National Scholar Updates

Thoughts for Hanukkah...and on the Nature of Religious Life

One of the great problems any religious person must struggle with is whether or not it is actually possible to be religious. What, after all, is the essence of genuine religiosity?It is no doubt the cognizance that one lives in the presence of God and feels and acts accordingly. To do so, however, is nearly impossible.

Avraham Joshua Heschel once made the profound observation: “Religion depends upon what man does with his ultimate embarrassment” (1). While we may not agree with Heschel that embarrassment lies at the root of religion, we agree it is unpretentiousness combined with deep humility that moves genuine religion. What lies at the root of all religions is the awareness that it is extremely difficult to live up to the awe of the moment. Our ultimate concern should be to grasp – emotionally and intellectually – that we are the contemporaries of God, and to experience this in the most elevated way.

But for the majority of us it is an impossible mission. How can man ever encounter the Divine otherness? It is the task of religion to guide us through this almost desperate situation.

Paradoxically, admitting the impossibility of this undertaking, and responding to it in a responsible way, is what makes our humility a genuine religious experience. How can one live in God’s presence and not be humble? Live in the shadow of greatness and not sense it? Be part of the great miracle of existence and ignore it? Yet, who among us is in fact spiritually uncomfortable? We have become so insensitive that we are not even embarrassed by our lack of self-consciousness. This almost turns the religious lives of millions, including our own, into a farce. We may sincerely convince ourselves that we are religious, while in fact we are guilty of self-deception.

For religious Jews this may be an even greater problem than for those who follow other religions. Judaism’s constant demand to follow Halacha may give the impression that the religion depends solely on the need to “observe,” or carefully perform, all of Halacha with its nearly obsessive requirement to follow all rituals and laws down to the minutiae. How often do religious Jews believe that they are religious because they are observant? This is one of the major pitfalls of Jewish observant life.

In truth, Halacha is not to be observed, but rather experienced as a way to deal with one’s lifelong existential awareness that one lives in the presence of God. It is a response to our question of how to live with spiritual discomfort. A remarkable feature of Halacha is that it often asks us to act as if we are deeply provoked by living in the presence of God, while in reality we aren’t. This begs the question whether such an act can be authentic as opposed to downright hypocritical. It is here that Judaism is not completely comfortable with its own demands. Should it ask the Jew to act as if he is moved and therefore do as if he is filled with the deepest religious feelings? Or, should it ask the Jew to act according to his real feelings and not pretend?Judaism is fully aware that whichever road it suggests, there will be a heavy price to pay. The Jew may feel hypocritical, or he may not even be aware that he lost his dream since there is nothing that reminds him of it.

In a notable discussion (2) between the great mishnaic schools of Beit Shamai and Beit Hillel, the question is posed whether it is better to light all eight candles of the menorah on the first day of Chanukah, or on the last day. Beit Shamai suggests that one should begin with lighting all eight, subtracting a candle every subsequent day until only one is lit on the eighth day. Beit Hillel’s opinion is that we should light only one candle on the first day and slowly build up to eight lights on the eighth day. What is this conflict all about?

I suggest that the disagreement between these two schools is rooted in the question of whether people should express their religious commitment through these acts when they honestly reflect where they stand at that hour, or when these acts express where they would like to be in the future (3). Is Judaism better served by making us act as if we are on a level of high spirituality, while in fact we are not, or does it prefer that we express our religious feelings “ba-asher hu sham” – “where he is at that moment” (4) – reflecting our often middle-of-the-road religious condition?

Beit Shamai’s suggestion that one should light all eight candles on the first night is, for the most part, an honest expression of our feelings. We are more excited on the first day than we are on the last. For most of us, the notion of novelty is felt at the start, never at the end. Hence, eight lights on the first day. But such excitement comes with a price. It does not endure. Like the sexual act that wears off after a moment when not accompanied by the binding of souls – Post coitum omne animal triste est (5) – so all religious acts, when experienced solely as novelty and excitement, lose their impact as the exhilaration slowly dissipates. It is therefore logical that on the second day only seven lights be lit and on the last day only one. It is Beit Shamai’s conviction that we should not put on a show and pretend that we are more than what we are.

Such an approach is thoroughly honest but lacks a dream and vision of what could be. Beit Hillel therefore believes that if we do not inspire man with his potential and give him a taste of what could be, he will not even strive to achieve higher goals. As Robert Browning said, “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp – or what’s a heaven for?” According to Beit Hillel, we should start with only one light on the first day, since this reflects the condition of our soul at the beginning of Chanukah. We need to warm up and slowly strengthen our soul until it bursts with spiritual depth on the eighth day when we reach the fullness of the festival. The lighting of the menorah should be a transforming act, and that can take place only when it is accompanied by an inner experience that touches the deepest dimensions of our souls, step by step. True, we may not feel this way, but we must awaken and educate ourselves toward this goal. The last day should be the greatest. We should act as if, so that one day we may reach this spiritual level. We taste the future in the present.

Novelty is often just a brand new form of mediocrity, while excellence is rooted in the old but revitalized on a higher plain. It is not the honest mediocrity of today that we need, but an exalted dream of tomorrow. It is between these two positions that Judaism operates – a balancing act, as in the case of a tightrope walker. Most of the time, it requires a compromise. Sometimes Jewish law will opt for a realistic understanding of the here and now; other times it will choose the dream. It is a difficult position to be in, not always clear why Halacha will decide a certain way in one case and a different way on another occasion. The problem is that in the end it may not satisfy anyone. But it is the realistic understanding of “you can’t have your cake and eat it too” that seems to move Judaism.

Beit Shamai will sometimes have to agree that there is a need to go for the dream, and Beit Hillel will on occasion have to go by the facts on the ground. Such differences are even found within the Torah, as well as among other Sages and later authorities (6). Judaism cannot survive by opting for only one of these ideals. It would be suicidal. Most interesting is the fact that there is one opinion in the Talmud (7) that says Beit Shamai continued to follow its own view, even after the Halacha was decided in accordance with Beit Hillel. According to this opinion, it seems that Beit Shamai continued to light eight candles on the first day of Chanukah, although everyone else followed the opinion of Beit Hillel (8). This makes us wonder. Tradition tells us that Halacha will only follow Beit Shamai once the messianic times will have begun. There is, however, no source for this in the Talmud (9).Could it mean that for exceptional souls it would be possible to follow the views of Beit Shamai even today?

No two souls are the same. It is this fact that makes religious life a far from easy task. Even if man knows that religion is his response to his ultimate embarrassment, as Heschel would have it, he still will not know how to act. Shall he be honest so as not to pretend, or shall he pretend so that one day he will be honest to his dream?

________________________________________ (1) A.J. Heschel, Who is man? (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1965) p. 112. (2) Shabbat 21b. (3) See also: Rabbi Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler, Michtav Me-Eliyahu, Vol. II (Jerusalem, 1963) pp.120-122. (4) Bereishit 21:17. (5) “Every animal is sad after intercourse.” (6) See for example the Torah’s toleration of slavery (Shemot 21:1-6) and the complete rejection of this institution as the ultimate dream to which it seems to aspire (Vayikra 25:55). See also: Eruvin 65a concerning prayer, and Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chayim, (98:2). (7) Yevamot 14a. (8) See also Shabbat 21b where the story is told that some people followed the custom of Beit Shamai on Chanukah long after a divine voice instructed that the Halacha is according to Beit Hillel (Eruvin 13b). The Biur Halacha in Mishne Berura, Orach Chayim, 671:2, makes an interesting observation that the Halacha is only according to Beit Hillel when it lays down the strict Halacha, not in the case of mehadrin min hamehadrin, the beautification of the Halacha beyond its basic requirements (one light each day of Chanukah). Biur Halacha cautions that such should not be done in practice. This essay, however, argues that such practice may be an actual option. (9) The first source for this is a statement by the Ari z”l, which is quoted by Malbim in Torah Ohr, Bamidbar 19:2.

The Millennial Generation: From the Chosen Nation to the Nation that Chooses

It was only a short while ago in America that there were those predicting the death of Orthodox Judaism in this country. A large segment of Orthodoxy included the generation of survivors ravaged by the trauma of a Holocaust they had barely survived. They were learning to adapt to a new society, a new language, and a new culture. The children of those survivors, Baby Boomers of today, were opting out of Orthodox Judaism in droves to join the fast-growing Conservative and Reform movements. The more liberal movements offered much to attract first-generation native-born Jews: services in regal and refined English, a rabbi whose only accent inflecting his sermons was a
Northeastern one, pews that allowed families to sit together, lively social programming with regular dances and parties, and much more. It is no wonder then that some of the greatest Orthodox authorities of the first half of the twentieth century spent much time and a lot of spilled ink in defining borders between Orthodoxy and the rest of the denominational world.

Chief among those busy with the task of separating Orthodoxy from the other movements was the great halakhic decisor, haRav Moshe Feinstein. Rav Moshe was one of the most creative, insightful, and brilliant rabbinic minds of his generation. His genius and erudition were widely acknowledged. He also lived, taught, and offered rulings in the heart of the American immigrant Jewish experience: the Lower East Side neighborhood of Manhattan. When Rav Moshe offered his halakhic rulings, he did so not from a safe and comfortable distance inside a Bet Midrash removed from the ordinary person; he was very much a part of his community and understood intimately the challenges of the day.

Rav Moshe worked tirelessly to free agunot from abusive relationships (E”H 1:43; 1:48; 1:79, et cetera). He grasped the new socio-political reality that American Jews found themselves in and urged people to vote and take part in the civic process (in a letter from 1984), and recognized the government of the United States as a trustworthy and reliable source for oversight so that he permitted halav stam (Y”D 1:47). He perceived the value of the labor movement that was advancing the rights of working Americans and he permitted strikes and negotiations (H”M 1:59). He also forbade any official recognition, interaction with, or participation together with the Reform and Conservative movements (Y”D 1:160; E”H 1:76: E”H 4:13; O”H 2:50; O”H 3:21; O”H 4:91, et cetera).

Furthermore, not only did he draw a clear line in the sand when it came to the non-Orthodox religious Jewish community, he also utilized their practices and customs as a proof and source for what Orthodoxy ought not to do. If the Conservative movement sanctioned a practice then it must be forbidden, even if it was permitted on purely halakhic grounds. A striking example of this is his ruling on the impermissibility of conducting a Bat Mitzvah ceremony inside a synagogue. In his ruling he states: “The ceremony of the Bat Mitzvah is definitely only an optional matter (divrei reshut) and only vanity (hevel), and there is no way to permit such a thing in the synagogue; and all the more so since its root is in the Reform and Conservative movements” (O”H 1:104).
One need only to contrast Rav Moshe’s ruling on Bat Mitzvah to that of haRav Ovadiah Yosef to see the difference between a posek who is occupied with waging a battle against the denominations and one who is not. Rav Ovadiah rules (Yabia Omer, O”H 6:29) that the Bat Mitzvah festivities are a seudat mitzvah, a meal infused with religious significance. Furthermore, he offers the opinion that a parent may recite the traditional blessing recited by Ashkenazim of Barukh shePetarani, albeit without shem malkhut, upon a young woman reaching the age of Bat Mitzvah. Nowhere does Rav Ovadiah reference the Reform or Conservative movements in this ruling. He only states briefly that he was aware of Rav Moshe’s strident opinion against Bat Mitzvah but did not find it compelling.

The denominational war for the heart and soul of American Judaism is over. The struggle of the early generation of Eastern European Jewish immigrants to instill a love of traditional Judaism to their American-born children enchanted with the more American milieu of the other denominations is over. This is not our central struggle, and this is not our battlefield.

We live in a different zeitgeist than Rav Moshe Feinstein. Our struggle is not with the other streams of religious Jewish expression in America. While the predictions in the first half of the twentieth century foresaw an America without Orthodox Jews, this proved dramatically false. The youngest movement in Judaism is Orthodoxy. The only movement in Judaism not experiencing massive rates of assimilation and intermarriage is Orthodoxy. (This is not to say that an intermarried family ceases to connect with the Jewish community, but by definition it will be an attenuated connection with competing religious interests.)

One need only attend the convention of any major Jewish communal organization to witness the sea change. Whereas it was only a decade or so ago that if you kept kosher at most of these large gatherings you were served your food in a plastic box triple wrapped; now almost all of these gatherings are completely kosher with dedicated room for each tefillah. A professional at an organization whose major annual convention I recently attended remarked to me how her organization has had to make major changes to adjust to the influx of Orthodox attendees and lay leaders. The unfortunate reality is that this does not mean a net growth in attendance; rather, this is occurring at the same time the rate of participation and lay leadership of the non-Orthodox continues to decline.

What then is the great challenge of our era? Where should our attention, our communal energy, our rabbinic leaders, our thinkers and activists be focused? I believe it comes down to one distinct issue: We are no longer merely the chosen nation, but rather the nation that chooses. This has been true for some time, but has not been felt as intensely than in the millennial generation (and perhaps will be felt even more so in the generations to come).

As Modern Orthodox Jews, we invest hundreds of thousands of dollars in the formal Jewish education of our children. A year of kindergarten can cost upwards of $20,000 alone in a Jewish day school in a major metropolitan area. With the rise of the Orthodox Day Schools in America combined with the nearly universal year or more in Israel studying in yeshivot or seminaries prior to college we are experiencing one of the most well-educated and well-versed Jewish populations in Jewish history. Countless Modern Orthodox young men and women in their 20s and 30s can turn to a daf of Gemara and translate it and work through the accompanying commentaries of Rashi and the Tosafot. How many of them experience a passion in their daily tefillah? How many of them relate to the teachings of Hazal and can distill the wisdom within? Orthodox Judaism today is not struggling against the allure of a more Protestant Americanized ethos. It is struggling with the great challenge of relativism and postmodernism.

Postmodern influence on the religious worldview of today’s Modern Orthodox millennial generation is profound. Whether it is deconstructing previously held core theological tenets such as a belief in God, the theophany at Sinai, or the election of Israel as a chosen people; or being unconvinced that there are any truth claims, the postmodernist critique of society, culture, and literature has shaken up the Modern Orthodox community in ways we are only beginning to recognize.

How can one become passionate about something that is no more or less true than any other competing value and belief system? How can one find inspiration in the narrative of one’s people if it has been deconstructed through literary criticism and voids in the archeological record? What relevance does Jewish peoplehood have in an era of universalism and global solidarity?

These are the most monumental challenges facing our community now and in the years to come. In a similar vein to the breathtaking life work of Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik to bridge the world of Torah with the world of twentieth century modernism, we need today intellectual religious leaders who can stake out intellectual and theological positions that resonate with the millennial Orthodox generation. Just as Lonely Man of Faith inspired a generation of Orthodox Jews, a new Lonely Person of Critical Doubt could have the potential to bring about a similar process in today’s generation.

From my time as an Orthodox rabbi on a college campus, I saw firsthand the impact of the postmodernist approach on Modern Orthodox young people. The intellectually curious young person finds little guidance to help resolve the tensions arising from a deconstructionist method, or to confront more nuanced definitions of truth in a world of competing truth claims. More often than not, they are told that their questions are without merit or their struggles are a test of their faith in God. It does not take long for that young person to opt out of active engagement and to maintain, at most, only an external fidelity to the rituals and lifestyle of Orthodoxy.

Where do we start in addressing this challenge? The first step is to acknowledge that young people today choose their lifestyle, their religious commitments, and their beliefs. People today feel less of a need to maintain what previous generations believed or felt than perhaps in any generation prior. The tremendous growth of the “nones” in the American religious landscape is testament to this fact. If we internalize the reality that people today choose to affiliate, to identify and to practice their faith, then we have an obligation to respond with integrity and thoughtfulness to the critiques people in their 20s and 30s are bringing to the communal table.

Additionally, we have to rethink the way we do business. Michael Perman, the Dean of Global Innovation at Gap, Inc., said it clearly in an interview for Forbes in 2013 when he was Senior Director of Global Marketing at Levi’s: “With Millennials, we have to let go a lot. As a brand, I think we were a company, among others, who felt that tight control of the brand and saying what our voice is was crucial up until probably a couple of years ago. We’re essentially a brand now that is based on co-creation….” Any serious attempt to address the intellectual and theological challenges millennials are grappling with must be done in collaboration and coordination with millennials themselves. There is an expression in special needs inclusion that boldly says “nothing for us without us” and the same is equally true with the millennial population. People in their 20s and 30s have a strong desire to be a part of the conversation and anything that is produced without that joint conversation will not have the same impact and resonance.

If our rabbinic and intellectual luminaries can rise to the time and begin to address the monumental theological and religious challenges posed by this generation, we face the prospect of reinvigorating and infusing a new era of meaning and depth into Jewish discourse and Jewish life. This will take bravery and courage to go where no rabbi has gone before in wrestling with the profound implications of a critical approach to belief in God, in the origins of Torah, in the place of religious obligation in a world of choice and a host of other areas. This conversation must be done with those most directly grappling with these topics. It cannot seek to rebrand and impose twentieth-century solutions on twenty-first-century problems. However, as Calev defiantly declared in the face of overwhelming challenges, “aloh na’aleh,” we can surely accomplish this too if we truly commit ourselves to the task.

Zealotry and Its Consequences: The Case of Yishai Schlissel

On Thursday, July 30, 2015, a Haredi former convict named Yishai Schlissel stabbed six marchers in Jerusalem’s Gay Pride parade; a few days later, one of his victims, 16-year-old Shira Banki died of her wounds. Schlissel had been released from prison only three weeks earlier, having served for 10 years for committing a virtually identical crime in 2005. Although the stabbing made headlines, it was soon overshadowed by the murder of a West Bank Palestinian family, which was quickly attributed to radical settlers.

Much has been written about what has motivated radical settler groups, the rabbis who appear to condone their activities, and the putative halakhic rulings that purportedly justify them. Far less attention has been paid to the halakhic rationalizations that might have justified Schlissel’s actions; it is noteworthy that with a few exceptions, Haredi leaders remained silent in the aftermath of the stabbings—even after Shira Banki’s death.

Schlissel refused legal counsel, saying he did not recognize the legal standing of the court since it was secular, not rabbinical. Appearing in court on August 24, 2015 for his formal indictment, sporting a long unkempt black beard that matched his heavy jet-black eyebrows, black peyot that extended far below his shoulders, handcuffed, and wearing his tallit katan over a long-sleeved prisoner’s shirt, Schlissel reiterated his contempt for the proceedings. Clearly unrepentant, he asserted that "the pride parade must be cancelled to elevate Shira Banki's soul. If you care for her well-being, you must cease this blasphemy against God. The parades bring harsh decrees upon Israel." [1] Schlissel's remarks and attitude mirrored his behavior in 2005, when he refused to stand before the judge who convicted him. And it also reflected the refusal of many Haredi leaders to recognize the validity of the State of Israel’s courts on the grounds that they are arkaot, non-Jewish courts, and that Jews should not bring their cases before them.

Schlissel told the court in 2005 that he was on “a mission from God,” and, as his comments to the court indicated, he no doubt believed the same when he repeated his rampage 10 years later. What, then, was the basis for his assertion, and to what extent does the silence of the Haredi rabbis essentially reflect the same view? It is likely that the answer to both of these questions lies in the concept of kanaim pog’im bo—the right for zealots to attack a violator of major Torah laws.

