Min haMuvhar

The following articles, spanning over 30 years, offer reflections on aspects of
the theme, “Bridges, Not Walls.” They relate to issues of intellectual openness;
interpersonal relationships; and human dignity.

Orthodoxy and Isolation

(This article was originally published in Moment Magazine,
September 1980)

Gershom Scholem has described a mystic as one who struggles
with all his might against a world with which he very much
wants to be at peace. The tense inner dialectic, I think, is true
not only of a mystic, but of every truly religious person.

A religious person devotes his life to ideals, values, and observances which generally are
at odds with the society in which he lives. He fights with all his power to
resist succumbing to the overwhelming non-religious forces around him.
Yet, he does not want to live his life as a struggle. He wants to be at peace.
He wants to be able to relax his guard, not always to feel under siege.

There are “religious” communities where the tensions of this dialectic
are suppressed successfully. Within a tightly knit Hassidic community or
in a “right-wing” Orthodox enclave, the positive forces of the community
strongly repel the external pressures of the non-religious world. It is easier
to create what Henry Feingold has called a “Pavlovian Jewish response”
within a vibrant and deeply committed religious colony. Religious observance
is the norm; children learn from the earliest age what they should
and should not do; outside influences are sealed out as much as possible.
In such communities, the individual need not feel the incredible loneli-
ness and pain of struggling by himself against society. His own society
reinforces him. His own community—as a community—is relatively selfsufficient
spiritually, and it is this entire community which withstands the
outside world.

But the Modern Orthodox Jew feels the intensity of the dialectic struggle
to the core of his existence. He is as Orthodox and as Jewishly committed
as the Hassidim or as the “right-wing” Orthodox. He does not feel
he is less religious because he does not have a beard, does not wear a black
hat. No. The Orthodox Jew who is a college graduate, an intellectual, a
professional, an open-minded person, can pray to God with a deep spirituality
and can dedicate his life to fulfilling the words of God as revealed
in the Torah.

Yet, because his eyes are open and because he is receptive to the intellectual
and social life of the society around him, the enlightened Orthodox
Jew finds it difficult to be at peace. He generally does not live in a community
which helps him shut off external influences. He does not have a large
reservoir of friends who share the depth of his religious commitment
while at the same time sharing his openness to literature, philosophy, or
science. He is at war with society, but wants to be at peace with society.
Really, he is alone.

In “The Castle,” Kafka describes the predicament of Mr. K, a land surveyor.
K comes to a place which is composed of two distinct entities: the
Castle and the Village. K spends a good deal of time trying to make his way
from the Village to the Castle but—in typical Kafkaesque style—he
becomes lost in labyrinthine confusion. At one point, someone tells K; You
are not of the Castle, you are not of the Village, you are nobody. K’s
predicament is especially meaningful to an enlightened Orthodox Jew. He
is neither a part of the Village nor the Castle. And often, he wonders if he,
too, is nobody.

This is not metaphysics, not philosophy; it is the pragmatic reality for
many thousands of devoted Jews in this country.

And in the most confusing situation of all we have the enlightened
Orthodox rabbi. Not only is he busy with his own personal struggles,
fighting his own wars, but he also is responsible for the struggles and battles
of his community. Sometimes, his congregation may not even realize
there is a war. Sometimes, he may appear to be a contemporary version of
Don Quixote. Sometimes, he is perceived as being too religious and idealistic,
and sometimes he is perceived as being crass, materialistic, secular-
ist. For some people he is not modern enough, while for others he is a traitor
to tradition.

Imagine for a moment the dilemma of an enlightened Orthodox rabbi.
He is religiously educated and committed. He is trained in the humanities
and the sciences. The Orthodox community on the “right,” which scorns
university education, looks upon this rabbi as a fake and imposter. The
non-Orthodox community looks upon him as a religious reactionary who
is trying to maintain ancient standards of kashruth, Shabbat, mikvah, and
so many other laws in a society where these commandments seem almost
meaningless. The right-wing Orthodox community condemns him for
associating with non-Orthodox rabbis and with non-Orthodox Jews. And
the non-Orthodox rabbis and non-Orthodox Jews may “respect” him from
a distance, but they innately recognize that his is “not one of us.”

When Moshe came down from Mount Sinai the second time, the
Torah tells us that his face emitted strong beams of light. It was necessary
for him to wear a mask to that people could look at him. One can imagine
the terror of little children when they looked at the masked Moshe.
One also can imagine the profound impact such a mask must have had on
all the people of Israel. But we must also stop to think about how Moshe
must have felt wearing such a mask, knowing that there was a strong, visible
barrier separating him from his people. Who can know? Perhaps
Moshe cried in misery and loneliness behind that mask.

While people to the right and people to the left will judge, condemn,
patronize, “respect” the enlightened Orthodox rabbi, few people take the
time to wonder what is going on behind his “mask.” He also has ears, eyes,
and senses. He knows what people are saying and thinking. He knows that
his authenticity as a religious figure is challenged from the right and from
the left. He knows that his ideals and visions for his community are far
from realization, perhaps impossibly far. He knows that his best talents are
not enough to bring his people to a promised land.

Imagine the quandary of an Orthodox rabbi who works with non-
Orthodox rabbis in Jewish Federations or Boards of Rabbis. On the one
hand, his open-mindedness compels him to be involved in communal
Jewish affairs and to work for the good of the community with all interested
people. Yet, it is possible that the Reform rabbi sitting next to him
has eaten a ham sandwich for lunch, drives to the synagogue on Saturday,
and has performed marriages that should not have been performed
according to halakha. Is this Reform rabbi—whom he likes and respects
as a human being—his friend and colleague? Or is this rabbi his archenemy,
a person dedicated to teaching Judaism in a way that the
Orthodox rabbi considers mistaken and even dangerous? And as this
conflict nags at him, what is he to do with the voices of the right-wing
who condemn him as a traitor for recognizing or legitimizing nonhalakhic
clergy? And what is he to do with the voices of the non-
Orthodox who condemn him for not being flexible and open enough on
religious questions?

Or imagine another case. An enlightened Orthodox rabbi may recognize
a variety of ways which could ameliorate the position of women in
halakhic Judaism. His liberal education has made him receptive to a host
of ideas, many of which can be implemented within the guidelines of tradition
Jewish law. Yet, the “right-wing” Orthodox would condemn such
ideas as basic violations of Jewish law and tradition. And at the same time,
the non-Orthodox are fast to condemn the enlightened Orthodox rabbi for
being too conservative and rigid.

He has the right ideas, but no medium of communication. He can
speak, but he has few who will listen.

And yet another example. An enlightened Orthodox rabbi may recognize
the need for compassion and understanding when dealing with the
issue of conversion to Judaism. He may want to work within the halakha
to encourage would-be converts to accept halakhic Judaism. He may reject
the narrow and unnecessary stringencies advocated by colleagues on the
right wing. And he will be roundly criticized and condemned by them. On
the other hand, because he absolutely believes in Torah and halakha, he
will require converts to undergo a rigorous program of study as well as circumcision
and mikvah. Because of his standards, the non-Orthodox community
views him as old-fashioned, unenlightened and even insensitive.

With all these tensions and conflicts, with all the voices to the right and
to the left, the enlightened Orthodox rabbi tries to serve his God and his people
in an honest and authentic way. It is very tempting to give up the battle.
The internal pressures are sometimes too much to bear. But he cannot succumb
to the temptation; he is the prisoner of his commitments and beliefs.
Moshe, behind his mask, may indeed have been lonely and sad. But he
never forgot who he was. In fact, he probably spent more time thinking
about his condition when he wore the mask than when he did not. It is difficult
to have a barrier between yourself and others. But perhaps a mask
helps you to develop the courage and strength to stand alone in the battle
against a world with which you want—with all your being—to be at peace.

Teaching the Wholeness of the Jewish People
(edited version)

(This article originally appeared in the magazine Ten Da’at,
Heshvan 5749, Fall 1988.)

Our heritage is rich and vast, and we claim that we teach it. But
do we truly understand the wholeness of the Jewish people,
or is our knowledge really limited and fragmented? Do we—
indeed can we—inculcate the concept of Jewish unity in our students? If
we as educators are unaware of or disinterested in Jews who have had different
historic experiences than we have had, how can we convey the richness
of Judaism?

How can we, in fact, demonstrate the sheer wonder of
halakhic Jewry without a sense of awe at the halakhic contributions of all
our diverse communities throughout the world, throughout the ages?
We may study the Talmud of Babylonia and Israel; the codes of sages
in Spain; the commentaries of scholars of France, Germany, and Italy; the
responsa of rabbis of Turkey, the Middle East, and North Africa; the novellae
of sages of Eastern Europe; the traditions and customs of Jewish communities
throughout the world. We study this diverse and rich literature
and confront the phenomenon that all these Jewish sages and their communities
operated with the identical assumptions—that God gave the
Torah to the people of Israel, that halakha is our way of following God’s
ways.

As we contemplate the vast scope of the halakhic enterprise—and
its essential unity—we begin to sense the wholeness of the Jewish people.
If, for example, we were to study only the contributions and history
of the Jews of America, we would have a narrow view of Judaism. If we
limited our Jewish sources only to a particular century or to a particular
geographic location, we would be parochial. We would be experts in a segment
of Jewish experience; but we would be ignorant of everything outside
our narrow focus.

