National Scholar Updates

Rabbi Dr. David de Sola Pool (May 16, 1885-December 1, 1970) was the foremost Sephardic rabbi in the United States during the middle decades of the 20th century. Born and raised in London, he came to New York in 1907 to become assistant rabbi to his relative, Dr. Henry Pereira Mendes, at the historic Congregation Shearith Israel, the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue. Dr. Pool was associated with Shearith Israel for the duration of his life, except for three years that he spent in the land of Israel 1919-1922. In 1917 he married Tamar Hirshenson; they had two children, Ithiel and Naomi. [1]

His childhood spiritual home was the Mildmay Park Synagogue, a branch of the Bevis Marks Synagogue. The de Sola family traced itself back to Sephardim of medieval Spain, and included illustrious rabbis and spiritual leaders over the course of the generations. The Pool family had been active in the Spanish and Portuguese synagogue of London, David’s father having been a leader in the Mildmay Park Synagogue and his grandfather having served as President of the Bevis Marks Synagogue.

David Pool graduated from University College of the University of London with first class honors in classics and humanities. He pursued rabbinic studies at Jews College. He later attended the Rabbinic Seminary in Berlin as well as earning a Ph.D. summa cum laude from Heidelberg University. His doctoral dissertation, The Kaddish, was published in 1908.

Upon his arrival in New York, he not only served his congregation but became active in the wider community. He was an outspoken activist on behalf of the newly arriving Sephardic immigrants from Turkey, the Balkans, Greece and Syria. He was elected President of the New York Board of Rabbis in 1916. He was field organizer and director of army camp work for the Jewish Welfare Board (1917-18). In 1920-21, he was regional director for Palestine and Syria on behalf of the Joint Distribution Committee. During 1938-1940, he was President of the Synagogue Council of America; in 1955 he was elected President of the American Jewish Historical Society. He was a member of the National Youth Administration under President Franklin D. Roosevelt. During World War II, he worked with the Jewish Welfare Board in providing chaplaincy services to Jewish military personnel.

Aside from his communal involvements, Dr. Pool was a prolific author. He translated and edited the Sephardic Prayer Books for the Union of Sephardic Congregations (which he founded in 1928.) He translated and edited the Ashkenazic Prayer Book under the auspices of the Rabbinical Council of America. He published books and articles on various facets of Jewish history, philosophy and religious outlook. If ever the American Jewish community could boast of an extraordinary rabbi who combined the talents of a congregational rabbi, the social activism of a genuine idealist, the eloquent advocacy of a Zionist partisan and the calm, deep writings of a fine scholar—that rabbi was David de Sola Pool. That this rabbi was Orthodox made him more unique. That this rabbi was Sephardic made him absolutely unique for his time and place. When he died in 1970, the Jewish Telegraphic Agency published an obituary (December 3, 1970) appropriately captioned: “Rabbi Dr. David de Sola Pool, World Leader in Judaism, Dies at 85.”

During the course of his lifetime, Dr. Pool was highly respected—but often from a distance, as though he were on a pedestal. He was the epitome of dignity and gravitas, with the air of a nobleman. People looked up to him, admired him, even revered him. He was a master of the bon mot; he had a wry sense of humor; he spoke with a beautifully resonant voice and a distinctive English accent.

Although Dr. Pool was actively engaged in so many communal and scholarly endeavors, he was always something of an “outsider,” a person not fully understood or appreciated by the public. In some profound sense, he was “a lonely man of faith.” To Ashkenazim, he was Sephardic. To Sephardim—most of whom came from Muslim lands—Dr. Pool was a Western Sephardi, not really “one of us.” To the Orthodox, he seemed a bit too refined, acculturated and universal. To the non-Orthodox, he was too Orthodox! To rabbis, Dr. Pool was a scholar and gentleman. To scholars, Rabbi Pool was a rabbi, not an academic. To Zionists, Dr. Pool was surely an enthusiast, but was too genteel, too high-brow, too unwilling to get involved in political battles. To non-Zionists, Dr. Pool was an unapologetic Jewish nationalist. To Talmudists, Dr. Pool was a Bible scholar. To Bible scholars, Rabbi Pool was an Orthodox rabbi with an Orthodox agenda.

Dr. Pool, thus, has remained something of an enigma. While scholars can list his many accomplishments and publications, the distinctive religious worldview that animated Dr. Pool’s life has remained relatively unexplored. This article will examine basic themes in Dr. Pool’s thinking, so that his unique contributions—and failures—might be better understood.

The Western Sephardic Tradition:

In his spiritual autobiography, Dr. Pool recalled the serenity of his youth growing up in the Spanish and Portuguese Jewish community of London. “The environment in which I lived was quiet and simple….No anti-Semitism, no migration, no undue struggle, no harsh change of fortune, no world war, marred the even tenor of the home in which I grew up.”[2] His synagogue experience was warm and meaningful. He participated actively in the services and learned the prayers and melodies with enthusiasm. “My own religious experience was happy, integrated, natural and fulfilling….Except on the New Year and the Day of Atonement, my religion did not stress that I was the victim of sin.” [3]

He was part of a family and a community that valued religious tradition as well as general education. Living in London among educated and prosperous Sephardim, David Pool had a privileged childhood that offered him opportunities not available to many young Jews growing up in Muslim lands or in Eastern Europe.

The Spanish and Portuguese Jewish community of London was a bastion of the Western Sephardic tradition. This culture had emerged among conversos, Jews who had been converted to Catholicism in medieval Iberia but who later returned to Judaism in such places as Amsterdam, London, Paris and other cities in Western Europe. Western Sephardic communities were characterized by a strong sense of personal and family pride, intellectualism, aesthetics, dignity, and social graces. Their synagogues were beautiful and well maintained. Synagogue services were highly decorous and orderly. Western Sephardim were quick to learn the languages, styles and mannerisms of the lands in which they lived.

