National Scholar Updates

Angel for Shabbat—Matot/Masei

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

In John Steinbeck’s story, “The Leader of the People,” an old man is fixated on his past role leading a wagon train across America in the 19^th century. He endlessly repeats stories of his adventures, much to the annoyance of his son-in-law. His daughter is more sympathetic; she understands that the meaning of her father’s life was bound to his journey across the country. His heart must have sunk when he first caught sight of the Pacific Ocean; the goal had been reached. There was nowhere further to go. The highlight of his life was in the past.

A lesson:  the journey itself is ultimately more valuable—in certain ways—than achieving the goal. As long as the journey continues, there is excitement, anticipation, hope.

This week’s Torah reading concludes the first four books of the Bible. Fittingly, the last parasha is entitled Masei—journeys. In a sense, the entire first four books of the Torah describe a journey, beginning with the history of humanity, the emergence of the People of Israel and its unique relationship with God, and the experiences from slavery to redemption to forty years wandering in the wilderness. With parashat Masei, they are reaching the conclusion of their journey as they ready themselves to enter the Promised Land. The last book of the Torah, Devarim, is essentially Moses’s recap of the history and laws as recorded in the first four books.

It is noteworthy that the Torah is centered on the role of the journey; it does not include new chapters about the Israelites actually entering the Promised Land. In our religious tradition, we celebrate the redemption from Egypt on Pessah, the Revelation at Sinai on Shavuoth, and God’s providence over Israel in the wilderness on Succoth.  We don’t have a festival celebrating the day Israel entered the Promised Land.

Tractate Berakhot ends with a passage declaring that Torah scholars have no peace, not in this world and not in the next world. They are constantly involved in facing new challenges; they go “mehayil el hayil,” from one battle to the next, from strength to strength. They thrive because they stay in process, moving from one goal to the next. The message is true for all who wish to live productive forward-looking lives: keep moving, keep engaged. When you reach one goal, immediately set out on your way to a new goal.

The old man in Steinbeck’s story hit a psychological block and couldn’t get beyond it. He had achieved something great in the past but he didn’t go “from strength to strength.” The journey of his life was in the past, and now he was simply marking time remembering and retelling stories of the old times.

The Torah teaches us not to fall into that situation. We are to see life as a journey with an unfolding road ahead. When we reach one goal, we should then look ahead to our next goal. Once we stop this process, our lives stagnate and regress into the past.

Maimonides, Spinoza and Us: Toward an Intellectually Vibrant Judaism, by Marc D. Angel, Jewish Lights Publishing, Woodstock, 2009

Reviewed by Francis Idris

Rabbi Dr Marc D Angel’s Maimonides, Spinoza and Us sits in a very specific intellectual tension that most books avoid on purpose. Published in 2009 by Jewish Lights Publishing, it does something slightly risky in plain sight. It puts Maimonides and Spinoza in the same room and refuses to let either behave like a museum piece. One is the rationalist inside tradition. The other is the excommunicated heretic who still somehow keeps influencing modern religious thought. That pairing alone already feels like a conversation that should not be polite.

And yet the tone is not academic distance. It reads more like a living argument that refuses to end. Reason and revelation are not treated as opposing camps to be safely labeled. They are treated like two people who keep interrupting each other mid-sentence. There is a quiet insistence underneath it all, that a thinking Jew should not have to amputate intellect to remain faithful. That line alone. It lands hard. Especially in rooms where questioning is already frowned upon.

What stands out, almost uncomfortably, is how direct the book is about superstition and authority. It does not whisper around the edges of religious discomfort. It names the problem of blind veneration and irrational belief without flinching. And coming from Rabbi Marc D Angel, Rabbi Emeritus of Congregation Shearith Israel in New York, founder of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, that critique carries weight that is not theoretical. It comes from inside the system it is questioning. That is not a safe position. It never was.

There is something almost ironic here. A Sephardic rabbinic leader born in Seattle, with nearly forty books behind him, writes one of the clearest defenses of intellectual honesty in modern Judaism, and yet the book itself ends up living in a very narrow corridor. Too philosophical for casual religious readers. Too religious for pure academic philosophy shelves. It ends up in that strange middle space where thinking people quietly find it, and quietly pass it to someone else. No noise. Just transfer.

And that detail matters. Because the book is not abstract theory. It is aimed directly at the kind of reader who feels spiritually homeless while still wanting to remain inside tradition. That specific tension, loving Torah but refusing to turn off the mind, is not a broad audience. It is a very particular kind of discomfort. The kind that does not advertise itself. It just sits there. Quiet. Persistent.

There is a line in the work that essentially exposes the entire paradox. The idea that the Torah path is narrow, with fire on one side and ice on the other. That image is almost too precise for modern religious discourse. Not poetic decoration. A warning about balance that assumes constant intellectual pressure. Most readers do not realize how rare it is to see Spinoza and Maimonides used together without one being treated as an enemy of the other. Here they are collaborators in argument. Strange alliance. It works.

But here is the part that feels almost absurd. A book that explicitly validates the thinking religious reader, the one who refuses both extremism and silence, is still largely discovered by accident. Even though it is already praised by scholars like Menachem Kellner and Neil Gillman, it does not consistently reach the very people it describes. The ones sitting inside congregations thinking privately, am I allowed to think like this. Yes. But they never see the answer sitting nearby.

That gap is where my attention goes. Not changing the argument. Not reshaping the theology. Just making sure the book is not waiting in the wrong shelf space while the exact readers it was written for keep assuming they are alone in the question. Because right now, intellectual honesty in Judaism is being searched for in fragments, while this text already holds it in a structured form that feels almost unreasonably calm about difficult questions.

