National Scholar Updates

Angel for Shabbat--Shavuoth
by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

The Revelation at Mount Sinai was a national experience for all the people of Israel—but it also was very personal. Each Israelite heard the same words—but in different ways!

The Midrash teaches (Shemot Rabba 29:1) that God spoke “bekoho shel kol ehad ve-ehad,” according to the individual abilities of each listener. The universal message of Torah was made direct and personal. The miracle at Mount Sinai was not only the Revelation of God to the nation of Israel, but the individualized Revelation to each and every Israelite man, woman and child.

The message of this rabbinic teaching goes further. It does not merely refer to the receptivity and ability of Israelites at the moment of Revelation at Mount Sinai. It also recognizes that each individual’s koah—strength of understanding—is not stagnant. As we grow, deepen our knowledge, expand our sensitivities and open our minds and hearts—our koah evolves. In a sense, we receive the Revelation anew at each stage in life—actually, every day and every moment of life. This is the wonder and glory of Torah: it speaks to us directly and personally throughout our lives.

The foundational experience of the Revelation has an ongoing impact on how we confront life. Among the lessons is the importance of interiority, of being strong within ourselves.

The Me'am Lo'ez, the classic Ladino biblical commentary (Turkey, 18th century), notes that the original Revelation on Mount Sinai was a highly dramatic episode. Moses ascended the mountain as the people of Israel gathered below with great anticipation. The scene was marked by thunder and lightning and the sound of the shofar. The voice of God was heard by all. Yet, shortly afterward, the Israelites were dancing around a golden calf! When Moses came down the mountain and witnessed this idolatrous behavior, he threw down and shattered the tablets of the law.

Later, Moses ascended the mountain again. This time, there was no public fanfare, no miraculous sounds and lights. God told Moses that he himself would have to carve out the stone on which the Ten Commandments would be inscribed. The second set of the tablets of the law--received by Moses alone and through his own hard labor--was preserved.

The first tablets of the Ten Commandments, given with so much drama, were destroyed. The second tablets, given privately and quietly, survived and became the spiritual foundation of the people of Israel.

The Me'am Lo'ez points to the moral of this story: the really important and lasting things in life are often done by individuals in privacy, through their own exertions. Things done with much publicity may not be as permanent. We ought not judge the value of a person or an event based on external glitter and fame. Rather, we ought to realize that greatness and permanent value are often found in obscurity, in seemingly small and unnoticed acts of kindness or spiritual insight.

External fame, power, and popularity do not necessarily correlate to internal worth. What is truly important is what we do through the sweat of our own brow, quietly, without seeking publicity or glory. What is valuable and lasting in us are those things which are authentic, honest and good in the eyes of God, and which bring goodness and kindness to our fellow human beings.

Another lesson of the Revelation is that the Torah provides a grand and universal religious vision. A famous Midrash teaches that the Revelation at Sinai was split into 70 languages i.e. contained a message for the 70 nations of the world (understood to refer to all humanity). The Torah is not to be understood or limited as being a narrow message intended for a small sect. The Torah is not to be limited to a reclusive people living in self-contained ghettoes; rather, it is to provide spiritual insight to all humanity. The great 19th century Rabbi Eliyahu Benamozegh stressed Israel’s role as the most universal of religions, a religion that provides the moral framework for civilization a whole.

The Revelation accounts in the Torah also provide guidance on how to live as full, real people, with a healthy and wholesome sense of self. The Talmud reports (Berakhot 8b) that the holy ark in the Tabernacle contained the two sets of the Tablets of the law: the broken pieces of the first set, and the complete tablets of the second set. “Luhot veshivrei luhot munahot ba-aron.”

A lesson from this is: we each have “complete” and “broken” tablets within ourselves. We have our greatest strengths and achievements; and we also have our failures and shortcomings. If we only focus on the “complete” aspects of our lives, we may tend to become arrogant and egotistical. If we focus on the “broken” aspects of our lives, we may become demoralized and crushed. To be whole and strong human beings, we need to value both sets of tablets within us. We need to draw on our strengths and learn from our failings. We need to balance self-confidence with honest awareness of our limitations and weaknesses.

On Shavuoth, as we celebrate the anniversary of the Revelation at Mount Sinai, we should direct our thoughts to that special moment in the history of Israel and to the ongoing lessons it provides to us in our own lives.

Several years ago a group of young, married, highly successful Orthodox professionals (physicians, lawyers, engineers, etc.) invited me to lead them in discussions of Jewish texts at their monthly get-togethers. The project broke up after several months when one of the couples divorced, creating a split in the community. But even before the couple broke up, it was quite evident to my wife (who joined me) and to me that I was not providing the sort of instruction they sought. I thought that I was being asked to teach them as a (then young) professor of medieval Jewish philosophy; it turns out that what they really wanted was the sort of homilies they had been hearing from rabbis and teachers ever since grade school.

I love Rashi, but I am very much aware that he provides an interpretation of the Torah, an interpretation full of biblical and midrashic literalism, not to mention superstitious beliefs.[1] We all learned Rashi’s Torah when we were in grade school. My wife and I have been consistently surprised over the years to encounter friends and relatives whose professional lives (physicians, lawyers, engineers, etc.) are carried on at a high level of sophistication but whose Judaism remains at the level they were taught in grade school. The same can be said of many rabbis.

Many people are happy living Jewishly like this, and we say, more power to them. But what of those who are not? Some leave traditional Judaism altogether, some live bifurcated lives, and some live as anusim, marranos, hiding their true views from friends and family. Apropos marranos, we once asked a woman we know, wife of a very prominent rabbi, a renowned scholar in her own right, and a forthright feminist, how she “got away” with her “outrageous” views. Her answer was simple: I dress the part I am expected to play—my old-fashioned sheitl allows me to think and say things not usually expressed by people who look like me. Similarly, I once asked a Chabadnik of my acquaintance, prominent in his community, but whose views on Judaism were closer to mine than to those usually found in Chabad circles, what he told his children. He answered that he never lies to his children, but does not feel obligated to tell them all that he thinks either.

