National Scholar Updates

The Haggadah is a prime example of using words to convey Jewish history and tradition. The word Haggadah means ‘telling,’ and we ‘tell’ the story of our liberation from bondage with words of praise and study. But like most things, words are a two-edged sword. They can sustain a nation and its heritage and, as the Haggadah reminds us, they can cause great suffering. 

In the maggid, the narrative section of the Haggadah, there is a Midrash on four verses at the end of Deuteronomy (26:5-8) that summarize the Exodus story. The second of these verses reads: 

The Egyptians did evil to us and afflicted us

They laid heavy work upon us. 

The simple sense of the verse (the peshat) is that the second half explains the first half. That is, the ‘evil and affliction’ that the Egyptians did refers to the ‘heavy work’ that they imposed on us. 

The Midrash quoted in the Haggadah, however, sees each of the expressions in the verse as referring to a distinct part of the story. "The Egyptians did evil to us" is taken as a reference to what Pharaoh said to his people about the Israelites. The Haggadah quotes a verse: 

Come let us be cunning with them, 

Lest they multiply

And should war happen, they would join our enemies… (Exodus 1:10). 

I have often wondered why the Midrash sees this as "doing evil to us." After all, the Egyptians hadn't yet done anything to afflict us. What evil is there in words? 

The Midrash, however, is calling our attention to a subtle part of the story that might otherwise get lost in the greater drama, namely, the role of words in the process of enslavement. Pharaoh portrayed the Israelites as potential traitors, who in the next war might join Egypt’s enemies. This provided the legitimacy for the oppression and slavery that followed.

 This tragic pattern repeated itself often in our history, as words that demonized us were followed by bloodshed. In the Middle Ages, accusations of “Christ-killers” led to terrible discrimination against the Jews, as well as to pogroms and expulsions. In the last century, the Nazis paved the way for the Holocaust by calling Jews “vermin” and “sub-human.” 

There is often a temptation to ignore words, especially extreme words, and to dismiss them as the ranting of lunatics. But history shows that there is a price to pay for this denial and for the lack of response that it enables. Once ideas take hold in the popular imagination, they are hard to dislodge. 

We are witnessing this in our own generation. Anti-Semitism is being mainstreamed via accusations of apartheid and genocide regarding Palestinian Arabs. False accusations against Israel have led directly to justifying, or at least “understanding,” the suicide bombers who for decades killed innocent civilians, and then the war that Hamas launched on Oct. 7. 

The Haggadah’s point about the power of words calls us to be aware of how we use them: to reserve them for the purpose of enhancing life and creating blessing, and to be wary of inappropriate condemnation.  Mindfulness about our words is part of walking with God. 

Of course, there is still good and evil in the world. Some people are truly dangerous, and there is a terrible price to pay for not taking action to protect ourselves. As we found out through the appeasement that led to the Second World War, we ignore warning signals at our own peril. 

In the Jewish tradition, when we hear allegations we do not need to wait for absolute proof before taking precautions; by then it might be too late. The Talmud teaches that while one may not accept lashon ha-ra (negative reports) as truth, one is obligated to take precautions based on such reports. (For a fuller discussion of this, see Talmud Niddah 61a; Rambam, Rotzeach 1:14; Mesillat Yesharim by Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, chap. 20.)

This nuanced approach is very typical of Jewish teaching, which seeks to balance the various concerns in a moral way. We are not to condemn based on negative reports, nor are we to be sitting ducks who don’t act until it is too late. 

On this night of celebrating our liberation, we recall that our bondage began with evil words. Remembering the power of words, the Haggadah calls us to use words only to enhance life and to bring blessing. 

POSTSCRIPT    

I recently saw a remarkable Facebook post by Mustapha Ezzarghani, a Moroccan Muslim who is the president of the Moroccan-Israeli Friendship Association. He speaks about how words are being used to fuel hatred of Jews. As I read it, I thought how similar his description is to what we have been discussing about the power of words. I am including, below, selections from his post, edited slightly for clarity and brevity. You can find the entire post at: https://www.facebook.com/share/p/18FjUrjzsT/. It is well worth reading, as are many of his other Facebook posts. 

“I never imagined that one day I would be sitting in America, this country that opened its doors to me, watching a man like Tucker Carlson speak about Jews in a way that feels so painfully familiar. Familiar not because it is American, but because I have heard its echo before, in another language, in another continent, in another life.