And there is something unfinished about that. A book about ideas that transcend time and space, still sitting slightly outside the line of sight of the very minds it was written to steady… almost like it is waiting for someone to notice it is already speaking their language before they even finish forming the question.

(The book can be ordered from Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/maimonides-spinoza-and-us-turner-publishing-company/1126846314?ean=9781683361848)

1. Do you sense that Orthodoxy has been moving to the right? To the left? Other?

I think it’s helpful to understand why we often discuss “rightward” and “leftward” movements within American Orthodox Judaism. In 2006, the sociologist Samuel Heilman coined the term, “sliding to the right.” It was the title of his important tome that, as the subtitle indicated, explored the “contest for the future of American Jewish Orthodoxy.” Heilman’s book studied everyday life: for example, college enrollment, yeshiva study in Israel, and attitudes toward culture and technology. His conclusion was that the rising generation of traditional-leaning Jews had moved the boundary lines of what is and what isn’t Orthodox Judaism. In each case, those lines “slid” further to the right, shrinking the acceptability of so-described Modern Orthodox practices and placing greater power in the hands of those who subscribed to the values and beliefs of the “rightward” yeshiva world. 

            Five years later, Yehuda Turetsky and Chaim Waxman authored an article that questioned Heilman’s findings. The pair interviewed 50 women and men who described their religious beliefs as in concert with Modern Orthodox Judaism. The interviewees expressed to Turetsky and Waxman a concern for how Hareidi (Israel) and Yeshivish (U.S.) rabbis had banned books and people; most notably, the “excommunicated” Rabbi Natan Slifkin. Those interviewed also expressed an openness for advanced Torah study for women, as well as some inclusion for women in synagogue rituals. They therefore found, in opposition to Heilman, a competing “slide to the left.” 

            Both approaches are compelling, making it difficult to easily plot the trajectory of Orthodox Judaism in the United States. Simply put, it seems a mistake to suggest that Orthodox practice (and belief) has moved from a “left-leaning” liberal attitude to a “right-pulling” conservatism and rigidness. This narrow view of history is too simple when we account for the variety of forces weighing upon Orthodox observance. The history of “change” is rarely binary. Change, I’d say, does not move two-dimensionally along an x-axis. Change moves in oft-unchartable strides. It does this because change doesn’t occur in a vacuum. It sometimes moves unconsciously, reacting to indigenous extratextual conditions. For Orthodox Judaism, a list of those external forces include culture, politics, technology, as well as legal and economic variables. 

Orthodox Judaism has bargained, to borrow a term from scholars of the American Amish, with modernity in complicated ways. Take, for instance, the gray areas of Jewish jurisprudence, as I have argued, from the rise and fall of peanut oil in Ashkenazic-practicing homes on Passover (it has been labeled “kitniyot”) to the emergence of bat mitzvah ceremonies in Orthodox spaces. Peanut oil was “the Passover oil” in the immediate postwar period, approved by all kosher certification agencies. There were no audible grumblings from more stringent Hungarian Jews until the 1960s. Bat mitzvah, on the other hand, was a decidedly Conservative Jewish practice in the 1950s and rarely done in Orthodox circles. In the case of peanut oil, the Orthodox community banned it and moved to the “right,” while in the latter instance, bat mitzvah rituals, we have moved very far to the “left.” Factor in consumerism (Passover vacations, boutique toys, and other Orthodox products), dating practices, and women in the workforce, and you will further bollix notions of linear movements to one direction or another.

Consider, as well, the uneven reception of Torah study and leadership opportunities for women. It is probably a fair assessment to conclude that most Orthodox communities have not warmed to women clergy but have expanded the scope of learning available to Orthodox women. But the notion of “clergy” is curious; and it is absolutely the case that women have been made leaders in some of the most ardently Orthodox communities, even if it hasn’t taken place on a pulpit. In 2015, two rebbetzins—rabbis’ wives—successfully argued in a courtroom in Portland, Oregon, that they were not required to testify in a divorce trial because they ought to enjoy “clergy privilege” and exempt from sharing conversations held in confidence with members of their community. The representatives of these women, belonging to what might be described as a “rightwing” segment of the Orthodox community, claimed that “it was reasonable to argue that despite Orthodoxy’s position that women cannot be ordained rabbis, the kollel wives were in fact officially hired by the Kollel to ‘minister’ to the community in vital ways that overlapped with the duties of clergy.” In all these instances, it is apparent that modernity has posed challenges and opportunities for Orthodox Jews to grapple with their own red lines and develop creative responses to how this community engages with their American environs. In some cases, change can be interpreted as a movement to the right. In others, it is altogether clear that change shifted things leftward. Upon observing this phenomenon, I argued in my recent book, that all American tradition-bound faiths, Orthodox Judaism included, are in search for “authenticity.” The quest for authenticity, a hard-to-describe sentiment, takes a group in a myriad of directions. 

1. What would you consider the proper “center” and how is that center doing?

First, some history. The “center,” as in “Centrist Orthodoxy,” had a short shelf life. In the 1980s, Modern Orthodox Judaism rebranded itself as “Centrist Orthodoxy.” In 1986, Rabbi Norman Lamm, president of Yeshiva University, authored a visionary essay on Centrist Orthodox Judaism in the pages of Tradition. Two decades earlier, Rabbi Lamm had been one of the key figures to popularize the term, “Modern Orthodoxy.” By the mid-1980s, Rabbi Lamm believed that “modern” somehow connoted religious compromise, which was never his intention. Drawing from Rambam’s (and Aristotle’s) Golden Mean, Rabbi Lamm preached his movement’s belief in moderation and nuance in the areas of higher learning and Western culture. Centrist Orthodoxy, like Modern Orthodoxy before it, valued Religious Zionism. 

