National Scholar Updates

Throughout his writings, Rabbi Haim David Halevy expressed unwavering faith that the founding of the State of Israel and the Six Day War were overt miracles. Anyone who denied the supernatural nature of these events was spiritually blind (Mekor Hayyim 4, pp. 367–368). There were two options: to believe that this was the beginning of the messianic era, or to be wrong (Mekor Hayyim 2, p. 9).

At the same time, the Sages debate fundamental aspects of the messianic age. Is redemption contingent on repentance? Will the messianic age be a supernatural era, or completely natural? Will it be a lengthy process with ups and downs, or a consistently ascending path? The Rambam concluded from these and related disagreements that there was no single authoritative tradition on the messianic age. We would not know its nature until it arrived (Hilkhot Melakhim 12:1–2). Rabbi Halevy was fully aware of the uncertainties inherent in identifying the messianic period.

Rabbi Halevy, quoting Rabbi Eliyahu of Vilna, considered two aspects of the modern period as definite signs of the first stages of redemption: the return of agricultural fertility to the Land of Israel (cf. Sanhedrin 98a); and the ingathering of exiles (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12; 4:6). For Rabbi Halevy, it was the responsibility of world Jewry to recognize the miraculous nature of the founding of the State of Israel, make aliya, repent, cooperate with each other, and live a unique national existence in order to set a religious and moral example for the world to emulate (Dat uMedinah, pp. 21, 34–35). [1]

Rabbi Halevy’s writings reflect a conflict. On the one hand, he firmly believed that we were at the beginning of the period of redemption. On the other hand, he acknowledged that no one knew for certain how the redemption process would unfold. Rabbi Halevy evaluated sources about messianic calculations, natural vs. supernatural redemption, repentance during the period of redemption, and other matters relating to Divine Providence.

Messianic Calculations

Confident that we were living in the period of redemption, Rabbi Halevy justified messianic calculations. Although the Talmud (Sanhedrin 97a) had criticized such calculations, Rabbi Halevy argued that this caveat applied only if a failed prediction might diminish one’s faith in the advent of the Messiah. If one certainly believed that the Messiah will come, and made calculations for the purpose of religious awakening, one did not violate the talmudic injunction. Rabbi Halevy further maintained that talmudic opposition to messianic calculations arose because redemption was so remote from their period; now that the messianic age had arrived, there was no impediment to trying to determine its precise date. Initially, he proposed 5750/1990 as the deadline for the final redemption; but if people repented, it could come earlier (Asei Lekha Rav 1:2).

In a later Responsum, he offered an original interpretation of a talmudic argument about the messianic age based on events from the past century. In Sanhedrin 99a, the Sages debated whether the period of redemption would span 40 years, 70 years, or three generations. Rabbi Halevy explained that all three positions turned out to be true. Forty years covered the period from the 1947 U.N. partition plan until 1987; 70 years spanned the Balfour Declaration of 1917 to 1987; and three generations went back to 1897, the year of the first World Zionist Congress. Given the coincidence of those three dates in relation to 1987, Rabbi Halevy predicted the final messianic redemption for 1987, only ten years after he composed the essay (Asei Lekha Rav 2, pp. 253–256).

When his prediction for 1987 proved false and yet another major wave of Arab terrorism had recently begun, Rabbi Halevy did not back away from his prediction, nor did he conclude that the Jews had missed a great opportunity for the final redemption. Rather, he stressed that Arab nations were sitting down with Israel to discuss peace, a major component of redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 9, pp. 395–396). Rabbi Halevy had offered a similar rationale for the Yom Kippur War, which led to peace talks afterward (Asei Lekha Rav 1:6).

Be-itah, Ahishenah

R. Alexandri said: R. Yehoshua b. Levi pointed out a contradiction. It is written, in its time [will the Messiah come], but it is also written, I [the Lord] will hasten it! (Isa.60:22). If they are worthy, I will hasten it; if not, [he will come] at the due time. (Sanhedrin 98a)

This talmudic passage presented a resolution to a contradiction within a biblical verse in Isaiah: will the messianic age come “on time” (beItah), or will God hasten it (ahishenah)? The Talmud answered that the outcome would depend on the merit of Israel.

Rabbi Halevy found different ways of interpreting and applying this passage, depending on the message he was trying to convey and on current political events. For example, in Dat uMedinah (p. 26), Rabbi Halevy applied the interpretation of Radak (Isa. 60:22): Once the proper time for redemption arrives, the process will accelerate. Only 19 years separated the founding of the State in 1948 until the victory of the Six Day War in 1967, demonstrating the imminence of the final redemption.

But after the Yom Kippur War in 1973, Rabbi Halevy shifted to a modified reading of the aforementioned talmudic interpretation of beItah, ahishenah: If the messianic age were merited early, it would not be accompanied with suffering. If it came “on time,” it would be a natural process, entailing affliction. No longer did Rabbi Halevy think in terms of a quick process; he began to view the prolonged struggle of the State as part of a longer divine plan of redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12).

To explain the prominent role of secular Zionism in the redemption process, Rabbi Halevy wrote that the State of Israel arose as a result of beItah, a natural process. The Talmud (Megillah 17b; Sanhedrin 97a) stated that wars would precede the final redemption. Historically, Jews had gradually adopted the idea of a supernatural redemption since they had suffered so much during their exile.

Thus, by the time the process of redemption began during the twentieth century, most religious Jews rejected the possibility of natural redemption. It was specifically the secularists who were able to achieve success. Yes, some religious Jews were involved, but the majority of modern Zionists were not religiously observant. In retrospect, it had become obvious that the process of establishing and defending the State had been miraculous. God’s plan of redemption was achieved, but most of the religious community had failed to respond. Unwittingly, the secularists became God’s agents of redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 1:3).

Rabbi Halevy explained the struggles and wars of Israel not only through beItah, but also with the idea that it would not be dignified were God simply to deliver the Land on a silver platter. Ancient Israel understood this message, evidenced by the way they fought Amalek (Exod. 17:8–17). They did not expect supernatural intervention once they had left Egypt. Rabbi Halevy expressed disappointment that many contemporary Jews still had not recognized the messianic potential of today, mistakenly waiting for supernatural miracles (Asei Lekha Rav 1:4-5).

Rabbi Halevy viewed natural and supernatural as different stages in the messianic process, rather than as alternatives. Mashiah ben Yosef (the first stage of redemption) will be characterized by suffering, whereas Mashiah ben David (the final stage of redemption) will be characterized by a supernatural redemption and the ingathering of the exiles (Asei Lekha Rav 4:6, 4:8). He thought that the Six Day War completed the first stage in the process of redemption, but we still required national repentance to merit the final redemption (Dat uMedinah, pp. 23–24). To this end, Rabbi Halevy considered his five-volume series, Mekor Hayyim, to have been driven by his passionate desire to hasten the arrival of the messianic age through repentance (introduction to Mekor Hayyim 1, pp. 9–14).

The common denominator of Rabbi Halevy’s responses is that we certainly are in the early stages of the messianic age. Rather than allowing the Yom Kippur War, Arab terrorism, or other tragedies to negate that belief, Rabbi Halevy offered interpretations that were in tune with unfolding realities. At the same time, he continued to advocate national repentance and unity as the primary catalysts to effect the full redemption.

Rabbi Halevy adopted a finely nuanced position toward military exemptions for yeshiva students. Fundamentally, he favored military exemptions for yeshiva students. Were the entire nation to engage in Torah study, supernatural miracles would occur to protect Israel (see Sanhedrin 14b). But after his praise for full-time Torah study, he emphasized that this exemption applied exclusively to those who were truly dedicated to Torah learning. Those who enrolled in yeshivot simply to dodge the draft desecrate God’s Name. Additionally, all yeshiva students must serve in the military during actual wartime. Acknowledging the difficulty of explaining this concept to those not committed to Torah values, he praised yeshivot hesder, which combine yeshiva learning with military service, thereby sanctifying God’s Name (Asei Lekha Rav 1:21, 3:58).

In a response to pamphlets opposing military service for yeshiva students, Rabbi Halevy defended his position that all yeshiva students must serve in the military during wartime. Training did not take that long; and even if the students could not be trained quickly, they could serve in non-combat roles. In this Responsum, Rabbi Halevy maintained that those who did not serve at all during wartime were violating halakha, not just giving religion a bad name. He also reiterated his earlier position that any exemption referred exclusively to those who were genuinely engaged in serious Torah study. Insincere students should be drafted to regular military service (Asei Lekha Rav 7:72).

In these discussions, Rabbi Halevy revealed a strong belief in the supernatural powers of Torah, combined with a fervent commitment to the sanctification of God’s Name. He also explicated what halakha really taught about military service for yeshiva students. His deepest desire was for all Jews to be dedicated to Torah study, so as to merit God’s miraculous protection and bring about the full redemption. Until that ideal state was realized, though, Jews would have to maintain military defense forces.

The Yom Kippur War: A Challenge to Redemption?

Rabbi Halevy’s earlier writings expressed unreserved enthusiasm about the redemption process. Yet, many of his followers were perplexed by the Yom Kippur War. This war had exposed Israel’s vulnerability. No longer did the messianic age appear to be marching forward with increasing brightness.

Rabbi Halevy opened his Asei Lekha Rav series with several essays addressing this problem. He paralleled the contemporary situation with the redemption from Egypt. During the exodus, God created a moment of panic at the Red Sea, when the Israelites thought they were doomed. Only when the sea split did the Israelites retrospectively understand God’s plan of redemption. Similarly, the Yom Kippur War initially seemed like a setback, but it resulted in Egypt sitting down to talk peace with Israel for the first time (Asei Lekha Rav 1:6).

Rabbi Halevy observed that the Yom Kippur War was not a challenge to one’s messianic hopes unless one expected a consistently upward progression in redemption. Since we were not privy to God’s plans, we could not assume a trouble-free road to redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12, 4:6).

The Role of Peace Talks in the Redemption Process

Rabbi Halevy suggested that peace talks and recognition by Arab nations were essential to the redemption process (Asei Lekha Rav 1:6, end Asei Lekha Rav 9, pp. 395–396). Despite the losses caused by the Yom Kippur War in 1973 and the wave of Arab terrorism in 1987, Rabbi Halevy maintained his belief in the redemption process by appealing to the ensuing peace negotiations.

At the same time, he expressed skepticism about Israel’s so-called peace partners. Egypt entered negotiations only because it concluded that it was unable to annihilate Israel in a war, not from a genuine desire for peace. Rabbi Halevy was troubled about Israel being pressured to make land concessions, a process that threatened Israel’s security. [2] Additionally, he claimed that “the redemption of Israel will not be complete if the Land of Israel will not be complete” (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12, 3:62, 4:1). [3]

After expressing his personal reservations about land concessions to Egypt, Rabbi Halevy concluded that the ultimate decision in this matter rested with the Israeli government. Only high officials were expert in the political and security details; they had the halakhic authority to make such decisions (Asei Lekha Rav 3:62, 4:1). [4] Although he did not trust Egypt’s motives for making peace with Israel, Rabbi Halevy expressed the hope that a new generation would arise in Egypt, accustomed to peace.[5]

Is Redemption Contingent on Repentance?