“I grew up in Morocco, a Muslim country with a deep and complicated relationship with its Jewish history. And I learned something very early: antisemitism rarely introduces itself honestly. It disguises itself. It speaks in clever language. It pretends to be about politics, about power, about ‘questions.’ But beneath all of it, there is always the same old poison: the belief that Jews are somehow too influential, too present, too dangerous.

“As a Moroccan Muslim, I reject this story. Because I know what happens when these ideas are left unchallenged. I have seen how they spread quietly in conversations, then loudly in crowds, and eventually violently in actions. I have seen how a people who lived for centuries among their neighbors can suddenly become ‘the other,’ the enemy within.

“I know how quickly ‘criticism’ turns into dehumanization. I know how easily people convince themselves that they are just asking questions, while repeating the oldest hatred known to humanity.

“And to those who think they are simply engaging in ‘honest discussion,’ I say this: history has already heard your arguments. It has buried them. And it will not forgive those who choose to revive them.

“To my Jewish brothers and sisters in America: you are not alone. Not in this country, and not in this moment. There are voices, Muslim voices included, that see clearly what is happening and stand firmly against it.”

In an era when social media often amplifies hatred and outrage, something remarkable happened recently on X (formerly Twitter).

It began with a simple post I wrote on March 12. I mentioned that my sons, along with thousands of other young Israelis, are serving in the Israel Defense Forces as the Jewish state confronts Iran and its proxies. Like any father, I worry for their safety.

So I ended the post with a request directed to the people of Somaliland, a state that declared independence from Somalia in the early 1990s.

Over the years, I’ve met many Somalilanders online and been struck by their open admiration for Israel-its resilience, democracy, and ability to thrive despite hardship. Because of that, I asked them to do something unusual: pray for the IDF.

Even so, I never expected what happened next.

Replies poured in-warm, heartfelt, and sincere.

“I pray to Allah to stand with the people of Israel and protect them against Iran and all enemies who wish them harm."
- Rakad Sultan, businessman connected to Somaliland’s Ministry of Labor"

“We pray a lot for the sons of Israel who are fighting the enemy. May they be victorious!"
- Amin Ismail

“Our prayers are with you. May G-d protect and watch over you. Long live Israel."

The messages just kept coming. Again and again, religious Sunni Muslims from Somaliland expressed their willingness to pray for Jewish soldiers.

Pause and consider that.

In much of the Muslim world, public support for Israel is rare. Political rhetoric and decades of propaganda have fostered hostility toward the Jewish state. Yet here were Muslims openly praying for IDF soldiers-publicly, on a global platform.

Even more striking, it happened during Ramadan, a time of devotion and compassion. As Muslims worldwide turned to G-d, Somalilanders included Jewish soldiers in their prayers.

That is extraordinary-and deeply telling.

Located in the Horn of Africa along the Gulf of Aden, Somaliland declared independence in 1991. In three decades, it has built democratic institutions, held elections, and maintained stability in a turbulent region. Despite this, it remains unrecognized internationally. Israel, however, became the first to recognize it in December 2025.

Both societies share similarities: they arose from difficulty, were built under pressure, and survive in tough neighborhoods. But beyond geopolitics lies something more important-mutual respect between people.

The responses to my post weren’t official statements. They were simple prayers from ordinary Somalilanders.

And that’s why they matter.

Even among Arab countries that have peace with Israel, few citizens would so openly pray for its soldiers. For decades, hostility between Israel and the Muslim world was seen as inevitable.

But Somaliland offers another model - a Muslim-majority society that is pragmatic, outward-looking and open to cooperation.

Here were individuals who answered a Jewish father’s plea by asking Allah to protect his sons. That is more than a gesture. It’s a glimpse of what relations between Israel and the Muslim world could one day become.

Sometimes diplomacy doesn’t begin with treaties or official visits. Sometimes it begins somewhere far simpler: with a Jewish father asking for prayers, and Muslims answering that call.

Angel for Shabbat HaGadol

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

“And the Lord gave the people favor in the sight of the Egyptians…” (Shemot 12:36).

For centuries, the Egyptians enslaved the Israelites with malice and cruelty. But when the Israelites were about to gain their freedom, the attitude of the Egyptians changed dramatically. The Israelites now “found favor in the sight of the Egyptians,” who showered gold, silver and garments on their erstwhile slaves.  Last year they hated us; today they love us; is this for real?

