National Scholar Updates

What is it like on campus to be Jewish and a lover of Israel, as a student, as a faculty member? When one reads reports in many Jewish media sources it sounds grim. How bad is it? Is it really bad? I here offer reflections as a long-term faculty member at a number of institutions across the country and at a branch of the University of California since 1989.

I came to the philosophy at the University of California, Riverside, in 1989 from the University of Notre Dame. My wife and I live in Los Angeles, as do our adult son and daughter and her family. My daughter lived in Jerusalem for some years, studied at Pardes, and married her chavrutah. My wife and I are members of Bnai David Judea, a Modern Orthodox congregation. For some 20 years, I’ve spent most of June in Jerusalem, learning at the Chafetz Chaim Yeshiva and attending philosophy conferences at the Hartman Institute.

A few years after joining the UCR faculty, I was approached by the then faculty advisor to Hillel and asked if I would take over as advisor. Given my interests and background, I was eager to do so. Around that time, Dr. Raymond Orbach, an eminent UCLA physicist and administrator took the post of Chancellor of UCR. Orbach was Jewish and wanted to build up the Jewish population of UCR. He was successful in many things but not that one. UCR has always had a relatively small Jewish representation among the students; a much larger representation among the faculty. At the time, UCR was a commuter school, recruiting largely from the local inland areas. More recently, the highly diverse population is from across the state. But it’s certainly not Orthodox-friendly in terms of kosher food or a comfortable Shabbat atmosphere. (I once attempted to make inroads in the kosher food problem, but to no avail.)

Dr. Orbach and I did some fundraising in the Palm Springs area, trying to raise money for Hillel. And to encourage this, I taught a few adult education courses in the Palm Springs area. For two years or so, we received enough support to hire a Hillel Director, a rabbi or lay leader. I would interview the candidates and meet with Dr. Orbach who gratefully had a hands-on approach. At one point we hired an Orthodox lay leader who worked extremely well with the students and quickly became my chavrutah.

The support of the Palm Springs Federation was regular but generally (other than a two or three year period) insufficient to hire a Director. I argued for funding to do more serious Jewish education on campus, but the real stimulus to Federation funding was the occasional threat of anti-Semitism. This seemed to me upside down: Creative programming seemed like a much better way to insure solidity of the campus Jewish presence. Nor was there serious anti-Semitism to worry about. There were occasional issues, but the administration--Orbach and those who followed him--were on top of such things.

The other source of personal frustration was student attitudes to the political/security situation in Israel. Some years back, an Israeli organization--strongly leftist in orientation--sent two speakers to campus, a Palestinian Women’s Studies Professor from BirZeit University and a Jewish Professor of Geography from Ben Gurion University. I was asked to be on a response panel of UCR faculty, a woman from Religious Studies, and two Palestinian-American faculty members from Engineering. I was supposed to speak in between the two Palestinian-Americans. The first one said pretty outrageously wrong things about Israeli policy and attitudes. The Protestant minister who was running the program instantly rearranged it so that I could speak last and respond to both Palestinian-Americans. The second spoke in even harsher terms. This gave me the opportunity to say what I believe, that harsh overstatement and wild condemnation accomplishes nothing, that the moral imperative is to listen to the other side, that the two main speakers, Israeli and Palestinian, represent one opinion among others, one that I disagreed with. One can disagree strongly, but we need to hear one another. Talking points are all too easy; they trade on oversimplification; and they accomplish nothing. I sat down feeling grateful for the opportunity to (I hoped) raise the level of the debate.

Next the students--Hillel students and sympathizers with the Palestinian-Americans--got to ask questions and make comments. Without exception, all we heard were talking points. The pro-Israel students rightly saw the pro-Palestinian remarks as self-serving, and vice versa. Talking points are not going to help mutual understanding, nor are they going to move the sides toward any sort of agreement. My frustration with students on both sides of the divide was a product of my inability to share nuance with them.

Nevertheless, I have had considerable success talking about Israel to campus audiences. On one occasion, the UCR Ethnic Studies program put on its website an inappropriate pro-Palestinian announcement. Our administration was upset and asked me to help organize an evening devoted to the issues. Five faculty members spoke, representing a variety of points of view. My own talk began with my connections to and love for Israel, the time I spend there regularly, as well as my misgivings about Israeli policy. People listened; what they were hearing was a faculty member who clearly had allegiances but who spoke openly, in human terms; not talking points. In fact, the Palestinian students approached me afterward about speaking to their group. Not much came of this after I asked them if they were okay with a Zionist speaker. In any case, they were respectful, a far cry from what we have read about.

One of the campuses of the UC that has a terrible reputation in the Jewish community is UC Irvine, also an hour from Los Angeles, halfway to San Diego. UCI is the campus at which the pro-Palestinian students were arrested subsequent to their unruly and rude protest at a talk given by Israeli ambassador, Michael Oren. I was invited by the UCI Religious Studies Program to give the annual guest lecture. My topic was my work in the philosophy of religion, but as with my book on the subject, The Significance of Religious Experience, I told of my religious struggles and commitments, my love for learning Talmud, and the extensive time I spend in Israel. I spoke about the latter at some length, not sure what to expect.

My talk was well-received and a number of people stayed afterward to pursue the discussion. One of them was an Orthodox Muslim woman; like the rest of the audience she was interested in matters of substance. It was a very pleasant occasion. I have a friend and former chavrutah, closely identified with Israel, who is on the UCI faculty. He reports that the atmosphere on the UCI campus is similar to UCR, that the campus is, in his words, “largely apolitical.” However, in the LA Orthodox community as well as in Israel, I continue to hear that UCI is a hotbed of Palestinian activism, an unfriendly place to Jewish concerns.

A word about my teaching: I teach a variety of courses from very large (300+) service courses (for example, “Evil,” “Introduction to Philosophy”) to small seminars, undergraduate and graduate. A great deal of my teaching concerns philosophy of religion. My style in teaching emphasizes discussion, and it’s quite personal, full of stories and examples from life, literature, film. Since Judaism is the religion I know best, many examples come from Jewish sources: Midrash, Tanakh, Talmud. And the experiences I relate include a great deal about Israel. Especially since my students are largely not Jewish and many not religious at all, I encourage them to bring in their own stories, texts, experiences, and perspectives and they are eager to do so. At no point, in all these years of teaching, have I experienced any ill feeling either about my religious perspective or about Israel. On the contrary, the responses are often warm and welcoming; always respectful both to me and to others in the classes.

My experience with the campuses with which I am familiar, in the UC system and across the country, yields the sense that there is a great deal of exaggeration in the frequently heard media reports these campuses are unfriendly to Jewish/Israeli concerns. That is not to deny that there are professors who confuse education with propaganda. Nor is to deny extremely uncomfortable times when SJP students confront Hillel students. I mentioned the UCR Ethnic Studies website above and I could tell other stories. But these are the exceptions, not the rule, and atmosphere on campus is not unfriendly to Jewish concerns.

The UCR Humanities Center seeks topics of academic concern and holds sessions on these issues. This past fall, a session was held on the proposed academic and cultural boycott of Israeli institutions. Three of us were on the panel: Professor Muhammad Ali, a Muslim from the Religious Studies Department; Professor Brownwyn Lebow, a Jewish (unaffiliated) Professor of Political Science, and me. A few years ago, Professor Ali and I taught a course together on Israel-Palestine; more on that below. All three of us thought that this proposal did not make sense. The audience, some 35 faculty and graduate students, agreed. There were only two advocates for the proposal, the people (I assumed) who brought the proposal to the Humanities Center.

Professor Ali and I taught a course in which we watched films, read history, and talked through issues about Israel and the Palestinians. The atmosphere was again entirely congenial. It was an Honors seminar, with only about a dozen students. One student was a radical leftist, the others just people interested in learning about the region and its history. At one point I assigned a Ha’aretz piece that spoke of injustices to which a group of Palestinians had been subjected. The leftist student came prepared; she argued that this sort of thing is typical, the sort of injustice about which she had been speaking all term. I pointed out that our knowledge of this was a product of an Israeli newspaper, illustrating the sort of freedom of the press and self-criticism characteristic of democracies at their best. The point was not lost on the students.