Rabbi Halevy cited the talmudic debate (Sanhedrin 97b) whether repentance is a precondition for redemption or not (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12). He quoted a ruling of the Rambam, that repentance was mandatory (Hilkhot Teshuvah 7:5). [6] But elsewhere, the Rambam wrote that the messianic king would encourage repentance, implying that the messianic age could commence prior to a full national repentance (Hilkhot Melakhim 12:1–2). Rabbi Halevy reconciled the two statements by proposing that the messianic process could begin without repentance, but complete redemption required it.

Rabbi Halevy balanced optimism with realism in viewing the religious life of Israel. On the one hand, many Jews were returning to their religious roots; but many others were drifting away from religion. Rabbi Halevy noted that the aliya movement also started as a trickle. Yet, this trickle led to the creation of the State. Moreover, kabbalists predicted that the messianic age would be a time of religious confusion—many Jews would be religiously involved, but many others would be apathetic (Asei Lekha Rav 4:6). Although he appealed for more repentance, he still saw the “positive” aspect of non-religious behavior, that is, it was a characteristic of the early stages of the age of redemption. [7]

Missed Opportunities

Had you made yourself like a wall and had all come up in the days of Ezra, you would have been compared to silver, which no rottenness can ever affect. Now that you have come up like doors, you are like cedar wood, which rottenness prevails over. (Yoma 9b)

The Sages say: The intention was to perform a miracle for Israel in the days of Ezra, even as it was performed for them in the days of Yehoshua bin Nun, but sin caused [the miracle to be withheld]. (Berakhot 4a)

In the above passages, the Talmud taught that messianic opportunities could be squandered if people did not respond appropriately to the initial signs of redemption. The beginning of the Second Temple period could have heralded the messianic age; but since the Jews of the time failed to return to Israel and otherwise sinned, the redemption was postponed.

Rabbi Halevy frequently quoted the Yoma passage in his efforts to encourage aliya. He recognized that most Diaspora Jews remained in exile after the founding of the State and that assimilation among them was rampant. However, he never concluded that the current messianic potential was lost—only that we were missing opportunities to achieve gains within this definite period of redemption. [8]

Noting that many Jews were still not making aliya after the Yom Kippur War, Rabbi Halevy optimistically suggested that perhaps God was giving the Jews living in Israel a chance to establish and consolidate themselves financially. Increased economic stability ultimately would encourage others to come (Asei Lekha Rav 3:62). He further suggested that had the first 30 years of statehood been easier, perhaps the Jewish passion for independence would not have been as strong. Moreover, perhaps the Yom Kippur War would jolt Israelis out of their complacency, and intensify their devotion to the Land of Israel (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12).

Rabbi Halevy halakhically justified ascending the Temple Mount, since we know the precise dimensions of the Temple and we can avoid going to those spots that are ritually forbidden. The rest of the Mount is accessible to Jews who ritually immerse themselves and remove their shoes. He added that rabbis should not prohibit observant Jews from going to the Temple Mount out of concern that non-observant Jews will not follow the proper regulations (Asei Lekha Rav 1:15). He recommended that a synagogue should be built atop the Temple Mount (Asei Lekha Rav 6:82).

Two years after the liberation of the Temple Mount, Rabbi Halevy sadly noted that Israel had squandered the opportunity to build a synagogue there. He expressed anguish that Israel allowed our most sacred site to remain in Arab hands. Jews should have created facts on the ground by building a synagogue when we had the chance (Dat uMedinah, p. 117).

After the Sinai concessions and peace treaty with Egypt, he added that Jews were now forfeiting the opportunity to settle Judea and Samaria. Had a million Jews moved in right after the Six Day War, there would not have been any chance of negotiating its return. Rabbi Halevy quoted Yoma 9b, which criticized the Jews’ failure to make aliya during the Second Temple Period. If Jews did not freely come now, perhaps they will be forced to come in order to complete the process of redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 4:1). Elsewhere, Rabbi Halevy added a more ominous note to encourage aliya, observing that neo-Nazi movements continued to thrive all over the world (Dat uMedinah, p. 15).

Rabbi Halevy thought that Jews had erred in not having made aliya after the Balfour Declaration in 1917, a time when the Arabs were largely inactive politically. A large influx of Jews would have changed the reality drastically. Since Jews did not come willingly, then, they were compelled to come in the aftermath of the Holocaust. Perhaps the prophetic prediction of a purging nightmare before the final redemption (Ezek.20) was fulfilled as a result of Jewish reluctance to make aliya earlier in the twentieth century. He again emphasized that we cannot know the workings of God’s mind—but we could offer interpretations after the fact, in order to derive religious inspiration and guidance (Asei Lekha Rav 4:6).

Despite his claims of the forfeiture of individual blessings, though, Rabbi Halevy asserted that God never would abandon Israel (Dat uMedinah, p. 16). He continued to believe that the process of redemption was slowly and irreversibly unfolding, and he interpreted each new event in this light.

Halakhic Rulings

Because of Rabbi Halevy’s belief that we were living in the period of redemption, he reached a number of important halakhic conclusions. He believed that Israel Independence Day (5 Iyyar) and Jerusalem Reunification Day (28 Iyyar) should be observed as formal religious holidays, with Hallel recited (Dat uMedinah, pp. 88–113). Rabbi Halevy criticized those who opposed celebrating these holidays on the grounds that they were primarily military victories. Hanukkah also was celebrated because of military victories (Asei Lekha Rav 5:17). He noted that these opponents were driving less observant Jews to view those events in purely secular terms. If religious Jews refused to acknowledge God’s hand, why should secular Jews (Dat uMedinah, pp. 86–87)?

Rabbi Halevy reevaluated traditional practices pertaining to mourning over the destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Halevy maintained that we still must observe the Fast of the 9^th of Av until the Temple itself is rebuilt (Mekor Hayyim 4:202, pp. 179–180). But after the Six Day War, we should reword parts of the “nahem” prayer into the past tense. Since the prayer laments a desolate Jerusalem without any Jewish inhabitants, it simply would be a falsehood to retain the original text of the prayer (Asei Lekha Rav 1:13–14, 2:36–39).

Likewise, he suggested emending a passage in the Grace After Meals, which currently reads, “We thank You, God for the good and ample land that You gave to our ancestors.” Now that we are living in the age of redemption, we should say, “…that You gave to us” (Mekor Hayyim 2:81, p. 97).

With the settling of the Land, we should again recite the blessing, “Barukh matziv gevul almanah” (blessed is He who establishes the borders of a widowed [nation]). Rabbi Halevy was hesitant to rule that one should recite the full blessing with God’s Name, although he noted that Rabbi Avraham Yitzhak Kook had done so. Rabbi Halevy agreed with his reasoning (Asei Lekha Rav 4:5).

We still should say kinot (prayers of lamentation) on the 9^th ofAv, since the Temple is not yet rebuilt and the majority of Jews still lived outside of Israel. But we may reduce the number of kinot, as he himself did after 1948 (Asei Lekha Rav 4:34).

Although the original practice was to tear one’s clothing upon seeing the desolate cities in Israel, or the ruins of Jerusalem (Mo’ed Katan 26a), Jews now lived in Israel and the Temple Mount was again under Jewish control. Therefore, one no longer should tear one’s garments when going to the Western Wall. However, he thought that the Chief Rabbinate should issue the final ruling on this matter. [9]

The practice in Jerusalem was to don tefillin in the morning of 9^th ofAv at home, and then to come to synagogue for the recitation of kinot. Even one who previously did not observe this tradition should accept it, since we were living at the beginning of the redemption (Mekor Hayyim 1:35, p. 131).

Rabbi Halevy complained about the prevalent custom at the end of weddings to break a worthless glass rather than something of real value. After concluding that this was not a major issue worth fighting over, he added that especially now, in the age of redemption, we do not have to be as mournful as we had been in the past—and therefore the current practice may be tolerated (Mekor Hayyim 5:237, p. 36).

Although Rabbi Halevy allowed some room for leniency as a result of this being the period of redemption, he did not permit choir practice during the three weeks between the 17^th of Tammuz and the 9^th of Av. During that period, we should remain mournful (Mayim Hayyim 1:35).

May we accept converts nowadays, given rabbinic traditions that we will not accept converts in messianic times (Yevamot 24b; 76a; Avodah Zarah 3b)? Rabbi Halevy noted that only a minority of Jews, and very few non-Jews, have appreciated that we now have entered the beginning of the messianic era. Thus, no one would convert to Judaism today merely to join the messianic bandwagon. Additionally, several authorities (Rambam, Rashba, Meiri) ruled according to Berakhot 57b, that non-Jews would convert to Judaism even in the messianic age. The Talmud (Avodah Zarah 3b) noted that the Messiah would weed out insincere converts, so there was nothing to fear by accepting converts nowadays (Asei Lekha Rav 3:29).

The Talmud (Berakhot 54a) stated that one should make the blessing “Barukh haTov ve-haMetiv” for rainfall, but that practice stopped while Jews lived in exile. Rabbi Halevy ruled that since Jews have returned to Israel, they should once again recite this blessing— either after a prolonged drought is ended by rain, or if there is unusually heavy rainfall. The final decision on when the community should make this blessing should be left to the Chief Rabbinate (Mekor Hayyim 2:92, pp. 181–182).

Rabbi Halevy discussed whether the original practice of lighting Hanukkah candles outdoors should be restored. He quoted the Hazon Ish, who ruled that we still should light indoors, since (1) people might blow the candles out if they were left outdoors; (2) Israel was surrounded by enemies, and there was no guarantee that Israel would survive. Rabbi Halevy emphatically disagreed. Since this is the beginning of the redemption, one in Israel should light Hanukkah candles outdoors, when possible (Asei Lekha Rav 7:42).

Rabbi Halevy opened Dat uMedinah (p. 9) with an idea from R. Yehudah Halevy’s Kuzari: Redemption will not come until people desperately wanted it. Rabbi Halevy’s life was dedicated to inspire messianic hopes, to encourage people to take an active role in the process of redemption, and to promote a religious awakening (cf. Asei Lekha Rav 8:94–95). He added (p. 26) that the special role of rabbis during this period of redemption was to devote their energy to inspire the hearts of people with an understanding of God’s role in history. It comes as no surprise that he concluded his Mekor Hayyim series with a chapter on the Messianic age. Although the full redemption has not yet come, Rabbi Halevy did his best to hasten the Messiah’s arrival. [10]

NOTES

The oeuvre and the halakhic and ideational creativity of several Sephardic and Middle Eastern rabbis of recent centuries have attracted increasing attention in recent years. Great figures such as Rabbi Benzion Uziel, Rabbi Ḥaim David Halevy, Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef, and Rabbi Yosef Mesas have received much merited attention and analysis by scholars writing in Hebrew, in English, and sometimes in other languages. However, many other great scholars and halakhic decisors remain almost unknown to persons who are not in-depth devotees of the topic. In this article, I seek to briefly introduce the reader to seven such rabbis. For each I provide a concise biography, and a translation and analysis of an interesting passage from his halakhic writings. The order of presentation is roughly chronological.