This strange phenomenon came to mind when I re-read an article I wrote in 2017, reporting on the results of a survey by the Pew Research Center. The survey showed that Americans expressed more positive feelings toward Jews than any other group! “Warmer feelings are expressed by people in all the major religious groups analyzed, as well as by both Democrats and Republicans, men and women, and younger and older adults.”  They loved us!

But the situation today seems so radically different. We are constantly barraged by statements and surveys that point to increased rates of anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism. Anti-Semitic violence is on the rise.  Did all the goodwill cited in earlier polls simply evaporate?

The bad news: people are fickle.  Attitudes can—and do—change due to media bias, publicity campaigns, statements by celebrities etc.  Public opinion can be—and is—manipulated through many sources. Not everyone has the clarity of mind or solid facts to make informed judgments. The crowd moves with the crowd. Demagogues know this and depend on this. By generating a non-stop flow of anti-Jewish and anti-Israel propaganda, they insidiously infect public opinion.

The good news: people can change for the better. They are able to overcome past negative stereotypes and come to see things more realistically. Most Americans, as reflected in earlier polls, admire the Jewish community as a highly educated, idealistic, charitable and constructive group. They respect the dynamic democracy of Israel and its amazing creativity and strength. When the anti-Jewish/anti-Israel fulminations die down, so will public opinion veer back in a positive and honest direction.

The haftara for Shabbat HaGadol is drawn from the prophecies of Malachi. He foresaw a day when righteousness will prevail over wickedness, when goodness will be rewarded and evil will be overcome. “But unto you that fear My name shall the sun of righteousness arise with healing in its wings; and you shall go forth and gambol as calves of the stall. And you shall tread down the wicked; for they shall be ashes under the soles of your feet in the day that I do make, says the Lord of hosts” (Malachi 3:20-21).

During this season, the ancient Israelites were freed from bondage. During this season, may our generation be saved from haters, oppressors and perpetrators of violence against us. "In Nisan the Israelites were redeemed; in Nisan the Israelites will be redeemed."

Thoughts for Pessah

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

At the Seder, we ate the “Hillel Sandwich,” Korekh, which includes both matsa and maror. Rabbi Benzion Uziel, late Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel, pointed out that matsa—eaten as the Israelites left Egypt—symbolizes freedom. Maror—bitter herb—symbolizes the bitterness of slavery. We combine these two symbols to remind us that freedom and slavery are intertwined. Even when we are enslaved, we have our inner freedom. Even when we are free, we have to worry about falling back into slavery.

Until Mashiah arrives, we are always experiencing a mixture of matsa and maror, freedom and suffering. Sometimes things are better and sometimes worse…but we are constantly engaged in personal and national struggle.

We are currently living in very challenging times for Israel and the Jewish People. We all feel the taste of maror, the bitterness of war, death, anti-Semitism, ugly anti-Israel hatred. But we also have the taste of matsa…freedom. The State of Israel is strong, vibrant, and courageous. The Jewish People worldwide are standing up for our rights and for the honor of Israel. We are literally eating “korekh”, matsa and maror together, simultaneously. 

If the first days of Pessah highlight the mixed feelings symbolized by matsa and maror, the last days of Pessah stress redemption. On the Seventh Day of Pessah, the Torah reading features the song sung by Moses and the Israelites upon crossing the Sea of Reeds and escaping from their Egyptian oppressors. The focus is on the past redemption. On the Eighth Day of Pessah, the Haftara is drawn from the prophecies of Isaiah concerning the future redemption. “Cry aloud and sing for joy, Zion resettled, for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel.”

It has been noted that the redemption from Egypt is attributed entirely to the Almighty. The Israelites themselves were relatively passive in the process of gaining their freedom. But the ultimate redemption will require us to participate actively. While Hashem will be the guarantor, we will need to assume personal responsibility.

Along with our prayers, we each must stand with Am Yisrael in every way possible. We need action—communal, political, financial etc.—in support of Medinat Yisrael. We need to stand up against anti-Semites and anti-Zionists with fortitude…and we must prevail.

Isaiah’s words resonate: “Behold, God is my salvation, I trust and am not afraid; For God the Lord is my strength and my song and He is become my salvation…Cry aloud and sing for joy, Zion resettled, for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel.”

(This is a slightly edited version of an article by Rabbi David Bar-Hayim that originally was published some years ago.)

Rashi almost certainly never saw an olive. The same goes for other medieval authorities in Ashk’naz (Germany-Northern France). This little-known but indisputable fact should matter to you. It has everything to do with the following question: Is Halakhic Judaism rational and rooted in reality, or is it a hypothetical construct unconducive to engaging the real world?

