National Scholar Updates

Is it Proper for a person with a bad cold (or virus) to daven with a minyan?

Let’s begin with several related questions. Is it generally proper for someone to act in a way that is detrimental to his/her health? Is it proper for someone with an infectious disease to knowingly come into contact with people thereby endangering their health?

“Venishmartem me’od lenafshoteihem.” The Torah instructs us to preserve our health to the extent possible. We are not supposed to take irresponsible risks that undermine our physical wellbeing. If we are sick, we need to take care of ourselves. If we have bad colds, flus or covid we need to manage these illnesses properly and not do things that can worsen our condition.

Moreover, it is a basic moral responsibility to be concerned about the health of those near us. If we have an infectious disease, we should be as careful as possible not to transmit it to others.

If a person has a bad cold, flu or covid, should he daven with a minyan anyway? If he is a mourner who wants to say Kaddish with a minyan, should that override health concerns for himself and others?

If he is very sick, he should pray at home. Hashem surely understands the situation.

If, though, he feels well enough to attend a minyan, he should only do so in a manner that poses no threat to his health or the health of others. He should be masked. He should pray as far away as possible from others in the minyan. If he’s praying in a shul, he should sit off in a corner. He should not attend minyan in a crowded room.

Yes, one may feel a strong emotional, religious need to pray with a minyan. But health issues must take priority. Hashem knows what is in our hearts.

What is the proper thing to do when seeing someone who is mesurav l'din at a simcha, Jewish communal event, or some other place where you can't just leave?

If a person receives a summons to appear before a reputable beth din, it is halakhically mandatory to show up. But some people, for various reasons, choose to ignore the summons. They know that the beth din lacks governmental authority to force compliance.

The beth din system depends on the cooperation of the general community to bring pressure on recalcitrant individuals. If the mesurav l’din is made to feel as an outcast, this might prompt compliance with the beth din’s summons.

If the community wants an effective beth din system, then it needs to ensure that people comply with summonses issued by batei din. It needs to convince recalcitrant individuals by persuasion or through social ostracizing. It is generally best to avoid social contact with a mesurav l’din.

But it is important first to ascertain that the mesurav l’din is in fact acting irresponsibly. It may be that the person refuses to appear before a beth din, believing it to be biased or improperly staffed.

The problem is especially painful in cases involving a get, where one of the parties—usually the husband—refuses to appear before the beth din to effect a divorce. The recalcitrant party is not only guilty of disobeying the beth din, but is casting an ugly shadow on the entire halakhic system. People who use get-refusal to advance their own agendas are an embarrassment to our community and should be shunned to the extent possible until they comply.

What's the ideal and most appropriate format for kiddush--standing around, sitting at tables; lots of hot food, a few cold items?

 Why do synagogues sponsor Kiddush after Shabbat morning services? Why don’t people just come to pray and then go home to their own Shabbat lunch?

The basic answer is that Kiddush offers people the opportunity of socializing and gaining a sense of community. The Kiddush is an informal setting where congregants can renew old friendships and make new ones, where visitors can be welcomed, where the Shabbat spirit can be spread among old and young alike. It is an opportunity for those who live alone to celebrate Shabbat with a community.

How can the Kiddush accomplish these worthy goals? Each synagogue/minyan needs to do what makes most sense for their particular congregation. In some communities, Kiddush becomes a sit-down lunch…very nice, and often very expensive. In other shuls, the hope is for people to greet each other, take a bit of refreshment and then return home for their own Shabbat lunch.

Unfortunately, some people view the Kiddush as the most important feature of Shabbat morning at shul. They arrive at services as late as possible, and then hurry to fill their plates at the Kiddush. I’ve heard of people who actually call the local synagogues on Friday to see which shul provides the best food!

Shuls’ budgets must realistically plan for the weekly cost of Kiddush. The search for weekly Kiddush sponsors can be burdensome. In larger congregations where hundreds of people attend services each Shabbat morning, the costs involved are not insignificant.

Each synagogue/shul/minyan should strive to provide Kiddush that is appropriate for its community. There is no single ideal Kiddush format that is ideal for every community.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Yitro

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Dr. Henry Pereira Mendes served as Minister of Congregation Shearith Israel from 1877 through 1920. He continued to be associated with the Congregation as Minister Emeritus until his death in 1937. During the course of these 60 years, Dr. Mendes established himself as a remarkable communal leader, scholar, and author.

Born in Birmingham, England, he grew up in a family well-known for its history of producing religious leaders. His father Abraham was Minister of the Jewish congregation in Birmingham. H. P. Mendes received his early religious education and inspiration from his parents and as a young man served as Hazan and Minister of the Sephardic congregation in Manchester. While in New York, he studied and graduated from the medical school of New York University. In 1890, he was married to Rosalie Rebecca Piza.

Dr. Mendes was one of the leading Orthodox rabbis in the United States. He was a founder and the first president of the Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations of America (1898). He was also one of the founders of the Jewish Theological Seminary (1887), which he and his collaborators intended to be an institution that would produce English-speaking Orthodox rabbis.

A prolific author, Dr. Mendes wrote essays and editorials, children’s stories, textbooks, sermons, prayers, dramatic works, poetry, and commentaries. His writings were imbued with the love of the Bible.