In order to teach the wholeness of the Jewish people, we need to have
a broad knowledge and vision of the Jewish people. We cannot limit ourselves
to sources only from Europe, just as we cannot limit ourselves to
sources only from Asia or Africa. Often enough, however, Jewish education
today fails to include in a serious way the Jewish experiences in Asia
and Africa. How many educators can name ten great Jewish personalities
who lived in Turkey, Morocco, or Syria during the seventeenth, eighteenth,
and nineteenth centuries? How many Jewish Studies teachers have
studied any works of authors who lived in Muslim lands over the past four
to five centuries? And how many have taught this information to their students?

And have they learned?

There is a vital need to teach “whole-istic” Judaism, drawing on the
great teachings of our people in all the lands and periods of their dispersion.
To do this, we ourselves need to study, to think very seriously, to feel
genuine excitement in gathering the exiles of our people into our minds
and consciousnesses. When we are engaged in this process, we can help
our students share the excitement with us. Jews who are “not like us,”
whose families came from countries other than “ours,” should not be
viewed as being exotic or quaint. There is more to a Jewish community
than a set of interesting customs or folkways. We need to be able to speak
of the Jews of Vilna and of Istanbul and of Berlin and of Tangiers with the
same degree of naturalness, with no change in the inflection of our voices.
We need to see Jews of all these—and all the other—communities as
though they are part of “our” community.

Consider the standard Mikra’ot Gedolot, a common edition of the
Bible. There are commenaries by Rashi (France); Ibn Ezra and Ramban
(Spain); R. Hayyim ben Attar, the Ohr haHayyim (Morocco); R. Ovadia
Seforno (Italy), and many others. The commentaries of the Talmud, the
Rambam, and Shulhan Arukh are also a diverse group, stemming from different
places and times. It is important for teachers to make their students
aware of the backgrounds of the various commentators. In this relatively
simple way, students are introduced to the vastness of the Torah enterprise—
and of the value of all communities that have engaged in maintaining
the Torah. To quote Sephardic sages together with Ashkenazic sages,
naturally and easily, is to achieve an important goal in the teaching of
wholeness of the Jewish people.

Most teachers teach what they themselves have learned. They tend to
draw heavily on the sources which their teachers valued. It is difficult and
challenging to try to reach out into new sources, to gain knowledge and
inspiration from Jewish communities which one originally had not considered
to be one’s own.

The majority of Jews living in Israel are of African and Asian backgrounds.
Students who gain no knowledge of the history and culture of
the Jews of Africa and Asia are being seriously deprived. They will be
unable to grasp the cultural context of the majority of Jews in Israel, or
they will trivialize it or think it exotic.

But if Jews are to be a whole people,
then all Jews need to understand, in a deep and serious way, about
other Jews. This is not for “enrichment” programs or for special
“Sephardic days;” this is basic Jewish teaching, basic Jewish learning.

I am saddened by the general narrowness I have seen in some schools.
There is a reluctance to grasp the need for wholeness on a serious level.
Time is too short. Teachers don’t want more responsibilities. But Judaism
goes far beyond the sources of Europe and America. Giving lip service to
the beauty of Sephardic culture; or singing a Yemenite tune with the
school choir; or explaining a custom now and then—these “token lessons”
don’t represent a genuine openness, a positive education.

Standard textbooks don’t teach much about the Jews of Africa and
Asia, their vast cultural and spiritual achievements, their contributions to
Jewish life and to Torah scholarship. Schools often do not make the effort
to incorporate serious study of these topics, so our children grow up with
a fragmented Jewish education.

To raise awareness and sensitivity, teachers should utilize the
resources within the community—including students, community members,
and synagogues representing diverse backgrounds, customs, and history
that can enlighten students. Spending Shabbat with diverse
communities, within the United States as well as when visiting Israel, can
be a moving way of sharing cultures and customs.

Attaining wholeness in Jewish education entails considerable work on
the part of administrators, teachers, and students. It may cost time and
money. But can we really afford to continue to deprive our children and
our people of wholeness?

Eulogy at Wounded Knee

(Originally delivered in May 1992 at the Wounded Knee Memorial
in South Dakota.)

W e stand at the mass grave of men, women and children—
Indians who were massacred at Wounded Knee in the
bitter winter of 1890. Pondering the tragedy which
occurred at Wounded Knee fills the heart with crying and with silence.

The great Sioux holy man, Black Elk, was still a child when he saw the
dead bodies of his people strewn throughout this area. As an old man, he
reflected on what he had seen: “I did not know then how much was
ended. When I look back now from this high hill of my old age, I can still
see the butchered women and children lying heaped and scattered all
along the crooked gulch as plain as when I saw them with eyes still young.
And I can see that something else died there in the bloody mud and was
buried in the blizzard. A people’s dream died there. It was a beautiful
dream. For the nation’s hoop is broken and scattered. There is no center
any longer, and the sacred tree is dead.”

Indeed, the massacre at Wounded Knee was the culmination of
decades of destruction and transformation for the American Indian. The
decades of suffering somehow are encapsulated and symbolized by the
tragedy at Wounded Knee. Well-armed American soldiers slaughtered
freezing, almost defenseless, Indians—including women and children.
Many of the soldiers were awarded medals of honor for their heroism, as
if there could be any heroism in wiping out helpless people.

How did this tragedy happen? How was it possible for the soldiers—
who no doubt thought of themselves as good men—to participate in a
deed of such savagery? How was it possible that the United States government
awarded medals of honor to so many of the soldiers?

The answer is found in one word: dehumanization. For the
Americans, the Indians were not people at all, only wild savages. It was no
different killing Indians than killing buffaloes or wild dogs. If an American
general taught that “the only good Indian is a dead Indian,” it means that
he did not view Indians as human beings.

When you look a person in the eye and see him as a person, you simply
can’t kill him or hurt him. Human sympathy and compassion will be
aroused. Doesn’t he have feelings like you? Doesn’t he love, fear, cry,
laugh? Doesn’t he want to protect his loved ones?

The tragedy of Wounded Knee is a tragedy of the American Indians.
But it is also more than that. It is a profound tragedy of humanity. It is the
tragedy of dehumanization. It is the tragedy that recurs again and again,
and that is still with us today. Isn’t our society still riddled with hatred,
where groups are hated because of their religion, race, national origin?
Don’t we still experience the pervasive depersonalization process where
people are made into objects, robbed of their essential human dignity?
When Black Elk spoke, he lamented the broken hoop of his nation.

The hoop was the symbol of wholeness, togetherness, harmony. Black Elk
cried that the hoop of his nation had been broken at Wounded Knee.
But we might also add that the hoop of American life was also broken
by the hatred and prejudice exemplified by Wounded Knee. And the hoop
of our nation continues to be torn apart by the hatred that festers in our
society.

Our task, the task of every American, is to do our share to mend the
hoop, to repair the breaches.

The poet Stephen Vincent Benet, in his profound empathy, wrote:
“Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.” This phrase reflects the pathos of this
place and the tragedy of this place.

But if we are to be faithful to Black Elk’s vision, we must add:
Revitalize our hearts at Wounded Knee. Awaken our hearts to the depths
of this human tragedy. Let us devote our revitalized hearts toward mending
the hoop of America, the hoop of all humanity That hoop is made of
love; that hoop depends on respect for each other, for human dignity.
We cry at this mass grave at Wounded Knee. We cry for the victims.
We cry for the recurrent pattern of hatred and dehumanization that
continues to separate people, that continues to foster hatred and violence
and murder.

Let us put the hoop of our nation back in order. For the sake of those
who have suffered and for the sake of those who are suffering, let us put
the hoop of our nation back in order.

Orthodoxy and Diversity

(This article originally appeared in Liber Amicurum, in honor of
Rabbi Dr. Nathan T. Lopes Cardozo, Jerusalem, 2006.)

The Talmud (Berakhot 58a) teaches that one is required to
recite a special blessing when witnessing a vast throng of
Jews, praising the Almighty who is hakham haRazim, the One
who understands the root and inner thoughts of each individual. “Their
thoughts are not alike and their appearance is not alike.” The Creator
made each person as a unique being. God expected and wanted diversity
of thought, and we bless God for having created this diversity among us.

The antithesis of this ideal is represented by the evil city of Sodom.
Rabbinic teaching has it that the Sodomites placed visitors in a bed. If the
person was too short, he was stretched until he fit the bed. If he was too
tall, his legs were cut off so that he fit the bed. This parable is not, I think,
merely referring to the desire for physical uniformity; the people of Sodom
wanted everyone to fit the same pattern, to think alike, to conform to the
mores of the Sodomites. They fostered and enforced conformity in an
extreme way.

Respect for individuality and diversity is a sine qua non of healthy
human life. We each have unique talents and insights, and we need the
spiritual climate that allows us to grow, to be creative, to contribute to
humanity’s treasury of ideas and knowledge.

Societies struggle to find a balance between individual freedom and
communal standards of conduct. The Torah, while granting much freedom,
also provides boundaries beyond which the individual may not trespass.
When freedom becomes license, it can unsettle society. On the other
hand, when authoritarianism quashes individual freedom, the dignity and
sanctity of the individual are violated. I wish to focus on this latter tendency
as it relates to contemporary Orthodox Jewish life.

