National Scholar Updates

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.                                                                                                       

On Friday, September 27, 1935, the Boston Jewish Advocate published an extensive interview with Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, who had recently returned to Boston following a four-month stay in Palestine. In what is arguably the most comprehensive articulation of his early Zionism—if one takes seriously the citations of the interviewer, Carl Alpert—Rabbi Soloveitchik set forth in this interview his perspective on the role of Orthodoxy in Erets Yisrael.

According to theJewish Advocate, Rabbi Soloveitchik said, “The future of Palestine is with Orthodoxy, just as the future of Orthodoxy lies in Palestine. I make this statement not as a rabbi, but as an objective observer. The recent newspaper announcement that ministers are being sent to Palestine to propagate Progressive Judaism is nonsense. Orthodoxy will be the only form of Judaism in Erets Yisrael.”

Later in the article, Rabbi Soloveitchik predicted that “When Palestine Orthodoxy is well-organized, it will reclaim even those who have gone astray. After all, even among the most radical halutsim there exists a subconscious desire and longing for religious life and observance that temporarily finds its outlet in the redemption of the soil and the renaissance of the Jewish people. If this religious fervor will be cultivated and brought into clear light, it will eventually lead to traditional Judaism.”

Finally, Rabbi Soloveitchik suggested, “It is the task of Orthodoxy to redeem not only the soil of Palestine, but also the souls of its sons and daughters, and bring them within the traditional fold.”

Although there are many dimensions to Rabbi Soloveitchik’s comments, some of which I recently addressed in an article analyzing Rabbi Soloveitchik’s early Boston career, the following article explores each of these statements from the contemporary perspective (inserting Medinat Yisrael for Palestine), asking if Rabbi Soloveitchik’s statements still ring true today, and if they calibrate with the ethos of contemporary Orthodoxy.

Is the future of Medinat Yisrael with Orthodoxy, and is the future of Orthodoxy in Medinat Yisrael?

Rabbi Soloveitchik’s first statement was made at a time when Orthodoxy in the United States still represented the normative religious community—at least in name—for the majority of Eastern European Jewish immigrants. Today, of course, although Orthodoxy is the norm (by law) in Israel vis-à-vis marriage and divorce and is generally adopted as the norm in synagogue life and burial, the layers of resentment felt among the non-Orthodox population are balanced by those who are content with the traditional model. Still, it is not difficult to imagine Medinat Yisrael without Orthodoxy. In fact, many claim that the Orthodox monopoly in the modern state is deleterious to its Jewish and democratic nature.

A number of years ago, I flew on a plane with Effy Eitam, who was then the leader of the National Religious Party in Israel. As I described to him my work within the religious establishment helping secular Israelis navigate religious life, he stopped me and said: “Let me tell you why you won’t ever be successful: The religious Zionist rabbinic leadership has a messianic vision that everyone will be Orthodox. I’m not sure that you are convinced that this is an ideal.”

Many Orthodox Jews remain unsure about Orthodoxy’s universal application among the contemporary Jewish community—especially in Israel. I’m not convinced that religious coercion is viable on the tactical or strategic planes. This certainly throws into question whether the future of Medinat Yisrael is with Orthodoxy.

As to the converse claim of Rabbi Soloveitchik, that the future of Orthodoxy is with Medinat Yisrael, I equally remain unconvinced, notwithstanding my personal decision to live in Israel. A number of years ago, I delivered a paper at the Orthodox Forum in New York about the so-called brain drain to Israel. The argument that many of my contemporaries put forward was that talented young leaders of (Modern) Orthodoxy were making aliya, thus depriving the North American Jewish community of its best and brightest. I argued that I believe Orthodoxy has flourished in North America, notwithstanding the departure of rabbinic leadership such as Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, or Rabbi Danny Tropper. In fact, the great renaissance of Orthodox Day Schools and Orthodox synagogues happened after each of these three men moved to Israel.

Ironically, it was Rabbi Soloveitchik himself who—failing to receive the position of Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv in 1935—forged contemporary Orthodoxy in the United States. I believe that the type of Orthodoxy Rabbi Soloveitchik contemplated might have had exclusivity in Medinat Yisrael, had history unfolded differently. But contemporary Orthodoxy is comprised of so many subgroups that it is hard to imagine that the future of Orthodoxy lies—at least exclusively—in Medinat Yisrael.

Will the religious fervor of the “halutsim” lead to traditional Judaism?

This second assertion of Rabbi Soloveitchik needs to be put in its immediate historical context as well. Just days before the interview in Boston, Rabbi Soloveitchik had paid a visit to Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, who was then ailing, and would pass away just before Rabbi Soloveitchik returned to Boston. No doubt this was a dramatic meeting for Rabbi Soloveitchik. (Rabbi Kook had studied with Rabbi Soloveitchik’s grandfather in the Volozhin yeshiva.) During his visit to Israel, Rabbi Soloveitchik had met with a number of students of Rabbi Kook. The statement which relates to a “subconscious desire and longing” may find its anchor in the influence of Rabbi Kook’s thinking on Rabbi Soloveitchik in the mid-1930s.

Whatever the case, today’s contemporary Jewish scene in Israel is a work in progress. There are still elements of theba’al-teshuvah movement of the 1970s, but more and more individuals who have a religious fervor (including those from the Orthodox community) are seeking a new-age type of religiosity that is a far cry from the type of Orthodoxy that Rabbi Soloveitchik espoused (and a far cry from the Orthodoxy that the normative Modern Orthodox community espouses). Sometimes known as ChabaKook (short for Chabad, Breslav, and Kook /Carlebach), this ideology has some connection to halakha but emphasizes the religious ecstatic moment rather than the disciplined cerebral one. It certainly is not “traditional” Judaism. My sense is that this is a phenomenon more central to Medinat Yisrael than to the North American Jewish community.

