve order out of chaos. Of course, in order for this to actually function, the leader must be pure of heart and mind, and of great moral and spiritual strength, but prophetic messianism suggests that a social order without a central mortal power (in addition to the central Godly power) is doomed to fail.

Why is this so? It seems antithetical to the idea of the idealism of the messianic era as a period in which pride and the power hungry nature of humanity have been defeated. Isn’t the requirement of a king an invitation to corruption—especially considering the fact that the pitfalls of human pride, ego, and the corruption of power are major themes of prophetic literature?[xv] Perhaps, like the need for a belief in a divine power external to humanity, it is also necessary to have a human representation of that control. In the view of the prophets, it is probable that in any democratic community of human beings, a desire for individual power will destroy any group dynamic (again, think of Orwell’s critique). To be sure, the dangers of an authority figure are clearly espoused by the prophets as well,[xvi] yet they maintain belief that human beings require a firm model of corporeal leadership in order to attain social, political, and religious good. It is not the theocentric prophet who will rule during the messianic era, but the anthropocentric king, meant to implement political rule in an earthly domain.

In halakhic reality and history, we find this specifically in the ideology of the rabbinical figure. The model of top-down halakhic decision making is still quite central to the realization of religious perfectibility. Interestingly, both utopian works (in their quest to rid the world of government) and messianic works (in requiring central government to perfect the world) are positing a world in which human nature itself does not change, but simply finds greater success in its struggle to be good. For utopians, humankind has the ability to strive toward perfectibility and is essentially good; humankind has just been held back by corrupt authority figures. In the messianic world, humans will always struggle between good and evil but the “good option” will be clearer (at least according to Maimonides). Therefore, a central political system is always necessary to maintain order. In neither world does the actual essence of humanity change in a significant way.

This brings us to our third point—that prophetic messianism is unique in its focus on a national history and fulfillment of a destiny. Prophetic messianism can never be understood as merely a social revolution in the way that some utopian works can be read. One important reason for this is its emphasis on the return to a national homeland; messianism is bound to an important historical and religious geographic location. Indeed, the messianic vision is dependent on the return to the land. While utopias, by their very definition (“no place”) are aterritorial, preferring to remain social commentaries on human characteristics, motivations, and realities, prophetic messianism ties itself to a specific historical location. In addition, many aspects of prophetic messianism rely on a vision of the past in the construction of the future.[xvii] Most utopian works are set in the future because they are about where we are going rather than how we got to where we are. Prophetic messianism prefers to tie our future “utopia” to remembrances and constructs of the past; a historically significant land, a dynastic king, a rebuilt Temple, a promise fulfilled and a national mission finally come to fruition. Why is that? Perhaps messianic vision is connected to a historical reality and memory because the prophets understood that a mission must rely on a greater narrative and history in order for the dream to feel tangible, powerful, and achievable. The biblical idea of “zikharon” or shared, collective memory, is the guidepost that will drive how a community works together to achieve the desired future. In contrast, utopias are sometimes criticized for being anti-nationalist in that they “laugh at the collapse of the Western world” and its heritage.[xviii] Thomas More himself probes at this theme in Utopia when he mocks those who fall back on the argument of tradition in order to justify weak character:

Failing all else, their last resort will be: “This was good enough for our ancestors, and     who are we to question their wisdom?” Then they'll settle back in their chairs, with an air of having said the last word on the subject—as if it would be a major disaster for anyone to be caught being wiser than his ancestors!

Unlike the historical dependency of prophetic messianism, More focuses on a break from the past as an element of building Utopia by placing it on an island that the founder of Utopia has cut off from the rest of humankind. His world can only work if it is removed from the rest of humanity.

Sargent suggests that “all utopias are fictions of a particular type.”[xix] However, by focusing on a historical reality and on an actual land, we are reminded that prophetic utopia is an actual place that exists and therefore is one that we can visit, settle, and develop. And like the concrete, material nature of a geographical reality, the social reality should feel tangible and achievable as well.[xx] Because of these elements, messianic literature does not have the same “fictive” texture that is characteristic of utopian literature.

This concretizing of the messianic universe can also be characterized as the difference between “horizontal concerns” and “vertical concerns.”[xxi] Horizontal concerns are those concerns that relate to the world around us, that occur within history and time, whereas vertical concerns relate to a world with a focus outside of our tangible reach, like the Jewish tradition of the World to Come[xxii] or Christianity’s Kingdom of Heaven. Prophetic messianism as it is presented in the text of Isaiah is a horizontal concern. It does not involve heavenly beings or non-corporeal entities; rather, it includes a king, a land, and a political vision. The context of Isaiah’s work also argues that messianism should be an attitude of doing, rather than an attitude of waiting.[xxiii] He shaped these visions during a period in which the Southern community of Judea watched as their Northern brothers disappeared into Assyrian exile. True, his messianism may have functioned as a form of comfort to the Judean survivors, but Isaiah is also warning his audience that if they don’t seek the messianic world through productive change, they will follow the same path to destruction.[xxiv] Utopian authors, on the other hand, though they criticize a society’s ills, describe an imaginary state and are often criticized for “simply describing the society without indicating how that society was or could be achieved.”[xxv]

What about the idea of catastrophic or apocalyptic messianism, then? If the messianic ideal is a horizontal concern, obtained through a tangible human focus on progress and perfectibility, then what of the tradition that the Messiah will arrive only after, or via, a great apocalyptic event such as a violent war or globally destructive incident? Does our tradition not also contain the belief that redemption will come via a powerful external agent and apocalyptic event representing the mighty hand of God? This tradition is harder to find in the prophecies of Isaiah but seems to be more clearly present in those of Daniel and Ezekiel.[xxvi] Perhaps this is why medieval thinkers made the case that apocalyptic messianism is but one choice, and that of a last resort; that God will intervene to pull humanity into utopia, but only if humanity can find absolutely no path by which to get there themselves. Indeed, it is not an ideal redemption. We see this in the understanding of the messianic prophecy: “The least of you will become a thousand, the smallest a mighty nation. I am the LORD; in its time I will do this swiftly” (Isaiah 60:22). How does one understand the timing of the messianic arrival? Will it occur “in its time,” in the right moment when it is appropriately achieved, or will it transpire “swiftly”? Perhaps the two can be reconciled, but Rashi points out that “in its time” refers to a situation in which the Jewish nation is not worthy of redemption. At that point, if we are unsuccessful in shaping a world that reflects the messianic ideals, then we will see it come about apocalyptically. However, if we are worthy of it, if we take the first steps down the road ourselves, then God promises to “accelerate” the end so that we’ll float over the finish line by His hand. He will ensure that any elements that stand in our way disappear, but the work will have been done by humanity. The outcome based on exertion and worthiness is the preferred mode of messianic redemption. In addition, it is important to keep in mind while reading the more apocalyptic sounding prophecies of Daniel, that all of them are couched in the language of political conflict and dominion, and interpreting them demands a broad knowledge of history and the rise and fall of nations. Likewise, the millenarian calculations that Daniel discusses utilize prophetic imagery and numerology but are clothed in the language of political narratives. For example, Nebuchadnezzar’s dreams in Daniel Chapters 2, 7, and 11 can all be understood as prophetic language channeled through the prism of the rise and fall of nations.

Finally, it is worthwhile to note that the messianic era is not a “happily ever after.” Maimonides notes that human beings will still function with free will and may choose to use it in a harmful way. However, this will be tempered by additional elements of clarity in seeking and understanding truth so that it will be easier to use that free will in a productive way. Maimonides adds that the messianic world will make it easier for humanity to attain the World to Come, but does not ensure it. The utopian genre, for many critics, is also one that is not an all-encompassing panacea. Sargent argues that perfection is actually not a characteristic of the utopian fiction; even in More’s Utopia, life is not perfect. Utopias are more about how they represent humanity’s evolution in community relations than they are about ultimate bliss. They need not necessarily be perfect, just “more perfect” than the current world.

One final note: Prophetic messianism, and the historical messianic movements it inspired, has seen its fair share of suspicion and criticism. Messianism has justifiably been accused of spinning fantasies in the imaginations of desperate audiences and of offering a passive mode of optimism, idealism, and empty hope in place of constructive advice and guidance. In a strong critique of Isaac Abravanel’s messianic commentary on the book of Daniel, Benzion Netanyahu epitomizes this criticism when he claims that messianism involves being

…rich in speculative fantasy. When [the men of the Middle Ages] considered the Bible, they gave their imagination the freest possible rein, and they used the ancient references, not to reconstruct the historical past, but to build their theoretical castles in the air. . . . messianic doctrine reflects the tragedy of the Jewish messianic movements…the tragedy of a people who built castles in the air, who breathed the atmosphere of dreams, rather than reality.[xxvii]                          

It is has been observed of the utopian construct as well that it is at best a fictional enterprise, and at worst, “a subversive avoidance of humanity’s current conditions and needs.”[xxviii] Literary analysts point out that while utopias might be tools for social change, they also tend to gloss over current realities; “ideology” can be both constructive and a “wholly negative concept.”[xxix]

While there is justifiable basis to both of these claims, I would venture to suggest that when it comes to prophetic messianism, the fantastical surface of the messianic words were always accompanied by realistic social criticism. The prophets never lost themselves in wistful dreaming, but accompanied it with hard advice that structured their offer of utopian future. In their words, we should see not just a “reconstruction of the historical past” in the thrill of a projected future, and not even just the theology of faith in human progress, but a form of national calling and expectation. It is a philosophy that should force us to acknowledge that perhaps, at the end of the day (pun intended), utopianism can be seen as an interesting example of a secular, modern expression of prophetic messianism, meant to challenge our assumptions, shape our philosophies and interactions and gently push us toward social and religious honesty and perfectibility. The navi proclaims the divine summons, and it is up to each of us, both individually and as a community, to seek out where and how we will answer his call.