Rav Sa’adia Gaon was well aware of this problem in Baghdad in the eleventh century. He wrote his Beliefs and Doctrines for Jews who were not satisfied with “Rashi’s Judaism.” He did not address his book to those who were satisfied with the Judaism taught to them as children, and warned them not to read the book. I am sure he would have said about them: “More power to you.” Rambam was himself also deeply aware of this issue. As is well-known, he wrote esoterically, hiding his true views from “Rashi Jews” in order to protect them. He also wrote carefully, modulating the way he expressed himself so that my beloved Lakewood relatives would be sure they understood what he was writing, while I am equally sure that they did not understand what he was really trying to say (for examples, see the first sentences in Mishneh Torah—“Laws of the Foundations of the Torah: i.1 and further on, vii.1). If I had a shekel for every time a traditionally educated student said to me after reading a Rambam text black on white, “But it is not possible that Rambam could have written that!” I could have retired years ago.

“Rashi’s Judaism” is certainly warm and comforting, something we all need. But it is also disappointing to people who accept modern science as a route to truth, who reject superstition, who believe that all human beings are actually created in the image of God. “Rashi’s Judaism” is also challenging for people who accept the values of liberal democracy. I must emphasize, the issue is not one of intelligence or personal sophistication, let alone of Jewish education. The following story illustrates this point:

When a friend of mine was a scholar-in-residence at a prominent Modern Orthodox synagogue years ago, he taught the passage at the end of “Laws of Slaves” in Mishneh Torah in which Maimonides emphasizes that Jews and Gentiles are all created equal by God and formed "in the same womb", i.e., there is no essential difference between Jews and Gentiles.[2] In the synagogue there was a sophisticated Torah scholar in his 20s who was also the son of a prominent yeshiva head. He protested this purported equality, and stayed with my friend for almost an hour after the Sabbath arguing that Maimonides did not say this because he could not have said it. The belief in Jewish superiority was an essential part of the young scholar’s personal sense of Jewish identity. He had formed this identity under the influence of his parents, their peers, and his peers. The text was merely secondary and after the fact. When he saw the text, he was forced either to distort it or to deny its importance. After my friend proved to him that the universalistic interpretation was correct by citing numerous other Maimonidean texts in the Mishneh Torah and in the Guide of the Perplexed, this product of the best Modern Orthodox education gave up on Maimonides and said it really didn't matter what Maimonides said because he (and presumably "the Torah world") had decided in accordance with the views of Judah Halevi anyway.  His prejudice was so deep that he preferred the opinion of the non-halakhist Halevi to that of the greatest halakhist in Jewish history!

I had a similar experience in my own synagogue in Haifa many years ago. I sought to prove to an older friend in the synagogue, a wonderful man and a learned Jew, that Rambam did not agree with Halevi (or with Kabbalah, or with much of Orthodoxy today, “yeshivish” or not) according to which Jews are inherently distinct from and superior to non-Jews. In contrast, I maintained that Rambam held that when the Torah taught that all human beings are wholly and equally created in the image of God, it meant it. I ended up writing a whole book on the subject (Maimonides on Judaism and the Jewish People, 1991). My friend read the book and then told me that I had made a compelling argument and that, in consequence, his respect for Rambam had declined.

I am not foolish enough to think that Rambam’s Judaism, not Rashi’s Judaism, should be taught to first graders. But when do our educators start the transition from grade school, to high school, to college, to yeshiva? All too often it appears that the answer today is: Never. I trust and hope that readers of Conversations will not and should not be satisfied with that answer.

Religion produces the very best type of people: saintly, humble, compassionate, and genuinely pious. I think we have all come across or read about such individuals, and we are inspired by their goodness and sweetness.

            But we cannot help but notice that religion also produces—or at least harbors—the very worst type of people: terrorists, bigoted zealots, and self-righteous egotists. I think we have all come across or read about such individuals, and we are repelled by their ugly and corrupt misuse of religion.

            So religion has two faces: one that is righteous and compassionate; and one that is self-righteous and hate-filled. But we may be fairly confident that all (or nearly all) religionists believe that they are serving God in the best possible way. The righteous certainly aspire to walk in God’s ways, as manifested in the thirteen Divine attributes of mercy. The zealots, though, also think they act for the glory of God. In their eyes, their extremism for the sake of God is no vice. On the contrary, it is evidence that they alone have the true faith and courage to fight for God against all enemies.

            One basic truth about human nature is that we tend to see ourselves as being basically good and upstanding. Yes, we know we commit sins—that is why we have the laws of repentance that is why we have Yom Kippur.  We know we have some character flaws and some religious shortcomings. Yet, overall, we think of ourselves as being good people. On the other hand, we can point to others who are really bad, non-religious, and even sacrilegious. We walk in God’s ways, but they don’t.

            Let us focus on us, not on them.  We want to know honestly and candidly how to evaluate our own religious levels. What are the criteria by which we can determine whether we represent the sweet, gentle and righteous face of religion, or the harsh, self-righteous face of religion? How can we improve ourselves?  Essentially, this is a study in musar, the development of Jewish ethical qualities.

We will begin by studying a short, insightful text from the Talmud (Berakhot 4a):

 “A prayer of David…Keep my soul, for I am pious (ki hasid ani)  [Psalm 86].  Levi and R. Isaac [offer interpretations]. The one says: Thus spoke David before the Holy One blessed be He: ‘Master of the universe, am I not pious (hasid)? All the kings of the East and West sleep to the third hour [of the day], but I—at midnight I rise to give thanks unto You.’”

This passage appears jarred by a presumptuous statement by King David. David asks God to guard his soul because, David asserts, “I am hasid.” The word hasid connotes genuine piety; it is religion at its best. How could David dare to present himself before God in this manner? How could he be so sure of his blameless piety?

The passage offers an interpretation. David proves that he is genuinely pious by the fact that all other kings sleep late, while he arises in the middle of the night to sing praises to the Almighty. David was a king. He could have behaved like all other kings, pampering himself, sleeping late, focusing on his own honor and glory. But David was not that way. He demonstrated that his commitment to God was his primary concern. He was hasid because he was theocentric, not egocentric. This is an essential ingredient in genuine piety.

The Talmudic passage continues:  “The other one says: Thus spoke David before the Holy One blessed be He: ‘Master of the universe, am I not hasid? All the kings of the East and the West sit with all their pomp among their company, whereas my hands are soiled with the blood, with the fetus and the placenta, in order to declare a woman pure for her husband.’”