Anti-semitism, especially in Europe and the Arab world, has resurfaced as a genuine threat. And even where it’s not as much noted, things are not as one would like. I have friends who spent time in Berlin, very enjoyably. But further discussion revealed that one dare not wear a kippah on the streets. And the support for Israel among fundamentalist Christians in the United States always seems to me very thin; I fear that it would not take that much for it to turn. In light of our history and these and other current issues, vigilance makes sense.

At the same time, it’s easy to confuse genuine criticism of Israeli policy for anti-Semitism. We are blessed that the State of Israel is a world power. Such international actors are regularly criticized. Indeed, such criticism helps to keep the world from falling into a worse place than it is. Some are focused on what they see as the unfair standards by which Israel is judged. There is surely something to this. But the same can be said of criticism the United States. While anti-Semitism may get into the mix, there is surely more here than simple prejudice.

When one turns to the situation on campus, one similarly wants to be alert to anti-Semitism without confusing it with legitimate differences of perspective. Part of what we--I--feel about Israel is something like family-feeling. And others belong to other families. As mentioned, there are from time to time campus incidents that cry out for our attention. At the same time we need to question the reports we read, especially when authored by those with strong commitments on the issue in question.

Comments of Rabbi Marc D. Angel
A symposium on contemporary Orthodoxy, Tradition Magazine, vol. 32, no. 4, Summer 1998

The Status of Women in Orthodoxy

The past sixty years have witnessed a remarkable transformation in the status of women in general society, and this has obviously had an impact on Orthodoxy.
While some segments of the community do their best to deny or ignore the changed reality, others attempt to find ways of expanding women’s role in Orthodox life within the parameters of halakha. While in some Orthodox communities it is forbidden for women to study Talmud, in others it is allowed and encouraged. While some Orthodox communities have made no efforts to expand ritual opportunities for women in synagogues, others have instituted women’s prayer groups, Megilla readings, hakafot. Women serve on the boards of a number of Orthodox synagogues, and also are involved in education and hesed work.

We are living in a transitional period vis-à-vis the role of women in religious life. Different approaches are being tried; but it will probably be several generations before we reach a real consensus as to what will be deemed “normative.”

The wisest approach is to keep our options open. We need to explore halakhically acceptable ways of meaningfully involving women in as many aspects of religious life as possible. No one today should state with certainty what the “truth” is on this topic because no one really can know for sure how things will develop. One hundred years ago, it would have been deemed sinful to teach Talmud to women; today, some of our best and brightest Orthodox women study Talmud. Again, let me emphasize: the role of women—as of men—must always be within halakhic boundaries.

The Need for Diversity within Orthodoxy

Anything that moves Jews away from traditional faith and observance is a threat to Orthodoxy. This includes the non-Orthodox movements as well as secularism.

One general response has been to strengthen ourselves so that we and our families are not swept away from Torah and mitzvoth; we have built synagogues, day schools and yeshivot, communal institutions; we have published books and magazines; we have utilized modern technology to spread Torah study through tapes, videos, the Internet.
We have also sought to reach the non-Orthodox in various ways. Some have chosen the road of dialogue and friendship; others have emphasized outreach programs; some have separated themselves from direct contact with the non-Orthodox.

Our strategies have had some success, yet all of them have failed. The evidence of this failure is that the vast majority of Jews do not share our commitment to Torah and mitzvoth. In spite of all the heroic and inspired work of generations of Orthodox Jews, the overwhelming number of Jews are not Orthodox—and many are anti-Orthodox. The assimilation rates among the non-Orthodox are frightening.

Creative, dynamic Orthodoxy should be providing non-Orthodox Jews with vibrant, alternative models. We need to foster a healthy diversity within Orthodoxy, giving as many options as possible for non-Orthodox Jews to find a suitable entry point for a life of Torah and mitzvoth. Whether right wing or left wing or centrist, whether Sephardi or Ashkenazi, whether rationalistic or kabbalistic—the more diversity within Orthodoxy, the more the possibility of reaching those who are not presently within our camp.

Yet, precisely now, when we vitally need legitimate diversity, we are witnessing a shrinking of options within Orthodoxy. The growing narrowness in Orthodoxy is reflected by the growing narrowness in clothing styles deemed appropriate for Torah-true Jews.

Worse, the range of legitimate intellectual and halakhic options is contracting. The forces for conformity are powerful; and one who dares not to conform will be intimidated or isolated. We have Moroccan and Yemenite rabbis in Israel who dress like Eastern European rabbis because they feel they will not be accepted as rabbis if they do not conform. We have people afraid to make controversial statements in public because they fear communal reprisals. One rabbi has referred to the contemporary situation as the “Artscrolling of Judaism,” i.e., only a certain range of interpretation is allowed, and only certain sages are given recognition.

If Orthodoxy is to meet the critical challenge of this generation, then it must reject the tendency toward narrowness and unthinking authoritarianism. It must be open, fresh, imaginative; it must give sway to the human mind and soul; it must foster diversity of thought and diversity of style—all within the boundaries of Torah and halakha.

The Orthodox community must be governed by the principle of derakheha darkehei no’am. We must represent Torah as a sweet, pleasant and meaningful way of life. To do otherwise is to discredit Torah and to generate hatred toward Orthodoxy.

Right Wing, Left Wing, Centrist

Tendencies in religious life vary from period to period. Sometimes the mood is more to the right, sometimes more to the left; but most of the time it hovers near the center. People, by and large, are not extremists and will not live indefinitely with extreme positions. They, or their children or grandchildren, will seek a more balanced outlook.

Musar

A religious Jew must be heroic; must have a deep sense of inner calm and confidence; must not be afraid to be different. It is valuable to draw on the ethical and moral guidance of our great Musar writers. I personally have found much strength in the Pele Yoets of Rabbi Eliezer Papo.

Rabbi Marc D. Angel is Founder and Director of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals; Rabbi Emeritus of Congregation Shearith Israel; author and editor of many books. Here are his thoughts on turning 70.
Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah said: Here I am as a man of 70 years old, yet I was not privileged to know the source of the commandment to recite the story of the exodus from Egypt at night, until Ben Zoma interpreted the verse. The Torah states (Devarim 16:3) “so that you will remember the day you went out from the land of Egypt ALL the days of your life.” If the verse had stated “the days of your life” I would understand the commandment to refer to days. Since it adds the word ALL, this comes to include nights. The sages have interpreted the verse as follows: The days of your life refers to this world; ALL the days of your life comes to include the days of the Messiah.

The above Talmudic passage, well known due to its inclusion in the text of the Passover Haggada, relates to Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah. The sages of Yavneh, during the period following the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, wanted to appoint Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah as head of the Academy. He was a brilliant scholar, respected and beloved by his colleagues. But he had one shortcoming: he was too young! It was considered inappropriate to have such a young man as head of the venerable rabbinic sages of Yavneh.

The Talmud relates that a miracle happened. The young Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah woke up one morning and found that his hair and his beard had turned gray! He now looked like an elder. When his colleagues viewed his new appearance, they then felt comfortable asking him to become head of the Academy of Yavneh.

So Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah had the best of both worlds: he was chronologically a young man, full of the strength and energy of youth; but he was also (at least in appearance) an old man, filled with the experience and sagacity of age.
What a great combination! What a wonderful blessing to be young and old at the same time!

Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah, once he was “as a man of 70 years old,” realized something very important, something he had learned from Ben Zoma. One is obligated to recite the story of the Exodus from Egypt at night. This lesson, I believe, goes beyond the technical issue of when to recite the Haggada. It reflects a religious worldview.

Night symbolizes the time of darkness, the crises and sadnesses of life. At night, things seem bleak, even frightening. Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah came to understand that even at the “nights” of life, one must recite the story of redemption. One must look forward to the coming dawn. One must see beyond the darkness and envision the brightness and glory yet to come.

The secret of being young and old simultaneously is: maintaining hope, looking ahead, overcoming gloom and failure by focusing on the brightness on the horizon.