Others added to Rabbi Lamm’s list. For example, Rabbi Gilbert Klaperman, president of the Rabbinical Council of America, confessed to his colleagues at the rabbinical group’s Midwinter Conference in Upstate New York that he and other “Centrists” were “being drawn to the right by the adamant inflexibility of those who are at the right.” In time, by the end of the 1990s, Rabbi Lamm and others reclassified themselves as Modern Orthodox Jews. Since then, some have preserved “Centrist Orthodox Judaism” as a moniker that represents something a bit more religiously conservative while others have used the term interchangeably with Modern Orthodoxy. Sociologist Sylvia Fishman provided an interesting taxonomy in her Ways into the Varieties of Jewishness.

How is this subgroup of Orthodox Judaism faring? In terms of numbers, it’s clear that it is no longer the dominant community. In 2013, the Pew Research Center published “A Portrait of Jewish Americans.” The report was a landmark population study of Jews in the United States. Among its findings, Pew tabulated about 5 million Jews, about 10 percent of whom belong to the Orthodox group. Within that smaller group, 30 percent self-identify as “Modern Orthodox.” According to my math, this suggests that the Modern Orthodox number just 150,000 women and men. The more recent Pew survey completed in 2020 does not drill down on these figures but the dataset available online confirms that the Modern (or Centrist) Orthodox are no longer the mainstream of Orthodox Jewish life in the United States. 

            Why not? I’d offer that it’s because the tenets of Modern Orthodoxy are no longer all that distinguishable from the yeshiva world. The latter has softened its stance on Israel; the erstwhile anti-Zionists (save for Satmar) are by and large non-Zionists. The yeshiva world visits Israel, champions it, and votes for American politicians who they believe best serve Israel’s interests. In addition, the Modern Orthodox and Orthodox Right are much closer aligned in terms of higher education. The yeshiva world has developed partnerships with universities to help their children earn degrees in “practical” fields such as accounting and the health sciences. Their children enroll in top medical schools and elite law schools. With great ingenuity, the Orthodox Right produces manuals to help young people navigate the higher education system to obtain degrees through online programs. One of the most comprehensive is Reuven Frankel’s The Bochur’s Guide to College.

            Meanwhile, the Modern Orthodox have cooled to the liberal arts and the traditional undergraduate experience. Some (understandably) worry about how their children will do on a secular college campus, amid BDS and rising antisemitism. Even before this, though, about 20 years ago, two Ivy League graduate students, Gil Perl and Yaakov Weinstein, wrote a pamphlet titled, “A Parents’ Guide to Orthodox Assimilation on University Campuses.” The short tract with a Modern Orthodox audience in mind warned about the perils of the campus quad. It received significant attention; it was passed around in yeshivot and seminaries in Israel and discussed at many Hillels throughout the United States. 

It's not just the social and cultural aspects of college life. The Modern Orthodox—like so many Americans—have counseled their youngsters to forsake “impractical” degrees in the humanities in favor of business programs, computer science, and other professional-minded tracks. Consider the case of Yeshiva University. In 1987, YU opened the Sy Syms School of Business in response to student requests for “new areas of interest.” President Norman Lamm anticipated the criticism. Even as a minority of students pleaded for business programs, he was adamant that YU remain a liberal arts school. YU’s business school, therefore, trumpeted Rabbi Lamm, “insists on a liberal dose of the liberal arts.” He remained resolutely opposed to total vocationalism and intended for the business school to retain a small portion of the university’s total undergraduate offerings. Today, Sy Syms’ male student body is larger than (the all-male) Yeshiva College’s (Stern College for Women is still much larger than the women’s cohort at Sy Syms). Withal, and due to a lower birthrate than families belonging to the yeshiva world, it is little wonder that the Modern Orthodox community is not growing, at least not at the same rapid pace of the Orthodox Right.

1. What are the three greatest challenges facing Modern Orthodoxy today?

First, politicization. By this, I do not mean that Modern Orthodox Jews have en bloc taken up a particular political party’s cause or voted in a monolithic way. Modern Orthodox Jews probably vote somewhere in between the GOP-leaning Orthodox Right and the majority of American Jews who have, since FDR, voted for Democrats. By politicization, I have in mind the recent discourse about Modern Orthodox Judaism that has centered on politics rather than faith. This is not new in the history of American religion. For instance, in the decades leading up to the Civil War, politics (slavery) split Baptists and Methodists into “northern” and “southern” sections. The United States’ democratic processes are contentious and deeply meaningful; as a result, they tend to absorb considerable discussion and secrete into other areas of life—education, sports, and popular culture, to list a few. Perhaps, then, it was inevitable that matters such as LGBTQ+ and First Amendment issues would eventually dominate the conversations of Modern Orthodox Jews in the media and around the Shabbat table. Yet, it has come at the expense of Modern Orthodoxy spending time on pressing religious concerns: These include refining its approach to Torah study, revitalizing its synagogues, and forming new agencies and ideas to better support its constituencies. 