Again, given the contemporary Orthodox scene, I think there is still a lot of questioning going on in Israel about what is normative Orthodoxy. The ideals (and dreams) of Rabbi Soloveitchik do not appear to be either relevant or able to be realized given the contemporary Orthodox scene in Israel.

Is it the task of Orthodoxy to redeem not only the soil of Medinat Yisrael, but also the souls of its sons and daughters, and bring them within the traditional fold?

The last claim of Rabbi Soloveitchik is remarkable and deserves close attention. In many respects, notwithstanding the commitment to halakha that Orthodox Jews share, this statement reveals a layer of Jewish life not often spoken about. Orthodoxy is not only about kibbush (conquest), but also about kiruv (bringing near).  I imagine it was hard to conceive—particularly in the mid 1930s—that these two notions might stand in opposition. During the last three decades, too much emphasis in the Orthodox community has been placed on redeeming the soil (in the broadest sense of the term), and not enough emphasis has been placed on exposing the non-religious community to the beauty of traditional Judaism. The Modern Orthodox community has expended enormous resources on the settlement movement in Israel, without paying attention to the Jewish lives of Jews in Tel Aviv or Rishon Letzion. These Jewish souls have been exposed to a much more fundamentalist, Hareidi Orthodox approach, speaking in the name of halakhic Judaism. This is a trend that needs to be rectified.

Of course, one could argue that kiruv isn’t an essential part of Orthodoxy, or certainly halakhic practice. But in its broadest sense, Orthodoxy in Israel should see kol yisrael arevim zeh lazeh (all Jews are responsible for each other) not only as a descriptive adage, but rather as an imperative. If one can see Rabbi Soloveitchik’s terminology of “redemption of souls” as a charge to expose rather than impose traditional Judaism within the secular community, then I believe such a responsibility is still central to our community.

The challenges to contemporary Orthodoxy in Israel are enormous, and the implications of modernity and the founding of the State of Israel for traditional Judaism are still being explored in Israel. Notwithstanding the rising political clout of the Hareidi Orthodox parties in Israel, I believe that the Modern Orthodoxy that Rabbi Soloveitchik spoke of still has a place in Israel, and will ultimately play a central role in its future.

The very term “Spirituality” has in recent years acquired negative connotations. In Judaism, it is often associated with an expression of religious fervor devoid of halakhic content or commitment. It conjures up New Age pseudo-religion, unreliable, inconsistent, flaky sentimentality. To borrow a Christian bon mot, “Mysticism,” it is often asserted, “starts in a mist and ends in a schism.” Nevertheless both rationalism and mysticism are equally integral elements in Jewish, indeed all, religious life. It is the relationship between them that I want to explore in this essay.

It is probably true to say we can all distinguish between someone we consider religiously observant (perhaps the correct Hebrew term is “Aduk” or perhaps “Shomer Mitzvot”) and one we consider to be a person “of Spirit,” someone with “Ruhniut.” Some might even want to use this as a way of differentiating the Lithuanian tradition from the Hassidic. Yet that would not be completely fair. And both may be combined in the same person.

On the one hand, we may point to the rigorous, Germanic approach of the late Professor Yeshayahu Leibovitz, who considered religion a matter of duty, a commitment to fulfill obligations, a purely rational phenomenon. And on the other hand, we may consider the late Nazir of Jerusalem who was lost in an ethereal world of “deveikut.” Halakha is clearly defined and empirically verifiable. The test for a witness in a Jewish Court of Law is not theology, but whether one adheres to the laws of Shabbat in public. The personal encounter with God—deveikut—is the essential element in any mystical tradition. Deveikut is not something anyone else can verify. What is its origin?

In the Bible

The biblical narratives distinguish between those personalities who have a reciprocal relationship with God and those who are loyal to the traditions of the tribe and the people but whose engagement with a divine supernatural force is their defining characteristic. Aharon, the functionary, with his emphasis on inter human relations is an example of the first. The second was initiated by Avraham. Moshe is the archetype of a person who encounters God face to face. Only “The Fathers” and Moshe are described as struggling to “know” who and what God was and to feel God’s presence on a personal level.

The Torah itself allows for different paradigms, the priest and the judge (Deut. 18:8 and 19:18) and the prophet and the king (Deut. 18:14,18 and Deut. 17:14) one might also add “the elders” both national (Num. 11:16) and local (Deut. 21:4). All are overshadowed by the unique leadership of Moshe and then certain Judges. After Samuel, the king emerges as the typical leader. In the unique cases of both David and Shelomo can one say that the political and the spiritual were combined. Otherwise it seems throughout the first commonwealth it was the prophet who preserved the mystical tradition. Often he was in conflict with the monarch. The priesthood usually allied itself with the ruling power, what we would call the establishment. Its primary role was to make sure the National Sanctuary ran according to its rules. I cannot think of one example in the Bible of a priest communing or pouring his heart out to God in the way for example that David does. And this is precisely why it is Eliyahu the Prophet and his Chariot of Fire that is seen as the forerunner of the great mystical tradition. It is fire throughout the Bible that is used as the dominant (though not exclusive) symbol of the divine presence. What better metaphor for passion could there be?

 Furthermore the Bible, being a pre-philosophical text, is not concerned with the rational arguments for faith. There is no explicit command to believe. The first of the Ten Commandments is phrased as a given, not as something one needs to find proofs of. Rather it is an assumption of involvement and commitment. Indeed the biblical use of the word emunah, faith, is quite removed from the Aristotelian idea of intellectual belief. It is more a matter of being convinced, firm, secure, like the arms of Moses during the battle at Rephidim against Amalek.

In the Talmud

The Talmud continues this distinction of approaches, most obviously in the persona of Honi HaMa’agel (Mishna Taanit 3:2 and Gemara). His intimate relationship with God is recognized and yet challenged by Shimon Ben Shetah, the leader of the mainstream Pharisaic community. Shimon can recognize the unique contribution of Honi and his ability to go beyond the normal constraints of public religion. And yet he also recognizes the danger of what he sees as “Lese Majesty.” That particular talmudic passage goes on to give examples of the dangers of “wonder rabbis” using mystical powers in ways that normative halakha would not approve, as in the case of R.Yosi Ben Yokeret (Taanit 23b).