Some years ago, I visited a great Torah luminary in Israel, Rabbi Haim
David Halevy. He had given a shiur (Torah lecture) for rabbis and rabbinical
judges in which he suggested introducing civil marriage in the State of
Israel. He offered cogent arguments in support of this view, and many of
those present actually thanked him for having the courage to put this issue
on the rabbinic agenda. His suggestion, though, was vehemently opposed
by the rabbinic establishment, and he was sharply criticized in the media.
Efforts were made to isolate him and limit his influence as much as possible.
Students of the rabbi were told not to attend his classes any longer.
This rabbi lamented to me: “Have you heard of the mafia? Well, we have
a rabbinic mafia here.” This, of course, is an indictment of the greatest
seriousness. It is not an issue of whether or not one favors civil marriage.
The issue is whether a rabbinic scholar has the right and responsibility to
explore and discuss unpopular ideas. If his suggestions are valid, they
should be accepted. If they are incorrect, they should be refuted. But to
apply crude pressure to silence open discussion is dangerous, and inimical
to the best interests of the Torah community.

Similar cases abound where pressure has been brought to bear on rabbis
and scholars who espouse views not in conformity with the prevailing
opinions of an inner circle of Orthodox rabbinic leaders. As one example
of this phenomenon, a certain rabbi permitted women to study Talmud in
his class at his synagogue. One of the women in his congregation consulted
a Rosh Yeshiva who promptly branded the synagogue rabbi as a heretic
(apikores) for having allowed women to study Talmud. The Rosh Yeshiva
told the woman she was not permitted to pray in the synagogue as long as
that rabbi was there. When the synagogue rabbi was informed of this, he
wrote a respectful letter to the Rosh Yeshiva and explained the halakhic
basis for women studying Talmud. The Rosh Yeshiva refused to answer,
and told the woman congregant that he would not enter into a correspondence
with a heretic. The woman stopped attending the rabbi’s synagogue.

Is this the way of Torah, whose ways are the ways of pleasantness?
Does this kind of behavior shed honor on Orthodoxy? Shouldn’t learned
people be able to speak with each other, argue a point of halakha, disagree
with each other? Shouldn’t the Torah world be able to deal with controversy
without engaging in name-calling and delegitimation?

Over the years, I have been involved in the planning of a number of
rabbinic conferences and conventions. Invariably questions are raised
concerning who will be invited to speak. Some say: If Rabbi so-and-so is
put on the program, then certain other rabbis and speakers will refuse to
participate. Some say: If such-and-such a group is among the sponsors of
the conference, the other groups will boycott the event. What is happening
in such instances is a subtle—and not so subtle—process of coercion.
Decisions are being made as to which Orthodox individuals and groups
are “acceptable” and which are not.

This process is insidious and is unhealthy for Orthodoxy. It deprives
us of meaningful discussion and debate. It intimidates people from taking
independent or original positions for fear of being ostracized or isolated.
Many times I have heard intelligent people say: I believe thus-and-so
but I can’t say so openly for fear of being attacked by the “right.” I support
such-and-such proposal, but can’t put my name in public support for fear
of being reviled or discredited by this group or that group.

We must face this problem squarely and candidly: The narrowing of
horizons is a reality within contemporary Orthodoxy. The fear to dissent
from “acceptable” positions is palpable. But if individuals are not allowed
to think independently, if they may not ask questions and raise alternatives—
then we as a community suffer a loss of vitality and dynamism.
Fear and timidity become our hallmark.

This situation contrasts with the way a vibrant Torah community
should function. Rabbi Yehiel Mikhel Epstein, in the introduction to
Hoshen Misphat of his Arukh haShulhan, notes that difference of opinion
among our sages constitutes the glory of Torah. “The entire Torah is called
a song (shira), and the glory of a song is when the voices differ one from
the other. This is the essence of its pleasantness.”

Debates and disagreements have long been an accepted and valued part
of the Jewish tradition. The Rama (see Shulhan Arukh, Y.D. 242:2,3) notes
that it is even permissible for a student to dissent from his rabbi’s ruling if
he has proofs and arguments to uphold his opinion. Rabbi Hayyim Palachi,
the great halakhic authority of nineteenth-century Izmir, wrote that
the Torah gave permission to each person to express his opinion according
to his understanding. . . . It is not good for a sage to withhold his words out
of deference to the sages who preceded him if he finds in their words a clear
contradiction. . . . A sage who wishes to write his proofs against the kings
and giants of Torah should not withhold his words nor suppress his prophecy,
but should give his analysis as he has been guided by Heaven. (Hikekei
Lev, O.H. 6; and Y.D. 42)

The great twentieth-century sage, Rabbi Haim David Halevi, ruled:
Not only does a judge have the right to rule against his rabbis; he also has
an obligation to do so [if he believes their decision to be incorrect and he
has strong proofs to support his own position]. If the decision of those
greater than he does not seem right to him, and he is not comfortable fol-
lowing it, and yet he follows that decision [in deference to their authority],
then it is almost certain that he has rendered a false judgment. (Aseh Lekha
Rav, 2:61)

Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, in rejecting an opinion of Rabbi Shelomo
Kluger, wrote that “one must love truth more than anything” (Iggrot
Moshe, Y. D., 3:88).

Orthodoxy needs to foster the love of truth. It must be alive to different
intellectual currents and receptive to open discussion. How do we, as
a Modern Orthodox community, combat the tendency toward blind
authoritarianism and obscurantism?

First, we must stand up and be counted on the side of freedom of
expression. We, as a community, must give encouragement to all who
have legitimate opinions to share. We must not tolerate intolerance. We
must not yield to the tactics of coercion and intimidation.

Our schools and institutions must foster legitimate diversity within
Orthodoxy. We must insist on intellectual openness, and resist efforts to
impose conformity. We will not be fitted into the bed of Sodom. We must
give communal support to diversity within the halakhic framework, so
that people will not feel intimidated to say things publicly or sign their
names to public documents.

Let me add another dimension to the topic of diversity within
Orthodoxy. Too often, Orthodox schools and books ignore the teachings
and traditions of Jews of non-Ashkenazic backgrounds. Information is
presented as though Jews of Turkey, the Balkans, North Africa, and the
Middle East simply did not exist. Little or no effort is made to draw from
the vast wellsprings of knowledge and inspiration maintained by these
communities for many centuries. Yet, these communities—deeply
steeped in tradition—produced many rabbis and many books, rich
folklore, and religious customs; and these spiritual treasures belong to
all Jews. To ignore the experience and teachings of these communities is
to deprive ourselves and our children of a valuable part of the Jewish
heritage.

Why, then, isn’t there a concerted effort to be inclusive in the teaching
of Jewish tradition? Among the reasons are: narrowness of scope, a tendency
toward conformity, lack of interest in reaching beyond the familiar.
However, unless we overcome these handicaps, we rob Orthodoxy of vitality
and strength, creativity and breadth.

Orthodoxy is large enough and great enough to include the Rambam
and the Ari; the Baal Shem Tov and the Gaon of Vilna; Rabbi Eliyau
Benamozegh and Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch; Rabbi Abraham Isaac
Kook and Rabbi Benzion Uziel; Dona Gracia Nasi and Sarah Schnirer. We
draw on the wisdom and inspiration of men and women spanning the
generations, from communities throughout the world. The wide variety of
Orthodox models deepens our own religiosity and understanding, thereby
giving us a living, dynamic, intellectually alive way of life.

If the Modern Orthodox community does not have the will or courage
to foster diversity, then who will? And if we do not do it now, we are missing
a unique challenge of our generation.

Retaining Our Humanity

(Originally published as an Angel for Shabbat column on
Parashat Shemot, January 9, 2010.)

“And he turned this way and that way,
and saw that there was no man.”

When Moses saw an Egyptian taskmaster beating an
Israelite slave, he looked around before striking the
Egyptian down. This passage is usually understood to
mean that he wanted to be sure that he would not be seen when he slew
the Egyptian.

The passage might be understood in a different way. Moses was outraged
by the entire system of slavery. He saw one group of people oppressing
another group of people, treating the slaves as chattel rather than as
fellow human beings. By dehumanizing the Israelites, the Egyptians felt
no remorse in beating them, forcing them to do backbreaking work, condemning
their children to death. The taskmasters had lost their humanity.

The abusive treatment of slaves exacted a psychological as well as
physical price; the slaves came to see themselves as inferiors to their masters;
they lost self-respect along with their freedom.

When Moses was confronted with a specific instance of an Egyptian
beating a Hebrew slave, he realized that “there was no man”—the oppressor
had become a savage beast, the oppressed had become a work animal.
The human element had vanished; there was no mercy, no mutual respect,
no sympathy for each other. It was this recognition that was more than
Moses could bear. He rashly killed the Egyptian—which did not solve the
problem at all. He was then compelled to flee for his own life. He stayed
for many years in the tranquility of Midian, working as a lonely shepherd.
He could not deal with the injustices taking place in Egypt—a land where
“there was no man,” a land where people had been reduced to animal status,
to objects rather than subjects.

The Torah’s story of the redemption of the Israelite slaves is ultimately
a profound lesson teaching that each human being has a right to be free,
to be a dignified human being, to be treated (and to treat others) as a fellow
human being. Slavery is an evil both for the oppressor and the
oppressed. It is a violation of the sanctity of human life.