            Second, expertise. A dozen years ago, researchers Randall Stephens and Karl Giberson authored a brilliant monograph on expertise in the American evangelical community. Their work, The Anointed, demonstrated how the Christian Right elevated self-taught and self-described experts to champion “Evangelical Truth in a Secular Age.” These men (few of these experts were women) published books, wrote articles and took to other forms of modern media to weigh in on science, politics, and history. Their goal was to provide an alternative and “safer” form of truth that could, in their minds, better jibe with their communities’ religious and social sensibilities. Very often, these evangelical exponents deployed rhetorical apologetics and made statements without the sufficient scholarly scaffolding to make cogent and compelling arguments—at least not the kind that would satisfy the most learned. While some within this group such as the historian Mark Noll, described this phenomenon as the “scandal of the Evangelical Mind,” many pious Protestants have felt more comfortable with internal experts, no matter how these individuals compare to scholars and researchers who had trained and received credentials from American universities.

            In the 1960s, the same was the case for the yeshiva world. Their magazines described “newfangled” research in psychology and education. They also worried about the research produced by women and men who were part of the nascent field of Jewish Studies. They often positioned these flawed disciplines against the flawlessness of Daas Torah, a term that denotes a belief in an unimpeachable form of rabbinic wisdom. 

More subtly and more recently, the Modern Orthodox have revealed the same concerns about elevating experts, even within their own community, who possess top credentials. More often than not, congregational rabbis and yeshiva heads are asked to opine on mental health, dating advice, and lecture in the areas of science, history, and philosophy. In some instances, these rabbis and religious leaders possess relevant credentials. Rarely, however, do they conduct research, write, or, I suspect, generally keep up with their peers in the field. Modern Orthodox communities have become much better about inviting a small (but growing) cluster of women leaders to speak on a myriad of issues. But, like their male counterparts, these women are often asked to speak about areas far beyond their specializations. 

            Confounding this further is social media and the relatively low cost of publication. On the one hand, social media has democratized discourse, permitting many people to obtain a voice on various platforms and podcasts. On the other hand, the phenomenon has short-circuited the vetting process. While it is hardly the case that all articles and books published decades ago were the finest works of scholarship, there are, at present, no controls on material produced for wide consumption and consideration. The result of this and the decline of expertise in the Modern Orthodox fold is that there is no very trustworthy forum for intelligent conversation about Modern Orthodox Judaism.

            Third, economics. It is very expensive to live a Modern Orthodox lifestyle. The cost of education is particularly painful. Day School and college are very expensive. Tuition for families, say, with four children enrolled in Day School and summer camp can run, easily, about $120,000 (and that’s after taxes). Rising mortgage rates and housing costs just add to the high cost of Modern Orthodox living. To be sure, it’s not cheap to live in the yeshiva world. Yet, the Orthodox Right, it is my sense, finds philanthropic and government resources (troubling exposés in the media, notwithstanding), to help subvent some costs. 

1. What positive developments do you sense for contemporary Modern Orthodoxy?

It is too soon to speculate about our post-pandemic Modern Orthodox communities. No doubt, synagogues and their leaders have had to reconsider the needs of their congregants. Likewise, Day Schools, forced to pivot and improvise during the “shutdown” Covid period, have learned a lot about their capacities and their ongoing needs for professional development. As for economics, especially amid rising interest rates and inflation, it is far too soon to prognosticate remedies. However, it is heartening to observe the efforts of the Orthodox Union and other agencies who have worked closely with state-level lawmakers to find funding to support Jewish education. In short, the crisis wrought by the Covid-19 pandemic has forced all types of people to think differently about their communities and organizations. This has, no doubt, extended to the Modern Orthodox.

            There’s another reason for optimism. Even before the coronavirus pandemic, Modern Orthodox Judaism in the United States was the beneficiary of an exciting jolt of energy from their dati-le’umi counterparts in Israel. Israelis have inspired new and more advanced forms of learning for America’s Modern Orthodox women, introduced new thinkers and ideas, thanks in large part to Koren Publishers. Still, there are cultural differences between the Modern Orthodox in the United States and Israel’s dati-le’umi leaders. America’s Modern Orthodox community was fashioned by a Lithuanian rabbinic folkway. 

For this reason, traditional Talmud study (“yeshiva learning”) was the coin of the realm for leadership. Unlike in Israel, non-Eastern European exponents such as Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, did not gain a sturdy foothold in American environs. It’s also the reason that Tanakh scholarship is better appreciated among the dati-le’umi constellation Israel than it has been within the Modern Orthodox communities in the United States. This also may suggest why women’s leadership has developed differently in the two communities. If these realms are changing in the United States, it is probably because of Israel’s influence. Not everything from Israel will “take,” of course. The indigenous Modern Orthodox community will continue to privilege traditional Talmud learning, even as other areas of Torah scholarship gain increased reception. We’ll figure out what works best and redevelop the infrastructure to reimagine and fortify our Modern Orthodox communities in the United States.

Re’eh:

Not Cooking a Kid in Its Mother's Milk: 

Pagan Ritual, Compassion, or Covenantal Discipline?

The prohibition against cooking a kid in its mother’s milk appears three times in the Torah (Exodus 23:19; 34:26; Deuteronomy 14:21), a repetition that already suggests its significance. Yet despite its prominence, the Torah offers no explanation for the commandment. Classical commentators and modern scholars have proposed markedly different understandings of its rationale, while exegetes have also debated whether its plain meaning coincides with the halakhic interpretation preserved by the Oral Law.

In the Guide of the Perplexed (III:48), Rambam proposes that the prohibition originated as a rejection of pagan agricultural ritual. Since the command appears in Exodus immediately following the laws of bikkurim (bringing the first fruits to the Temple), Rambam conjectures that boiling a kid in its mother’s milk formed part of an idolatrous fertility ceremony associated with harvest celebrations. Abarbanel and Sforno adopt similar approaches.