The ambiguity is there. One might think that the talmudic opposition to Greek culture and thought would place the whole of the rabbinic world firmly in the non-rational, mystical camp. The highlighting of Elisha Ben Abuya’s apostasy, only hinted at as being because of his following Greek rational thought, might lead one to think that rationalism was simply not a talmudic value. Yet those rabbis who follow in the Honi tradition are not always regarded as being correct. Hanina (Berakhot 17b), who sustains the whole world, is contrasted with the Gabeans, who might not be as mystically advanced but produced no heretics. The hint is clear. Similarly it is precisely the strange exceptions such as Shimon bar Yohai, who is valued for his obvious spiritual greatness, nevertheless is implicitly criticized for going beyond the boundaries of halakha when he puts working men to death for not spending their time in study (Shabbat 33b). It is the very objection to Shimon Bar Yohai’s absolutism that highlights the difference between an exceptional degree of spirituality that is inevitably the realm of a few, as opposed to the normative, if less exciting Judaism of the masses. Still Shimon Bar Yohai, Pinehas Ben Yair, Hanina, and the others are regarded as being exceptional precisely because of their spiritual relationship with God rather than as being in the first rank of scholars. They contrast with such personalities as Shimon Ben Gamliel as a man of authority rather than spirit.

In Medieval Theology

It was the dominance of theology in first millennial Christianity and Islam that exercised such a powerful influence on Jewish thought. The Aristotelian bifurcation between spirit and matter led almost inevitably to the distinction taken for granted until the late nineteenth century. It was precisely against this over emphasis on rationalism that Kabbalah emerged as such a potent force at the very time when mysticism in Christianity began to challenge established norms, and similarly Sufism in Islam. Kabbalah’s creation of the system of sefirot integrated all “parts of the human, from the creative, reproductive sefira of yesod, to the intellectual sefira of hokhma and the intuitive of bina that challenged a rational world view. The human was a holistic reflection of God beyond. Nevertheless the distinction remained deeply rooted as evidenced in the persistence in some circles of the “gartel,” which divided the holier upper body from the more suspect lower regions.

The Ghost in the Machine, Arthur Koestler’s 1967 book, was based on the work of English philosopher Gilbert Ryle. It illustrated the fallacy of how we had all come to think of the mind as good and the body as bad. Since Aristotle, we in the West have seen the intellect as the purest expression of humanity. In the world of ideas that Judaism lived, mind was good, body was bad.

It is possible that Maimonides himself understood the problem of the distinction between the “rationalism” of which he was a devotee, and the “emotion of mysticism” in his subtle distinction between the expression “to believe in,” a process more dependent on intuition and feeling, rather than the more rational “to believe that.” In Sefer HaMitzvot and The Yad, describing the command to believe in God, he uses the words “SheNa’amin sheYesh,” “we should believe that there is,” as opposed to “LeHa’amin Be-” ‘to believe in.’ But when it comes to his Ikkarim, his principles of faith, there is no command to believe that God exists. The usage of belief there, is “in” and the principle is that God is the creator and director of the Universe. Perhaps Maimonides intentionally allowed for a different way of encountering the divine.

Mysticism has always been an antidote to intellectualism. And yet it would be inaccurate to transpose the rational and the mystical in Judaism too rigidly. The greatest of Lithuanian rabbis such as the Vilna Gaon, studied the Zohar and even the Mussar Movement took its main text, The Paths of the Righteous, from a Kabbalist. Perhaps it was no different from the Talmud referring to those who specialized in Aggada as opposed to Talmud (Hagigah 14a). Still, there is a difference because the personality that devotes itself to one is usually very different from the one who gives himself to the other.

In Current Times

And so it seems that the choices of rational or mystical depend more on personal preference than some intrinsic bias within Judaism. The modern quandary stems from the inescapable fact that formal, behavioral religion and its commitment to strict practice of the minutiae of halakha can be arid without the passion that mysticism can bring to it. This explains why a diet of Western religion that emerged with the Enlightenment has left so many people feeling uninspired and alienated. It explains why the mysticism of the orient has found such fertile ground in alienated Jews and Israelis. Jewish mysticism was until recently locked away in a well-guarded world where established rabbis held the keys and made sure only suitable initiates were permitted in.

The reaction to this in our free and open world has been the popular appeal of an ersatz Kabbalah that is hardly distinguishable from self-help panaceas but bears little resemblance to the high degree of devotion, commitment, and religious observance that genuine Kabbalah requires. Judaism, I would argue, in its ideal form requires the holistic combination of all aspects of the human being. It should not be a matter of deciding whether at the Shabbat table one sings zemirot or tells divrei Torah. One should do both. It is just that some people are tone deaf just as others are intellectually challenged.

So if some of us are drawn to one and others to the other, how can one explain the obvious preferences that some of us have? In recent years a lot has been written about the physiological aspects of religion. One of the pioneers in the new field of neurotheology is Andrew Newberg, a physician at the University of Pennsylvania and director of the Center for Spirituality and the Mind. He has published a book, Why We Believe What We Believe: Uncovering Our Biological Need for Meaning, Spirituality, and Truth, written with his colleague Mark Robert Waldman.[1] Carl Zimmer’s research [2] and Dean Hamer’s book [3] have both highlighted the genetic basis for spirituality. Psychology Today has published articles linking spiritual experiences to serotonin. [4] The NPR website has an article on research showing the changes in the brain of those who meditate and pray, as does Wired Science. [5] Of course none of this tells us anything about God. But it does tell us something about ourselves. It does confirm what we see with our own eyes, that some people seem more naturally spiritual and conversely many people who are outwardly religious seem to show little interest in or propensity for spirituality. Clearly there is a need to encounter the divine as much as there is to express other parts of our intellectual and emotional makeup and some human brains seem to have a greater need than others.