The Fall of Kings in Tanakh and Shakespeare

by

Ronald S. Tauber

(Ronald Tauber is a graduate of Brooklyn College and Harvard Law School and has been a partner of a New York law firm and an investment bank. He lives in Manhattan with his wife, Adele. He is the author of The Little Book of Jewish Celebrations. This article appears in issue 26 of Conversations, the journal of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.)

"For God's sake let us sit upon the ground

And tell sad stories of the death of kings!

How some have been deposed, some slain in war,

Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed."

—Richard II, III: ii

            It is a story of the anointed King who showed early bravery and leadership, who created enemies out of friends and relatives, who died a violent death, and whose dynasty was supplanted. It is a story of the well-loved successor forced into exile who returned to become King and who then faced battle with traditional enemies and civil war. It is a story of the son of the successor who achieved glory greater than his father but whose own son saw the dynasty ruptured. It is a story of a curse that foretold generations of civil war and rebellion. This cinematic, exciting story of violence begetting violence is the history of both the early Israelite Kingdom and the late Plantagenet Kings in Medieval England.

             In fourteenth-century England, Richard II becomes King at a very young age and displays courage from the outset. Richard creates an enemy out of his cousin, Henry Bolingbroke and banishes him. Bolingbroke returns, takes the crown, and Richard dies a violent death. Bolingbroke becomes Henry IV and faces endless rebellion. His son Henry V achieves glory in a famous battle, but upon his death, the kingdom descends into the bloody civil war known as the War of Roses.

            In the biblical books of Samuel and Kings, Saul is anointed King of Israel, fights bravely, turns against his protégé and son-in-law, David, forcing him into exile. The prophet Samuel announces God’s repudiation of Saul’s kingship, and Saul dies in battle, succeeded by David. David becomes King, unifies the nation, but battles with enemies and in civil war against his own son. David dies and is succeed by his son, Solomon who achieves peace and great glory by building the Temple in Jerusalem. Following Solomon's death, the Kingdom is riven into the Kingdoms of Judah and Israel, never to be reunited under a Davidic monarchy.

            The story of these two monarchies is rooted in the conflict between the king’s public obligations and his personal wishes and relationships. While war and peace are interwoven throughout both narratives, familial conflicts are more devastating than those with traditional enemies. In both monarchies, personal actions, far from scenes of battle, shatter peace and usher in generations of dynastic struggle.

            The Bible is sparing in historical detail but presents Saul, David, Solomon, and other biblical figures as flesh-and-blood personalities with virtues and vices. There are ample historical records relating to Kings Richard II, Henry IV, and Henry V, but their reigns were dramatically re-imagined by Shakespeare in the eponymous plays which have become the principal, if not always precisely accurate, record of their reigns. [Except as noted with respect to events occurring prior to the action in the play, this article compares the characters discussed based on the written record in the Bible and Shakespeare.]

            Shakespeare made no overt reference to the Kingdom of Israel in his History Tetralogy (Richard II, Henry IV, parts 1 and 2, and Henry V) but there are too many parallels to ignore. The similarities have been noted and cataloged, usually within the context of Shakespeare and the Bible in general. At least one scholar has focused specifically on Shakespeare and the David story (Evett, David: Types of King David in Shakespeare’s Lancastrian Tetralogy in Shakespeare Studies; 1981 Vol. 14, p. 139), but he was interested in finding strands of David’s personality in a host of Shakespearean characters rather than in comparing the two histories.

            As has sometimes happened in English history, Richard II was not meant to be King, at least not when he acceded to the throne. His grandfather, Edward III famously had too many sons, causing much grief in succeeding generations as rival claims to the throne fought it out. Edward’s oldest son (also Edward), known as the Black Prince, died before the old King. On Edward III’s death, his grandson, the Black Prince’s son, succeeded to the crown as Richard II. He was 10 years old.

            Twenty-five centuries earlier, Saul, apparently a common herdsman, was searching for lost donkeys when he encountered the prophet Samuel, who anointed him King of Israel. Saul’s qualifications seem to be his good looks and great height. Prior to Saul, ancient Israel had no King and was ruled by a succession of Judges, who were usually military leaders and guided by prophets. Samuel was distrustful of monarchy and only reluctantly complied with the people’s wishes for a King, but not before warning them of the burden the King would place upon the people.

            Saul and Richard each demonstrated exceptional skill and bravery in their early careers. Richard’s early act of bravery is not found in Shakespeare; it took place when Richard was only 14, well before the action in Shakespeare’s play unfolds. In 1381, years of tension between peasants and landowners brewed into the “Peasants’ Revolt.” Within a month, the rebels, having murdered several of the King’s chief ministers, were just outside the city of London demanding the abolition of serfdom. In two separate confrontations, the 14-year-old King, whose forces were greatly outnumbered, stood his ground and disbanded the rebels (Saul, Nigel, Richard II, p. 62 ff, Yale University Press. London and New Haven 1997). As another historian put it, “There was little doubt among the King’s men that they owed their lives to his courage and presence of mind” (Norwich, John J. Shakespeare's Kings p. 65 Scribner,  New York, 1999).

            Chapter 11 of I Samuel recounts the fear of the Israelites under the domination of the Ammonites. The tribes of Israel were not yet fully united, and Saul’s kingship was not universally accepted. Saul, newly anointed, musters a great army through a symbolic act of brutality (cutting up a pair of oxen and sending pieces to the 12 tribes) and soundly defeats the enemy. Saul demonstrated great political wisdom as well as military skill by forbidding reprisals against those Israelites who challenged his kingship. This early victory unified the tribes and firmly established Saul’s rule.

            While these early triumphs brought praise to both Kings, instability and self-inflicted turmoil soon followed. As Richard II reached manhood he became increasingly arrogant and antagonistic to the nobility. He engendered conflict with his own family and particularly, his uncles the Dukes of Gloucester and Lancaster. He appropriated estates from some nobles and gave them to his court favorites. Richard’s enemies brought him to heel with trials at the so-called “Merciless Parliament,” resulting in the condemnation of certain of Richard’s favorites. Richard subsequently proceeded to exact a measure of revenge, which sets the stage for Shakespeare’s play focusing on the intra-family feud.

            John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, Richard’s uncle and father of Henry Bolingbroke (soon to be Henry IV) was the richest and most powerful man (after the King) in England. He established Richard’s kingship by accepting Richard as King while still a boy rather than challenging him for the crown. With his rule seemingly secure, Richard instigated a feud with Lancaster’s son, Henry Bolingbroke. Henry and another noble, the Duke of Norfolk asserted mutual accusations of treason against one another and agreed to single combat before King Richard to settle the matter. Rather than allow the combat to go forward, Richard exiled Norfolk for life and Henry Bolingbroke for a term of years. King Richard was afraid of what might result from the success of one knight or the other because the incident giving rise to the mutual charges related to the death of the Duke of Gloucester, Richard’s uncle, a death undoubtedly desired (and probably ordered) by King Richard. Henry accepted his exile but when his father, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster died, Richard confiscated his properties and divided them among his own sycophantic followers. Richard thus sent the devastating message to the nobility that in this King’s realm, the laws of inheritance do not apply, only the King’s will. Rather than solidify his reign with allies, Richard created a powerful enemy (with allies) who was shortly destined to replace him. John J. Norwich states, “There could no longer be any doubt that the King’s mental balance was seriously disturbed” (p. 116).

            Just as Richard succumbed to jealousy and perhaps madness, Saul also created an enemy of a would-be ally and initiated the sequence of events which inexorably led to his downfall, death and replacement. David is introduced to the Saul narrative as the successor-King when Saul disobeys God’s command (conveyed by the prophet Samuel) on the conduct of the war against Israel’s enemies. There are, in fact, three introductions of David: the warrior-lad who slays Goliath; the musician who soothes King Saul; and the youngest son of Jesse improbably anointed by Samuel as the next King of Israel. David had defeated the Philistine giant, Goliath, and inspired the Israelite warriors to further victories. He became an important part of Saul’s Court and was given Saul's daughter in marriage. Yet Saul could not abide the song of the Israelite women after battle: “Saul has killed his thousands, but David his tens of thousands” (I Samuel 18:7).