What Is a Kana’i?

The biblical Pinhas and Elijah are the archetypes of what is now called the kana’i. Pinhas was outraged by the publicly promiscuous behavior of the tribal leader Zimri the son of Salu and his Moabite paramour, Kozbi the daughter of Zur, one of the five Midianite emirs. Without seeking advice or a ruling from Moses, Pinhas grabbed a pike [2] and stabbed and killed them both. For this act of individual vigilantism, which God described as “displaying...his passion for me” (bekan’o et kin’ati), He granted Pinhas His “pact of friendship.” [3]

In contrast to Pinhas, whom the Torah described as a zealot, Elijah identified himself as one. Relating how he slaughtered the false prophets of Baal, Elijah twice told God, in identical language, I have been zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts.[4] Also in contrast to Pinhas, who took on a heroic aura when his act brought an end to the plague that had inflicted on Israel because of their promiscuity before the Midianite god, Baal Pe’or, Elijah was forced to flee after his murder of the priests. It was God who told him to return to civilization, first by crowning Hazael in Damascus as king of Aram and then by anointing Jehu as king of the 10 northern tribes.

The Talmud and Midrash generally approved of both men’s behavior. Rav, the great amora, stated that while Moses could not recall the halakhic ruling regarding intercourse between a Jew and a non-Jewess, Pinhas reminded him that he who cohabits with a gentile woman can be attacked by zealots. R. Isaac said Pinhas did not even have to consult Moses, since the Divine Name was being profaned. R. Elazar further asserted that when the ministering angels prevented Pinhas from attacking Zimri and Kozbi, God ordered them to withdraw, since Pinhas was a “zealot the son of a zealot,” who, like his ancestor Levi (who together with Simeon had killed the residents of Shechem for tolerating the rape of Dinah) “turned away wrath.”[5] When the divine spirit rested on Pinhas, his face “burned like a torch.”[6] Indeed, the Talmud goes so far as to assert that “he who sees Pinhas in a dream will benefit from a miracle.” [7]

As for Elijah, the Talmud ruled that he could act high-handedly in concert with God when a person behaved improperly, for example, when marrying an unsuitable woman. [8] Likewise, he could rout angels if he judged it appropriate to do so.[9] The Talmud depicted him as a student of Moses.[10] The Midrash went even further, claiming that he was equal in stature to the man recognized as the greatest of all prophets. [11] He is also portrayed as a rabbinical scholar, participating in the debates that took place in the both Great Bet Midrash[12] and that of Rabbi Judah the Prince[13] and authoring his own midrashim, Seder Eliyahu Rabba and Seder Eliyahu Zuta. [14]

Not surprisingly, because of the vigilantism that distinguished these characters, various midrashim identified the two men as the same individual.[15] In a similar vein, the Targum of Jonathan ben Uziel, an early Tanna, states that Pinhas, like Elijah, never died.[16] Jonathan asserts that instead he was transformed into an immortal angel, who would be the harbinger of the redemption at the end of days, [17] thereby acting in the identical role that the prophet Malachi ascribed to Elijah.[18]

A kana’i is therefore someone who acts on his own to sanctify God’s name in the face of its desecration. He acts on impulse, rendering his own shorthand judgment of the circumstances that he confronts. He can respond to those circumstances as he sees fit; nothing is out of bounds. He can kill, if necessary. And he will be praised in Heaven.

The Halakha of Kana’im Pog’im Bo

Although both Pinhas and Elijah won rabbinical praise, the rabbis were less than enamored by the entire concept of zealotry (kana’ut) and were far more restrictive concerning anyone who sought to emulate the two biblical figures. Although the Talmud accepted the principle that zealots could act independently of a court judgment, they limited such activity to the case of a Jewish man having intercourse with a non-Jewish woman. No action could be taken against a Jewish woman having relations with a non-Jewish man. Even in the former case, no action could be taken unless the zealot actually struck while the couple was in flagrante, and did so “in public,” that is, before a minimum of 10 male witnesses. Moreover, the rabbis argued that were a zealot actually to consult a religious court, he would be prevented from taking further action prior to a court judgment. Indeed, the rabbis asserted that had Pinhas sought Moses’ approval, he would have been forbidden to act against Zimri. [19]

The rabbis also stressed that despite the fact that Pinhas met all the requirements enabling him to act against Zimri, had Zimri actually turned on him and killed him, he would not have been guilty of murder. For, the rabbis argued, Pinhas, though acting out of zealousness for the sanctity of God’s name, was nevertheless a rodef, an attacker with intent to kill, and, a rodef can himself be killed by the person whose life he threatens.[20] This ruling no doubt was intended to create a chilling deterrent effect on a would-be zealot since it imposes a high degree of risk on any act of zealotry.

Maimonides ascribed the principle of kana’im pog’im bo to the laws handed down by Moses at Sinai (halakha l’Moshe mi’Sinai) noting that “if zealots attacked and killed [the transgressor] they are praiseworthy and energetic.”[21] He adopted in toto the talmudic provisos that the sin take place before 10 or more witnesses; that the act of zealotry could only be undertaken during the transgression; that a court could not authorize such an act; that the zealot would be guilty of a capital crime should he kill the transgressor after having sought the court’s approval; and that should the zealot himself be killed, the transgressor would not be prosecuted for murder. Moreover, Maimonides added a further restriction that had not been articulated in the Talmud: the law permitting a zealot to act on his own did not apply to relations between a Jew and the daughter of a ger toshav, which Maimonides defined as a Gentile who was not an idolator.[22] Rabbi Moses of Coucy adopted Maimonides’ language in his Sefer Mitzvot Gadol but added a key word, laShamayim—for Heaven—indicating that the zealot’s motives had to be pure.[23] If his motives were mixed, R. Moses implied, he was no better than any murderer. R. Yaakov ben Asher, popularly known as Baal Haturim, quoted Maimonides extensively, adding R. Moses of Coucy's caveat. He likewise explicitly stated that the prohibited relations had to take place "in the eyes" of 10 Jews, a position that, as will be seen below, a later decisor reinterpreted. [24]

Rabbi Abraham ben David, known by his acronym Rabad, challenged Maimonides’ ruling in one crucial respect: The transgressor had first to be warned that he was committing a capital sin and he ignored the warning. Later commentators on Maimonides’ code were divided as to whether a warning was indeed called for. Rabbi Vidal of Tolosa was unclear as to whether a warning was necessary, arguing that while it appeared from the biblical text that Zimri received no warning, the Talmud implied that he indeed ignored a warning that he had received regarding his relations with Kozbi.[25] Rabbi Moses Isserlis (known as Ramo) the primary source of most Ashkenazic rulings, followed Rabad's view in his gloss on the Shulhan Arukh, however.[26] On the other hand, Rabbi Shem Tov ben Gaon, argued in that there was no basis for Rabad’s assertion. [27]

Although he had addressed the concept of kana’im pog’im bo in his commentary on the Tur, Rabbi Yosef Karo only stated in his Shulhan Arukh that one who had relations with a Gentile woman, and who had not been assaulted by zealots nor received lashes from a Jewish court would receive a heavenly punishment.[28] His oblique reference to zealots, and his omission of the principle of kana’im pog’im bo puzzled at least one of his commentators, who noted, however, that Rabbi Isserlis identified it explicitly.[29] Later decisors actually expanded the construct of kana’im pog’im bo with respect to illicit relations. In his commentary on the Shulhan Arukh entitled Hokhmat Shlomo, Rabbi Shlomo Luria (colloquially known as Maharshal) actually loosened the rabbinic requirement that the zealot could only take the law into his hands if the violators were caught in the act. That was only the case, Maharshal argued, if the male had no prior record of committing such acts. If, however, this was his third such violation, the zealot was permitted to kill him even after the fact. [30]

On Zealots and Zealotry

In addition to differences over the specific circumstances in which a zealot might be permitted to act independently of a rabbinic court, or Bet Din, there are variations among major decisors as to whether it is only with respect to a Jew having illicit relations with a Gentile woman that the principle of kana’im pog’im bo applies; whether the principle applies only to cases where illicit relations are involved; and whether, in any event, the principle can still be acted upon in modern times.

Rabbi Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg, writing in the middle years of the twentieth century, dealt with several different aspects of zealotry, although without explicitly rejecting the concept of independent action by the zealot in question. In a responsum addressing the question whether one should commit martyrdom when the pressure to commit idolatry, or adultery, or murder was exerted privately, as opposed to before 10 or more people, but 10 persons were aware of that pressure, Rabbi Weinberg stressed inter alia that while public awareness sufficed to justify martyrdom, the act that prompted Pinhas' zealotry actually had taken place before public eyes. In other words, it was only because people actually witnessed Zimri's act that Pinhas was justified in taking the law into his own hands.[31] What prompted Pinhas' behavior, asserted Rabbi Weinberg, was the perpetrators' sheer hutzpah. The couple had no shame when entering a tent together before 10 men. Implicit in R. Weinberg's emphasis on "hutzpah" was that it was not merely the public nature of a sin that justified zealotry, but that it also needed to be one that clearly was outside all the bounds of common decency. [32]

Rabbi Weinberg did not indicate in this responsum whether he condoned or opposed emulation of Pinhas' zealotry. Nor did he do so in a responsum dated 5717 (1957) in which he validated the marriage of an apostate Jew to a Jewess, and noted that the apostate was subject to the law of kana’im pog'im bo.[33] Indeed, in a later portion of what is an exceedingly lengthy responsum, he appeared to accept the notion that kana’im pog'im bo is still applicable. [34]

In a follow-up responsum that same year Rabbi Weinberg challenged the minority position taken by the thirteenth-century decisors, Rabbi Mordechai ben Hillel (colloquially known as The Mordechai) and Rabbi Moshe Mintz, that a woman who has relations with a non-Jew also is subject to attack by zealots. [35] His challenge was based on a ruling by Nachmanides that the principle of kana’im pog'im bo applies only to Jewish males who have relations with non-Jewish females, and not to Jewish females having relations with non-Jewish males. Rabbi Weinberg did not, however, question whether such a ruling, whether with respect to males or females, applies in modern times. [36]

It is possible, of course, that Rabbi Weinberg in all of the aforementioned responsa was addressing the concept of action by zealots in the abstract. His focus was on other issues, namely, what to do about a woman who married an apostate and became "chained" to him, or whether the harshness of the law of zealotry applied to a woman as much as to a man. Nevertheless, a reader could conclude zealotry was not a thing of the past, and that one could still take the law into one's own hands if conditions justified doing so.

On the other hand, zealotry under any circumstances tends to be frowned upon by leading contemporary decisors and commentators. For example, Dr. Itamar Warhaftig, citing Rabbi Reuven Margaliot, argued that the principle of kana’im pog'im bo applies only when there is a Sanhedrin that is sitting in Jerusalem with the power to apply capital punishment.[37] By definition, this is not the case today. [38]

Chief Rabbi R. Avraham Shapira took a similar view. In a 1996 interview he noted the link between acts of kana’ut, which are "enmeshed" (kerukhim) in forbidden practices, and the notion of gedola aveira lishma—the greatness of a sin committed to achieve positive outcomes, in other words, cases where the ends justify the means (more about which below). Specifically, he addressed the question of kana’ut likhvod ha'uma (zealotry to uphold the honor of the people), such as Herschel Grynszpan's 1938 murder of the Nazi diplomat Ernst von Rath in Paris. Rabbi Shapira then pointed out that just as the murder ignited kristallnacht, so similar acts of individual zealotry could have far reaching negative consequences. He therefore posited that an individual could not reach his/her own judgment in such "complicated matters," as he put it, particularly those affecting the Jewish people as a whole, but instead should seek guidance from leading rabbinical authorities. [39]

Rabbi Shapira's recommendation that one seek rabbinical guidance before acting, while certainly compelling, is deficient in one respect, however. The rabbis explicitly asserted that a zealot who was in a position to sanctify God's name should not consult a Bet Din. Indeed, if he did so, he was forbidden to act on his own. Surely, Rabbi Shapira was aware of this proviso. Yet it is arguable that Rabbi Shapira ruled as he did precisely because he had the rabbinical injunction in mind. In other words, by requiring a zealot to seek rabbinical guidance, the Chief Rabbi was ipso facto preventing him from acting. This approach would therefore be consistent with that of Rabbi Reuven Margaliot.

A different example of modern rabbinic reaction to zealotry emerges in the course of a reply to a question that had been put to R. Moshe Feinstein, the foremost Ashkenazic decisor of the second half of the twentieth century. In a discussion regarding the permissibility of a man to kiss his prospective granddaughter-in-law, Reb Moshe, as he was universally known, forcefully rejected the opinion of "zealots" who wanted to force a breakup of the engagement. He asserted that they were "far from being granted the stature of zealots in behalf of the God's name" and that they needed to consider whether they were themselves in violation of several statutes including verbally causing pain (ono'at devarim) and respect for a scholar [presumably the grandfather]. Finally, Reb Moshe stated that “in matters of rebuke and zealotry one must obtain a ruling from a halakhic decisor and not rule on one's own." [40] In this respect his view was similar to, but not congruent with, that of Rabbi Shapira. For whereas the former seemed entirely to rule out acts of zealotry, Reb Moshe, like R. Weinberg, appeared prepared to accept them, although in Reb Moshe's case they needed to be rabbinically approved, which was unlikely to be the case, but not beyond the realm of possibility.

Aveira Lishma

It is possible, though not likely, that Yishai Schlissel conflated the notion of aveira lishma, a transgression with good intent, with kana’im pog'im bo. Aveira lishma is the talmudic version of what today is termed "the ends justify the means," which of course, would have underpinned Schlissel's twisted logic.

It is undeniable that Talmud speaks of aveira lishma in positive terms. Tractates Horayot and Nazir both record: “R. Nahman bar Yitzhak said: A transgression with good intent is more meritorious than the performance of a commandment with no intent.” It then modifies the statement to read “A transgression with good intent is like the meaningless performance of a commandment.” R. Nahman bar Yitzhak cites the behavior of Yael the wife of Heber the Kenite, who, according to R. Yohanan had sexual relations with Sisera seven times in order to weaken him. Once thus weakened, the fearsome Hazorite general was in no position to resist her when she drilled a tent peg into his skull and thereby helped liberate the Israelites from Hazor's domination.[41] Commentators on the Talmud uniformly praise her otherwise criminal action because she “saved all of Israel.”[42] Schlissel may well have concluded that just as adultery is a capital crime, yet, as Deborah and Barak sang, Yael should be "blessed above women” [43] so too might his murderous act be justified as a transgression with good intent, since in his mind he too was “rescuing” the Jewish people.

As with kana’im pog'im bo, however, any such interpretation is actually wide of the mark in contemporary circumstances and even in the talmudic context. To begin with, as R. Johanan himself said in the name of R. Simeon b. Yohai: "Even the favors of the wicked are distasteful to the righteous.”[44] Moreover, in a long discussion on the subject, Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin (known as Netziv) argued that two conditions had to be fulfilled in order to justify aveira lishma. First, the person committing the sin should receive absolutely no benefit or pleasure from his act. Second, that the negative consequences of the act would outweigh any good that it brought about; Netziv explicitly points to the communal discord that such an act could bring about as invalidating its legitimacy.[45] Rabbi Haim of Volozhin, whom Rabbi Shapira quotes, went further. He asserted unequivocally that aveira lishma no longer applied in modern times.[46] At the end of the day, therefore, there is simply no halakhic basis for Schlissel's violent and ultimately deadly behavior.

What Motivated Schlissel: Misreading Hashkafa for Halakha

It is difficult to know what exactly was going through Yishai Schlissel's mind either in 2005 or 10 years later when he attacked marchers in a gay pride parade. There is no evidence that he is particularly scholarly, much less an expert in halakha. His refusal to recognize the authority of the State of Israel, even more than his dress and demeanor, mark him out as more extreme than the ordinary Israeli Haredi.

Schlissel certainly has delusions of grandeur. He clearly sees himself as a latter-day Pinhas, taking the law into his own hands, avoiding seeking a ruling from a rabbinical court, and stabbing his victims with a knife, much as Pinhas stabbed Zimri and Kozbi with a short-bladed romah. He probably sees gay behavior as no better than that of Zimri. By avoiding a rabbinical ruling, he no doubt justified his actions as being against those who committed the equivalent of Zimri's sin.

Yet Schlissel may have had some sense that what he was doing was halakhically tolerable. After all, not all decisors ruled out the validity of the principle of kana’im pog'im bo in modern times. Were he aware of Rabbi Weinberg's views, he might have misinterpreted R. Weinberg's position. He may have concluded that extra judicial action by zealots was permissible as long as it could safely be assumed that 10 or more men who would have witnessed the parade marchers would have surmised that the marchers engaged in what the Torah considers to be an abomination. As noted above, Rabbi Weinberg does not provide clear guidance on this matter. On the other hand, his well-known objections to the positions of radical Haredim, the group with which Schlissel clearly identifies, renders it unlikely that he would have condoned the practical implementation of kana’im pog'im bo.

It is also possible that Schlissel might have acted upon Reb Moshe's ruling that kana’ut requires the approbation of a leading rabbinical decisor. Certainly, no such rabbi has publicly condoned Schlissel's murderous behavior. On the other hand, few Haredi rabbis have condemned it. Might Schlissel have obtained a green light from a radical rabbi? Such men are not unknown in contemporary Israel, though they are more often identified with those who have written tracts condoning violence against Palestinians.

Most likely, however, Schlissel may simply have interpreted, or have had interpreted for him, the well-known writings of Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, the Satmar Rebbe, as justifying his behavior. The Satmar Rebbe "famously linked the Holocaust to the sin of Zionism."[47] To the Rebbe's mind, the state was nothing more than "apostasy...[that had] called down the Divine wrath upon the Jewish people."[48] More than that, the Rebbe considered the State to be nothing less than the work of Samael, the evil archangel, also identified as the angel of death. As he wrote in his tract, Al HaGeula v'al HaTemura, which sought to explain Israel's victory in the Six Day War in light of his negative perspective on the Jewish State,

just as in the case of the sin of the Golden Calf, for which the people exchanged His blessed glory due to the false miracles of Samael...and by virtue of this frightening sin they undermined our redemption and prolonged our exile due to our transgressions until the flaw will be repaired and the sin eradicated...so too as a result of our many transgressions it now again occurred that Samael and the Sitra Ahara ( the realm of evil) are empowered to create strange images appearing as miracles and salvation in order to blind the eyes of the children of Israel so that they should follow the apostates and blasphemers and imagine them to be saviors. [49]

Schlissel has given no indication that he has read the Rebbe's volume. But certainly is likely to have been familiar with its contents, which are central to the views of Satmar-linked groups like the Neturei Karta. He may also have been made aware of the fact that the Rebbe specifically referred to Pinhas' zealotry in his critique of Israel's victory the Six Day War.