Ḥayyim David Ḥazan

Accommodation (rather than exclusion) of marginal or problematic Jews, and the courage to make the independent and non-conventional halakhic decisions required for such accommodation, was a policy characteristic of many leading Sephardic/Middle Eastern rabbis in modern times. A powerful formulation of such policy considerations is found in the writings of Ḥayyim David Ḥazan. Rabbi H. D. Ḥazan served as Chief Rabbi of his native city Izmir from 1840 to 1855. In that year he moved to Jerusalem, and in 1861 was elected Rishon le-Tziyyon (Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem), a post he held until his death in 1869. He formulated a policy statement on response to the challenges of modernity in reaction to a halakhic drama that unfolded in the 1840s.

A Jewish Salonican fell in love with an attractive (Jewish) widow who had arrived from Western Europe, and under various pretexts divorced his wife with the intent of marrying that widow. The city's rabbis, seeking to block this union that they considered immoral, forbade them to marry and attempted to enforce this prohibition with the help of the Ottoman authorities. In response, the couple fled to the home of a European consul, asking for protection based on the capitulation treaties—and in the process converted to Christianity under auspices of the consul.[1] Subsequently, the couple fled to Izmir, and there asked local rabbis to enable them to marry. The Salonican rabbis sent letters requesting the rabbis of Izmir to support the ban, and several rabbis in Izmir felt obliged to concur. However, Rabbi Ḥayyim David Ḥazan argued that this manner of response was both mistaken and disastrous: Not only had the Salonican rabbis failed to prevent the couple from living together out of wedlock—their unrelenting policy had led the couple to convert out! He therefore encouraged the couple to desist from conversion and permitted them to marry in a Jewish ceremony and live as husband and wife. In the course of his responsum, Rabbi Ḥazan composed a statement outlining a general policy toward deviants from tradition that rabbis should follow in modern times:

In these days and in our times, the generation has declined. And as the number of heretics increased, so too have the rebels and the insubordinates multiplied. And each day is more accursed. And with regard to such a reality it was said: It is enough that we hold to the status quo…. Not in every era is it appropriate to declare ad hoc prohibitions, fences and restrictions. For it is to be feared that they will react by even greater rebellion. To the contrary: It is right and appropriate [under such circumstances] to waive rabbinic norms, and even to annul positive and negative commandments of the Torah […] as Maimonides of blessed memory wrote in Hilkhot Mamrim 2:5 .... I [therefore] declare, that it is right in the eyes of God to permit this man to marry her in accordance with the religion of Moses and Israel.[2]

In the past, it was common for rabbis to utilize coercive means to enforce their decisions. This was not only permitted by the gentile authorities but also recognized by the Jewish public as essentially legitimate. But times were changing. Options now existed for Jews to evade coercion. Moreover, more and more Jews were coming to regard such coercion as illegitimate, and were resisting imposition of rabbinic authority. Under these new circumstances, adherence to Jewish life and community was, at the bottom line, voluntary: Individuals who felt themselves pressured and targeted by the rabbis would not submit but rather respond with “greater rebellion.” It was up to the rabbis to decide which was their greater responsibility: getting their constituents to toe the straight and narrow line, or keeping their constituents within the community, even at the price of bending halakha to the utmost in order to be as inclusive as possible. Clearly, Rabbi Ḥayyim David Ḥazan advocated the second approach, and stated it forcefully in the paragraph above.

Another example of such an approach may be seen in the following example, from an interchange on matters of halakha between two great Baghdadi rabbis of modern times, Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh and Rabbi Eliyahu Mani.

Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh

Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh was born in Baghdad in 1813 to a family that traced its lineage back to Nissi[m] ben Berechiah al-Nahrawani, scholar and poet of late-ninth- and early-tenth-century Iraq. Rabbi Somekh spent his whole life without leaving Iraq, passing away in Baghdad in 1889 at the age of 76.[3] During the second decade of his life, he learned directly from one of the greatest Torah scholars of the previous generation, Rabbi Ya’aqov Brabi Yoseph Harofeh.[4] He went on to spend several years in commerce, but when he was in his mid-20s (that is, in the second half of the 1830s), he decided to change course and to devote himself to the cultivation and guidance of the top graduates of the Baghdadi Talmud Torah schools, with the express purpose of cultivating the next generation of Torah scholars for Babylonian Jewry. In an obituary, Rabbi Shlomo Bekhor Ḥutsin wrote of Somekh:

He restored the crown of Torah in Bavel to its ancient glory, after it had been removed for hundreds of years, for he founded a great and spacious beit-midrash, raised up many disciples and imbued Israel with Torah. Almost all scholars and rabbis [currently] in Bavel, Persia, Medea, and India studied under him and drank from the well of living water that he created. And our brethren in these lands all refer to him as Istai, i.e., our teacher and master, just as Rabbi Judah the Prince [redactor of the Mishna] was called simply “our teacher.”[5]

Rabbi Eliyahu Suleiman Mani

Rabbi Eliyahu Suleiman Mani was born in Baghdad in 1818, studied in Beit Zilkha, and was one of Rabbi Somekh's most important students. In 1856 he emigrated to Eretz Israel and lived for two years in Jerusalem. He then moved to Hebron, where he was appointed Chief Rabbi in 1865, a post he held until his death in 1899. In addition to his erudition in Talmud, Rabbi Mani was deeply engaged in Kabbalah and was known for his ascetic piety. Rabbi Somekh knew him personally to be an outstanding and God-fearing scholar and Kabbalist. Rabbi Somekh was therefore shocked to hear from a reliable source in the Jewish-Iraqi community in India that Rabbi Mani had permitted the Jews of Bombay to transport objects in the public domain on Shabbat in ways that had been forbidden by the greatest Sephardic authorities, relying only upon a dissenting view held by Rabbi Moshe Pardo! Rabbi Somekh asked his beloved disciple:

We know you as one who takes halakhic decision-making very seriously. How is it then that you went against the opinion of the three great rabbis who wrote that our master [Rabbi Caro] considers such roads "public domain"?! How did you follow the [minority] decision of Rabbi Pardo against the opinion of our teacher and Rabbi Ḥayyim Yosef David Azulai of blessed memory, who expressly forbade traveling in a palanquin on Shabbat?![6]

Rabbi Mani responded that he, too, recognized that his decision was unconventional—but nevertheless was absolutely correct under the circumstances. Here is how he explained his considerations:   

Hear my words, and you will admit that truth is on my side: I saw that the Jews of Bombay each carry a parasol—without which it is impossible to walk the roads there for even one minute—and they all carry parasols on shabbat more than four ama in the public thoroughfares. They also carry with them snuff and handkerchiefs, which is forbidden by all opinions. If we rule that these roads are "public domain," then Bombay Jews would be actively breaking a rule for which the Torah punishment is death by stoning […] Therefore I relied on Rabbi Pardo, may God protect and save him, and on the European custom, and allowed them [travel by] the palanquin and the carrying [of objects for them] by a gentile; since if we declare these roads carmelit, this is allowed.

Rabbi Mani admits that from an academic, exegetical perspective, the correct conclusion is indeed that a street should be considered "public domain" if it is 16 ama or more in width. But the real-life implications of this decision for the reality before us would be that all of the Jews of Bombay, who every Shabbat carry many objects in the broad streets of Bombay, would be committing a transgression so severe that its punishment under original Torah law would be stoning.[7] This decision would therefore have terrible human and religious consequences as it would mean that all of the Jews of Bombay would be committing many sins of extreme religious severity just by the routine performance of activities each and every Shabbat! Rabbi Mani argued that a halakhic decision with such consequences would be in direct conflict with a decisor’s responsibility for the public—i.e., in the current context, his responsibility for the public's status in the eyes of God and in its own eyes. The exegetical preferability of the conventional, more severe approach must not be considered as an overriding factor. Rather, it is the decisor’s obligation to make a heroic effort to utilize less-trodden halakhic paths in order to formulate an alternate decision, one that would be acceptable from a public, religious and moral perspective.

Rabbi Moshe Pardo

The rabbi upon whom Rabbi Mani relied was Rabbi Moshe Pardo (1810–1888), who was born in Jerusalem, where he earned his Torah education and served as head of the rabbinical court. In 1870 he went to North Africa as an emissary, and on his way back from that mission was invited to serve as rabbi of Alexandria, a rapidly developing cosmopolitan port city with an increasingly varied Jewish population,[8] and filled that role from 1871 until his death.[9] A few months after arriving in Alexandria, Rabbi Pardo was asked about a Jewish man who had married a non-Jewish woman in a civil ceremony. The woman was pregnant, and the man asked whether, if his wife gave birth to a boy,

he would be permitted to circumcise his son. For this is an important commandment to him, even though he sinned and had intercourse with the daughter of an alien god, nonetheless he is a Jew and he wants his aforementioned son to be circumcised.[10]

After a detailed discussion, Rabbi Pardo rules that it is permissible and even a mitzvah to circumcise such a boy, despite his non-Jewish status. However, if he is born on Shabbat he cannot be circumcised on the eighth day, because circumcision of a non-Jew does not overrule Shabbat.[11] Rabbi Pardo then noted an alternate scenario that would make it possible to circumcise the child even if he were to be born on Shabbat:

In the case at hand, the mother herself wishes to become a Jewess. And clearly, if the mother should immerse herself and accept the commandments and become a Jewess, her fetus is like her and becomes fully Jewish, as explained in the Tur and the Shulḥan 'Arukh (268:6): “A pregnant woman who converts, her son does not need to be immersed.” If so, it is clear that he may be circumcised even on Shabbat, since he entered the Jewish people when his mother immersed. So in the case at hand, where the woman wishes to convert and immerse and to accept the commandments, certainly the child will be entirely kasher, and he is a ger tsedek.[12]

The Jewish father can thus prevent the public unpleasantness that might occur if his son (now in his Gentile spouse's womb) were to be born on Shabbat—by having the mother convert before giving birth. But are we allowed to convert this woman? Does the Shulḥan 'Arukh not rule, writes Rabbi Pardo, that if a woman wants to convert “they check if she has cast her eyes upon one of the youths of Israel” and if so the court will reject her, and indeed in the case under discussion the woman

[s]eeks to enter under the wings of the shekhina only out of love for her husband to whom she is married. If so, on what grounds can we accept her and have her immerse and accept the commandments and thereafter be considered a Jewess?[13]

A central argument that Rabbi Pardo presents in his responsum is that a situation in which a Jewish man is cohabiting with a Gentile woman should be considered “a time of exigency,” and under such circumstances it is halakhically right to convert his partner even if she is explicitly seeking giyyur only “for the sake of a man.” The reason for this is, that when making a decision on her conversion the rabbis are ipso facto determining the future of her Jewish partner; if we reject her, we are by that very act repulsing her partner—

a Jewish man who, out of fear of God['s retribution] for having relations with the daughter of a foreign god, has persuaded her to convert. We must not push away a Jewish man. We should employ any stratagem we can to draw him closer and not push him away. And no greater ''time of exigency' than this exists—as she is married to him and he cannot separate from her, and certainly would not obey us [if we reject her application to convert].