A wit once said: You don’t stop laughing when you get old; you get old when you stop laughing. This can be rephrased: You don’t stop dreaming and growing when you get old; you get old when you stop dreaming and growing.

It is a great blessing to reach age 70. One can look back on a long span of life’s joys and achievements. But one, inevitably, also looks back on a long span of life’s sad moments and failings.

I thank the Almighty for having brought me to this special time of my life. I don’t have adequate words to express my joy and gratitude to my wife Gilda, to our children and grandchildren, to our relatives and friends who have made life so worthwhile and so satisfying. I thank all those who have been steadfast and loyal in their friendship over these many years. I am grateful for the special people and the special moments of my life. My cup overflows.

But one cannot reach age 70 without having experienced sadness and loss. I remember with profound love my late parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts; my parents-in-law and so many relatives and friends who have passed on to their eternal reward. I sometimes quip that I have more friends in the next world than I do in this world; although this is just a quip, it has a lot of truth in it. So many loved ones and real friends have died, but their memories continue to inspire.

One of the common features of aging is a sense of “contraction.” One’s physical strength isn’t what it used to be. One’s circle of relatives and friends changes—and often contracts—as the mysteries of life and death play out. One’s professional life changes—and often contracts—as one grows older and less “productive.”

So I find great satisfaction in thinking about Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah’s ability to be young and old at the same time. I find great meaning in his lesson to overcome darkness by envisioning the coming redemption.

In a sense, I feel that I have a reverse situation to that of Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah. I AM a man of 70 years old; and yet, I thank the Almighty that I have the enthusiasm, optimism and energy of someone much younger in years. Instead of letting life “contract,” I have been very fortunate to keep “expanding” the scope of life, through our growing family, through my work for the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, and through my ongoing writing, teaching and lecturing. I pray that the Almighty will bless me with additional years of learning, growing and sharing.

The Messianic era has not yet arrived. There is much work to do, many challenges ahead. I am grateful for the many wonderful yesterdays of life. I pray to be worthy of many wonderful tomorrows, together with Gilda and our family, our loved ones, and our true and trusted friends.

May the Almighty Who brings harmony in the spheres above, bring peace to us, to all Israel, to all good people everywhere.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel is a wonderfully creative teacher of Tanach who has attempted something very daring in his latest book. The multiple books he has published in the past explore complex themes across the Bible. He utilizes commentaries throughout the ages but pays particular attention to recent studies, including critical academic works. He will take any perceptive insight that fits into the Orthodox view of the text, regardless of its source. Those books are Biblical analyses for advanced students by a master teacher. In A Synagogue Companion, Rabbi Angel attempts something completely different. Rather than addressing the advanced student, Rabbi Angel reaches out to the average synagogue attendee with deep literary insights into the holy text. This is a challenging task. He must balance the needs of his intended audience with the sophisticated methodologies and sources he uses. Yet he succeeds marvelously in this astonishingly simple yet profound book. On each parashah, Rabbi Angel writes a few short essays using primarily modern techniques of commentary to explain key themes and passages. With his exceptional clarity, he offers popular adaptations of critical and literary studies that are appropriate for synagogue reading (presumably in between aliyot). Because he is so meticulous at listing his sources, the reader sees the breadth of his reading and the humility of his writing, quoting web sites and scholarly journals that are insightful, even if outside mainstream scholarship. The result is stunning—thoughtful insights and ethical lessons that are relevant because they reflect timely concerns yet textually sound because they emerge from rigorous analyses. The book concludes with similar studies of haftarot and, remarkably, prayer. Rabbi Angel applies these same methods of textual study to the prayerbook, enlightening and inspiring toward more meaningful tefillah. A Synagogue Companion is the rare commentary that offers profound insights for everyone, regardless of background, as long as they are interested in the synagogue texts.

I first visited Tel Aviv’s Chief Rabbi Haim David Halevy, of blessed memory, in the summer of 1984. I was then a 15-year veteran of the American Orthodox rabbinate serving a large congregation in New York City.

At our meeting, we discussed the increasing authoritarianism and extremism that were spreading relentlessly within the Orthodox world. With sadness in his eyes, he asked me: “Have you heard of the mafia? We have a rabbinic mafia here in Israel!” A small clique was arrogating power to itself and marginalizing those who held opinions that differed with them. Instead of viewing halakha in its remarkable diversity, this clique was advocating a halakha that seemed to have only one answer to every question, one view on every issue.

Rabbi Halevy looked forward to the day when all Jews would be living in Israel. But as long as Jews were living in the diaspora, they needed religious leadership. Rabbi Halevy—and other leading rabbis of those days—viewed the American Orthodox rabbinate as partners and friends. They understood that these rabbis devoted their lives to spreading the teachings of Torah, and that they struggled mightily to maintain Orthodoxy within an American Jewry that was overwhelmingly not Orthodox.

In my memory, I have relived my 1984 meeting with Rabbi Halevy many times. As I write these lines, I am reliving that meeting once again.

Rabbi Halevy lamented the marginalization of rabbis who do not follow the “party line,” who offer original halakhic opinions, who refuse to stifle their freedom in order to curry favor with the rabbinic power-brokers. This tendency has only worsened in recent years. One manifestation of this is the current attempt to marginalize Rabbi Avi Weiss of Riverdale, New York. The Chief Rabbinate of Israel has refused to accept Rabbi Weiss’s letter attesting to the Jewishness of one of his congregants.

Rabbi Weiss has spent a lifetime working for Torah and mitzvoth. His Orthodox commitments are beyond reproach. He is one of the most prominent Orthodox rabbis in America, having built a thriving community, having brought many Jews into Torah learning and observance, having founded an Orthodox rabbinical school, having sacrificed so much for the honor of Torah, Israel and the Jewish people.

How then is it possible for the Chief Rabbinate to discredit him? I recall Rabbi Halevy’s sad observation that there is a rabbinic “mafia” at work, a group which sees itself as the only legitimate gatekeepers of Orthodoxy. Rabbi Weiss is surely not popular among this “mafia.” He unabashedly argues for a creative, open, modern Orthodoxy. He seeks ways, within halakhic parameters, to increase the role of women in our synagogues and communities. He seeks ways of working together with all Jews, Orthodox and non-Orthodox. He strives to enhance relationships between the Jewish community and the non-Jewish communities among whom we live.

Rabbi Avi Weiss does not wear a black hat, nor have a long beard, nor hang his tsitsith outside his pants. But he surely is Orthodox, and proudly so. For the Chief Rabbinate to delegitimize Rabbi Weiss’s Orthodoxy is not only a sin against Rabbi Weiss, but against all modern Orthodox rabbis—and a sin against Torah itself.

Rabbi Halevy—and other leading rabbis of his time—viewed the Orthodox rabbinate of the diaspora as allies. The Chief Rabbinate relied upon these rabbis and trusted their documents of Jewish identity and conversion.

This sense of partnership snapped when the Chief Rabbinate of Israel in 2006 stated that it would no longer accept documents of conversion by Orthodox rabbis of the diaspora, unless these rabbis were on an “approved” list. Thus, in one fell swoop, the Chief Rabbinate undermined the authority and credibility of hundreds of American Orthodox rabbis. The sense of partnership has slipped into the outright alienation of many American Orthodox rabbis from the Chief Rabbinate. The Rabbanut’s shoddy treatment of Rabbi Weiss deepens this alienation.

Modern Orthodox rabbis and their many communities wonder: Can we still have respect for Israel’s Chief Rabbinate? Why has the State of Israel allowed its Chief Rabbinate to slander Rabbi Weiss and the entire modern Orthodox Jewish community of America? Why is the glory of Torah being dragged into the mud by a clique of rabbinic power-brokers whose views on Torah are so narrow and extreme?

I can still visualize Rabbi Halevy’s sad countenance when he spoke to me of the rabbinic “mafia” that was endangering religious life. I can still hear his words of encouragement to me and other diaspora Orthodox rabbis: “Happy are you who keep the flame of Torah alive in your communities.” It is now nearly thirty years later. The extremists have grown more extreme. The partnership between the Israeli Chief Rabbinate and the diaspora modern Orthodox rabbis has frayed to the breaking point.