As the Rebbe wrote, contemporary Jewry needed to absorb the lesson of Pinhas' action. The Torah tells us that God stressed that had it not been for Pinhas’ action, He would have wiped out the entire nation over what was but one man's sin was that no one had protested his action. But because, the Rebbe wrote, Pinhas acted "with such powerful commitment" he inspired the people to "great zealotry" which in turn led them to repent that they too had not acted as he did. The Rebbe then postulated the need for "our lowly generation" to draw the correct inference from Pinhas' zealotry at a time when the government of apostasy (minut) ...continues to battle with all sorts of stratagems against the Torah." [50]

That Schlissel acted as he did should therefore have come as no surprise. To his mind, he was violating the laws of a government he considered to be a tool of the devil. Instead, he had taken up Pinhas' cudgels, zealously sanctifying God's name by killing those who to his mind were no less public in their blasphemous behavior than Zimri had been.

It is ironic that the Satmar Rebbe himself not only never condoned such violence but often spoke out against any manifestations of outrageous behavior that would undermine the cause he championed. As one of his close colleagues has written, "The Rebbe abhorred sensationalism...He didn't allow wild pranks, and condemned in the strongest of words those who engaged in such reckless and reprehensible behavior." [51]Unfortunately, many of the Rebbe's followers have been far more circumspect in denouncing abusive behavior or outright violence, be it the burning of tires that endangers children with smoke inhalation or the habitual rock throwing at Haredi demonstrations that only miraculously has thus far not resulted in a fatal injury. From there it is, perhaps, a far smaller leap to the murderous behavior of a Yishai Schlissel than might otherwise be the case.

It is equally ironic that Pinhas himself did not end his career in a blaze of glory. The Midrash teaches that he lived to an advanced age, so that he was a contemporary of the judge Yiftah. The latter had foolishly vowed to sacrifice the first being he saw after returning home the victor over the Ammonites. When the first to greet him was his daughter, he could have had his vow annulled had he sought an annulment from Pinhas. He was too proud to approach the priest, but Pinhas was too proud to journey to Yiftah to save the child by absolving the vow. As a result, Yiftah suffered his loss, and also died a horrible death. But, the Rabbis tell us, Pinhas, the archetypical zealot, who acted to defend God’s name, was punished as well. He lost the power of prophecy and the Shekhinah departed from him. [52]

Pinhas’ ultimate fate incorporates a lesson that Yishai Schlissel may have forgotten, or may never have learned. Far more worrying is that in the absence of forceful admonitions by Haredi rabbis, there may be other Yishai Schlissels lurking in the background, taking the law into their own hands, while grotesquely fantasizing that they are sanctifying God's holy name.

[1] Jas Chana, "Jerusalem Pride Parade Stabber Charged With Murder, Attempted Murder," Tablet, August 25, 2015, http://www.tabletmag.com/scroll/193046/jerusalem-pride-parade-stabber-charged-with-murder-attempted-murder.
[2] The Hebrew term is romah, which connotes a short-bladed weapon used with both hands. It is not a spear. See Jacob Milgrom, The JPS Torah Commentary: Numbers (Philadelphia: JPS, 5750/1990), 215.
[3] Numbers 25:6–12.
[4] I Kings 19:10, 14.
[5] BT Sanhedrin 82a–b.
[6] Vayikra Rabba, 1.
[7] BT Berakhot 56b.
[8] BT Kiddushin 70a.
[9] BT Bava Metzia 85b.
[10] BT Sota 13a.
[11] Pesikta Rabba 4:12; see also Midrash Shochar Tov, 90.
[12] Tanna D’Vei Eliyahu Rabba, 9, 16, 18.
[13] BT Bava Metzia 85b.
[14] BT Ketubot 106a.
[15] Yalkut Shimoni , Pinhas 771; Pirkei D’Rabbi Eliezer, 29,47.
[16] Numbers 25:12; TB Moed Katan 26a.
[17] Numbers 25:12.
[18] Malachi 3:23.
[19] BT Sanhedrin 82a. Later decisors did permit beating someone who was violating the law without first obtaining permission to do so (see, for example, R. Israel Isserlein, Terumat Hadeshen, 218 and Ramo on Shulhan Arukh Hoshen Mishpat 421:13). Beating an offender is materially different from taking a life, or even putting it at risk, however. Indeed, halakha specifically enjoins a Bet Din from beating a criminal to death.
[20] It is significant that even though the sinner could have prevented an attack by the zealot simply by ceasing to sin, the Rabbis nevertheless accorded the sinner the right to defend himself to the point of killing the zealot. See R. Dr. Michael Avraham, (Harigat Ganav LTzorech Hagana Al Rechush," ("Killing a thief to protect one's property") Techumin, 28 (5768/2008), 179, f.n. 13).
[21] Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, Mishne Torah/Yad haHazaka: Hilkhot Issurei Bi’ah, 12:4.
[22] Ibid., 12:5, 14:7 and see Maggid Mishna, ad. loc. s.v. V’Haba).
[23] Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, negative commandment 112. See also and R. Shlomo Luria, Yam Shel Shlomo, Bava Kamma, ch. 3:9, who also applies this standard to beatings; see note 19 above.
[24] Tur Shulhan Arukh: Even Ha’ezer 17. See also Rabbi Shmuel Eidels (Maharsha) on Horayot 10b, s.v. Tamar.
[25] Maggid Mishna, Hilkhot Issurei Bi’ah, loc. cit.., s.v. Kol Habo’el; see also R. Yosef Karo, Beit Yosef: Even Ha'ezer 16, s.v. U’Ma Shkatav D’Pharhesia).
[26] Hoshen Mishpat 425: 4.
[27] Migdal Oz, ad. loc., s.v. katav.
[28] Even Ha’ezer 16:2.
[29] Rabbi Moses ben Isaac Judah Lima, Helkat Mehokek, ibid. 16:4.
[30] Hokhmat Shlomo ad.loc., s.v. sham.
[31] It is noteworthy that Orhot Haim wrote in the name of Nachmanides that the sin of having relations with a non-Jewess was equivalent to adultery and called for martyrdom; see Beit Yosef: Even Ha’ezer 16, s.v. U’Ma Shekatav Vehu.
[32] Rabbi Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg, Sridei Eish vol. 1, Orach Haim, 29 (Jerusalem, 5759/1999), 73; see also ibid., Yoreh De’ah 8, 357, wherein R. Weinberg defines "public" for the purposes of kana’im pog'im bo as doing the obvious, as he put it, "entering the tent and not leaving it."
[33] Ibid., Even Ha'ezer 90:35, 268. The issues of whether a Jew who has relations with an apostate Jewess, or even one who is not an apostate, but is a major violator of the law (mumeret), and, in a similar vein, whether a Jewess who has relations with an apostate, or even with a Jew who is a major violator of the law (Yisrael Mumar) are all subject to the principle of kana’im pog'im bo are the subject of a dispute among numerous decisors. See Rabbi Isaac Halevy Herzog et. al, Otzar Haposkim rev. ed. vol. 2 Even Ha'ezer 16 (Jerusalem 5738/1978), s.v. Haba).
[34] Sridei Aish, vol. 1, Even Ha’ezer, 90:38, 269.
[35] This position was actually taken by numerous other decisors, all basing themselves on Rabbi Avraham Hagadol, including Rabbi Israel Isserlein, in his Trumat Hadeshen; Rabbi Jacob Moelin, known as Maharil; and Rabbi Eliyahu Mizrahi, known as R'eym. But others still, ranging from Rav Hai Gaon to Rabbi Moses Sofer—Hatam Sofer—took the same position as Rabbi Weinberg. See Herzog, et. al, loc. cit.
[36] Sridei Eish, vol. 1, 115:10.
[37] Rabbi Reuven Margaliot, Margaliot Hayam/Sanhedrin vol. 1 (Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 5718/1958), 14.
[38] Dr Itamar Warhaftig, "Go'el Hadam" (The Blood Avenger), Techumin 11(5750/1990), 354.
[39] Interview with Rabbi Abraham Kahane Shapira, “Geula uMikdash” (“Redemption and The Temple,” Techumin 5 (5756/1996), 432).
[40] Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, Sh'eylot U'teshuvot Igrot Moshe: Even Ha'ezer vol. 4, 63 (B'nai Berak: Yeshiva Ohel Yosef, 5745/1985), 124).
[41] BT Horayot 10b and Rashi s,v, nitkavna; see also BT Nazir 23b; BT Yevamot 103a and Tosefot s.v. V'ha).
[42] See Bereishit Rabba 68:18; Tosefot, loc. cit.; Rabbi Yaakov Emden, Hagahot V’hiddushim l/Masechet Nazir, Nazir 23b, s.v. Sham amar: Rabbi Yitzhak Bernstein, “Issur He’arel La’asot V’le’echol Korban Pesah,” in Etz Chaim (Jerusalem: Abelson, 5745/1985).
[43] Judges 5:24, and see BT Horayot, loc. cit.
[44] Ibid.
[45] Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, Sh’eylot U’teshuvot Meishiv Davar, vol. 2, no. 9.
[46] Interview with Rabbi Abraham Kahane Shapira, “Geula uMikdash,” 432.
[47] Rabbi Hertz Frankel, The Satmar Rebbe and his English Principal: Reflections on the Struggle to Build Yiddishkeit in America (Brooklyn, NY: Menucha, 2015), 281).
[48] Ibid., 282.
[49] Rabbi Y. Teitelbaum, Al Ha'geulah v'al Ha'Temurah, Brooklyn, NY: Jerusalem Publishing, 5727/1967), 179.
[50] Ibid.,175.
[51] Frankel, The Satmar Rebbe, p. 278.
[52] Bereishit Rabba 60:3; Vayikra Rabba 37:4; Rashi, Judges 11:39, s.v. Va’Tehi; Rashi, I Chronicles 9:20, s.v. U’Pinhas.

Kein baShamayim Hi

I must admit that I was taken aback when called upon to argue the case of the Bible. It has always seemed patently obvious. The Book of Books has stood the test of time for thousands of years, continuing to inspire multitudes irrespective of race, color or creed.

The inherent universal messages are conveyed with literary artistry and religious sensitivity. Words, the very rubrics of communication, discourse and understanding, contain fugues of meaning and cascades of nuances. Figures of speech dance before readers, igniting intellectual curiosity and evoking creative interpretation. The impressive collection of genres addresses fundamental questions of human existence including prayer, theology, philosophy, ethics, concern for others, and personal development. By confronting challenges, heroes and heroines in the narratives demarcate between good and evil. Whether they succeed or fail their decisions and behavior serve as powerful object lessons.

The Bible, a magnum opus like no other, directs the course of human history and provides the foundation of faith and inspiration for billions. It is both larger than life and a book to live by. It celebrates life and teaches us how to mourn. It fosters wonder and amazement. The Bible welcomes our endless questions and our search for answers. It helps us navigate our individual and collective quests for truth, inviting us to internalize ideas and make them our own. Soren Kierkegaard, in a journal entry encapsulates the significance of this endeavor:

“Truth that matters is truth that edifies for otherwise how near man is to madness in spite all his knowledge. What is truth but to live for an idea?” ( Journals of Kierkegaard (1835), pg. 45)

Professor Shalom Carmy has contributed invaluable insights on the religious directives and goals of Bible study. He provides the bottom line: “The aim of Jewish Tanakh study is to encounter the word of God.” (Shalom Carmy, “Always Connect”,Conversations 15 (Winter,2013), p. 1)

Bible is my passion. I have had the privilege of teaching women Tanakh for 40 years. My area is biblical interpretation, a field which spans thousands of years. Intriguingly, biblical interpretation demonstrates the ability of Scripture to address contemporary issues of relevance, while shedding light upon perspectives which transcend time and place. I have taught in a vast array of contexts from Scotland to Vilna, New York to London, Troyes to Amsterdam, Stockholm to Portland, Moscow to Berkley. Today I teach Tanakh in the city of Jerusalem in Israel --the Land of the Bible. Many of my students, women from diverse cultures and walks of life, have trained as teachers in the Joan and Shael Bellows Graduate Program in Bible and Biblical Interpretation at Matan: The Women’s Institute for Torah Study. I have the ongoing pleasure of seeing the far-reaching ramifications of biblical education, and its awe-inspiring impact on communities, families and individuals.

Of late, women’s interest in exploring and mastering the study of Talmud and halakha has gained momentum. While I applaud advancement in every field, it saddens me to hear people relate to Bible study as “démodé”. Alfred North Whitehead once said that all philosophy is a series of footnotes to Plato. In like fashion, the rich legacy of Jewish literature is a series of footnotes to the Bible.

This article is directed to those who cherish Bible. It is for the curious and the scholarly. The challenge for those who teach Bible is to make the Tanakh accessible to all so that its influence radiates through concentric circles and women and men think, live and labor in its light .The enduring essence of the Bible presents a wealth of potentiality. Yet the task is far from simple. Mastering the art of the Bible is a spiritual, intellectual, and experiential endeavor requiring academic rigor, spiritual momentum, boundless creativity and discipline. The experience is a collaborative effort and a personal responsibility.

Professor. Nechama Leibowitz, perhaps the greatest woman Bible teacher of all times, notes in her article "How to Read a Chapter of Bible":

“When contemplating the title of this essay, I realize that it reflects a degree of foolishness, not merely because it is not my place to teach others how to read a chapter of the Bible since the keys to this book were not given to me. Rather, because it is highly doubtful whether any individual can determine for others how to read the book. Each and every individual much delve into their own reading, a reading that is compatible with his singular spirit and her unique soul. For their essence has never before been and will never again be. Therefore, their reading and understanding of the Bible is unique, totally their own, not mimicking anything that has ever been thought before.” ( Lilmod ulilamed Tanakh, 1998, p.1)

The Rabbis portray the challenge of mastering the Torah as difficult even for Moses our teacher:

“R. Abbahu said the entire forty days that Moses spent on high, he learned Torah and forgot it. After forty days he said, ’Master of the Universe, I spent forty days and I know nothing!” What did God do? He gave the Torah to him as a gift.”(Shemot Rabbah 41:6)

Forty years later, in a moving poetic passage in the Book of Deuteronomy (30:11-14) Moses declares the clarity and accessibility of Torah even when it appears beyond our grasp.

“Surely, this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day
is not too difficult for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in
heaven, that you should say, "Who among us can ascend into heaven
and get it for us, and impart it to us, that we may observe it?" Neither
is it beyond the sea, that you should say, "Who among us can
cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us,
that we may observe it?" No, the thing is very close to you, in your
mouth and in your heart, to perform it.”

In effect, Moses is saying that Torah is not an esoteric teaching intended exclusively for prophets, priests, and scholars. The words “lo bashamayim hi” have generated centuries of discussion about truth, authority, and interpretation. (We will return to that discussion later). Simply stated, the verses neutralize the daunting challenge of learning, 0understanding and upholding Torah - Lo bashamayim hi…ki karov eilecha hadavar meod bficha ublvavcha lasoto . It is not in heaven - No, it is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to perform it.

I would like to suggest that as true as that may be, one can argue the opposite -- ‘kein bashamayim hi’ “it is in Heaven”. The study of Torah is a lofty enterprise, which elevates us heavenward.

The following stories illustrate this interpretation of Moses’ poignant and compelling words and implicitly and explicitly reflect passages from the Book of Books.

On January 16, 2003, Ilan Ramon became the first and only Israeli astronaut to enter outer space. He decided to take several treasured items on the Columbia Space .Shuttle. Among them was a miniature Torah scroll. He explained:
"Being the first Israeli astronaut -- I feel I am representing all Jews and all Israelis. I am the son of Holocaust survivors (his mother and grandmother both survived Auschwitz). I carry the suffering of the Holocaust generation, and I am proof that despite all the horror they went through, we continue to move forward."

The small Torah scroll, merely four and a half inches high, represented a giant step for mankind. It was given on loan to Ilan Ramon by his professor of astrophysics, Yehoyachin Yosef. This Torah scroll had already embarked upon an amazing journey. Rabbi Shimon Dasberg, the chief rabbi of Groningen and Amsterdam, had brought it to Bergen Belsen and used it to prepare Yehoyachin for his Bar Mitzva. Yehoyachin celebrated his Bar Mitzva clandestinely before dawn on Monday March 31, 1944. After the ceremony, Rabbi Dasberg gave the Torah as a gift to Yehoyachin who protested, asking what he would do with a Torah. The Rabbi feared that he himself would not survive the war and requested of the young boy to share its story with the world.
Rabbi Dasberg died in Bergen Belsen. Yehoyachin Yosef was liberated in February 1945. He was 14 years old and weighed 42 lbs. Months later, he was reunited with his family and sailed to Palestine to become part of the a generation of refugees determined to build the Jewish state.

The Torah too survived the war and was kept in a small wooden ark in Yehoyachin’s office. During one of their many meetings, Ilan Ramon inquired as to the ark’s contents. Upon hearing the story, he fell silent and subsequently asked if he could take it into space, thereby illustrating the Bible’s ability to raise humanity from the abyss of despair to the pinnacle of hope. Yehoyachin consented. His family expressed their profound sense of joy in that the Torah had traveled the road to eternity. Yehoyachin exclaimed, ”I never could have imagined that I would be able to uphold my vow to Rabbi Dasberg to such an extent in this world and in worlds beyond.”

On January 2l, 2003, Ilan Ramon, the first Israeli astronaut, held the scroll aloft during a live teleconference aboard Space Shuttle Columbia,let it float, then took hold of it again and shared its transcendental message:

"This Torah scroll was given by a rabbi to a young, scared, scrawny, thirteen-year-old boy in Bergen Belsen. It represents more than anything else the ability of the Jewish people to survive and go from periods of darkness to periods of hope and faith in the future."

This moving statement was .Ramon’s testimonial to kein bashamayim hi. For sixteen days he united the Jewish people and made them proud. He could have done it with the Israeli flag or his air force insignia. However, he chose something of universal value, an item of monumental significance, to communicate the message of unity: “We have to find a way to bring our people closer together, to show more patience and understanding," Ramon said.

The tragic end of the Space Shuttle Columbia took place eleven days later. The shuttle disintegrated on its reentry to the Earth’s atmosphere, and Ilan Ramon and the other members of that crew did not return. Neither did the Torah. However, the story does not end there. Physics professor Henry Fenichel heard the news and immediately contacted Rona Ramon. A miniature Torah written by the same scribe had accompanied him throughout his horrific incarceration in Bergen Belsen. Fenichel offered the Torah to Rona Ramon who asked astronaut Steve MacLean to take it with him on Space Shuttle Atlantis, the next shuttle sent by NASA. MacLean’s connection to the Bible stemmed from his Christian upbringing. He wholeheartedly agreed. For him, taking the Torah and returning it safely was completing Ramon’s mission of hope.
. .
As astounding as the survival of the diary pages is, their content is even more remarkable. One page contained two biblical passages – one from the Book of Genesis, the second from the Book of Deuteronomy. Both are prayers which Ilan copied into his diary to recite in heaven. The first is the Friday evening Kiddush that ushers in the Shabbat:

“Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array. By the seventh day God had finished the work He had been doing; so on the seventh day He rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it He rested from all the work of creating that He had done.” (Gen.2:1-3)

In the biblical context these verses are God’s summation of creation. The Almighty surveys all His works that were completed in six days and arriving at day seven, “blesses and sanctifies it as the day of rest. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel in The Sabbath its meaning for modern man (1995) explains the significance of the sanctification of time:

“Unlike the space-minded man to whom time is unvaried, iterative, homogeneous, to whom all hours are alike, quality-less, empty shells, the Bible senses the diversified character of time. There are no two hours alike. Every hour is unique and the only one given at the moment, exclusive and endlessly precious. Judaism teaches us to be attached to holiness in time, to be attached to sacred events, to learn how to consecrate sanctuaries that emerge from the magnificent stream of a year… One of the most distinguished words in the Bible is the word kadosh, holy; a word which more than any other is representative of the mystery and majesty of the divine. Now what was the first holy object in the history of the world? Was it a mountain? Was it an altar?