            Whether it was mental illness or legitimate distress that his dynasty was ending before it truly began, Saul determined to eliminate his young rival. Saul made several attempts to kill David, and Saul’s enmity split his family. In describing one such attempt, the Bible asserts that Saul suffered from a form of madness: “An evil spirit from God descended on Saul and he raved within the house” (I Samuel 18:10). Saul’s son, Jonathan, and his daughter, Michal, both loved David, and in separate incidents saved him from their father’s wrath. Finally, David fled from Saul and sought refuge with Israel’s mortal enemy, the Philistines. Without the support of David, Saul was unable to defeat the Philistines; he and the crown prince, Jonathan, perished in battle, paving the path for David to assume the kingship.

            When Richard and Saul ultimately die, their successors have similar reactions to the news—not of relief, but of guilt and sorrow. Richard died in isolation at the hand of an assassin who thought he was following Henry’s wishes. In Shakespeare, Richard’s murderer, Exton, brings the news to King Henry who disowns the intent to have Richard killed, banishes Exton and vows a penitential pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Saul died in battle with the Philistines, which the Israelites lost in the absence of their hero, David. An Amalekite brings news to David of Saul’s death. The Amalekite says he found Saul gravely wounded and, in response to Saul’s explicit request, administered a merciful death blow. David immediately orders the death of the Amalekite for “destroying the anointed of the Lord.” David delivers a poetic elegy over Saul and Jonathan, "O how the mighty have fallen." He laments them as "lovely and pleasant...swifter than eagles, mightier than lions." This dirge is testament of remorse for a beloved enemy that repeatedly tried to kill the poet (II Samuel 1).

            Although Henry IV and David disrupted the dynastic order, each was intent to create his own dynasty and determined to pass the kingship on by inheritance. Arguably, the most important achievement of each King was to provide an heir who solidified the dynastic rule and who had achievements that rivaled or outshone those of the father. Henry IV’s successor, Henry V, after a wild and reckless youth (chronicled in Shakespeare’s two Henry IV plays) achieved a near miraculous victory over the French at Agincourt, married the daughter of the French King, and brought the promise that his heirs would rule France as well as England. Although his infant son did succeed him (as Henry VI), the victories of Henry V proved short-lived and were followed by the civil war known as the War of Roses. David’s son, Solomon, built the Temple in Jerusalem and expanded the Israelite Kingdom. On Solomon’s death, however, that kingdom split into the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah, never again to be united.

            The Plantagenet and Israelite Kingdoms thus share an unusual historical path: a legitimate King is deposed; a new King not in the natural line of succession is enthroned and establishes a new inherited dynastic order; the new King is followed by his son who achieves glory in his own right; the second-generation King, however, is unable to pass on a stable kingdom to his son and the realm is plagued by civil war and turmoil that lasts many generations

            Part of the enduring fascination with the histories of Henry and David is the manner in which they were made to live their lives before and during their rule. They were each forced into exile before assuming the crown and were removed from the luxury of court to the bitterness of life with a national enemy. Once in power, they faced endless rebellion and war within their families. What Shakespeare wrote about Henry is equally true for David: “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown” (Henry IV, Part 2, III:i).

             Both Henry and David took refuge with the traditional enemies of their people, France in the case of Henry and Philistia in the case of David. Henry was sentenced to six years banishment when Richard interrupted the single combat between Henry and the Duke of Norfolk. Henry went off to France to begin his exile but broke the terms of his punishment and returned early upon the death of John of Gaunt, his father. Henry did not return alone; he had a substantial following in England and he came from France with armed followers. His return precipitated the fall of Richard and led to Henry’s coronation. David escaped several attempts on his life by King Saul and ultimately fled to Gath a Philistine city and became part of the royal guard of Achish, King of Gath. In exile, David amassed a large band of relatives and followers who formed the core of his support.

                David and Henry each had to fight off rebellions from those who were close to them after becoming King. Henry IV was made King with the support of the Percy family, especially the Earl of Northumberland. Years later, incensed over King Henry’s treatment of the family in the matter of some Scottish prisoners, the Percys and their Welsh and Scottish allies engage in open rebellion against Henry. King Henry and his sons battle the rebels and defeat them at Shrewsbury where the Prince of Wales (the future Henry V) first demonstrated his military prowess by killing Harry Hotspur, a far more experienced warrior. In Shakespeare’s account the rebellion is finally put down by the trick of a false promise of truce. King David seems to have had few moments of peace overcoming supporters of Saul and others and then having a fierce struggle with his son, Absalom. Absalom had proclaimed himself King while David was very much alive and mustered a huge force to seize the crown by force. Like Henry’s battle, this rebellion was also put down by a trick. Absalom appeared to have the upper hand but followed deliberately bad advice given by a double-agent loyal to David. Absalom’s end is well-known in art and literature: He swings between heaven and earth caught in a tree and is cut down by David’s general, Joab.

            [This parallel may appear somewhat strained since it compares David with Henry V, not Henry IV but the reigns of the two Henrys were contiguous and Shakespeare’s dramas present one continuous story.]

            Henry and David are each taken to task by a revered figure, and notwithstanding their absolute power, each accepts the criticism and grows in maturity. Henry had led a riotous life and consorted with vulgarians, including Falstaff and his company. In his early years, he was roundly criticized and brought to heel by the distinguished Chief Justice. Upon his father’s death, Henry V meets the Lord Chief Justice, who acknowledges that he fears that the new King does not like him. The jurist tells the new King that he was bound to respect the law in order to strengthen the old King’s legitimate rule. The new King tells the Chief Justice that he is right and that is he happy to “have a man so bold that dares do justice on my proper son.”

             David's fault was far greater. He lusts after Bathsheba, sleeps with her, and when she announces her pregnancy, David causes the death of her husband. The prophet Nathan makes the sin clear to David by presenting him a parable of the rich man who covets the poor man’s lone sheep. Nathan foretells the grievous punishments that will befall David. Rather than rage against Nathan, David acknowledges the sin and shortly thereafter suffers the first of many punishments involving the death of loved ones and the rebellion of sons (II Samuel 11).

            King David and Henry IV had forceful personalities that propelled them to kingship but they were also beloved by the common people, in contrast to their predecessors. Richard bitterly receives the report of Henry’s departure to banishment where a witness "observed his courtship of the common people, how he did seem to dive into their hearts with humble and familiar courtesy." Richard sarcastically notes, “what reverence [Henry] did throw away on slaves” (Richard II, I:iv).

            When King David brought the Ark of the Lord (carrying the Tablets of the Law) to Jerusalem he danced and leapt to the delight of the crowd. He was harshly and bitterly criticized by his wife, Michal, King Saul’s daughter for vulgar behavior “uncovering himself in front of his retainers’ servant girls.” David retorted at once: “I danced before the Lord who chose me over your father and all his family and appointed me to rule over the Lord’s people.” David added that he may continue to dance in that vulgar fashion and would receive still more honor from the servant girls (I Samuel 6).

            King David and Henry V were both beloved figures and great leaders but each had a dark side and engaged in ghastly massacres. Henry V was a great military leader who directed his vastly outnumbered forces to a celebrated victory over the French at Agincourt. When Henry heard that some French soldiers had killed the English youth guarding the luggage, he ordered retaliation by having all the French prisoners killed rather than being taken to captivity. David had escaped Saul’s persecution by gaining refuge with the Philistine King Achish. David and his followers acted as a Philistine auxiliary army and Achish thought David was raiding Israelite towns for booty. In fact, David stayed away from his native country and confined his raids to non-Philistine and also non-Israelite towns. In order to eliminate the possibility of witnesses, after the raids, David’s band killed every one in the raided villages, including women and children (I Samuel 27).
            Richard and King Saul are tragic figures and not just because of their violent and untimely deaths. They each had fatal flaws that inexorably led from great success and universal acceptance to failure, deposition, and death. They each had internal demons that drove them to ruinous jealousy and self-destructive acts. Richard enraged the nobility by confiscating property and promoting court lackeys. When Henry Bolingbroke returned from exile to claim his father’s entitlements and ultimately the throne, Richard was bereft of friends and was no match for Henry. David did not seek to replace Saul but when the prophet Samuel announced that God had repudiated Saul’s kingship, Saul’s paranoid hostility towards David made David’s succession virtually inevitable.

            David and Henry (both IV and V) were far from perfect. They were effective but sometimes brutal leaders. They did not always lead exemplary moral lives. Henry IV was racked with guilt over Richard’s displacement and the young Henry V lived a riotous youth leaving a trail of mischief and causing grief to his father. King David lusted after Bathsheba and caused the death of her husband. Nevertheless, Henry (particularly Henry V) and David are not seen as tragic figures but as beloved heroes with some flaws. This contrast between the King and his successor is not simply the result of the victor being the hero in history. It results, rather, from something sad, tragic and inevitable in the fall of Richard and Saul and from the strength of will and magnetic personalities of Henry and King David.