The religious vision of Dr. Mendes is reflected in the titles of his main books: Jewish History Ethically Presented (1895), The Jewish Religion Ethically Presented (1895), and Jewish Life Ethically Presented (1917). In 1934, he prepared a little volume of prayers and meditations for home use “to promote and facilitate the habit of prayer.”

Dr. Mendes’ religious outlook was deeply steeped in the Hebrew Bible. The verses of Scripture served as the basis of an ethical and compassionate way of life. In The Jewish Religion Ethically Presented, he demonstrated his method of thought. He began each section with a citation from the Bible, and then provided the traditional lessons that were derived from the text. He then added his own elaboration of moral lessons that could be rooted in the biblical text. And then he offered a series of biblical quotations to close each section.

For example, in dealing with the third of the Ten Commandments (Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain), Dr. Mendes provided the traditional explanations of this commandment. It is forbidden to use God’s name in a disrespectful way, for a false oath, or for any wrong purpose. Likewise, this commandment is violated whenever one says prayers without concentration and reverent devotion. Dr. Mendes added the ethical component: “We take His name in vain, or to no purpose, if we speak of God being good, just, merciful, etc., without trying ourselves to be good, just, merciful, etc.” We must be loving, merciful and forgiving, in emulation of God’s ways.”

Dr. Mendes then offered a number of extensions to this commandment:

We are children of God. We are called by His name. When we do wrong, we disgrace or profane His name. Hence a disgraceful act is called Chilul Hashem, a profanation of the Name. And just as all the members of a family feel any disgrace that any one of them incurs, so when any Hebrew does wrong, the disgrace is felt by all Jews. We are known as the people of God. We assume His name in vain unless we obey His Laws….We take or assume His name in vain when we call ourselves by His name and say we are His children or His people, while for our convenience or ease we neglect religious duties which He has commanded us. (The Jewish Religion Ethically Presented, revised edition, 1912, pp. 59–60)

In elaborating on the commandment to honor one’s parents, Dr. Mendes stated:

To honor parents, ministers of religion, the aged, the learned, our teachers and authorities is a sign of the highest type of true manliness and of true womanliness. Respect for parents is essential to the welfare of society…..Anarchy or the absence of respect for authority, always brings ruin. Respect for all the authorities is insisted upon in the Bible. (p. 64)

In discussing the commandment prohibiting murder, Dr. Mendes noted that “we may not kill a man’s good name or reputation, nor attack his honor. We do so when we act as a tale-bearer or slanderer.” He goes on to say that “we may not kill a man’s business….Respect for human life carries with it respect for anyone’s livelihood. We may not make it hard for others to live by reason of our own greed” (pp. 65–66).

Dr. Mendes taught that the ethical component is integral to the commandments. Judaism is not only blessed with a system of laws, but is inspirited with a code of ethics.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Beshallah

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

"And Moses said to the people, fear not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which He will show you today. For as you have seen Egypt this day, you shall not see them again any more forever. The Lord shall fight for you and you shall hold your peace. And the Lord said to Moses: Why do you cry out to me? Speak to the children of Israel that they go forward."   (Shemot 14:13-15)

The people of Israel were in a terrible position. The Egyptian troops were coming toward them from behind. The sea was in front of them. Being trapped, they blamed Moses for bringing them out of Egypt only to die here. Moses offered words of reassurance. The Lord will fight for you, all will be well.

But apparently Moses himself was not convinced of his own words. The very next verse has God chastising him: Why do you cry out to me?  

Moses, realizing the magnitude of the dilemma, tried to calm the people; but he himself was uncertain of what to do. In desperation, he cried out to God for help.

God could have told Moses: You are the leader, set the example, walk into the sea as an act of faith and courage. But instead, God told Moses to instruct the Israelites to go forward. Whereas Moses had told the people to hold their peace and wait for God’s salvation, God instructed otherwise. The Israelites first had to take initiative on their own. They had been passive throughout the period of plagues in Egypt, but now that they were on the road to freedom they had to take on responsibility.

Rabbi Meir Simha HaKohen of Dvinsk (1875-1926), in his commentary Meshekh Hokhma, suggested that God wanted the people of Israel to demonstrate faith by plunging into the water first. Moses was to follow the Israelites rather than lead them. The Midrash credits Nachshon ben Aminadav for being the first to enter the water. Once he took the initiative, the Lord split the waters of the sea and the Israelites were miraculously saved.

But the question remains: why did Moses cry out to the Lord in a seeming panic? Why didn’t Moses himself march into the sea to set an example of faith and leadership? Why was it Nachshon, according to the Midrash, who took the initiative?

Perhaps the Torah is indicating that even Moses, the greatest of all prophets, had a moment of doubt. At a critical time, he froze. He could not understand why God had brought the Israelites into such an impossible trap and he could not muster the courage to lead the people into the sea. But while Moses hesitated, Nachshon took the lead.  Sometimes even the best of leaders falls short. It takes the courage and initiative of others to save the situation.

Once Nachshon took the lead, the Israelites themselves realized that it was time for them to move forward. Moses and the people learned that at a time of national crisis, courageous action is required. The price of freedom is: increased responsibility.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Va'era

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

"And Moshe spoke so to the children of Israel; but they hearkened not to Moshe for anguish of spirit and for cruel bondage."  (Shemot 4:9)

Moses had a great message: ending slavery, beginning freedom, leaving for a Promised Land flowing with milk and honey. But no matter how great the message, it has to reach the intended audience successfully. Many great ideas and plans have cropped up throughout history; but they simply faded into oblivion because they didn’t convince the public.