It is a simple matter to ascertain, or describe to another, the volume of an average olive, a ‘k’zayit’…provided you have olives. But what if you have never seen an olive? How would you understand the concept? How would you describe it to someone unfamiliar with olives?

This was the reality in Ashk’naz in the Middle Ages, and there is no mystery as to why. The olive tree is native to the Mediterranean basin, from Israel in the East to Spain in the west; it does not naturally grow elsewhere. In Roman times, due to the trade routes which crisscrossed the Empire, olives may have made their way to Germany and beyond. The collapse of Rome, however, led to a breakdown of law and order, and therefore trade.

Medieval Ashk’nazim were unfamiliar with olives, a fact confirmed by R. Eliezer b. Yoel’s (d. circa 1225) discussion of the minimal amount required for a b’rakha aharona: “Wherever a k’zayith is required, one needs a sizeable amount of food, because we are unfamiliar with the size of an olive…” (Ra’avya, B’rakhoth 107).

Some Ashk’nazi authorities concluded that an olive was half the volume of an egg, while others demonstrated, based on Talmudic sources, that it must be less than one third of an egg. How much less they could not say. The truth, of course, is different, as was clearly perceived by one 14th century authority who actually made it to Eretz Yisrael. Responding to the proposition that a person could swallow three k’zaytim at once (which is quite impossible if one assumes a k’zayit to be half of an egg in volume) he wrote: “As for me, the matter is plain, for I saw olives in Eretz Yisrael and Yerushalayim, and even six were not equal to an egg.” S’pharadi authorities, on the other hand, had no such difficulties. One wrote that an olive is “much less” than a quarter of an egg (Rashba), while another mentions in passing that a dried fig is equal to “several olives” (Rittba). The last three statements, made by sages who saw olives, are entirely accurate.

In present day Halakhic practice, predicated on opinions rooted in the aforementioned lack of knowledge and experience, a k’zayit is often said to be 30 cc, while others say 60 cc. These figures bear no relation to the real world olives of Eretz Yisrael which average 3-5 cc. It is claimed by some that once upon a time olives were much larger. This claim is false. Olives and olive trees have not changed, as evidenced by the fact that there are over 70 olive trees in Israel ranging between 1,700-2000 years old, and 7 are approximately 3000 years old. These trees continue to produce fruit identical to the olives of younger trees. Halakhic responsa from the G’onic period echo these facts, stating plainly that olives do not change. Some would have you believe that there are two kinds of olives: real olives and ‘Halakhic’ olives. In their view, Halakha need not reflect reality; it exists in an alternate reality of its own. This is a tragedy because it paints Judaism as divorced from reality and irrelevant to a rational person. This is a lie because Torah was intended by Hashem as our handbook for operating in the real world.

The ultimate purpose of Judaism was announced by the Creator before He transmitted the Torah to His people: “And you shall be for My purpose a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6). The nation of Israel is the priest connecting God and mankind. “I, God, have summoned you for a righteous purpose…. and have assigned you for my covenant with humanity, a light for the nations” (Isaiah 42:6).

The Jewish people, in order to succeed, have to live and lead in the real world. To deal with the challenges facing us as a nation we must think, act and believe rationally. A rational person does not believe in olives 20 times the size of the olives we see with our own eyes. To deal with reality, we have to get real.

Book Review

Joshua Berman, Echoes of Egypt: A Haggada (Koren, 2026), 138pp.

by Rabbi Hayyim Angel

The Koren Tanakh of the Land of Israel has just published the next volume in its ongoing series. Professor Joshua Berman presents a visual commentary on the slavery and exodus narratives, featuring ancient Egyptian images. Like the Shemot commentary of this excellent series, the vivid images with scholarly explanations bring the Egyptian setting of the Pesah story to life. This pedagogical technique distinguishes this Haggadah and will enhance the Seder experience for a wide variety of readers.

Several pictures simply enable readers to see artifacts and wall reliefs that provide vivid depictions of our slavery. A photograph of a vast ancient Egyptian mudbrick storage facility (p. 38), a detailed Egyptian tomb illustration of the backbreaking labor of brickmaking (pp. 64-65), and a relief of a pharaoh in a chariot (105) bring the experience of our slavery and redemption to our Seder table.

Berman’s introductory essays provide meaningful background to the Torah’s narratives in Exodus. He outlines how the Torah broke with ancient political thought and the many political and economic ramifications of the Torah’s revolutionary ideology. He then discusses Egyptian royal propaganda, and how the Torah ironically turns those terms on their head as God overwhelms the helpless pharaoh and his nation.