Dehumanization of others leads not just to disdain, or even to slavery;
it leads to violence and murder. Dehumanization is how terrorists justify
murder: They see their victims as inferior beings, as infidels—not as fellow
human beings created in the image of God. Dehumanization results
in discrimination against those who are perceived to be “the other”—people
of different ethnicity, religion, race, beliefs.

We know our society is in trouble when members of one group feel
themselves innately superior to people of another group, and engage in
stereotyping and dehumanizing them. We know that there is moral decay
within the Jewish people, when Jews of one background feel themselves
superior to Jews of another background, when they exhibit discriminatory
behavior and language, when they dehumanize their fellow Jews and
fellow human beings.

When human beings treat each other as objects, humanity suffers.
When human beings see their kinship with other human beings and treat
each other with respect, humanity begins its process of redemption. We
can retain our own humanity only when we recognize the humanity of
each of our fellow human beings

I and Thou

(Originally published as an Angel for Shabbat column for
Parashat Bemidbar, May 11, 2013.)

When the Israelites were liberated from their slavery in
Egypt, they did not—and could not—immediately
become free people. Although the physical servitude
had come to an end, psychological/emotional slavery continued to imbue
their perception of life.

For generations, they had been viewed as objects, as lowly slaves
whose existence was controlled by Egyptian taskmasters. Not only did the
Egyptians see the Israelites as beasts of burden, but it was inevitable for
the slaves to internalize this evaluation of their own lives. They were
dehumanized . . . and it was very difficult to retain their humanity, selfrespect,
and dignity.

In this week’s Torah portion, we read about the census of the Israelites
in the wilderness. The Torah specifies that those who were to be counted
in the census were to be identified by their names and by their families.
This was a dramatic way of telling them: you have names, you have families,
you are dignified human beings; you are not chattel, you are not
nameless slaves, you are not objects. Until the Israelites came to internalize
their freedom and self-worth, they would continue to see themselves
as inferior and unworthy beings.

In his famous book, I and Thou, Martin Buber pointed out that human
relationships, at their best, involve mutual knowledge and respect, treating
self and others as valuable human beings. An I-Thou relationship is
based on understanding, sympathy, love. Its goal is to experience the
“other” as a meaningful and valuable person. In contrast, an I-It relationship
treats the “other” as an object to be manipulated, controlled, or
exploited. If I-Thou relationships are based on mutuality, I-It relationships
are based on the desire to gain functional benefit from the other.

Buber wrote: “When a culture is no longer centered in a living and
continually renewed relational process, it freezes into the It-world, which
is broken only intermittently by the eruptive, glowing deeds of solitary
spirits.” As we dehumanize others, we also engage in the process of dehumanizing
ourselves. We make our peace with living in an It-world, using
others as things, and in turn being used by them for their purposes.

In critiquing modern life, Erich Fromm has noted that “We have
become things and our neighbors have become things. The result is that
we feel powerless and despise ourselves for our impotence.”

The line between I-Thou and I-It relationships is not always clear.
Sometimes, people appear to be our friends, solicitous of our well-being;
yet, their real goal is to manipulate us into buying their product, accepting
their viewpoint, controlling us in various ways. Their goal isn’t mutual
friendship and understanding; rather, they want to exert power and
control, and they feign friendship as a tactic to achieve their goals.

Dehumanization is poisonous to proper human interactions and relationships.
It is not only destructive to the victim, but equally or even more
destructive to the one who does the dehumanizing. The dehumanizer ultimately
dehumanizes himself/herself, and becomes blinded by egotism and
power-grabbing at any cost. Such a person may appear “successful” based
on superficial standards; but at root, such a person is an immense failure
who has demeaned his or her humanity along with the humanity of his or
her victims.

The Israelites, after their long and painful experience as slaves, needed
to learn to value themselves and to value others; to engage in I-Thou
relationships based on their own human dignity and the dignity of others.
One of the messages of the census in the wilderness was this: You are a
dignified individual and your life matters—not just for what you can do
as an “It” but for who you are as a “Thou."

I-It relationships are based on functionality. Once the function no
longer yields results, the relationship breaks. I-Thou relationships are
based on human understanding, loyalty and love. These relationships are
the great joy of life.

I recently received an email with the following message: “Friendship
isn’t about who you have known longest . . . it’s about who came and never
left your side.”
 

(This essay by Rabbi Marc D. Angel was published in the Jerusalem Post, December 12, 2025.)

With their military victory over the Hellenistic Syrians, the Maccabees entered the Temple in Jerusalem and rededicated it to the worship of God. According to Jewish tradition, they found one jar of pure oil with enough to last for one day. They lit the Menorah and the oil miraculously burnt for eight days, enough time to produce a new batch of pure oil.

When we tell this story year after year, we tend to imagine that the Maccabees found the beautiful gold Menorah of the Temple in its place, and they simply added the pure oil to it.

Yet, this would be truly remarkable. The Syrians had control of the Temple for a long stretch of time and they surely would have plundered all the valuable items within it. It would have been very unlikely for them to have left an impressive gold candelabrum in its place.

A midrash suggests that when the Maccabees entered the Temple, they indeed did not find the Menorah there. It had already been stolen by the enemies of the Jews. So the Maccabees improvised by putting together a make-shift Menorah made of spears. The midrash (Pesikta Rabbati 2:1) surmises that the spears had been left behind by the Syrian soldiers who fled in haste during their defeat.

So the Menorah of the original Hanukkah was made of the spears of our enemies!

This midrash is teaching a profound lesson. The very weapons with which our enemies sought to destroy us—those very weapons were used to spread the light of Judaism! The Maccabees were demonstrating that their victory was not merely successful in a military sense. Rather, it was also—and pre-eminently—a spiritual victory. The enemy’s spears were transformed into branches of the Menorah, bringing light into the Temple, restoring worship of the One true God.

The Haftarah that we read on Shabbat Hanukkah includes the famous words of the prophet Zechariah: “Not by might nor by power, but by My spirit said the Lord of hosts” (Zechariah 4:6).

Not by spears, not by guns, not by missiles, not by terrorism, not by political intimidation: these weapons of our enemies will not prevail. We will transform their weapons into sources of light and peace. We will create a Menorah of righteousness that will inspire the world to a loftier and more spiritual vision.

To quote from the Passover Haggadah, “in each generation they arise to destroy us and the Almighty saves us from their hands.” The Jews seem always to have been the conscience of the nations—and many people do not like a conscience, especially a guilty conscience. They attack us because they are afraid of what we symbolize: a nation dedicated to One God, to an elevated morality, to social justice.

But the ongoing flourishing of Jews and Judaism is our unflinching testimony that the spirit of God will ultimately prevail among humanity. The spears of enmity and warfare will one day be transformed into branches of a Menorah, bringing light and hope to all human beings. May it be soon and in our days!

Our community is deeply committed to the transmission of Torah from one generation to the next. We devote tremendous resources to ensure that our children and grandchildren become steeped in Torah knowledge and grow into Torah observant Jews. A critical concern must be how we and our schools transmit the words of Hazal to our students. Obviously, the teachings of our sages are of central importance; it is unfortunate, then, when the words Hazal are taught inappropriately. Religious education becomes mis-education.

In his introduction to Perek Helek, Rambam criticized a literalist, fundamentalist approach to the words of Hazal. Since the sages were wise and reasonable, their words obviously were filled with wisdom and rationality. When their statements seem to veer from reason, we must understand them as being symbolic, homiletical or hyperbolic—not literally true. It would be absurd to call for an acceptance of the literal truth of aggadic and midrashic statements which violate reason or which have later been shown to be factually incorrect.

According to Rambam, those who insist on the literal truth of all the statements of Hazal are not only doing a disservice to our sages, but are corrupting our religion. “This group of impoverished understanding—one must pity their foolishness. According to their understanding, they are honoring and elevating our sages; in fact they are lowering them to the end of lowliness. They do not even understand this. By Heaven! This group is dissipating the glory of the Torah and clouding its lights, placing the Torah of God opposite of its intention.” Rambam believed that demanding acceptance of Hazal’s words even when they were patently unreasonable or incorrect, was not a demonstration of loyalty to the rabbis; rather it was a serious demeaning of their intellectual credibility. Reasonable people would come to dismiss the rabbis as serious thinkers, and would lose confidence in their religious authority.

Rabbi Abraham, son of Rambam, noted that one must not accept the truth of a statement simply on the authority of the person who stated it. Rather, we must use our reason to determine its validity. Moreover, it is intellectually unsound to accept blindly the teachings of our sages in matters of medicine and natural science, since these were not their areas of expertise. “We and every intelligent and wise person, are obligated to evaluate each idea and each statement, to find the way in which to understand it; to prove the truth and establish that which is worthy of being established, and to annul that which is worthy of being annulled….We see that our sages themselves said: if it is a halakhah [universally accepted legal tradition] we will accept it; but if it is a ruling [based on individual opinion], there is room for discussion.[1]

Rambam and his son argued that one need not and must not suppress reason to be a religious person. We should not be expected to surrender reason when we evaluate rabbinical statements. Nor should we teach Torah to our children and students in a manner that demands blind obedience and suspension of reason. Otherwise, they will grow up one day and realize that we have taught them irrational or incorrect things; this will cause them to mistrust everything we have taught them.

These thoughts have come to mind recently due to a number of specific cases.