            At the end of their lives, Henry IV and David each had a death-bed scene with his successor replete with Machiavellian advice. Solomon was enthroned as King with David’s blessing while David was still alive. David’s parting advice to Solomon was to put to death certain of David’s enemies whom David had seemingly forgiven in his lifetime. David’s final act, perhaps protective of his son’s throne, is one of bloody vengeance. In a final scene of reconciliation between Henry IV and his son who is about to become King Henry V, the old King advises his son to consolidate his rule by instigating a foreign war.

            David and Henry IV were great leaders but their lives were complicated by power and abuse of power. Each heard that his actions would bring retribution in later life and in future generations.

            The Bishop of Carlisle rebukes Henry IV at the time of his coronation for his usurpation and prophesizes:

The blood of English shall manure the ground,

And future ages groan for this foul act;

Peace shall go to sleep with Turks and infidels,

And in this seat of peace, tumultuous wars

Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound. (Richard II, IV:i)

            In similar terms, the Prophet Nathan rebukes King David with God’s judgment after the sin with Bathsheba: “Now therefore, the sword shall never depart from thy house…I will raise up evil against thee out of thine own house” (II Samuel 12:10–11).

            Both these prophecies came to pass. The War of Roses saw the destruction of a generation of Plantagenet Kings and Princes and peace was restored only with the new Tudor Dynasty. David’s children rose up against him and were killed and his son Solomon’s kingdom was racked with division and war for hundreds of years.

            Conflicts within families or with allies are often more devastating than those with traditional or natural enemies. Richard’s kingship was made secure by his family’s acceptance of his rule as a young boy. There were family members who also had valid claims to the Crown but Richard was selected and protected by powerful uncles. Logically, Richard should have made an ally of his first cousin, Henry Bolingbroke, and used him to solidify his reign. Instead, Richard sent Henry into exile setting into motion the almost clockwork-like events that led to his ruin.

            Logically, Saul should have loved David, who was his key military asset as well as his son-in-law. Instead, Saul repeatedly tried to kill David, who fled and was absent from the ruinous battle that destroyed Saul and ended his dynasty. Logically, Absalom should have loved and honored his father, David. Instead, he fomented rebellion and forfeited not only his future rule but his life. While the Tanakh lays the blame for Saul’s deposition to his disobedience and implies that Absalom’s rebellion was partial punishment for David’s sin with Bathsheba, family and personal dynamics surely played their roles in these destructive acts.

            In each case, illogical jealousy by the King (Saul and Richard), who was more powerful and stronger, towards the subject (David and Henry), who was an underling and weaker brought about personal downfall. Ultimately, as the prophet Nathan and the Bishop of Carlisle each foresaw, these episodes of personal enmity were to shatter peace for generations.

            We are accustomed to think that nations go to war for great national causes. Tanakh and Shakespeare teach us that peace is sometimes disrupted by individual actions and less than noble causes. Personal jealousy, prejudice, and unwarranted hatred have all led to war, and not just in ancient times. Students of World War I can identify the political and economic background of the conflict but none doubt the impact of the family relationships between the cousins, the Kaiser, the Czar, and the King of England. The blessing of peace must not be taken for granted and rulers (even democratic ones) must take care to promote policies and establish personal relationships that promote and nurture peace. Otherwise, “peace may go to sleep” and “the sword may never depart from the house.”

Although he actively denied the label of existentialism, the great existentialist writer and thinker Albert Camus had a great deal to teach us about the human condition. At just 44, two years before his untimely and tragic death, Camus was cited by the Nobel committee for his work to:

“illuminate the problem of the human conscience in our time... a champion of imaginative literature as a vehicle of philosophical insight and moral truth.”

He remains the second-youngest Nobel Laureate for Literature. The French-Algerian author of unique classics like “The Plague” and “The Stranger” was obsessed with the question of why we are here, and the absurd predicament of humanity in a world of suffering and apparent meaninglessness.

Camus was not content to relegate himself to just writing. He was a dedicated lifelong activist, throwing his energies to movements he felt were doing their best to achieve equality and justice, first as a revolutionary against French Colonialism in Algeria, then as a Marxist, then as an Anarchist. Camus was a man of principle, resigning from his human rights work at some opaque group called UNESCO (perhaps you have heard of them of late), when the United Nations accepted the Dictator General Franco with open arms. There is even scholarly speculation that Camus covertly participated in the rescue and hiding of Jewish children in Chambon, France organized by the righteous Pastor, André Trocmé, in 1942.

Even when world opinion, especially in so-called polite European society began to turn against Israel in the wake of the ‘57 Suez crisis, Camus wrote publicly to affirm his support for the Jewish state, earning him the ire of his intellectual peers.

So then, at the height of his career, with many of his works beginning to gain wide interest and acceptance, Camus won the Nobel, and fell into a deep depression. Parenthetically, and most timely, Camus’ erstwhile friend Jean-Paul Sartre famously rejected the great prize, and scorned Camus for not doing the same.

Shortly after learning of the honor, Camus wrote to his mother - “Maman, I miss you now more than ever.” For him, the great recognition that the award signaled also triggered a sense that his career was somehow over, and the resulting feeling of the triviality of it all left a void which he tried to fill with activities like yoga.

In what may be the most famous words of his great literary career, Camus posed the following in the opening lines of his “Myth of Sisyphus:”

To decide whether life is worth living is to answer the fundamental question of philosophy. Everything else … is child’s play; we must first of all answer the question.

I think about Camus and this question during Sukkot, especially on Shabbat Hol Hamoed - when I recall another famous writer, one who I think also would have rejected the designation “existentialist.” Traditionally, Ashkenazim reserve today for the reading of Megillat Kohelet, the last of King Solomon’s three books of wisdom.

Our Sages relate in Midrash Shir ha-Shirim Rabbah that the evolution of each of these books can be traced to different times in the life of “the wisest of all men”. Shir ha-Shirim, Song of Songs, with its odes to love, passion, and desire represents the enthusiasm and potential of King Solomon’s younger years. Mishlei, Proverbs, is a product of middle age, an attempt to gather the wisdom of his experiences as King of the unified Jewish people, adorned with the glory of the Temple in Jerusalem. Finally, Kohelet,  Ecclesiastes, with its anguished cries of “Hevel Havalim haKol Havel” - “all is vanity” - is the work of the quill of a King reflecting upon his life with the realization that he is firmly in the twilight of it, in the valley of the shadow of death.

This King, blessed with transcendent wisdom, declares:  I have tried to make sense of it all, and yet it remains beyond me; as Camus might say: Absurdity of Absurdities, what’s the point of it all.

I feel comfortable comparing Camus, an avowed atheist, with the great King Solomon in this regard because of just how problematic Kohelet was for Hazal. Several sources, notably the Mishna in Yadayim (4:2), record debate amongst our Sages if this Megillah should even be considered part of the holy canon.

The martyr Rabbi Aryeh Zvi Frommer, known as the Kozhaglover Rav, crystallizes the rabbinic ambivalence toward King Solomon’s final work with the following question:

“All of Sefer Kohelet is mavhil, denigrating, of this world and every human activity in it, and yet our Torah wrote at the very outset that God looked at this world after creation and declared: - behold, it is good. How can this be?”

In fact, due to a comment made by the Rashbam and some other commentators, there is a sense that the last verses of Kohelet represent an “addition” by Hazal to make the previous twelve chapters ‘Kosher.’ After all is said and done, “Fear” - more accurately, be in awe of God, and keep his commandments because that’s all we’ve got.

We can sharpen the question further. The Torah singles out Sukkot, of all holidays, three times for a special exhortation to be joyful. This holiday even merits the formulation that we should be especially happy (Akh Sameah) and rejoice. So why must we read this existential, dark, and somewhat depressing Megillah at this time, harshing all of the joy of this holiday in a way even the most persistent rain cannot?

To attempt an answer, I want to turn back to Camus, and a reading of him by a special rabbi whom I quote often, Rav Shimon Gershon Rosenberg. Reading the classic “The Plague,” Rav Shagar (as Rav Rosenberg is known) sees a parable of our many devices against the inevitable which waits for us all, and the ways in which some people might react - some violently, some heretically, railing against and trying desperately to break all rules and systems, denying authority as meaningless and impotent.

Rav Shagar says this is the Shadow, the Tzel, that hangs over all life. He affirms, with respect and sympathy, those who choose to live in that Tzel, denying life, happiness, and joy because after all they are walking in the valley of the shadow of death. What good is it all - Hevel Havalim? So let us eat, drink, and be merry. Let us amuse ourselves to death and consume the time we have left, as the sand drains from the top of the hourglass.