On other occasions, we gain greater insight into the meaning of the Torah. God repeats the phraseology that He will redeem Israel with a mighty hand and outstretched arm. Clearly, these terms refer to God’s power. However, Berman observes that these expressions—used throughout Tanakh—appear only in association with the exodus from Egypt and not other narratives where God displays His power. Berman explains this seeming anomaly by noting that these terms appear in Egyptian writings, particularly in the zenith of Egypt’s power from 1550-1100 BCE. A relief showing Seti I holding his captives down with his left hand while wielding a mace (p. 14) illustrates the Egyptian propaganda regarding their pharaohs. Berman explains that the Torah thereby uses Egyptian propaganda against Egypt—now, God will devastate them as He frees a slave nation from their grip. The visual medium makes the propaganda argument tangible at the Seder table — tying archaeology to lived ritual.

Several of Berman’s comments present interesting tidbits. He observes (23) that Egyptians refer to their own country in Arabic as Misr. We would intuitively conclude that the Hebrew Mitzrayim and the Arabic name derive from the ancient Egyptian name for their land. However, this is not so. When the ancient Coptic Christians translated the Torah into Coptic, they transliterated the Torah’s Mitzrayim directly into Coptic. After the Muslim conquest in the 7^th century, Muslims adopted the Coptic form of the name into Arabic. Therefore, Egyptians refer to their land as Misr because of the Torah’s transmission of that name into Coptic.

Occasionally, the connections between our Seder and ancient Egypt remain unclear. Not every element of the rabbinic Seder requires Egyptian background; some reflect later Greco-Roman cultural adaptation. For example, we eat maror, bitter herbs. However, the Torah itself does not prescribe which species of vegetation qualify for this commandment. By the Mishnah, the preferred vegetable is romaine lettuce (Mishnah Pesahim 10:3). The Talmud goes on to describe several other options that qualify for fulfillment of the maror. Berman observes (8) that depictions of the Egyptian god of fertility, Min, frequently include offerings of romaine lettuce. He suggests that romaine may symbolize fertility and growth.

However, it may be overly speculative to connect romaine lettuce to ancient Egypt, given that the Torah does not specify any vegetable for maror. Scholars such as Joseph Tabory (JPS Commentary on the Haggadah, 2008) outline the similarities between the prescribed rabbinic Seder rituals and the Greco-Roman symposium. In the latter, intellectuals gathered to share wine, food, and stimulating discourse. A common appetizer before the main course was romaine lettuce dipped in a sauce. Since maror is a required commandment for our Seder, the rabbinic Sages moved that practice to the maror section of our Seder, while substituting karpas, or a non-maror vegetable such as celery, to the earlier appetizer stage of our Seder. In this instance, it is unclear that we should link romaine lettuce as the preferred maror of the Mishnah with ancient Egyptian rituals.

The Haggadah exhorts all of us: “Generation by generation, each person must see himself as if he himself came out of Egypt.” By presenting Egypt in its historical and cultural setting, Berman demonstrates how contextual scholarship can illuminate and sharpen the Torah’s message. When used with care, archaeology and comparative study clarify the polemical and theological force of the Exodus narrative. In this way, Echoes of Egypt models how serious scholarship can deepen and enrich religious experience at the Seder table.

BOOK REVIEW

Shemot in Context: A Scientific and Kabbalistic Commentary of Exodus by Rabbi Elia Benamozegh

By Sina Kahen and Ben Rothstein (Da’at Press, 2026), 302 pages

Since its founding in 2020, The Habura and its affiliated Da’at Press have distinguished themselves by producing original scholarship and translations that reflect the classical Geonic and Andalusian worldview. Committed to the highest values of Jewish tradition and scholarship, they make many previously obscure and inaccessible works available to the wider English-reading public.

Rabbi Elia Benamozegh (1823–1900, Leghorn, Italy) was a remarkable and wide-ranging thinker. He was deeply steeped in classical Jewish texts and mysticism, while simultaneously being up to date with the best of archaeological and linguistic scholarship which expanded dramatically in his time. In his Em LaMikra commentary on the Torah, he approached Torah interpretation by bringing every tool he knew to bear, engaging in pagan myths and culture to demonstrate similarities and profound differences with the Torah in its context. 