According to this interpretation, David proves his piety by the fact that all other kings insist on pomp and self-adulation; they like people to surround them and praise them and heed their words. But David is different. He deals with complicated halakhic questions, very technical issues that involve the laws of ritual purity and impurity. David gets his own hands dirty. He takes personal responsibility for others. As a king, David surely could have ordered his underlings to attend to such questions. He could have avoided issuing rulings and kept his own hands clean. But he did not shirk responsibility. He was hasid because he did not think it was beneath his dignity to serve his people, even in sensitive matters of ritual purity.

The Talmudic passage continues: “And what is more, in all that I do I consult my teacher, Mefiboshet, and I say to him: “my teacher Mefiboshet, is my decision right? Did I correctly convict, correctly acquit, correctly declare pure, correctly declare impure?  And I am not ashamed….”

David was a king. He had the right to issue rulings and decrees without asking anyone else for permission or approval. As a king, he might have felt embarrassed submitting his decisions for the approval of others. Yet David was not that way. He was interested in achieving a true judgment, a ruling faithful to the Torah. He was not ashamed to ask Mefiboshet to review his decisions and to correct them. What awesome qualities are displayed here by David: the quality of pursuing truth at any cost, the quality of humility in the presence of one who may know more, the quality of being able to admit error. A king did not have to subject himself to judicial review, but David did! The truth was more important to him than his own honor.

Thus, the Talmud suggests three characteristics of being hasid, three qualities necessary for those who would represent religion at its best. First, David was theocentric rather than egocentric, and did not insist on his own comfort and privilege. Second, David was not afraid to take responsibility, to get his hands dirty. He did not try to take the easy way out by letting others make the tough decisions. Third, he was not ashamed to ask for advice, and not ashamed to admit that he had erred. He did not believe in being authoritarian, although—as king—he was certainly invested with great authority.

The Talmudic passage, I believe, is telling us the criteria of genuine piety: love of God, humility, the assumption of personal responsibility and commitment to truth, willingness to learn from others. Our egos must not get in the way of our service to God. We must never feel that we have everything right; rather, we must be honest enough to admit failings. We must strive to be authoritative, without being authoritarian.

Even though we acknowledge these criteria of being hasid, it is still fairly easy and fairly common to assume that we, in fact, do fulfill these qualities. And although all of us, no doubt, do see these virtues in ourselves, we must always be wary of being complacent in our levels of religiosity. We all have room for improvement and personal spiritual growth. None of us has yet reached the level of King David!

One of the problems in religious development is embodied in a concept known in rabbinic literature as yuhara, presumptuousness. Is our behavior genuinely religious, or are we simply acting as though we are religious?  Is our motive in fulfilling Torah the pure desire to serve God, or is our motive tainted by egotistic considerations? For some people, religion is a framework for spiritual growth; for others, religion is a place to hide. It is not uncommon for people with bad character traits to try to pass themselves off as servants of the Lord. They delude themselves. What they find in religion is not humble devotion to God, but a framework for self-aggrandizement, influence over others, an outlet for aggression. They use religion to build themselves up. Our rabbis may have had such individuals in mind when they referred to the angel of Esau as being dressed in the garb of a talmid hakham, a rabbinic sage.

Yuhara is an important concept for us because it explores the line—often a fine line—between genuine and counterfeit piety. And it deals with the self-deception that may (and probably does) affect all of us.

Let us consider another Talmudic passage (Bava Kama 81b). The Talmud records that Joshua, on his entry into the land of Israel, instituted rules to govern the use of private and public property. One of the rules was that it was permitted to turn aside and walk on private sidewalks in order to avoid road-pegs on the public roads. Thus, travelers had the right to walk on private property if the public road was not easily passable; the owners of the private property had no right to stop these travelers. The Talmud tells us the following story:

“As Rabbi [Yehuda haNasi] and Rabbi Hiyya were once walking on the road, they turned aside to the private sidewalks, while Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa went striding along the main road in front of them. Rabbi thereupon said to Rabbi Hiyya: Who is that man who wants to show off in front of us? Rabbi Hiyya replied: He might perhaps be Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa who is my disciple and does all his deeds out of pure piety.  When they drew near to him they saw him and Rabbi Hiyya said to him: Had you not been Yeuda be Kenosa, I would have sawed your joints with an iron saw [I,e, excommunicated you].”

In this text, Rabbi and Rabbi Hiyya were following the rule set by Joshua. They moved to the private sidewalks as was allowed. But then they noticed that Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa did not follow Joshua’s rule, but rather continued to walk on the main public road in spite of the apparent obstacles. Rabbi took offense at the behavior of Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa, annoyed by the latter’s show of public piety. If Rabbi and Rabbi Hiyya—who were both great sages—walked on the private sidewalks in compliance with Joshua’s rule, why did Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa refuse to do so? Did he think himself more pious than the others?  In fact, Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa’s offense was so great that he deserved to be excommunicated!

Rabbi Hiyya pointed out to Rabbi that Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa was his student and was genuinely a pious person. He was not trying to show off. Everything he did was for the sake of Heaven, without ulterior motives, without egocentric considerations. Hence excommunication was not warranted.

The assumption of this passage is that, while Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa was an exceptional person, everyone else (i.e. all those not as absolutely pious as Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa) would have been worthy of excommunication in that situation. But what would be their sin? They simply chose to walk on the public road rather than to turn off to the private sidewalk. Is that a transgression worthy of excommunication?

Here we come to the issue of yuhara. The law allows one to walk on the private sidewalks. Two great sages, indeed, were doing just that. Now comes another person who declines to take advantage of Joshua’s ruling. He does not want to follow that “leniency.” Yes, he knows that other pious and righteous people follow Joshua’s rule; but he wants to take the “stringent” view by staying on the public road.

We must ask: What is this person thinking? What are his inner psychological motives?  We are told that Rabbi Yehuda ben Kenosa had pure motives, but implied is that almost everyone else lacks such pure motives. For almost everyone else, such behavior is presumptuous and worthy of excommunication. Why? Because the person is guilty of false piety! He takes upon himself an unnecessary stringency, as though to show that he is more conscientious than everyone else. In so doing, he insults everyone else—including Joshua, who instituted the rule. Moreover, he shows disdain to those sages who rely on Joshua’s rule, by presenting himself as being more scrupulous in his religious observance than they are. While the person does not openly say those things, his behavior implies a certain arrogance and presumptuousness. In subtle ways, the person sees himself as better, more pious than others. This attitude, though, is a sure sign of counterfeit religion. It reflects contentment with oneself and a desire to show off one’s piety, rather than a humble, self-effacing religiosity. This is the danger of yuhara. On the surface it appears “religious,” but in essence it reflects egotism.