In the case before us, the woman's application for giyyur reveals her Jewish husband's internally conflicted state. On the one hand, he is deeply attached to his Gentile wife, and if we require him to separate from her he will not obey us. On the other hand, this relationship arouses in him pangs of conscience, because of which he has convinced her to convert. If we reject her—we will in effect be rejecting his wish to resolve the conflictual situation he is in, and he will become even further alienated from his Jewishness. Our obligation to save him should drive us to take every possible halakhic action in order to “draw him closer and not push him away;” the specific meaning of this in our case is, that we should convert his wife in order to save him from a life intermarriage leading ultimately to assimilation.

The halakhic course of action that Rabbi Pardo specifies relies upon identifying the situation before us as she'at haDeḥaq (a time of exigency), that is, a situation of severe stress that requires going beyond standard halakhic norms. To enable the application of a wider range of norms in situations of exigency, halakhic literature established the rule “she'at haDeḥaq kedi'avad damei” (a time of exigency is like an ex post facto situation).[14] This means that in stressful or extreme situations, one can follow halakhic norms whose usual application is only ex post facto.[15] Specifically, since ex post facto the validity of a Gentile's giyyur is not contingent upon the nature of her motivation, we should enable this woman to convert regardless of her specific motivation. By doing so, we are fulfilling our obligation toward our fellow Jew—her husband—which is: to take every possible halakhic action in order to “draw him closer and not push him away.” By accepting his wife (whose personal motivation is unworthy per se), we are saving him from a life of intermarriage leading ultimately to assimilation.

Rabbi Pardo cites several sources in support of his ruling. One of these is a fascinating case, clearly demonstrating that the two greatest rabbis of seventeenth-century Egypt advocated resolving intermarriage by converting the non-Jewish spouse and enabling the continuity of the existing family unit.[16] A shifḥa (non-Jewish female slave) belonging to “Reuven,” a resident of Egypt, was in another country, and Reuven ordered that she be transferred to him. On her way to Egypt, the ship was attacked by pirates, and she was captured. The pirates put her up for sale in a city that had a Jewish community, and in order to save herself from captivity she identified herself as a Jewess and was redeemed by the local Jewish community. Later on, she married a member of the community and they had children. When Reuven became aware of this, he turned to the rabbinic court in Egypt and informed them of this situation, declaring that he had despaired of his ownership of the shifḥa the moment he heard of her captivity. Now he asked the rabbinic court to chart a halakhic course of action that would bring about the best possible outcome for her, for her husband, and for her children:

He came to the rabbinic court and told the whole story and said: Know, gentlemen, that I have already given up on the value of this shifḥa and she is on her own. And I do not wish to cause the Jew who mistakenly married her to sin. See what ruling you can make for her so that she can be married in accordance with the religion of Israel, and no problem or stumbling block will be placed because of me before her husband and children.

Reuven is revealed here to be an honorable man who relinquishes any potential financial benefit that he might obtain from the situation that had developed. He understands that the Jew who married her did so mistakenly, after the captive shifḥa falsely presented herself as a Jewess. It nonetheless does not occur to him—nor to the rabbinic court—to accuse the woman of misleading the Jewish community into spending a considerable amount of money to redeem her from captivity, or for misleading her Jewish husband into marrying her while she was still a Gentile. It does not even occur to Reuven or to the rabbinic court that the situation should be resolved by cutting off the relationship between the (Gentile!) woman, her Jewish husband, and their (Gentile!) children. Quite the contrary: Reuven defines in advance the parameters of the suitable solution—enabling the couple and their children to continue their relationship in a halakhically viable way—even before he clarifies if this solution is possible. In other words, he assumes that since this is the suitable solution, then, once the rabbis recognize this to be the case they will certainly find the halakhic way to make it happen. And indeed, the two most senior Egyptian rabbis at that time—the rabbi of Cairo and the rabbi of Rashid—agreed. A thorough analysis of the mother's halakhic status after Reuven relinquished his ownership led them to conclude that she was no more a shifḥa but rather a free Gentile woman; therefore, it was possible and fitting to convert her and her children, and to continue their family life with the Jewish man whom she married:

She should be converted by a rabbinic court—and if a rabbinic court already converted her, what they have done is done and she is fully Jewish. And if they still have not converted her, they should convert her now while she is living with her husband. And if before it became known that the marriage was a mistake she became pregnant and gave birth, the wife and her children[17] have the status of full gentiles. They should be converted together, and she will remain with her husband.[18]

And Rabbi Pardo comments:

[They wrote that] even though she now is living with her husband she can convert, and they were not worried by the fact that she does so out of love for her Jewish husband. [And he concludes:] The same holds in this case (emphasis mine, Z. Z.)

In other words, the Egyptian halakhic scholars, Rabbi haLevi and Rabbi Gershon (as well as “Reuven,” who relinquished his rights over the shifḥa) identified the situation of the Jewish man and his Gentile wife as a “time of exigency.” They therefore applied ex post facto halakhic norms and refrained from concerning themselves with the woman's motivation. Moreover, identification of the situation as a “time of exigency” was done without taking into consideration the issue of guilt, that is: Who was responsible for creating this situation? Although the shifḥa knowingly misled the Jewish community and her Jewish husband, this did not prevent the rabbis from converting her and enabling her to continue living conjugally with her husband. Rabbi Pardo concludes that if this is what was decided in seventeenth-century Egypt, the same thing should be done in the case brought before him 200 years later: The Gentile woman and the children already born to her from her Jewish spouse should be converted, and they should continue living as before with their Jewish husband/father—but now they will all be Jews and this will be a “kasher” family unit.

This was not a one-time decision by Rabbi Pardo, but rather a policy he continued to follow also in later years. Rabbi Eliyahu Ḥazan, who served after Pardo as rabbi of Alexandria,[19] reports that he found documentation in the archive of the local rabbinate indicating that in the summer of 1876, a non-Jewish woman who had lived with a Jewish man for many years and given birth to several boys and girls, applied for giyyur. Not only did Rabbi Pardo accept her for conversion, but he also married her to her Jewish spouse on the very day she converted.[20] Obviously, Rabbi Pardo not only encouraged conversion as a response to intermarriage, he also waived the halakhic requirement for a period of discernment[21] before permitting the couple to marry. In the following section we shall see that Rabbi Eliyahu Ḥazan also considered it his responsibility to be inclusive and considerate toward Jews who were only marginally religious, even if that entailed changing synagogue praxis in a manner seemingly incompatible with the rulings of Rabbi Joseph Caro in the Shulḥan 'Arukh.

Rabbi Eliyahu Ḥazan

Eliyahu Ḥazan was born in Izmir, raised and educated in Jerusalem under the guidance of his grandfather Ḥayyim David Ḥazan,[22] and served as chief rabbi of Tripoli (Libya) between 1874 and 1888, then as chief rabbi of Alexandria (Egypt) from 1888 until his death in 1908. In those years, Alexandria was a thriving and prosperous city attracting people from North Africa, the Middle East, and Europe—including thousands of Jews, many with quite tenuous links to tradition. The heterogeneous character of Alexandria's Jewish community posed a variety of challenges for Rabbi Ḥazan. An illustration of this can be found in the considerations he employed with regard to the reciting of Kiddush in the synagogue.

Kiddush should be recited just before the Shabbat meal. In ancient times, Jewish communities hosted guests in rooms adjacent to the synagogue, and it was the practice to recite Kiddush on Sabbath eve in the synagogue for the benefit of those guests, who would then eat their Shabbat meal on the premises. However, in the sixteenth century, Rabbi Yosef Caro noted that circumstances had changed and the synagogue was no longer the site of anyone's meal, and ruled: "It is better to establish the custom NOT to recite Kiddush in the synagogue."[23] The general praxis of Sephardic rabbis is to defer to Rabbi Caro's authority; the synagogues of Egypt followed Rabbi Caro's ruling and refrained from performing the Kiddush ceremony.[24] However, shortly after taking up his post as rabbi of Alexandria, Rabbi Ḥazan learned from some of his congregants, that:

[M]any honorable speakers of foreign tongues who come to synagogue on the eves of the Sabbath and of the Festivals to hearken to the singing and the prayer subsequently return to their residences, and when they come to their homes they sit down to eat without making Kiddush. Some of them [do so because they] do not have kasher wine. And also, many of the folk today do not know how to pronounce even one word in the Holy Tongue.[25]

The term "speakers of foreign tongues" ('am lo'ez) refers here to European Jews living in Egypt. On the one hand, they attended synagogue services on Friday night, meaning that they were not radically estranged from Judaism. On the other hand, they did not recite Kiddush at their Shabbat table. Rabbi Ḥazan offers two explanations for this: They have no kasher wine and consider it better not to say Kiddush at all than to say it over such [non-kasher] wine; and/or they do not know any Hebrew and think that Kiddush can only be said in Hebrew. Neither of these reasons holds up from a halakhic perspective.[26] It thus seems likely that Rabbi Ḥazan wished to represent the subjective motivations of these Jews without attributing to them disrespect or disregard for the Kiddush ceremony. The information he received, characterizing them as individuals who care enough to attend synagogue services but who do not recite the Friday night Kiddush, led him to a halakhic re-assessment of the situation.

 Prima facie, Rabbi Ḥazan seemd to have no leeway: As a Sephardic rabbi, he should uphold Rabbi Caro's position that Kiddush not be recited in the synagogue. However, he noted, R. Caro's reasoning for desisting from the recital of Kiddush in synagogues was that times have changed, and travelers no longer eat in the synagogues following the service; obviously, he never in his worst dreams imagined that individuals might return home after services and not recite Kiddush at their Shabbat table. Rabbi Ḥazan considered it eminently reasonable that rather than following the “bottom line” of Rabbi Caro's ruling, he should follow R. Caro’s lead in responding to historical change! Thus, it was halakhically within bounds for him (Ḥazan) to reinstate the recital of Kiddush on account of changed social-cultural conditions:

It was good in my eyes to ordain that in the Eliyahu HaNavi and Menashe synagogues,[27] where these people attend services, Kiddush should be recited on Shabbat and holidays […] for it seems to me that it should be considered a mitzvah to institute the recital of Kiddush in the synagogue […] to enable the fulfillment of this commandment by a person who is unknowledgeable [in Hebrew] and by one who has no wine, and also to benefit those women (who have a biblical obligation to fulfill the mitzvah of Kiddush) who come to synagogue to hear Kiddush […] and so that the practice of Kiddush not be forgotten by these people, and, of course, by their young children.[28]

The issue of Kiddush in the synagogue thus reflects three elements that additional study shows is characteristic of Rabbi Eliyahu Ḥazan's halakhic decisions (and of other decisions by Sephardic/Middle Eastern rabbis in the modern era):

1. Expansion of the functions of the synagogue in order to fill a void created by the weakening of the cultural-religious function of the family and home;
2. Accommodation (rather than exclusion or disregard) of Jews of marginal communal status;
3. A willingness to make independent and original halakhic decisions, relying on minority opinions and going against the Shulhan 'Arukh and accepted custom—out of a deep conviction that in the present reality such rulings were necessary in order to implement the highest values of Judaism and Torah.

Another instance in which a leading Sephardic rabbi directly counters what had become conventional rabbinic theology and halakhic policy is found in the following section.