Even King Solomon gives credence to this notion in one of Kohelet’s most egregious passages in the eyes of Chazal: There’s nothing better for a person than to eat, drink, and take pride in their material achievements. How could such a seemingly hedonistic statement be included in Tanakh?

While we could discuss these themes at great length, I want to finish with the profound and moving response of Rav Shagar, a man who himself lived life in a personal shadow of death. He was the only survivor of a blasted Israeli tank during the Yom Kippur war, dragged out of the burning wreck with only the most tenuous grip on life, as his friends perished behind him in that terrible battle.

An artist's’ portrait of the Rabbi that graces the cover of one of his posthumous derashot depicts a man deep in study, almost entombed in dark shadows. It is from this well of suffering and pain that Rav Shagar’s response arises.

He writes that there is another, parallel shadow in life, in the words of the Zohar called the shadow of Emunah. With Emunah, faith, we can sanctify and elevate the shadow of death by realizing that “Lo Ira Ra Ki Atah Imadi” - we do not fear, because Hashem is with us. True, it is still a shadow, but in this instance it inspires not dread, but awe and radical amazement.

To be sure, we eat, drink, and make merry on this festival of joy, but it is in the shadow of the Sukkah, a structure flimsy and transient, but built to Halakhic specifications unchanged by thousands of years of the worst that humanity has offered to our eternal people. We remember in the Sukkah the protection of God’s divine glory and the actual Sukkot the nascent Israelite people built in the desert as a wandering slave nation, yet to see the fruits of their Sisyphean labors and sufferings in Egypt.

We dwell in the shade of the sukkah - Halakha requires there be shade and shadows within it, but we look up and recognize that is not the shadow of doubt, meaninglessness, and vanity, but rather the comforting embrace of God’s Sukkah of Peace, signifying the tranquility and inner peace of  the faithful believer.

In the Sukkah and on Sukkot - even as our Hadasim and Aravot dry out, our etrogim lose their luster and pitoms, even as our s’khakh is knocked down by wind and rain, and the colors in our children’s beautiful decorations begin to run, we may reflect on how we seek refuge in the wings of faith as they envelop us with certainty, purpose, and mission.

Praiseworthy are those who dwell in God’s presence, in the Shadows of Faith, fulfilling Mitzvot, doing acts of kindness, coming together in solidarity. Much of our High Holy Day liturgy begins with the affirmative answer uv’khen - “YES”, we answer to Camus’ question. Yes, in spite of it all, it is absolutely worth it to be here, to be alive and infused with the sense of purpose that the gift of Emunah grants us.

For many of us this all requires a leap, which ultimately is what Camus himself advocated in the face of the absurd, the only thing that allowed him to forge ahead into a life of action. We forge ahead into a life of Mitzvot and closeness with God.

Uv’khen –Yes-- this response allows us to say it is indeed good, and we can rejoice. Yes, despite all the difficult and vexing existential questions of faith and life raised by Kohelet, the absolutely integral answer and the final word for all of us here today was and always remains: “The end of the matter, all having been heard: fear God and keep His commandments; for this is the essence of human life.”

The Psalm associated with Shemini Hag Atsereth/Simhath Torah seems to be a strange choice. It is Psalm 12, a Psalm that Martin Buber has described as a prophecy “against the generation of the lie.” The Psalmist cries out: “Help, O Lord, for the pious cease to be…They speak falsehood each with his neighbor, with flattering lip, with a double heart they speak.” The generation is led by oppressors who say “our tongue will make us mighty,” who arrogantly crush the downtrodden.

Buber comments: “They speak with a double heart, literally ‘with heart and heart’…The duplicity is not just between heart and mouth, but actually between heart and heart. In order that the lie may bear the stamp of truth, the liars as it were manufacture a special heart, an apparatus which functions with the greatest appearance of naturalness, from which lies well up to the ‘smooth lips’ like spontaneous utterances of experience and insight.” (“Good and Evil,” New York, 1953, p. 10)

The Psalmist is not merely condemning his “generation of the lie,” but other future generations that also will be characterized by lying, bullying, oppressing; that will be led by smooth talking and corrupt demagogues. But the Psalmist turns prophet in proclaiming that God will arise and protect the victims of the liars. Truth will prevail. “It is You, O Lord, who will guard the poor, You will protect us forever from this generation.” And yet, the Psalm ends on a realistic note: “But the wicked will strut around when vileness is exalted among humankind.”

Although God will ultimately redeem the world from the “generation of the lie,” this will not happen right away. As long as people submit to the rule of the wicked, the wicked will stay in power. In the long run, God will make truth prevail over lies. In the short run, though, it is the responsibility of human beings to stand up against tyranny, lies, and arrogant smooth talking liars. If the wicked are not resisted, they will continue to strut around and feel invincible.

What does this Psalm have to do with Shemini Hag Atsereth/Simhath Torah, known in our tradition as Zeman Simhateinu, the time of our rejoicing? On a simplistic level, the Psalm might have been chosen because it opens with “Lamnatseah al ha-Sheminith,” to the Chief Musician on the Eighth (the “eighth” being a musical instruction). Since it mentions eight, it is thus connected with Shemini Hag Atsereth, the eighth day closing festival.

It would seem, though, that our sages must have had something deeper in mind in choosing Psalm 12 to be associated with this festival. In the Amidah of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, we include prayers asking the Almighty to inspire awe in all His creations and to have humanity acknowledge Him as Ruler of the universe. We pray for a time when “iniquity shall close its mouth and all wickedness vanish as smoke when You will remove the rule of tyranny from the earth.” On Succoth, our ancestors offered 70 offerings in the Temple, symbolically praying for the well-being and harmony of all humanity (understood by the rabbis to be composed of 70 nations). Psalm 12 is an appropriate continuation of these themes, and is a fitting reminder at the end of the holiday season that we depend on God to bring truth and peace to humanity.

But Psalm 12 adds an important dimension. Although we certainly must pray to the Almighty for redemption, we also bear responsibility for the sad state of human affairs. Prayer alone isn’t enough to solve our problems. We need to muster the courage to stand up against lies and tyranny, to uproot “the generation of the lie.”

Throughout the world, we see examples of simple people rising up against harsh and powerful tyrants. They risk their lives, their livelihoods, their families—but they have reached the breaking point where they can no longer tolerate the unjust tyrannies under which they live. Many suffer and die in the process—but ultimately, it is hoped that the masses of good people will prevail over the dictators and demagogues. People in power rarely cede their power peacefully and gracefully. The entrenched powers will do whatever they need to do to maintain their control.

Fortunately, we live in free societies. Although we certainly have our share of imperfect rulers and leaders, we also have a system that allows for change and peaceful transition. The people can take control by voting, by peaceful protests, by peaceful strikes. Many people are not willing to stand up and be counted. They are happy to pray for God to bring peace and truth to the world. They are comfortable letting others take the risks of fighting the establishment’s power base. Psalm 12 comes at the end of the holiday season to remind us: yes, God will make truth and justice prevail; but in the meanwhile, evil will persist as long as we let it persist.

Unless we are willing to stand up against the tyrants and demagogues, they will continue to crush us. They will continue their lies and p.r. spins and political manipulations. The concluding lesson we should take from this holiday season is: building a true, just and moral community and society depends on us.

From Our Selves to God: How a Siddur With Photographs May Help Us Pray

by Michael Haruni

(Michael Haruni devised and translated the full Shabbat siddur, Nehalel beShabbat and Nehalel beChol (Nevarech Press, www.nehalel.com), in which photographs juxtaposed with prayers direct the user’s thoughts to their meanings. He has done doctoral research in Philosophy on the subject of pain, and his stage plays have explored the relation between faith and identity. Born in London, he lives in Jerusalem with his wife and children. This article appears in issue 26 of Conversations, the journal of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.)        

            It was a guiding idea in the creation of Siddur Nehalel that its distinctive format could assist the user in entering the mental state, or kavanah, halakhically required for praying. The principal innovation in the siddur is its juxtaposing, with the texts, photographs that purport to depict their respective meanings—so that, as one recites a given passage, the image directs one's thoughts to its meaning. But whether or not anything of this sort could succeed in enhancing the kavanah of the user depends on what we assume the kavanah of praying should be. I want therefore to say something here about how we are to understand this kavanah,[i] as well as about how the conception of Siddur Nehalel ties in with that understanding.

            I'll want especially to dwell on what I suspect has become a quite widespread misconception about how to achieve kavanah—a misconception that could be confusing many of us in our approach to prayer—and to say something about how some contemporary siddurim, Siddur Nehalel among them, variously relate to this misconception. In a nutshell, my concern is that many of us have fallen into the habit, as we pray, of acting out a kind of make-believe persona. This need not happen, though—we are capable instead of drawing the attitudes we express in prayer from our real selves, and of presenting to God the persons we really are.