1.A ten year old boy’s day school class was told by their Torah teacher that dinosaurs never existed. Since rabbinic tradition teaches that the world is less than 6000 years old, it is not possible that scientists can be correct when they state that dinosaurs lived on earth millions of years ago. The boy told his teacher that he recently visited the Museum of Natural History in New York City and saw dinosaur bones with his own eyes! How could the teacher deny that dinosaurs existed? The teacher responded: “you did not see dinosaur bones. What you saw were dog bones that became swollen during Noah’s flood.”

2. A science teacher in a modern Orthodox day school was dissecting a sheep’s larynx as part of a science lesson for her eighth grade class. Some students noticed that the wind pipe was in front and the food pipe was behind it. The students said: this can’t be correct. We learned in Torah class that the food pipe is on the left and the wind pipe is on the right. That is why we recline to the left on Passover eve at the seder, so that the food will go straight down the food pipe. If we leaned to the right, the food would go to the wind pipe and we could choke. The teacher asked the students to look at the sheep’s larynx: they could see for themselves that the pipes were located one behind the other, not side by side. A student suggested that this may be true for sheep, but could not be true for humans. The teacher pointed out that the physiology for humans was the same. After class, the teacher discussed this issue with various Jewish studies teachers and administration members. Most had assumed that the pipes were side by side. Even when presented with the scientific facts, they were reluctant to accept this information. One teacher said: “I would find it difficult to teach something that goes against Hazal.” (But he apparently would not find it difficult to teach something that was demonstrably false!)

3. A junior high school class was studying the laws relating to washing hands in the morning. The teacher explained, following the Shulhan Arukh (O.H. 4:2-3), that the hands are washed in order to eliminate an evil spirit (ruah ra’ah). One is not allowed to touch the eyes or other sensitive parts of the body before washing hands, otherwise there is a danger that the evil spirit will cause harm. One student asked: what is the meaning of evil spirit? Most people in the world don’t wash their hands in the ritually prescribed way first thing in the morning. They touch their eyes and ears—but no harm seems to happen to them! Does the evil spirit only affect religious Jews, and no one else? The teacher told the student he was being impudent, and that it was a principle of faith that we should trust the wisdom of our sages. If the Shulhan Arukh says that there is a dangerous evil spirit on our hands in the morning, then that is absolute fact, not subject to doubt on our part.

4. While studying the Torah portion dealing with the marriage of Yitzhak and Rivka, students were told by their teacher that Rivka was three years old when she provided water to the camels of Abraham’s servant, and when she soon thereafter married Yitzhak. This, of course, is a midrashic teaching. A student asked: how was it possible for a three-year-old girl to water camels? It would have required far too much strength for any child so young. Moreover, if she were only three years old, why did her father ask her if she were willing to leave home to marry Abraham’s son: she would have been far too young to make such a decision. Also, is it reasonable to think that a forty year old man like Yitzhak would actually marry a three-year-old girl? The Torah’s description of Rivka certainly implies that she was much older than three. The rabbi responded: if Hazal say that Rivka was three years old, that’s how old she was! There is no room for further discussion.

5. A kindergarten student brought home a packet with pictures describing the story of Megillat Esther. One of the pictures depicted Vashti with pimples and a green tail. The child’s parent asked the teacher why she had included such an odd picture, when there was nothing in the text of the Megillah that warranted such a bizarre rendition of Vashti. The teacher replied that that is how she had learned the story, and that it was based on a midrashic description of Vashti. The parent asked why the teacher did not tell the students that this was from the midrash, and not in the text of the Megillah. The teacher responded that the teachings of Hazal in the midrash provide the true meaning of the text, and that there is no need to differentiate between the biblical text and rabbinic interpretation.

The above cases, reflective of the educational approach of many religious schools and individuals, are symptomatic of serious problems in the way our community transmits Torah teachings. The fundamentalist, literalist position—so vehemently criticized by Rambam—still holds sway among many Orthodox Jews. It is incumbent upon rabbis, teachers and parents to steer Torah education towards a rational and reasonable understanding of the words of our sages.

Torah and Science:

Since One God created both Torah and science, it is axiomatic that Torah and science can never be in fundamental conflict. Torah and science are manifestations of One God, the Author of truth. If Torah and science appear to be at odds on certain points, then either we have not understood Torah properly or we have not done our science correctly.

Scientific knowledge has progressed tremendously since ancient times. Each generation has contributed to the cumulative knowledge of humanity, and this process continues in our generation; it will continue in future generations as well. With the advent of new tools of research, scientists have been able to expand the horizon of scientific knowledge. If ancient or medieval sages believed that the earth is flat, that the earth is the center of the universe, or that the sun orbits around the earth—this can hardly be surprising, since that is what their level of scientific knowledge was in those times. Nor can they be faulted for not knowing things that were discovered or theorized long after their deaths. Rashi thought that the Atlantic Ocean was “the end of the world”; Rambam believed that the Ptolemaic system of astronomy was correct; Hazal thought that eclipses were signs of Divine wrath rather than predictable natural phenomena. It would be absurd to defend the outdated scientific views of these sages, since we now know that their views have proven to be incorrect. The sages based themselves on the best available scientific information; but later research and discoveries have led to more precise and accurate information. We need to address issues based on the current level of scientific knowledge. Let us turn to the question of the age of the universe, in light of Torah tradition and modern science.

Ancient Jewish sages calculated the age of humanity by adding up the ages of Biblical characters from the time of Adam. There were differences of opinion as to the exact age, since the Biblical account leaves some room for interpretation.[2] The Bible itself does not use the anno mundi (from the creation of the world) dating system, and the dating system that we currently use (5766 at the writing of this article) seems to have become widespread only after Talmudic times. The Tosafot (Gittin 80b, Zo Divrei Rabbi Meir) wonders why it is permissible to date bills of divorce from beriat olam, when in fact early divorces (and other documents) were dated based on the year of the ruling king of the land in which Jews resided.[3]

In fact, though, the current dating system does not date from the creation of the world, but from the creation of Adam. Literalists assume that the age of the world is reached by adding the first five days of creation to Adam’s age. This would mean that the world was created less than six thousand years ago—hence the impossibility of anything existing before that time. But we have unequivocal fossil evidence of beings that existed millions of years ago, and other scientific evidence that the universe came into being billions of years ago. The literalists solve the dilemma by denying the existence of anything prior to 5766 years ago. They dismiss scientific evidence as inaccurate, false, or based on wrong scientific assumptions. They stake their faith on the truth of the world being 5766 years old. Dinosaurs could not have existed millions of years ago; when we see dinosaur bones, we are really seeing “dog bones that were swollen during Noah’s flood”; or bones that God planted just to fool us into thinking the world was older than 5766; or bones which have been dated wrongly due to the ineptitude of scientists.

Yet, does the Torah really require us to deny scientific evidence in order to justify the anno mundi dating system? The Rambam would argue that the opposite is true, namely that we should seek truth and thereby come closer to the Author of truth. If science has demonstrated beyond reasonable doubt that dinosaurs existed millions of years ago, then we need to reject the literalist view that the universe is 5766 years old.

It has been pointed out that the six days of creation were not 24 hour days. Indeed, the sun was not created until the fourth day, so there could not have been a sunset or sunrise on the first three “days”. The word “days” might better be understood to mean “periods” of indeterminate length. At each period of the creation, there was a development from a simpler stage to a more complex stage. Since these six “days” of creation could have lasted billions of years by human calculation, then dinosaurs had ample time to live and become extinct before Adam and Eve were created on the sixth “day”.

Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan has cited classic rabbinic texts asserting that the world is much older than the 5766 years implied by our current dating system. The Sefer ha-Temunah, attributed to the Tanna Rabbi Nehunya ben ha-Kanah, suggests that there were other worlds before Adam was created. The Midrash Rabba on Bereishith 1:5 teaches that there were “orders of time” prior to the first day of creation recorded in the Torah. The Talmud records the view that there were 974 generations before Adam (Hagigah 13b).

Most interesting is the view of Rabbi Yitzhak of Akko, a student and colleague of the Ramban and one of the foremost Kabbalists of his time. In examining one of Rabbi Yitzhak’s important works, Ozar ha-Hayyim, Rabbi Kaplan discovered that Rabbi Yitzhak adduced that the universe is a bit over 15.3 billion years old! This theory by a medieval kabbalist, based on interpretations of Biblical and rabbinic texts, is remarkably close to the calculations of modern science that dates the “Big Bang” at approximately 15 billion years ago.[4] Rabbi Yitzhak felt no need to offer farfetched explanations to keep the universe within the 6000 year range. He, and his many pious colleagues and students, had no problem at all positing a universe that was billions of years old; they did not see this calculation as in any way impinging on the truth of Torah. It is significant, then, that we have legitimate traditions in Torah Judaism that view the universe as being far older than 5766 years.

Our schools should not be teaching our children that dinosaurs did not exist. They should not be telling children that the dinosaur bones are just “dog bones swollen in the flood of Noah’s time”. This is not Torah education, but mis-education. Not only is there no religious necessity to teach such nonsense; it is a religious mandate NOT to teach falsehood. To cloak falsity in the clothing of religion is to undermine true religion.