David Pool imbued the values of the Western Sephardic tradition—a deep commitment to Jewish religious tradition; intellectual openness; involvement in the wellbeing of society. In summarizing Dr. Pool’s worldview, Dr. Nima Adlerblum (Dr. Pool’s sister-in-law) wrote: “His is not an Orthodoxy enclosed within four opaque walls. It is that of our ancient sages, which stretches into the wide horizon and carries its wholeness and holiness into an open world. It encompasses life in its entirety.” [4]

The Bible:

The bedrock of Dr. Pool’s religious worldview was the Hebrew Bible. From his youth, he studied its words, learned its grammar, and memorized many of its passages. As a young rabbi, he published a pamphlet, “How to Tell Bible Stories to Children.” [5] He began with the principle: “All religious teaching must have an underlying spiritual basis…It should never be forgotten that the Bible is the basis of our Jewish religion and life; therefore for us, it is different from all other literatures, classical myths, old legends, or tales from Chaucer and Shakespeare. This difference should be made a fundamental and determining feature of the treatment of the Bible stories.”[6] In telling Bible stories to children, the goal is to make them feel connected to the Biblical characters. Children should learn to take pride in their Biblical ancestors. “The purpose of the Bible story is to train up good Jews, not to train for examinations or to rear Bible experts. Not the ability to pass an examination, but ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.’” [7] When teaching older children the lessons of our Prophets, it must be made clear that the prophets’ words are “inspired religious teaching on the immediate problems of the day. They must realize that the Prophets were real people, with a definite historical message and background. The prophets must be made to live for them, and not remain unattainable, saintly shadows. The burden of their social and religious teaching should be translated into modern terms.” [8]

Throughout his life, Dr. Pool stressed the beauty, the righteousness and the spiritual power of the Bible. Writing late in his career, he noted: “For Moses, religion was the very opposite of an opiate for the masses. It was shot through with revolutionary and far-visioned practical measures looking toward emancipation from miseries born of indigence, crushing toil, slavery, and the eclipse of hope.” He then cited biblical passages that taught morality and righteousness, and concluded that “this social definition of religion, first recorded by Moses, became the world’s primary motive power working for mankind’s life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”[9] Dr. Pool noted that “the summons of the Bible is less a call to believe in dogmas than it is a command to know, understand, and act.”[10]

In a sermon delivered on May 5, 1962, Dr. Pool reminded his congregation that “it is not easy, we know, to attain the high standards of righteous living which the Biblical law and the practices of Judaism aim to inculcate. But in the measure that we invest our conduct with the idea of holiness, we raise life to a spiritual level.”[11]

The theme of social justice, as derived from the Bible, pervaded Dr. Pool’s teachings—and his actions. In 1918, he participated in Food Conservation Day, an event sponsored by the United States Food Administration to promote sensible use of food resources and to discourage wastefulness. Dr. Pool prepared sermonic materials to be utilized by rabbis throughout the country on the first day of Succoth. Characteristically, he began with a reference to the Bible: “The Psalmist proclaims that it is God who in His eternal love gives food to all living.” He went on to stress human responsibility for equitable distribution of food so that all people have access to a proper diet. He lamented “the heartless extortion of exorbitant profits by food gambling, by monopolizing some part of the food supply, or by storing away needed foods until a time of scarcity and rising prices” and praised the government’s U.S. Food Administration for doing “noble work of fine democracy, and one that furthers the purposes of God, who giveth food to all flesh, because His love endureth forever.”[12]

In his address at the closing dinner of the Tercentenary Celebration of Congregation Shearith Israel, April 26, 1955, Dr. Pool reminded his audience: “Our religion, Judaism, seeks salvation for all mankind. The emphasis of our Bible is on social justice for all rather than on the mystic quest of salvation for the individual.” [13]

The Bible, through its ethical teachings and its commandments, was the source of Jewish survival. In a sermon he delivered on September 30, 1916, he spoke of “the unchanging Law.” While non-Jews are puzzled by Jewish continuity over the centuries, Jews themselves know that “our survival is the necessary outcome of our Law. The real miracle is this instrument of our persistence—the Law.” As long as Jews are faithful to the Torah and its commandments, they have the blessing of endurance. But once Jews are lax in their commitment to Torah and its commandments, they invariably disappear from Jewish history. “No fact emerges more clearly from our history than this—that observance of the Torah, and this alone, has preserved us as Jews, while disregard of the Torah has rapidly induced the Jewish ruin of those who neglected it.” [14]

Dr. Pool emphasized the importance of both the ethical and ritual teachings of Torah. In a sermon he delivered on December 1, 1962, he underscored the vital role of ritual observance. “Only loyalty to the Torah can preserve the Jew and his sorely needed message for the world. Where we have forgotten our Hebrew, where we have unbuckled the defensive armor of our Sabbath, where we have disregarded our own festivals and holy days, and neglected the dietary laws and the other distinctive ceremonies and rites which ensure the preservation of Jewish individuality, the giving up of these time-tested and time-hallowed defenses has meant our eventual surrender to the forces of obliteration. Observance of the traditional Jewish Torah has been our life and the length of our days.” [15]

Dr. Pool’s consistent and unflinching stress on ritual observance put him at odds with non-Orthodox Jewish movements. He believed that watering down or eliminating traditional religious practice was destructive of Judaism and the ongoing vitality of the Jewish people. Yet, although he was so clearly devoted to Orthodox religious practice, he maintained cordial and harmonious relationships with non-Orthodox Jews and non-Orthodox leaders. Indeed, he felt it was essential for Orthodox Jews to relate to all other Jews as members of one great family.

For Dr. Pool, the Bible provided a religious worldview as well as a practical guide to righteous living. In his Baccalaureate Address at Brandeis University, June 8, 1957, he called on students to maintain a vision “inspired primarily by faith in God and in man….Intellectual learning alone cannot be a sufficient guide through life. But in the measure that your knowledge is linked with self-conscious moral and religious aspiration will it gain in meaning and helpful service to your fellow men. Your academic degree must be the symbol of an enlightened purpose in life.” [16]

Dr. Pool spoke and wrote abundantly on Biblical themes and Bible-based religion and spirituality. Yet, he rarely spoke or wrote on Talmudic/halakhic themes, except in a very general way. While he drew on Talmudic stories and parables, he did not engage in serious Talmudic dialectics nor did he see himself as a halakhic luminary. Unlike most other Orthodox rabbis, he did not derive his spiritual worldview or vision from the Talmud.