“It is, indeed, a unique occasion at which the distinguished word kadosh is used for the first time: in the Book of Genesis at the end of the story of creation. How extremely significant is the fact that it is applied to time: "And God blessed the seventh day and made it holy." There is no reference in the record of creation to any object in space that would be endowed with the quality of holiness.” (ibid.pp.3-9)

“One must be overawed by the marvel of time to be ready to perceive the presence of eternity in a single moment.” (ibid.p 76) Through reciting the Kiddush, Ilan Ramon blessed Divine creation, sanctified the day and all that is holy. The triumph of his spirit filled outer space. (Challal in Hebrew, the word for outer space, also means void). Ramon understood that Sabbath is the touchstone between man and the Creator. “The six days stand in need of space; the seventh day stands in need of man. “.(ibid. p. 52)

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel concludes his treatise with a soul-stirring passage:
“There are few ideas in the world of thought which contain such spiritual power as the idea of the Sabbath. Aeons hence, when of many of our cherished theories only shreds will remain, that cosmic tapestry will continue to shine. Eternity utters a day. “(ibid. p.101)

The visceral shock of the sudden disappearance of Ilan Ramon and the crew of Columbia is palpable eleven years later. As a student of Bible I find solace in biblical text, in the unforgettable story of Elijah and the fiery chariot. It offers us yet another image of “kein ba-shamayim hi.” That is, although Moshe assured us that it is readily accessible to each of us it contains additional registers that reach exalted heights.

“As they kept on walking and talking, a fiery chariot with fiery horses suddenly appeared and separated one from the other; and Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind”. (2 Kings 2:11)

In his last hours on this earth, Elijah strolls with Elisha and passes on his mantle to him. They walk engrossed in discussion. What were they were discussing? The Rabbis (Yerushalmi Berachot 5:1) use the expression “walking and talking” (haloch vedaber) as an exegetical springboard and offer a variety of answers. They were talking Tanakh.
One suggestion in the Yerushalmi is that they were discussing the Creation; another view suggests they were discussing the vision of the throned Chariot of God. (Maaseh merkabah - Ezekiel Chapter 1) Very possibly, they were exploring the most sublime secrets of the universe – mysteries of the creation and the Creator. Before departing, the master disclosed these supernal notions to his protégé.

Yet another position is that the two were pondering prophecies of consolation, post-destruction (nechamot yerushalayim) .of Jerusalem. Elijah was sharing. a far-reaching vision of the end of days and the assurance that ultimately things would be right with the world.

The final midrashic opinion is that they were studying the Shema. The recitation of Shema Yisrael is the last religious act performed before death. The Rabbis cleverly interpreted the phrase “Veshinantem Levanecha VeDibarta Bam….Uvlechticha VaDerech“. (You shall teach them diligently to your children, and you shall speak of them when…you go on a journey). Indeed the two, teacher and student, were deep in discussion as they traveled on their journey - Elijah’s last mile.

Perhaps there is a deeper meaning. At this critical juncture, Elijah was unpacking the fundamentals of religious dogma contained in the Shema. Elijah the master teacher reviewed with his student the new young leader these essential values.

Into his diary, on the same page as the Kiddush , Ilan Ramon copied the verse from Deuteronomy 6:4 and as the Columbia passed over Israel, he recited the declaration of Jewish faith: "Shema Yisrael – Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one”.
Why did Ilan Ramon recite the Shema at that moment of utmost solemnity? We will never know, however the prayer will reverberate forever.

“It is not in Heaven” (lo ba-shamayim hi), (Deuteronomy 30:12), refers to the cogent and accessible nature of Torah. It takes on additional significance in rabbinic Judaism in the celebrated story of "The Oven of Achnai" (tanur.shel achnai), found in the Talmud Bava Metzi'a 59a-b. The story makes a number of salient points about the nature of the Jewish legal system. For students of biblical interpretation, it is a wondrous demonstration of the outer -limits of the discipline.

The Talmudic dispute concerns Rabbi Eliezer ben Horkanus whose illustrious status as a rabbinic sage won him the title of Rabbi Eliezer HaGadol. He is in the beit midrash arguing over the purity of an oven with his rabbinic colleagues. Ovens and vessels generally transmit impurity. Broken vessels do not. The oven of Akhnai is made of broken pieces cemented together. Is it an oven, or is it a broken vessel? Is it pure or impure? R. Eliezer says it is pure. The rabbis disagree.

On that day R. Eliezer made all the arguments in the world which, however, the rabbis did not accept. He performs miracle after miracle without succeeding to win his case. Finally, logic and miracles having failed, R. Eliezer appeals directly to Heaven. And the Bat Kol -- a voice from Heaven declares: “Why are you disputing with R. Eliezer, for the Halakhah is in accordance with him everywhere”. Rabbi Yehoshua rose to his feet and said, “It is not in Heaven!”

That is the main story. There are several addenda. One explains R. Yehoshua’s retort: “Torah was already given on Mt. Sinai as it says; “Follow the majority ruling.”(Exod.23:2) Therefore, we do not obey voices from Heaven. Another reports that R. Natan met Elijah and asked what happened in Heaven at that time: God, he is told, smiled and said, “My children have defeated Me, my children have defeated Me.”

R. Yehoshua’s ruling was adopted; a public demonstration of the impurity of the food cooked in the oven was made, and R. Eliezer, despite his stature, was excommunicated for rebelling against the elders. The authority that promulgated the law had spoken. The text does not question the authenticity of the Bat Kol. which establishes unequivocally that R. Eliezar is right.

But the Oven of Akhnai case takes the opposite view. The biblical
verse, “it is not in Heaven” is transposed rabbinically to mean that interpretation of Torah is by majority rule. R. Eliezer is deemed wrong because he insists on a particular result in violation of the basic procedural principle. This recognition causes God to smile. His children have understood that the process is more important than the result. Maintaining the integrity of the interpretive system grounded in the Bible and cultivated through methodological debate and persuasion is far more important that whether or not the oven is kosher.

Interestingly, in a fascinating midrashic passage, the rabbis sketch a dynamic portrait of R. Eliezer and his reputation. By divine affirmation the claim of ‘lo bashamayim hi’ which brought calumny upon him is essentially rescinded:

“Rabbi Yossi the son of Rabbi Hanina said, when Moses ascended to heaven he saw the Holy One Blessed be He studying the portion of the red heifer quoting halakha in the name of R Eliezer…He said Master of the Universe all of the worlds [celestial and terrestrial life] belong to you and You are quoting halakha in the name of a mortal! He said to him “ In the future there will arise a zaddik in my world whose name will be Eliezer and he will [solve the riddle] of the red heifer. .. Moses responded , “May it be Thy will that he issue forth from my loins, to which God responded indeed he will issue from your loins as it says “and the name of the one is Eliezer – the unique one is Eliezer.”( Tanhuma B Hukkat 25)

On a simple level the midrash is predicated upon the verse relating to Moses’ son Eliezer “and the name of the one .was Eliezer. for he said, “My father’s God was my helper; he saved me from the sword of Pharaoh.(Exod. 18:4).”

Digging deeper it is noteworthy that the theme is the study of purity and impurity, the very issue that did Rabbi Eliezer in. God Himself is, as it were, studying the ultimate conundrum of purity and impurity of the red heifer, whose ashes purify the defiled and defile the pure. God employs the Torah of R. Eliezer to decipher the mystery. Moses is aghast until God affords Rabbi Eliezer unsolicited testimonial. Moses wishes that Rabbi Eliezer be his descendent. Playing on the words of the verse relating to Moses’ son Eliezer, God tells Moses that his wish has been granted. A beautiful message emanates from this midrash – we are all Moses’ spiritual children. Even the greatest of rabbis draw their spiritual grandeur from Moses, our teacher.

However, there is more. In the midrashic theater Rabbi Eliezer is vindicated. A tikkun takes place. The midrash makes a powerful statement “kein bashamayim hi!” The Torah is in Heaven. In the Yeshiva shel ma’ala, Rabbi Eliezer is right. There is absolute truth. It may be reserved only for a select few like Moses and Rabbi Eliezer. But there can be no denying it. The Holy One Himself confirms it.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik writes:

“ … Judaism considered the study of Torah as the most sublime kind of worship, a way of meeting God, of breaking through the barrier separating the Absolute from the contingent and relative. Human intellectual engagement in the exploration of God’s word, thought and law is a great religious experience, an activity bordering on the miraculous, a paradoxical bridge spanning the chasm that separates the world of vanity from infinity”. ( Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik,Worship of the Heart :Essays on Jewish Prayer, ( 2003 ), p.5).

In a fascinating article about the oven of Akhnai, “The Coiled Serpent of Argument: Reason, Authority, and Law in a Talmudic Tale” [(2004), Georgetown Law Faculty Publications and Other Works. Paper 151, pp. 1-40)], Law Prof. David Luban analyzes the story from legal, humanistic, and philosophical vantage points and concludes with candor and humility:

“I cannot understand the Oven of Akhnai story at all. It is not written for me. It is written for readers within a tradition that I merely peer at from outside. I never studied Gemara or experienced the intellectual rigors of the cheder…To grasp the story is to realize that it concerns the impossibility of grasping it merely through reading. Akhnai tells us to disregard the bat kol and follow the majority. Those within the tradition understand that the story's real meaning is for members only. It does not disclose itself to modernist readers who privilege their own one-on-one relationship to the printed text over the many-on-many relationship between text and readers that makes up the form of life the text itself celebrates.”

Luban’s incisive comment on rabbinic literature can relate to the Bible as well. The study of Bible is an awe-inspiring enterprise of theological reflection and textual analysis that does not happen in a cultural vacuum. We develop a “one-on-one relationship” to the Bible, as well as a “the many-on-many relationship” We become part of the continuum of biblical interpretation linked through an unbroken chain to Moses. The challenge is overwhelming. The more we learn the more we are aware of what we know not.

We are humbled and encouraged by Moses’ reassurance that ‘lo bashamayim hi’, and urged toward due diligence by his student Joshua: “This book of Torah shall not depart out of your mouth; but you shall meditate therein day and night, that you may observe to do according to all that is written therein: for then you shall be prosperous, and then you shall have good success.” (Josh. 1:8). Still and all, there is much cause for pause before undertaking such an overwhelming endeavor because, as we have tried to argue, “kein ba-shamayim hi”;

Prof Shalom Carmy offers us perspective. He eloquently explains, in the context of Torah study, the following lines from T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets.

“For language with which to speak of the daunting challenge of how to articulate authentically, in one’s own voice, the dimensions of human existence in the face of a seemingly overwhelming burden of tradition, we again quote Eliot:

“And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”

“The thinker of whom we speak is embarked on a spiritual quest, the search for a way of seeing and living, that can never be fully expressed, a Truth that cannot be mastered, a Love whose Name we cannot utter, though He possesses ours from Eternity.” (Shalom Carmy, “To Get the Better of Words, An Apology for Yir’at Shamayim in Academic Jewish Studies" Torah Umadda Journal 2, (1990), pp 7-24).

Both in Israel and in the world at large there is serious need for outstanding teachers of Bible. Teachers, who not only transmit information, but also inspire by probing the mystique of Bible and teaching its lessons and values.

It is my hope that this article communicates my passion for Tanakh and encourages worthy students to enter the field and become inspirational teachers. The formidable task of teaching Tanakh requires embracing both courage and modesty- oz v’anava.
Courage will spur us to mine Scripture, again and again, to discover the many gems still waiting to be unearthed. It will enable us to develop a sincere, coherent and sophisticated approach to the content and contours of the Bible. Modesty will help guide us in how to share our spiritual odyssey with others.

Lest we despair that “kein bashamayim hi” we need only remember - “Ah but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for?” (Robert Browning, Andrea del Sarto)

1 My sincere thanks to Rabbi David Shapiro for his valuable insights.

Did You Hear the One about the Sephardic Boy Who Walks into This Orthodox Yeshiva?

When I graduated Rambam Torah Institute, a Los Angeles Orthodox High School, in 1978 (Rambam closed in 1979, giving way to the opening of YULA and the Simon Wiesenthal Center), I was about to enter UCLA with a schizophrenic approach to my own Jewish identity. On the one hand, I had grown up in the Sephardic-Ladino community where I was about the only one to receive a formal Jewish education from middle school on. Being “shomer shabbat” was very old-country and unheard of in “Rodesli-L.A.” (the community of Jews descended from the Island of Rhodes who established the Sephardic Hebrew Center in L.A., where we were members). The only ones who admired or understood why I chose a more traditional path for myself were the senior citizens born in Rhodes, toward whom I tended to gravitate.

Being an only child to a mother who was an only child, and having lost my father when I was a baby, my “playdates” typically were in the living rooms of elderly Rodesli immigrants, who told stories and jokes in Ladino, entertained with dulce (homemade preserves) served in beautiful silver bowls with silver spoons along with coffee, biskochos (round sesame or cinnamon covered cookies), and assortments of burekas or pastelikos (savory turnovers), reshas (homemade pretzels), hard cheese, olives, and abidahu (dried, wax-covered fish roe that was a delicacy), or salado (salted, cured mackerel or tuna). There were no chicken nuggets or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at these afternoon gatherings! These visits often took place on Shabbat afternoons; most of the community lived either on the same block or within a few minutes’ walk or drive of each other. This was South Central L.A.—or Leimert Park or the Crenshaw District—where I could go trick or treating on Halloween night and ask for burekas instead of candy, and get them!

Today this neighborhood is mostly African American with not a Jew in sight for miles. The synagogues have long been sold and converted to churches, still displaying the original stained glass Stars of David in the windows. The lifestyle has also disappeared; no one lives near each other anymore in “Rodesli-L.A.,” and the community has dissipated and spread to the four corners of the Greater Los Angeles Basin. Most of those special people from my “playdates” have gone to the next world, and their children or grandchildren may have remembered a few words in Ladino, have kept a few of their mother’s or grandmother’s recipes, and have for the most part sadly strayed from what was once a tight-knit and traditional community.

In Rhodes, it was the norm to keep the laws of kashruth, observe Shabbat and holidays, and keep close to our Jewish traditions. The members of the community didn’t, however, identify as “Orthodox” Jews, nor did other Sephardic communities in the Mediterranean Basin or the Middle East identify as such. Some families were known to be more religious and knowledgeable, others much less. All, however, went to the same synagogue and followed basically the same customs and practices. This lifestyle was reproduced to an extent in America, when these immigrants established their community in Los Angeles. But the forces of assimilation and acculturation meant English first, American culture first, and work first, even on Shabbat.

The traditions of the “old country” began to fade with the next generation, especially given the choices that America offered, including meat and chicken that looked much cleaner and cheaper than the products from the kosher butcher. That’s why it was unusual for me to wind up in a Jewish Orthodox school, eventually keeping kasher and observing Shabbat. And it wasn’t because my mother was predisposed to that direction. My maternal grandfather was born in Bulgaria, and in the late 1800s emigrated to Palestine, where he was religiously educated and spoke many languages, including Hebrew and Arabic, before coming to the United States in 1920. He met my Rhodes-born grandmother in Seattle, the motherland of Ladino immigrants on the West Coast. My grandmother kept kasher, as did most of her contemporaries. When she was hospitalized, our community rabbi, Solomon Mizrahi, who was revered by all, went to visit and admonish her that she could not refrain from eating in the hospital because the food was not kasher, insisting that her health came first.

But the immigrant generation did not instill a religious lifestyle in the new generation of Americans. There was too much at stake in “making it in America” to have religion hold them back. No, the reason I landed in an Orthodox Day School in the seventh grade in 1972 was that my working single mother who had put me in private grammar school through the sixth grade could not have me to go to a public school that would dismiss the students at 3:00 P.M.—when she didn’t get home until after 5:00. And in the L.A. public schools of the 1970s, there were stories of knifings in the bathrooms and tough characters to deal with. Remember, I just grew up hanging around a group of sweet old ladies and had no training in self-defense against the ruffians roaming the halls of John Burrows Jr. High or L.A. High. “Leshos!” (Keep it far away!), as we would say. Hence, my introduction to the Orthodox Day School system was more for my protection than my religious education, and it developed into my personal road back to my religious roots.

So I did not grow up in an Orthodox family. Such a word was never even familiar to Sephardim. They could be kasher, pray regularly, adhere to all the holiday rituals, and not know what “Orthodox” meant, or if they did, it didn’t refer to them. I grew up in a “traditional” Los Angeles Sephardic family—what we considered traditional in the 1960s and 1970s, that is. (I add Los Angeles because the community was less observant than those Ladino communities in Seattle, New York, even Atlanta). The difference was that while we did have our large extended family Shabbat and holiday dinners, always with one or two “old-timers” who knew how to lead the Kiddush or the Rosh haShana “Yehi Ratsones” (in Hebrew and Ladino) or the Passover “Haggada” (in Hebrew and Ladino), I still enjoyed my pizza with pepperoni just as much as I loved my burekas. We still went to homes for a very different kind of American dinner on Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving.

That doesn’t mean we would think of missing out on celebrating Jewish holidays with all the prayers, whether Rosh haShana, Yom Kippur, or Simhat Torah with the honored “hattanim”—and our services would surely be considered “Orthodox” by any observer familiar with the various Ashkenazic Jewish movements. English translations eventually crept into the services, but the prayer books never changed, nor did the patterns of traditional Sephardic services.

When I had my first Orthodox exposure entering Hillel Hebrew Academy in seventh grade, I came home yelling and complaining that I had to wear a kippah all day and pray so often and at a speed I could not keep up with. My mother thought I wouldn’t last a week. I had to “fake” pray that first year since I couldn’t possibly make it through the entire Amida with my limited Hebrew knowledge. My prior formal Jewish education consisted of Talmud Torah afternoon school (at an Ashkenazic synagogue because our Sephardic synagogue was too far and offered little in terms of Jewish education). I made (Orthodox) friends, and soon I was tolerating this “super Jewish” environment I had been thrown into.

When I started being invited to bar mitzvas almost weekly and didn’t want my friends to know that I drove on Shabbat, I would have my mother drive me up nearby alleys, crouching under the glove compartment so that no one would see me in a car, and when the coast was clear, I’d jump out and walk the last block to the Orthodox Synagogue, Beth Jacob, in Beverly Hills where all the bar mitzvas of my classmates took place. This was a regular paranoid ritual that I practiced, for I feared what my friends or rabbis would think if they only knew! In time, I learned to appreciate the Jewish education I was receiving and the Orthodox Jewish lifestyle of my friends to the point where I soon started my own journey toward what would be considered an Orthodox lifestyle.