The genius of our religion is that it provides for the very wide spectrum of human needs in terms of experience and intellect. The fact that it insists on behavioral detail while leaving the theological requirements loosely defined, enables the range of human minds to find their places within the religious spectrum. Provided one adheres to the common denominator of halakhic behavior, the room for individual spiritual experience is left up to each one of us to either indulge or neglect. Maimonides thought that through neglect we could totally eradicate the soul gene, or the soul element within us (Hilkhot Teshuva 8:5). Mysticism on the other hand regards the souls as eternal, transcendental, indestructible. So long as you and I both keep Shabbat, what we think about our soul is, is subjective.

The sad fact is that in too many parts of the Jewish world such freedom of thought is too rarely accorded.

Creating Space between Peshat and Derash

A Collection of Studies on Tanakh

By Hayyim J. Angel

(Ktav Publishing House and Sephardic Publication Foundation, 2011, 229 pages)

This very informative, easy to read book contains twenty essays that introduce readers to the truth about quite a few biblical matters, as well as many facts about Jewish history and famous Bible commentators. Rabbi Hayyim Angel, the author, is a Bible professor at Yeshiva University, the rabbi of the prestigious New York Spanish-Portuguese Synagogue, and the author of three books and over seventy very good articles. He has the ability to raise interesting questions and answer them with fascinating, informative, and thought-provoking information. The word “peshat” in his title means the plain meaning of the biblical text, while “derash” denotes the various sermonic meanings that rabbis derived from the text, frequently to teach moral lessons or highlight rabbinic laws, even if they are not the plain sense of the text. The essays address peshat and derash, along with other subjects.

His first essay, for example, gives a wealth of information about the famous Bible commentator Don Isaac Abarbanel (1437-1508). Some scholars disparage Abarbanel’s work – “On the whole, [Abarbanel’s] commentaries are not of the highest caliber.” Others extol his writings – “both in his methods and in the nature of his commentary [Abarbanel] stands alone and without equal.” Angel explains what prompted the disagreement. He tells Abarbanel’s view on whether the Torah commands Jews to have a monarchy, and why he, who had served as a highly respected court official in a monarchy, opposed this political concept. Angel also divulges Abarbanel’s views on the coming of the messiah after he experienced expulsion from Spain with the rest of the Jews in 1492, and his understanding of prophecy, especially why the Talmud has a different order of the books of the prophets than the currently-used sequence in Jewish Bibles. Angel also addresses the critique of some critics that Abarbanel does not offer original commentaries and Abarbanel’s view on whether biblical figures such as King David did wrong. As a result of his analysis of these and other issues in this essay, readers not only obtain a good insight into the mind of Abarbanel, but the views of other Bible commentators who opposed him and interpreted the Bible differently, and much other information.

In his second essay, as another example, Angel examines the controversial subject of Jews being a chosen people: do all Jews agree on an answer to this question; are non-Jews also chosen; if the Jews were chosen, what were they chosen for; is there a reciprocal agreement requiring something from the Jews; is chosenness guaranteed forever; is it biological; is it a religious or a moral issue; and more. This example shows how Rabbi Angel is capable of exploring a host of issues in depth in a single essay.

Angel also analyzes the legends about Hur, who is mentioned in the Bible for joining Joshua in helping hold up Moses’ hands while the Israelites fought against the people of Amalek who attacked the Israelites marching in the rear, and Pharaoh’s daughter who drew the infant Moses from the sea and named him. He explores why God forbade Moses from entering Canaan with the people he was leading. Did Moses really do something wrong? And, if so, what was it? Is it reasonable to think that he was punished, as some say, because he hit a rock instead of speaking to it? Drawing water from a rock by speaking or hitting are both unnatural. Does this episode illustrate the principle that even the greatest human being is not perfect?

In another essay, he notes that Maimonides (1138-1204) and other traditional interpreters taught that people are permitted to interpret Scripture as they think proper as long as they do not deviate in their behavior from the rules established in the Halakhah, the law. In still another he explores the life of the biblical Ruth as described in the book named after her. He shows how many of the episodes are purposely presented in an ambiguous manner, and he explains how the ambiguity helps readers gain more from the tale.

In summary, these examples show the high caliber of Rabbi Hayyim Angel’s contribution, its depth, wide scope, and interesting questions and ideas.   

For centuries, rabbis steeped in Torah and Halacha have served as the gatekeepers of the Jewish people. They have determined which non-Jews may join the Jewish people as converts.

Halachic literature provides a wide array of opinions and attitudes relating to conversion. In recent years, however, the more extreme views espoused by the Haredi rabbinic establishment have gained predominance — and those Orthodox rabbis who do not share these views have been increasingly marginalized.

In 2006, Israel’s chief rabbinate announced that it would no longer accept conversions performed by Orthodox rabbis in the Diaspora, unless these rabbis were on a pre-approved list (i.e., they were deemed sufficiently Haredi in their approach). The mainstream Orthodox rabbinic group in the United States, the Rabbinical Council of America, essentially went along with the dictates of the chief rabbinate. The RCA set up regional rabbinic courts to oversee conversions. The individual Orthodox rabbi — even if a member in good standing of the RCA — generally will not have his conversions accepted by the rabbinate in Israel, unless the convert has gone through the RCA’s conversion bureaucracy.

The result of this shift in authority has been profound. Good, talented and well-intentioned Orthodox rabbis in the Diaspora have been eliminated as recognized gatekeepers to the Jewish people. Power has been concentrated in fewer hands. The more restrictive views on conversion have become universalized, leaving rabbis with little leeway in dealing with candidates for conversion who are not ready to become fully Orthodox Jews. Rabbi Ben-Zion Uziel, who was the first chief Sephardic rabbi of the State of Israel, sought halachically valid ways to bring such individuals into Judaism and the Jewish people. The current rabbinic hierarchy shuts the door on them.