Moses had a great message, but the Israelites themselves were not receptive due to kotser ruach va-avoda kasha, anguish of spirit and cruel bondage. As slaves, they were physically so strained and exhausted, Moses’ words did not resonate; the message struck them as being impossibly unrealistic. Commentators explain kotser ruach in different ways. The Israelites were short of breath, gasping under the pressures of their labor. The Israelites’ spirit was anguished i.e. they were psychologically unprepared to listen to Moses’ pipe dream.

Dr. Nahum Sarna in his Torah Commentary on Sefer Shemot translates kotser ruach to mean “the Israelites’ spirits were crushed.”   Sarna writes that, “ruach is the spiritual and psychic energy that motivates action.  Its absence or attenuation signifies atrophy of the will” (The JPS Torah Commentary: Exodus, page 32).The Israelites could not absorb Moses’s message because the physical and mental toll of slavery plunged them into a state of hopelessness.  

A fascinating interpretation was suggested by the Ralbag (Rabbi Levi ben Gershon, 1288-1344, Provence). He applies the term kotser ruach not to the people of Israel—but to Moses!  Moses did not get his message across because he did not prepare properly, he did not relate meaningfully to the people. He was a loner, a prophet, a spiritual personality who did not grasp how best to win over the public. He was not eloquent enough, not engaging enough. In his own words, he was aral sefatayim, of uncircumcised lips i.e. unable to formulate his words clearly enough.

The Torah is pointing out the vital conditions for a great message to be successful: the messenger must be effective, the audience must be receptive, external obstacles must be overcome. In the case at hand, Moses had to relate effectively with the people; the Israelites had to be open to the message in spite of their slave conditions; and Pharaoh’s opposition had to be overcome. These are the themes that pervade the Torah’s narratives of the Exodus.

The transition from slavery to freedom was not a simple process. It took ten plagues to convince Pharaoh to let the Israelites go—and even then he decided to pursue them with his troops. It took Moses much patience to hone his own effectiveness in reaching the hearts of his people. And it took the Israelites a full generation to internalize freedom and ready themselves to enter the Promised Land.

Turning to our situation today, we have a great message—a Torah way of life that promotes spirituality, morality, idealism…the ways of peace and pleasantness. Yet, the message doesn’t always get through to the large masses of the Jewish community. Sometimes, the problem is external obstacles—the pressures of work, the secularization of society in general, the challenges of an entertainment-based society. Sometimes, the problem is lack of receptivity of the Jewish public to a religious message. Many Jews grow up with little or no deep Jewish education; they are too preoccupied with their businesses and social lives to give much attention to a challenging religious message. And sometimes the messengers—rabbis and teachers—do not relate to the genuine spiritual and intellectual needs of the public.

Kotser ruach in our times may be referring to a diminished spiritual sense. Vibrant religious life needs a vibrant religious spirit. It needs us to be open to the challenges of religion at its best. It needs us to hear the message, to overcome obstacles, and to have leaders who can articulate a sophisticated spiritual framework for our lives.

But kotser ruach might be an accurate description of why many people fail to achieve their maximum potentialities. Their spirits are stunted; they don’t dream big enough; they are satisfied with their day to day lives without imagining they can do better, achieve more, reach beyond. They settle for the status quo without envisioning a grander framework for their lives.

If we are to be our best selves, we need to overcome the kotser ruach that curtails our dreams, imagination and creativity.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Bo

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Many years ago, a member of our community was arrested for embezzling funds. He was generally a religiously observant man and attended services each Shabbat morning faithfully.

I asked him how he got involved in illegal financial dealings, especially when he was ostensibly a religious man who knew that the Torah prohibits theft. He answered: “I thought I could get away with it. I thought my plan was so brilliant no one would ever catch on.”  I responded: “Yes, but you can’t hide things from God.” He nodded his head sadly. “I wasn’t thinking about God.”

In further discussions with him, he indicated how he got deeper and deeper into the crime. First, he just cheated a bit; when he got away with it, he tried again for a larger amount. When he still went undetected, he developed a more elaborate scheme involving substantial amounts of money. Eventually, his system was so routine that he took it for granted that it would go on forever. But finally, he did get caught and his entire plan (and life!) fell apart.

At each step of his embezzlement scheme, he had the free will to stop. But his free will diminished with every new illegal act. Before making his first illegal transaction, he could have caught himself. But he didn’t. After making his first theft, he could have stopped. But he didn’t. Indeed, after each step in the process, he got deeper and deeper into the crime so that it became almost impossible for him to stop. The more entrenched he was in his scheme, the less free will he had to reverse course.

Using biblical terms, we might say that he initially "hardened his heart" to begin cheating. But as he sank deeper and deeper into the process, it was as though the Lord hardened his heart making it exceedingly difficult for him to repent.

Maimonides pointed out that one of the punishments for certain types of sins is the impossibility (or near impossibility) of repentance. The sinner is so mired in sin that he/she can’t seem to stop. The sin has become second nature; it is hardened within and not able to be dislodged. It is as though the Lord has hardened the heart so as to prevent repentance. (Laws of Repentance 6:1-3).