Rambam demonstrated the value of situating Torah within the intellectual world of antiquity. Rabbi Benamozegh advanced this methodology with the plethora of findings Rambam wished he could have accessed (Guide of the Perplexed III:48). Of course, Rabbi Benamozegh was limited to nineteenth-century scholarship, just as Rambam was limited to that of the twelfth century. However, while many of his theses have become obsolete with updates in scholarly knowledge over the past two centuries, his pursuit of truth using the best available learning tools remains as relevant and as illuminating as ever. 

Rabbi Benamozegh is an independent scholar who critically evaluates the opinions of his predecessors and peers, and who sees an overarching unity from the many available sources of tradition and scientific knowledge. Kahen and Rothstein ably summarize and paraphrase many of Rabbi Benamozegh’s analyses of the Book of Exodus.

To cite one particularly striking example of this unusual methodology, Rabbi Benamozegh explores the meaning of the unusual name of God, Shaddai. Exodus 6:3 reads, “I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name GOD” (the four-letter personal name of God). Rabbi Benamozegh’s extended discussion (see pp. 118-138) exemplifies many of the methodological tools evidenced throughout his comments in Em LaMikra.

Rabbi Benamozegh places singular importance on understanding the meaning of God’s various names in the Torah. Such analysis enables us to comprehend the Torah better, but also helps us ascertain layers of pure monotheistic faith which spread throughout humanity from the most ancient times. Rabbi Benamozegh considers ancient languages and mythology as repositories of traces of true faith in God.

He begins his analysis of Shaddai by surveying and evaluating the views of the classical peshat commentators. Rashi understands the name as compound, she-dai, she-yesh dai. God is sufficient for all creatures, and supplies their needs. Many other medieval commentators—including Rambam, Ralbag, and Sforno—similarly understand Shaddai as compound, even as they offer different nuances to its precise meaning.

In contrast, Ibn Ezra and Ramban interpret Shaddai as deriving from shadad, victorious, mighty. Rabbi Benamozegh, however, rejects their interpretation, insisting that ancient Jewish tradition unanimously understands Shaddai as compound. To bolster his claim, he cites numerous Midrashim that indeed understand Shaddai as referring to God’s sufficiency. He observes that nearly all the ancient translations—including Symmachus, Theodotion, and the Septuagint—similarly interpret Shaddai as compound. Similarly, the Zohar understands Shaddai as compound. To “prove” his thesis, Rabbi Benamozegh observes that even the heretic Benedict Spinoza adopted this view, even though he had no allegiance to rabbinic tradition!

Rabbi Benamozegh offers a philological analysis of related words and phrases in Tanakh, which he claims also supports the dominant rabbinic reading against that of Ibn Ezra and Ramban. Thus far, he develops a traditional framework of interpretation to support his understanding that Shaddai is a compound name that derives from she-dai, sufficiency. His citation of biblical verses, Midrashim, and classical commentary is nothing out of the ordinary. His knowledge of ancient translations, the Zohar, and even Spinoza, makes him considerably more unusual among traditional commentators.

Yet none of the above compares with the next layer of Rabbi Benamozegh’s analysis. He turns to ancient India and China, where the word Tao or Dao is a seminal theological concept (the authors note that Taoism is indigenous to China, and perhaps Rabbi Benamozegh links this philosophy to India based on a legend that Laozi—the founder of Taoism—traveled to India). Rabbi Benamozegh links this Tao or Dao to Egypt (Teos), Greek (Theos), Latin (Deus), and French (Dieu), among other cultures.

Rabbi Benamozegh maintains that the dai in Shaddai is related to Dao. The etymological link might appear strained, since the Hebrew dai refers to sufficiency and Tao refers to “the way,” and represents the underlying unity within the created universe. However, Rabbi Benamozegh cites Kabbalah, which links Shaddai with the sefirah of Yesod, which kabbalists call derekh, the way.

The book’s authors conclude, “Rabbi Benamozegh shows how philology, Rabbinic tradition, comparative religion, and Kabbalah all converge in the name Shaddai, revealing it as a profound symbol of divine sufficiency, providence, and the sustaining power of creation. It is a name rooted in Israel’s ancient tradition yet echoed in the languages, myths, and symbols of other nations.” 

It is difficult to accept all of Rabbi Benamozegh’s analysis, but it may be viewed as creative theology rather than rigorous historical philology. It also reflects the sweeping comparative enthusiasm characteristic of the 19^th century. Yet such sweeping convergence invites scrutiny.