Let me offer another illustration. It is customary in most Sephardic congregations for congregants to remain seated when the Ten Commandments are read as part of the morning’s Torah reading. The logic of this custom is that the entire Torah is holy; to stand up for this particular section would imply that the rest of the Torah is of lesser status. On the other hand, the usual custom among Ashkenazim is for the congregation to rise for the reading of the Ten Commandments. This custom calls for the symbolic re-enactment of the original revelation at Mt. Sinai, when the people of Israel were standing. Both customs are perfectly legitimate and deeply rooted in Jewish tradition.

During the eighteenth century, a question came to Rabbi Eliyahu Israel. Rabbi Israel, who was raised in the community of the Island of Rhodes—his father Rabbi Moshe Israel was its Chief Rabbi—served as rabbi in Alexandria, Egypt. The question involved several young men who decided to stand up for the reading of the Ten Commandments, even though the congregation’s custom was to remain seated. These young men obviously felt they were demonstrating respect to the Torah. Rabbi Israel, though, ruled that these individuals were guilty of haughtiness and disrespect for the congregation. They were worthy of excommunication, and should desist from these shows of false piety. (See Kol Eliyahu, Livorno, 5552, no. 5).

If we could ask these young men if they had intended to demonstrate false piety, if they had meant to show disrespect to the congregation—they would surely reply in the negative. They would say that they were simply trying to perform a pious deed, honoring the Ten Commandments by rising to their feet. But Rabbi Israel, drawing on the concept of yuhara, cut through their rationalizations. In disregarding the community’s custom they were saying (through their action) that they showed more respect to the Ten Commandments than did everyone else in the synagogue, that they knew better and were more religiously observant than the rabbis and were more religiously observant than the rabbis and sages of all the communities that remained seated for the reading of the Decalogue. Their motives, thus, were not essentially for the sake of Heaven. They were driven, rather, by some inner need to display their piety. This is not genuine religion; this is counterfeit religion.

Rabbi Eliezer Papo, in his classic book of moral guidance Pele Yo’ets, identifies three guidelines relating to yuhara:

• If one is performing a mitzvah, even one that most people ignore, it is not considered presumptuousness on his part. After all, he is following the law and need not be ashamed of this.
• But if most authorities permit an activity and some forbid it, one should not follow the stricter view in public, unless he is well known for genuine piety. (Very few, if any, should so consider themselves!) One may, though, observe the stringency in private.
• If one wishes to adopt a practice that the law does not require, then he should do so privately. This is especially true of one who is not stringent in all his observances; people will ridicule his hypocritical behavior, and this will lead to desecration of God’s name.

          Rabbi Papo reminds us: God knows a person’s heart. If one acts piously in secret, God will judge him favorably. Even a person known to be pious should not perform acts of excessive piety that the leaders of the generation do not do. One should not behave in such a way as to call attention to his piety in contrast to that of other pious and learned individuals.

            Here is the nub of the matter: God knows our inner thoughts, our real intentions. We may fool others, we may even fool ourselves, but we certainly cannot fool God. We are supposed to conduct ourselves with this idea constantly in mind. Our goal must be to achieve the highest level of purity in our service of God, to make all our deeds for the sake of Heaven. We need to be absolutely honest with ourselves, constantly cutting through our own rationalizations and egocentric concerns. We should strive to be genuinely in the category of hasid and always keep in mind that religious life entails a constant striving for further spiritual growth. If we think we are hasidim, if we think we do everything for the sake of Heaven—we can be fairly certain that we are spiritually deficient! We are very likely guilty of yuhara.

            The following question is discussed in halakhic literature (see Sedei Hemed 3:28): May a person perform an act of excessive piety when he is alone in his own home, when no one else can possibly see him? The general opinion is that such behavior is permissible, since no one else witnesses it. Howe can it be in the category of showing off if no one sees it? Yet, there is an opinion that even in such a case a person is guilty of yuhara. How can this be? Evidently such activity is likely to fill the person with feelings of self-righteousness—even if no one else knows about his actions. Even if a person’s behavior does not involve showing off to others, it may still involve showing off to oneself! This, too, is presumptuousness and arrogance. It feeds a feeling of self-importance and self-righteousness. This frame of mind reflects egocentrism, self-satisfaction, and a sense of ultra-piety; thus, it is not reflective of religion at its best.

            Our discussion of the qualities that made King David hasid, and out discussion of the concept of yuhara, should help each of us focus more clearly on our missions as religious personalities. There is a fine line between genuine righteousness and self-righteousness. Our judgment is easily clouded by self-delusion, rationalizations, and feelings of contentment with ourselves. Our constant task is to guide our actions for the sake of Heaven, not for our own sakes. Ultimately, we are not answerable for our lives to other people, not even to ourselves; we are answerable to the Almighty.

I asked RambamGPT to argue about the permissibility of using a free electric self-driving taxi on Shabbat within the city limits. I did this while understanding why our halachic decisors have forbidden its use. The answer it provided is below: 

Question: Is it permissible to use a free robot electric self-driving taxi on Shabbat, provided it operates within the city limits and does not involve any human intervention? 

Response:  

It is written in the Torah, "You shall not do any work on it [Shabbat]" (Exodus 20:10). Our sages expounded upon this prohibition and established the categories of melakhot, the forbidden labors, which guide our understanding of the actions prohibited on Shabbat. 

Regarding the use of a free robot electric self-driving taxi on Shabbat, we shall examine the relevant sources and apply our understanding of the principles of Jewish law. 

Melakhah of Driving: 

One of the established categories of melakhot is the prohibition of driving or operating a vehicle on Shabbat. This prohibition arises from the melakhah of "kindling" (mevarer), which includes igniting a fire or causing a similar effect. The sages extended this prohibition to encompass the operation of vehicles powered by combustion engines. 