Prayer and the Synagogue:

On the occasion of his 75th birthday, Dr. Pool addressed the annual dinner of Shearith Israel’s Men’s Club. His talk was entitled, “The Meaning of Prayer.” He articulated ideas that had been with him since his early childhood and throughout his rabbinic career. “Our synagogue services express ecstatic praise of God as the infinite ideal that we should ever hold consciously before us…..Our prayer expresses the searching of our own soul….It inspires and strengthens resolve. It encourages the will and the power to do and achieve….Jewish prayer is not an exercise in self-castigation or apologetics. It is a joyous spiritual exercise. It is marked by an all-pervading and radiant optimism….It maintains an unyielding faith in the basic goodness of our soul. A somber note is seldom heard. This marks the ministry of a rabbi with sustained happiness. We are always looking for a tomorrow that shall be better than today.” [17]

Prayer is a manifestation of intimacy between the worshiper and God and should reflect a spiritual serenity and dignity. “Man must feel that his praying brings him into God’s presence….Devotional warmth, inspiration and ecstasy must not lead to irrationalism and to deviations into nebulous paths of excessive emotion or unrealistic mysticism.” [18] The key to proper prayer is reverence, a sense of holiness.

Dr. Pool’s experience of synagogue prayer, from childhood and through his old age, was primarily in the context of Spanish and Portuguese tradition. This tradition fostered decorum, orderliness, aesthetics and dignity. Spanish and Portuguese synagogue buildings were characterized by a fine aesthetic sense; they were kept neat and clean. Prayer services were intoned with reverence by the Hazan or the Rabbi, with ongoing participation of the congregation. In his sermon on October 25, 1910, the young Dr. Pool reminded congregants of his historic congregation that “the Jews of America look to us to learn how Orthodox Judaism, traditional Judaism, can and should be beautiful and attractive. The beauty of our synagogue building is inspirational. The spiritual beauty of our liturgy is of the loftiest. The devotional beauty of our music is soul stirring, and we must show the example to those around us of the religious beauty of congregational worship.”[19] Dr. Pool believed that the synagogue is a haven from the strident pressures of civilization. It is the place “to which we come for quiet meditation and spiritual contemplation.” [20]

Dr. Pool viewed the synagogue as the primary institution ensuring the continuity of Judaism and the Jewish people. While a relatively small number of Jews have found their spiritual homes in Yeshivot (Talmudic academies), the masses of Jews have turned to the synagogue as their religious domiciles. “The synagogue has been the symbol of the continuity of the Jewish people. It has been the traditional center of the distinctive Jewish culture and learning which are the abundant fruitage of the Bible. It has linked the Jew to his people by a bond stronger than that of blood and nobler than flight from anti-Semitism. The synagogue is the symbol of my Judaism and all that it means to me that I am a Jew.”[21] In a lyric passage, Dr. Pool wrote: “When I enter a synagogue I am deeply moved by the memories enshrined within it. I sense the mystic echoing of four thousand years of prayer. It is to me a living organism, the very body of the Jewish people.” [22]

Dr. Pool’s notion of synagogue prayer differed from widespread patterns within Orthodox congregations—whether Sephardic or Ashkenazic--where services often did not reflect the formality, high aesthetic taste, or quiet dignity that he advocated. In February 1943, he wrote to Dr. Samuel Nirenstein, President of the Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations, asking that the Union establish a Commission on the Synagogue that would establish appropriate standards for Orthodox synagogues. Among its responsibilities, this commission “should also work out standards for the conduct of services with their specific recommendations, looking towards the elimination of those unaesthetic and irreverent popular practices in Synagogue which distract so sadly from the religious services of so many Orthodox Synagogues.” [23]

In his commitment to traditionalism in prayer, Dr. Pool also differed sharply with non-traditional innovations within non-Orthodox synagogues. Writing late in his career, he took pride in the fact that his congregation “has achieved and exemplified an inspiring union between the free movement of the spirit in personal devotion, and the impressive stateliness which should mark congregational prayer.” [24]

As the most frequented institution in the Jewish community, the synagogue was not only a home of prayer but also the springboard for righteous action. With the waning of attendance at American synagogues, the essential teachings of Judaism were not reaching an important segment of the Jewish community. In his Rosh Hashanah message of September 1924, he addressed the disaffection of a growing number of Jews from synagogue attendance. “The problem of the Synagogues is not one of theology or dogma, nor even of services, ritual and liturgy. While every aspect of Synagogue activity, both religious and administrative, presents its own subsidiary problems, the essential difficulty of the Synagogues of today is found in their aloofness from the world of life.” [25] Synagogues were not to be viewed as isolated havens of religious worship but as catalysts for religiously-inspired action. Without the social justice component, synagogues become stagnant. “The synagogue has been among Jews the primary teacher of the high principles of social justice and human oneness….It has been from the synagogue that there have emanated organizations of loving human brotherhood which have brought help and strength into the lives of the needy and the faltering.” [26]

Working with non-Orthodox Jews:

Dr. Pool was a leading Orthodox rabbi who sought Orthodox participation in all community-wide organizations. He himself served as President of the New York Board of Rabbis, an organization which prided itself on the involvement of rabbis of all the Jewish religious movements. Likewise, he served as President of the Synagogue Council of America, an organization that included Orthodox, Conservative and Reform Jewish leaders who aspired to work together on behalf of the entire Jewish community.

His involvement in these “ecumenical” organizations was not the result of a compromise position, but of a principled commitment to the Jewish people as a whole. He believed that Orthodoxy needed to be heard where ever issues of concern to the community were taking place. In a letter (April 17, 1949) to Mr. William Weiss, executive director of the Orthodox Union, Dr. Pool wrote “that the Orthodox Union should not segregate itself and run away from cooperating with organizations and movements, so long as these movements are not anti-Jewish. The weakest and most futile thing we can do is to step out of movements. The strongest and most effective thing we can do is to remain in them and fight for our principles.” [27] In a letter to Mr. William Herlands (April 28, 1949), President of the Orthodox Union, Dr. Pool reiterated his view that the Orthodox Union should be represented at general communal events such as the then forthcoming annual meeting of the American Association for Jewish Education. “Unfortunately there are among us some who feel that because the A.A.J.E. is comprehensive in its Jewish interest and does not bear the Orthodox label, it should therefore be shunned by the Union. This policy is most harmful to Orthodoxy. It takes away from us the opportunity of expressing our legitimate influence.” [28]

Dr. Pool’s cooperative work with non-Orthodox individuals and organizations was a reflection of his broad communal outlook. In describing his outlook, he pointed to a hurdle that “has always stood between me and a common run of organizational activity. I have never been able to work effectively through the instrumentality of rigid sectarianism or party politics. A regimented partisan alignment, exclusively under group A or under group B or either for this party leader or for that one, has always alienated me by its strabismic falsifying of perspective values, and its frequent setting of secondary interests above the supreme cause.” [29] Dr. Pool sought to rise above sectarian, partisan politics. While this was a grand vision that won him respect, it also was a strategy that distanced him from the sectarian, partisan political leaders who headed various Jewish organizations and causes.