*          *          *         

            Surely, it sometimes happens that we are overwhelmed by the sense of connecting with God through the medium of prayer in a powerful, self-consuming way. I stand before God, deeply agitated by my personal or national concerns; or I'm overcome with awe or love of God as I behold His creation of this wondrous world and of people close and far; or I'm filled with trepidation as I ponder God's engineering of the ongoing history that thrillingly and terrifyingly holds us in its grip. I then sense, as I address God, a genuine outpouring from my mental and spiritual state. I sense, too, that this registers in some measure upon the attention of God—and even that an intimacy of sorts has been created between myself and God.

            But we all also know what it's like to recite from a siddur in an absentminded manner, to feel we are, at best, minimally fulfilling an obligation. We wonder then what possible value there can be in this practice, yet continue adhering dutifully to our daily prayer routine.

            The two volumes of Siddur Nehalel that have now appeared are the product of a conviction that its format has a potential to bring our praying closer to that former kind. The meaning-relatedness of the photographs is crucial here. The images purport to be not merely decorative, but to depict in each case the meaning of some key phrase in the given passage. So, for instance, the aerial photograph of the Temple Mount is not there just because it's a pretty picture, but in order to prod the user into attending to the meaning of what he or she is saying, ...veHishtahavu leHar kodsho… ("...and bow in worship at His sacred mountain…").

            The feedback I get indicates that the format largely works. Not with everyone; some who've tried using Siddur Nehalel say the photographs distract them, instead of directing their thoughts to the meanings of the texts. The format is not any kind of panacea instantly curing our every kavanah issue. Nor do I suggest that this format absolves the user from mental exertion. It won't help to hold Nehalel passively in our hands; what the photographs give us, I hope, is an instrument we might actively use to assist us in praying with kavanah. Like any instrument we pick up, we must learn how to use it. So for one thing, Siddur Nehalel won't work if one treats it as a picture book, like a coffee table art catalogue showcasing the images. The photographs are not intended as the focus, but merely as the background to the texts; ideally they would work as unconscious prompts, directing our attention to certain meanings—much as the image sequence of a movie mostly acts as a visual backdrop, steering our attention through the narrative and cognitive content of the movie.

            Many people are now davening regularly from Siddur Nehalel. Something, it seems, is happening with their praying—and there are abundant testimonies that it's something good. But a subjective evaluation that one's praying is improved is not really evidence (to us as outside observers) that this really is a move in the right direction. Assuming some difference is made, does this bring the user closer in some way to what praying, philosophically and halakhically, should be? Or could it be misdirected, founded on some confused notion of what kavanah properly involves?

            So let's look now at what kavanah should consist of. What kind of state of mind is this? There are, as far as I can tell, two principal themes running through the traditional literature on this question. The explication of kavanah offered by the Talmud is expressed by the maxim, K'she'atem mitpalelim de'u lifney Mi atem om'dim ("When you pray, be aware of before Whom you stand").[ii] This idea recurs in the Rambam's Mishneh Torah where he writes, "What does kavanah consist of? One must empty one's heart of all [regular] thoughts and see oneself as if standing before the Presence of God."[iii] Rabbi J. B. Soloveitchik restates the matter as follows: "Prayer is basically an awareness of man finding himself in the presence of and addressing himself to his Maker, and to pray has one connotation only: to stand before God."[iv]The theme here is the requirement that we have an awareness, when we pray, of the presence of God.

            Interestingly, this alone does not tell us that we must have an awareness of the meaning-content of our words. As long as I'm aware of the presence of God before me, I'm fulfilling the talmudic requirement of kavanah. The words might themselves refer to, say, God's creation of the sources of light, yet as far as this requirement goes, I can be fully oblivious to this meaning; just as long as I'm aware, as I pray, of the presence of God, I am no more required to think of His creation of the sources of light, than about the colorful sweater someone over there is wearing or about what I'll eat for dinner.

            However, an additional stipulation emerges in Shulhan Arukh, where it states, haMitpalel tzarikh sheYekhaveyn beLibo perush haMilot sheMotzee biSfatav.[v]  While praying, Shulhan Arukh tells us, one must direct one's heart to the meanings of the words that one's mouth produces. This additional requirement saves us from the seemingly absurd possibility from which the talmudic admonition alone does not protect us. An awareness of the meanings of the words is crucially important after all.

            It seems to me that as we aim when we pray, to meet these two challenges, photographs juxtaposed with our prayer texts can help us in two corresponding ways. I mentioned above how they might help us meet the second challenge. Photographs have the power to halt us as we recite the text, and to draw our attention to the meaning of some highlighted expression that is more or less central to the meaning of the passage—such as God's control of the elements (with an image of a storm cloud), or the reciprocal love relation with God we're party to as we learn Torah (images of Jews learning Torah), or to the eternity of the universe God created (star clouds receding into billions of light years), and so forth. In this way the photographs can make these thoughts vivid in our minds, thus bringing our prayer to life.

            Admittedly, not every thought carried by any given passage is covered in the siddur by a photograph. I aimed generally to place images representing, in each case, some fairly central thought, around which the rest of the passage is built. The hope was that by bringing a central idea to life, this same effect could then also, so to speak, percolate out to the more peripheral ideas of the passage, through the thematic relations between these different ideas. But I cannot say in honesty that I always succeeded in this; sometimes the image relates only to a more peripheral thought. Many passages, by their nature, fail to lend themselves to being so pivotally represented by an image of something concrete—or if they did, then it went beyond my imaginative powers to see how. Nor is every passage juxtaposed in Siddur Nehalel with a photograph. Most obviously, direct descriptions of God—such as Ata kadosh, "You are sacred"—are in principle not matchable with any photograph.

            But I believe that even this partial representation can have a more pervasive effect on our prayer. Intermittently halted in this way by meaning-related images, we potentially become alert to the fact that this is not merely a text. Familiarly, it's a characteristic of the over-habituated, thoughtless praying we all-too-often fall into, that the text becomes one-dimensional. We come to see it as no more than a text, as just a sequence of characters, or possibly also, when our mumbling at least corresponds faithfully to the text, as a sequence of phonemes. The world of meaning, to which the text should be our portal, largely vanishes. But our occasional awakening to that meaning-dimension, forced on us by the images, can also make us more continuously alert to it. The world beyond the text, of which the pictures every so often remind us, cannot so easily sink away again into oblivion.

            I also suggest that the juxtaposing of meaning-related photographs to prayer texts helps us meet that first, talmudic challenge of kavanah. We visualize, as we pray, the wondrous world God created, from the magnificent intricacy of any tiny creature, through a mountain glistening as if luminous within, to countless galaxies tending to a dynamic eternity; or the historical movement engineered by God from catastrophe to redemption; and thus we become more able to glimpse, if only by exerting ourselves, the presence of God behind all this. We are visualizing the very reality in which the workings of God are manifest—the veil covering God's almost palpable presence. I don't suggest there is any automatic evocation here of God's being right here, but the stimuli are prodding at us. We need only look a little harder, and God is within our reach.

*          *          *         

            It has concerned me that there could be a fundamental error in the idea of using photographs to prompt awareness of meaning. The error I have in mind is connected with what I believe has become a widespread misconception about the nature of kavanah. Indeed, this misconception seems to me to have nurtured a very common, but somewhat misguided, approach to praying. It has also affected many contemporary siddurim, showing, for one thing, in the style of the rubrics, or instructions—so if Siddur Nehalel is in error, it's not alone, although this is no comfort. The problem, very briefly, is that during prayer, however powerfully you may feel as if you've worked yourself up to, say, desiring that God establish peace on earth—if you don’t already have an ongoing desire that God establish peace on earth, then it's even conceptually impossible for you to deliberately conjure this desire. Let me now explain this more fully.

            Imagine a boy telling a girl he loves her. She hears him say, “I love you with all my heart,” and he sounds thoroughly truthful. Indeed something was going on in his heart and mind at the time that caused him to sound just perfect: He had, at those moments, some intense thoughts and feelings, convincingly like those of really loving her. But then it turns out that he was, for the limited duration of the encounter, contriving this mental state. He has a knack, this young man, of working up his state of consciousness to what feels convincingly like the real thing—much like a Stanislavskian method actor. He simply had deliberately put himself into that mental state during their meeting, and when the meeting ended, so did this conscious interlude of passion end.

            Does he really love her? Possibly yes; but not on the evidence of this incident alone. For to love her is for his person to be enduringly encompassed by a certain state, by a whole range of wishes and longings that have probably been with him for a while (the possible, though questionable, exception being if this is the onset of love at first site), and that, more certainly, stick with him the next day and the next week, possibly for years to come, and perhaps even for the rest of his life; such as a wish for this relatedness to her to continue mutually forever; perhaps a wish to build their lives together, to create a family with her, and so on.

            Yet it's consistent with the situation described above that the young man could go through most of the week feeling quite indifferently or even negatively toward her. So that even if he manages, say, once a week on Shabbat morning when he meets her by the shul, or even every morning for 10 minutes, and even another couple of times each evening for three minutes at a time, to deliberately conjure those same inner sensations that seem to him, at the time of being overwhelmed by them, to mean “I love you,” this is not enough. It is at best an acting out.