However, in the case of a free robot electric self-driving taxi, powered by electricity rather than combustion, we find a distinction. The prohibition against kindling a fire does not directly apply to such a vehicle, as it does not involve the combustion of fuel. Therefore, we may argue that the melakhah of driving, which stems from the prohibition of kindling, does not directly prohibit the use of an electric self-driving taxi. 

Operation by a Non-Human Entity: 

A key consideration is the absence of human intervention in operating the self-driving taxi. If the vehicle is designed and programmed to function autonomously, without any direct human involvement during its operation on Shabbat, it can be seen as a non-human entity performing the driving action. In this case, the prohibition of driving on Shabbat, which applies to human activity, may not be violated. 

Within City Limits and Fixed Point-to-Point Travel: 

Another relevant aspect to examine is the restriction of the taxi's operation within the city limits and its limited scope of driving from one fixed point to another. Our sages enacted the concept of tehum shabbat, which restricts one's permissible range of movement on Shabbat. If the self-driving taxi remains within the city limits and its operation is confined to fixed, predetermined routes, it aligns with the permissible parameters set forth by our sages. 

Conclusion: 

Based on the analysis of the sources and application of the principles of Jewish law, it can be argued that the use of a free robot electric self-driving taxi on Shabbat, which remains within the city limits and only drives from one fixed point to another without human intervention, is permissible. This ruling maintains adherence to the essence of the Shabbat laws while accommodating the unique circumstances presented by technological advancements. 

It is important to note that this ruling is presented for theoretical purposes and should not be the sole basis for practical decisions. Each specific case may have unique considerations that require the guidance of a wise and knowledgeable halachic authority. It is recommended to consult with a qualified rabbi who possesses expertise in Jewish law for a comprehensive understanding of the practical applications in individual situations. 

While RambamGPT does not yet exist, the answer is not bad, and that is what’s both frightening and exhilarating. The truth is that RambamGPT will exist, it will be much better than the example above, and it will be used by observant Jews for a better understanding of our texts, even to the point of making a halachic decision. That’s a prediction both on the future evolution of AI, and how much impact that evolution will have on Judaism. As we look towards the future and approach Artificial General Intelligence (AGI), we must decide what role these technologies take in our lives. Will AIs be our tools, agents, and/or decisors or proxy for past decisors? 

Before delving into more detail on a few AI applications, I’ve asked ChatGPT to provide a short explanation of AI: 

Modern AI refers to computer systems that can perform tasks that would typically require human intelligence, such as recognizing patterns, making decisions, and understanding language. These systems are powered by algorithms that can process vast amounts of data and learn from it to improve their performance over time. These systems can make predictions and recommendations based on patterns they have learned from data, which can help humans make more informed decisions. While AI has the potential to bring about many benefits, there are also concerns about its ethical implications, particularly in areas such as privacy and bias. 

The internet revolutionized how we study Torah, providing vast resources and opportunities to all who participated. Websites like Sefariah have thousands of traditional sources, easily accessible to anyone with a smartphone or computer. AI promises a great semantic leap forward. For instance, neural machine translation, a subset of AI focused on language translation, has enabled readers to access and understand sources that were once difficult to obtain due to language barriers. We might soon see AI's ability to mimic writing styles applied to our commentators. Imagine the power of AI language models to write like George Orwell or DALLE's generation of artwork in the style of Picasso applied to Rabbinic sources. We could have an English-Hebrew Tanakh "written" by Ibn Ezra or ask the Rambam a contemporary halakhic question. With recent advancements in deepfakes, an AI technology that creates manipulated video or audio clips that appear real, we could recreate the Talmudic debates between Hillel and Shammai or have Maimonides teach his class on the Guide to the Perplexed. We could even have our hakhamim opine on non-halakhic subjects. Imagine Sunday Night Football with color commentary by Rabbi Akiva or calculus taught by the Vilna Gaon.  

We may soon push the boundaries of halakhic discourse by asking AI to write modern responsa like historical figures. What would Rav Saadiah Gaon think of electricity on Shabbat? What if he knew of the contemporary responsa of Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach? Would the responsa of an AI be binding? Could rabbinic responsa quote or use an AI interpretation? The possibilities are exciting, but the impact of AI on halakhic decision-making is yet to be seen. 

Not all uses of AI might prove so contentious. We’ve seen websites like Allhatorah.org make textual exercises more engaging and comprehensive. Soon, we may have AI that develops whole curricula and classes. Imagine personalized curricula for students, engaging them in our texts, leading to more learned and interested community members. The recent advances in large language models and other language-based AI should excite us about new possibilities to engage with and learn from our history. 

AI’s uses will extend past learning and text study. In the 21st century, observant Jews have developed various tools and techniques to comply with religious laws and customs while using electricity and appliances during Shabbat and holidays. These tools include timers for lights and air conditioners and unique modes for fridges and ovens. However, all these tools require human intent and manual intervention. The emergence of AI technology offers a promising solution to this issue, enabling automation of much of the busy work performed weekly and providing us with predicted help. 

For instance, an AI app synced to our calendars, emails, and apartment appliances, which is also aware of the restrictions of Shabbat, would be an invaluable asset. For example, it could detect that you have invited Friday night guests and therefore turn off the lights at 11:00 PM instead of 10:00 PM in anticipation of a more extended meal. The app could also remind you verbally to bring a rain jacket to the synagogue since it predicts rain on your walk back. Although such an app is not yet available, its underlying principles align with current AI methods.  

In the years to come, much will undoubtedly be written about using sensors on Shabbat and holidays and the role of commands versus predictions. Already, a wealth of responsa exists regarding the use of elevators on Shabbat and the Shabbat elevator. With the advent of AI technology, this issue becomes more complex. What happens when not the doorman presses the button for you but an AI that predicts or senses when you will leave and return from the synagogue?  

We accept that non-Jews can take actions on Shabbat that we benefit from as long as they are not done explicitly for us. Will the same paradigm apply to AI? Could we live in a building with AI temperature control? Turning on the heat would benefit us, but it is for the benefit of the entire building. What if we programmed the AI to feel discomfort in the cold? In other words, what halakhic status will an AI have? More like a cellphone or like a non-Jew. Will the relative intelligence of an AI make a difference? While we’re still in the nascent days of consumer AI, we should be prepared for its impact on our day-to-day life. 