I started by giving up pork products around the age of 14. After controlling my taste buds in that category (though my mom thought there was definitely something emotionally wrong with me to give up something I loved so much!), I moved on to eliminate shellfish, then milk and meat, and so forth. It was a gradual process of several years until I eventually stopped driving on Shabbat and holidays and took up the Orthodox lifestyle being taught in my school. I figured that this was the way my grandparents or great-grandparents lived their Judaism, and I could reconnect that chain of tradition, which likely went back generations from what I learned about Sephardic history. I continued my communal connection to my Rodesli synagogue, the Sephardic Hebrew Center, where I became the youngest board member and was part of the small youth group established. I learned to take part in the religious services as a “junior hazzan” on Shabbat and High Holidays.

In my high school, though, I was one of maybe two or three Sephardic students (none of whom came from a Ladino-Sephardic background), and I was the only one with a strong Sephardic identity, having become active in the local Sephardic youth groups that also participated in the national American Sephardic Federation youth conventions of the 1970s. (In 1977, when I was in the twelfth grade, and my Talmud teacher, whom I really liked, made one of his typical anti-Sephardic remarks in class like “Sephardim remind me of Arabs,” that was the last straw. I stormed out of my class, slamming the door behind me, and marched to the school office with the rabbi running behind me promising he was “just joking.” I called the director of the American Sephardi Federation in New York (a “toll call” no less), whom I had met recently on an ASF youth convention and asked if he could come on his next visit to L.A. and speak to my school about Sephardic history and contribution to Judaism. He gladly agreed. I informed my principal in a stern tone that there would be an assembly for the entire school and “every rabbi and student better be there!” They indeed all attended a very interesting lecture, and I was transformed into the Sephardic poster child for the school.)

As I went through four years of Orthodox Yeshiva High School, I was developing two distinct personas, one the Orthodox student who was a member of the Bnei Akiva youth movement, a counselor at the summer and winter Bnei Akiva camps, and the founder of the first chapter of Bnei Akiva at a Sephardic grade school in L.A.; the other a “non-kippah wearing” member of the Sephardic community. By the time I graduated high school and went to UCLA, where I knew both friends from my Sephardic community as well as from my Yeshiva High School, I didn’t know whether to wear a kippah or not and was ashamed and conflicted either way. I ended up wearing a cap for my entire freshman year! I was worried about what my Orthodox friends would think of me if they saw me sans kippah and what kind of fanatic my Sephardic friends would think I’d become if they saw me with one.

This is where I started to appreciate the difference between an Orthodox approach to Judaism and a Sephardic approach to Judaism. I started to attend Magen David Congregation, the Syrian synagogue in L.A. (since I could no longer drive to the Sephardic Hebrew Center with its mixed seating and a microphone, which I now felt uncomfortable with). The walk to Magen David was 45 minutes, but I did it weekly. I started to make friends who were typical of the Syrian Sephardic communities: Shabbat- and kashruth-observant, but not kippah-wearing and not hung up on the “Orthodox look.” They blended into the non-Jewish world just fine, but still kept a very strong Jewish identity. They may have kept strictly kasher at home but felt comfortable eating in non-kasher restaurants, just keeping away from the meat and shellfish. To some, they wouldn’t be considered Orthodox at all; to others they would be considered very Orthodox, based on their regular synagogue attendance, men praying every morning with their tefillin and not driving on Shabbat. And mixed dancing?something that was taboo in those days at any Orthodox event, whether for young or old was never an issue! That was my “aha” moment; the point where I had the realization that Sephardim did not easily fit into a category of Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform. We were all over the place, and everyone was fine with it.

As I became more observant, my Sephardic community embraced me as “hahamiko,” a young learned person. I wasn’t denigrated as a religious fanatic, nor was I looked down upon for not wearing a kippah all the time or not fitting the “Orthodox” compartment perfectly. My Sephardic community didn’t judge me; I think they admired me or at least that is how I felt, even though they didn’t always understand why I could no longer attend services at the synagogue I grew up in. I was able to break away from the stigma of fitting the look and practice of Orthodox Judaism, even though I admired and related to their level of observance. While I tried to parlay my activism in the Orthodox Bnei Akiva youth movement, which I still admire to this day, I realized that Sephardic kids, as different as they were in their religious backgrounds, just couldn’t be form-fitted to an Orthodox Jewish youth movement where every boy was expected to wear a kippah, every girl a skirt, act a certain way, dress a certain way, pray three times a day plus birkat haMazon (grace after meals), refrain from attending mixed dances, and basically fit the mold.

But Sephardim didn’t fit such a mold. We were all unique and different to certain extents, even though we generally felt comfortable praying under the same roof. And no one judged us; no one looked at us funny for wearing or not wearing a kippah in the street; women could be very religious and still wear pants or what the Orthodox would call “immodest” clothing; no one felt uncomfortable whether we ate strictly kasher or “pseudo” kasher; no one really minded if you got to synagogue by foot or by car, as long as you got there. And if you didn’t go to synagogue regularly, that was also fine. Shabbat dinner was still to be shared with the family, and major Jewish holidays were spent in synagogue from start to finish, if you could make it.

This Sephardic Jewish identity really created a wider tent for all of us to fit under, and it felt good to be together and not critical of others who observed more or less than we did. The summer of 1980 found me half way through my UCLA career and I decided to join my Orthodox friends from high school who made study in Israel either after high school or during college a commonplace rite of passage. I signed up too and ended up in Jerusalem at Hebrew University with a group of friends, where we immediately gravitated to the other Yeshiva high school grads from across the United States who were also on their Junior year abroad program, coordinating Shabbat dinners together and living the “Orthodox” life in Jerusalem. I wore a kippah all the time, and it felt okay. After all, I was in Israel. The summer of 1980 also happened to be the first summer of the Sephardic Educational Center (SEC) program, founded by Dr. Jose Nessim (z”l) from L.A., who had told me before I left to make sure and visit the program once I got to Jerusalem. I did, and it was life-altering—not because of the experience to be with Sephardic young adults my age from five different countries, but to see rabbis leading the program who were what we would consider “Orthodox,” yet not forcing anyone to wear a kippah or dress in a certain way, other than out of respect for holy places visited or during meals or prayers or classes.

Rabbis Moshe Shamah and Sam Kassin of the Syrian Sephardic community of Brooklyn, and Rabbi Benito Garzon of Spain, forever changed my attitude toward religious life, opened my eyes to Sephardic halakha, and the “live and let live” approach that made all feel comfortable while studying and believing in the same approach to Judaism, just at every individual’s own pace.

In the past 35 years, my Jewish identity has been shaped more by my involvement with the SEC than my Orthodox high school education, with exposure to those Sephardic rabbis and others I met subsequently who with moderation and tolerance kept alive the spirit of the Classical Sephardic approach to Judaism and opened my eyes to a non-denominational approach that echoed the lives of my ancestors who lived in places like Rhodes or Bulgaria and back to the Iberian Peninsula. Theirs was a Judaism that was a natural part of their everyday lives, with one basic approach that centered on a fervent belief in God, traditions that were celebrated by all, synagogues where the entire community worshiped without “membership ID’s” that distinguished what kind of Jew you were.

There were some weak links in the chain of tradition as Sephardic Jews relocated from the Old World to the new but there is certainly hope for a renaissance in Sephardic life as many find that this classic approach to Jewish life is far more comfortable and meaningful that what is offered by choosing an identity that just doesn’t always form fit among Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Hasidic, or Hareidi approaches to Judaism. At our annual SEC Shavuot Retreat for young families in Palm Desert, CA, last May, we held a town hall discussion as part of our Shavuot night study program, entitled “What's Wrong with Organized Religion, and How Can We Fix It?” It was led by another product of the Orthodox educational system, Rabbi Daniel Bouskila, who has also come to embrace and symbolize the Classical Sephardic approach to Judaism. The young families present attend Sephardic synagogues across the L.A. community, synagogues that would appear “Orthodox” but for the fact that not all attendees walk to synagogue, and not all keep strictly kasher, and not all wear kippot outside the synagogue—but all feel a common cause and belief in God and the Torah, along with the centrality of the State of Israel. Suggestions ranged from how to balance the old traditions with the needs of the younger generation and how to attract and hold the attention of synagogue goers. Here were the young leaders who have or will occupy the positions of leadership in our Sephardic communities, and none were shy about introducing changes and suggesting approaches within our traditional halakhic approach that would ensure the survival of these synagogues and communities.

I felt proud as a Sephardic Jew to be able to discuss these issues without fear of backlash or judgment, and proud that I am not judged nor do I feel the need to judge others on their observance. We are all in the same boat and recognize that some will always be more observant and some less and our jobs as Jews are to make all feel comfortable and welcome, maintain a common set of beliefs, and not check ID’s at the door of Judaism. That is the Sephardic approach; it is the vision and identity I gained from many years of following Dr. Nessim’s philosophy: Only God can judge us. This is why I have shied away from identifying myself with the “O” word. I just don’t fit into a denominational compartment and if you feel the same way, you might want to join a Classical Sephardic community—regardless of your bloodline!

Did I mention that my father was Ashkenazic? If you ask an Orthodox Jew, I should “halakhically” follow the tradition of my father. But I don’t, not as an insult to him but as a way of life that I was raised with and came to love and connect to. I don’t find the unity, warmth, and “big tent” feel in the Orthodox world that I do in the Sephardic world. But that’s just me, and I respect and admire you if you are Orthodox or Modern Orthodox or any other Jewish identity as long as it works to bring you closer to God, Israel, and the Jewish People. That’s just the Sephardic way.

Now a look at the next generation. I have two sons and a daughter. My oldest son (20) went through middle school and high school at a Modern Orthodox school in L.A. My middle son (17), only attended Middle School there, and then went to public high school along with my daughter for a number of reasons, not the least being the high cost. I appreciated the Modern Orthodox education and great social bonds that the school offered. I also appreciated the love for Israel that the school incorporated into its curriculum. The alternative Yeshiva high schools in our area have a more right-wing reputation, which wasn’t the direction I wanted for my family. However I did not see a passion for Judaism or the practice of mitzvoth develop in my sons or their friends that I had once experienced myself. My children’s religious connection still came from home, and the example we tried to create of a traditional Sephardic family, not from school, which surprised me.

The feeling I had when I went to high school was that we had a “religious contract” to keep Shabbat, kashruth, etc., even after we graduated. The students I observed in my sons’ classes over the past few years didn’t seem to have that commitment. University life poses challenges to keeping Shabbat and kashruth, praying every day, and taking off class for holiday observance that, for me, went without question but today seems to be a different story. While I never retreated in my religious observance, nor did most of my classmates, the graduates of today’s Modern Orthodox high school, if my own sons are an example, do not seem to feel the same religious obligation we did upon graduation, and that’s a problem. University and the “outside world” appear to have overtaken whatever commitment for practicing a level of Orthodox Judaism they were taught in high school.

Luckily for my children, they have their connections to the SEC, whether through trips to Israel or local holiday celebrations like our Shavuot Retreat to keep them excited about Judaism and Israel. Otherwise, they would be left empty-handed without any follow up from their high school rabbis, which is a shame. My wife and I wonder whether the financial investment in their Jewish education was worth it and if it will keep them committed as observant Jews. We took the approach more typical of Sephardic families of trying not to force them to practice their Judaism, though I try to continuously prod and plead that they pray, come to synagogue, remember kashruth when they are away from home. It is not easy, though. I often wonder if they would have been more passionate about their Judaism if we went down a more strictly Orthodox path than a moderate Sephardic one. Hopefully we did make the spiritually healthy decision in the long run.

But knowing what Jewish path is best for today and tomorrow is not necessarily what worked for my generation. There is no question that there needs to be a shakeup in the Modern Orthodox educational system to bring back the passion of Judaism, and there also needs to be more emphasis on Jewish commitment in the Sephardic world if that branch of Judaism is to be strengthened in the Diaspora. For the achievement of a moderate and observant next Jewish generation, there will need to be a synthesis of all the best qualities and approaches of these and other Jewish like-minded approaches, from Modern Orthodox to Sephardic and beyond, creating a Jewish lifestyle that is neither extremely stringent or oppressive nor exceedingly indifferent to religious observance. I hope our religious leaders are up to the task.

Beyond the Shore: Torah through a Western Lens

June 26th, 2015, marked the triumph of the LGBT community over political detractors in a drawn-out battle for social liberty. This victory was ushered in by what is arguably one of the most consequential decisions of social reform since the Civil Rights Act of 1964. On June 26, 2015, the Supreme Court ruled in favor of the Constitutional right to same-sex marriage. As a 23-year-old observant Jew living in the United States, this ruling has deep ideological implications. A profound paradigmatic conflict has risen to the surface. Torn between two opposing philosophical perspectives, I have become the generational victim of a cognitive dissonance that I cannot simply slough off, and in the absence of an existential ecdysis, I am forced to confront the discord of my beliefs.

As a member of the global community, I support the inherent human right of two consenting adults to concretize a union based on mutual love, unfettered by restrictions imposed by political, legislative, or religious institutions. However, as a member of the observant Jewish community, I fundamentally believe in the restriction of this union, purely on the basis of my acceptance of the didactic value of the Torah. I suspect I am not alone in experiencing this clash of cultural perspectives. This is a dilemma that affects many individuals in the Jewish community; individuals who are caught at the cusp of two conflicting moral codes; one delivered from the firm hands of tradition, and the other by the soft voice of modern culture. This dissonance is by no means a novel phenomenon. In fact, it is a struggle that we as Jews have historically faced throughout the millennia. It involves the challenge of finding equilibrium between modernity and tradition, between progressivism and halakha.

The very perpetuity of this challenge is a testament to our inability to fully and finally address it. Can the observant Jewish community once and for all reconcile modern-day values with its traditional moral standards? How can we, as a constantly evolving Jewish nation, synthesize the immutable words of our sages with the unrelenting force of social reform? In recent years, it seems the chasm between conventional religious wisdom and modern ideology has expanded into a yawning crevasse. This makes the effort to justify traditional Torah values in an ever-changing Western society increasingly difficult. Now, more than ever, it is important that we hold our beliefs at arm’s length and assess them with all the intellectual honesty and objectivity that our age-old value system deserves.

The rift between modern-day values and traditional Jewish beliefs might be far greater than we tend to think. The problem is exemplified by a certain mentality that many modern Jews have adopted. This “pseudo-modernist” worldview is one of shortsightedness that ignores the fundamental issues inherent in seeking harmony between modern and traditional beliefs. In what seems like a desperate effort to find favor in the public eye, pseudo-modernists subscribe to simplistic, short-term solutions to the problem of philosophical dissonance and often skirt tremendous ideological issues that deserve much deeper attention than they are given.

One example of this evasive approach to reconciling philosophical discord pertains to the aforementioned ruling in favor of same-sex marriage. The Supreme Court’s decision to sanction same-sex marriage under the Constitution spurred a great deal of unrest within the more right-leaning national community. In an effort to quell this vexation, some Jewish thinkers have championed a modern, and somewhat disingenuous, interpretation of the biblical restriction against homosexuality.

The interpretation to which I refer is based on the existence of two different types of biblical commandments: hukim and mishpatim. Mishpatim are rational laws that are based on clear moral or practical reasoning. These laws include refraining from stealing, murder, and other antisocial acts. Hukim, on the other hand, are laws that transcend rationality. The genealogy of hukim remains hidden from human understanding.[1] Classic examples of hukim are the laws pertaining to the red heifer (parah adumah) and dietary laws (kashrut). It has recently been suggested that the prohibition against homosexuality is mentioned in the Torah as a hok (singular form of hukim), i.e., to be viewed as a law for which there is no clear moral reasoning presented in the Torah. However, even a cursory glance at the placement and presentation of the Torah prohibition against homosexuality reveals that it is likely not intended to be a hok. It is included among laws against incest, bestiality, and adultery, all of which seem to have clear moral implications. In fact, the inclusion of homosexuality among other capital offenses speaks directly to its status as a morally reprehensible act according to Jewish law. It is a tremendous feat of intellectual self-deception to claim that the Torah presents the restriction against homosexuality as a hok. This type of elusive rhetoric in religious apologetics is found all too frequently today, and it is representative of the disingenuous form of modernism mentioned above.[2]

Pseudo-modernists hope that these tenuous resolutions will endear the disenfranchised and stave off criticisms against traditional Judaism until, one day, Torah values find their home at the forefront of moral philosophy. It is a perspective that touts progressive thinking and denies deeply rooted fundamentalism. Its adherents blindly follow the crowd of progressive thinkers, while holding a philosophical compass that is pointing in the opposite direction. These individuals ignore the fact that, if their position was followed to its logical conclusion, he or she would be exposed for the traditionalist ideologue that popular culture so vehemently condemns. There will inevitably be a point at which the philosophical synthesis they boast will not be sustainable, and a deep divergence will emerge.

So where is this point of divergence? Let us begin with what is possibly the most fundamental divergence, which is political. I do not mean right-wing versus left-wing or liberal versus conservative; these views are far too reductionist (and oversimplify political issues that are vastly more complex than either side acknowledges). Rather, I am asking whether we, as observant Jews, believe in a Constitutional democracy or a biblical theocracy? Furthermore, is the biblical theocracy of the Torah one that is in line with the modern-day values held by many observant Jews? To further explore this question, let us consider a few other examples of philosophical dissonance between Torah and modern values. In order to do so, it may be worthwhile to elucidate the implications of a Messianic age according to Jewish tradition.

A quintessential tenet of Judaism is a belief in the coming of the Messiah. So essential is this belief, in fact, that it is included among the Thirteen Principles of Faith outlined by the Rambam (Maimonides). The relevance of a Messianic age to our conversation is in its far-reaching political implications and its focus, according to Maimonides and many other commentaries, on a restoration of the full scope of Torah observance (much of which is not currently applicable, in the absence of a Temple in Jerusalem and a theocratic Torah-based dominion in Israel). According to many of our sages, the time of Messiah will be an era that ushers in enlightenment, peace, and a restoration of Torah governance to the world. Based on this view, the reinstatement of Torah law is of cardinal importance to the culmination of the Messianic age. The Rambam writes in chapter eleven of Hilkhot Melakhim in his Mishneh Torah,

The Messianic King will arise in the future and restore the Davidic Kingdom to its former state and original sovereignty. He will build the Sanctuary and gather the dispersed of Israel. All the laws will be re-instituted in his days as they had been before; sacrifices will be offered, and the Sabbatical years and Jubilee years will be observed fully as ordained by the Torah.[3]

In the abstract, and in our time, there is little need to acknowledge the disparity or dissonance between our Messianic vision and contemporary reality. A modern, observant Jew can comfortably believe in a Messianic time and maintain his or her current conceptions of Western morality and democracy—that is until the time of the Messiah actually arrives. The real clash arises in exploring the implications of re-installing a Torah government in the state of Israel and in the world. A Torah-based government is essentially theocratic. The laws have been divinely ordained and are upheld by the Sanhedrin, who are the mandated legal body and earthly arbiters of divine law. This means that observant Jews are fundamentally theocratic, as well. If we explore the various laws of a Torah-based theocracy, we begin to run into a series of ideological and legal principles that seem patently undemocratic and clash with our modern conceptions of morality and social justice.