The issue today is not the Orthodox legitimacy of Rabbi Weiss and the modern Orthodox rabbinate. The issue is the legitimacy of Israel’s Chief Rabbinate and the “hareidized” rabbinic establishment. Will the Jews in Israel and the diaspora finally stand up against a religious tyranny that is poisoning the soul of Judaism and undermining the spiritual wellbeing of the Jewish people?

June 4, 2013

To our members and friends of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals: I am delighted to have begun working for the Institute as of June 1.

It is an honor and privilege to build a shared vision with my father, the Institute’s founder and director, Rabbi Marc D. Angel, and with all of you. After seventeen years of serving in the rabbinate, I am delighted to transition to a career of full-time Jewish education, which will include the robust position of National Scholar of the Institute, as well as a full-time appointment teaching Bible at Yeshiva University. My goals as National Scholar include a broad menu of educational programs and writings, with the goal of bringing our shared vision of an open, vibrant, inclusive Orthodoxy to the broader community through classes, publications and electronic media. I will be developing and teaching adult education classes, giving lectures for the Institute’s University Network, creating online classes, teaching teachers in Jewish Day Schools, working on publications, serving as scholar in residence in various communities... and more.

As we launch the position of National Scholar of the Institute, here are some of my first activities.

• Served as Scholar-in-residence in the Young Israel of Jamaica Estates, Queens, NY, on Shabbat May 31-June 1.

• Serving as Scholar-in-residence in the Young Israel of Stamford, Connecticut, June 21-22.

• Produced audio for several lectures on Bible that will be converted into online videos through the Aleph Beta Academy (alephbeta.org). This creative online institution develops educational videos for High School students, College students, and interested adults. My videos will survey much of the Bible. The Joshua classes are now available online, and over the next couple of months we will produce at least thirteen more courses.

• Conducting a teacher training program at the Ida Crown Academy (Chicago) on June 10. I have been working together with their Tanakh faculty to develop their curriculum, incorporate a sound learning methodology, and prepare students better for their collegiate years ahead when they take academic Bible courses.

• Participating in the Experiential Education program run by Yeshiva University on June 26, developed for Day School educators across the country.

• Preparing a Synagogue Companion with commentary on the Torah, Haftarot, and the Shabbat morning prayer service. This volume will contain short pieces—generally 300-500 words each, to deliver meaningful content to people of all backgrounds. Bibliographies are included for those who wish to explore any of the topics more thoroughly. The Institute is aiming to publish this volume in January 2014.

• Working to arrange parlor meetings to spread our Institute’s vision of an intellectually vibrant, compassionate and inclusive Orthodox Judaism. We hope these parlor meetings will generate new support for the Institute as we dramatically increase our work. If you would like to host a parlor meeting, please contact me. I welcome your ideas and suggestions. Please feel free to contact me at [email protected] I look forward to helping build our shared vision together with you. Thank you for your support and dedication.

Now that Natan Sharansky is going public with his proposal to resolve the Kotel conflict, it is time for the leadership of Modern Orthodoxy to speak out. The message should not be only support for Sharansky’s Solomonic proposal but to dissociate from the policies and tactics practiced by the haredi Western Wall Heritage Foundation.

Modern Orthodox’s leadership was held back by fear that if they criticized the authorities at the Wall, the Women of the Wall would get their way and Modern Orthodoxy would be accused internally of having enabled a victory of liberal Judaism over Orthodox religious practice. Now that Sharansky has proposed a way in which justice is done but there are no losers, the Modern Orthodox establishment should strongly support the plan – and separate itself from the current Kotel leadership.

First of all, Modern Orthodox should make clear that they affirm that the Kotel is the sacred space of the entire Jewish people and not a haredi synagogue where only haredi social norms should be followed. The Kotel existed before the synagogue became the institution of prayer and service of God. The Wall is an historical treasure of the whole nation. The majority of the Jewish people is not observant – yet they have a legitimate share in this national icon, not to mention a full right to be there. Part of the Sharansky solution is to take back the Wall Plaza for secular national programs, for IDF dedication ceremonies, etc. – many of which have stopped being held there because of haredi restrictions on women’s presence, visibility and singing as well as on head covering, etc.

The Modern Orthodox should also dissociate themselves from the haredi suppression of women’s services. By excluding liberal services in general, the haredim have pitted Israel’s commitment to being Jewish against its commitment to democracy. It was wrong to do this. There are tensions built in the relationship of Judaism and democracy. These tensions should and can be minimized by sensitivity and flexibility in practice and by respecting minority rights. Instead the conflict was aggravated by exploiting Orthodoxy’s established status and its majority support in Israel to override the rights and needs of the liberal minority and of the Women of the Wall. Currently a majority of Israelis deem Orthodoxy to be the authentic brand of Judaism – even if they are personally non-observant. Therefore, they tolerated the unequal treatment of liberal Jews. But this trampled the rights of non-Orthodox Jews and offended many Jews, especially in the diaspora.

Secondly, the authorities committed a Chillul Hashem [a desecration of God’s name] by prodding the police to arrest women for wearing a tallit or carrying a Torah, and threatening to arrest them for reciting Kaddish. This flagrant foul was infamously aggravated by the strip-search inflicted on Anat Hoffman, leader of the Women of the Wall. Essentially, the haredim pressed for these arrests for their own ‘convenience’, i.e. not to be disturbed. The arrests have left a permanent mark of shame: in the Jewish state, Jews were arrested for exercising their religious freedom to worship God.

These wrong actions were raised to the level of reckless endangerment in that these arrests were trumpeted around the world by Israel’s enemies as proof that the Jewish state is governed by a theocracy that oppresses women. The main line of Israel’s defense and support in the West is the recognition that Israel is a genuine democracy whereas its enemies represent despotic societies that mistreat women and religious minorities. By giving some appearance of truth to claims that Israel mistreats women and religious minorities, these authorities have struck a blow at the foundations of Israel’s security.

It is true that the Supreme Court of Israel ruled that the Women of the Wall must respect the customs of the existing (haredi) Synagogue at the Wall. But the Supreme Court acted under pressure from the right and the haredim. It sought to satisfy the established group for the sake of reducing societal tensions while (in true democratic spirit) giving the women equal access to the Kotel at Robinson’s Arch. [Afterwards, equal conditions were not set up; under Sharansky’s plan, this will be corrected.] The Supreme Court’s actions can be compared to the U. S. Supreme Court’s upholding tax loopholes that are in place – even as it knows this is bad for society and that it is letting an exploitative minority take advantage of the majority. The Women then protested through civil disobedience. They should never have been arrested or physically harassed for these actions.

It is time for the Modern Orthodox to say all this – because the Wall is not the only problem point. There is a continuing unfair treatment of women in rabbinic courts. And the liberal movements still are being discriminated against by the religious establishment, which is exploiting the fact that Orthodoxy was established decades ago by democratic processes. Fair and equal treatment should be extended to all, now – and accommodations made for the Women of the Wall until the Kotel area is reconfigured.

In Israel’s national elections in January the public rose up and empowered the modern religious Zionist political party to take leadership and to partner with secular Jews. The motivation was to stop the discriminatory funding for haredim under current law and to insure that a fair share of the tax and military service burden be taken up by all sectors of the population. It is time for American Modern Orthodoxy to step up for a fair sharing of the Wall and its Plaza with all sectors of Jewry in Israel and in the diaspora.

In truth, I believe that Modern Orthodoxy owes an apology to the Women of the Wall for remaining silent while they were being harassed and denied their religious rights by authorities misusing the levers of a democratic society. However, given the present balance of power in Orthodoxy and the disproportionate influence of the haredim on the current Modern Orthodox establishment, I do not believe that realistically could happen – so I do not propose it. However, the time is now – and the community opinion is ripe – to speak up and to support the Sharansky proposal. This act would honor Orthodoxy. And a fair sharing will restore the dignity and luster of the Kotel as an ancient/eternal place of holiness and mentschlichkeit where Jews are united before God.

The tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the homeless: they make us uncomfortable.