Remarkably, Rambam anticipated what many scholars later believed had been discovered. In 1929, excavations at Ras Shamra uncovered the Ugaritic texts, including a fragment reconstructed as tb[h g] bhlb annh bhmat, translated by many as, “Cook a kid in milk, a lamb in butter.” This reconstruction was widely accepted and was heralded as striking confirmation of Rambam’s hypothesis.

By the 1970s, however, scholars returned to the original fragment and challenged the reconstruction. The text is badly damaged, and the restoration was shown to be speculative. K. Lawson Younger Jr., in The Context of Scripture III, translates the preserved portion instead as “Coriander in milk, mint in butter.”

Jacob Milgrom (Anchor Bible) sharply criticized the earlier interpretation: “In sum, the Ugaritic text in question is a broken one, its suggested reconstruction is palpably wrong, its clearer portion has been misconstrued, and a key word of the biblical prohibition, ‘mother,’ is not there. In recent memory, nothing matches this example of the hazards of interpreting broken texts on the basis of a purported biblical echo.”

Nevertheless, the collapse of the Ugaritic evidence does not necessarily invalidate Rambam’s theory. Even if such a ritual were explicitly attested, that would not prove that the Torah’s rationale is anti-pagan. Conversely, the absence of corroborating evidence does not disprove Rambam’s interpretation. A ritual may once have existed without leaving surviving textual evidence, or future discoveries may yet vindicate his conjecture.

Other commentators sought a more ethical explanation. Rashbam, Ibn Ezra, and Ramban understand the command as part of a larger pattern of laws designed to cultivate compassion toward animals. They compare it to the prohibitions against slaughtering an animal and its offspring on the same day (Leviticus 22:28), sacrificing an animal during its first week of life (Leviticus 22:27; Exodus 22:29), and taking a mother bird together with its young (Deuteronomy 22:6–7). The image of cooking a young animal in the very substance intended to sustain its life is viewed as especially cruel.

A different approach appears in Philo (On the Virtues, 142–144). He interprets the prohibition symbolically as a rejection of mixing life and death. Milk represents nourishment and vitality, while the slaughtered animal represents death. Combining the two is therefore spiritually inappropriate. Milgrom finds this explanation compelling and extends it to many of the Torah’s other animal-related restrictions, seeing them as expressions of a broader biblical resistance to confusing the boundaries between life and death.

Beyond questions of rationale lies another issue: what does the verse mean in its immediate context?

The prohibition appears three times, yet in Exodus it is embedded within laws concerning bikkurim. The Mishnah (Hullin 8:4) and Talmud (Hullin 113a) famously derive from the threefold repetition three distinct prohibitions: cooking meat and milk together, eating such a mixture, and deriving benefit from it. Most medieval commentators simply cite this halakhic tradition.

Rabbi Yosef Bekhor Shor, however, offers a strikingly different reading. He proposes that in its Exodus contexts the phrase does not refer to cooking at all. Drawing on Genesis 40:10, where bishul can denote ripening, he argues that the verse means that one should not allow a young animal to mature on its mother’s milk, but rather bring it promptly to the Temple. This interpretation accords well with the surrounding injunctions not to delay sacrificial obligations and not to leave sacrificial fat until morning. The broader message is one of punctuality in divine service.

It is important to emphasize that Rabbi Yosef Bekhor Shor advances this interpretation exclusively at the level of peshat. Like other medieval exegetes who distinguished contextual meaning from halakhic meaning, he fully accepted the authority and binding force of the Oral Law.

His interpretation remains difficult, however, since the verse speaks of a gedi (kid) generally and not specifically of a firstborn animal.

An even more daring proposal appears in Menahem ben Saruk. He suggests that gedi refers not to a young goat but to berries, and that halev immo denotes the juice or sap from which the fruit emerges. The command would then mean that one should not bring bikkurim (first fruits) to the Temple before the produce has fully ripened. While ingenious, this interpretation won little acceptance among later exegetes.

These debates highlight a broader methodological divide. Should the plain meaning of the verse always coincide with its halakhic interpretation, or may peshat diverge from the legal tradition and teach an additional religious dimension? This question separates figures who insisted that the Oral Law reflected the true meaning of the peshat in the Torah, and those who were willing to distinguish between a verse’s contextual meaning and its normative halakhic application.

The centrality of dietary laws in Judaism was emphasized powerfully by Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (Chumash Mesoras HaRav, 74-75). He observed that although the Torah mentions prayer explicitly only once (Deuteronomy 11:13), it devotes extensive attention to the laws of permitted and forbidden foods. Modern people may readily embrace spirituality expressed through worship, song, or sacred space, yet resist the notion that holiness extends to the discipline of the body. The Torah insists otherwise. Sanctity cannot be achieved through spiritual aspiration alone; it requires concrete habits of restraint and obedience. For nearly two millennia Jews have lived without a Temple, but kashrut has remained one of the principal forces preserving Jewish distinctiveness and continuity. Kashrut thus serves not merely as a dietary system but as a daily discipline through which covenantal identity is embodied and sustained.

Whether understood as a rejection of pagan practice, an expression of compassion, a symbolic affirmation of the distinction between life and death, or a discipline that sanctifies the body, the prohibition against cooking a kid in its mother’s milk exemplifies the richness and depth of Torah interpretation.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Re’eh

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Some years ago, I was walking down the street and saw a teenage boy smoking a cigarette. He looked like a clean-cut young man who should have known that smoking was unhealthy. Usually I would just keep walking and grumble under my breath, but this time I actually stopped the boy. “I know it’s none of my business but you shouldn’t be smoking. It’s a dangerous habit. You think you look cool but when you’re fighting cancer 30 years from now do you think any of your classmates will come to visit you or even care if you live or die?”