Let us take, for instance, the laws of Shabbat observance. Many observant Jews relish learning the intricacies and complexities of the laws pertaining to Shabbat. However, seldom do we consider the talmudic law in any realm other than the abstract. I introduced the idea of a Messianic age to illustrate that we cannot simply look at these laws in the abstract, since we as a Jewish community are ultimately expected to reestablish Torah law in the time of the Messiah. Let’s compare the more comprehensive dictates of the Torah to our modern-day values and think critically about what we believe. In Jewish law, as transmitted by the Torah and elaborated upon in talmudic texts, the desecration of Shabbat is punishable by death. Many modern-day rabbis reassure us that the circumstances under which one might receive the death penalty upon breaking Shabbat are very limited. In fact, there is a discussion in the Talmud regarding the frequency of capital punishment in general, stating that a Sanhedrin that carried out even one death penalty in seven or 70 years, depending on the opinion, was considered “a bloody Sanhedrin.”[4]

This is certainly reassuring, assuming the death penalty is a legitimate reaction to the desecration of Shabbat. But why assume that the death penalty is a justifiable response to the violation of Shabbat at all? Is it reasonable to believe that such a legal stipulation should be reinstated, even if under such rarely occurring circumstances? The rarity of such a penalty perhaps minimizes, but does not eliminate, the issue. Even the restrictions on the application of capital punishment imposed by the rabbis fall short of reconciling the underlying contradiction with modern social norms. This legal stipulation raises a whole catalogue of questions. Would a re-instituted Sanhedrin have the power to further attenuate the severity of such a punishment in response to Shabbat, if not abolish it altogether, or is this an inexorable component of halakhic legislation? How are we expected to take this law, which is stated explicitly in the Torah, and understand it through the lens of a modern Constitutional Democracy and Western moral standards? And, most importantly, could we ever conceive of a time in the future in which this law is reinstated? By today’s standards, this law would be considered draconian and unconscionable. To punish someone who has broken Shabbat by death is a radical departure from our modern-day conception of moral thinking.

This is not the only example of unsettling applications of capital punishment under biblical Jewish law. Another classic example of a violation of the Torah for which one is expected to receive the death penalty is idolatry. In theory, this means that a Jew under a Torah inspired government who experiences a religious transformation and is convinced of the legitimacy of a human god, for instance, is liable to receive the death penalty under certain legal circumstances. Again, I reiterate that the rabbinic authorities of the Mishnah seemed resistant to the very notion of capital punishment as a whole. For this reason, the rabbis of the Mishnah went to great lengths to limit the application of capital punishment, or believed that the law was intended to be interpreted quite differently than it is presented in the text. There are a number of barriers placed by our sages in tractate Sanhedrin between the applicable crime and the execution of capital punishment. First, there have to be two witnesses, who need to fit a very specific legal criteria of competence and objectivity (which happens to include being a male, another point of contention with modern-day beliefs). They need to have warned the guilty party of the consequences of committing the crime, and the guilty party must have committed the offense immediately following the warning.[5] Again, despite the restrictive parameters placed on the practice of capital punishment, the death penalty imposed by the Torah seems grossly disproportionate to the offense.

We do not need to envisage a Messianic age in order to bring light to the chasm between modern-day beliefs and Torah values. There are many other examples in the Torah of divine mandates and laws that directly conflict with egalitarian and humanistic ideals advanced in Western society. One such example comes from Parashat Matot with regard to vows taken by women. The Parashah discusses the legality of vows and oaths in general, as well as the circumstances under which a vow may be annulled. Oaths taken by a woman are expressly limited to the authority of the men in her immediate life. While a woman retains the right to make a vow, it is at the discretion of her husband or father whether the oath will be legally effective. Over the years I have heard many attempts to rationalize what seems to be patent sexism in the Torah and elsewhere in Judaic literature. However, there is clearly an issue of denying a basic human right based on gender alone.

It seems that an air of misogyny looms over the entire narrative of the Torah, specifically the legal discussions therein. From the sexuality of a woman to her marital status, the Torah often contextualizes women within the parameters of property rights. In fact, one of the Asseret haDiberot, or Ten Commandments, is specifically addressed to men in stating that they may not covet their neighbor's house, wife, manservant, maidservant, ox, donkey, or any other of the neighbor’s belongings.[6] Note the striking placement of the neighbor’s wife after the house in a list of his property. The fact that the manservant is also listed as property does not detract from the patent androcentricity of this excerpt. Even the use of grammatical markers in the Torah most often identifies God in the masculine grammatical form, thus promoting a male-oriented worldview.

Last, I would like to discuss what I believe may be the most glaring example of discordance between contemporary ethical thinking and the values championed by the Torah; the conquest of the land of Canaan. In order to explain this dilemma, I will briefly turn to an eye-opening study on Israeli school children conducted by sociologist George Tamarin in 1963. The study that Professor Tamarin conducted—which ultimately cost him his chair at Tel Aviv University—goes as follows: Two groups of Israeli school children were told to read two separate stories of conquest; one group was given the story of Joshua at the city of Jericho, and the other of General Lin, who established the Chinese Kingdom some 3,000 years ago. The two stories were chosen because the features of both are almost identical. In both stories a leader is impelled by God—for General Lin the Chinese god of war—to conquer a land and annihilate its unbelieving inhabitants. Both groups of school children were asked to assess the moral judgement of the characters in the story they had been told, and, despite the stories similarities, the responses of the school children were quite dissimilar. For the story of Joshua at the gates of Jericho, about 60 percent of the school children agreed that the plan implemented to overtake the city was justified. However, for the story of General Lin, about 75 percent of students disapproved of the conquest. [7] The controversy that Tamarin’s study engendered speaks to a whole constellation of psychological phenomena; the categorization of groups of people, the human propensity to draw moralistic lines, and endemic biases that stem from cultural pressures. But most importantly, this study puts two fundamental beliefs in conflict.

As Jews, we believe strongly in a God of Israel and in the historical, religious, and spiritual importance of a national home. However, as a nation that has been the victim of pogroms, historical democides, and the Holocaust, we bear a deep sensitivity to the concept of a mass execution of an entire people. For this reason, we must be mindful that there are places within the Tanakh that feature divinely mandated national exterminations. Events of this nature, as recorded in our religious history, demand our attention, even if they are beyond our powers of understanding.

In 1944, the term genocide was coined by Polish lawyer Raphael Lemkin in a report on Nazi Germany that would later contribute to the prosecution of Nazi’s at the Nuremberg Trials. In 1948, Lemkin influenced the United Nations to approve a Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, which recognized genocide as a crime for the first time in history.[8] The past century features some of the most cataclysmic acts of horror perpetrated against humanity; from the Holocaust, the Armenian genocide, democides carried out by the Soviet Union and China, to genocides in Bangladesh and Rwanda. More deaths were racked up in the twentieth century than any other epoch of human history. Professor emeritus at the University of Hawaii, Rudolph Rummel, puts the estimate at about 262 million in the twentieth century alone.[9] As a result, the global community has gained a disconcerting insight into the destructive capabilities of humanity. This newly acquired sensitivity forces us to assess our history as a nation and as a people. The conquest of the land of Canaan is replete with instances of communal exterminations. Time and again the Jewish people are commanded to leave no trace of a civilization in cities they overtook. In the book of Joshua, Achan was stoned to death for salvaging any remains of the city of Jericho upon its siege and destruction.[10] The same is true when Shaul spared King Agag. [11]

Of course, there is no better justification for these events than that they were commanded by God. But this is a post-hoc rationale that belies the implications of an explicit commandment to wipe out an entire nation; from its women and children, all the way to its livestock. Today, we would call this course of action “genocide” or “ethnic cleansing,” and there is no amount of equivocation that could justify such atrocities. Is it good enough to say that God commanded it? Can this excuse allow us to brush off the ashen debris of countless forgotten civilizations and turn a blind eye to history?

Over the centuries, the global evolution of moral philosophy has forced us to reassess parochial notions of mass extermination. The commandment in book one of Samuel to “utterly destroy” the nation of Amalek has been reinterpreted and stripped of its historical teeth by biblical commentaries and thinkers such as the Rambam. [12] Maimonides interprets the commandment allegorically, stating that we are compelled as a nation to extricate the nature of Amalek from humanity.[13] However, one is forced to ask whether this is a modification of the original commandment in light of our inability to identify individual members of the nation of Amalek, making it an alteration based on convenience as opposed to ethics.

The trend of attenuating fire and brimstone moral philosophies of the Torah is not restricted to the case of destroying Amalek. In addition to the aforementioned cases, namely Amalek and various instances of capital punishment, there are many laws mitigated by rabbinic authorities of talmudic literature. One of the best-known instances of this mitigation is the case of the “ben sorer umoreh,” or “the wayward son,” mentioned in Parashat Ki Tetzei in the Torah. The case of the ben sorer umoreh is an adolescent that is so refractory, the court of the city ratifies his public execution. At face value, the resulting law might implicate a good number of teenagers today. However, the interpretive acrobatics performed by the legal authorities in tractate Sanhedrin make it almost impossible to identify an example of such an adolescent. The Sages limit the application of ben sorer umoreh to such an extent that it is understood purely as a theoretical case from which we may derive homiletic value alone. The circumstances necessary for someone to be categorized as a ben sorer umoreh are so numerous and obscure that it leaves the realm of the possible and enters the realm of the mythological. In order for someone to be considered a ben sorer umoreh the child must commit a certain set of crimes within a specific duration of time, he must be warned multiple times by both parents using the same words, and it must be approved by a governing body.[14]

These instances of rabbinic mitigation display the dynamism of Jewish law and practice. Moreover, they are a demonstration of the great interpretative power granted to the Sages by the Torah.[15] Rabbinic exegesis is encoded into the very DNA of the Pentateuchal genome. Arguably the most fundamental component of Jewish law is human interpretation. Dr. Jose Faur, a prolific writer and Professor of Law at Netanya Academic College in Israel, articulates this point in his essay Law and Hermeneutics in Rabbinic Jurisprudence: A Maimonidean Perspective:

Indeed, Judaism owes its very existence to exegesis. Through exegesis, Judaism was able to grow and develop in the most adverse and diverse circumstances, without having to lose its connection with Scripture...there is purposeful ambiguity in the Law designed to allow for adaptability and development. [16]

The Talmud relates a famous allegory in which Rabbi Eliezer opposed a position held by the majority of other Sages. Rabbi Eliezer attempts to assert the validity of his own position by invoking miraculous events as a form of divine evidence. Despite Rabbi Eliezer’s invocations being met with heavenly approbation, the opposing Sages remained assiduous in their position. Rabbi Yehoshua responded to Rabbi Eliezer’s dissent by saying that the ruling was “not in heaven.” [17] Rabbi Yirmiyahu, a second-generation Babylonian scholar, provides an explanation for this story, stating that we no longer rely on divine providence in order to understand the Torah. Instead, halakha is determined by the majority opinion.[18] The culture fostered by our sages is one that is contingent on the human faculty of interpretation and reason. This is what allows for the fluidity of biblical interpretation, legislation, and the evolution of halakhic practice.

As cultural circumstances change, our Sages are granted the power to deviate from the strict letter of the Law in order to satisfy an evolving social and cultural perspective. An example of this is the Torah principle of ayin tahat ayin, or “an eye for an eye,” which the Sages interpreted to mean monetary compensation.[19] This reframing of the classic notion of ayin tahat ayin reflects a changing moral code that renders certain biblical injunctions incompatible with changing beliefs.[20] Built into the very system of Jewish law is a level of philosophical and legal adaptability that accounts for large-scale cultural shifts. In light of the capacity for the Jewish system of exegesis to accommodate these shifts, it seems reasonable to believe that we can always meet the demands of an ever-changing moral environment. Even the 13 rules of hermeneutics outlined in the Talmud itself are broad enough to allow for a whole spectrum of interpretations and semantic connections.[21]

It seems that the Torah has granted our sages an almost infinitely wide berth for scriptural interpretation. However, this raises an issue that is important to consider. Based on the precedence of rabbinic interpretation as a source for understanding biblical texts, Judaism today has become almost unrecognizable as an extension of its Torah origins. Should we be concerned that rabbinic law has taken on a life of its own, far beyond the Scripture from which it was formed?

Let us consider the broader issue of the factors involved in scriptural hermeneutics. Although the following is conjecture, it is a sound basis for understanding the process of interpretation in general. Often times a commentator will identify an inconsistency emerging from external information that stands in conflict with statements presented in the Torah. The commentator is then faced with the challenge of reconciling contravening pieces of information. This means one of three courses of action: 1) reinterpret the biblical statement in order to align it with the external information; 2) reject the external information and preserve the initial interpretation of the Torah; or 3) investigate further in order to find additional information that eliminates the contradiction altogether. In the absence of additional information, our Sages are typically left with the first two choices. Additionally the often indisputable nature of the external information compels us to accept their implications. As we have seen, many commentators are forced to reinterpret Scripture. Note that I have excluded the option of rejecting Scripture, since rendering biblical text null and void as a function of interpretation is one of the few limitations of biblical hermeneutics.[22]

An example to illustrate the foregoing point comes from the Rambam, who opines that the six days of creation described in Genesis do not represent six calendar days, based on the irreconcilability of this information with astrophysical evidence.[23] To an Orthodox Jew, this might seem like a viable approach to many seemingly flagrant deviations from natural law mentioned in the Torah. However, to the unfamiliar, but capable, lay-reader, this statement seems more like an attempt at whitewashing inconsistencies in ancient, sacred texts.

If our Sages can tamper with the word of God wherever it does not reflect demonstrable, conventional wisdom, one might be led to the conclusion that this dampens the authenticity of scriptural texts. Some might attempt to rationalize these instances of contradiction by saying that the Torah did not intend for these contravening statements to be interpreted literally, that they are rather intended to be interpreted metaphorically. This position, however, assumes that we can know the intent of the Author; that an underlying principle is being communicated via metaphorical representations. How can anyone claim to know the intentions of God, let alone discern between statements that are intended to be taken literally and metaphorically? As Dr. Faur notes, and other scholars agree, this is a patently un-rabbinic approach. Rabbinic interpretation is unconcerned with ‘uncovering’ the word of God, so to speak. Rabbinic hermeneutics is concerned with drawing contextual connections, which give the text interpretational flexibility. In his essay, Dr. Faur refers to this approach as the “stoic” exegesis found in Jewish literature, which assumes knowledge based on interpretation, as opposed to the “platonic” form of exegesis found in Christian literature, which assumes an ideal that is to be uncovered.[24]

This statement has far reaching implications. We, as Jews, view the Torah as a contractual agreement between two parties. Like any legal document, the stipulations contained therein are subject to interpretation. As is true in any contract, one cannot infer the intention of either party, only interpret what is expressly communicated from one party to the other. This, on a fundamental level, reflects the nature of all communication, interaction, and relationships. As subjective beings, we can do no more than interpret the world around us. The many dimensions that constitute our physical, psychological, and spiritual existence limit us to one locus of perception, beyond which we cannot extend our knowledge. To uncover would imply the ability to remove the curtain between one being and another, and this is fundamentally impossible. Therefore, the Torah was delivered with the built-in assumption that its principles are to be interpreted, not uncovered. It seems that to Rabbi Nathan Lopez Cardozo, this is what is meant by the talmudic dictum “Elu ve-elu divre Elo-him hayim”—“these and those are the words of the living God.” [25] As Rabbi Cardozo writes in his article On the Nature of Future Halakha in Relation to Autonomous Religiosity, “Each person receives the Torah individually, according to his or her own personality and exceptional circumstances.” [26] The subjectivity of the Torah is undeniable. The Torah, and the statutes contained therein, are as fluid as they are inviolable, molding to the cultural and historical context in which they are expressed, colored by the lens through which they are seen, and understood by each and every mind independently. The continuity of the Torah is a function of its adaptive and fluid nature.

So what about issues of today? Can we no longer make interpretive inroads in order to address contemporary philosophical and moral questions? It seems as though today we have run up against certain unbridgeable gaps. But why must we draw the line here? Despite the immense interpretive power that we have been granted, there are limitations. One such limitation is our inability to reject statements in the Torah, and there are certain implications carried by biblical assertions that no level of exegetical savvy can ignore. Calling the restriction against homosexuality a hok might assuage our Western conscience, but one would be hard-pressed to find that apologetics such as this do much more than act as a moralistic balm. Rather, the right response to such dissonance is to acknowledge the conflict and accept the facts on the ground. I am inspired by rabbinic leaders who demonstrate an appreciation for the gravity of the issues the Jewish community faces today, while displaying tremendous intellectual honesty. I recall sitting in on the class of a rabbi, for whom I have particularly great respect, and hearing his response to a similar question posed by a student about the struggle of the religious, gay community. He didn’t seem to feel the urge to jump through fiery interpretive hoops and walk an apologetic tightrope to save face. Instead, he gave an honest, simple answer. He made it abundantly clear that the Torah, for whatever unknown reason, moral or otherwise, prohibits homosexuality. He then explained that he nevertheless profoundly admired the courage it takes to adhere to religious authority, despite these Jews harboring a deeply human desire for an intimacy that cannot be realized. And this is truly all that can be said. The negative commandment against homosexuality may be built on moral grounds or it may not be. It might be that our modern Western moral intuitions are simply not in line with the ethical principles presented in the Torah, and we may need to simply accept this. It may even be that to view the Torah through a moral lens at all might be illusory, and we must be prepared to accept this, as well.

Although observant Jews may be obligated to accept these principles and injunctions, it is equally as important that we understand the basis of our acceptance. This is the “nishma” in the classic biblical dictum “na’aseh venishma”—“we will do and we will listen” (Exodus, 24:7). I have heard the notion expressed on many occasions that Judaism is a religion of deed not creed. However, we cannot deny that there are fundamental principles upon which we base our lives that deserve to be explored. In this article I attempted to cast many of these fundamental principles into doubt. In so doing, many questions were raised, and many questions remain unanswered. I do not claim the authority to speak decisively or conclusively on any of the issues touched upon in this article. All I can do is raise what I believe are legitimate inquiries about my own religious ideals. The intention of this piece is not to rabble-rouse, but to urge readers to think more objectively about their beliefs. In recent years, I have been exposed to a battery of anti-religious sentiments in literature, social media, and elsewhere. Prominent scholars such as Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, Daniel Dennett, and others have become increasingly vocal about their distaste for religion and the damage they believe it has done to the global community. It is an affront to our own creed not to take these criticisms seriously. We must weigh the principles of our beliefs on a balanced, objective scale, and draw honest conclusions about our own ideology, whatever they may be.