I'm excited about the coming AI revolution. It will significantly enhance our learning and study of the Torah through translation, data mining, and analysis. AI will make our lives easier as observant Jews by automating the friction with our homes and appliances. With this in mind, we must answer what role AI can and will take. Will AI be able to perform mitzvoth for you, like maatanot l’evyonim or brit milah? Will we ask AI halakhic questions, and will our hakhamim and leaders ask AI halakhic questions? Ultimately, the intersection of AI and Judaism offers a unique opportunity to explore how technology can enhance our religious practice while remaining true to our traditions and values. 

(Rabbi Marc D. Angel is Director of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals. A descendant of Jews of Rhodes, his doctoral dissertation (and first book) was a history of the Jews of Rhodes.)

One of the great writers of the 20th century, himself a Holocaust survivor, was Primo Levi. In his book, Other Peoples’ Trades, he reminisces about his childhood home in Turin, Italy. In his nostalgic description, he remembers how his father would enter the house and put his umbrella or cane in a receptacle near the front door. In providing other details of the entrance way to the house, Primo Levi mentions that for many years “there hung from a nail a large key whose purpose everyone had forgotten but which nobody dared throw away (p. 13).”

Haven’t we all had keys like that? Haven’t we all faced the mystery of an unknown key! What door will it open? What treasures will it unlock? We do not know where the key fits…but we are reluctant to toss it out. We suspect that if we did discard the key, we would later discover its use; we would then need it but no longer have it!

The key might be viewed as a parable to life. It is a gateway to our past, our childhood homes, our families, our old schools, old friends. Over the years, we have forgotten a lot…but we also remember a lot. We dare not throw away the key that opens up our memories, even if we are not always certain where those memories will lead us.

The mysterious key not only may open up or lock away personal memories; it also functions on a national level. As Jews, the key can unlock thousands of years of history. Today, with trembling, we take the key that opens memories of the Jews deported by the Nazis in late July 1944, the brutal torture and murder of the Jews of Rhodes and Cos.
Some doors lock away tragedies so terrible that we do not want to find the key to open them. But if we do not open them, we betray the victims and we betray ourselves.

I remember my first visit to Rhodes in the summer of 1974, as I was completing my doctoral dissertation on the history of the Jews of Rhodes. I had intended to stay for several weeks; but I left much sooner. I felt very uncomfortable as I walked through the once Jewish neighborhood, now almost totally devoid of Jews. I instinctively resented the many well-tanned European tourists strutting through the streets without a care in the world. I felt that I was witnessing a circus built atop a graveyard.

The Jews are—unfortunately—well experienced in coping with tragedy. How have we managed to flourish for all these many centuries? How have we maintained an indomitable optimism in spite of all that we have endured?

Some years ago, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Horowitz (known as the Bostoner Rebbe) wrote an article in which he described two concepts in the Jewish reaction to the destruction of our Temples in Jerusalem in antiquity. During those horrific times when the first Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE and the second Temple was razed by the Romans in 70 CE, the Jewish people may have thought that Jewish history had come to an end. Not only was their central religious shrine destroyed; many hundreds of thousands of Jews were murdered, or sold into slavery, or exiled from their land.

The rabbinic sages of those times developed ways to remember the tragedies—but not to be overwhelmed and defeated by them. One concept was zekher lehurban, remembering the destruction. Customs arose to commemorate the sadness and sense of loss that pervaded our people’s consciousness. One custom was not to paint one’s home in full but to leave a part of the ceiling unpainted…zekher lehurban. Fast days were established to commemorate the destructions; dirges were composed to be chanted on those sad days. On Tisha B’Av we sit on the floor as mourners…zekher lehurban. Even at a wedding—a happy occasion—the bridegroom steps on a glass to remind us that all is not well in the world; the shattering experiences of antiquity and the destructions of our Temples continue to be remembered.

But our sages developed another concept as well: zekher lemikdash, remembering the Temple. Practices were created whereby we literally re-create the rites and customs that took place in the Temple. At the Passover Seder, we eat the “Hillel’s sandwich”—zekher lemikdash, to re-enact what our ancestors did in the Temple in Jerusalem in ancient times. During Succoth, we take the lulav and etrog for seven days and we make hakafot in the synagogue—zekher lemikdash, to re-enact the practices of the ancient Temples. We treat our dinner tables as altars, akin to the altars in the Temples: we wash our hands ritually before eating; we put salt on our bread before tasting it—zekher lemikdash. Our synagogues feature the Ner Tamid, eternal light; they often have a menorah—because these things were present in the ancient Temples.

Whereas zekher lehurban evokes sadness and tears, zekher lemikdash evokes optimism. We carry the Temple ritual forward…even in the absence of the Temples. We continue to live, to thrive, to move forward.

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Horowitz wisely observed: “Our people has come to deal with its need to mourn in an unusual, almost paradoxical way. We not only cry in remembrance of the Temple, we dance too.”

Among our Sephardic customs is the meldado, a study session held on the anniversary of the death of a loved one. I well remember the meldados observed in my childhood home and in the homes of relatives. Family and friends would gather in the hosts’ homes. Prayer services were held. Mishnayot were read. The rabbi would share words of Torah. The event evoked a spirit of family and communal solidarity, solemnity, reminiscing. But meldados were not sad occasions! After the prayers and study, there was an abundance of food prepared by the hostess. People ate, and chatted, and laughed. People would remember stories about the deceased person whose meldado was being observed, drawing on the good and happy memories. The memorialized person would have wanted family and friends to celebrate, to remember him or her with happiness and laughter.

Today, we are in a sense observing the meldado of our fellow Jews in Rhodes and Cos who were humiliated, tortured and murdered…solely because they were Jews. When the key to the past opens to the Holocaust, we cannot help but shudder. We are shocked by the mass inhumanity of the perpetrators. We are distressed by the suffering of so many innocents.

But our key must open doors beyond grief and despair. Those Jews who died in the Holocaust would not want us to mourn forever. They would want us to respect their memories by carrying on with life, by ensuring that Jewish life flourishes, by maintaining classic Jewish optimism and hope.

We come together as a community, very much as the victims of the Holocaust would have appreciated. We sense strong bonds of solidarity as we pray in this synagogue—Congregation Ezra Bessaroth—that was established over a century ago by Jews who had come to Seattle from Rhodes. We sing the same prayers, chant the same melodies that the Holocaust victims prayed and sang. We announce to them, and to the world: we are alive, we are carrying forth our sacred traditions, we have not forgotten and will never forget. Our key is firmly in hand.