This is how Maimonides, and others, understand the Torah’s statement that God hardened Pharaoh’s heart. Pharaoh, of his own free will, kept the Israelites enslaved. Of his own free will, he oppressed them and maintained a cruel system of dehumanization. With each choice, he made it more and more difficult for himself to change course. He reached the point where his heart was so hardened that he simply could not bring himself to repent.

This lesson applies to so many aspects of life. We make a problematic choice of our own free will, but this leads to the next negative choice and then to yet another…until it becomes exceedingly difficult to repent. Free will diminishes with each negative choice.

As a mundane example, a person is told that good health requires not eating overly fattening food. One day the person walks by a bakery and sees a tempting chocolate cake in the window. He/she can choose to keep walking but instead decides to stop and look at the cake. Then a process begins: what if I just walk into the bakery to look more closely at the cake; what if I buy it but bring it home for family to eat; what if I bring it home and just take a small taste…Finally, why don’t I just eat a big chunk of cake and go on a diet tomorrow?   When did the person “lose” free will? It was a process, one step leading to the next, inexorably leading to eating a large slice of chocolate cake.

The Talmud teaches that the reward of a mitzvah is another mitzvah while the consequence of a sin is another sin.  We set patterns for ourselves. We initially have free will to choose, and our first choice leads us to our next choice. If we set a positive pattern, we continuously improve ourselves. If we set a negative pattern, we “harden” our own hearts so that it becomes difficult to change for the better.

Every choice has consequences. It is our free will to choose wisely.

            Human identities are like categories: Invented from the outside, they rarely capture the essence of our personalities, commitments, and sparks that animates us. My father is definitely someone who doesn’t fit the categories; indeed, he often writes that we too often apply the wrong categories, especially in our religious lives. Just as we wouldn’t speak of a “pound of Beethoven,” surely, we should not try to measure the spiritual grandeur of the Sabbath. My father never called himself a Conservative Jew, nor labeled himself in any way. He grew up in Warsaw, stemming from one of the most distinguished Hassidic families, with a royal lineage, and already as a small child, he was expected to become a rebbe. Yet he wanted to study, and in the 1920s, it was not as unusual for a pious young man to attend university. My father had already received semikha from Rabbi Menachem Zemba in Warsaw before he left for Berlin, which he viewed as a city at the center of the intellectual universe. In addition to his doctorate at the university, he took classes at the two rabbinical seminaries, Orthodox and Reform, because he wanted to understand the outlook of each school.

          My father appreciated what he learned, but he was also terribly disappointed with the kind of approach his professors were taking, and he felt that none of his teachers, experts in Jewish topics, understood the nature of religious life. For his doctoral dissertation, he wrote about the Hebrew prophets. For decades, German biblical scholars, mostly Protestants, had denigrated the prophets as “ecstatics,” or described them as rural country bumpkins whose messages of peace and an end to war were naïve and ridiculous when presented to urban centers, kings, and priests. No, my father wrote: The prophets were not ecstatics; they were people of extraordinary inner lives who resonated with God’s own pathos and compassion. Their message was not at all naïve, but a demand for justice and a hope for ultimate peace that should guide our own lives.

My father was rescued “as a brand plucked from the fire” from Nazi Europe, and he arrived in the United States in March of 1940. After five years at the Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati, he moved to the Upper West Side of New York City and taught at the Jewish Theological Seminary until his death in 1972.

            There was always something extraordinarily moving and also terribly ephemeral about the Hassidic rebbes my father took me to visit when I was growing up in New York. These rebbes were relatives, refugees from Europe, elderly men of tremendous gentleness and exquisite refinement. The air in the room felt alive when we entered their small studies; there was an intensity in those encounters because they were a small taste, for my father, of what he had lost in Europe: family, friends, a special Jewish world that he describes in his book, The Earth is the Lord’s.

            My father wanted the whole world to know Judaism, to know the Jewish spirit that he had experienced in Poland, and he wanted American Jews to understand what they were missing with what he called the “vicarious davening” of the cold formality of the suburban Conservative and Reform synagogues. He railed against the “religious behaviorism” of Orthodox Jews who focused on the punctilious observance of the Shulhan Arukh, as if that law guide was a substitute for Torah. Judaism was in decline, he wrote, not because of the challenges of science or philosophy, but because its message had become insipid. It was time to recapture the greatness of the Torah and the Talmud, but we can only do that, he wrote, if we know what questions to ask. Jews, he said, had become messengers who forgot the message. Studying Torah and Talmud superficially brought the exile of the Shekhinah. How can we recapture the questions, the insights, and the greatness of the Torah? That was the goal of his three-volume Hebrew book, Torah min HaShamayim.

            My father was a person who always brought people together. He was full of warmth, enthusiasm, great humor, and he filled a room with his personality. He was also the most gentle and compassionate and loving person I have ever known. I had the feeling I could tell him anything, discuss any problem. He was always open to ideas, but critically: He was never satisfied, but always wanted to know more, and move to the next step in addressing a problem. He was passionate, studying all the time, and had no interest in entertainment, relaxation, or anything that was superficial. Conversations were also intense, and so was his concern with the world.