Working with Newly-Arriving Sephardic Immigrants:

During the first decades of the 20th century, many thousands of Sephardic immigrants arrived in New York. They came to America from Turkey, the Balkan countries, Greece and Syria. Like many other immigrants of that period, they came with high hopes of establishing a better life for themselves and their families in this land of opportunity. Most of the immigrants arrived with little money, limited formal education, little or no knowledge of English.

The Sephardic newcomers faced the usual problems of immigrants striving to adapt to a new land and culture. But they also had additional hurdles to overcome. The existing Jewish agencies in New York and elsewhere were focused on assisting the huge number of mainly Yiddish-speaking Jews arriving from Russia and Eastern Europe. The Sephardic immigrants—most of whom spoke Judeo-Spanish, Greek or Arabic—were overlooked by the Jewish immigrant aid societies. Jewish social workers, almost all of whom were Ashkenazic, often did not even recognize Sephardim as fellow Jews; they assumed that these immigrants were non-Jewish Turks, Greeks or Arabs.

Shearith Israel, as the only Sephardic congregation in New York at that time, felt a special responsibility toward the Sephardic newcomers. Yet, there were immense sociological/cultural gaps between the well-established Shearith Israel community and the new Sephardic arrivals. At the beginning of the 20th century, few members of Shearith Israel were actually full-blooded Sephardim. Most were Ashkeanzim, with or without Sephardic ancestry. Few (if any) in Shearith Israel spoke Judeo-Spanish, Greek or Arabic. Whereas Shearith Israel followed a formal Western Sephardic ritual, the Sephardic newcomers were accustomed to their own less formal Middle-Eastern traditions.

Dr. Pool worked tirelessly to energize the Shearith Israel community on behalf of the Sephardic arrivals. The congregation’s Sisterhood formed an “Oriental Committee,” in which Dr. Pool played a vital role. The Sisterhood established a Settlement House on New York’s Lower East Side to serve the Sephardic immigrants. In 1912, it was located at 86 Orchard Street. In 1918, the Sisterhood moved its Settlement House to a larger building at 133 Eldridge Street. The Settlement House included a synagogue, social services, Hebrew school for children, and various programs to help immigrants find employment and adapt to American life. [30]

In his sermon at Shearith Israel on March 9, 1912, Dr. Pool prodded his congregation to revive itself and its Sephardic character by working on behalf of the Sephardic immigrants. “It is the most urgent and imperative duty of our congregation today not to stand passively aloof awaiting their coming to us, but to go out to them offering a friendly, helping hand of welcome. …It is a work that demands the tact born of sympathy, the self-sacrifice born of human love, and the truest feeling of brotherhood born of love of God.”[31]

Dr. Pool was a leading figure in major Sephardic communal organizations that emerged through the mid-20th century, including the Central Sephardic Jewish Community of America, the Union of Sephardic Congregations (which he founded in 1928) and the American Sephardi Federation. He was admired as a distinguished and articulate spokesman of the American Sephardic community. His eloquent voice not only helped shape the Sephardic internal agenda, but also served to represent Sephardim to the much larger Ashkenazic Jewish establishment.

In an article published in 1914, Dr. Pool urged the American Jewish social service agencies to be sensitive to the needs of the newly arrived Sephardim. “The Levantine Jew is marked by a strong historic consciousness, a pride and self-respect which express themselves in a dignity of deportment, dress and manners, an innate gentlemanliness, a refined sensitiveness, and a mettle which makes these settlers recoil from and reject any crude or patronizing offers of help.”[32] He brought the concerns of the Sephardic immigrants to the attention of Jewish leaders in whatever forums were available to him—whether as a participant in organizational meetings and conferences, as a lecturer or as a writer.

During his tenure as rabbi of Shearith Israel, Dr. Pool succeeded in attracting Sephardic immigrants and their children to the congregation. Although there were bumps along the way, Dr. Pool’s consistent warmth toward the newly arrived Sephardim helped Shearith Israel become a spiritual home for many in the growing Sephardic community.

Zionism:

Dr. Henry Pereira Mendes, Dr. Pool’s senior rabbi at Shearith Israel, was deeply committed to what he called “Bible Zionism.” Theodor Herzl called on Dr. Mendes to help organize the Zionist movement in the United States. Dr. Mendes was elected vice-president of the Federation of American Zionists and a member of the actions committee of the World Zionist Organization. Dr. Mendes wrote: “Peace for the world at last, and the realization of reverence for God by all men. These are the essentials for human happiness. Zionism stands for them.” [33]

Dr. Pool was surely influenced by Dr. Mendes in his devotion to Jewish nationhood as manifested in the Zionist movement. But Dr. Pool’s own Zionist convictions went beyond “Bible Zionism.” For Dr. Pool, Zionism was the key to authentic Jewish expression. In the diaspora, Jews simply mimic the works of others; only in the land of Israel can Jews be themselves. Writing in 1913, Dr. Pool argued: “We in the Diaspora have had no national art: the Zionists in Palestine are developing one for us. We have had no national Jewish music; they are creating it for us. We have had no national Hebraic literature; they are producing it for us. We have had no living national language; they are reviving it for us. We have had no successful system of education for the young; they are forming one for us. We have had no standard of what constitutes a complete Jewish life; they are building one up for us. We have had little sense of the solidarity and oneness of Israel. They are instilling into us that consciousness of Jewish brotherhood and unity.” [34]

In an article in 1914, Dr. Pool described Zionism as an expression of Jewish patriotism. “The Zionistic development of Palestine is giving to the Jewish people Jewish traditions, Jewish institutions and Jewish ideals, all rooted in the Jewish fatherland. In a word, Zionism is giving to the Jewish people not only territorialism of “landism,” it is giving back to Judaism and the Jewish people the sentiment of patriotism of “fatherlandism” in the fullest and finest sense of the word.”[35] Further in this article, Dr. Pool warned that patriotism can become parochial and narrow. He thought that these tendencies in Zionism would gradually give way to a broad and inclusive worldview. Dr. Pool hoped for “a Jewish patriotism that is deeply founded, broad and unselfish, a patriotism without rancor or prejudice, a patriotism born of loyalty to our Jewish tradition…loyalty to our Jewish ideals and devotion to our Jewish patria, Palestine.” [36]