At a time when many thousands of people in Israel and the Diaspora want to become Jewish, the Orthodox rabbinic gatekeepers are becoming ever more restrictive. They adopt new stringencies not required by the Talmud, the Rambam or the Shulchan Aruch. There are women whose conversions have been denied because they wear pants — loose-fitting, modest pants. I know a woman whose conversion was rejected because the rabbinic court did not think her boyfriend was sufficiently Orthodox. A number of would-be converts have been told that they will not be accepted for conversion unless they first move to more religious neighborhoods — even though they currently attend an Orthodox synagogue in the neighborhood where they presently reside. Meanwhile, rabbinic courts in Israel have annulled conversions when converts lapse from a stringent observance of mitzvot.

These restrictive policies are not mandated by Halacha. They reflect a deep xenophobia and a narrow view of Jewish peoplehood. These policies prevent and deter many people from converting to Judaism according to Halacha. They cause unspeakable pain and frustration to numerous individuals who want to cast their destiny with the Jewish people — but who are rejected, humiliated or threatened by the rabbinic bureaucracy.

In recent months, we have witnessed scandal after scandal involving Haredi rabbis. In a particularly notorious case, Rabbi Leib Tropper — who set himself up as the head of an influential Haredi conversion authority, the Eternal Jewish Family — has resigned his position due to allegations of particularly heinous and repulsive behavior, reportedly involving sexual coercion of a prospective convert.

These high-profile scandals should be cause for alarm. But we should also be concerned about the scandal of what is being foisted upon the public as “true Judaism.” At an Eternal Jewish Family conference, Rabbi Nachum Eisenstein stated that Rabbi Yosef Sholom Elyashiv, one of the Haredi world’s leading authorities, holds that any rabbi who believes the world is more than approximately 6,000 years old should not serve on the rabbinic courts that perform conversions. (Elyashiv is not known to have disputed this characterization of his views.) Indeed, the Eternal Jewish Family includes a question on “the Torah view of the age of the universe” in its testing of would-be converts. Knowing that we have perfectly legitimate traditions in Torah Judaism that allow for belief in a universe billions of years old, should we allow the obscurantists to disqualify all rabbis who dare to accept the clear findings of science? Do we want such people as the gatekeepers of Jewish identity?

The Orthodox rabbinate has become narrower and more extreme, exactly at a time when world Jewry is very much in need of responsible, creative, sensitive and inclusive religious leadership. Can the State of Israel afford to have a bureaucracy of rabbinic gatekeepers who seem more interested in keeping people out than in letting them in? Can world Jewry afford to leave halachic conversion in the hands of a rabbinic hierarchy that refuses to draw on the inclusive opinions within Halacha, that insists on creating higher and higher barriers, that values restrictiveness as a sign of religiosity? Can we really trust a Haredi-dominated rabbinic establishment that does not inspire our respect as a model of morality, idealism and intellectual vitality?

The Jewish people needs and deserves an effective and inclusive halachic framework for accepting converts. The current gatekeepers have not served us well, and there is no sign that they will change their ways if left to their own devices. We would do much better by dismantling the current rabbinic bureaucracy and leaving conversion in the hands of local Orthodox rabbis — as had been the practice for centuries. Let each rabbi draw on the halachic sources that best apply to each situation and not have his hands tied by an inflexible and restrictive hierarchy. Let each halachic convert be fully accepted as a Jew in the State of Israel and throughout the Diaspora.

If some in the Haredi world will not accept the Jewishness of such converts, then that is a problem for the Haredim. The Jewish people as a whole should not be held hostage to the extreme views of the rejectionists.

Halachic conversions performed by local Orthodox rabbis will draw many more converts into the Jewish people more efficiently, more compassionately and with more halachic integrity. Every bona fide member of a reputable national or international Orthodox rabbinic body should be empowered to perform conversions. Each rabbinic organization must ensure that its members conduct conversions according to Halacha, with the highest ethical standards, and without financial remuneration.

The Torah describes the people of Israel as a wise people; let us, then, act wisely.

One of the most painful problems facing our community is the "Agunah" issue. An Agunah is a "chained" woman: she is legally married, but her husband has either gone missing, or is unwilling to grant her a divorce ("get") even when the marriage has collapsed. She is put in the untenable situation of being unable to move forward with her life; she cannot marry anyone else, since she is still tied to her missing or recalcitrant husband.

Throughout the generations, our rabbis have worked diligently to relieve the plight of a woman whose husband has disappeared. They operated on the principle: "in the case of an agunah, the rabbis find leniencies"; they were willing to suspend the usual laws of evidence in ascertaining that the missing husband had died. During the years following the Holocaust, for example, rabbis went to great efforts to find ways of permitting female survivors to remarry, on the assumption that their former husbands had indeed been murdered by the Nazis.

In the case of recalcitrant husbands, rabbinic tradition also manifests tremendous concern for the plight of women. It has various provisions that enable the rabbinic courts to punish such men; and in rare cases, rabbinic courts have found legal provisions for annulling the original marriage so that the woman would not need a "get".

In recent times, though, rabbinic courts generally have been reluctant to act forcefully in cases where husbands refuse to grant a "get" to their estranged wives. Such men use the "get" as a means of vindictive punishment of their wives; some use it as a bargaining chip in a divorce settlement, demanding that the wife pay a large sum for the "get" or that she give up property rights or child custody rights. This situation is not only cruel to the women involved, but is a moral stain on the halakhic system itself. Why do the rabbinic courts continue to tolerate such a heinous injustice? Why are husbands allowed to extort money from their wives, with the tacit approval of the rabbinic courts?