Compassion demands that we care for them and help relieve their sufferings. But pragmatism pushes us in a different direction. The beggars and the needy are nuisances, impinging on our quality of life. They cost us money, effort and time. And they never seem to go away.

The needy are a weight on our consciences as individuals and as a society.

During the 19th century, Thomas Malthus offered a suggestion on how to deal with the burgeoning population of poor and helpless. Malthus believed that social engineers should arrange for the poor to have a high rate of mortality. “In our towns we should make the streets narrower, crowd more people into houses, and count on the return of the plague. In the country, we should build our villages near stagnant pools, and particularly encourage settlement in all marshy and unwholesome situations.”

This drastic approach should strike us as being immoral and ruthless. Yet, in certain ways, our contemporary society does seem to follow the advice given by Malthus. Poor people are often concentrated in slums, out of our sight. In Malthusian terms, if the poor live in areas with a higher mortality rate, less health care, more crime—this is part of the solution rather than part of the problem. Indeed, many people seem quite content to let the poor suffer and die, as long as they do so in their own part of town and out of our line of vision.

But if we will all agree that this “solution” is no solution at all, then what, after all, can be done? We spend billions of dollars on welfare and social programs, and yet the problems do not get solved. Some say: The Government should deal with these problems! Social agencies and philanthropies should solve the problems! Others say: The poor and needy should help themselves. Yet others “solve” the problem by moving away to an expensive area where the poor cannot afford to follow.

All of these “solutions” don’t solve the problems, nor do they resolve the inner conflict of each moral person in our society.

Expecting someone else to eliminate the crisis does not work. Running away from the problem is only a short lived venture in escapism. The problem always follows.

For many years, our synagogue operated a shelter for homeless men. I had a conversation with one of our homeless guests, and lamented the seeming impossibility of solving the problem of homelessness. Our homeless shelter was merely a tiny bandage, it was not curing homelessness.

The homeless person to whom I was complaining looked perplexed. He gave me some good advice: “Don’t focus on the whole problem. Think of one person at a time. The shelter is keeping me warm and safe for this night. Perhaps tomorrow will be better.”

None of us can solve the overall problem. None of us can relieve all the suffering, poverty and illness in the world. But every one of us can do something. We can create a human connection with at least one person, maybe a few more. We can give contributions of money and time. We can think of the poor and downtrodden not as “them” but as part of “us.”

Will this process solve all the problems? Probably not. Will we still have a moral dilemma and a troubled conscience? Very likely. And perhaps this is a true sign of a moral individual and of a moral society. Moral people face the gap between the ideal world and the real world, and try to bring the two closer together. This process involves frustration, guilt, inner conflict. When we stop feeling the pain of this dilemma, we have lost a powerful moral impulse.

This week’s Torah reading focuses on the first stages of redemption of the Israelites from their slavery in Egypt. For generations, Egyptians felt no moral qualms about forcing the Israelites into servitude, or murdering the Israelites’ children, or seeing the daily sufferings of the Israelite slaves. When a society loses its moral conscience, it tolerates—and promotes—dehumanization of its weakest and neediest members.

Moses and Aaron strove to stoke Pharaoh’s moral conscience. God brought plagues on the Egyptians with the intention of making them see the wickedness of their immoral treatment of the Israelite slaves. It was a long, arduous and painful process before the Israelites were finally allowed to go free.

A moral conscience helps us sympathize with the poor and downtrodden; it helps us maintain sensitivity to the needs of others; it prods us to do something—however small—to alleviate the pain and suffering of our fellow human beings.

If each one of us does something to help someone in need, this is a reflection of a living moral impulse. Each gesture of kindness is a contribution not only to the human being whom we help, but to society at large—and to our own moral development.

“There is a tear in my eye; don’t wipe it away. It’s my gift to you.” —Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach

Dad died this past year. He was not a religious person. He didn’t criticize anyone’s choice or practice of religion, nor did he look down on folks who wanted religion to be a fixed part of their daily lives. Organized religion was simply something that did not interest him. He admired people of all faiths. He supported his children’s spiritual paths and choices without reservation. He taught and blessed his children in discreet and silent ways. He learned to recognize God in the voices of his elders as they shared their stories with him. He celebrated life as he saw fit and walked his path without regret.

The day he passed away, sadness surrounded me. My thoughts overflowed with long-forgotten images. I remembered an energetic young father concerned that his children would not have enough books to read; yet there were few memories of Dad reading to us. When he reached middle age, he honored his parents and elders with great kindness and compassion, but often criticized his children harshly. As an old man, he told complex, insightful stories that were composites of the love and admiration he had for people he’d known and choices he’d made in life.

However, I was never quite sure if my choices in life were a source of pride for my father. Whether or not he was proud of how his children turned out remained a mystery. Dad was a conventional, politically conservative man who, for the most part, supported the establishment and status quo. Still, he occasionally surprised friends by taking positions that were in direct opposition to the majority opinion within our small community.

Even if his opinion was unpopular, he held his ground stubbornly, was meticulous in studying all sides of an issue. In time, he earned the respect of others and often won them over to his point of view. He was, like many fathers, a complex person who provided his family with stability, but kept pieces of his soul private.

When news arrived that Dad was no longer in the world, I began to grieve the father we never really understood. It was the quest for understanding of a complex and good man that would eventually bring comfort and resolve in losing such an important figure in my life. Worrisome thoughts that I’d been more of a disappointment than a source of pride to my father surfaced, bringing with them sorrow and regret. I searched memories for a legacy that would comfort me with a sense of inheritance and belonging. I needed to discover and collect pieces he’d left behind to understand his legacy and expectations for the generation he’d fathered.

It became more than slightly important to learn what my father stood for and to identify any sense of wisdom he might have left behind for his children to consider or follow. In order to accomplish this task, I would need to suspend all expectation and sew old stories, memories, and ethics together as if they were pieces set aside to construct a colorful quilt. If I was able to discover Dad’s hopes and plans for his kids, perhaps my life would measure up to his expectations and my broken heart would be mended.

For the most part, Dad led a healthy, happy life. He was close to his mother and beloved step-father. He told wonderful, funny stories of his grandparents and great grandparents. He put his elders first and took their feelings into consideration before making any decisions. His parents were also not religious people, but they were the most spiritual individuals I’ve had the privilege of knowing. In fact, both sides of the family were comprised of individuals many would describe as secular and non-religious. However, their spirituality was mature and composed of powerful pathways that affected their lives, families, and communities in positive, significant ways.

Dad was a man’s man. When I was little, he operated a barber shop and by default managed a billiard parlor that happened to be attached to his shop. The elder men of our small town congregated at this location and told their stories. They were men who had worked hard and raised families. Now they were old and they wanted someone younger to listen to their stories and accomplishments. They smoked their cigars, pipes and cigarettes, used off-color language they didn’t dare use around the ladies. At the end of the day, they wanted to prove that their long, hard-working lives meant something and had purpose. Dad was their sounding board. He stood at his barber chair cutting a customer’s hair, or giving someone a shave and listened to every story. In listening, he honored each elder who stopped by his barber shop—whether they were a paying customer or not.

As the years passed and long hair became the style, the old men that congregated at the barber shop passed on and Dad gave up the barbering business. He was also a talented gunsmith and specialized in the artistic repair of antique firearms. Again, he attracted a culture of aging men who wanted to tell their stories and pass their legacy on to someone who cared, someone who listened and would continue to sow their precious memories as seed for the next generation. Although Dad was an excellent story teller and did his part to keep the memory of his elders alive, his real talent was as a story listener.

In a distant memory, I recall accompanying him to a gathering of firearm vendors. An old man began to tell my father a long story about his days as a boy and the Stevens single-shot rifle he used to hunt rabbits in the cow pastures of his youth. He reminisced about the rapid-fire weapons he’d been loaned to protect his country as a young soldier in World War I and realized, like his father and grandfather, he believed in something beyond himself. When the old man finished his story, he politely moved to the next vendor with a bony frame that was less arthritic than before the seeds of his life were sown upon the fertile soil of our imaginations with hopes they would find roots in new and distant gardens. One of the vendors approached Dad in a manner that could best be described as man to man.