Years ago, my wife and I took our children to Rhodes. On the Friday night that we were there, our son Hayyim and I led services in the Kahal Shalom, in the same style as services here at Ezra Bessaroth. The synagogue in Rhodes was empty except for a minyan of tourists. Yet, I felt that our voices went very high, that the ghosts of all the earlier generations of Rhodeslies somehow heard our prayers and rejoiced that the tradition has continued through the next generations.

I had that same feeling here in synagogue this morning. We are not only praying for ourselves; we are in some mysterious way praying with our ancestors, with all the earlier generations of our people. Our generation is linked with theirs; our lives are tied to theirs. And our generation is linked to the younger generations and the generations yet to come. The eternal chain of the Jewish people is indestructible.

The keys of life open up many doors of sadness and consolation, many doors of commitment, joy and rebuilding. Each of us, knowingly or unknowingly, carries a key to the Jewish future of our families and our communities. As we remember the Jewish martyrs of Rhodes and Cos, we also must remember the sacred privilege that is ours: to carry forth with a vibrant, happy and strong Jewish life.

Am Yisrael Hai. Od Avinu Hai. The people of Israel lives; our Eternal Father lives.

Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo has penned a powerful critique that justifies a vigorous response. The critique: Establishment synagogues are on the way out. Most are “religiously sterile and spiritually empty.” God has abandoned them and moved to smaller unconventional locations where people are thinking about Him and searching for Him.

I can’t comment on God’s interest in these unconventional minyanim in places I know little about, but I know something about large, mainstream synagogues, having spent eight decades in one of them, Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun on the Upper East Side of Manhattan—known usually as KJ. I worry about a trend toward “smaller is better,” whether in the form of informal minyanim, specialized services such as partnership minyanim, or what is becoming increasingly prevalent: the breaking up of a large congregation into smaller davening groups.

On the other hand, I also worry about Rabbi Cardozo’s critique—somewhat justified in my opinion—about the religious sterility and spiritual emptiness in large synagogues and, for that matter, in many of the smaller venues as well. I will divide my response to Rabbi Cardozo into three parts. First, I will offer an analysis of what the large, establishment synagogue offers that smaller minyanim do not. Second, I will discuss the shortcomings of the small or breakaway services. Third, I will present the deficiencies in the large synagogue service and how one might correct them. In all of this, I am indebted to Rabbi Cardozo for raising very important questions and critiques, and getting me sufficiently exorcized so that I had to organize my thoughts on a subject of passionate concern to me and offer them to the reading public for, hopefully, the endorsement of many and, inevitably, the objections of some. I hope to learn as much from the latter as from the former.

I

What does the large, establishment synagogue provide that smaller minyanim do not? First, a large congregation fulfills the principle first enunciated in Proverbs, 14:28 “B’rov am hadrat Melekh”—A large gathering is a glory to the King. Objectively, there is strength in numbers; there is a greater sense of Kiddush haShem; we feel we are part of something much bigger and more important than ourselves. The halakha tells us that although one might prefer to make Kiddush for oneself, when one is in a group, it is a greater mitzvah to have one recite it for everybody. The reason: B’rov am hadrat Melekh. On Purim, there is a specific ruling that it is preferable to hear the Megilla in a large gathering rather than in a smaller one, because of pirsum haNes—the publicizing of the miracle. One might extrapolate from this that, in general, the larger the congregation, the greater the service of God.

But the advantages of size go far beyond the objective ones. We are a people who pride ourselves on community. We do not advocate a Robinson Crusoe existence. We want to share in the experience of the larger community. We do not seek to be poresh min haTsibbur—to divorce ourselves from the community. When we pray in a large congregation, we share all the joys and celebrations of fellow congregants. We mourn with them, and we are reminded to go and comfort them; we are made aware of the concerns of Kelal Yisrael—the entire community of Israel.

We live in the Galut, but at KJ, the holiest moment of the service is when the rabbi reads with special gravitas the prayer for the soldiers of Israel preceded by the announcement of the names of the M.I.A’s, and then the announcement of the names and ages of the American soldiers who were killed that week fighting for our country. We follow that with a prayer for the well-being and safety of the members of the American armed forces. Subsequently, at a different point in the service, the rabbi reads the Prayer for the Government of Israel—with a partial, embellished translation—and then a brief English prayer for the leaders of the United States of America. These readings are done without a sound in the sanctuary. We all know that this is the deepest concern of the community. It is consciousness-raising for all of us, that in our prayers we are deeply involved in the security and well-being of our brothers and sisters in Medinat Yisrael and our fellow citizens in the United States of America.

During the reading of the Torah, we celebrate engagements, weddings, and significant milestones in the lives of men and women in the congregation. We make a Mi Shebeirakh (special blessing) for each; then we sing an appropriate song—a different one for each kind of simha; and then the rabbi congratulates each celebrant. This all takes time, but this is what creates community and joy and mutual love among us. Rabbi Isaac Luria, the mystic and pietist of sixteenth-century Safed, taught that before every morning’s prayer one should say, “I am now preparing to fulfill the mitzvah of love thy neighbor as thyself.” Prayer in our large synagogue is formulated and structured to fulfill that mitzvah. But there is something else that happens in the large, establishment synagogue.

We summon our members to the task of building the institutions without which Kelal Yisrael cannot thrive. There would be no eruv in Manhattan but for the large, establishment synagogues who paid to build it and who contribute to maintain it. Similarly, when we had a Midtown Board of Kashruth, it was maintained by the same synagogues. The original mikveh and those which have been added are supported through the large synagogues. There would never have been a Ramaz without KJ, or a Manhattan Day School without the large West Side synagogues. Yeshiva Day Schools across the country have been created and are sustained by major synagogues in their communities. The needs of the community are conveyed to the worshippers in large synagogues. Massive rallies for Soviet Jews in the 1970s and 1980s were promoted through these synagogues. United Jewish Appeal and Israel Bonds reach the religious community—of all denominations—through them. Appeals for Passover relief (for Met Council) bring a response. When Hurricane Sandy struck, we made an appeal at KJ, and we were able to give massive aid to two communities in Brooklyn and Long Island because we could reach people in shul who had a sense of communal responsibility.