I expected him to say something nasty or just walk away from me. But instead, he put out the cigarette and said “Thank you for caring. You’re right.” I complimented him and praised him, and that was the end of the episode.

Offering disciplinary advice, if done properly, is a sign of caring. It is not meant to demean a person but to help him/her live a better life.

This came to mind when I recently read something by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. “Some years ago, while making a television programme about teshuvah - repentance - I visited a rehabilitation centre for young addicts. I asked the head of the centre how they gave these young people the strength to change. I will never forget her answer: ‘We are probably the first people they have met who care for them unconditionally. And we are the first people in their lives who cared enough to say ‘No.’ “No” is the hardest word to hear, but it is also often the most important - and the sign that someone cares.”

In this week’s Parasha, we are told: “You are children of the Lord your God” (Devarim 14:1). The passage reminds us that God is our Parent and wants the best for us. A wise parent guides children on what to do…and what not to do.  A loving parent doesn’t overly coddle or spoil children but teaches them to do what is right and avoid what is wrong. 

This Parasha is filled with many commandments, positive things to perform and negative things to avoid. Since these commandments derive from the All-Wise Parent, God, they are meant to enhance our lives, strengthen us, allow us to reach our human potentials. The commandments are a sign, in a sense, that God cares! 

Too often, people fail at life because no one tells them No. They dress foolishly, act foolishly, eat foolishly, spend foolishly, hate foolishly, waste time foolishly, etc. …and no one corrects them properly. They become steeped in negative patterns and come to resent anyone who criticizes them. 

The Torah reminds us: if you live an upright life, you will be blessed. If you choose unwisely, curses inevitably will follow. The commandments are given as a sign of love and caring; they provide a path to a meaningful, constructive and moral life. The “Thou shalt not”s are as important as the “Thou shalt”s.  "No" sometimes means "Yes, I care about you."

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Ekev

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

The first word of this week's Parasha is "vehaya"--and it will be. The 18th century Moroccan Jewish sage, Rabbi Hayyim Benattar, notes in his commentary Or ha-Hayyim, that this word implies happiness. He would interpret the first verse of the Parasha to mean: if you will be careful in keeping the ordinances [of the Torah] and you will observe and fulfill them--then you will be happy! God will fulfill His covenant as He promised to your ancestors. In elaborating on this theme, Rabbi Benattar stresses that our observance and study of Torah should be marked by a spirit of joy.

But the message goes beyond observance and study of Torah. A positive worldview enables us to deal with the ups and downs of life with greater confidence and satisfaction.

I recall a member of our congregation who always seemed to have a smile on his face, a good word for everyone, a spirit of kindliness.  Yet, his life had included no shortage of sufferings and setbacks. He came to the United States as an immigrant and had to adapt to a new country, a new language, and a new social context. He started a business that was sometimes flourishing and sometimes not doing as well. He had various problems with his family members. In one of my conversations with him, he offered words of wisdom: “turn the page.”

“Turn the page.” Don’t waste time and energy fretting over what you could have done or should have done. Don’t let past failures and frustrations hold you back. Life is a book, turn the page and start writing anew.  When one “turns the page,” one does not forget or deny the past; but one realizes that life goes on. Strengthen yourself, trust yourself, smile…and start writing the next page.

Another of our congregants was celebrating the bar mitzvah of her son. When she spoke, she turned to her parents who had survived the Holocaust: “Mom and Dad, you are not survivors; you are winners!” Her parents overcame horrendous sufferings and challenges…and yet they were able to “turn the page” and start a new life, create a lovely family, and be active members of the Jewish community. They did not focus on being survivors…but on being “winners,” people determined to build a better life for themselves, their families and society in general.

When we faced challenging times, my father of blessed memory would say in Judeo-Spanish: “ya la pasa,” this too will pass. Don’t let frustrations or failures break your spirit; you will get through this and you will be stronger for having overcome adversity.

A positive worldview helps us to see beyond the negatives of life, to aspire and work for a better future. Optimism is one of the secrets of Jewish success!