Men of Men, like my father, have a sense of authority that is rarely questioned or challenged in male-culture. They are admired, are keepers of the establishment’s accepted viewpoints, and their approval can secure one’s place in a crowd. The approaching vendor, eager to be taken seriously and confirm his sense of belonging exclaimed, “That old geezer is telling the same line this year as last, except this year he received four purple hearts and last year only one. If he wants to tell these yarns, let him buy something first.” How rude, I thought at the tender age of eleven. However, we’d been raised to remain respectful, stand when elders were in the room and not talk back. The silence between Dad and this potential colleague was momentary. Dad’s rebuke was more of a sigh than a response. He looked the vendor with the baggy pants and exposed money belt straight in the eye. “Buddy, when I get to be that age, maybe I’d like to tell a few tales. When I get to be that age, I hope somebody will listen to me without expecting pocket change for the privilege.” Baggy Pants, with his money belt and desperate need to belong, cowered, then faded into the blue steel and WD-40 smell of the convention, never to be heard from again.

Old age hit Dad suddenly. It snuck up on him and it took his children by surprise. He was not one to write or call his kids on the telephone in order to make small talk or stay in touch. Memories of past stories and the way in which he lived his life, respected his parents, his elders and conducted his business within the community was how Dad chose to teach and eventually pass his legacy on to his children. He taught his kids silently by living and modeling what he believed was ethical behavior.

A few months before his death, I learned that Dad was becoming confused. He was having trouble walking; he was becoming lost, selling possessions that had been in the family for generations for only a few dollars just so he could share his beliefs, ideas, and memories with others. Our mother was frustrated and finally, Dad was admitted to a nursing home where he could receive more support than our mother could provide.

Being 3,000 miles away, I arranged with the nursing home to be able to call him on a weekly basis. Happily, he recognized my voice. His sentences were abrupt, disorganized, and frantic. Instead of his solid, male presence, he was fragile with a hurried air of panic in his voice. At first, his words were confusing and only served to cement the reality that Dad had become old and was on the verge of leaving us and this world behind. But, if I listened closely and took the time to connect pieces of off-hand comments, sentences, and half told stories, there was Dad—teaching me about his soul, who he was, what he’d accomplished, who he’d become and the hopes he had for his only daughter and eldest child.