Some years ago, I was called by a family in the New York area whose daughter was married to a "hareidi" man in Jerusalem. The man was a terrible husband, beating his wife physically and torturing her emotionally. She finally could not tolerate this situation and she left him; she went to the rabbinic court and asked for a "get" from her husband. The court learned from the husband that he would give the "get" if she agreed to pay him $100,000. Her parents called me in horror: first, they couldn't easily afford the $100,000 blackmail; second, why should an abusive husband be "rewarded" for granting a divorce to which his wife was entitled? I phoned leading rabbis in Israel and gave them details of the case, as well as the specific case number. They consistently answered: why doesn't she just pay the money and be done with it? When I asked how they could tolerate such a bizarre injustice, they simpled replied: that's the way the system works. Let her pay, and she'll have her "get".

In another case that came to me, a prominent Israeli rabbi advised a husband not to grant a "get" to his wife unless she agreed to give him custody of the children. I told the man that he could not use a "get" as a bargaining tool, but was obligated to give the "get" without preconditions. The marriage was over. The couple would have to settle its custody and property disputes in court--but these disputes had nothing to do with the "get". The man hesitated: after all, his rabbi in Israel told him not to give the "get" until he won the terms he wanted in the divorce settlement. Fortunately, he agreed to listen to me, and did give the "get" in a timely manner, with no strings attached.

There are, unfortunately, numerous horror stories where husbands have maliciously and immorally used the "get" as a weapon against their wives. These cases have dragged on for years, causing immeasurable grief to the women involved, as well as to their families. The problem is: why does the rabbinic court system allow such a corrupt situation to continue? Why haven't means been found to protect women from this cruel victimization? Why has the "system" essentially turned a blind eye to blackmail and extortion?

To be sure, many of the "Agunah" cases are solved by individual rabbis, without public notice or fanfare. Moreover, the Rabbinical Council of America developed a pre-nuptial agreement that diminishes the likelihood of "Agunah" situations arising in the future. There are activist groups that speak out on behalf of Agunot and try to foster change in the current rabbinic court system.

Yet, there needs to be systemic change in the rabbinic court system. Halakha must not be hijacked, nor lose its moral stature. Why aren't the obvious problems relating to the "Agunah" issue being addressed? Here are some typical responses/alibis presented by the rabbinic establishment: 1) we are doing everything possible to help, but we must work within the halakhic framework. (Fact: no, they are not doing everything possible to help. The halakhic framework itself has far greater latitude in dealing with the issue than most rabbinic courts are willing to entertain. Also, much can be done by teaching young men in yeshivot about proper marriage and divorce ethics; and by creating a strong environment of public censure for recalcitrant husbands.) 2) we cannot solve this problem individually, but need the consensus of the "gedolim", the great sages of our generation. (Fact: if we wait for consensus of the "gedolim", we'll be waiting a long time; we've already been waiting a great many years, with no solution in sight. Moreover, why don't the "gedolim" themselves meet, lock themselves in a room, and not emerge until they have some workable solutions? If they wanted to address this issue, they could do so.) 3) we can't introduce procedures that earlier generations of sages did not introduce; we are not more learned or more compassionate than they were? (Fact: we can introduce new procedures, especially if it can be demonstrated that our situation today is different from that which prevailed in earlier generations. Rabbis of previous eras introduced ordinances and practices, and did not shirk responsibility by saying that they were not as great as the rabbis of earlier times.)

In reality, rabbinic courts are afraid to "innovate" because they fear the censure of other rabbinic courts. They don't want to allow procedures that will not be "universally recognized". This is a code phrase; it means: we aren't going to take chances and endanger our reputations among the more right-wing rabbinical leaders.

Here are two ways to address the "Agunah" issue in a constructive manner.

1) The Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals has been devoting much time, effort and money to establish a new Orthodox rabbinical group, known as the Rabbinic Fellowship. We had an initial conference in October, convened by Rabbi Avi Weiss and me, to launch this project. Rabbis from throughout North America attended. We are scheduling another, larger conference at the end of April. Our goal is to establish a credible Orthodox rabbinical group, with members throughout the world, to foster an intellectually vibrant, compassionate, open and inclusive Orthodox Judaism. We hope to establish an independent, international beth din that will address such issues as the "Agunah" problem, and conversion to Judaism. We are working with like-minded colleagues here and in Israel. This is a hugely important undertaking that can have a significant impact in shaping the future of Orthodoxy. It is also a hugely expensive undertaking. We welcome your support of the Rabbinic Fellowship. Contributions can be made on the Institute's website, or by mailing checks to the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, 8 West 70th Street, New York, NY 10023.

Your support is needed and important.

2) The Center for Women's Justice, in Israel, is doing remarkable work to advance the cause of Agunot. It not only engages in important public education work, but fights for women's rights through the Israeli court system. It has achieved important victories, and is a growing force in confronting the inadequacies and injustices of the rabbinic court system. The following material describes the Center's work, and provides a link so that you can learn more about the Center and become a supporter and advocate.

CWJ

"...And I will betroth you to Me with righteousness, with justice, with kindness and with mercy." (Hosea: 2:21)

The Center for Women's Justice (CWJ) is an Israeli non-profit organization dedicated to upholding a woman's right to just treatment in the rabbinic courts.

By filing strategic law suits, working creatively within Jewish law, and writing in the Israeli press, CWJ leads the quest for comprehensive solutions to the complex religious dilemmas facing Jewish women world-wide: the agunah, get refusal, the mamzer, conversion.

Our vision holds forth the possibility of reconciling our religious tradition with democratic principles. At CWJ, we think that tikkun olam is a communal imperative. Our strategy is to engage the entire public in our discourse of social change.

Strategic Litigation

The focal point of CWJ's activity is in the courtroom.

We choose our clients carefully, with an eye for cases that have the potential to set precedents that will have a broad impact on Israeli society. For example, we have sued: recalcitrant husbands for damages for get refusal; the justice department for damages for the rabbinic courts' negligent handling of divorce cases; ex-husbands who use the get to force their wives to sign unfair divorce agreements; the state to repeal discriminatory work tenders issued by the rabbinic court; the rabbinic courts for violating rules of natural law (tzedek ha'tivi); the rabbinic court to revoke their decision to repeal a conversion; the rabbinic court to revoke their decision to declare a person a mamzer.

