Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Bereishith

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

            The Torah makes a startling statement about God’s creation of Adam/Humankind:“So God created Humankind in His own image [tselem Elo-him], in the image of God He created him; male and female he created them” (Bereishith 1:27). Sages have devoted much thought to this verse. What exactly does the Torah mean by the phrase tselem Elo-him, image of God? We are too sophisticated to take the phrase literally i.e. that human beings are created in the physical form of God—a Being who has no physical features. Among the most widely held views, “image” refers to intellect, free will or creativity.

            I suggest that the phrase refers to the human potential for spirituality. From the very inception of humanity, God instilled within us a desire to transcend ourselves, to aspire to an infinite reality beyond our immediate reach.

            Evolutionary biologist Edward O. Wilson, in his book On Human Nature, presents evidence that a religious sensibility existed in human beings from the earliest times. All human societies-- from hunter gatherers to moderns and post-moderns—display a predilection to spiritual belief. This spiritual sense is intrinsic to humanity.

            Every human being has this capacity, but each of us develops and nurtures it differently. The seed of Godliness within us provides the potential for optimal human spiritual growth . Some are able to rise to great heights…to prophecy itself. Others negate and profane their tselem Elo-him by clinging to false ideologies or immoral behaviors.

            Dean Hamer, in his book The God Gene, argues that our spiritual sense is actually implanted in us genetically. “It is our genetic makeup that helps to determine how spiritual we are. We do not know God; we feel him.” This would fit in well with our notion of tselem Elo-him. We all have an innate spiritual disposition, albeit of different levels, and can choose to develop this disposition or suppress it.

            Religiosity and spirituality are not the same thing. Religions attempt to create frameworks that foster spirituality. Religions provide rites and ceremonials that are intended to stimulate our spiritual sense. But it is possible to observe the various rites and ceremonials and be oblivious to the spirituality these things are meant to inspire. Ideally, our religious lives should be in sync with our spiritual aspirations.

            In 1931, Benjamin Nathan Cardozo gave the commencement address at the Jewish Institute of Religion. He referred to the astronomer Tycho Brahe who devoted long years to mark and register the stars, when people mocked him for this seemingly useless endeavor. Cardozo remarked:  “The submergence of self in the pursuit of an ideal, the readiness to spend oneself without measure, prodigally, almost ecstatically, for something intuitively apprehended as great and noble, spend oneself one knows not why—some of us like to believe that is what religion means.”

            If we add “God” to Justice Cardozo’s statement, we will have a beautiful understanding of spirituality…and religion at its best. Something within us yearns for transcendence, truth, wholeness, unity. When we feel the presence of God, we not only transcend ourselves…we plumb the depths within ourselves.

            The quality of spirituality—the tselem Elo-him within us-- is God’s gift to us; how we use or abuse this gift defines who we are as human beings.

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Rabbi M. Angel has a 5 minute youtube program, "Are Terrorists Created in the Image of God."   Please see: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MF8-fwpcte4&t=15s

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Lekh Lekha

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

In Chapter 2 of his “Laws of Foundations of Torah,” Maimonides discusses the commandments to love and fear God. “What is the way to love and fear Him? When one contemplates His wondrous and great works and creations and sees in them His infinite wisdom, immediately he loves and praises and exalts and yearns with an overwhelming yearning to know His great Name….On meditating these very things, one immediately recoils, fears and trembles, realizing that he is a tiny, low and obscure being of small intelligence standing before the One with perfect wisdom…”

Significantly, Maimonides locates love and fear of God in a universal context. Every human being can contemplate the wonders of nature and detect the greatness of the Creator. Maimonides might have written that one learns love and fear of God by studying the Torah…God’s word. But by specifically including this passage in his section on Foundations of Torah, he was teaching us that we are not only Jews with a Torah…but we are human beings who share in the universal human spiritual adventure.

This week’s Torah portion begins with God’s command to Abram to leave his land, his birthplace, the house of his parents. Abram was to go to a land that God would show him and start a new chapter in the history of humanity.

The Torah does not indicate why God chose Abram for this awesome challenge. Rabbinic tradition filled the void with various Midrashic stories that highlight Abram’s spiritual greatness. Although his father Terah was an idolater, Abram repudiated idolatry and shattered his father’s idols. Abram did not inherit faith in One God, but discovered God through philosophical questioning. In viewing the wondrous and great works and creations, he concluded that these things could not have just happened on their own. There must be a Creator who set things in order.

Abram discovered God centuries before the Torah was revealed to the Israelites at Mount Sinai. The Midrashim underscore that God is accessible to us through our universal human capacities.