Rabbi Yaakov Moshe Toledano

            Rabbi Yaakov Moshe Toledano (1880–1960) was born in Tiberias, scion to an illustrious Sephardic family from Meknes (Morocco) and ultimately from pre-expulsion Toledo. From his early 20s, he combined rabbinic learning, public service, and historical and bibliographic interests.[29] During World War I, he (along with other Jews with French citizenship) was exiled to Corsica, where he served as rabbi; later he served as rabbi and dayyan in such diverse places as Tangiers, Cairo, and Alexandria. In 1942, he was chosen as Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv, and for about a year before his decease served as Israel's Minister of Religious Affairs. As many other Sephardic members of the Old Yishuv, Rabbi Toledano held a very positive attitude toward the Zionist “New Yishuv,” and considered the anti-Zionist positions of many Ashkenazic rabbis of the Old Yishuv to be religiously misguided. The murder of his younger brother Meir at the hands of Arab rioters in Safed (1929) led him to compose a responsum on the halakhic duty of Jewish self-defense.[30] In this teshuva, he argued powerfully for the need to re-think what had been considered by many as halakhically taken for granted:

Many of our great rabbis, both in former generations and in current times, erred—and misguided the simple masses of our people—in the belief that as long as we are in this hard Exile we are forbidden to lift up our head. Rather, we are commanded to bow ourselves down before every tyrant and ruler, and to give our backs to the smiters and our cheeks to them that pluck off hair (Isaiah L:6); as if the blood of Israel had been forfeited, and as if He—blessed be He—had decreed that Jacob be given for a spoil and Israel to the robbers (Isaiah XLII:24). They thought, that the decree of Exile and servitude to the nations included slavery and lowliness, and that—as a matter of sanctifying the Name even at the price of one's life—a Jew must forfeit his life and surrender himself like a slave or prisoner of war to Israel's enemies, even in a situation in which it would have been possible to resist them and to retaliate in kind.

                        Let me, then, state outright, that—begging their pardon—they caused the loss of individual lives and of entire communities of the Jewish people, who in many instances might have saved themselves from death and destruction, had the leaders and rabbis of the generation instructed them that they were obligated to defend themselves against aggressors, according to the rule, “If a person comes to murder you—kill him first” (ha-Ba le-Horgekha—Hashkem le-Horgo).

Exile of the Jews from their homeland had indeed been ordained by God as a punishment for their sins. However, it was intended as a political punishment, i.e., rather than being ruled by themselves in the Land of Israel, the Jews were to be ruled by others in foreign lands. But this was not intended by God as a situation in which a Jew was obligated to refrain from defending himself if attacked. It was the rabbis—first of Ashkenaz and then of additional countries—who advocated such a distorted interpretation of God's will, and preached it to the Jewish masses. Many Jews who could have defended themselves against Gentile attackers therefore acquiesced passively to their own victimization—and the rabbis bore full responsibility for these terrible consequences. In contrast, writes Rabbi Toledano,

[... ] I praise the flowers of this new generation who “awoke and wakened” to revive oppressed hearts, to engirdle themselves with a courageous spirit, and to restore the crown of Israel's honor to its pristine glory. And it is with regard to this that the Bible says: "And I will give you a new heart, and instill in you a new spirit" (Ezekiel 36:26).

The flowers of the new generation are the Jewish youth of Mandatory Palestine who rejected the rabbinic passivity described above, and organized themselves to defend Jews from armed attacks. They were by and large not religiously observant—but Rabbi Toledano regards them as embodying the revival of Israel's spirit, prophesied by Ezekiel to occur at the time of redemption. Significantly, it was not the rabbis but the young non-traditional Jews who were in tune with the authentic values of Judaism. In the final section of this article, we will see another instance in which a great Sephardic halakhic scholar advocated a positive attitude toward the actions of the Zionist rebuilders of modern Israel, and also powerfully critiqued traditional rabbinic attitudes toward Jewish education for females.

Rabbi Matloub 'Abadi

In modern times, Sephardic rabbis did not reside only in Muslim Lands and in Israel. Thus, at the beginning of the twentieth century, a community of Jews hailing from Syria began to form in New York, and over time became a significant presence—especially in the Brooklyn area. Aleppo-born Rabbi Matloub 'Abadi (1889–1970) arrived in the United States in 1921, and was the greatest scholar of the Syrian-Jewish community in America. A slightly younger peer of Rabbi Toledano, his views with regard to the Zionist national project in the Land of Israel were also very positive. A fine example of this may be found in his address to the graduates of the Syrian community Talmud Torah in Brooklyn, on 7 Shevat 5699/ February 27, 1939:

Happy shall you be if you use this time for the good of the Land of Israel, the pride of our past and the luminescence of our future, to fulfill your duty toward it and to help it with all the means and the ways leading to rebuilding its ruins and making its settlement bloom. Remember our pledge to Zion on the rivers of Babylon and our aspiration and prayers to it over all generations. Do not be among those who falter behind its camps; be in the first ranks of its defenders and the fighters for its freedom, and take an important place among its loyal sons and builders.[31]

The Zionist character of these words is obvious and manifest. Attention should be paid also to the activist political-military element in Rabbi 'Abadi's words: The youth of the community are called not only to build the ruins and make the settlement bloom, and also not to content themselves with defense alone, but rather to be among "the fighters for [the country’s] freedom." In this context, it is relevant to note one of the great virtues of studying the Bible, according to Rabbi ‘Abadi:

Because of our sins we were exiled from our Land and lost our kingdom and our freedom, but we did not lose our Torah, the treasury of our delights and the source of our hope, which attests to our historical rights and to our original possession of them.[32]

The Torah, in addition to its importance as bearer of religious content and the norms binding the people of Israel, is thus also evidence of the “historical rights” of the people of Israel to the Land of Israel, which is one of the reasons it is important to nurture its study and strengthen the connection to it. The term “historical rights” is not one that stems from the halakhic or philosophical rabbinical lexicon but is rather part of the discourse of modern Zionism that is intended to anchor the justification of the Jewish national claim for political sovereignty over the Land of Israel.

That Rabbi ‘Abadi makes use of this term in his address to his students in early 1939 shows that this term was familiar and meaningful for them and that he felt comfortable using this term and utilizing it in order to explain and strengthen their attitude toward Torah and its study. Of course, Rabbi ‘Abadi did not believe that the Jewish connection to the Land should be based solely on historical right, just as he did not believe that the connection to the Torah is solely a national-cultural one. But it is clear that, according to his worldview, no contradiction exists between political Zionism and religious loyalty to Torah and to the Land of Israel; rather, they complete and strengthen each other.

Another similarity between Rabbi 'Abadi and Rabbi Toledano is their boldness in critiquing conventional rabbinic policy, when they were convinced that earlier generations held mistaken positions. Thus, another issue that Rabbi 'Abadi asked his students to champion (in addition to Zionism) was extending Jewish education to include girls, who had traditionally been excluded from such studies:

And may you succeed also in redeeming female captives! These are our daughters—the spine of the cultivation of the future generation—whose education we have disregarded. And to this day, only a very small percentage of them continue their Hebrew education. And most of them are similar, in adulthood, to Jews captured in infancy by Gentiles. May it be God’s will that you redeem them a full redemption.[33]

If these girls are captives, who are their captors? Clearly, these are the men, and especially the rabbis, the knights of the traditional cultural order, who fail to offer girls a formal Jewish education and thus deprive them of the freedom of knowledge. This despite the fact that the girls, when mothers, would be “the spine of the culture of the future generation”—powerful criticism, indeed, directed against the traditional leadership of Syrian Sephardic Jewry, from the mouth of the community’s most prominent scholar.[34]

Conclusion

It was my modest goal in this article to introduce to the readers some Sephardic rabbis of modern times with whom they may have been unacquainted, and while doing so, to provide examples of the value considerations and policies these rabbis employed in responding to challenges that modern developments posed to the continuity of Jewish life and Jewish community. It is my hope that these examples will encourage the reader to broaden and deepen his/her interest in the writings and creativity of Sephardic and Middle Eastern rabbis and to reflect upon the significance these values and policies may hold for current Jewish life.

Man cannot rely on intellect alone to determine his spiritual work. A connection based on intellect alone is not long lasting. He can know intellectually… yet his heart and body remain far behind. He needs to bind his whole soul and life force (to Hashem) and penetrate his soul to elevate and awaken it, so it becomes passionate about all mitzvot, about Torah and tefilla, and find true spiritual delight and joy in them. 

                                                                 Hovot HaTalmidim—Piaseczno Rav

It hurts me so much to see how many Jewish kids from around the world are leaving their Jewish identities behind. Many come from non-observant homes where they were never really given any reason to “stay Jewish.” Many others grew up in observant homes, but something went wrong in their Jewish education, their social or family life—or the lure of the secular world was just too strong.

I speak to many kids who were brought up with a Judaism that was less than warm and inspiring, just being told by well-meaning teachers and parents to do things without really understanding the depth and meaning behind it. They often tell me they grew up with the idea that Hashem is an angry man in the sky, and we have to do what He says otherwise He gets angry. It's hard to build a close personal relationship with a God like that. Halakha can seem restrictive and davening impersonal. Some started questioning things as they got older and came into contact with secular ideas and science, and the adults they asked were not equipped with the knowledge, evidence, or understanding to answer their questions.

In fact, we are facing somewhat of a crisis as many more people are leaving religious observance than returning; there is an extremely high intermarriage rate; many religious Jews report that they are just going through the motions; some ba’alei teshuva run out of steam five years down the road; and many Jews don’t even identify as being Jewish anymore.

Looking into Judaism from the outside as I did for the first 29 years of my life, I wasn't too impressed either. On one hand, it was because of my own shortcomings. I realized that even though I had a strong Jewish identity, went to Hebrew School, had a bar mitzvah, Friday night dinners, celebrated the festivals, played on a Jewish football team, visited Israel, and had mostly Jewish friends, I was basically uneducated when it came to what the Torah actually teaches and why we believe that to be true. I had a superficial understanding of the beliefs and the rituals and was easily put off by things I saw in the Torah that went against my western secular moral value system.

I had never interacted with religious Jews, happy to just judge them unfavorably from afar. In short, I was uninformed and assumed things about the religion and its adherents without really challenging myself to look a little deeper. 

On the other hand, I was disaffected because of some shortcomings I saw, and am still faced with in the Orthodox community today. It’s amazing how many conversations I have with highly conscious spiritually seeking Jews who come into Aish HaTorah and want to know why, if the Torah is true and enlightening, there is not more emphasis on things such as physical health, protecting the environment, universalism and an appreciation of art, music, and culture within the religious community.

The truth is that Judaism is a holistic path to perfecting ourselves and the world around us. The Rambam speaks of exercise and healthy eating as prerequisites for spiritual connection[1] and the Torah, Talmud, and Midrash urge us to be environmentally conscious. As far as other nations are concerned, a Midrash tells us that there is great wisdom amongst them[2] and Tanna D’Bei Eliyahu Rabbah[3] teaches that the Holy Spirit rests on man, woman, Jew, and non-Jew, according to their deeds. So, when asked about this, I acknowledge their point and admit that religious Jews are just as human as everyone else, having their shortcomings, challenges, and areas they need to really work on. Being religious doesn't automatically make someone happy and perfect; we all have personal and societal struggles to overcome and have to prioritize what areas of growth to work on. There are also some times when people who are dressed as religious Jews can behave in ways that give the religion a bad name; but they aren’t representative of the religion at all, in fact it’s only when they are going against Torah that the negativity comes out.