Likewise, in the matter of the location of the wind pipe and food pipe, it is educationally and morally unsound to teach patently false information in order to “validate” the mistaken notions of sages of earlier generations. The Talmud (Pesahim 108a) states that reclining backward or to the right is not a valid way of reclining, adding the explanation that leaning incorrectly may endanger a person by causing the food go down the wind pipe. Rashi states that this explanation refers to leaning backward. Rashbam, though, takes issue with Rashi and cites his teachers who claimed that the esophagus was on the right; when a person reclines to the right, this causes the epiglottis to open, increasing the possiblity of choking. (The more usual explanation is that the wind pipe is on the right, so that leaning to the right may result in choking.) Although neither Rambam nor the Shulhan Arukh cite this explanation, it was cited by the Magen Abraham and the Taz—and became a widespread teaching.[5] Yet, it is factually incorrect—and therefore certainly should not be taught as the reason why we recline to the left.

When teaching children to recline to the left at the seder, a suitable explanation is that in antiquity free people ate while sitting on couches. They reclined to the left so that their right hand would be available to hold their food. If someone should ask: don’t we lean to the left because that is where our food pipe is, the answer is: some people mistakenly thought this was the reason, but it is not the correct reason. The food pipe and wind pipe are not side by side.

As a general principle, we need to emphasize to our children and students that Hazal’s statements on science were based on their level of scientific knowledge. Our sages themselves admitted that the wise men of the non-Jews had greater knowledge in some scientific matters (Pesahim 94b). Rabbi Haim David Halevy observed: “If it becomes clear through precise scientific method that a specific idea expressed by our sages is not entirely correct, this does not mar their greatness, Heaven forbid, and their greatness as sages of Torah. Their words relating to Torah were stated with the power of the holiness of Torah with a kind of divine inspiration; but their other words on general topics were stated from the depth of their human wisdom only.[6]

Ruah Ra’ah:

Many of our sages in earlier generations believed in demons (shedim), malevolent metaphysical forces (e.g. ayin ha-ra), astrology, and other such things. So did many of the wise and learned non-Jews of those times. These beliefs are not only cited in the Talmud but in some cases also have entered into a number of standard halakhic codes. How are we to understand these sources, and how are we to explain them to our children and students? Let us consider one such concept, ruah ra’ah, as an illustration of how to address this issue.

The Shulhan Arukh (O.H. 4:2) rules that one must pour water three times on each hand upon awakening, in order to remove the ruah ra’ah, an evil spirit that clings to the hands. In 4:3, the Shulhan Arukh states that before washing the hands, a person should not touch his mouth, nose, ears or eyes. Since the unwashed fingers have a ruah ra’ah on them, touching these sensitive organs is dangerous.

Various commentators have offered explanations of the nature of this ruah ra’ah. Some say that it clings to the hands because during sleep a person’s hands may touch various parts of the body and become unclean (physically and/or spiritually). Others say that sleeping is akin to death; just as one needs purification when coming into contact with death, so one needs purification when awakening from sleep. The Zohar states: “For when a person is sleeping, his spirit flies away from him, and as his spirit flies off, an impure spirit is ready to settle on his hands, defiling them. So it is forbidden to offer a blessing with them without first washing.”[7]

While the halakha mandates the ritual washing of hands in the morning, is the belief in ruah ra’ah a religious requirement? Can the washing of hands be explained in another way?

Rambam cites the rule of washing in the morning, in the laws of prayer (4:2-3). Washing of the hands (and face and legs as well) is part of the proper preparation for coming before the Almighty in prayer. Rambam does not mention ruah ra’ah at all! He apparently believed that the obligation to wash before prayer was a matter of physical cleanliness and ritual purification, but was not connected to ruah ra’ah. Taking Rambam’s approach, then, we can observe and teach the practice of ritual washing in the morning without conditioning it on a belief in ruah ra’ah.[8]

While Rambam dismissed the notion of ruah ra’ah as the reason for washing hands in the morning, other sages were not as forthright. Though doubting that ruah ra’ah can cause bodily injury, they were reluctant to reject a belief recorded in the Talmud and other rabbinic texts. They resolved the problem by proposing that the ruah ra’ah existed in past times, but has lost its efficacy in modern times. The Maharam ben Habib, for example, pointed out: “in our times, we have never seen nor heard of anyone touching his eyes with unwashed hands in the morning, who then became blind [because of this]; therefore [it must be that] ruah ra’ah of the morning is no longer found among us.”[9] The opinion that ruah ra’ah has lost its efficacy in our times was also expressed by the MaharShaL, Eliyah Rabbah and others.[10]

Rabbi Haim David Halevy, a great posek who was also devoted to the Zohar, noted that there are many topics that transcend our understanding, including the concept of ruah ra’ah. The ruah ra’ah refers to matters in the spiritual world which are beyond our power of reason to comprehend. Yet, when he describes the fulfillment of the hand-washing, Rabbi Halevy provides a meaningful and reasonable explanation: “Since the intention of the heart is the essence of fulfilling commandments, it is fitting that one should think at the time of washing that in this way he prepares himself for the service of the Creator, just as a priest who washed his hands in the Temple.”[11]

Obviously, we must observe and teach the halakha of the ritual washing of hands in the morning. But we are not obliged to believe or inculcate a belief in ruah ra’ah. When teaching the Shulhan Arukh’s text on ruah ra’ah, we can explain that many people believed in this concept in those days; that Rambam did not even mention the term in his codification of the rules of washing in the morning; that it is not religiously required to believe in this concept. It can also be pointed out that various sages suggested that ruah ra’ah has lost its efficacy in our times, i.e. that it is no longer a relevant concept for us. We can explain hand-washing as a ritual purification after sleeping at night; or as a ritual purification in preparation for prayer. It is inappropriate to insist that children believe in ruah ra’ah as a tenet of our religious tradition. It is wrong to teach that touching one’s eyes, nose, mouth or ears with unwashed hands will cause bodily harm. It is pedagogically and intellectually unsound to compel students to accept things that are demonstrably false, and to dress such teachings in the garb of religious truth. This can only lead to the degradation of religion in the eyes of the students as they grow older and more sophisticated in their thinking. They may come to equate religion and superstition—a very dangerous and unfortunate eventuality.

The Nature of Midrashic/Aggadic Statements:

While some rabbinic opinion has favored a literalist interpretation of the words of Hazal, other rabbinic opinion has sharply rejected this approach.[12] Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Chajes, an ardent defender of the wisdom of Hazal, made an obvious point: “There are several subjects in the Gemara whose meaning cannot be taken in a literal sense, because the text expounded literally would depict God as a corporeal being, and would also at times involve an act of blasphemy. We should, and we are, indeed, duty-bound to believe that the transmitters of the true Kabbalah, who are known to us as righteous and saintly men and also as accomplished scholars, would not speak merely in an odd manner. We must therefore believe that their words were uttered with an allegorical or mystical sense and that they point to matters of the most elevated significance, far beyond our mental grasp.”[13] Rabbi Chajes offered examples of rabbinic teachings that were stated rhetorically in order to stir the curiosity of listeners; that expressed profound ideas in figurative style; that employed parables and hyperbole. To take these midrashim literally would be to misunderstand totally the methods and the messages of Hazal. [14]

Rabbi Haim David Halevy pointed out that Hazal often disagreed with each other in their midrashic interpretations. It is impossible that two opposite opinions can both be historically true. For example, the Torah reports that after the death of Yosef a new Pharaoh arose over Egypt. Rav suggested that this referred to an actual new Pharaoh. Shemuel, though, interpreted this to mean that the same Pharaoh made new decrees against the Israelites. These statements cannot both be true.[15] Neither Rav nor Shemuel offered historical evidence or tradition to support his view; rather, their opinions flowed from their own reading of the Biblical text.

Hazal’s interpretations were often made to convey a moral lesson, not to comment on actual historical events. For example, Rav Nahman suggests that Yaacov and family, on their way to Egypt to reunite with Yosef, stopped at Beer Sheva and chopped down trees that had been planted by Abraham. They took this wood with them to Egypt, and kept it throughout the centuries of their captivity. When they left Egypt, they brought this wood with them, and used it in building the Mishkan in the wilderness. [16]This is a beautiful way of tying together the history of the Israelites with their original ancestor, Abraham. Yet, there is no reason to assume that Rav Nahman did historical research that led to this interpretation, and there is no compelling reason to believe that he had an ancient oral tradition on this point; nor did he claim to have one. The significance of his interpretation has nothing to do with its historicity, but everything to do with the lasting influence of Abraham on the children of Israel.

Since Hazal utilized various literary and rhetorical techniques, it is essential to approach their statements with care. It is also essential to recognize that their interpretations reflect their own particular views, rather than a clearly defined, divinely ordained oral tradition.

Hai Gaon taught that the aggadah included statements by rabbis where “each one interpreted whatever came to his heart.” We do not rely on the words of aggadah, but view them as personal opinions.[17] Sherira Gaon taught that aggadah, midrash and homiletical interpretations of the Bible were in the category of umdena, personal opinion and speculation.[18] The Gaon Shemuel ben Hofni stated: “If the words of the ancients contradict reason, we are not obligated to accept them.”[19]

The non-literalist view of Hazal’s statements has a long and distinguished tradition including the Gaonim, Shemuel ha-Naggid, Rambam and his son, Ramban and so many others. In more recent times, the view was well expressed by Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, who noted that “aggadic sayings do not have Sinaitic origin….Nor must someone whose opinion differs from that of our sages in a matter of aggadah be deemed a heretic, especially as the sages themselves frequently differ.”[20]

When we teach midrashim/aggadot, we must be sophisticated enough to view these passages in their literary and rhetorical context. We must not force a literalist interpretation, especially when such an interpretation violates reason, or when alternative valid interpretations are also available.