Having said that, I derive tremendous hope from the fact that every day I see an increasingly inquisitive and thinking Jewish community. There is no doubt that deeply entrenched biases certainly exist among observant Jews, and many choose not to explore their own beliefs with any considerable level of sophistication and impartiality. However, as a whole, the Jewish community seems to be expanding its circle of acceptance, tolerance, and understanding.
Although the first half of the twentieth century marked a time of cataclysmic tumult and unrest, the global community has since seen an unprecedented shift in moral, philosophical, and social attitudes; the expansion of human understanding; and an exponential rate of technological advancement. The magnitude of these changes in societal currents has drastic implications for the Jewish community, implications that we perhaps cannot fully fathom. Judaism in 20 years may look very different from the Judaism we know today. However, over the course of history, Judaism has been evolving, branching, and blooming into a variegated panoply of rich approaches to religious life. From Hasidut and Modern Orthodoxy to the Reform and Conservative movements, history has given birth to a diverse spectrum of worldviews rooted in the Jewish tradition. To envisage a practicing and observant branch of Judaism that captures the complexity of modern beliefs seems to be in the foreseeable future. Based on some of the sources cited herein, this evolutionary progress would appear to be a hallmark of the Jewish faith and a testimony to the adaptive powers of our ideology. One of the quintessential tenets of Jewish thought is to challenge the very pillars upon which our belief stands. In this way, we are a people that is ever-engaged in the pursuit of truth. Now it seems appropriate to reiterate our original question: Will we ever reconcile modern beliefs with traditional values? Progress will always present us with novel challenges. The dissonance we feel today is part and parcel of change and the initial tension that accompanies it. To imagine the absence of these challenges is to eradicate the possibility of religious and communal growth.

I do not believe we will ever totally reconcile the age-old principles of the Torah with the ever-changing values of the society around us. However, I do believe a thriving and burgeoning Judaism will only come through critical investigation of our worldviews. Although the Observant Jewish community, by definition, accepts a basic Torah-prescribed structure within which it operates, our approach to religious life must henceforth be objective, critical, and honest. This is no easy feat; it may mean abandoning old ways of thinking that contemporary knowledge has rendered obsolete, and expunging biases that have been etched into the stones of our beliefs. We should not shun ideological change, but embrace it. There are those who fear that a paradigm shift may cause Judaism to lose its grounding; that adopting an ideology of progressivism places the citadel of Jewish tradition on a foundation of stirring sand. Rabbi Cardozo poetically notes that “one must never forget that one does not discover new lands by losing sight of the shore from which the journey had begun.”[27] The Jewish people are anchored to an historical narrative, a communal memory, a collective thread of consciousness strung through the members of a nation undivided. We are connected by a line that cannot be severed, and it is the rich tradition and culture of our people that has so effectively contributed to our survival. However, while it is our duty to preserve the liturgy of our people, we must not forgot that it is both our strict adherence to tradition as well as our adaptability to a changing milieu that has allowed us to exist over time. Although we must never lose sight of the shore from which our journey began, it is the glimmering sea of progress that draws our gaze in the direction of the future. In this great ocean, bathed by the radiating light of our individual perspective, an eternal truth awaits. We embark on this journey because an indefatigable desire for understanding is woven into the very fabric of our existence, as a Jewish nation and as individuals. In the words of the renowned scholar and philosopher Abraham Joshua Heschel, “We sail because our mind is like a fantastic seashell, and when applying our ear to its lips we hear a perpetual murmur from the waves beyond the shore.”[28]

Notes
[1] Haber, Sender. "Rules and Reasons—Understanding The “Chok”.” TorahLab. N.p., 21 Mar. 2014. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
[2] Boteach, Shmuley. "Gay Marriage and the End of Days." Observer. N.p., 01 July 2015. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
[3] Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Melakhim, 11:1.
[4] Elon, Menachem. "Encyclopedia Judaica: Capital Punishment." Capital Punishment. The Gale Group, 2008. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
[5] Sanhedrin 4:5.
[6] Exodus 20:17.
7] Tamarin, Georges R. "The influence of ethnic and religious prejudice on moral judgement." New Outlook 9.1 (1966): 49–58.
[8] Steven Pinker, The Better Angels of Our Nature (USA: Penguin Books, 2011), 335.
[9] Rummel, R.J. 2002. 20th century democide. http://www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/20th.htm.
[10] Joshua 7:26.
[11] 1 Samuel 15:10.
[12] 1 Samuel 15:3.
[13] Moreh Nevukhim, 3:41
[14] Sanhedrin 70a
[15] Deuteronomy 17:8–11
[16] Jose Faur, Law and Hermeneutics in Rabbinic Jurisprudence: A Maimonidean Perspective (USA; The Cardozo Law Review, 1993), 8.
[17] Sanhedrin 59b.
[18] Ibid.
[19] Baba Kama 84a.
[20] Jose Faur, Law and Hermeneutics in Rabbinic Jurisprudence: A Maimonidean Perspective (USA; The Cardozo Law Review, 1993), 9.
[21] Ibid., 10.
[22] Ibid., 11.
[23] Moreh Nevukhim, 2:29.
[24] Faur, 9.
[25] "Babylonian Talmud: Tractate Eruvin." Babylonian Talmud: Eruvin 13. N.p., n.d. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
[26] Nathan Lopez Cardozo, On the Nature of Future Halakha in Relation to Autonomous Religiosity (USA, The Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, 2015), 4.
[27] Ibid., 11.
[28] Abraham Joshua Heschel, Man Is Not Alone: A Philosophy of Religion (USA, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1976).

Report on our Campus Fellows program

The Jewish Ideas Campus Fellowship Spring Semester has begun! We are happy to welcome three new fellows joining us this month. From New York University fellow Danielle Panitch, from University of Texas Elan Kogutt and from Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, Eli Yoggev. Each brings a unique brand of Modern Orthodoxy and we wish them success in their important work.

Before mentioning some of our plans for this semester we have to take a second to look back on the wide range of ways our students expanded the influence of Modern Orthodoxy for their fellow students. Our biggest event was the Shabbaton in the Boston/Cambridge area with special thanks to the Rabbi Arthur A. Jacobovitz Institute. Students also heard from Rabbis Chaim Rapaport and Rabbi Menachem Leibtag at Brandeis University and Queens College respectively. We had various classes, chaburahs and coffee shop discussions and classes ranging from the nature of God to Feminism to the Age of the Universe and the Future of Jewish Education.

Coming up in February we have a few great events already planned

Feb 3-Rabbi Aryeh Klapper will speak at the University of Massachusetts
Feb 8- Rivka Hia and Sarah Robinson will lead a Jewish identity discussion at Stern College
Feb 20-There will be a Pluralism discussion at the University of Texas
Feb 20-University of Maryland will host a Modern Orthodox PartnerUp session

If you would like more information about these programs and updates about others, please email me at [email protected]. University students are encouraged to register for our University Network. It is a free service to students. More information and registration details are available on the bottom right of our homepage at jewishideas.org

On Orthodox Conversion in the Twenty-First Century

I began my Orthodox conversion process when I was 21 years old. I was a junior at New York University studying Jewish Studies and History and had just returned to Manhattan after a transformative semester abroad in Tel Aviv. But my journey with Judaism doesn’t begin there; it begins with my parents.

My parents, Mike and Tisha Thornhill, grew up, met, and were married in southern Oklahoma. Having grown up in the Bible belt, it’s no surprise that they were very active in their church, leading the youth group while my father was studying to be a minister and getting his master’s degree. Their church sent them to Israel on a 10-day trip in the late 1980s, during the First Intifada, to learn about Jesus and Christianity’s roots in the Holy Land. They discovered an authentic tradition, something they felt they’d been missing, in the places where the so-called “Old Testament” tales took place. They felt resentment toward the people and the movement that raised them to believe in Jesus, himself a Jew, without attributing any of his practice or their own to its Jewish roots. They were taken by the beauty of the land, fascinated by the people they encountered, and couldn’t wait to learn more.

Upon returning to Oklahoma, they left their church and my dad left his seminary. A year later, I was born. A year after that, my sister, Hannah, joined us, and we moved to Austin, Texas. My parents searched for conversion resources and only found a small Chabad that was not interested in helping them. But that didn’t stop my parents. They did their own learning and connected with like-minded folks in the area, people who felt like they connected more with Judaism than any other religious or spiritual tradition. They raised my siblings and me celebrating Jewish traditions and holidays, and we visited the Reform temple some years on Yom Kippur. I even missed school for haggim.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt a strong connection to Israel and begged my dad to take me with him when he took his second trip there in 1995. He didn’t, but he brought me back a painting, which hung on a wall in my bedroom until I moved to New York in 2007. I didn’t connect to Jewish life on campus at NYU for the first couple of years but not for lack of trying. I did attend one event at the Bronfman Center, the Hillel on campus and my current employer, during Welcome Week of my freshmen year but was discouraged and didn’t return for another two years. I looked for a community and found it in the dance team at NYU. Growing up, I was a classically trained dancer, and while I decided not to pursue dance as a career, I missed it a lot, so auditioning for the dance team seemed like a good substitute. I made wonderful friends while pursuing my passion for dance. Yet, I still felt like something was missing. Midway through my sophomore year, I applied to transfer to the University of Texas thinking that being close to my family again would help. But as the Yiddish saying goes, “man plans and God laughs,” and about that time, NYU announced that it was opening its campus in Tel Aviv the following autumn. They were offering travel stipends and scholarships to incentivize applicants. Since I had always wanted to go, I figured now was my chance. After submitting my application, it was as if the choice was made for me. I was supposed to go there.

I arrived in Tel Aviv at the end of August 2009 and instantly bonded with a Syrian Jew from Brooklyn who is still my best friend. In the days that followed, I learned a lot about the complexities of Israeli society, made valuable friendships that I still cherish and enjoy today, and began my love affair with Tel Aviv. I felt at home in a way that I never had in New York, and I couldn’t quite explain why. I knew that my affinity for Am Israel wasn’t a phase or simply a fascination. I belonged in Israel, and I was welcomed as such by every Israeli I came in contact with, no questions asked. I knew I had to convert in order to officially be able to participate fully in Jewish life in America and Israel, and while I didn’t know what that would take, I knew I was ready for it.

When I arrived back in New York, I made the decision to begin a conversion process. I was fortunate that one of my friends from NYU Tel Aviv was in the middle of an Orthodox conversion process through the Rabbinical Council of America. She connected me to Rabbi Dan Smokler, the then Senior Jewish Educator at the Bronfman Center for Jewish Student Life at NYU. He graciously met me for coffee and outlined what the steps of the process would be and what my options were. He then connected me to Rabbi Yehuda Sarna, the then University Chaplain and Orthodox rabbi at the Bronfman Center (now my boss and the Executive Director there) who talked me through it further and suggested I read Rabbi Marc Angel’s book, Choosing to be Jewish: The Orthodox Road to Conversion. I decided to begin a process with the RCA, and shortly after that, I met with Rabbi Romm, the head of the Bet Din of New York. He recommended a couple more books to me, and I began my formal learning at the Bronfman Center.

Because I was a Jewish Studies major, Hebrew language courses were a requirement for my degree. Additionally, my time spent in Israel exposed me to Israeli and Jewish culture in a deep way. I enrolled in a class at the Bronfman Center and began learning one-on-one with an Orthodox Jewish student who not only taught me tefillah and berakhot but also took me with her to countless Shabbat meals and accompanied me to davening. The Orthodox community at NYU welcomed me with open arms. I could understand Hebrew (a little) and read (pretty well), which helped me keep up with services and gave me a lot of confidence. That summer, I returned to Israel to volunteer, intern, and take ulpan at Tel Aviv University. I lived in Tel Aviv with three of my friends from study abroad and journeyed nearly every Shabbat to Har Nof to spend Shabbat with an Orthodox family from America who treated me like one of their own family members.

I returned to campus for my senior year and applied to participate in two more formal classes, one with Chabad and one through the Bronfman Center, in addition to my undergraduate work in Jewish Studies. I also continued my one-on-one learning with an educator and peer of Rabbi Sarna’s who was working at the Bronfman Center at the time. We focused primarily on hilkhot shabbat and kashruth. He not only ensured that I had a firm grasp on halakhic concepts but he checked in with me and made sure that I was doing okay as a human being. Throughout my entire process I felt supported by educators and peers and by Rabbi Romm. I met with him once every four to five months and even spent a Shabbat evening with him and his family.

I engaged in formal Jewish education as well as informal and immersive experiences. Dr. Michelle Sarna welcomed me into her home every week not only as a babysitter but also to help her with weekly Shabbat prep on Fridays. I learned how to take hallah, recite berakhot over food with her then-toddlers, and was able to practice my learned knowledge of bishul b’shabbat and kashruth. Rabbi Dan and Dr. Erin Smokler invited me into their home for Shabbat and holiday celebrations, and I learned the holiness of hospitality and hakhnasat orhim, welcoming guests. I participated in Jewish service trips with the Joint and the American Jewish World Service, traveled to Israel, spent hours learning on the phone with a remote hevruta, kept kosher, kept Shabbat, built up a hevre who are still my good friends today. I graduated, moved to the Upper West Side, and took a job at an Orthodox Day School.

Finally, days before Rosh haShanah in 2011, I dunked in the mikveh. I was told on a Friday that my mikveh would be on the following Sunday. My mom bought a ticket immediately and flew up so that she could be there. My friend and then-roommate had her mikveh the same day and our families and close friends celebrated with us afterward at a kosher restaurant on the Upper West Side. Rabbi Dan was at the mikveh, too, and helped make us feel safe and cared for. While I had hoped for the mikveh to be a meaningful, spiritual experience, I remember thinking how much I couldn’t wait to get out of the water and just be accepted as a Jew already. Shortly thereafter, I began working at the Bronfman Center and am now the assistant director there. I have mentored and learned from hundreds of Jewish college students, nearly completed an MA in Jewish Education, started a young adult Jewish learning circle, and founded the Orthodox Converts Network.

My story isn’t unique. Many people decide to convert to Judaism and increasingly, young women are choosing to do so through Orthodox Batei Din. In October of last year, I was about to celebrate Sukkot in Florence, Italy when I learned about Barry Freundel’s despicable behavior. I struggled internally with the desire to just be a Jew, not drawing attention to the fact that I converted, and the feeling of responsibility that I had toward people like me, born with a yiddishe neshama but not coming from a Jewish womb. I knew I had to do something. I’m not capable of easing the pain of Freundel’s victims or anyone who has been harmed in this process. But I have an obligation to use my knowledge of what the process should and shouldn’t look like and to help others find their way along this journey.

Lack of clarity and exclusion of female leaders from the process led me to create the Orthodox Converts Network in December 2014. Through the network, we hope to make the process more accessible, transparent, and meaningful by:

1) Providing and publicizing resources
2) Mentoring conversion candidates
3) Working with communal leaders and existing infrastructure to create change and improve the process
4) Meeting regularly to activate a previously unheard but critically important voice
5) Empowering female Orthodox leadership to take on a more significant role in the process

Since our initial meeting in December, we’ve also activated a Facebook page, begun work on a website, and I’ve connected several people who feel stuck in their process to individuals who can help them through it. I’ve created a suggested curriculum using the RCA’s book list and based on my own process and learnings, and I continue to learn with conversion candidates. I work to welcome them into communities that are open to those going through the process and make them feel as comfortable as possible. I hope to take it even further by launching materials and programs that can be utilized in Day Schools and communities to educate young people and community members about conversion and de-stigmatize the process. I spoke on a panel with Rabbi Riskin, the chief rabbi of Efrat, and Rabbi Angel, founder and director of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, and was so encouraged by their passion for the issue and sense of urgency around improving things for and protecting conversion candidates. That we have leaders like this in our corner is a huge win.

In late October, the RCA formed a GPS Review Committee,[1] which conducted surveys and later convened focus groups to assess their Geirus Policies and Standards (GPS) procedure. Since then, much has happened in the Orthodox world: alternative Batei Din have been formed in Israel,[2] rabbis associated with the International Rabbinic Fellowship (IRF) are performing conversions, Yeshivat Maharat has ordained three classes of women,[3] and the RCA report[4] has been publicized.

The data from the report is fascinating, although not surprising to those of us intimately connected with the process. I want to highlight a few points, all taken from page 7 the report: [5]

? 78% of conversion participants in the RCA-Beth Din of America network are women.
? 45% of the sample entered the conversion process between the ages of 20 and 29 and 27% were 30–39. These two age groups encompass 70% of all conversion candidates.
? Most survey participants (80%) cited “spiritual-intellectual search” as the factor that prompted their interest in conversion.
? 45% of all respondents said they have “Jewish ancestry.”

Seventy-Eight percent of conversion participants in the RCA-Beth Din of America network are women, and most of these women are under 40 when they begin the process. I want us to sit with that for a moment. Conversion in the Orthodox community in America is a women’s issue. Yet we continue to uphold a system that not only prevents women from playing a leadership role but also allows for an unhealthy power dynamic between middle-aged men, seen as the gatekeepers of our tradition, and most often, young women in a state of increased vulnerability. The GPS Review Committee, in their recommendations to the RCA, “encourage[s] Sponsoring Rabbis to facilitate relationships between female conversion candidates and female teachers, mentors, or scholars to assist them in the conversion process in the hope that such relationships will assist the conversion candidate to face the many challenges faced by observant Jewish women.” [6] While it goes on to address the power dynamic by making important recommendations that will help conversion candidates feel affirmed in their experience and perhaps more comfortable, none of these recommendations explicitly call for women to be included beyond certain “rare” conversations around “issues of a personal nature.”[7] I would argue that including learned, observant, female women in the learning process is a wonderful start. I would like us to take it a step further and insist that female conversion candidates need a yoetzet halakha or other pious, female community leader to

? be present for all meetings with the Bet Din,
? be included in all decisions and discussions as they relate to the candidate,
? be the only person (aside from the mikveh attendant) anywhere near the mikveh at the time of immersion, and
? continue as a spiritual guide for the candidate post-immersion.

There are hundreds of knowledgeable women in our communities who must be given the
opportunity to take on a leadership role within this process, both within the RCA and outside of it.

Conversion is also very clearly an issue facing emerging adults. What happens during emerging adulthood? We begin making important life decisions, decisions that will indeed have a huge impact on the direction we take our adult existence: career, higher education, and perhaps most importantly, marriage. Converts have told me that the time it takes to convert (sometimes the unreasonable length and sometimes the uncertainty of the timeline) make forming relationships, romantic or otherwise, nearly impossible. We must enable conversion candidates to go through the process within a reasonable period of time so that they may be fully integrated into our communities and begin making lives and families of their own. There are many challenges Jews by choice face socially; we must educate our communities about conversion so that integration into communities is seamless. And we must do our part by destigmatizing conversion and encouraging our youth to date and marry those who have chosen to join us.

Along these lines, we know that Jews do not live in a bubble and as a result, may end up dating outside of the Jewish community. When this happens, rather than cutting these people out, we should work with them to determine the best method by which their significant other can join the Jewish people. It is important to note, however, that the majority of conversion candidates through the RCA do not cite marriage or relationship with a Jew as their main reason for choosing to convert to Judaism through an Orthodox Bet Din. This is a common misconception in the Orthodox community and one that I want to fight to change. Conversion candidates undergo tremendous scrutiny throughout the process. I can cite from my own experience and from others that we feel our integrity is called into question by many strangers for the most ambiguous reasons. We do not need community members to enforce what they believe are proper ways to treat a convert or conversion candidate by treating us with skepticism, questioning our reasons for converting, and wondering if we will continue to be Jewish or observant beyond our immersion in the mikveh. First, it’s none of their business. Second, after immersion, converts are to be treated like any other Jew with the exception of their ability to marry a kohen. We have a long way to go in educating communities around the halakha of conversion. In the meantime, we should all do our best to welcome people into our communities with kindness and openness as a rule. After all, Pirkei Avot tells us to judge others favorably,[8] which can be interpreted as giving others the benefit of the doubt.