Dr. Pool’s Zionism was not merely theoretical. He was a hard working activist. He and his wife Tamar, were leaders in Hadassah’s Young Judaea youth movement. Tamar went on to become National President of Hadassah, in which capacity both she and her husband worked cooperatively to foster Zionist ideals and support for the Zionist cause. In 1919, Dr. Pool literally risked his position at Shearith Israel when he and his wife decided to leave for Palestine to do relief work under the auspices of the Joint Distribution Committee. They spent several years there, until returning to New York. Fortunately, Dr. Pool was re-engaged by Shearith Israel in 1922; but that was by no means something he could have counted upon.

With the rise of Nazism in Germany in the early 1930s, Dr. Pool increasingly spoke of the need for a Jewish homeland. He called on Jews to strengthen their own identities as Jews, to rally around Zionism. In his Hanukkah message of November 30, 1934, he cited the heroic example of the Maccabees who became “masters of their own soul. In every subsequent generation the Jew who has maintained his spiritual integrity has known the hero’s joy of spiritual freedom, though his body may have been oppressed and enslaved. He has been himself. He has refused to become that weak and pathetic creature, a copy of someone else.”[37]

As European Jewry faced its destruction at the hand of the Germans and their collaborators, Dr. Pool called on American Jews to rise to action on behalf of their endangered coreligionists. “It is our responsibility, and in the whole of Jewry primarily our responsibility, as American Jews to build up here and in the Land of Israel a refuge for the physical Jew and for the Jewish spirit. Once more the world will see a saving remnant of Israel that shall put forth shoots and grow into a mighty tree which will bring forth fruits of beauty and truth in the generations to come, and under which Jewish life shall be lived in peace with none to make us afraid.” [38]

With the horrific murder of millions of European Jews, the importance of a Jewish State was widely recognized as being vital for the future safety of the Jewish people. But for Dr. Pool, Israel was not merely to be a physical safe haven for Jews. It was to become a spiritual, religious and cultural center for world Jewry and all humankind. The Holy City of Jerusalem would symbolize religious idealism at its best. In his Rosh Hashanah message, August 1949, he wrote: “So long as there is a Holy City and there is religious aspiration in the soul of man, we have hope that the world need not be irretrievably gripped by overreaching violence and the cult of force. So long as there is a Holy City and all that it symbolizes, we have the hope, even though it be a slow and laborious hope, that one day man’s spiritual idealism will overcome his animal heritage of struggle.”[39]

In their book, An Old Faith in the New World, David and Tamar de Sola Pool included a chapter entitled “For the Sake of Zion.” They proudly pointed to the many members of Shearith Israel who, throughout the generations demonstrated their love and support of the Holy Land. They noted the philanthropic work of the congregation to the newly established Jewish State, as well as those members who settled in Israel to share directly in the rebirth of Israel.

Not all congregants, especially in the early decades of Dr. Pool’s service to Shearith Israel, were pleased with his Zionistic views. Some important members of Shearith Israel are said to have resigned their synagogue membership because of Dr. Pool’s impassioned support of Zionism. Yet, he continued his Zionistic teaching, preaching and communal work with unflinching fervor. Over the course of his career, he won many hearts and minds to the vital significance of the State of Israel to the Jewish people and to the world.

Universalism:

Dr. Pool’s religious worldview was imbued with a sense of unity: the unity of humanity based on the unity of the One God. The religious insights of Judaism were a treasure of the Jewish people to be shared with the entire world. “While the message of the prophets was directed primarily to their own people, they had the vision of humanity as a whole, and many of their words were addressed to other nations….They were the first true internationalists. They summoned Gentile and Jew alike to infuse both individual and social life with true moral and religious motivation, and so build on earth the Kingdom of God when all mankind shall live at peace.” [40]

The goal of the Jewish religious vision is the messianic era, when all human beings will live in peace and recognize the sovereignty of God. “Oppression, injustice, and warfare must yet give way to Messianic universal peace, universal brotherhood, universal justice, and universal love.” [41]

Dr. Pool envisioned all religions working together for the advancement of the human spirit. “The relationship between the great world religions should be one of mutual respect. Each seeks an approach to the Almighty….It is not a weakening but a strengthening of the loyalty we owe and give to our own faith if we understand, value and respect the faith of our neighbors.” [42]

The Universal God:

Even when Jews offer their particularistic prayers and blessings, they invoke the universal Deity: “our God, King of the universe.” For Dr. Pool, the “fervent and boundless hope running through the whole prayer book is not an expression of an assertive self-righteous nationalism. It is the yearning for mankind’s spiritual healing by divine light.” [43]

In his sermon of November 15, 1930, Dr. Pool spoke of Albert Einstein’s views on religion. For Einstein, there were three levels of religious development among human beings. Primitive religion was dictated by fear and ignorance, akin to superstition. Another stage was social/moral religion, where the emphasis was on trying to create a harmonious society based on ethical conduct. At this level, religion was essentially the guardian of human behavior. The third and highest level was the cosmic religious sense, in which humans are filled with humility as they search for the unity of God in the phenomena of nature. Dr. Pool argued that Judaism, while strongly connected to the social/moral aspects of religion, calls on its adherents to reach for the cosmic religious sense. This is evidenced in the names we ascribe to God: HaMakom, the omnipresent; Yotser/Borei Olam, Creator of the universe; Ribbono shel Olam, Master of the universe; Melekh HaOlam, King of the universe. “For the Jew, the lofty religious outlook which Albert Einstein puts into words is not the religion of individual religious geniuses; it is the religion of the people with a genius for religion….We Jews must still continue to be the Servant of the Lord, bearing through the ages until all mankind shall have learned to attain to it, the supreme conception of a cosmic religious outlook, God a unity in all existence, and order and law throughout His universe.” [44]

A Grand Religious Worldview in an Imperfect World:

Dr. Pool’s religious worldview was essentially optimistic. In spite of the many shortcomings of humanity, he believed that good people working together would ultimately succeed in creating a righteous society. The Jews have a particular mission in the unfolding human adventure; they must serve as a “light unto the nations” and help usher in a Messianic age. Yet, the Jews’ mission is infused with a universalism; it aspires to serve the universal God and to all humankind. In closing his book, Why I am a Jew, he articulates the religious vision that animated his life’s work: “Armed with faith we can fight soulless knowledge and self-destroying technology; fascist aggression and military violence; racial hatreds, class bitterness and annihilating international strife. We know no better way. We know no other way if we are to build a world in which ‘none shall hurt, none destroy….for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea’ (Isaiah 11:9).” [45]

A Lasting Legacy:

Dr. Pool embodied the ideas and ideals of his Western Sephardic tradition and of an enlightened Orthodox Judaism. He deeply appreciated the particularistic teachings and observances of Judaism while constantly maintaining a universalistic outlook. His type of Sephardic/Orthodox rabbi was unusual in his lifetime and is even more of a rarity today. Indeed, the Sephardic and Orthodox communities have been moving further away from Dr. Pool’s vision of religious life.

Dr. Pool devoted many years of labor to edit and translate the Sephardic prayer books. His goal was to create a unified framework for the Sephardic congregations of North America. If all congregations utilized the same prayer book, an American Sephardic minhag would replace the multitude of ethnic variations among Sephardim. He took pride in the fact that one could pray in Sephardic synagogues throughout the continent and almost always pray from the siddurim that he had prepared.

Yet, his dream of a unified Sephardic minhag has largely been repudiated in recent years. There has been a proliferation of Sephardic prayer books, many catering to the specific rites of particular communities e.g. Syrian, Moroccan, Turkish/Rhodes. Israeli prayer books according to the customs of Eidot haMizrah (Middle-Eastern Jews) have become increasingly popular. Whereas Dr. Pool’s prayer books were widely used through the 1970s, they have become less utilized in more recent years. Dr. Pool had hoped for a harmonization of Sephardic synagogue practice; in fact, though, the prevailing tendency has been for each group to insist on its own customs and its own prayer book.

When Dr. Pool edited and translated the Ashkenazic prayer book (1960), his hope was that the many Ashkenazic congregations of America would have a dignified book from which to worship. As in his work on the Sephardic prayer books, he saw to it that the Ashkenazic prayer book was presented in an aesthetic style, without cumbersome notes to distract worshippers. Yet, his Ashkenazic prayer book is hardly used any longer, with most Ashkenazic congregations having switched to other editions that contain many notes and halakhic instructions.

Dr. Pool’s principled commitment to work on a community-wide basis, together with non-Orthodox Jews, has not been embraced by many of the ensuing generations of Orthodox rabbis. The Orthodox shift to the right has resulted in a far more parochial and sectarian Orthodoxy than Dr. Pool would have liked. The Synagogue Council of America that symbolized cooperation among the Orthodox, Conservative and Reform movements—and of which Dr. Pool had served as President 1938-1940—closed its doors in 1994. While “Hareidi” Orthodoxy is generally hostile toward official cooperation with entities that grant equal status to the non-Orthodox, even Modern Orthodoxy has become less engaged in formal work with non-Orthodox leadership.

Dr. Pool’s ideal of large synagogues with decorous services has also lost adherents among the next generations of Orthodox Jews. For Dr. Pool, Orthodox congregations could and should include traditional-minded Jews of various levels of religious observance. But Orthodoxy in recent years has witnessed a proliferation of smaller “yeshivish” minyanim and “shtiebels,” where the worshipers are almost all of the same level of religious observance. Decorum in the larger Orthodox synagogues is not always to the standard that Dr. Pool would have liked.

Dr. Pool eloquently advocated social justice, universal humanitarian concern, and inter-faith cooperation. These themes today are often seen as being in the province of non-Orthodox Judaism. While there still are some Orthodox rabbis who share Dr. Pool’s commitments, the general tendency seems to be toward a more particularistic conception of Judaism.

Perhaps, somewhat like Don Quixote, Dr. Pool dreamed the impossible dream. He maintained a grand religious worldview that was rooted in tradition but that transcended parochial boundaries. He sought unities where most others were mired in multiplicities.

Although many of his ideas and ideals have not yet prevailed—and may never prevail--Dr. Pool can yet serve as a source of religious light for a world that very much needs spiritual illumination. For those who aspire to a profound, dignified and intelligent spirituality; to a resurgence of righteousness in the spirit of the Hebrew prophets; to an Orthodoxy respectful of tradition and with a universal vision; to a unity among Jews and a harmony among human kind—to all such seekers Rabbi Dr. David de Sola Pool will ever be a steady and wise guide.

Epilogue:

I began my service to Shearith Israel in September 1969, while I was still a 24 year old rabbinical student. That first Rosh Hashana, I sat next to Dr. Pool on the synagogue’s Tebah, reader’s desk, where the congregation’s clergy are seated. Dr. Pool was 83 years old, frail, and in declining health. After services on the first night of Rosh Hashana, Dr. Pool placed his hand on my head and gave me his blessing, wishing me a happy and meaningful ministry.

I well remember my feelings on that sacred moment. When I shook his hand, I was shaking the hand of a great spiritual leader who had begun his service to Shearith Israel in 1907; he had taken over from Dr. Mendes who had begun service to Shearith Israel in 1877. I was one handshake away from 1877! And just a few more handshakes separated me from Rev. Gershom Mendes Seixas who had begun serving Shearith Israel in 1768. I felt the weight of centuries, the incredible continuity of a magnificent tradition.

Even in his elderly years, Dr. Pool maintained a remarkable aura of dignity and serenity. He was venerated by the congregation not only for what he had accomplished in his lifetime, but for who he was—a genuinely pious, humble soul who served God and His people with selfless devotion.

I quickly learned traditions of the Shearith Israel spiritual leadership, traditions going back centuries, traditions upheld and enhanced by Dr. Pool and transmitted to his immediate successor Rabbi Dr. Louis C. Gerstein and then to me. Rabbis of Shearith Israel, as well as the Hazanim, conducted the synagogue prayer services and read the Torah with precision. The synagogue’s pulpit was reserved only for the synagogue’s rabbis. (On rare occasions, guest Orthodox rabbis were invited to preach from the pulpit.) Sermons were to be instructive and inspirational; frivolity was never allowed from the pulpit, nor was the pulpit to be used to advance a political candidate or to criticize anyone by name. The rabbi was to set an example to the congregation of proper devotion in prayer—no engaging in idle chatter or silly gestures, no reading books other than the prayer book during worship. The rabbi was to be at services punctually, not missing unless prevented by illness or a serious scheduling conflict, or unless away from town. The rabbi was to set the tone for orderliness and decorum, for neatness and respectfulness.