Rabbi Benamozegh’s enduring value lies not in the precision of every historical or philological claim, but in his expansive theological imagination and his confidence that all genuine wisdom ultimately converges in divine truth. His work reflects the sweeping comparative enthusiasm of the nineteenth century, and modern scholarship may question many of his linguistic connections. Yet his intellectual audacity remains deeply instructive. He models a Torah scholarship unafraid of engagement, willing to test its claims against the widest available horizons of knowledge. Reading him today is also a salutary reminder that our own scholarly certainties may one day prove provisional or obsolete. Sina Kahen and Ben Rothstein have rendered a significant service in making this daring and erudite interpreter accessible to the English-speaking world.

     “Inclusive Orthodoxy” was Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ way of describing how the majority of Jewish

congregations operate in Britain and the Commonwealth. In these communities most

synagogues are run along Orthodox lines with an Orthodox Rabbi, and some

members who are observant. However, most congregants are more traditional than

strict in their religious practice. Nevertheless, they are part of an Orthodox

congregation, and when the model is working at its best, they feel at home there, are

actively welcomed and valued, and they may even grow in their religious

commitment. Beyond their commitment to maintaining Orthodox communal

standards, these congregations are not part of a dedicated ideological project of any

particular variety, but religious communities that seek to provide a home to as many

Jews as possible.

     That is the model of the United Synagogue in London, similar congregations around

Britain, and in other countries including Canada, New Zealand, South Africa and my

own home in Australia. I have been the Rabbi of one such congregation, The Great

Synagogue of Sydney, for just over ten years now. In that time I have had to reflect

on how a Rabbi can and should lead an Inclusive Orthodox community. It is not

straightforward, and raises several quandaries. How can the Rabbi uphold Orthodox

standards while still welcoming everyone? How can he make everyone feel at home

even though they might have very different lifestyles to his own, and very different

from a halakhic ideal? How can he promote increased Jewish observance without

alienating his congregation?

     I cannot claim to have all the answers to these questions, but I think that the bridge

that needs to be built may rest on three pillars: Embracing, Exemplifying and

Encouraging. Just as Rabbi Sacks argued that Inclusive Orthodoxy as a whole was

not an accommodation, but an ideal, certainly in the context of the modern world as it

actually exists, I submit that this rabbinic approach is not just a strategic choice, but

is also a religious imperative.

     First comes Embracing. It is the job of the Rabbi of any congregation, and especially

a congregation where the members are not uniform in their level of religious

observance, to embrace each and every person. My young children have a board

book called We Go To Shul (by Douglas Florian and Hannah Tolson), which includes

the line “rabbi greets all those he meets”, which captures this responsibility

perfectly. Everyone who wants to come to any activities of the congregation should

be greeted, embraced, genuinely welcomed and valued, and they should feel that is

the authentic disposition of the Rabbi. This is a different concept to being non-

judgmental. Choosing not to be judgmental implies that I harbor an unexpressed

judgement, and I am making the decision not to bring it out, but it exists and I could if

I wanted. Embracing puts all that aside, and sees only a person who wants to

connect, and celebrating and facilitating that desire. Although, as I will go on to

argue, the Rabbi can and should be ambitious for each person’s religious growth,

authentic embrace is not a tool to bring about that growth but a fundamental

expression of Jewish values in its own right. When Maimonides codified the

obligation to love another Jew in Hilkhot Deot 6:3 he did so without qualification:

“Each person is commanded to love each and every one of Israel as themselves.” It

is not dependent on the level, actual or prospective, of religious observance.

     Sometimes this can be difficult, on a personal or a religious level. Some people are

difficult, they are prickly characters, or simply have a personality that does not click

with the Rabbi’s. Sometimes the Rabbi may feel frustration or disappointment with a

congregant’s religious observance. He might feel the congregant could do more, or

has even slipped backwards. He might feel that his hopes for that congregant have

not borne fruit, or that he has poured care and effort without experiencing reciprocity.

     There are two ways for the Rabbi to address this, and they are both internal work.

The first is to try to set all these considerations aside, and return to the core values

of universal and unconditional embrace. If that is not immediately or always possible,

then it is worth remembering that religious-pastoral relationships play out over a long

time. What does not happen this year may happen next year, or in ten years.

     Patience and persistence are the keys to both a happy and a successful rabbinate.