Introduction
These opening chapters introduce Kohelet’s central preoccupations: the tension
between wisdom and futility, the fleeting nature of pleasure, and the yearning for
meaning in a world that offers no permanence.
Kohelet begins with a name, or rather a title. The word appears seven times in the
book, most notably at the beginning: Divrei Kohelet ben David melekh bi-
Yerushalayim—“The words of Kohelet son of David, king in Jerusalem” (1:1).
Traditionally identified with King Solomon, the title Kohelet seems to derive from kahal,
to assemble. He is either one who gathers wisdom or one who gathers people to share
it—an ancient preacher-philosopher. The Greek translation, Ecclesiastes, reflects this
notion: one who addresses the assembled.
But why does Solomon speak through a nickname? As one midrash
(Deuteronomy Rabbah 1:5) observes, if anyone else had declared “havel havalim,” we
might dismiss him as bitter or impoverished. Only someone who had everything—wealth,
wisdom, success—could credibly proclaim the futility of it all. Kohelet becomes not
merely Solomon, but a stand-in for every person who reflects deeply on life, death, and
the search for meaning.
Though the persona is royal, the voice shifts. The early chapters describe kingly
accomplishments, but by the end of chapter 2 the royal framing fades. The epilogue refers
to Kohelet not as king but as a sage. This suggests a deliberate transition: from historical
monarch to timeless teacher. What begins as a personal account becomes a universal
meditation on the human condition.
“Havel Havalim”: The Motto of the Sefer (1:2–3)
The book’s opening declaration—Havel havalim…ha-kol havel—resounds as its
central motif. The word hevel appears 38 times in Kohelet (out of 73 in all of Tanakh),
often translated as “vanity” or “futility.” In biblical Hebrew, it literally means “breath” or
“vapor.” This metaphor, developed in Kohelet Rabbah and drawing from a related
meaning in Job 7:16, evokes ephemerality—life as a puff of air, hevel marks the
dissolution of coherence under suffering.
But the tone is more than ephemeral—it’s often painful. Hevel is paired with
ra’ah (evil), holi ra (grievous sickness), and inyan ra (troubling occupation). The theme
isn’t simply that life is short; it is incomprehensible, even unjust. This view emerges
sharply in 2:21–23 and 6:1–2: people labor with wisdom and skill only to have their
portion go to someone unworthy.
Michael V. Fox describes hevel as “absurdity”: not nihilism, but the intrusion of
the irrational into a world we expect to make sense. 129 Rashi and Rashbam (on
Ecclesiastes 8:14) adopt a similar interpretation. Yet critics like Mark Sneed push back,
noting that hevel in Tanakh typically means “worthless” or “futile,” not absurd. 130 Samuel
Goh suggests a mediating view: Vapor is vague, amorphous. Wisdom, enjoyment, and
divine justice—much like hevel—resist absolute definition. Life defies either/or

meaning, and is filled with contradictions. Goh affirms Fox’s insight into the ambiguity
of life, while preserving the word’s more traditional connotations of vapor, futility, and
impermanence. 131
Hevel thus marks the boundary between human longing and the ungraspable
nature of reality—a motif Kohelet returns to again and again.
The Quest for Yitron (1:3)
Kohelet’s great question is: Mah yitron la-adam be-khol amalo?—“What profit
does a person have from all his toil under the sun?” The term yitron, “lasting benefit,” is
key. While there may be helek, momentary portion or joy, yitron implies
permanence—and that is what eludes us.
Amal, “toil,” appears frequently—13 times as a verb in Kohelet and 22 more
times as a noun. It captures both the effort and its fruit. But everything “under the
sun”—a phrase unique to Kohelet (29 times)—is bounded by human experience.
Yonatan Grossman and Asael Abelman distinguish between tahat ha-shemesh
(human activity) and tahat ha-shamayim (a broader, divine vantage point, which appears
three times in Kohelet). Kohelet’s perspective is human, grounded in the temporal
world. 132
Nature, Memory, and Meaning (1:4–11)
Nature’s cycles—sun, wind, rivers—are described with rhythmic beauty in 1:4–7.
Yet for Kohelet, their endless repetition signals futility. As Ibn Ezra and Mordechai Zer-
Kavod note, nature’s constancy contrasts with human transience: the earth endures, but
people vanish. Rashbam, however, reads the passage as showing that even nature exhibits
no progress, only cycles.
Grossman and Abelman 133 add a subtle point: Unlike Psalm 104, which celebrates
the cyclical order of nature as divine providence, Kohelet sees these cycles as
oppressive—a beautiful machine that ultimately goes nowhere.
Everything is in motion, yet nothing advances. Just as the ocean is never full, the
human appetite is never satisfied (1:8). The prose in 1:9–11 reinforces the poem’s
message: everything that seems new has happened before, and human memory is
unreliable. People—and their deeds—are forgotten. History offers no redemptive
progress.
The Futility of Knowing (1:12–18)
Kohelet presents himself as a seeker: ani Kohelet hayiti melekh—“I, Kohelet, was
king.” His quest for wisdom becomes a burden. La’anot bo, refers both to pursuit and
affliction. The Targum and several later commentators, including Mordechai Zer-Kavod,
connect this phrase to inuy, suffering. Wisdom does not ease frustration—it intensifies it
(1:18).
The phrase re’ut ru’ah—“a chasing after wind”—appears seven times. Like trying
to shepherd the wind (Hosea 12:2), it is futile and maddening. Fox distinguishes between

re’ut ru’ah and ra’ayon ru’ah (1:17): the pursuit of wisdom may succeed, but it still
brings vexation.
The Limits of Pleasure and Achievement (Chapter 2)
Finding wisdom vexing, Kohelet turns to another domain—pleasure—but finds it
similarly fleeting. Kohelet turns from wisdom to pleasure: wine, gardens, wealth, music,
and concubines. He builds palaces and orchards, amassing more than any before him
(2:4–10). The repeated root asah (“to make”) underscores the scale of his
accomplishments.
Yet none of it endures. Though his wisdom remains intact (2:9), it offers no
ultimate advantage. The final verdict: ha-kol hevel u-re’ut ru’ah, it was all futile and
pursuit of wind (2:11). Kohelet’s unprecedented success becomes his proof text for the
futility of even the best-case scenario.
Notably, even wisdom itself contains complexity. It is certainly better than folly
(2:13), yet it cannot prevent death (2:16). The wise and the fool share the same fate.
Worse, one’s legacy may fall into the hands of a fool (2:18–23).
A Theology of Gratitude (2:24–26)
In response to life’s unpredictability, Kohelet begins to emphasize a more modest
joy: enjoying one’s portion. En tov ba-adam… ki im le-ekhol ve-lishtot—there is nothing
better than to eat, drink, and find satisfaction in one’s toil. This is not hedonism, but a
theology of helek, of recognizing the gifts that come from God, not from our own merit.
Kohelet Rabbah and Rashi spiritualize this verse—interpreting food and drink as
Torah and commandments. But the peshat, as Rashbam, Mordechai Zer-Kavod, and
others note, emphasizes the fleeting joys of life as God’s gift. Work hard, live
decently—but recognize that control is limited. The difference between the wise and the
fool lies in how they respond to life’s challenges and limitations. This shift recurs
throughout the book in similar refrains (e.g., 3:12–13, 5:17–19), reinforcing its role as a
kind of “practical theology.”
Time and Eternity (Chapter 3)
The famous poem in 3:1–8—“a time for every purpose”—underscores human
limitations. We do not control time. Kohelet recognizes that God “placed eternity in the
human heart” (3:11), yet withheld the ability to grasp it fully.
Ibn Ezra and Zer-Kavod interpret ha-olam as a yearning for eternity. We desire
permanence, but live in a fleeting world of change. This too, Kohelet says, is God’s
design: that we should be humbled, stand in awe, and learn our limits (3:14).
While some verses affirm divine justice (3:15–17), others question it. Kohelet
compares humans to animals—both die, both return to dust. The refrain mi
yode’a—“who knows?”—signals humility. He does not deny afterlife, but rather cannot
appeal to it to resolve the moral dilemmas of this world.