            When my father returned from the Civil Rights march in Selma, Alabama, he said, “I felt my legs were praying,” a very Hassidic statement. He added that marching with Martin Luther King, Jr., reminded him of walking with Hassidic rebbes in Europe. Before he agreed to meet with Pope Paul VI and Vatican officials in Rome concerning the formulation of Nostra Aetate, the Church’s statement regarding its relations with the Jews, he talked with his brother in law, the Kopycznitzer rebbe. His concern about Jews who were stranded in the Soviet Union, unable to leave and unable to practice Judaism, led my father to deliver strongly worded lectures and encourage his friend, Elie Wiesel, to visit Moscow, which led to The Jews of Silence, Wiesel’s book about the Soviet Jews. Dr. King and my father lectured to Jewish groups together, speaking about racism, Zionism, and freedom for Soviet Jews.

            In his last years, my father was brokenhearted over the war in Vietnam, which had become a political stranglehold on the presidency, and seemed to be deteriorating into a series of atrocities without clear military objectives. Dropping napalm on children, destroying villages, killing civilians: This left my father sleepless with horror. He spoke out because, he wrote, “in a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible.” It was impossible, he said, to be a religious Jew and not protest the atrocities committed by our government and in our name.

            My father cannot be categorized. His heart was Hassidic; his life was that of a scholar and teacher. What is clear, though, is that he preserved the heart and soul of Judaism, both in his writings and in the life that he led.

            My father’s voice was one of “moral grandeur and spiritual audacity.” He spoke out in the prophetic tradition, and we are proud that he represented the Jewish people to the world. After the devastation of Europe, he gave us back our souls, reminding us of the greatness of Judaism and urging us to study more deeply, pray with greater intensity, and always remember what we stand for.

In 2006, Oxford University Press published a book by Chris Lowney, “A Vanished World: Muslims, Christians, and Jews in Medieval Spain.” The author asked me to write a blurb, and it was included on the back cover of the book. Here is what I wrote:

“Chris Lowney has written a meaningful book about interfaith cooperation and interfaith antagonism in medieval Spain. While it points to the many failures of those days, it also suggests important triumphs of the human spirit. Can we learn from this story and shape a better, more harmonious world? Can we afford not to learn from this story?”

An underlying theme of Lowney’s book, like so many publications dealing with Islamic Spain, is that Jews and Christians fared reasonably well under enlightened Islamic rule. While life was not always perfect, it was much better for religious minorities in Islamic Spain than in Christian Europe.

Historians refer to a “Golden Age” for Jews of Spain. The Wiki Encyclopedia entry for the Golden Age states: “The nature and length of this ‘Golden Age’ has been a subject of much debate, as there were at least three Golden Ages interrupted by periods of oppression of Jews and non-Jews. A few scholars give the start of the Golden Age as 711–718, the Muslim conquest of Iberia. Others date it from 912, under the rule of Abd-ar-Rahman III. The end of the age is variously given as 1031, when the Caliphate of Cordoba ended, 1066, the date of the Granada massacre, 1090, when the Almoravides invaded, or the mid-12th century, when the Almohades invaded.”

Many authors laud “convivencia”—the generally peaceful co-existence in Medieval Spain that allowed Muslims, Christians and Jews to live in harmony. It is clear that Jewish culture blossomed in Islamic Spain, with the emergence of great poets, grammarians, Bible scholars, talmudists, philosophers, scientists, mathematicians and more.

The blurb I wrote for Chris Lowney’s book reflects my doubts about the extent of Islamic tolerance of Jews and Christians. I wanted to be sure to mention that interfaith antagonism existed and that there were lapses in tolerance. But I also indicated that there were important triumphs of the human spirit, and that we today can learn much of value for maintaining a convivencia in our own times, a respectful and mutually beneficial harmony among people of various religions.

I was right about the failures that occurred under Islamic Spain. But was I right in pointing to that era as a positive model for religious co-existence? Was I too optimistic? Was I engaging in wishful thinking? Was I influenced by the overwhelming praise, by many authors and teachers, of the tolerance of Islamic Spain, and by the ubiquitous lauding of convivencia?

These questions have come to mind as I’ve been reading a newly published book, “The Myth of the Andalusian Paradise: Muslims, Christians, and Jews under Islamic Rule in Medieval Spain,” by Dario Fernandez-Morera, (ISI Books, Wilmington, 2016). The author is Associate Professor in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese at Northwestern University.

While various scholars have pointed to problems and low points during Islamic rule in Spain, Dr. Fernandez-Morera goes much further. His bold argument is that the notion of Islamic tolerance of Jews and Christians is a myth—it is simply not true. The idea of convivencia—the mutual cooperation and harmony among Muslims, Christians and Jews in Medieval Spain—belongs more to the realm of propaganda than to history.

The author quotes numerous scholars who shower praise on Islamic tolerance, on the remarkable “Golden Age” in interreligious cooperation. But he argues that these authors were engaging in “political correctness,” the fashionable presentation of a tolerant and benevolent Islam. He draws on writings of people who lived in Islamic Spain, people who described what life was actually like in their times. He draws on extensive scholarly sources, on archaeological discoveries, as well as on the abundant secondary literature of more recent scholars.

Dr. Fernandez-Morera notes that the famed Umayyad dynasty were followers of the Maliki school of Islam which had little love for non-Muslims. The early Muslim conquerors of Spain and their successors systematically razed churches or turned them into Mosques. They imposed Islamic law on Christians and Jews—known as People of the Book—which made it very clear that the minorities were to be subservient to Muslims. Although granted relative freedom to conduct their communities according to their own religious traditions, Christians and Jews were “dhimmis”—an underclass of “protected people” who had to pay a special tax for the privilege of living under Islamic hegemony.