However, I then feel compelled to point out that, as a whole, I have found that there is more goodwill, strength in community, welcoming of guests, giving of charity, sense of purpose, focus on growth, learning, and the development and teaching good values and character traits than in any other community I have ever come across anywhere in the world. The amount of charitable organizations, leadership, and growth initiatives and learning opportunities is truly remarkable.

Yet we do seem to be facing one real issue, one that Rav Joseph B. Soloveitchik expressed in his usual clear and insightful manner:  

Contemporary Orthodoxy is well grounded intellectually. In spite of this, its followers lack passion and enthusiasm … from within the allegedly dry confines of Jewish law, there is an awesome, warm, enormous world—there is a definite transition from Halakha to Service of Hashem. [4]

Notwithstanding some issues of philosophy and practice, when one walks into a Buddhist Temple in Thailand you feel an aura of peace and serenity, removed from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Step into a Hindu Temple in India, and you are met with a profound sense of the heightened spiritual energy pervading the atmosphere. Unfortunately, the same doesn't always seem to be the case when you walk into a synagogue, and it can feel like, as Rav Soleveitchik continued “many Jews don't want to pray, they want to have prayed.”

There are so many really nice, good, religiously observant people, who keep kosher and Shabbat and all the mitzvoth, whose kids go to yeshiva, who learn Torah and dress modestly. All this is crucial—it's who we are and what we need to do and it's keeping Judaism alive. Yet, sometimes, it seems like people lose the center and purpose of it all; a truly intimate, authentic, personal relationship with themselves and Hashem. Sometimes it feels like we have the body of Jewish practice, we're just lacking the heart. The Ramchal (Rabbi Moshe Hayyim Luzzato) laments in the introduction to Messilat Yesharim [5] that

There are those who have entered the realm of the sacred and are studying the Holy Torah … however few amongst them choose to devote thought and study to the total perfection of the Divine Service; Ahava, Yirah, Deveikut, and all other aspects of piety… which is the very essence of what Hashem is asking of us! 

The truth is that just being technically correct, ticking the boxes and going through the motions is not the goal. Doing our religious obligations quickly so we can get back to work or entertainment, which we value more, is not the way it's meant to be. We were created with the express purpose of re-identifying ourselves as souls, feeling close to Hashem in a palpable way, and bringing God-consciousness into the world. The Torah and halakha are the guidelines, leading us toward an experience. It’s easy to get caught up in the laws and lose sight of the destination.

Rabbi David Aaron compares it to just looking at a menu in a restaurant without actually tasting the food, or studying the maps without going on the beautiful hike. Or, as one of my first teachers said “It is like a finger pointing away to the moon. Don’t concentrate on that finger or you will miss all the heavenly glory.”[6]

We could be learning Torah and davening all day, working on our character traits, and doing mitzvoth, yet be sadly missing what it is all for. Torah is a Guidebook leading us to an experience. Just studying the Guidebook without tasting the experience means we could miss the whole point.

 A story is told of the Hiddushei HaRim who was walking with a student and told him that one day there will be a time when there will be a proliferation of yeshivas, study halls, Torah literature, Jewish organizations and shuls, tzedakah, and mitzvoth. Yet at that time there’ll be one thing missing; Hashem.

So what is it that we need to be implementing in our lives? The Talmud in Sanhedrin 106a teaches that the Compassionate One just wants the heart. He wants us to really mean what we do; to do things consciously and build a real deep, loving authentic relationship. The Shulhan Arukh[7] teaches that less done with more intention is better than doing a lot without intention, and the Mishna Berura adds, quoting the Talmud, that “one can do a lot, or one could do a little, just as long as the heart is directed towards heaven.”[8]

Messilat Yesharim[9] teaches that “the master blessed be He is not satisfied with deeds alone in the performance of mitzvoth. Rather, what is most important to Him is that the heart be so pure that it direct itself to true service of the eternal." It all comes down to a question of whether our heart is truly in it, do we really mean and feel it. We say in Aleinu three times a day,

“We should know today and place it in our heart that Hashem is our God in the heavens above and on the earth below, there is nothing else.”

Just knowing, even an intimate knowing, is not enough.[10] It needs to be settled into and make an impression on our heart. One day just before Shavuot I was saying this passage when I noticed it contains the words Daat (knowledge) and Yishuv (to settle). It is teaching us the need to “settle the knowledge” in our hearts. This called to mind a famous teaching in the Likutei Morahan where Rebbe Nachman teaches:[11] The reason the world feels far from Hashem and is not coming close to Him, may He be blessed, is only because they have no Yishuv haDaat— settling/peace of mind.

Putting these two teachings together, it occurred to me that Yishuv haDaat on the one hand means to settle our minds and find some peace and clarity, and it is also expressing the real goal of this exercise which is to Yishuv the Daat, to settle the intimate knowledge into our hearts and live fully with it. Once our mind is calm and still, we clear up space to feel the innate connection we already have in our heart and soul.  Pirkei Avot[12] teaches,

Go and see which is the best trait for a person to acquire. Said Rabbi Eliezer: A good eye. Said Rabbi Joshua: A good friend. Said Rabbi Yossei: A good neighbor. Said Rabbi Shimon: To see what is born [out of ones actions]. Said Rabbi Elazar: A good heart. Said he (Rav Yohanan) to them: I prefer the words of Elazar the son of Arakh to yours, for his words include all of yours.

A true Enlightened Jewish Master is one who compliments a balanced, trained and healthy mind, with a pure, good, and open heart.

The most essential and powerful practice we need to bring our hearts into the picture is what the Talmud[13] calls Avodah SheB’lev—the work of the heart. What is the service of the heart? It is tefillah, prayer.[14]

Prayer itself should come from the heart, and we use it as a time to ask Hashem for help in purifying our hearts to be able to connect even more authentically;[15]  “God, create for me a pure heart, and renew the correct spirit within me; purify our hearts to serve you in truth.”[16]

What this points to is that the most powerful way to build a real authentic, intimate relationship with Hashem is through speaking to Him honestly and openly from the heart. Jewish prayer isn't an attempt to connect to a separate Being, thanking and praising and requesting things from Him. Rather the word for prayer, lehitpallel, is reflexive, i.e., something we are doing to ourselves! Various interpretations teach that we are evaluating ourselves,[17] connecting to ourselves,[18] and envisioning the ultimate state of our lives and the world.[19] To pray is the ultimate expression of our souls. Rav Moshe Weinberger teaches that our connection to our souls and Hashem can be on one of the four levels of life on this earth—mineral, vegetable, animal, and human. For some people it is domem, quiet[20] and stagnant like a rock. Then there are those who are tsomeah—growing; beginning to be aroused to seek for more, more depth, more meaning, more connection. Above that there are those who are hai—truly living with this consciousness; getting up to pray, learning, doing mitzvoth, working on themselves. Yet there is a level even higher than this. He points out that the word for human is medaber—one who speaks. The highest level of connection to self, Torah[21] and Hashem is to be in a constant conversation with Him; to open our hearts and speak directly to Him, like a best friend, twin, father, guide, even spouse. 

Introduction

God communicated to people through prophecy for nearly the entire biblical period, from Adam until Malachi. According to a prevalent Jewish tradition, prophecy ceased with Malachi, not to be renewed until the messianic age. In this article, we will consider a few traditional explanations of why prophecy ceased and some spiritual implications for Judaism over the ensuing 2,500 years and counting.

Overview of Malachi

Unlike Haggai and Zechariah, whose prophecies pulsated with messianic potential, Malachi lived a generation or two later—a generation in which that messianic potential appears to have been lost. At that time, the people’s political and economic suffering contributed to:

their feelings of rejection by God (1:2–5),
corruption of the priesthood (1:6–2:9),
rampant intermarriage (2:10–16), and
laxity in tithing (3:8–12).
God-fearing people were losing heart as well. Why remain righteous? Their sinful compatriots were successful, while God-fearing people suffered (2:17; 3:13–21)! All Malachi could answer was that for now, the mere fact of Israel’s continued existence proved that God still loved them (1:2–5). Only in some unspecified future would God bring complete justice (3:13–24).

According to a prevalent Jewish tradition, Malachi was the last prophet (see, for example, Tosefta Sotah 3:3; Yoma 9b; Sanhedrin 11a). That his book is positioned last in the Twelve Prophets does not prove he was the last prophet, since the book is not arranged in chronological order. However, it seems from textual evidence that he likely was the last of the Twelve. Radak and Abarbanel observe that unlike Haggai and Zechariah, Malachi does not mention the Temple construction; it was in use already. Malachi also condemns intermarriage (Mal. 2:10–16), a shared concern of Ezra and Nehemiah (458–432 B.C.E., see Ezra 9–10; Neh. 13:23–28). The widespread laxity in tithing (Mal. 3:8–12) also likely dates to Nehemiah’s time (Neh. 10:35–40; 12:44; 13:5, 10–12).

Even if Malachi were the last of the biblical prophets, there is no statement at the end of his book or anywhere else in the Bible stating categorically that prophecy had ceased. For example, Nehemiah battled false prophets (Neh. 6:5–7, 11–13) but did not negate the existence of prophecy in principle.

Nevertheless, the tradition that Malachi was the last prophet opened the interpretive possibility that Malachi was conscious of the impending end of prophecy.

A pronouncement (massa): The word of the Lord to Israel through Malachi (Mal. 1:1).

Most commentators understand the book’s opening word massa as another generic term for “prophecy.” However, Abarbanel notes that the term could also mean “burden.” One Midrash similarly understands massa in this vein:

?[Prophecy] is expressed by ten designations…And which is the severest form? ... The Rabbis said: Burden (massa), as it says, As a heavy burden (Ps. 138:5) (Gen. Rabbah 44:6).

Within this interpretation, it is possible that Malachi viewed his mission with additional weight, conscious of his being the last of the prophets.

Similarly, several interpreters understand the book’s closing verses as a self-conscious expression that prophecy was about to end:

Be mindful of the Teaching of My servant Moses, whom I charged at Horeb with laws and rules for all Israel. Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the Lord. He shall reconcile parents with children and children with their parents, so that, when I come, I do not strike the whole land with utter destruction (Mal. 3:22–24).

Kara (on 3:22), Ibn Ezra (on 1:1), Abarbanel (on 1:1), and Malbim (on 3:22) explain that Malachi was aware that prophecy would stop with him. The word of God would henceforth be available only through the written word of the Bible. Malbim links the exhortation to observe the Torah to the prediction of Elijah’s coming. With the end of prophecy, the Torah would sustain the people of Israel until the messianic era, at which point prophecy will resume.

Why Prophecy Stopped

We now turn to three leading trends in traditional Jewish thought as to why prophecy ceased: sin, the destruction of the Temple, or a metaphysical spiritual transition.

Sin

Some sources suggest that the loss of prophecy was punishment for sin. Over 200 years before Malachi, the prophet Amos predicted the cessation of prophecy:

A time is coming—declares my Lord God—when I will send a famine upon the land: not a hunger for bread or a thirst for water, but for hearing the words of the Lord. Men shall wander from sea to sea and from north to east to seek the word of the Lord, but they shall not find it (Amos 8:11–12).