Kohelet 1–3 lays bare the soul’s aching tension: the yearning for permanence
amid life’s transience. In this opening meditation, Kohelet teaches not to resolve the
tension, but to live honestly within it.
Kohelet deliberately avoids any appeal to afterlife or resurrection in his account of
divine justice. His theological vision is entirely this-worldly. For a broader discussion of
afterlife in Jewish thought, and how later Jewish texts grappled with the same tensions
Kohelet raises, see the appendix essay, “Afterlife in Jewish Thought.”
Kohelet 1–3 sets the tone for a book that never settles for easy answers. In the
face of toil, impermanence, and uncertainty, Kohelet urges not despair, but
attentiveness—to fleeting joy, to moral humility, and to the awe of God that arises from
honest limitation.

The Battle for the Jewish Mind

Book Review by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Sina Kahen, the Founder of Da’at Press, has recently published a very important volume: “The Battle for the Jewish Mind: The Maimonidean Controversies and Why They Matter Today.” Sina works in the Medical Tech and AI industries, and has been publishing a series of books that foster a grand religious vision. Born in Iran, Sina lives in London with his wife and two children. He is one of the leaders in Habura, a group that promotes a Judaism based on the “Geonic-Sepharadi tradition,” and even more specifically the “Geonic-Andalusian tradition.”

Maimonides (1138-1204) is the great exemplar of this tradition. He was a brilliant Talmudist and halakhist, and his Mishneh Torah continues to be a foundational work in Jewish law.  Aside from his mastery of rabbinic sources, he was highly regarded for his medical and scientific works. Like others in the Geonic-Andalusian tradition, he valued philosophy and general knowledge. His classic Guide for the Perplexed offered an intellectually rigorous approach to Judaism: how to read the Bible,  how to reconcile biblical texts with philosophic and scientific truths, how to seek reasons for the commandments, how to understand revelation, prophecy, messianism etc.  In short, Maimonides was a proponent of a thinking Judaism that drew on the best teachings of our rabbis and the best wisdom available from beyond Jewish sources.

Maimonides’ commitment to philosophy was so great, he included basic philosophic principles about God in the opening chapters of his code of Jewish law. He stressed that a knowledge of physics and metaphysics was essential to a proper religious life. 

While his approach was well within the Geonic-Andalusian tradition, many religious traditionalists advocated a very different view of things. They sought all truth in the Torah and rabbinic texts; they thought that philosophical inquiry could lead the masses away from religious observance. They taught a kabbalistic/midrashic Judaism that demanded emunat hakhamim, reliance on the opinions of sages who were not tainted by wisdom from the general world. They not only denigrated the philosophical approach of Maimonides, they strove to ban his books. What emerged was a century and more of “the Maimonidean controversies.” The anti-Maimonides group went so far as to denounce Maimonides heresies to Dominican monks who set fire to Maimonides’ books in a public demonstration in Paris in 1233.  The horror of this event caused some anti-Maimonists to repent their ways.

But the basic controversies did not disappear…and are still raging in religious Jewish life today. The Maimonidean approach to philosophical quest is highly discouraged among much of Orthodoxy today. Sina Kahen asks: “Why is the worldly tradition—the one that treated the sciences as servants of Torah, that saw rigorous and rational inquiry as a form of worship—not the mainstream?” (p. 75).  Why is so much of Orthodoxy today steeped in kabbalistic/midrashic Judaism, rather than the intellectually sophisticated Judaism espoused by Rambam and the Geonic/Andalusian tradition?

Sina Kahen pointedly notes: “The question is not whether Jews “should” engage with the sciences—as though one were choosing between a safe path and a risky one. The question is whether a Jew who refuses to look at the world God made can be said to know the God who made it. The tradition we have followed through these pages answered: he cannot. Not fully. Not with the depth that Torah demands” (p. 80).

Sina Kahen has written a remarkable volume that not only provides the historical context of “the Maimonidean controversies,” but demonstrates how those controversies persist today. While, happily, there are those within modern Jewry espousing an intellectually vibrant Judaism open to the sciences, humanities and arts—there are others who strive to narrow intellectual pursuits to the four cubits of Torah as they understand it.

Sina Kahen’s book is available through Da’at Press: https://www.daat.press/product-page/the-battle-for-the-jewish-mind-the-maimonidean-controversies-sina-kahen

I recommend it very highly.