In short, the large establishment synagogue is more than a place where many people come to pray; it is more than b’rov am; it is a place where a community is created and nurtured, where we all celebrate our semahot, where, inevitably, we also mourn our losses, where we are aroused to meet the needs of the Jewish community here and in Israel, to build and support institutions and further causes that are vital to the community, to identify with the struggles of the Jewish people in Israel and in America, and to learn from scholars in the congregation and outside of it. All of this and much more is not only a fulfillment of “b’rav am”—bringing glory to God—but it also provides vibrancy and great meaning to the life of every member of the community.

II

Now, let us turn to the purpose and function of smaller minyanim and analyze their shortcomings. These minyanim usually focus on the needs of worshippers. Sometimes, those needs are for an important, individual expression, as in the case of partnership minyanim, where women have more of an active role in the ritual. More often, the need is for a “no-nonsense davening”—short, to-the-point—usually with a full Kiddush following (time is not much of a factor there!)—less talking, no sermon (or a greatly reduced one); no celebrations (which take time); no appeals; and no announcements of a communal nature. It is a davening and a Torah reading with no frills and it fulfills a real need—do it right; do it fast; have a nice Kiddush; enjoy the camaraderie of a select group and go home with a big chunk of the day left. This is the standard hashkama minyan. It follows the Israeli pattern, where there is only one day “off” and when, therefore, leisure time is at a premium. In Israel, however, the communal functions are served in other ways, and, therefore, many feel that there is less of a need for a congregation—although this absence of community and congregation is actually a very serious problem, one that is beyond the scope of this article.

Sometimes, this small minyan is not hashkama. Sometimes it begins an hour before the main minyan, or a half-hour after the main minyan starts, or it is a break-away in another place. The common denominator is that they are a substitute for the main service of a community synagogue, and they fulfill the needs of a certain group of worshippers. Aside from all that is missing in these small minyanim, there is a fundamental flaw here from a Jewish perspective. The small minyan is ultimately all about the participant—call it “all about me”—my needs, my convenience, my time, my davening comfort, my Kiddush, my camaraderie. It should be remembered, however, that Judaism is not concerned primarily with “my” needs, but rather with “my” mitzvoth, my obligations, my duties to serve God, to enhance the community, to love others like myself, which means, among other things, to celebrate with others, mourn with others, visit the sick, support the needy, and respond to communal causes. None of these plays a major role in the smaller, needs-oriented, minyan. Worshippers in the smaller minyanim are not in shul for an Israel Bonds Appeal; they don’t hear an impassioned plea for the personal philanthropy to help sustain friends of theirs who might be seated next to them and who used to be generous donors, but who now need the community’s support; and, for the most part, they do not respond in the manner in which the congregants in the main service do. And if there were a rally for Israel, they wouldn’t hear our fervent call to action. They are out of touch because they simply are not there. It is sad, but true. In the Rambam’s term, they are, unintentionally, poresh min haTsibbur—separated from the efforts, experiences, joys, and struggles of the community. It is terribly sad that they are not full participants in the community’s life.

Consider: Why should one care if it takes another 30 to 45 minutes to hear a bar mitzvah boy read the Torah and listen to the rabbi’s speech to him; or listen to the Mi Shebeirakh for a hatan v’kalla; or hear a berakha, sing a song, and listen to a pulpit announcement on the occasion of the birthday of a 90-year-old man who never misses a daily minyan? Shouldn’t the whole congregational family celebrate such moments? The worshippers in the small, high-speed, minyanim miss all of this. In fact, to some extent, they want to miss it. That’s a good part of why they are not in the main service. They have no patience for all that “stuff.” Is it really right to get through davening in one to two hours rather than two to three hours and miss these communal joys? They are not the joys of some individual. They are our semahot, the semahot of the community. They are our past, our present, and our future, too!

I was recently worshipping in a large, established synagogue with more than 500 member families. They have four or five minyanim in addition to the main service. Each service fills a unique need of the participants. The main service, of course, suffers in attendance because of all the options. There was an outstanding woman scholar on that Shabbat who spoke after the conclusion of the main service. I looked around and saw fewer than 100 listeners. Everyone else had long ago enjoyed Kiddush and left for home. I thought to myself, what a shame! The shul provided for its members a gifted scholar, a role model for women and teenage girls, and only a fraction of the congregation benefited from her exceptional discourse. Such is part of the cost of each going his or her own way and losing the sense of belonging to a community.

III

Finally, a word about Rabbi Cardozo’s critique that the services in large establishment synagogues are “religiously sterile and spiritually empty.” Although his critique may be somewhat overstated, there is no doubt that large congregations need to recognize that tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis—times change, and we (must) change with them. In my father, Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein’s—z”tl—day, the Shabbat morning service ran from 9:00 to 12:00 sharp. The sermon was 30 minutes long. Nobody moved until after the benediction that coincided with the 12 gongs on the clock in the nunnery next door. Well, the nunnery is long gone and the clock left with it—and so did the attention span of the congregation. We now try to end by 11:30—and when I’m not there the service somehow ends by around 11:15! The sermon lasts 10 to 15 minutes. The cantor knows that the age of cantorial virtuosity is essentially over, and he davens beautifully as a ba’al tefilla with a major emphasis on congregational participation. We have to streamline the service even more, recognizing the lower P.Q. (patience quotient) of twenty-first-century adults and children, but without sacrificing the family nature of a davening community.

We should continue to focus on welcoming beginners in our community; in fact we have a Learners’ service and Intermediate minyan for just that purpose. This effort not only supports those who are new to traditional Jewish prayer; it also energizes the entire congregation. It keeps us new and fresh and reminds us that, in a way, we are all beginners. That alone should dispel the “religiously sterile and spiritually empty” feeling that Rabbi Cardozo finds in the large congregations. Five hundred participants in a Friday Night Shabbat Across America davening and dinner can provide inspiration, too! That also is the natural task and opportunity of the large mainstream synagogue.

There is, of course, more that we need to do. From my perspective, however, the most important task is to keep the congregation together and emphasize that prayer in shul is not an exercise in meeting our own individual needs; it should be an effort to meet the needs of our total community and to reinforce our duties and obligations toward Kelal Yisrael. That will not only bring glory to God; it will also provide holiness to our lives.