Some sages examined the Biblical stories and calculated that Rivka was three years old when she watered the camels of Abraham’s servant. This calculation, recorded in Seder Olam, assumes that Abraham sent his servant to find a wife for Yitzhak immediately after the Akedah. Yet, the Torah itself does not specify if this occurred immediately after the Akedah or if there was a lapse of some years between stories. The Tosafot (Yebamot 61b, vekhein hu omer) reports a rabbinic calculation which concludes that Rivka was fourteen years old at the time she watered the camels! Thus, even within classic rabbinic literature there is a difference of opinion as to how old Rivka was. The view that she was three years old apparently wishes to underscore the unusual, even miraculous, qualities of Rivka. The view that she was fourteen years old apparently wishes to understand the text in a more realistic light. Rivka obviously was old enough and mature enough to water camels, to decide to leave home to be married, and to marry Yitzhak.

When discussing the age of Rivka, then, it is fine to relate the rabbinic tradition that she was three, as a midrashic way of underscoring the unusual qualities of Rivka, just as a midrash has Abraham discovering God at the age of three. But it should also be noted that a valid rabbinic tradition holds that Rivka was actually fourteen at the time (and Abraham was forty, forty-eight or fifty-two when he discovered God). This view, of course, is more reasonable. No parent or teacher should insist that a child or student must believe that Rivka was three “because Hazal said so”. Hazal also said she was fourteen! Midrashic statements are often made to convey a lesson, not to record historical truth. In presenting midrashim, we need to examine their underlying lessons.

When the midrash is taught as though it is an integral part of the Biblical text, this does violence to the Biblical text—and also to the midrash. Students should always be able to differentiate between what is stated in the text, and what is later rabbinic interpretation. This is especially true when midrashim present supernatural or very odd details; students may come to believe that these midrashic elements are actually part of the Bible. If they later reject these strange midrashim, they may feel they are actually rejecting the Bible itself—and this may lead to much spiritual turmoil.

A well known tendency of midrash is to glorify the righteous characters and to vilify the wicked characters. Biblical heroes become larger than life in their goodness; and Biblical villains are characterized by all sorts of vices and defects. This is part of the story-telling and moralizing method of midrashic literature. This midrashic method should be taught to students, so that they become familiar with the style of Hazal in praising the righteous and condemning the wicked. This method will help us to understand the midrash’s presentation of Vashti.

The text of the Megillah tells us very little about Vashti. We do not know why she refuses to appear at the command of the king. Her refusal could be interpreted very positively: she was modest, and she was courageous in refusing her husband’s inappropriate command. But the midrashic mindset wants to vilify Ahashverosh—and also his wife. It is suggested that Vashti descends from the wicked Nebuchadnezar; that is why she is a “good” match for Ahashverosh. They are both corrupt people. If she is part of Nebuchadnezar’s evil family, she too must be evil. Then why didn’t she appear at Ahashverosh’s command? The reason could not be because she was modest or courageous; that would impute virtues to her. So the midrash suggests, perhaps with outlandish humor, that Vashti was stricken with hideous physical defects—pimples and a tail—so that she was embarrassed to appear before the king and his retinue. That is why she refused to come. This depiction deprives Vashti of moral virtue, and makes her a comical character punished with physical defects symbolic of her wicked soul.

I wonder what the point is of teaching this midrashic interpretation to kindergarten children. It is unlikely that they will understand the midrashic method underlying this description of Vashti. Teachers may like to teach this in order to make the children laugh and have their imaginations aroused. Yet, in the long run this lesson does damage to the children unless the teacher makes it very clear that this is a midrashic vilification of Vashti, not the description found in the Megillah’s text. Hazal never claimed that their midrashim were to be indistinguishable from the Biblical text, nor should we make that claim for them.

The points made in this article should seem fairly clear and obvious to all those interested in proper Torah education. Yet, the fact is that much mis-education is found in our homes, synagogues and schools. A simplistic, literalist approach to the words of Hazal continues to be influential—and very widespread. This is not only intellectually and pedagogically unsound: it is a degradation of Torah and Hazal, as pointed out by the Rambam. We all need to raise our voices for the sake of Torah, truth and the religious wellbeing of our future generations.

[1].See his Ma-amar Odot Derashot Hazal, printed in the introductory section of the Ein Yaacov.[
[2] Azariah de Rossi (1511-1578) pointed out the discrepancies in the rabbinic calculations in his Meor Enayim, Vilna, 1865, in the section Yemei Olam. See especially pp. 64f and pp. 223f.
[3] See Isaac S. D. Sassoon, Destination Torah, Ktav Publishing House, Hoboken, 2001, pp. 4-5.
[4] Aryeh Kaplan, Immortality, Resurrection and the Age of the Universe: A Kabbalistic View, Ktav Publishing House, Hoboken, 1993, p. 9. See also Nathan Aviezer, In the Beginning, Ktav Publishing House, Hoboken, 1990.
[5] Rambam, Hilkhot Hamets U-Matsah 7:8; Shulhan Arukh, O.H. 472:3, and the Magen Abraham and Taz on this passage. The Tur, O.H. 472, inverses the opinions of Rashi and Rashbam.
[6] Asei Lekha Rav, Tel Aviv, 5743, 5:49
[7] The Zohar, translation and commentary by Daniel C. Matt, Stanford University Press, Stanford, 2004, vol. 1, p. 70. See also note 524 on p. 69.
[8] See the discussion of the Arukh ha-Shulhan, O.H. 4, where he cites others who view the hand-washing as preparation for prayer.
[9] Cited in note 8 of Yalkut Yosef, by Yitzhak Yosef, Jerusalem, 5745, volume one of Tefillah, pp. 9-10.
[10] Ibid.

[11] Mekor Hayyim, Jerusalem, 5743, vol. 1, 2:5. For a discussion of Rabbi Halevy’s approach to halakha and kabbala, see Marc D. Angel with Hayyim Angel, Rabbi Haim David Halevy: Gentle Scholar and Courageous Thinker, Urim Publications, Jerusalem, 2006.
[12] For a discussion of both traditions in rabbinic literature, see my article “Authority and Dissent: A Discussion of Boundaries,” in Tradition, 25:2, Winter 1990, pp. 22f.
[13]The Student’s Guide to the Talmud, London, 1952, p. 201. See also his discussion on p. 208f.
[14] Ibid., chapters 26-30.

[15] Asei Lekha Rav 5:49.
[16] Midrash Rabbah ha-Mevoar, Jerusalem, 5748, vol.4, Bereishith 94:4
[17] Ozar ha-Geonim, ed. B. M. Lewin, Jerusalem, 5692, vol. 4 (Hagigah), pp. 59-60.
[18] Ibid., p. 60.

[19] Ibid., pp. 4-5,

[20] Joseph Munk, “Two Letters of Samson Raphael Hirsch, a Translation,” L’Eylah, April, 1989, pp. 30-35.

“I am Tunisian, but Jewish, which means that I am politically and socially an outcast. I speak the language of the country with a particular accent and emotionally I have nothing in common with Moslems. I am a Jew who has broken with the Jewish religion and the ghetto, is ignorant of Jewish culture and detests the middle class because it is phony. I am poor but desperately anxious not to be poor, and at the same time, I refuse to take the necessary steps to avoid poverty” (The Pillar of Salt, p. 331).

            In these few words in his autobiographical novel, Albert Memmi describes the dilemma of his life. He is an outcast. He does not belong to his religious community, to his nation, to any particular group. He is a human being, and wants to be a universal human being…but the world won’t let him out of his box.

            Memmi was born in Tunis (French Tunisia) in December 1920. He grew up in the Jewish ghetto and hated being a ghetto Jew. He attended the school of the Alliance Israelite Universelle, was drawn to French language and culture, and went on to study at the University of Algiers and later at the Sorbonne in Paris.

            During the Nazi occupation of Tunisia, he was imprisoned in a forced labor camp from which he later escaped. After World War II, he supported the independence movement in Tunisia but was unable to find a place in the movement because he was a Jew and because of his French education. He left Tunisia and settled in Paris where he became a prominent writer and teacher, and was especially well known for his works analyzing and criticizing Colonialism. He had a long and distinguished career; he died in May 2020 at age 99.

            Like many other Jewish intellectuals who grew up in ghettos, Memmi simply wanted to be a human being…like everyone else. He deeply resented living in a cocoon separated from the mainstream culture of the land. He found the Jewish religious leadership to be narrowly focused, unaware of or strongly opposed to prevailing intellectual currents of the time. Religion, to Memmi and others like him, was a combination of superstitions and traditions that lacked meaning except for the ignorant.