            And imagine how she would feel if she found out this show was merely his on-the-spot, method-acting performance—probably defrauded, and quite justifiably outraged!

            This is not to say that true love would entail his thinking of her consciously around the clock. But this is the thing: to love someone is not to be in a temporary state of consciousness; although some such state of consciousness will often tend to come about, and will be readily prompted by all kinds of triggers. (In the term favored in contemporary philosophy, love, like other emotions, desires, and beliefs, is a dispositional state.) It might mostly remain below the threshold of his awareness; although surely, love, especially when newly discovered (or, Rahmana litzlan, when unrequited), can also be an un-abating, consuming condition of our consciousness. But what is important—what is essential to its being love—is that the overall state is enduringly with him, always triggerably manifest, throughout his waking life.

Just as to love God truly is not a matter of periodically conjuring some or other glorious and sacred-seeming episodes of consciousness. It is, rather, to be enclosed by this all-encompassing condition that relates me to God at all times—though not necessarily constantly in consciousness. It must be the state of my person I take with me to work, bring home to my family, sit with as I eat and retire with at night, at every moment ready to evoke commensurate thoughts and feelings into consciousness following any of a variety of triggers.

            Nor, similarly, is having a belief about God—for instance, the belief that He is the Establisher of peace on Earth—just a matter of conjuring some episode of consciousness. It is not, for instance, some momentary thought about peace between nations. Think of what’s involved in my believing that Roosevelt was a great president. Would it be enough for me to force myself, at a certain moment in time, say, Tuesday at noon, into thinking positive thoughts about Roosevelt’s presidency? Surely not. If I have no such belief about Roosevelt at 11:00 am Tuesday, nor at 1:00 pm, then—unless I’ve meanwhile received new information, or thought through a reevaluation—I surely could not be said to hold any such belief at noon. My having this belief is an enduring state of my person, which comes and goes with new information and cogitation, but otherwise stays largely as it is. Equally, my believing something about God is not a conjured episodic event of consciousness, but an enduring state of my person.

            So, too, my truly wanting God to cure an acquaintance's disease is a feature of my psyche over a lasting period. To suppose this is really my wish, when all I experience is a feeling I turn on at just those moments when I choose to articulate what sounds like some such wish, would be founded on misconception. Let me even work myself into a two-minute, frenzied, trance-like passion, a thought that is a world unto itself: Amazing it may be, but my wish for God’s speedy cure it is not.

            Yet we tend to approach prayer with just this kind of misconception. It's my impression that the more or less standard and normative way of attempting to achieve kavanah, at least among Orthodox Jews and probably beyond, goes something like this: One comes upon the given passage, and induces within oneself a certain state of consciousness, which endures through the period of one's reciting this passage; and which seems to oneself (subjectively, or internally), for the period of its duration, like one's identification with the attitude expressed by the passage. Coming, for instance, upon the blessing, Hashiveynu Avinu… (asking God to draw us back into a fuller spiritual relation with Him), and wanting earnestly to pray hard with kavanah, we focus on the meanings of these words, and in this way evoke as strong a feeling as we can, lasting for the duration of our reciting this blessing, and seeming to us, from the inside, as if we are asking God to draw us back in so. We bring to the task whatever techniques work for us in achieving these inner feelings, such as initially pausing for thought, and perhaps rocking back and forth.[vi]  Indeed it seems so natural to resort to this; for isn't this how we make the expressed attitude come to life? And yet, if this episodic state of consciousness is not part of a genuine, enduring wish for God to draw us back into that spiritual relation, then it is no such wish at all.

            Symptomatic of this malaise are the prompts we find in the rubrics of many contemporary siddurim. We find, for instance, in one popular siddur, before Keriyat Shema: “Concentrate intensely upon accepting God’s absolute sovereignty.” And before the first paragraph: “Concentrate on accepting the commandment to love God.” Before the second: “Concentrate on accepting all the commandments and the concept of reward and punishment.” Then before the last pasuk: “Concentrate on fulfilling the commandment of remembering the Exodus from Egypt.”[vii]  (None of what I suggest here is to deny that these and other meanings are embedded in the text of Shema Yisrael. I am merely questioning whether the recommendation to momentarily concentrate on these meanings does them justice.) The assumption here is that what is required of us as we recite Shema Yisrael is just some such set of conscious episodes. It is to ignore the need all day and every day to believe in God’s absolute sovereignty, to love God, to accept the commandments and even to believe in reward and punishment—the need for these to be enduring conditions of our whole selves (which is not, I stress again, to be continuously and actively conscious of these truths and emotions). I could enter some heightened state in which I seem to myself to be thinking that divine reward is always justly meted out; but if this was preceded, and is then succeeded, by my manifesting a belief to the contrary, or by doubts generally dominating my thinking on the matter, or by my having no opinion on this issue, then clearly I do not really hold this belief, however much it may feel to me as if I do when I'm praying.

            The situation, I suggest, can be characterized as follows. We are forgetting that the beliefs, wishes and emotions we aim to express through our prayers, to be really ours, need to be ongoing states of our whole selves. They cannot be fabricated, short-lived episodes of consciousness, discontinuous with the psyche as a whole; as such they simply would not be attitudes we genuinely hold and express. Presenting ourselves to God as if we hold those attitudes, just on the basis of some such episodes, would be, frankly, fraudulent. For to be real, they must be consistent with the workaday beliefs, desires, and emotions that make up our mental lives; they must, in other words, be integrated with and emerge out of the psychic whole that constitutes the self. Yet failing to locate within ourselves those attitudes we articulate in prayer, we instead make do with just such detached, short-lived effigies of these attitudes.

            Have we been more able in the past to discover, ongoing within ourselves, the attitudes we ostensibly express when we pray? I cannot say. But I do suspect that certain features of contemporary life tilt us into this problematic approach.

            One is that our lives are clogged with a multiplicity of purposes, all making claims on our time and attention. Entering the fray, we resort to compartmentalizing—to rigidly sectioning our time into discrete channels, each with its distinct program of goals and means, corresponding wishes, and relevant information. We experience our lives more as a time-sharing bundle of roles—professional, parental, adult-filial, and so on—less as a unity. Each role has its own state of mind, partitioned against flowing into and interfering with the states of mind of the neighboring tracks; and the role of praying person, with its concomitant state of mind, is among these. We may therefore conjure some pertinent thoughts and sensations episodically into consciousness within the appropriate time slots, to speak not from our whole psyche but from within some discrete mental segments. Such, I surmise, is the manner in which we approach prayer.

            Another feature of contemporary life affecting us similarly is the role of science and technology. It has become difficult in this atmosphere to believe in the efficacy of praying. For in an age in which empirical testability and measurable effectiveness are the dominant requirements justifying everything we believe and do, we have precious little returns to show for our prayers. What sign do we have encouraging us to believe that by uttering Sim shalom, tovah u’vrakhah… we increase the chances that God will establish peace on earth? Or that by pleading, Refa’enu Hashem Elokenu, we induce Him to heal our sick?

            And this, when we are still reeling in bewilderment at how the Holocaust could have happened, or in particular at how, for an incomprehensibly long time—so it at least strongly appears to us—prayer did no good at all.

            There are gigantic questions raised here—the problem of evil, and the question of how willing God is to intervene at any given time—which cannot be treated here and on which, in any case, I am far from qualified to offer any new wisdom. The relevant point here is just that, in an age in which the ideology of science has come almost totally to premise our every thought, and in which we cannot but feel despondence over the impotence of our prayer, it has become particularly difficult to comprehend divine responsiveness to prayer in terms of any simplistic cause-effect relationship. We now need to look further in order to find reasons to pray. For the belief that, if I pray for peace, or for health, or for basic livelihood, then God grants me that good, is not a belief that we can, in our age, easily integrate into the general matrix of our everyday beliefs about life and the world. This becomes, at best, our quasi, holy hour belief, dislocated from the rest, and vestigially acted out during the performance of prayer.

            It may be charged, against the critique I'm suggesting here, that I'm flatly ignoring the admonition in the Shulhan Arukh cited above. We're clearly told there to direct our hearts to the meanings of our utterances. Does this not plainly mean that we must assume the attitudes expressed by the liturgy? I think not. For to read a text and attend to its meanings is not the same as to adopt the attitudes it expresses. If I read that human history is devoid of purposeful direction, then I can attend to the meaning of the text, think it through and evaluate it, without at any point holding that it's true.

            This is not to say that the veracity of the contents of the liturgy may legitimately be matters of indifference to us, or that we may remain aloof in the face of the yearnings it expresses. It is a central, inherent problem with our praying from a fixed liturgical text, that we come to articulate certain attitudes that we do not actually have. Indeed the method actor-like conjurings I've referred to here have become almost definitive of Orthodox prayer practice, probably in response to precisely this difficulty. But it won't solve the problem to pretend these conjurings turn us into people who really share the beliefs and yearnings we articulate; they simply don't help.