Influencing Public Policy

CWJ seeks to guide public policy to require the full disclosure of marital assets; void divorce agreements signed under pressure of the get; and invalidate limitations made to child support payments.

Public Awareness

CWJ believes that public awareness is significant in facilitating change. Each of the members of our small staff (three lawyers and a rabbinic pleader) speaks in community and academic forums and writes in the print and electronic media.

Rabbinic pleader Rivkah Lubitch writes a weekly column for the website of a leading Israeli newspaper (Ynet) (in Hebrew) in which she often describes the injustices suffered by Jewish women in the rabbinic courts. Her column is read by 30,000 readers a week.

Campaigns

CWJ conducts periodic symposia, conferences, campaigns, and projects to educate both the professional and lay audience to our ideas and solutions.

This year we have embarked on a campaign to encourage the signing of a "Contract for a Just and Fair Marriage." The Contract is a prenuptial agreement that will enable our children to marry both in accordance with the laws of Moses and Israel, as well as in accordance with modern notions of marital partnership. In addition to alleviating the problem of get extortion (the mesurevet get), the Contract's provide a solution for the problem of the husband who is absent or incapacitated and cannot give a get (the agunah). We seek the support of the public and our religious leaders for this contract.

Recent Highlights

In September 2007, CWJ sued on behalf of Rachel Abraham for damages in the amount of 4.5 million (well over one million US dollars). Rachel had spent 18 years in Israel's rabbinic courts trying to get a divorce from her husband. Read about it in the Jerusalem Post (Dan Izenburg, October 29, 2007

In December 2007, La'Isha, an Israeli women's magazine, featured Susan Weiss (CWJ's founder and executive director) and CWJ for their contribution to Israeli society (in Hebrew).

Our Board: Our board includes men and women, academics, rabbis, and lay-people who take an active role in supporting our work.

Perspectives on the work of CWJ:

The Center for Women's Justice is addressing sensitive and important issues of religion and state in Israel with creativity and integrity.

Dr. Neta Ziv, attorney

Lecturer, Tel Aviv University Law School

and director of legal clinics

Terrible injury is done to women whose religious divorces are delayed or denied, and to women who suffer extortion by their husbands in the name of Jewish law. This is a severe blow to the Torah and its just ways. Attorney Susan Weiss' establishment of the Center for Women's Justice offers a ray of light and hope to these women.

CWJ Board Member Rabbi Dr. Ariel Picard

The Center for Advanced Studies

The Shalom Hartman Institute

Jerusalem

We welcome you to support our work: you can play a role:

for more information: www.cwj.org.il

or contact us: [email protected]

Gifts to CWJ may be made through the offices of the PEF Israel Endowment Fund and the New Israel Fund, and are tax-deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. law.

The Nazi menace decimated European Jewry, and its tentacles of hatred and violence reached even to North Africa and the Middle East. Jews of all backgrounds were victimized, and many stories about murdered family members remain as the heritage of Jews throughout the world. In our family-whose roots were in the Sephardic community of the Island of Rhodes-we also have a story.

My grandfather, Bohor Yehuda Angel, left the Island of Rhodes in 1908 to settle in Seattle, Washington. He and his older son, Moshe, worked tirelessly to save enough money to bring the rest of the family to Seattle-my grandmother, Bulissa Esther Angel, and the children Ralph, Victoria, Luna, Abner, Joseph and Rahamim.

During the early 20th century, the Jewish community of Rhodes numbered about 5000 souls. They formed a classic Judeo-Spanish Sephardic enclave, with an impressive cadre of rabbinic scholars, business people and intellectuals. The masses of Sephardim, though, were poor, and many began to consider leaving Rhodes to improve their lots. The favored destination was the United States, with others also leaving for Rhodesia and the Congo, Europe and the land of Israel.

It took three years for my grandfather and uncle to save enough money to bring the rest of the family to Seattle. In 1911, my grandmother bravely set sail with her children, eager to be re-united with her husband and elder son. When their ship arrived in New York harbor, they were confronted by United States immigration officials. It turned out that Joseph, aged about eight years old, had a scalp infection known as tinias. The immigration officials told my grandmother that they would not admit Joseph into the U.S. My grandmother pleaded with the officials-but to no avail. What was she to do? It had taken three years of hard work for my grandfather to earn enough to bring the family to Seattle. If she returned to Rhodes now, how many more years would be needed to arrange for new tickets? But how could she bear sending little Joseph back to Rhodes by himself? As it happened, another Jew from Rhodes was not admitted into the United States. He volunteered to bring Joseph back to Rhodes to live with relatives until such time as he could be brought to Seattle to join the rest of his family. My grandmother had no real choice: she agreed to send Joseph back to Rhodes. She looked forward to the day when Joseph would be brought to Seattle.

Joseph never did make it to Seattle. He grew up in Rhodes. He was married in the late 1920s to Sinyoru Angel (not related), and they had four children. A son and daughter were named Yehuda Leon and Bulissa, after Joseph's parents; the other son and daughter were named Jacob and Sara, after Sinyoru's parents. My father, Victor Angel, who was born in Seattle, never met his brother Joseph and family.

The Jews of Rhodes had lived under the rule of the Ottoman Empire from 1522 until 1912, when Italian forces occupied the island. Italy officially took control of Rhodes in 1923, with the Treaty of Lausanne. When Italy aligned with Germany in June 1936, the Jewish community of Rhodes began to feel the bitter stings of government-sponsored anti-Semitism. The highly regarded Rabbinical College of Rhodes was forced to close. Jews were required to keep their stores open on Saturdays and Jewish holidays. In September 1938, anti-Jewish laws were announced: ritual slaughter of animals was prohibited; Jews could not buy property, employ non-Jewish servants, send their children to government schools. Non-Jews were not allowed to patronize Jewish doctors or pharmacists. Jews who had settled in Rhodes after 1919 were ordered to leave the island.