Avot D’Rabbi NathanB:47 explains that prophecy ceased as a consequence of people mocking the prophets.

Radak (on Hag. 2:5) suggests more generally that lack of fidelity to the Torah resulted in the loss of prophecy. A Midrash (Pesikta Rabbati 35) states that many Jews failed to return to Israel after Cyrus gave them permission, and therefore prophecy ceased. Commenting on Yoma 9b, which blames the lack of redemption in the Second Temple period on the fact that many Jews did not return, Maharsha similarly states that prophecy ceased as punishment for the non-return from exile.

Destruction of the Temple

Ezekiel chapters 8–10 describe a vision wherein God shows the prophet the rampant idolatry in Jerusalem. God’s Presence abandons the Temple and goes into exile. Radak (on Ezek. 9:3) explains that the absence of God’s Presence ultimately contributed to the disappearance of prophecy.

Although Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi prophesied after the destruction of the First Temple, a number of sources consider the destruction to have dealt a fatal blow to prophecy.

?In five things the first Sanctuary differed from the second: in the ark, the ark-cover, the Cherubim, the fire, the Shekhinah, the Holy Spirit [of Prophecy], and the Urim ve-Thummim [the Oracle Plate] (Yoma 21b).

As Benjamin is the last tribe, so Jeremiah is the last prophet. But did not Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi prophesy after him? R. Lazar says: they had limited prophecy. R. Samuel b. Nahman says: [Jeremiah’s] prophecy already was given to Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi (Pesikta D’Rav Kahana 13).

The last prophets were diminished or, alternatively, were mere transmitters of Jeremiah’s message. Malbim (on Zech. 1:5–6) presents a more benign form of this approach:

I will not send new prophets, since there is no longer any need for prophets as you have seen all the prophecies of doom fulfilled against you…there is no longer any need for prophecy since you already understand God’s hand in history.

According to Malbim, there no longer was any need for prophecy since the message had already been given through earlier prophets.

Metaphysical Transition

Seder Olam Rabbah30 states that prophecy ceased in the time of Alexander the Great. Based on the rabbinic chronology, the Greek Empire began immediately following the end of the biblical period, so this time frame would synchronize with Malachi. Following this chronological assumption, R. Zadok HaKohen of Lublin observed that a metaphysical transition to an age of reason occurred in Israel and in Greece at the same time:

The proliferation of idolatry and sorcery in the gentile world paralleled divine revelation and prophecy in Israel. When prophecy ceased and the era of the Oral Law commenced, there appeared Greek Philosophy, which is to say, mortal wisdom (Resisei Laylah, 81b, Bezalel Naor translation).

This idea meshes with a talmudic statement that at the beginning of the Second Temple period, the temptation for idolatry ceased being the force it had been during the First Temple period (Yoma 69b). R. Yehudah HeHasid argued that once the urge for idolatry vanished there no longer existed the need for prophecy to counterbalance magic (Sefer Hasidim, Wistenetzky ed., p. 544; cf. R. Elijah of Vilna, commentary on Seder Olam Rabbah 30; R. Zadok, Divrei Soferim, 21b).

Similarly, a certain spiritual intensity was lost. Once the urge to idolatry had declined, prophetic revelation would have too much power if left unchecked. To preserve free will, prophecy had to cease as well (R. Eliyahu Dessler, Mikhtav me-Eliyahu III, pp. 277–278).

Religious Implications

According to the sin approach, the deprivation of the supreme gift of prophecy was a devastating punishment that has diminished the connection between God and humanity for the past 2,500 years since Malachi. Within the destruction of the Temple approach, the disappearance of prophecy was a necessary corollary of that cataclysmic event.

Although the loss of prophecy was a spiritual catastrophe, there still are some spiritual benefits to its suspension particularly within the approach that there was a divinely ordained metaphysical shift from prophecy-idolatry to human reason. In 1985, Professor Yaakov Elman published two articles analyzing the position of R. Zadok HaKohen of Lublin in reference to the transition from the age of prophecy to the age of Oral Law. According to R. Zadok, the end of prophecy facilitated a flourishing of the development of the Oral Law, a step impossible as long as people could turn to the prophets for absolute religious guidance and knowledge of God’s Will. Sages needed to interpret texts and traditions to arrive at rulings, enabling them to develop axioms that could keep the eternal Torah relevant as society changed.

Although the decline of revelation distanced people from ascertaining God’s Will, it simultaneously enabled mature human participation in the mutual covenant between God and humanity. This religious struggle is captured poignantly by the talmudic passage:

And they stood under the mount: R. Abdimi b. Hama b. Hasa said: This teaches that the Holy One, blessed be He, overturned the mountain upon them like an [inverted] cask, and said to them, ‘If you accept the Torah, it is well; if not, there shall be your burial.’R. Aha b. Jacob observed: This furnishes a strong protest against the Torah. Said Rava, Yet even so, they re-accepted it in the days of Ahasuerus, for it is written, [the Jews] confirmed, and took upon them [etc.]: [i.e.,] they confirmed what they had accepted long before (Shabbat 88a).

Rather than explaining R. Aha’s question away, Rava understood that revelation in fact crippled an aspect of free will. He proposed Purim as the antidote, since that represents the age when revelation ceased.

Although prophecy was the ideal state—and we pray for its return—its absence enables the flourishing of human reason, as we no longer have access to absolute divine knowledge. We must take initiative in our relationship with God or else the relationship suffers. R. Zadok applied this human endeavor to the realm of Torah study. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik understood prayer as replacing prophecy, precisely with the imperative of our responsibility to keep the lines of communication between God and humanity open:

In short, prayer and prophecy are two synonymous designations of the covenantal God-man colloquy. Indeed, the prayer community was born the very instant the prophetic community expired and, when it did come into the spiritual world of the Jew of old, it did not supersede the prophetic community but rather perpetuated it…If God had stopped calling man, they urged, let man call God (The Lonely Man of Faith [New York: Doubleday, 1992], pp. 57–58).

Institutionalizing prayer rescued intimacy with God by creating a new framework for this sacred dialogue.

Although prophecy disappeared some 2,500 years ago, the underlying spiritual struggle continues to be manifest in contemporary society. Many people long for absolute knowledge of God’s Will. Consequently, there exists a compelling pull toward holy men (rebbes, kabbalists) or the over-extension of a da’at Torah concept that accords near-infallibility to Torah scholars. Though that appeal may be understandable, it must be remembered that (a) these individuals are not prophets and therefore do not have the certain divine knowledge that many accord to them; and (b) in an age lacking prophecy we have a far greater responsibility to learn Torah and pray, and to take that spiritual energy to infuse every aspect of our lives with sanctity. This requires a healthy dose of human reason and effort, coupled with an ongoing consultation with spiritual guides who can help us grow.

For further study, see:

Hayyim Angel, “The First Modern-Day Rabbi: A Midrashic Reading of Ezra,” in Revealed Texts, Hidden Meanings: Finding the Religious Significance in Tanakh(Jersey City, NJ: KTAV-Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2009), pp. 217–226.
Hayyim Angel, “The Theological Significance of the Urim VeThummim,” in Through an Opaque Lens (New York: Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2006), pp. 195–214.
Gerald Blidstein, “In the Shadow of the Mountain: Consent and Coercion at Sinai,” Jewish Political Studies Review 4:1 (1992), pp. 41–53.
Yaakov Elman, “R. Zadok HaKohen on the History of Halakha,” Tradition 21:4 (Fall 1985), pp. 1–26.
Yaakov Elman, “Reb Zadok HaKohen of Lublin on Prophecy in the Halakhic Process,” in Jewish Law Association Studies I: Touro Conference Volume, ed. B. S. Jackson (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1985), pp. 1–16.
Lawrence Kaplan, “Daas Torah: A Modern Conception of Rabbinic Authority,” in Rabbinic Authority and Personal Autonomy, ed. Moshe Sokol (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson Inc., 1992), pp. 1–60.
Bezalel Naor, Lights of Prophecy (New York: Union of Orthodox Congregations, 1990).

Framing the Conversation

One of the most dramatic episodes in the Torah describes the Israelites in a state of panic when their leader, Moshe, doesn’t return from Mount Sinai as early as they expected him. In their haste to fill the void in leadership, the Israelites embark on the theologically disastrous venture of building a golden calf to serve as Moshe’s replacement.

Using this story as a philosophical springboard, Ibn Ezra[1] notes that some “empty-minded” people wondered why it took so long for Moshe to descend from the mountain.[2] What could he possibly have been doing for 40 days and 40 nights? Should it really take that long to receive a list of 613 commandments?

In Ibn Ezra’s view, the people who asked such questions were “empty-minded” because their wonderment was based on a faulty premise. They erroneously assumed that God’s mitzvoth (commandments) are simply a list of rules to be observed solely out of a commitment to divine obedience. As a result, it should not have taken Moshe so long to receive a list of arbitrary statutes. They failed to realize, of course, that mitzvoth are not a random list of actions that the Jewish people are intended to follow simply by virtue of God’s authority. On the contrary, mitzvoth are complex regulations that represent the physical actualization of a divine set of values and ideals.[3] In theory, Moshe could have spent a lifetime on Mount Sinai learning the secrets of divine providence, as well as the philosophical and theological meanings that underlie God’s commandments.

In the view that Ibn Ezra criticizes, observance of the law is an end in itself. Obedience and compliance are God’s ultimate goals for humankind. The spiritual meanings of the mitzvoth are at best secondary, or at worst irrelevant. Ibn Ezra, on the other hand, argues passionately that the primary concern of halakha (Jewish law), is that our hearts are affected by the physical performance of mitzvoth. Performance of mitzvoth without an awareness of the larger philosophical vision of the commandments may be legally effective, at least ex post facto. However, in its ideal vision, Jewish law demands that a person understand the rationale behind the mitzvoth, and therefore be spiritually transformed by the divine messages embedded in mitzvah observance.

The Preference for an Obedience-Based Model

The tension that Ibn Ezra highlights is not new. The question of whether Jewish law should be observed primarily from a place of obedience, or from a vision of halakha that is rooted in deeper meaning and understanding, has been debated since the talmudic period. In the medieval era, for example, rabbinic scholars engaged in vigorous debates about the religious appropriateness of searching for rationales behind divine legislation. Some rabbinic voices expressed strong condemnation of this quest, while others conveyed enthusiastic support. Rabbi Avraham Yitzhak HaKohen Kook,[4] however, notes that although many rabbinic scholars have strongly encouraged the search for ta’amei haMitzvoth (reasons for the commandments), throughout Jewish history, there has been an asymmetry between the small number of books devoted to the meaning behind the law, and the amount of published scholarship devoted to outlining the legal and practical contours of the law itself.[5] This trend has continued into the twenty-first century, which has seen a literary explosion of books dedicated to detailed discussion of practical areas of Jewish law that were rarely given such extensive treatment in earlier eras in Jewish history.[6]

The Disadvantages of Excessive Focus on Obedience

While the increased focus on practical halakha certainly helps to make halakhic observance more accessible and facilitates greater commitment to halakhic detail, it generates its own set of challenges as well. After all, a commitment to Jewish law without a parallel commitment to the meaning behind Jewish ritual runs the risk of turning halakha into a formulaic set of laws without any larger spiritual vision. Moreover, overemphasis on authority without a corresponding focus on meaning creates a fundamental disconnect between the practitioner of the law and the law itself. How can we truly feel a sense of pride in our observance of God’s commandments if we cannot articulate and appreciate the underlying messages of the halakha?