Dr. Fernandez-Morera writes: “In short, Islamic Spain enjoyed no harmonious convivencia; rather, Muslims, Christians, and Jews had a precarious coexistence. Members of the three communities had to come into contact now and then. Sometimes they did business, or collaborated with one another, or dwelled near one another.” (p. 117) Of course, as in all societies, kinder people interacted more kindly with those of the other groups. And of course, there are examples of periods of relative quiet. And there were individual Jews and Christians who rose to positions of power and influence. Nonetheless, the massive reality was that “dhimmis” were subject to ongoing humiliation, segregation, and violence.

The “dhimmi” regulations imposed a special tax on Christians and Jews. Various rules were intended to humiliate “dhimmis” and remind them of their subservient positions. Writing about restrictions placed on Jews in Islamic Spain, Dr. Fernandez-Morera notes that Jews “must not ride horses. They must show deference to Muslims. They must not give court evidence against a Muslim…They must not proselytize….They must not dress in such an ostentatious manner as to offend poorer Muslims….” (p. 180)

While Jewish communities continued to exist in Islamic Spain, Christian communities declined and ultimately disappeared. “By the end of the twelfth century, as a result of flight (or ‘migration’) to Christian lands, expulsions to North Africa, executions and conversions, the Christian "dhimmi" population had largely disappeared from al-Andalus. When Christians entered Granada in 1492, there were no Christian "dhimmis" in the city.” (p. 208).

Professor Fernandez-Morera’s book has a clear point of view. He is especially interested in highlighting the strengths and virtues of Visigothic Spain before the arrival of the Muslims in 711. He praises the Christian re-conquest of Spain. Had it not been for the “Reconquista,” Islamic rule might not only have prevailed over all of Spain, but might have spread further into Europe. This would have led to the fostering of religious discrimination, the low status of women, the inhibiting of intellectual freedom; it would have precluded the emergence of the Renaissance, and would have left the Western world in the same general condition as the rest of the Muslim world.

While some of the arguments of Dr. Fernandez-Morera seem over-stretched and even polemical, the overall impact of his research and his book must make one stop to think more carefully about the “Andalusian Paradise” and convivencia. Are scholars and politicians perpetuating this myth because it serves a useful purpose, because they—and we—want to believe it? How nice it would be to know that there was a time and place when Muslims, Christians and Jews worked side by side in mutual respect and kindness. How nice to think that it is possible for Islamic rule to be tolerant and benevolent.

President Barack Obama, in a speech at Cairo University, June 4, 2009, stated: “Islam has a proud tradition of tolerance. We see it in the history of Andalusia and Cordoba during the Inquisition [sic].” Prime Minister Tony Blair wrote (“Foreign Affairs, January/February 2007): “The standard-bearers of tolerance in the early Middle Ages were far more likely to be found in Muslim lands than in Christian ones.”

These politicians, relying on wishful and mythological thinking, seek to appease the Muslim countries and to glorify Muslim achievements. Perhaps they think they will thereby convince current day Muslim leaders to embrace the myth of Islamic tolerance, thereby creating bridges between the Muslim world and the West.

Dr. Fernandez-Morera has pointed to the unpleasant and politically incorrect reality that Muslim rule was “tolerant” to Christians and Jews, but only if the "dhimmis" were in a clearly defined inferior position, subservient to Muslims. This is hardly a framework for mutual respect and equal rights.

When I wrote my blurb for Chris Lowney’s book, I wondered: “Can we learn from this story and shape a better, more harmonious world? Can we afford not to learn from this story?” When I wrote those words, I obviously harbored the belief—the hope—that there was a period of convivencia that can be a model for us today. I thought that it would be foolish for us to ignore the positive aspects of life in Medieval Spain.

After reading Dario Fernandez-Morera’s book, I could write these same words, but with a very different meaning. Rephrased, my blurb for today would read: Can we learn from the story of religious persecution and humiliation that characterized Islamic Spain? Can we learn to shape a better, more harmonious world by insisting on genuine respect, equality, decency, and theological humility among all religions? Can we afford not to learn these lessons?

There is a feeling among many Jews, including many Orthodox Jews, that worship in the synagogue lacks adequate inspiration and spirituality. Among the complaints: the synagogue ritual is chanted by rote; the prayers are recited too quickly; the prayers are recited too slowly; the service is not understood by congregants; people talk too much in synagogue; the services do not involve everyone in a meaningful way.

Here are some of the “solutions” that have been suggested over the years, along with why they have not achieved full success:

Introduce Hassidic/Carlebach melodies—these may be more lively and inspirational than the usual synagogue music. Yes, for some people, singing such melodies is emotionally satisfying. But for many others, such music seems more like a hootenanny than a vehicle for addressing God.

Make the services more egalitarian. Yes, for some people this seems like a way of getting men and women more involved. Yet, the Reform and Conservative movements have been fully egalitarian for many years—without any perceptible improvement in the overall spiritual life of their communities. Indeed, these movements have been suffering from serious loss of membership, and from generally poor attendance at services. While newly established “partnership” services are popping up in the Orthodox world, it remains to be seen whether this represents a passing fad, or if these types of services will fall into the same patterns that have taken hold in the non-Orthodox egalitarian services.