            So what do we do? I cannot pretend to offer a solution. But it is pertinent here that numerous thinkers have accounted for our praying from a fixed text as serving primarily to shape our personalities. In particular, the petitional agenda listed by the middle 13 blessings of the Shemoneh Esreh might express some yearnings we don't actually have; and certainly the purpose of our reciting them is not their fulfilment by God, which it would be frivolous of us to expect. According to this view, however, we personally evolve, throughout our lives, toward the fuller adopting of these yearnings. Through prayer, our attitudes and emotions, and thus our very selves, become increasingly identified with the larger, truer agenda expressed by the liturgy.[viii]  In this respect, the question of the truth of what we recite is paramount; not as what we must a priori believe, but as what we may dialectically evolve toward.

            Now, it is an empirical question how, as a matter of psychological fact, our attitudes are most likely to converge upon those expressed by the liturgy. Do we best indulge in the method actor approach, conjuring interludes of feeling internally as if we have those attitudes? Or would we succeed better if we attend clear-headedly to the meanings, evaluate them critically, bring relevant information to bear, and so forth? It seems to me that if the first approach does bring us closer to some enduring state of mind, this will not be one in which that inventory of attitudes has become really our own. Can we genuinely integrate those attitudes, in this way, into our existing mesh of thoughts and feelings? I can't help supposing that they would continue for us as make-believe, discontinuous, and alien add-ons. It seems to me that if anything gets us to the true goal—a real integration of thought—this will be some open, rational, lucid thinking about the issues involved. This is, I believe, a project in which we should be engaged anyway. But it is beyond the scope of this essay to come to any conclusion about this.

            I must now ask, though: Is the format of Siddur Nehalel not founded on the same confusion that, I've charged, inheres in the rubric style of some other contemporary siddurim? Nehalel does not explicitly, verbally demand that we concentrate on this or that truth (unless I slipped somewhere, unawares). But aren't the photographs expressing that same demand, no less than those rubrics, though through the language of imagery? Isn't the photograph of , for example, the Temple Mount simply there to tell us, "Concentrate on how God is returning to Zion"?

            I think not, for there is a fundamental difference here, between attending to some subject matter and adopting some belief or desire. Demanding of someone to come up with what they think about Roosevelt (Roosevelt as subject matter), is not the same as demanding that they believe that Roosevelt was a great president (to adopt a certain propositional attitude). The problem with those rubrics is that they instruct us to adopt certain attitudes. It is true that the examples I referred to are not explicitly phrased as demands that we come to believe that p, or that we make ourselves want that q, and so forth. But a demand for some such propositional attitude is implicit in each of them. I can't see how I might understand, for instance, “Concentrate intensely upon accepting God’s absolute sovereignty,” without taking this as requiring, firstly, that I accept (that is, come to believe) that God has absolute sovereignty, and only then that I concentrate on my acceptance of this proposition.

            In contrast, a photograph represents at the most a topic, such as the Temple Mount, or storm clouds, or illegal immigration of survivors from Europe to Mandate Palestine. Certainly no belief or desire is forced on us by the image. It cannot force us to believe that we are eternally attached to Jerusalem, or that God is preeminently powerful, or that God operates in history in a certain way. An image is, at most, a prompt, triggering our thoughts about some topic we find in it. The photograph, it can be said, poses a question, soliciting our thoughts on the meaning of these historical events. One is asked to freely submit the thoughts authentically emerging on this topic out of the multitude of attitudes and emotions meshing together in one's psyche. One may then bring to bear a cluster of relevant thoughts genuinely emerging from the totality of one's existing beliefs; and one may resultantly come to have the thought that (for example) God acts to redeem us from catastrophe; or possibly some quite different thought will emerge. What's important is that the thought elicited is something consistent with, and emerging spontaneously from, one's real self. It is not some fabricated, pretend-belief episode, procured to meet a demand for this specific attitude.[ix]

            In this respect, the photographs act much like the topic of a conversation. One's discussing with someone the merits of Roosevelt's presidency acts as a prompt, posing the question, what do you think of Roosevelt's presidency? One's answer to the question can thus genuinely emerge from the full body of intermeshed thoughts constituting one's psyche—truly representing the person one really is.

            In truth, the photographs in Siddur Nehalel are not the only topic-triggers we find in siddurim. Most contemporary siddurim have, especially in the Amidah, subject headers (for instance in Koren, "Patriarchs, Divine Might, Holiness, Knowledge..."), which one can use in this way. For that matter, occasional phrases in the body of the text itself might be used, in occasional reflective pauses, to the same effect. But one advantage of using photographs is the greater force of imagery. Photographs don't tell you what to think—nor do we want them to—but they tend to make you more vividly aware of their subject matter than verbal triggers.

            Another advantage, I believe, is that the photographs situate prayer in our own reality. It is for me literally startling to read, in Psalm 137 (Al naharot Bavel, preceding Grace After Meals on regular weekdays), "We hung our harps on sunken willows, for our captors there demanded song, our tormentors teased us in joy, saying, Sing to us from the music of Tziyon. But how could we sing the song of Hashem on that soil of estrangement?!" The accompanying photograph of the inmates' coerced orchestra at Auschwitz makes us aware, I hope, of how devastatingly contemporary these lines are, of how they could have been written during living memory. The same goes for those many images from the Holocaust, and then the establishment and thriving of the State of Israel, juxtaposed with the repeated descriptions, in the liturgy, of the recurring historical pattern they realize of catastrophe and redemption.

            A liturgical text can be experienced very differently when read alongside the photographic documentation of a contemporary situation it describes. For we have a tendency to think of our liturgy—bequeathed to us from an earlier epoch—as other-worldly, as describing that earlier epoch, and recited now merely as a commemoration of that epoch, not about our world, not about our lives. The photograph counters this tendency, enables us instead to read the text as being about the here and now, about contemporary life, and about ourselves. We are thus encouraged to bring to bear the real attitudes and feelings we have toward the world we know. When, for instance, we see a breathtaking mountainous valley as we recite, Lekha Hashem haGedulah… ("This immensity and this power and this splendor and this permanence and this majesty are Yours, Hashem…"), this text, which we mindlessly drum out every time we take the Sefer Torah from of the ark, is suddenly seen to say something spectacular about God's creation of the world we inhabit.

            If Siddur Nehalel can wake a few of us up to the fact that our liturgy speaks to God from our own lives, then dayenu.

Most of our religious observances are indoors--in our homes, in our synagogues.We generally do not like to create a public spectacle of our religious experiences, but we behave modestly and try not to call attention to ourselves as we perform mitzvoth.

There are some exceptions to this. On Hanukkah, it is a particular mitzvah to publicize the miracle by placing our hanukkiyot where they can be seen by the passers-by. Succoth also has some aspects of taking our religious observances into the public square. The Talmud records the custom in ancient Jerusalem where people carried their lulavim into the street when they went to synagogue, when they visited the sick, and when they went to comfort mourners. Even today, many Jews carry their lulavim in public. When it comes to the succah itself, this structure is generally in view of the public: it's built on a patio, or yard, or courtyard etc. i.e. where Jews and non-Jews can see it

Although so much of our religious life is indoors--in the private domain of family and friends--we are sometimes obligated to make a public demonstration of our religious commitments. On Hanukkah, we want to remind the entire world that the Jews heroically defended themselves against the Syrian Hellenists and won independence for the Jewish people. We want everyone to know that, with God's help, we were victorious against powerful and far more numerous enemies.

On Succoth, we also want to convey a message to the general public. The lulav and etrog are symbolic of weapons; they indicate that we are proud of our faith and we are prepared to fight for the honor of our Torah and for our people. The succah is a symbolic statement that although we wandered in the wilderness for 40 years, God's providence protected us, and we ultimately entered the Promised Land. The public demonstration of these mitzvoth indicates our pride and commitment in who we are and what we represent. If we have respect for ourselves and our traditions, we can expect that the nations of the world will also come to respect Judaism.

Sometimes it is necessary for us to stand up in public on behalf of our faith and our people. When Jews betray their faith and their people in public, this undermines the entire Jewish enterprise. If Jewish storekeepers open their shops on Shabbat and holidays, why should non-Jews respect our Sabbath and holy days? If Jews ignore the laws of kashruth, why should non-Jews respect our dietary laws? If Jews don't live up to the high standards of Torah ethics, why should non-Jews admire the Jewish way of life? If Jewish political figures hold press conferences and public meetings on Jewish holy days, why should non-Jews show any deference to our holy days?

Succoth is an important reminder that being Jewish also entails a public stance, the courage to be who we are and stand for our traditions without embarrassment or apology. We need to remind ourselves and others that our holy days and traditions cannot be trampled upon and cast aside in a rubbish bin. If we do not stand up for ourselves, who will stand up for us? And if we do stand up for ourselves, we will be worthy heirs of a great people who have given so much--and have so much more to give--to our world.