This attitude can also have serious effects on the way in which people observe Jewish law. After all, blind obedience can feel burdensome, and there is a natural tendency to look for ways to lighten the burden. When the focus of halakha is heavily tilted in the direction of obedience, practitioners of Jewish law will naturally seek out ways to avoid the technical violation of halakhic mandates while neglecting to keep in mind the law’s spiritual purpose. One example of this is the current effort to create gadgets that circumvent Shabbat laws. Certain trends in contemporary synagogue life, such as talking throughout services or leaving early for “kiddush clubs,” may also be reflections of this disconnect.

Increased focus on the spiritual substance of halakha will hopefully help to address some of these challenges. If we were to truly understand the religiously transcendent messages that prayer and the Torah reading convey, would we be tempted to talk during the service or leave early in order to gain an additional few minutes of socializing with friends? If we had clarity about the spiritual goals of the details of Shabbat observance, would the possibility of an iPhone app that claims to permit the use of a smartphone on Shabbat sound religiously appealing? Readjusting the delicate balance between meaning and authority, with an added focus on understanding the religious messages of halakha, will not only facilitate a more mindful and meaningful observance of Jewish law, but will also promote a more intense commitment to the details of halakha.

Ta’amei haMitzvoth as the Source of Jewish Pride

Maimonides (the Rambam),[7] one of the most important thinkers of his time, affirmed the need to understand the reasons for God’s commandments (ta’amei haMitzvoth). He argues forcefully that all mitzvoth have some rational basis and serve some ethical, societal, or personal religious function.[8] To substantiate his view, he cites the verse from Deuteronomy that tells of the Gentile nations when they “hear all those statutes (hukkim),” they will respond by saying, “Surely this great nation is a wise and understanding people!” (Deut. 4:6). The Rambam notes that if a significant number of the 613 mitzvoth have no rational basis, what would compel the Gentile world to find beauty in a life dedicated to God’s commandments?

The Maharal[9] goes one step further, utilizing the same proof-text cited by the Rambam to argue that not only do the general categories of mitzvoth have some clearly explicable inherent meaning, but even the seemingly arbitrary details of Jewish practice are rooted in divine ideals.[10] According to the Maharal, just as God has a specific reason for instituting the laws of sacrifices, for example, there must similarly be some religious message inherent in the obligation to use certain animals for specific sacrifices.

According to this model, the quest to find the rationale behind the laws facilitates a greater identification with the divine messages that the laws attempt to convey. The Torah imagines that the gentile world will look at the laws of the Torah and marvel at its wisdom. Understanding the transcendent values that the law embodies affirms this vision of the Torah’s self-identity and allows the Jewish people to similarly understand how their God-given set of laws transforms them into a “great nation.”

Ta’amei haMitzvoth as the Vehicle for Accessing the Spiritual Messages of the Law

Articulating a sophisticated vision of ta’amei haMitzvoth affirms the spiritual significance of Jewish law and the critical function of mitzvoth in actualizing these values in the real world. This position is eloquently expressed by the Shela.[11]

In order to fully understand the position of the Shela, let’s imagine what Jewish law would look like if certain physical objects simply never came into existence. For example, Jewish civil law deals with injury cases involving pits, animals, and fire. Imagine for a moment that these things were never created. What would happen to their accompanying halakhot? The Shela answers that the spiritual messages of the halakha exist independently of their physical manifestations. In such a scenario, therefore, these divine ideals would simply find expression through some other physical medium.[12]

The Shela takes this idea even further, arguing that the spiritual substance of the law existed even during the time of Adam and Eve. Since they lived in the spiritual bliss of the Garden of Eden, halakha expressed itself at that time exclusively in spiritual terms. However, as humanity moved away from the intense spirituality of that time towards a more physically-oriented existence, the expression of Jewish law shifted and the practical performance of mitzvoth became the most effective medium to experience divine values in a physical space. The laws themselves thus serve as “spiritual entry points” to experience God. Since halakha is rooted in transcendental divine virtues, each time we observe Jewish law, we also act as a conduit for bringing divine energy into the world.

Interestingly, Rabbi Yehuda Amital[13] argues that the requirement to experience the eternal values of the law through the physical medium of practical halakha is the result of a historical shift that occurred after the Jewish people received the Torah at Sinai. Because of the spiritual greatness of our forefathers, they were able to tap into the religious messages of the Torah even without observing the practical halakha itself.[14] Rabbi Amital notes that “the avot did not observe the mitzvoth in the sense in which we observe them. They did not put on tefillin or shake the lulav. But they understood and appreciated the underlying messages of the mitzvoth.”[15] After the giving of the Torah, by contrast, God insisted that the spiritual messages underlying the law could be accessed only through firm commitment to halakhic detail.

Thus, Rabbi Amital writes:

Avraham, Yitzhak, and Yaakov were able to intuit these basic notions, which Chazal understand as being comparable to performing the mitzvoth in the time before the Torah was given. In the time after the giving of the Torah, these underlying ideas need to be integrated with practice.[16]

Beyond connecting us to the ideals rooted in God Himself, searching for the profound messages that the mitzvoth convey also ensures our connection to the world of the patriarchs and matriarchs and affirms our commitment to seeing our own halakhic identity as a natural outgrowth of their spiritual worldview.

Ta’amei haMitzvoth and the Legal Framework of Halakha

In addition to expressing the themes and messages that underlie observance of the law, analyzing the rationale behind the commandments also helps us to grasp the unique legal framework of Jewish law. For example, in multiple instances, the Torah refers to the requirement for the Jewish people to “be holy.” What is the legal force of this directive? Is this simply a biblical homily, or is there some halakhic consequence associated with this command? The Rambam writes that some codifiers erroneously counted the imperative to “be holy” as its own positive mitzvah.[17] In reality, the Rambam claims, “kedoshim tehiyu” is not an independent commandment, but is rather the meta-value that drives the entire system. The goal of halakhic living is to be holy, and the quest for holiness requires us to perform mitzvoth as if they are meant to be transformative.

Similarly, Rav Kook notes that one of the most distinct features of Mosaic legislation is its ability to link specific commandments to a larger spiritual vision that motivates the legal conversation.[18] According to Rav Kook, the prophets, by contrast, focused nearly exclusively on the overarching vision of the halakha, while neglecting to place a parallel emphasis on the mechanics of the law and how the details serve as an application of the larger vision. Reacting to the failure of the prophetic model of the law, the rabbis of the Talmud placed extraordinary emphasis on the details of halakha in order to ensure the preservation of Jewish identity and society. It is for this reason that the Talmud states, “A sage is preferable to a prophet.”[19] After all, while the prophet can clearly articulate the vision and message that governs the law, it is the sage who is able to guide the people and safeguard the observance of the law itself.

According to Rav Kook’s conception, the ideal model of adjudication is the Mosaic one. This paradigm places the details of the law in context and, as a result, presents a holistic vision of what the law is meant to facilitate. Nahmanides (the Ramban)[20] offers a powerful example of this model, noting that after listing details of biblical monetary law, the Torah concludes by stating that the overarching principle is “to be good and just in the eyes of God.”[21] Similarly, after delineating many of the details of the laws of Shabbat, the Torah articulates the larger directive of Shabbat as “a day of rest.”[22]

What these examples indicate is that the search for the larger religious messages inherent in traditional Jewish observance is not some external exercise imposed on the law itself. Rather, Jewish law is predicated on viewing the mitzvoth as the medium for religious transformation. Therefore, the search for additional clarity regarding the spiritual substance of halakha furthers the Torah’s self-declared goals.

Ta’amei haMitzvoth and the Balance of Meaning and Authority

While this book attempts to shift the contemporary conversation of halakha back toward an increased focus on the search for meaning in halakhic detail, this reorientation still validates the critical role of obedience and submission in forming a holistic commitment to halakha. Viewing halakha from a place of both meaning and authority is crucial in order to facilitate commitment to Jewish law in its entirety. On a pragmatic level, exclusive focus on the world of meaning can create challenges regarding mitzvoth whose rationale is simply not known. In a model devoted solely to the transformative messages of halakha, how are we supposed to be religiously moved by rules whose meaning we do not understand? It is precisely in these moments that our broader commitment to obedience becomes critical.

Understanding the rationale behind the commandments is crucial to ensure that Jewish law facilitates its goal of religious transformation. Nonetheless, the reasons themselves are not why we observe the law. In fact, despite being one of the greatest proponents of ta’amei haMitzvoth, the Rambam declares, “If [one] cannot find a reason or a motivating rationale for a practice, he should not regard it lightly.”[23]

Beyond the pragmatic problem, a halakhic approach that is exclusively committed to meaning is fundamentally compromised from a philosophical perspective. While excessive focus on obedience can create an observance paradigm that is formulaic and dry, overemphasis on meaning can generate a halakhic model that is self-centered and ultimately rooted in the ego. If we were to observe only those rituals that we fully understand and find personally meaningful, we would effectively be engaging in a commitment to ritual in which the self is the primary object of worship. Embracing the need for periodic submission by observing even those commandments that we do not understand ensures that our observance of halakha is truly a self-transcendent exercise.[24] As Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik[25] (“the Rav”) notes, “The religious act begins with the sacrifice of one’s self, and ends with the finding of that self. But man cannot find himself without sacrificing himself prior to the finding.”[26]

The quest to understand the rationale that underlies the mitzvoth assumes that we should strive to articulate the spiritual messages of the halakha. Ideally, we attempt to minimize the number of times that we need to invoke the submission model. Nonetheless, the presence of some laws whose meaning remains mysterious serves an important religious purpose. Such laws provide a periodic opportunity for us to surrender our intellectual capacities before the divine command and remind ourselves that halakha allows us to find our true selves by connecting to values that transcend our own egos. Moreover, by affirming our commitment to those laws whose reasons we may find personally or ethically challenging, we ensure that the Torah is, in fact, the source of our value system, and not simply an ancient text that validates the contemporary zeitgeist.

Additionally, a commitment to halakha that is exclusively rooted in meaning fails to affirm the central roles of trust and confidence in developing a meaningful relationship to God. It is possible to articulate the meaning and rationale behind the overwhelming majority of mitzvoth. The awareness of these ideals should ensure that a practitioner of Jewish law feels confident and proud of the divine values that the halakhic system represents. It is against this philosophical background that we approach those mitzvoth whose rationale is still a mystery. Here, a commitment to an ethic of submission and the observance of these currently inexplicable laws affirm our trust and confidence in God’s benevolence. After all, the same God who is the source of those mitzvoth that we understand is also the source of the mitzvoth that we do not yet fully comprehend. Refocusing our efforts on understanding the transcendent messages of the law, while ensuring that our commitments are not contingent on understanding these values, most authentically captures the spiritual vision of halakha.