            Who could understand the dilemma of Memmi? Who could help him out of his self-enclosed world?  There was no religiously significant person within the Jewish religious establishment who could reach the young aspiring intellectual. And outside of the Jewish community, there was a wall of hatred, anti-Jewish prejudice, dehumanization. Memmi lamented: “I do not believe I have ever rejoiced in being a Jew. When I think of myself as a Jew, I am immediately conscious of a vague spiritual malaise, warm, persistent, always the same, that comes over me. The first thing that strikes me when I think of myself as a Jew is that I do not like to consider myself in that light” (Portrait of a Jew, p. 15). In his novel, he made it clear: “I did not want to be Alexandre Mordekhai Benillouche, I wanted to escape from myself and go out toward the others. I was not going to remain a Jew, an Oriental, a pauper; I belonged neither to my family nor to my religious community; I was a new being, utterly transparent, ready to be completely remade into a philosophy instructor” (The Pillar of Salt, p. 230).

            The Jewish predicament was forced upon him by a hostile non-Jewish world. “To be a Jew is first and foremost to find oneself called to account, to feel oneself continuously accused, explicitly or implicitly, clearly or obscurely….There is that constant hostility, that noxious haze in which the Jew is born, lives and dies” (Portrait of a Jew,  p. 57). Jews are accused for any and every ill in the world. “The moment a nation is struck by a catastrophe, we are the first to be abandoned….When a nation is in trouble, when the world is in trouble, I know now, from the experience of my short life, there is danger for the Jew: even if the malady has no connection with Jews” (Ibid., p. 208). The non-Jewish haters treat Jews not as fellow human beings, but as repulsive stereotypes. “I am not only suspected and accused, I am bullied, restricted, curtailed in my daily life, in my development as a man….For the most serious element, perhaps, the one most difficult to admit, is that the fate imposed on the Jews is a degrading fate” (Ibid., p. 321).

            How is a Jew to be liberated from this unpleasant fate? How can a Jew simply be accepted as an individual human being rather than as an ugly, hateful stereotype? Memmi reminisces: “When we graduated from the lycee at Tunis many of us decided to cut ourselves off from the past, the ghetto and our native land, to breathe fresh air and set off on the most beautiful of adventures. I no longer wanted to be that invalid called a Jew, mostly because I wanted to be a man; and because I wanted to join with all men to reconquer the humanity which was denied me” (The Liberation of the Jew, p. 22).  He, like many others, considered adapting to the styles and mores of the “majority.” By blending in, by accepting their way of life, he would be accepted. But he soon learned that no matter how much he—and other Jews—tried to assimilate, the non-Jews still saw them as Jews and still denigrated them for being Jewish.

            So Jews tended to create their own inner world, to protect themselves psychologically from the constant Jew-hatred of the non-Jews. “I came to discover at the same time a fundamental truth: the ghetto was also inside the Jew. It was more than a stone wall and wooden doors, more than a collective prison imposed by others; it was an inner wall, real and symbolic, which the Jew had built” (Ibid., p. 129).

            But Memmi ultimately came to a clear understanding of how to cope with being a member of an oppressed group. The first step is to admit the problem candidly. The next step is to deny oneself all camouflage and consolation for one’s misery. And then, above all, one must make an effective decision to put an end to the oppression. The oppressed person must take responsibility for shaking off the control of the oppressors. “The Jew, oppressed as a people, must find his autonomy and freedom to express his originality as a people” (Ibid., p 278). For Memmi, the ultimate goal is for Jews to live freely, independently, not under the thumb of others. In practical terms, that meant Jewish liberation is expressed through the State of Israel.  “The specific liberation of the Jews is a national liberation and for the last years this national liberation of the Jew has been the state of Israel….If Israel did not exist it would have to be created….For Israel alone can put an end to the negativity of the Jew and liberate his positivity” (Ibid., pp. 283, 294).

            From his personal struggles as a Jew, Memmi extrapolated his concerns to all oppressed peoples. In his classic work, The Colonizer and the Colonized, he underscored the arrogant assumptions of the European colonial powers. Colonialists posit an unbridgeable gulf between themselves and their victims. “The colonialist stresses those things which keep him separate, rather than emphasizing that which might contribute to the foundation of a joint community. In those differences, the colonized is always degraded and the colonialist finds justification for rejecting his subjects: (p. 71). The self-assured oppressor assumes all the virtues, and expects the victims to adapt to the ideas and values of their oppressors. “The point is that whether Negro, Jew or colonized, one must resemble the white man, the non-Jew, the colonizer” (p. 122). But no matter how hard the victims try to emulate the oppressors, they “can never succeed in becoming identified with the colonizer, not even in copying his role correctly” (p. 123). The situation is intolerable for the victims. “Must he, all his life, be ashamed of what is most real in him, of the only things not borrowed? Must he insist on denying himself, and, moreover, will he always be able to stand it? Must his liberation be accomplished through systematic self-denial?” (p. 123).

            The colonialist dehumanizes victims, treats them as inferior beings who deserve to be treated as inferiors. But at some point, the victims will find the courage to rebel and to repudiate the arrogance of the oppressors. “The West has discovered that it cannot live peacefully if the majority of the world’s inhabitants live in poverty, envious of the developed world. Because of its very progress, the West has become a fat glutton; it stuffs itself with food and destroys its toys like a spoiled child” (Decolonization and the Decolonized, p. 129.)

            Memmi devotes serious attention to the nature of racism. He sees the problem as impacting on almost everyone. “Each time one finds oneself in contact with an individual or group that is different and only poorly understood, one can react in a way that would signify a racism….We risk behaving in a racist manner each time we believe ourselves threatened in our privileges, in our well-being, or in our security” (Racism, p. 23). Racist attitudes/behaviors are characterized by building up oneself while devaluing others. To bolster one’s own ego, one tears down others who are perceived as threats or competitors. “Racists are people who are afraid; they feel fear because they attack, and they attack because they feel fear” (p. 97).

            In its limited sense, racism is the attribution of negative attributes based on biological factors. People of the victim race/group are branded as being biologically different, and the differences are innate and negative. But more broadly, the issue of racism transcends biology. “The word racism works perfectly well for the biological notion….Heterophobia would designate the many configurations of fear, hate and aggressiveness, that, directed against an other, attempt to justify themselves through different psychological, cultural, social or metaphysical means, of which racism in its biological sense is only one” (p. 118). Racism rejects others in the name of biological differences. Heterophobia rejects others in the name of no matter what difference.

            Racism and heterophobia are not limited to psychotic individuals or hateful groups. “In almost every person there is a tendency toward a racist mode of thinking that is unconscious, or perhaps partly conscious, or not unconscious at all…Racism, or perhaps I should say heterophobia, is ultimately the most widely shared attitude in the world” (pp. 131, 132).  People seek to bolster their own egos by attributing negative value to others who are different in any way. The most obvious targets of racists are the victims who are already the most oppressed. It is easiest to attack those who are weakest.

            How do individuals/groups overcome the tendency to racism and heterophobia? They must come to realize that “racism is a form of charging the oppressed for the crimes, whether actual or potential, of the oppressor” (p. 139). In other words, haters reflect their own negative traits when they brand others. Once they realize that their hatred is a reflection of their own fears and weaknesses, they can try to overcome it. They must not be frightened by people of different races, religions, nations. “Differences must be lucidly recognized, embrace and respected as such. Others must be granted their being as other, with all the enrichment of life that might be possible through their very differences” (p. 155).

            Memmi devoted his life to understanding and combatting racism and heterophobia. In spite of his monumental achievements as teacher and author, he never escaped the feeling that he was oppressed. His very Jewishness was a source of anguish to him because so many non-Jews viewed Jews as caricatures rather than as fellow human beings. Yet, his first hand feelings of being alienated and oppressed enabled him to fully identify with others who were victims of colonialism, racism, hatred. If Jewishness was a burden to him, it was also the source of his greatness.

            Although he was alienated from religion, he had a deep spiritual sense. In his novel, The Desert, he wrote almost longingly: “I have always loved those moments when one finds oneself alone with one’s Creator, and I wonder whether it is not for that reason that God requires prayer, for that daily encounter with ourselves” (pp. 54-55). But he found no rabbinic or spiritual personalities who could adequately address his concerns or cultivate his spirituality.

Memmi wrote: “Do not become a stranger to yourself, for you are lost from that day on; you will have no peace if there is not, somewhere within you, a corner of certainty, calm waters where you can take refuge in sleep” (The Pillar of Salt, p. 316). 

                                                          *     *     *

           To me, Albert Memmi represents generations of thinking Jews who have struggled with their Jewish identities. They have felt oppressed by ubiquitous anti-Jewish attitudes and actions; they have been dissatisfied with presentations of Judaism that are akin to superstition and blind obedience; they have felt unfairly stigmatized and set apart. They have wanted simply to be free and dignified human beings, judged by their individual actions. They have wanted to share in the life and culture of humanity as a whole, and they have wanted to contribute to the betterment of the world.

           In my long career as a Sephardic Orthodox rabbi, I have related to many Jews—young and old—who shared some of the feelings and concerns articulated by Albert Memmi. I have learned much from them, as I hope they have learned from me. When a Jew becomes a stranger to him/herself, inner peace and self-respect are endangered.  To be a liberated Jew means to be a self-respecting, confident, compassionate human being. It means accepting Judaism and Jewishness as great privileges that should be celebrated. Albert Memmi was a tormented soul who could not find his way clear to be a liberated, confident Jew. In his failure, though, there are seeds of redemption for other thinking Jews. We cannot allow ourselves to be boxed in by others. We must insist on our freedom and humanity.