Along with the traditions relating to synagogue and prayer, Dr. Pool embodied the congregation’s tradition of communal involvement and social justice activism. The congregation was proud of its history of service to America (Shearith Israel’s members fought in the American Revolution!), and its commitment to the wellbeing of the Jewish community and society at large. Dr. Pool’s universalism was very much in keeping with the Spanish and Portuguese traditions of his forebears.

Dr. Pool died in December 1970, a bit over a year after I began my service to Shearith Israel. Yet, I seemed to feel his guiding hand throughout my rabbinic career. I read all his publications; I went through his sermons; I edited a collection of his sermons, addresses and writings. Throughout my many years of rabbinic service, Dr. Pool has surely been an important influence. Even now, as rabbi emeritus of Shearith Israel, I still seem to feel Dr. Pool’s hand on my head and I still seem to hear his words of blessing and encouragement. They mean as much to me now as when I first heard them at age twenty four. Perhaps even more.

Notes:

[1] For biographical information about David de Sola Pool, see David and Tamar de Sola Pool, An Old Faith in the New World, Columbia University Press, New York, 1955, pp. 202-208; Nima Adlerblum, “Reflections on the Life and Work of Rabbi David de Sola Pool,” Tradition, 30:1, fall 1995, pp. 7-16; and Dr. Pool’s article, “My Spiritual Autobiography,” in Thirteen Americans, Louis Finkelstein ed., Institute for Religious and Social Studies, New York, 1953, pp. 201-217. See also Ben Elton, “New York Orthodoxy Between the Wars,” Conversations, no. 20, autumn 2014, pp. 40-44.
[2] “My Spiritual Autobiography,” p. 202.
[3] Ibid., p. 205.c
[4] Nima Adlerblum, p 16.
[5] “How to Tell Bible Stories to Children,” Bloch Publishing Company, New York, 1913 (reprinted 1920).
[6] Ibid., p. 3.
[7] Ibid., p. 5.
[8] Ibid., p.19.
[9] David de Sola Pool, Why I am a Jew, Beacon Press, Boston, 1957, p. 26.
[10] Ibid., p. 67.
[11] Marc D. Angel, ed., Rabbi David de Sola Pool: Selections from Six Decades of Sermons, Addresses and Writings, Union of Sephardic Congregations, New York, 1980, p. 147.
[12] “Food Conservation Day,” a pamphlet issued in 1918, pp. 8, 10
[13] Rabbi David de Sola Pool: Selections from Six Decades of Sermons, Addresses and Writings, p. 129.
[14] Ibid., pp. 38-9.
[15] Ibid., p. 154.
[16] Ibid., p. 133.
[17] Ibid., pp. 138-139.
[18] Why I am a Jew, p. 98.
[19] Rabbi David de Sola Pool: Selections from Six Decades of Sermons, Addresses and Writings, p. 26.
[20] Ibid., p. 139.
[21] Why I am a Jew, p. 91.
[22] Ibid., p. 81.
[23] This letter, among other of Dr. Pool’s letters in the Shearith Israel archives, was published in Tradition 30:1, fall 1995, p.19-20.
[24] Why I am a Jew, p. 86.
[25] Rabbi David de Sola Pool: Selections from Six Decades of Sermons, Addresses and Writings, p. 182.
[26] Why I am a Jew, p. 146.
[27] Tradition, 30:1, p. 21.
[28] Ibid., p. 22.
[29] Thirteen Americans, p. 212-213.
[30] For a discussion of the relationship between Shearith Israel and the Sephardic immigrants, see Marc D. Angel, La America: The Sephardic Experience in the United States, Jewish Publication Society, Philadelphia, chapter 6.
[31] Rabbi David de Sola Pool: Six Decades of Sermons, Addresses and Writings, pp. 31-32.
[32] David de Sola Pool, “The Immigration of Levantine Jews into the United States,” Jewish Charities, June 1914, p. 15. See also his article “The Levantine Jews in the United States,” American Jewish Yearbook, vol. 15, 1913-14, pp. 207-20.
[33] See my article, “The Religious Vision of Rev. Dr.Henry Pereira Mendes,” in M. D. Angel, ed., From Strength to Strength, Sepher-Hermon Press, New York, 1998, pp. 21-28; and Dr. Pool’s booklet, H. Pereira Mendes: A Biography, New York, 1938; and David and Tamar Pool, An Old Faith in the New World, pp. 192-201.
[34] David de Sola Pool, “Palestine and the Diaspora,” pamphlet published by the Federation of American Zionists, New York, May 1913, p. 13.
[35] David de Sola Pool, “Zionism as an Expression of Jewish Patriotism,” a reprint from The Maccabaean, November-December 1914, p. 5.
[36] Ibid., p. 12.
[37] Rabbi David de Sola Pool: Six Decades of Sermons, Addresses, and Writings, p. 75.
[38] Ibid., p. 99.
[39] Ibid., p. 192.
[40 Why I am a Jew, p. 33.
[41] Ibid., p. 174
[42] David and Tamar de Sola Pool, Is There an Answer?, Thomas Yoseloff, New York, 1966, p. 205.
[43] Why I am a Jew., p. 96.
[44] Rabbi David de Sola Pool: Six Decades of Sermons, Addresses, and Writings, p. 62.
[45] Why I am a Jew,p. 198.. 198.

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

Orthodoxy and Isolation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Teaching the Wholeness of the Jewish People
(edited version)

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

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

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

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

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

And have they learned?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eulogy at Wounded Knee

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orthodoxy and Diversity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Retaining Our Humanity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I and Thou

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the difficulties in learning about the meaning of Hanukkah is
that there is no biblical text. There are only three pages in the
Talmud dedicated to Hanukkah, and they focus primarily on the
technical laws of lighting the hanukkiyah (Shabbat 21a–23b).

Why are there so few sacred texts for Hanukkah? This question becomes
more pressing when we consider that the Maccabees and their supporters
composed four Books of the Maccabees. These books describe the heroism
of the Maccabees and God’s role in the victory.