Make services shorter; include more readings in the vernacular. Yes, for some people this makes the synagogue experience more palatable. But it is doubtful whether it brings people to a greater feeling of the presence of God, or whether it will inspire more people to actually attend services.

Introduce meditation practices. Yes, some people may find this helpful to their spiritual experience. But many others may find these practices an outside imposition on Jewish worship and may be repelled by this mode of spirituality.

Whatever suggestions are offered, one can come up with counter-arguments. Each individual and each community has different needs and expectations.

The “crisis of the synagogue” needs to be viewed, I suggest, in a much broader context. The synagogue is only one factor—and not the major factor—in the real problem we are facing. The real problem is: moderns are losing, or have already lost, their sense of intimacy with God. God is simply not a real presence in many of our lives. Even if we observe the commandments, study Torah and say our prayers, we may still not feel the awesome, overwhelming experience of living in the light of the Eternal.

If we are losing, or have already lost, a sense of intimacy with God, making changes in the synagogue service will not restore that intimacy. Whatever gimmicks we introduce, while possibly helpful to some, will ultimately fail, because they are focusing on symptoms rather than on the malady itself.

To a religious Jew who feels God’s presence in daily life, the synagogue service poses little or no problem. The synagogue is just one of many contexts in which one experiences the Divine. It is not the center of religious life, and certainly not the only place to feel God’s presence. One follows the synagogue ritual out of loyalty to tradition, out of solidarity with generations of Jews who have prayed in this manner, out of a spiritual quest to be part of the community’s prayers to the Almighty. But one also says private prayers any time of the day, in almost any place.

If we have personal spirituality, we can bring this into our public spirituality. If we can maintain, or regain, a living relationship with God in our daily lives, then our synagogue experience becomes much higher and much deeper.

Surely, a synagogue needs to do its best to help congregants re-establish intimacy with God; and it needs to conduct its prayer services in a manner that is conducive to spiritual experience and development. But it also needs to realize that it is an enabler of spirituality, not a substitute for spirituality. God doesn’t dwell only—or even primarily—in the synagogue. God dwells everywhere. Most of our lives are not spent in the synagogue, and most of our lives are deeply in need of relationship with the Almighty. If we can develop a full spiritual personality, we will find the synagogue experience to be a meaningful and vital aspect of our lives. We need to be working on how to become more sensitive to our souls, to our personal relationships with God. We need to imbue our daily lives with Torah and mitzvoth in such a way that these activities resonate within us, and raise our spirits.

When Bil’am blessed the people of Israel, he said: “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob; your dwellings O Israel.” The “tents” refer to our homes, the centers of our every-day lives; the “dwellings” refer to our synagogues and study halls. When we first have our “tents” in order, it is a natural extension to have our “dwellings” in order.

It is far from a simple matter for moderns to maintain, or regain, a sense of intimacy with God. Much of the time-spirit militates against genuine religious experience. Religion is not an easy way to God, and is not a short cut to spirituality. Treating symptoms without going to the root of our problem only makes the problem worse.

If we want our synagogues to be more spiritual, we have to be more spiritual ourselves. If we want our "dwellings" to be spiritually alive, then we first have to be sure that our "tents" are spiritually alive.

In his book, The Perspective of Civilization, Fernand Braudel utilizes a concept that he calls “world-time.” Braudel notes that at any given point in history, all societies are not at the same level of advancement. The leading countries exist in world-time; that is, their level of advancement is correlated to the actual date in history.

However, there also are countries and civilizations which are far behind world-time, whose way of life may be centuries or even millennia behind the advanced societies. While the advanced technological countries exist in world-time, underdeveloped countries lag generations behind; some societies are still living as their ancestors did centuries ago. In short, everyone in the world may be living at the same chronological date, but different societies may be far from each other in terms of world-time.

Braudel's analysis also can be extended to the way people think. Even though people may be alive at the same time, their patterns of thinking may be separated by generations or even centuries. The characteristic of Modern Orthodoxy is that it is modern, that it is correlated to the contemporary world-time. Being part of contemporary world-time, it draws on the teachings of modern scholarship, it is open to modern philosophy and literature, and it relates Jewish law to contemporary world realities.

On the other hand, “non-modern” Orthodoxy does not operate in the present world-time. Its way of thinking and dealing with contemporary reality are pre-modern, generations behind contemporary world-time.

The differences between so-called right-wing Orthodoxy and Modern Orthodoxy are not differences in sincerity or in authentic commitment. Rather, the differences stem from different world views, from living in different world-times.

A Modern Orthodox Jew does not wish to think like a medieval rabbi, even though he wishes to fully understand what the medieval rabbi wrote and believed. The Modern Orthodox Jew wishes to draw on the wisdom of the past, not to be part of the past.

The philosophy of Modern Orthodoxy is not at all new. Rather, it is a basic feature of Jewish thought throughout the centuries. In matters of halakha, for example, it is axiomatic that contemporary authorities are obligated to evaluate halakhic questions from their own immediate perspective, rather than to rely exclusively on the opinions of rabbis of previous generations. The well-known phrase that “Yiftah in his generation is like Shemuel in his generation” (Rosh haShanah 25b) expresses the need to rely on contemporary authorities, even if they are not of the stature of the authorities of previous generations. We are obligated to be “Modern Orthodox,” to recognize present reality and to participate in contemporary world-time.