Our “end of life” conversations concluded as abruptly as they began when I received a call that Dad had suffered a fall, was taken to the hospital, and gently passed away. A non-religious man had left the world, but in the few weeks before his passing he’d successfully and creatively provided his daughter with her inheritance—his ethical will. Dad’s last thoughts, fragmented memories and stories were of a moral, principled and spiritual nature: listen for the tears of others; practice kindness and inclusiveness; stand up for your beliefs; allow no regrets; fix your mistakes yourself; be honest; recognize and treasure the places where you’ve discovered belonging. The day after Dad’s death, it occurred to me that the passing of this non-religious soul should be grieved in a special, creative manner. The accepted, Orthodox way did not provide the level of comfort or honor I wished to bestow regarding the passing of my father. I decided to start a new trend in sitting shiva. In honor of the life of my father, I planned to perform at least one mitzvah a day without the knowledge of others and without expectation of personal reward. This was how Dad said his final goodbye to his parents. It seemed appropriate to do the same for him. Additionally, I sought out elders and spent time with them to listen to their stories. It might not have been the “orthodox” way of expressing grief, but I like to believe I assisted my father’s neshama to take off like a little rocket and land in the highest portion of heaven available. If I ever run into his soul again, I want him to know his life amounted to something, that his purpose in life had been met, was valuable and that his daughter not only carries his teachings and stories, but my life, spirituality, and religious boundaries were strengthened and softened because I had an ethical, kind, and spiritual father. I don’t have a need to walk in his footsteps, but I take comfort in knowing a path exists in this world that he made and through memories and quiet moments I can stop by that path should I become lonely. Orthodoxy is a cute word. If you look it up in a thesaurus you’ll find synonyms like “accepted view,” “conventional,” “accepted belief,” and “prevailing attitude.” If you look the word up in a dictionary you’ll most likely find the definition of conformity: the practice of observing established social customs and definitions of appropriateness. Conversely, if you research the word creativity, you find descriptions with words like “originality,” “inspiration,” “ingenuity,” “inventiveness,” and “visionary.” At first glance, it would appear that these two words are often at war with each other. Can you be original and conventional at the same time, or inspired and visionary while embracing the prevailing attitude or accepted view? Despite not adhering to dogmatic or established religious behavior, Dad was a conventional man—any form of “orthodoxy” comforted him. People described him as an authority figure, and his position on various subjects often became the “accepted view” within his community. He held on to old ideas and stood his ground with strength and occasional stubbornness. I am a traditional, Jewish woman. Like my father, I can be stubborn once I take a stand and believe in something outside myself. The prevailing attitude of my Jewish/ Orthodox community is important to me. I read and listen to the leaders of Orthodox Jewish communities before I formulate my opinions. It is a safe, easy feeling to belong to a community where behavior is outlined and expectations are clear. By nature, most individuals want to belong and need to have an idea of what their purpose in life is and will continue to be. It is an important part of living to wonder if any part of your life will be left over for the next generation to learn from, celebrate or admire. Did you count for anything while you were living and breathing in this world? Did you offer anything special to the world or your family while you were here—or were you merely a follower who performed every rule and law to the letter because someone told you this is how you must act or behave? If you were to suddenly leave your place in the world, would anyone miss your contributions? One summer in the mid-1970s, I had the fortunate opportunity to sit next to Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach while he taught his holy stories about purpose. In those days he was teaching his students through the stories and songs of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov. One of the tales was the story of how Reb Nachman became a Rebbe. Shlomo told that Rebbe Nachman married at age fourteen. At his wedding, he met a young man his age. He asked the young man, “What are you doing here?”—meaning, are you with the bride’s or groom’s family? The young man answered Rebbe Nachman, “That’s the problem. I wake up at night wondering, what am I doing here?” Reb Nachman responded, “Ah, you’re my kind of Jew. Come to the forest with me and we’ll talk with Hashem.” Reb Shlomo concluded, “That was the night Rabbi Nachman of Breslov became a Rebbe.” This little story has stayed with me a long time. After hearing it, I spent significant time wondering about purpose and individual contributions to my chosen community. I even constructed prayers and shot them off to God, saying things like, “Give me purpose. What do you expect from me? What do I count for, anyway?” For a while, it was a significant part of my personal spiritual quest. At times it was comforting to have a crowd to follow. However, I often saw myself as standing alone in a crowd of connected Jews wondering what the point was, thinking, who really needs my opinion? Orthodoxy, conventional behavior, acceptance, talking and dressing like others in my community was a blessing. It kept me grounded and tethered. It is a safe feeling to be able to “borrow” tried and true ways of thinking and acting when you’re not sure who you are, or what your legacy is or might become. It is encouraging to be taken seriously, but easy to become confused and even easier to ask a selected spiritual leader for answers you can blindly follow. There is safety in learning to “fit in” without taking the chance of alienation by asking too many questions or taking what should be a positive risk and offering your own interpretation of Orthodox values and practices. Belonging has its dark side. Like Baggy Pants—the vendor who desperately wanted to be taken seriously in my father’s world—you can forfeit your unique personality without meaning to. You can spend your life speaking insincere words at the expense of others instead of sharing an authentic piece of your soul simply because you need to prove you are an accepted member of the crowd, or are afraid to deposit a genuine piece of yourself into the gene pool. Purpose is equated with knowing where you belong because you have something special to offer, rather than learning to mimic the status quo because you are afraid you might not be considered worthy by friends and colleagues. Purpose is learning to hear the tears of others and having the courage and respect to not simply wipe them away. Orthodoxy or belonging to a conventional, established group should give the individual the courage to speak from the heart and soul with authenticity and without fear of ridicule. This is how the creative spirit balances itself with conventionality. Several years following Reb Shlomo’s rendition of Rebbe Nachman’s wedding day and finding one’s purpose, I visited Reb Shlomo in New York. It was a sweet, meaningful visit. We ended up at his shul, where he sang and told stories to his beloved students until the wee hours of the morning. By this time, only the most dedicated students remained. To an outsider, it would certainly be time to say good-night and head back to respective hotel rooms and apartments. But, we were on “Shlomo-Time.” It was 3 a.m., and time for Shlomo to go “cruising.” This could mean one of many things: visiting the homeless under the bridge, standing on a street corner giving money away to strangers, or visiting some incredible, spiritual rebbe whom the general Jewish community had not quite heard of yet. This particular night, the hevrah was planning to follow Shlomo to visit a special rabbi who truly had uncovered the esoteric truths of Torah in a way never shared with the world before. I did not have the desire to accompany my friends on this holy sojourn that started in Manhattan and ended somewhere in New Jersey. Instead, I had planned to visit Shearith Israel to listen to the men recite the morning prayers. This was a highlight for me personally. I had missed the formal atmosphere of this synagogue and kind-hearted people who always smiled at each other. It brought me strength, it was a beautiful place, I liked the people and I needed to be there. So, politely, I declined to accompany the hevrah and said good-night, or rather good morning, to everyone. The next evening, I dropped by Shlomo’s shul. My plane was leaving in a few hours and I wanted to say goodbye to my friends. Instead of open arms, I was greeted with raised eyebrows and questions asking why I did not follow Shlomo and the group the previous night/morning: “Why didn’t you come with us? What were you thinking? You missed something important.” I was devastated that my friends were dissatisfied with my decision and concerned that I’d unintentionally disappointed Shlomo. By not following the crowd, I felt I’d jeopardized my belonging and missed the one opportunity I might have had to find and truly understand my purpose in life. One of my best friends looked me in the eye with extreme severity and asked, “Where were you?” “Well, I wanted to go to the Spanish Portuguese Synagogue for the morning prayers. I couldn’t do both.” “The Spanish Portuguese Synagogue? What’s over there? You had a chance to really meet someone holy and get a special blessing. Shlomo said this rebbe was holy. How could you have missed that?” One chance in a lifetime to see someone holy and I missed it? Truthfully, I didn’t care about not being blessed by the world’s greatest rebbe, but had I inadvertently insulted Shlomo or lost the respect of my community by not being a good follower? What would become of me? I was devastated, but only for a moment. My dear friend had barely finished her commentary when I heard Shlomo’s voice address the group as if we were a bunch of misguided, noisy children. “Hey. You know what a good idea is? A good idea is to know your path when you see it. It takes a little bit of courage to know where you belong and what your purpose is. If everyone’s on the same path we wouldn’t have anything to dance or sing about.” The group looked at each other, nodded their heads in agreement, and began dancing to Shlomo melodies completely oblivious to my presence and perceived error in judgment and etiquette. I was never so relieved to return to my place in the crowd and blend in with every other dancing Jew. As I was leaving, Shlomo followed me out the door and whispered in my ear, “Shearith Israel? The highest, holiest place in New York!” As always, his eyes were twinkling with joyfulness as if he could see from one corner of the world to the other and all that existed was goodness and peace. He continued, “You know what the saddest thing in the world is? The saddest thing is when a Jew fails to recognize who they are and where they need to be because they’re afraid they won’t be accepted by the establishment. You know what establishment means? It means already obsolete. I bless you, bless me back, with eyes that see and ears that hear what truly is holy. When you’re not here, I miss you. That’s how you know where you belong. You belong to the people you miss and who miss you back.” I metaphorically stuffed Shlomo’s blessing into my pocket so I wouldn’t lose it. It, too, became a kind of ethical will—a gift offered to express a teacher’s wisdom and sincere hope for a student as she learned to navigate the world on her own terms and develop a balance between creative individualism and belonging in Orthodox Jewish communities. It’s not good when Orthodoxy and Creativity are at war. First, there is nothing to win by pitting these two polarities against each other. Second, if one does overcome the other, you either have rules without compassion, or belonging without purpose. Orthodoxy and Creativity must live peacefully beside each other with each entity learning to borrow from the other. If communities are not intimidated by the consideration and debate of new ideas, continued renewal of our ancient ways will be celebrated and the establishment will rarely become obsolete. Everybody knows an ethical will is an ancient Jewish tradition of one generation passing on its hopes and wisdom to the next. Our Torah is filled with stories of our ancestors passing on legacy in this thoughtful, creative, and holy manner. In Bereishith, Yacob gathered his sons to offer them his blessing, and requested that he not be buried in Egypt but in the cave at Mahpelah beside his ancestors. In Devarim, Moshe Rebbeinu instructed us to be a holy people and teach our children accordingly. Much of our time spent studying our holy books is reading stories and learning ideas passed down from one generation to the next, perhaps to keep us from becoming an obsolete people. Providing a child, or even a community, with an ethical will, can breathe the soul of an individual who is no longer with us back into our lives. It can heal broken hearts, solve mysteries left behind by silent parents, bind us to our past, and strengthen our hopes for our future possibilities. The challenge often is that an ethical will might not be easy to find or recognize. Not every parent writes a scroll, publishes a book, or summons their kids to gather around their bedsides for a formal good-bye or blessing. It takes effort to recognize how a loved one might communicate a personal, authentic teaching. For an ethical will to effectively blend conventionality with inspiration, the teaching generation must offer their truths in an individual and unique way. The receiving generation must learn to listen for an unexpected voice and recognize their elders’ spirits in whatever sound and shape their teachings assume. The process is a worthy, meaningful way of teaching, healing, and growing spiritually. Efforts individuals make in searching for ethical statements within their family or communities will be rewarded by the welding of inspiration and conventionality into one complex soul that comprises many ideas and differences. Not long after my father left the world, I was speaking to a friend who knew Dad quite well. “So,” he asked in a nosy, meddlesome way, “what did your father leave you? Is it enough for you to stop working and start relaxing a little bit? Or was your old man so cheap he spent it all on himself before he died?” It took effort to keep from expressing anger toward this individual. However, my struggle to maintain dignity was short-lived. Actually, this insensitive family friend inspired a sudden, intuitive leap of understanding: Hashem is the source of wealth and money, not my deceased father. I am thankful to be a working woman, thankful to have opportunity to give something of myself to others. I am thankful to believe in something outside myself. I’m fortunate to have opportunity to treat others compassionately and kindly, to have found the courage to express an opinion freely without fear of being unceremoniously abandoned by people I assumed accepted me without conditions. I have enormous gratitude for having the opportunity to fix what’s been broken and express myself with honesty and resolve. In reality, I’ve become a living legacy guaranteed to honor the wishes and life of my father. And so, I spoke up, looked this meddlesome friend squarely in the eye and answered, “Inheritance? When my father left the world I became the wealthiest daughter you could imagine. The worth my father acquired in this world was left for me to treasure and spend in whatever manner I see fit.” I wanted badly to wipe away the tears that were still in my eyes following Dad’s death and graciously hand one of them to this individual. But then, I decided to leave these tears where they belonged and continue my life as an Orthodox, religious Jew who was the recipient of the greatest blessing possible—eyes and ears that are capable of knowing what is truly holy. The meddlesome friend of the family looked at the ground, somewhat self-conscious with his coarseness. He was quiet for a minute, then shrugged his shoulders and sighed, “You sound just like your old man. I see that he really has left you something special.”

I must say at the outset that although my wife, Chaya, and I had some different motivations and experiences in our aliya process, we are both happy with our aliya. For me—and I am speaking about my own personal reflections and feelings—our aliya is the fulfillment of a dream I had since learning in Yeshivat Kerem beYavne in 1958–1959. It took more than 40 years—but it also took Bnei Yisrael 40 years to make it through the wilderness to the land of Israel. Personally, I am very happy with my aliya. But I understand why many Jews, Orthodox or not, do not want to make aliya. Economics aside, living in Israel can often be a very frustrating experience, and in many respects it is “easier” to be a Jew in the United States. Let me tick off a number of what, in my opinion, are the most frustrating aspects of Israeli society.