Amazingly, the Talmud never mentions the Books of the Maccabees. Why
would the Sages ignore them? Why did they exclude the Books of the
Maccabees from the Bible?

Some argue that the Sages turned against the Maccabees once their
descendants embraced Hellenism and persecuted the rabbis.
Additionally, the Maccabees abused their religious authority and
became corrupt (see Rabbi Marc D. Angel, Angel for Shabbat, vol. 1,
2010, p. 36).

Another possible dimension emerges from a closer reading of the Books
of the Maccabees. One of the greatest heroes of the Maccabees was
their putative ancestor Phinehas (I Maccabees 2:26), the grandson of
Aaron the High Priest. In Numbers chapter 25, we learn of Phinehas’
religious zealotry as he killed the leading participants in the
idolatry of Baal Peor. God approved of his actions, stopping a plague
and granting Phinehas a covenant of peace (Numbers 25:12).

The Maccabees viewed Phinehas as a religious role model and sought to
apply his teachings to a Hellenized society. According to the Books of
the Maccabees, the Maccabean revolt began when a Hellenized Jew was
about to sacrifice to the Greek gods. Mattathias (Judah Maccabee’s
father) killed him and proclaimed, “Whoever is on God’s side, come
with me!” (I Maccabees 2:27). This expression derives from Moses’
battle cry against those who served the Golden Calf (Exodus 32:26).
Although the Torah prohibits idolatry, Jewish Law does not allow Jews
to take the law into their own hands and harm or kill violators of the
Torah. However, the Maccabees believed that they had acted correctly
like their ancestor Phinehas and like Moses. They claimed that the
victory and miracles enumerated in the Books of the Maccabees were
proof that God had sanctioned their actions.

On his deathbed, Mattathias instructed his children to continue to act
in the manner of their ancestor Phinehas:

When the time drew near for Mattathias to die, he said to his sons,
“…my children, be zealous for the Torah, and be ready to give your
lives for the covenant of our fathers…Phinehas, our ancestor, through
his act of zeal received a pact of priesthood for all time.” (I
Maccabees 2:49–50, 54)

Although the Maccabees idealized the religious zealotry of Phinehas,
the Sages drastically curtailed the application of his behavior. A
passage in the Jerusalem Talmud poignantly captures the paradox facing
the Sages. On the one hand, they were uncomfortable with Phinehas’
taking the law into his own hands. On the other hand, God explicitly
approved of his actions:

Phinehas did not act in accordance with the Sages. Rabbi Judah b. Pazi
said: the Sages wanted to excommunicate him, were it not for the
divine spirit that jumped in and said that he and his descendants
shall have an eternal covenant of priesthood. (J.T. Sanhedrin 9:7,
27b)

The Sages conclude that Phinehas himself acted appropriately, and God
attested to the absolute purity of his motives. However, the Sages
deeply circumscribed the applicability of Phinehas’ actions to others.

Two generations after the Maccabean victory, Hillel preached that we
should be students of Aaron—loving peace and pursuing peace, loving
people and bringing them closer to Torah (Avot 1:12). Hillel
represents proper Jewish teaching. We should emulate Aaron, not
Phinehas.

Perhaps Hillel also learned this lesson from his mentors, Shemayah and
Abtalion (see Avot 1:10–11). They were the rabbinic leaders of the
previous generation and were either converts of descended from
converts (see also Gittin 57b). The Talmud relates a story where the
High Priest was jealous over their popularity and denigrated them for
being converts whereas he was nobly descended from Aaron the High
Priest. Shemayah and Abtalion retorted that they truly reflected the
peaceful values of Aaron whereas the High Priest—the biological
descendant of Aaron—did not:

It happened with a high priest that as he came forth from the
Sanctuary, all the people followed him, but when they saw Shemayah and
Abtalion, they forsook him and went after Shemayah and Abtalion….The
high priest said to them: May the descendants of the heathen come in
peace!  They answered him: May the descendants of the heathen, who do
the work of Aaron, arrive in peace, but the descendant of Aaron, who
does not do the work of Aaron, he shall not come in peace! (Yoma 71b)

The Sages rejected the Books of the Maccabees from the biblical canon
and ignored them in their literature. The Sages also recast the
holiday as a spiritual festival, downplaying the military victory and
focusing instead on lighting candles and the beautification of the
mitzvot (hiddur mitzvah). The Talmud describes one miracle associated
with the Hanukkah story, namely, the miracle of the oil lasting for
eight days (Shabbat 21b). Although the Books of Maccabees report
several miracles, the miracle of the oil is conspicuously absent. By
ignoring the miracles in the Books of the Maccabees, and by focusing
on a miracle that the Maccabees did not consider important, the Sages
effectively deprived the Maccabees of the divine sanction they had
claimed for themselves.

The Sages also selected a Haftarah for Shabbat Hanukkah that preaches
a message in opposition to that of the Maccabees (Megillah 31a). The
prophet Zechariah envisioned a Menorah, and told Zerubbabel, “This is
the word of the Lord to Zerubbabel: Not by might, nor by power, but by
My spirit—said the Lord of Hosts” (Zechariah 4:6). It appears that the
Sages chose this passage to take a stand not only against the
Hellenists, but also against the overzealous approach of the
Maccabees.

In medieval times, Jews often were persecuted and powerless.
Consequently, the military heroism of the Maccabees against the Greek
enemy (and not against assimilated Jews) was brought to the fore and
celebrated. The Al HaNissim prayer that we recite in the Amidah and
the Grace after Meals appears to have been introduced during these
times and represents a response to persecution.

During this period, a book entitled “Megillat Antiochus” that related
the military victories of the Maccabees was composed and widely
circulated. The Maoz Tzur hymn also was composed, celebrating God’s
victories over the enemies of the Jews. This medieval model of Jewish
pride in the Maccabees’ strength sustained our people through
difficult times and became an additional layer of meaning for
Hanukkah.

Although that medieval recasting of Hanukkah is important, the core of
the talmudic observance of Hanukkah celebrates the triumph of the
spirit of the Sages against both assimilation and religious zealotry.
We celebrate peaceful dialogue, and transmission of the Torah to
students and children. We should again be reminded of Hillel’s
teaching: Love peace, pursue peace, love people, and bring them closer
to the Torah.