One of the weaknesses of contemporary Orthodoxy is that it is not “modern” in the sense just discussed. There is a prevailing attitude that teaches us to revere the opinions of the sages of previous generations, and to defer to those contemporary sages who occupy a world-time contemporary with those sages.

Who are the sages of the present world-time, who absorb the contemporary reality, the contemporary ways of thinking and analyzing? To be Modern Orthodox Jews means to accept our limitations, but it also means that we must accept our responsibility to judge according to what our own eyes see, according to our own understanding. It means to have the self-respect to accept that responsibility.

Modern Orthodoxy and pre-Modern Orthodoxy do not engage in meaningful dialogue because they operate in separate world-times. The sages of each generation are influenced by the social and political realities of their time. If many of our sages in the past believed in demons and witches, if they thought that the sun revolved around the earth, or if they assigned inferior status to women and slaves—we can understand that they were part of a world that accepted these notions. We do not show disrespect for them by understanding the context in which they lived and thought. On the contrary, we are able to understand their words better, and thus we may determine how they may or may not be applied to our own contemporary situation. It is not disrespectful to our sages if we disagree with their understanding of physics, psychology, sociology, or politics. On the contrary, it would be foolish not to draw on the advances in these fields that have been made throughout the generations, including those of our own time.

There is no sense in forcing ourselves into an earlier world-time in order to mold our ways of thinking into harmony with modes of thought of sages who lived several hundred or even several thousand years ago.

One of the nagging problems that bothers many thoughtful Orthodox Jews is how Orthodoxy has become increasingly authoritarian and obscurantist—how it has seemed to lock itself into a pre-modern worldview. There is a palpable drive to conformity—in dress, in thought, in behavior. Independent thinking—especially if inspired by “secular” wisdom—is discouraged or forbidden. It is as though people wish to pretend that findings of modern science may be casually dismissed; that women and men of today must think and act as they did in pre-modern times; that Orthodox life demands a strongly negative posture vis a vis modernity.

Thinking Jews should be standing up for a genuine modern Orthodoxy that insists on functioning in contemporary world-time. While facing modernity has its real challenges, not facing modernity will lead Orthodoxy into a cult-like existence-- out of touch with reality, out of touch with the needs of thinking and feeling human beings…out of touch with Torah itself.

"Across the Expanse of Jewish Thought," by Rabbi Hillel Goldberg

Reviewed by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Archilochus, an ancient Greek poet, observed: “The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.” Sir Isaiah Berlin used this line as a metaphor for different kinds of thinkers. Some, like the fox, know many topics, have wide-ranging intellectual concerns. Others, like the hedgehog, have one central idea that dominates their thinking.

Rabbi Dr. Hillel Goldberg draws on the fox and hedgehog imagery in his new book, Across the Expanse of Jewish Thought (Ktav, 2022). He notes that he, like the hedgehog, has one central focus—Torah Judaism. But, like the fox, he also has a wide range of intellectual interests including science, history, philosophy, literature and more.

Rabbi Goldberg’s book is a classic example of the combined focus of a hedgehog and the expansiveness of the fox. He has a fine eye for detail. His studies in biblical texts and prayers hone in on words, patterns, and nuances. But they reflect the larger vision of works that put us in relationship with the Almighty. So it is with the structure of the book as a whole. He addresses particular themes in a penetrating manner…but also explores the larger meanings and implications of each topic.

The subtitle of this book is From the Holocaust to Halakhah and Beyond. This gives the reader an idea of the scope of material covered in this book. Rabbi Goldberg writes about holocaust theology and what we can learn from the survivors themselves. He explores themes in prayer, biblical commentary, musar, Jewish law, philosophy; and he offers biographical studies of Rav Kuk and Professor (Rebbe Dr.) Isadore Twersky.

Rabbi Goldberg is an engaging writer with a distinctive style. His prose is modulated. It gives the reader time to think, to digest the words. In discussing Abraham and the Akeida, Rabbi Goldberg writes: “This is the paradox: Abraham finds his own way to God’s way. Actually, however, Abraham transcends paradox. He does not have two separate sides. Now he is submissive, now he is creative: it is not this way. Abraham melds the will of God and the will of man. As much as possible for any human being, Abraham unifies Infinity and finitude.” (p. 171)

As a hedgehog, Rabbi Goldberg focuses on the detailed mandates of the halakha. As a fox, he seeks the meanings that undergird the details and that soar heavenward.  He writes: “By His love and grace, God issued halakhah as the sovereign over all ritual, ethical and social necessities; equally, by His love and grace, God endowed the human being with the capability and curiosity to unveil secrets of the universe.” ( p. 210) Rabbi Goldberg notes that halakha “creatively juxtaposes divine knowledge and human knowledge of the natural world. It shapes social reality and embraces other disciplines of divine knowledge.” (p. 212)

On a personal note, Rabbi Goldberg and I were fellow students at Yeshiva College during the 1960s. Even then, I learned to appreciate his soft-spoken, thoughtful manner of communication. Over these many years, I have learned much from his writings, and have enjoyed his masterful articles and editorials in the Intermountain Jewish News. When I read his works, I somehow feel that I am hearing his voice…calm, thoughtful, precise, challenging. More than a hedgehog, more than a fox: Rabbi Goldberg is a thinking rabbi who incorporates and transcends both.