The second pillar is Exemplifying. Yelling at people to do more or do better probably

never worked well, and certainly cannot work today. A Rabbi makes clear their

standards not by demanding them of others but by living up to them, as much as

possible, himself. Again Maimonides points us towards this, when he advises

(Hilkhot Talmud Torah 4:1) that however wise a teacher may be, he should only be

followed if his behavior exemplifies proper conduct, because teaching ultimately

resides in actions more than words. The Rabbi must therefore be scrupulous in how

he speaks and what he eats, in timely and reliable attendance at services, visible

enthusiasm for the study of Torah, hospitality, generosity, acts of personal kindness.

As the Talmud states in Yoma 86a, he should prompt observers to say of him “how

pleasant are his ways, how proper are his deeds”.

     This should not make the Rabbi appear angelic, because the Torah was not given to

the angels. He can thoughtfully give insight into his struggles, because questioning

and doubt are inevitable parts of the religious experience, and his congregants

should not be misled into believing they alone face these challenges. That would be

both dishonest and unhelpful. In a careful way, the Rabbi can share the practical

struggles of, say, raising a young family while also attending to religious and

communal obligations, or the theological struggles that come from seeing the

innocent suffer.

     The Rabbi must also demonstrate palpable intellectual integrity and moral clarity. If

he feels the need to teach difficult lessons or transmit challenging ideas, he must do

so, but not in a way that demands agreement or compliance. The stance of the

Rabbi should be “you have asked me to be your teacher, and that gives me an

obligation to teach the truth as I see it. No one is obliged to agree with me, but you

have a right to know what I think, if I believe the circumstances call on me to tell you.”

     That combination of courage and conviction with humility and openness is a

contribution in itself and also makes even the hardest messages possible to give and

receive without destabilizing relationships. They reveal a Rabbi who might be wrong,

and knows he might be wrong, but who is not prepared to be a liar or a coward. Of

course, knowing when not to speak, and how not to speak is just as important, and

verbal recklessness is no more a quality in a Rabbi than it is in anyone else. What is

true, is that with the growth of love and trust, more can be said.

     Have I detailed impossibly high standards? Probably. Which means in turn there can

be modelling of living with imperfection, honesty about falling short, the need for

repair following rupture and a continual attempt to do better.

     The final pillar is Encouraging. The challenge is to nudge without becoming a

‘noodge’. In an Inclusive Orthodox congregation the Rabbi cannot rely on a shared

understanding of the practical binding force of Halacha, or on peer pressure and

social expectations, but he still wants to see his congregants grow in their religious

observance. He is not presiding over what is sometimes called a “kiruv shul”, a place

where everyone is consciously and deliberately on a journey towards greater

religious observance and they want the Rabbi to help them on that path. That is

probably not the project or the consensus of the membership of an Inclusive

Orthodox community. What, then, can the Rabbi do? He can and should encourage.

He should engage with his congregants, as Maimonides counsels “patiently and

Gently” (Hilkhot Deot 6:7). Suggesting to someone who rarely attends services to

come, not just more often in general but on a specific occasion, whether Shabbat,

Yom Tov, or weekday; offering to take time to learn Torah with them; not just laying

tefillin for them, but teaching them how to put on tefillin; teaching them how to read a

Haftarah, perhaps the Torah, or lead a service; giving them an active role in services

as a shamash or gabbai. This is aside from a role in lay leadership, such as joining

the synagogue board; it is about deepening specifically religious activity.

     Not everyone will agree to try to do more, some will agree but not follow through,

some will follow through for a while and then participation will tail off, but the more

and the wider the Rabbi’s encouragement the greater will be the results. This

encouragement has to be personal. I have not seen exhortations from the pulpit or

appeals in emails have much effect. Success comes most often from personal

invitations made in the context of personal relationships. The greatest success for

the Rabbi is when, in the case of an individual, he no longer needs to encourage,

because that person now attends and participates because of their own internal

enthusiasm and not because of an external intervention. Of course, no longer

making specific suggestions should never mean the relationship is allowed to

atrophy. Anyone can see when the Rabbi loses interest because their presence is

taken for granted, is regarded as “in the bag”.  Instead what starts out as drawing

people in can become a warm, close and settled relationship of fellowship and

appreciation. No one should feel looked down upon because they do less, but they

should feel celebrated when they do more.

     While these three pillars represent an ideal rather than a claim of personal

achievement, they are perhaps parts of a vision to which an Inclusive Orthodox

Rabbi can aspire and strive. They are a route to combining openness with integrity, breadth with growth, 

and authenticity with ambition. For a Rabbi called to this type of community and the challenges 

and opportunities it will bring, I submit these suggestions as an approach worth attempting.