1. Lack of civility—Common American norms of civility and courtesy are alien to much of Israel. On the contrary, here the rule is, “don’t be a freier,” a patsy, someone who allows someone else to get ahead of them, be it standing in a line for a bus or in a store, or driving on the road. I drove for decades in the United States, but it wasn’t until I drove in Israel that I was a victim of nasty name-calling by the driver in back of me, for allowing someone to precede me in merging lanes. I violated the rule of not giving an inch, which applies to the road as much as it does to foreign policy.

2. Ethnic hostility—Perhaps I was sheltered where I lived in the United States, but I never encountered the kind of blatant discrimination and hostilities that I see here between some Jews and Arabs, some Ashkenazim and Sephardim, some secular and religious. The degree of intergroup tension that pervades Israeli culture is something alien and distressing to me.

3. Lack of basic democracy—I was aghast when I learned that some of the basic civil rights, including protection from arbitrary searches and seizures, that (most) Americans enjoy were not part of the Israeli system, such as being held by the police for more than 24 hours without being charged with a crime. I subsequently learned that Israel, too, has such protections but that security cases are differences. And, following the September 11, 2001, much more restrictive security measures have been undertaken by the authorities in the United States as well.

However, I still cannot get used to a common Israeli practice that clashes with the notion of rights with which I was raised, namely, blatant housing segregation, on the basis of both religion and ethnicity. Housing projects openly advertise “for the dati-leumi [religious-Zionist] community,” “for the Hareidi community,” and don’t even think of buying an apartment anywhere but very special places if you are not Jewish. Around 1998, Chaya and I were looking to buy an apartment and we heard that there was going to be a new community called Ramat Bet Shemesh, so we drove out to see where it was and get an idea of what it was to be like. We arrived at a hilltop that had various trailers, caravanim, out of which the contractors, kablanim, worked. Each of the contractors greeted us with the identical question: “What are you?” When I replied that I’m looking to buy an apartment, they thought I didn’t understand their question, so they repeated it, and I replied that I’m a Jew who wants to buy an apartment. Now they started to get upset. “What are you?” “Are you dati, dati-leumi, hardali, hareidi Litai, haredi hassidi? The reason for asking was that there was to be different housing for each of the different kinds of Jews, even if all of them were religious. If they weren’t, they were relegated to an entirely different section of contractors. As soon as we saw what was happening, Chaya and I realized that this wasn’t for us, and we left. But the very fact that it exists—and legally—leaves me with a bitter taste.

4. Kashruth—For years I was told that kashruth is so much more natural and less complicated in Israel. But, in fact, just the opposite is the case. In the United Staes, the OU is overwhelming, if not almost universally accepted among Orthodox Jews. There is nothing even close to that in Israel, where there are so many more groups, each having its own kashruth certifiers. A bag of raw lettuce can have five or more supervisions, all of which contribute to higher prices. I find it incredible when I hear of the barriers all of this presents in terms of family harmony.

5. Segregation—Much worse are the “super-kosher” mehadrin buses that are segregated by gender, with women forced to sit in the rear. It reminds me of the pre-Civil Rights days in the United States South—and gets me very upset.

6. The Hareidi-dati divide—I will just mention a series of issues that rile me, such as the Rabbinate, which controls matters of marriage, divorce, and conversion; the fact that the majority of Hareidim do not serve in the army or in any other kind of national service; government-supported voluntary unemployment; government-supported schools that do not teach a basic curriculum of general studies; and so forth.

7. Political corruption and incompetence—During the past five years, we have witnessed a President and several ministers and Knesset members found guilty of serious crimes, and we have seen a now-former Prime Minister under investigation for numerous accounts of corruption. As for incompetence, even the glaring examples are too numerous to list here. Also, the country does not seem have any conception of planning. Just take a look at the water crisis, the loss of life and damage in the Carmel Forest fire, the extended disruption from the Jerusalem light rail fiasco, and so forth. Avira deAr’a mahkim? (The air of the land of Israel makes one wise?) Israel today is all-too-often proof that Chelm lives. Sometimes I get so upset so upset that I am almost ready to agree with Yaakov Kirschen, the famous “Dry Bones” cartoonist, who said, “If there was another Jewish State I would move there.”

But seriously, there is no other Jewish state, and even if there was, I am not at all sure I would move there. This is not just a Jewish state, it is also Erets Yisrael, the land promised to Avraham Avinu and his children and the birthplace (after Egypt and the wilderness) of the Jewish people. To live here is to live Jewish history and tradition. Judaism is intrinsic to the national culture here and it is built in to the calendar. In the Diaspora, one knows what the Gregorian calendar date is, and one has to stop and check for the corresponding Jewish calendar date; in Israel, though, it would be more likely for you to know what the Jewish calendar date is— and you may have to stop and check for the corresponding Gregorian calendar date. Even in Tel Aviv, you breathe Judaism here much more so than in the Diaspora.

One hard lesson that I have learned since my aliya is that the French socio-political thinker, Alexis de Tocqueville, was correct not only in his analysis of France and the United States, but of Israel as well, when he said that an alliance of religion and state is bad for religion and bad for state, and separation of religion and state is good for religion and good for state. I used to fear that separation of religion and state in Israel would create a major rift in the society; that already exists even with, perhaps thanks to, the Rabbanut.

Yet, the breadth and depth of Jewish learning here is incomparable. The range of almost daily lectures and symposia is such that I sometimes am overwhelmed and have to remind myself that I neither can nor have to participate in everything. It’s wonderful to know that opportunities are there and that I can choose those of which I wish to partake. When I think back and remind myself how meager were the opportunities for such enrichment in the very Jewish neighborhoods in which I lived, I feel blessed to be here.

The society has problems—but it’s my society; there’s no invisible cultural wall between me as an Israeli and me as a Jew. My life is not schizophrenic; I do not live an “inside/outside” existence, as do many Jews and most Orthodox Jews, even in the open and welcoming United States. Indeed, for many of those who do not experience an invisible wall or even a difference between their Jewish self and their American self, there are increasingly pronounced issues relating to Jewish identity and identification, but that is a somewhat different subject.

Despite all of the frustrations I mentioned and more, I frequently sit on my mirpeset, porch, and think how incredibly fortunate I am. I cannot believe that I am actually living in Israel, in Jerusalem no less, and how wonderful it is to be here. Despite the harshness and intolerance we too often see, there is also simultaneously a beautiful sense of oneness here, of giving, of sacrifice for others and the society. There is also a sense of informality rooted in the understanding that we are all family, and, therefore, we can do away with artificial facades.

For Chaya and me, aliya was a “no-brainer.” All of our children and grandchildren are here. I am fortunate to have a career from which I never actually have to retire. I am no longer salaried, but do not have any problems of not having anything to do. Quite the contrary, if I have a problem it is not having enough time to accomplish everything that I want.

As far as the material aspects of daily life, I find living in Israel easier in many respects. The image of impossible bureaucracy is no longer applicable; Israel is in many ways much more technologically advanced than the United States, and many things can be done online or in other ways with relatively little hassle.

The range and quality of medical care available to all, not only to the very wealthy, is very satisfying and reassuring. Whenever I have needed medicals exams and procedures, I have found the entire process to be much more efficient, quantitatively and qualitatively, than my medical experiences in the United States

Even if I were looking for an “easier” life, I am not sure that I would not have come on aliya. Perhaps in some ways it is “easier” to live in the United States; but, in much the same way, it is “easier” not to have children than to have them. I chose to live here in part because I want to be a participant in what I view as the most significant development in the past 2,000 years of Jewish history. I love Erets Yisrael and I love Am Yisrael, and I want to live among my people in the land of my people, even though they sometimes frustrate me and even though I have many interests beyond both the land and the people.

All of the ideas presented here are my personal thoughts and feelings, relating to me alone, and are in no way meant to preach to others. I don’t tell others that they should make aliya because it’s just not part of my personality to tell others what they should or shouldn’t be doing. That is probably one of the major reasons I never considered entering the rabbinate. Nor do I think that aliya is for everyone. Quite the contrary, there are some people whom I think should definitely not make aliya. I think that successful aliya requires not only resources but flexibility, tolerance, and a sense of humor. If someone is inflexible and intolerant, they probably won’t last too long in Israel; and besides, Israel has enough intolerance and inflexibility.