While “conversion for marriage” is not the main reason RCA conversion candidates choose to convert, I think it’s important to celebrate those who do convert to Judaism so that they may enjoy a halakhically Jewish life with their Jewish spouse. It is halakhically acceptable to convert to Judaism if you are in a relationship with a Jew. It is a practice in many communities to discourage this and frown upon it. Knowing many people who deal with this, I feel comfortable saying that they do not “convert for marriage” only. They have found meaning enough in the Jewish tradition that they want to make it a central part of their lives, with their Jewish spouse. It is not black and white. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks reminds us often that Jews are a tiny people by quoting Milton Himmelfarb, “The number of Jews in the world is smaller than a small statistical error in the Chinese census.”[9] It is not in our interest to alienate members of our community. Rather than shunning those who “convert for marriage,” we must guide them through the conversion process and celebrate their desire to join the Jewish people.

The GPS Review Committee’s report highlights several areas that require examination by the RCA and makes suggestions for improvement in these areas. I feel that most of the suggested changes are very much in line with feedback I have heard from Jews by choice and conversion candidates. In my conversations with conversion candidates and based on my own experience, people simply want to be treated with dignity and respect.

They want the expectations to be clearly outlined for them. They want to know about how long the process will take and exactly what they should learn and with what frequency. They want to be able to trust that the leaders who are guiding them through the process and the members of the Bet Din will have their best interest in mind and treat the process with a certain level of seriousness and reverence. I remember feeling so many different things during my process. I remember just starting out and wondering, “Who do I learn with? And what do I learn?” And when I immersed myself in studying Hebrew, tefillah, Jewish history, kashruth, Shabbat, I remember thinking “Okay, so when do I know it’s enough to go to the mikveh?” I remember feeling like I had no control; that the most important decision of my life was in the hands of three men who didn’t know me at all, and all I had was 45 minutes to convince them that I was ready to be a Jew. That I was 21 and like all of my Modern Orthodox friends on the Upper West Side, I really wanted to start dating, hosting meals on Shabbat, putting roots down in a community, and to just be treated like everyone else.

I am encouraged by the GPS Review Committee’s recommendations and hopeful that the RCA will be receptive. I am thrilled that rabbis like Rabbi Angel, Rabbi Riskin, Rabbi David Stav, and Rabbi Nahum Rabinovitch are working hard to improve the Orthodox conversion process; and I am the first to say there are wonderful aspects to the process, too. I also believe that it will only improve if converts and conversion candidates are consulted and helping to lead this charge. I appreciate the allies and friends that I and the OCN have made along the way: We need you. And we need also to know that our testimony is being taken seriously. It is in our interest to make the Orthodox conversion process better and more user-friendly. That does not mean compromising on halakhic observance and standards nor does it mean compromising justice and morality. The Rambam, at the same time that he admits that converts are a challenge for the Jewish people, acknowledges that conversion will happen and so we must both be careful not to be too stringent and to love the convert. Conversion has always been a part of the Jewish communal landscape. We must, as our ancestors did, accept this and celebrate it. After all, we believe that Judaism is a compelling way to live one’s life—why should we be skeptical or discouraging of someone who wants to take that on?

I’ve learned so much not only from my own conversion process but from the women and men I’ve met through the Orthodox Converts Network and in my own learning with conversion candidates. Many are greeted with openness and encouragement and therefore thrive in the process and fit seamlessly into a community once they complete it. Others find it less welcoming and unclear and describe the process as painful and unnecessarily difficult. The way that each person experiences conversion is and should continue to be different. But that does not mean that each process should be different. At the most basic level, each process should be straightforward, accessible, encouraging, affirming, meaningful, and positively life-changing. Every conversion candidate should engage with rabbis, teachers, mentors, and community members who help facilitate that type of experience. And after immersion, all Jews by choice should find a community they genuinely feel they can call home.

[1] http://www.rabbis.org/news/article.cfm?id=105810
[2] http://www.timesofisrael.com/defying-rabbinate-rabbis-set-up-alternative-jewish-conversion-court/
[3] http://www.yeshivatmaharat.org/about-our-scholars/
[4] http://rcarabbis.org/pdf/GPSFINALREPORT_FINAL_June28.pdf
[5] Ibid.
[6] Ibid., p. 18.
[7] Ibid., p. 18.
[8] Pirkei Avot 1:6.
[9] http://www.rabbisacks.org/emor-5774-afraid-greatness/

Review Essay: Menachem Kellner's New Book on Rambam's Views on Non-Jews

Racism is an ugly feature of human life, the source of profound misery to untold millions of people. Racism posits that a particular group is inherently superior to other groups. This kind of thinking leads to discrimination—and often to violence--against the victimized groups.

Hate groups throughout the world thrive on racist ideologies. Whether they are white supremacists or black supremacists; whether they foster racial, religious, ethnic or national hatred—such people are a danger to society. Racist ideology inevitably leads to dehumanizing those who are not part of the “in-group.” Even when no actual violence transpires, the ideology itself fosters mistrust, hatred, fear and societal malaise.

Jews have suffered as victims of bigotry, racism, and dehumanization throughout history and in many lands. We know firsthand about the evils of one group claiming innate superiority over others. We know that the arrogance of the haters poisons minds and hearts; and we know that this poison is destructive.

We have all learned from our earliest youth that the Torah teaches that humanity was created in God’s image. The Mishna reminds us that each human life is of inestimable value and is irreplaceable. It would seem to be a foundational principle of Torah Judaism that all human beings are equally created by and beloved by God. Racist attitudes or discriminatory behavior would seem to be antithetical to the core teachings and values of Judaism.

Yet, even though Jewish experience and Jewish teachings are so clearly opposed to racist ideology, the fact is that there is a stream of Jewish tradition that fosters the notion of innate Jewish superiority to non-Jews. This notion is found in the writings of Rabbi Yehuda Halevy and in Kabbalistic literature; and it has found expression in the writings and teachings of contemporary Orthodox rabbis.

Professor Menachem Kellner, who taught Jewish philosophy at Haifa University for many years and who now teaches at Shalem College in Jerusalem, has recently published a book (in Hebrew, Bar Ilan University Press), Gam Hem Keruyim Adam: haNokhri beEinei haRambam (They too are called human: Maimonides’ views on non-Jews). He makes it amply clear that Maimonides rejected the notion that Jews are ontologically different from and superior to non-Jews. The Rambam maintains the classic Jewish teachings that stress the common humanity of all people. Differences among human beings arise not due to innate metaphysical otherness, but due to cultural and sociological factors. In essence, Jews are the same as all other human beings. Jews differ from others (as others differ from Jews) based on beliefs, religious traditions, communal values etc.

Dr. Kellner’s book is a fine and important academic study. But it is also an alarming wake up call to contemporary religious Jews. It points out how deeply the Jewish supremacist views have taken hold among many otherwise pious Jews. It underscores the critical need to reclaim Rambam’s insights not only because they are true to our Torah tradition, but because they can purge contemporary Torah Judaism from highly negative and dangerous attitudes.

Dr. Kellner begins his discussion by citing examples of rabbinic teachers who have articulated supremacist views. Most egregiously, a book was published several years ago entitled Torat haMelekh. Authored by Orthodox rabbis and published by an Orthodox yeshiva, it asserts that non-Jews are not quite human in the same sense that Jews are human. Non-Jews, therefore, are not entitled to the same rights as Jews. This attitude provides justification for discriminatory policies against non-Jews, not excluding acts of violence. Torat haMelekh evoked tremendous negative reaction within Israeli society, and various modern Orthodox and religious Zionist rabbis criticized it soundly. However, other Orthodox rabbis either agreed with the authors of Torat haMelekh, or argued that the authors had the right to express their views even if those views could be construed as incitement to violence.

Dr. Kellner cites the more “moderate” position of a well-known and highly popular religious Zionist rabbi. This rabbi has written: “We are a chosen people not because we have received the Torah; but we received the Torah because we are a chosen people. The Torah is so very appropriate to our inner nature. Our nation has a distinctive nature, character, communal psychology, a unique Godly character….Some argue against us that we are ‘racist.’ Our answer is…if racism is defined in that we are different and more elevated than other nations and therefore we bring blessing to other nations—then, we admit that we are different from all nations, not by color of skin, but by the nature of our souls; and the Torah is the description of our inner content.” According to this view, the Jewish people has a unique spiritual nature, superior to that of other nations. We received the Torah because of our innate spiritual receptivity. Non-Jewish souls are different—and less holy—than Jewish souls.

Dr. Kellner refers to a leading Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshiva University who admits that all humans are created in the image of God, but that Jews are more in the image of God than non-Jews. Although this statement is not at all identical with the views of Torat haMelekh, it shares the underlying notion of Jewish supremacy. Stated simply, Jews are intrinsically holier and closer to God than non-Jews.

Dr. Kellner demonstrates with admirable clarity that the supremacist views of the above-mentioned rabbis are soundly rejected by Rambam. Anyone who recognizes the Oneness of God is considered to be a follower of Abraham our Father. Rambam’s universalism recognized that all people—regardless of ethnic background—could rise to the highest spiritual levels. (p. 57).

Rambam equated the “image of God” with human intellectual capacity. This “image of God” is a latent quality within each person from birth; yet only by actualizing one’s intellect does one achieve the crown of being an “image of God.” Dr. Kellner notes: “According to Rambam, a good non-Jewish philosopher—i.e. a good person who has developed beyond moral perfection to intellectual perfection—is on a higher level than a righteous Talmid Hakham who is ignorant of the sciences. Moreover, the non-Jewish philosopher will merit greater Divine providence than the righteous Torah scholar, and his [the non-Jew’s] portion in the world to come will be greater [than that of a Talmid Hakham unversed in the sciences, and it is questionable] whether such a Talmid Hakham will merit it at all.” (pp. 78-79).

In Rambam’s introduction to his commentary on Pirkei Avot, he writes that he has drawn on the teachings of our rabbinic sages, and also from the words of the non-Jewish philosophers: one must “hear the truth from whoever states it.” The wisdom of our sages and the wisdom of the philosophers aim at ultimate truth, albeit from different vantage points. In the introduction to his commentary on the Mishna, Rambam states that wisdom is present not only in the words of our prophets, but also in the teachings of the non-Jewish philosophers. Our goal is to be wise and good: this goal can be attained by Jews and non-Jews alike. (p. 137) For Rambam, Aristotle was a prime example of a non-Jewish philosopher who attained great wisdom and moral virtue. (141).

In his Hilkhot Shemitah veYovel (13:10) Rambam explicitly states that ultimate knowledge of God is possible for every human being: Each person among all humanity (mikol ba’ei olam), if properly dedicated to wisdom and righteousness, can become the “holy of holies.” While some rabbinic interpreters claim that “kol ba’ei olam” refers only to Torah-observant Jews, this is far from what Rambam in fact has taught. This is an example of how supremacists attempt to re-interpret statements of Rambam that posit a universalist view. (156).

Dr. Kellner reviews various statements of Rambam, drawn from Talmudic and Midrashic sources, in which Jews are described in laudable terms. Jews are said to be modest and compassionate, kind and forgiving. Non-Jews are characterized as having violent and argumentative qualities. We know, though, from personal experience that there are Jews who have negative personal qualities and there are non-Jews who have fine personal qualities. The ancient rabbinic statements in praise of Jews might best be understood as being prescriptive rather than descriptive. In any case, the moral qualities and deficiencies attributed to Jews and non-Jews need not be understood as innate, unchangeable qualities, but rather as the result of environmental and cultural factors. (p. 202).

Rambam’s universalist vision recognizes that although all humanity can achieve great spiritual heights, Jews have a unique blessing in that God gave us the Torah and mitzvoth. The commandments aim at making us finer, wiser, and more virtuous people. But non-Jews of all ethnic backgrounds may convert to Judaism and become part of the Jewish people. There is no intrinsic barrier that would bar a non-Jew from becoming Jewish.

For the supremacists, though, Jewish souls are essentially different from non-Jewish souls. In the words of Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook: “The difference between the Jewish soul, its self, its inner desires, aspirations, character and status, and that of all nations, at all their levels, is greater and deeper than the difference between the human soul and the animal soul; between the latter there is merely a quantitative distinction, but between the former an essential qualitative distinction pertains." (Orot, Jerusalem, 5745, p. 156). This attitude makes it highly difficult for a non-Jew to convert to Judaism. Conversion would involve a sort of “soul transplant” through which the non-Jew attains the intrinsically superior Jewish soul.

Why did the supremacist view emerge in the first place, and why has it gained adherents in our own time? Why haven’t the views of Rambam consistently prevailed throughout Jewish history and into the contemporary era? Dr. Kellner reminds us that the supremacist view was popularized by Rabbi Yehuda Halevy’s Kuzari, which was written as a defense of a despised people. (p. 215). The Muslim and Christian communities were vastly larger and more powerful than the Jews. Indeed, Jews suffered humiliation, violence and expulsion at the hands of the Muslims and Christians. The Kuzari was—and is—a phenomenal Jewish morale booster. In head to head competition with a philosopher, Muslim and Christian, the Jewish sage emerges victorious and convinces the King of the Khazars of the superior truth of Judaism. Although the world despises the Jews, God loves us! We are His chosen people. We are the only ones who have the unique spiritual and Godly nature that connects us with God.

This attitude has an obvious appeal to persecuted Jews. Even though we are being oppressed, we are superior to our oppressors! This was true in the days of Rabbi Yehuda Halevy, and it continues to be true today. Jews who feel threatened by the non-Jewish world feel bolstered by their belief in their own superiority to non-Jews. The supremacist view thrives when Jews lack self-confidence, when they are afraid of the outside world, when they allow their emotions to prevail over their reason.

Dr. Kellner recommends “theological humility,” the ability to accept that other people also have truths and spiritual insights from which we can learn. He calls for Jewish self-confidence in the style of Rambam. He asks that we reclaim the universalist impulse that recognizes the essential humanity of all people, that deplores racist and supremacist views that diminish the humanity of others.

It is truly remarkable that Rambam, who lived in the Middle Ages, should provide a religious worldview that is so modern…and even post-modern. How wonderful it would be if our community could overcome supremacist tendencies, and become spiritually self-confident, intellectually vibrant, compassionate and wise.

Re-Think the Israeli Chief Rabbinate

The Chief Rabbinate has had a monopoly on many aspects of the religious life of the State of Israel. It controls marriages, divorces and conversions to Judaism; it regulates public kashrut as well as offering kosher supervision to private establishments. It operates a network of rabbinic courts. It has a visible, public platform for teaching the ideas and ideals of Judaism to Israeli society, and for serving as a religious beacon of inspiration to world Jewry. One would think that after these many years, then, the Chief Rabbinate would be one of the most beloved and revered institutions in Israeli society. The rabbis have had daily opportunity to interact with all Israelis - religious and otherwise - and to show them the beauty of Judaism, the kindness of Torah, the pleasantness of the Orthodox message.

Yet, amazingly and tragically, the Chief Rabbinate seems to be one of the least beloved and revered institutions in Israeli society. It has little or no authority in the hareidi community; it generates little or no enthusiasm among religious Zionists; it is of little positive significance to the remainder of Israelis. Although the Chief Rabbinate and its many functionaries include some fine, sincere and wonderful people, the overall image - and reality - of the rabbinate appears to be negative.

In the field of kashrut, the supervision of the Chief Rabbinate is disdained by the hareidi community, which has set up its own kosher supervision system (the Badatz). Apparently, the Badatz has achieved - in many circles - a higher level of trust for its supervision than has the Chief Rabbinate. Indeed, in all areas of Jewish law the hareidi community turns to its own authorities, and not to the Chief Rabbinate.

In the area of marriages, stories are legion of couples, especially non-Orthodox ones, who have had unpleasant experiences with rabbinic functionaries. The growing demand for civil marriage in Israel is an indication of dissatisfaction with the rabbinic marriage bureaucracy. In the area of divorce, the Chief Rabbinate has been notoriously unsuccessful in addressing the aguna problem, allowing a situation to fester where husbands refuse to grant a divorce unless they are paid off. I myself have been involved in several cases where Israeli rabbis have actually encouraged the husband to demand payment and various other rights before granting a divorce. The Chief Rabbinate finally felt compelled to convene a conference to deal with the issue, but then cancelled it at the last moment - apparently under pressure from hareidi elements. It seems increasingly clear that a solution to the aguna problem will not emerge from the Chief Rabbinate, but will have to be found in the civil courts.

In the area of conversion, the Chief Rabbinate raises obstacles to prevent non-Jews from entering the Jewish fold. It has adopted a hareidi position that conversion is available only to those agreeing to observe Torah and mitzvot in full. This position is a radical break from the Talmud, Rambam (Maimonides) and the Shulhan Arukh; it is capitulating to an extreme hareidi position that took root only in the 19th century. The Chief Rabbinate not only enforces this position for the State of Israel, but has now disqualified the conversions of Orthodox rabbis in the Diaspora unless those rabbis are clearly under the rabbinate's thumb. The Rabbinical Council of America has essentially bowed to the authority of the Chief Rabbinate, since the latter has the power to decide who is Jewish and who is not Jewish in the State of Israel. If the Chief Rabbinate rejects the validity of a conversion - even if performed entirely according to Halakha - the convert and his/her children will face problems if they decide to move to Israel. The Chief Rabbinate seems intent on demonstrating its "power," and on showing that it can be as extreme as the hareidim.

How far has this institution moved from the wise, compassionate and loving attitude of the late Sephardi chief rabbi Benzion Uziel (who died in 1953)! Rabbi Uziel well understood that the role of the rabbinate was not to drive people away from Judaism, but to find every possible way of bringing them into the fold for the sake of Jewish families and the Jewish nation. When Israel was founded, Orthodox Jews placed much hope in the Chief Rabbinate. They truly hoped that it would enhance the Jewish nature of the state and win the hearts of Israel's citizens to a deeper appreciation of the Torah traditions. Regrettably, these hopes have not been fulfilled.

The Chief Rabbinate functions as though it were leading a cult rather than a world religion with a grand, universal message. It adopts extreme hareidi positions and attitudes because it seems to view the hareidi community as the only constituency that matters. Should the State and people of Israel continue to grant power to this sort of chief rabbinate? Shouldn't there, rather, be a complete review of the rabbinate's role and functions, a top-level government commission to evaluate its successes and failures, to recommend changes in policies and procedures, to overhaul the rabbinic bureaucracy, to clarify the rabbinate's mission - its responsibilities as well as its limitations?

Establishing such a commission will surely engender fierce opposition and political infighting. Yet unless an impartial panel carries out a serious evaluation of the Chief Rabbinate and makes necessary recommendations, the damage to the State of Israel, to Judaism and to the Jewish people will be immense.

All Israelis and all Jews have a stake in an honest, compassionate, competent and courageous Chief Rabbinate, one that serves as a unifying force. The sooner the rabbinate is reconstituted, the sooner will we be able to say with a full heart: "For out of Zion comes forth the Torah, and the word of God from Jerusalem."