By September 1939, the Jewish community of Rhodes had shrunk to less than 2000 people. Those who remained faced ongoing discriminatory laws. Uncle Joseph and family must have suffered, and must have worried very much about their future. The anguish only grew with each passing year. In early 1944, Uncle Joseph died-we don't know the cause, although we can surmise that fear and anxiety played their roles in his early death. In August 1944, German troops took control of Rhodes. In short order, the historic Jewish community of Rhodes came to a tragic end. Almost all the Jews were deported to Auschwitz, and only about 150 survived. Among the victims were my Aunt Sinyoru and my cousins Yehudah Leon, Jacob, Bulissa and Sara-people I would never meet, but whose memory would never leave me.

Little Joseph had been turned away from the Unites States by an immigration official. That official did not realize that his action ultimately was a death sentence to the family of Joseph. Had Joseph been allowed to go to Seattle, he-like the rest of his siblings-would have lived. Life hangs by a thread. Perhaps a kinder official would have had pity on my grandmother and her children, and perhaps this story would have had a happier ending.

In 1939, the Jews of Rhodes were oppressed by anti-Semitic rulers: but few imagined that the Nazi deportations and concentration camps would actually include them. This situation prevailed in other Sephardic communities as well.

Mr. Isaac Gerson, now aged 96, was a merchant in Salonika in 1939. Salonika was one of the crown jewels of the Sephardic world, a bastion of Judeo-Spanish civilization. Mr. Gerson recalls that in 1939 the Jews were confused; they heard rumors about Nazi Germany, but could not actually believe that the "civilized" Germans could become vile murderers. Few Jews fled Salonika. Jewish leaders did not foresee the coming disaster, and did not encourage flight or active resistance on the part of the Jews. The approximately 50,000 Jews of Salonika began to recognize the gravity of their situation in April 1941, when the Germans occupied Greece. In March 1943, the Nazis deported the Jews to concentration camps-with very few coming out alive.

In 1939, Thea Gomes de Mesquita was a little girl growing up in the famed Sephardic community of Amsterdam. She had no premonition of danger. The family attended synagogue as usual; she attended the Talmud Torah as usual. Yet, the adults of the community must have sensed trouble. German Jews, fleeing the Nazis, sought safety in Amsterdam. They told their stories of woe to the local Dutch Jews. In 1939, though, the stories did not seem immediately threatening to the Jews of Amsterdam. With the German invasion in 1941, everything was suddenly to change for the worse. Anti-Jewish restrictions went into effect. In 1942, Jews were deported to concentration camps. Thea de Mesquita's family went into hiding, going from place to place, and ultimately survived the war. Yet, the vast majority of Amsterdam's Sephardim-along with the rest of Dutch Jewry-were ruthlessly murdered by the Nazis and their accomplices.

When Mussolini came to power in 1922, Silvano Arieti was a fourth grade pupil in a non-Jewish school in Pisa, Italy. The little Jewish boy-along with his teacher and classmates-were swept up with enthusiasm for their new leader who would bring Italy to new glory. Arieti even wrote a poem in honor of Mussolini. As he grew older, he came to learn that Mussolini was the personification of fascism, a tyrant and a war-monger. A fascist slogan was: The Duce is always right. In 1938 Mussolini, to strengthen Italy's alliance with Germany, declared that Italy would adopt anti-Jewish laws. Arieti, seeing the writing on the wall, fled Italy for the United States, and went on to become a world-renowned psychiatrist and author. Of the approximately 50,000 Jews in Italy, 8,000 Jews lost their lives to the Holocaust. That most Italian Jews survived the war is attributed to the generally good relations that existed between the Jews and Christians in Italy, even during the war years.

In 1939, Jewish communities in French North Africa-Algeria, Morocco and Tunisia-began to feel the claws of Nazism. The Jews in Italian Libya likewise came under anti-Jewish legislation. Thousands of North African Jews were among those innocent victims who were murdered during the Holocaust period.
The Jews of Turkey and Bulgaria, though living in a state of anxiety and fear, were essentially spared deportation and murder. To the extent possible, they maintained their historic communities according to the traditions of the Judeo-Spanish Sephardim.

In 1939, Sephardic communities in Europe were living in the shadow of death, although few realized it at the time. Sephardic communities in the Middle East and North Africa-though less endangered than their European co-religionists-did not escape the brutalities of Nazism.
In 1939, Rabbi Benzion Uziel became the Sephardic Chief Rabbi of the land of Israel. He struggled mightily to save as many Jews as possible by arranging for them to come to Palestine. The Grand Mufti of Palestine was a vicious anti-Semite, and strove to stir up anti-Jewish sentiment among the Arabs. The British sharply limited the number of Jews who could enter the land of Israel legally.

In 1939 Jews throughout the world began to understand that their lives meant very little to the nations of the world, and that they could depend on few people to help them. The blind hatred aimed against them would lead to the deaths of millions of individuals, and the destruction of countless communities.
After the war, Rabbi Uziel was asked how Jews should memorialize those who died in the Holocaust. His answer was powerful: we must defy the Nazis and their collaborators who attempted to destroy Jews and Jewish civilization. We can best memorialize the Jewish victims by building synagogues and Torah academies named after the Jewish communities that were wiped out. We will create new, vital Jewish life. We will raise new generations of pious, learned and dedicated Jews. We will grow and flourish, and will never forget those Jews who lost their lives in the Holocaust. The Jewish people will live, and the souls of the departed will live on through the new Jewish generations.

Uncle Joseph and family would be pleased to know that they are remembered, that they have relatives who cherish their memory and who live according to the teachings and ideals of Judaism. Am yisrael hai. Od avinu hai: the people of Israel lives, our God lives.