The opening chapters of the Torah, from the creation story, through Noah and Abram/Abraham, are directed at humanity at large…not just at the Jewish People. The message is: through philosophy and science, human beings can attain love and fear of God.

Jews have an additional route to God: the Torah. Each morning in our prayers, we thank the Almighty for having granted Torah to the People of Israel. The teachings and commandments of Torah put us in contact with God’s word and God’s will…and the more we study and internalize Torah, the more we are able to deepen our connection with God.

Jewish tradition, thus, has two roads to God: the natural world, which reveals God as Creator; and the Torah, which records the words of God to the people of Israel. But the Torah itself leads us back to the first road, the road of experiencing God as Creator. The Torah and nature are bound together.

 The relationship of Torah and nature is evident in Psalm 19. The psalm has two distinct parts which at first glance seem to be unconnected. It begins: “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament tells His handiwork. Day unto day utters the tale, night unto night unfolds knowledge. There is no word, no speech, their voice is not heard, yet their course extends through all the world, and their theme to the end of the world.” It goes on to describe the sun which rejoices as a strong man prepared to run his course. “Its setting forth is from one end of the skies, its circuit unto the other extreme, and nothing is hidden from its heat.” Then the psalm makes an abrupt shift. It continues: “The law of the Lord is perfect, comforting the soul…the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart. The commandment of the Lord is clear, enlightening the eyes.” From a description of the glory of God as manifested in the natural world, the psalm jumps to a praise of the Torah, God’s special revelation to the people of Israel.

 The psalm is teaching that one may come to an understanding of God both through the natural world and through the Torah.

For the Jewish People, Abraham is our father (Avraham Avinu) and Moses is our teacher (Moshe Rabbeinu)…and both lead us to God.

              My recently published book, Jewish Literary Eros: Between Poetry and Prose in the Medieval Mediterranean (Indiana University Press, June 2022), presents a comparison of fictional writings across literary traditions of the medieval Mediterranean. It places secular texts by Jewish authors side by side with works by their Muslim and Jewish predecessors and Christian contemporaries to see how attitudes toward fiction, metaphor, pseudo-autobiography, allegory, and courting rituals vary or parallel each other in unexpected ways. The texts in question were written primarily between the twelfth through fourteenth centuries by Jewish authors in Christian Spain and Italy and comprise a mixture of poetry and prose, known as prosimetra. The writing of this period has traditionally been considered decadent, less brilliant and innovative than compositions by Jewish Andalusian predecessors whose writings, still in regular circulation today, have had an incalculable impact on Jewish intellectual, literary, scientific, and exegetical histories. I hope that I dispel this misconception in some small way: the next generations of texts form a continuum, one that both looks to past innovations while also considering new ways to create meaning for readers attempting to survive ever more precarious realities.

Thus, on the one hand, this study has less to do with the Jewishness of these authors than the astonishing literary hybridity of writers from across the medieval Mediterranean—writers from different faiths who spoke the same languages, shared the same secular cultural contexts, and studied the same philosophical commentaries, mathematical treatises, and scientific texts. Indeed, the literary forms and the varieties of love I highlight are far more evocative of social conditions and cultural values than the entertaining qualities of the works seem to indicate.

On the other hand, there is something particularly Jewish about the texts by these Jewish authors, despite their unmistakable borrowings from and adaptations of Arabic and Romance literary forms and motifs. This something is at once both obvious and elusive; obvious, since secular texts written in Hebrew by Jews of al-Andalus, Christian Spain, or Italy are all in essence clever and brilliant pastiches of the Hebrew Bible, every word or phrase necessarily carrying with it a complex array of connotations that educated Jewish readers of the medieval Mediterranean would have noticed immediately and admired greatly. (There were a few detractors to secular poetry, of course, most famously Maimonides and his disciple ibn Falaquera, though Maimonides objected not to poetry itself but rather to its desecration of the Holy Tongue and its potential to lead men to engage in unseemly behavior.[1]) This something Jewish, though, is as elusive as it is obvious, since these authors broke new ground, experimenting with new literary forms and techniques: the resulting texts grapple with human love and poetics as intertwined and crucial steps toward ethical living, and regardless of intercalated biblical allusions the stories are removed from a Jewish context. At the same time, however, these authors openly declare their goal of creating texts that show the potency of the Hebrew language with the expressed hope of buoying their Jewish readers who were living in ever more precarious circumstances, facing persecution, forced conversion, forced migration. I must add that not all of the texts by Jewish authors featured in my book are in Hebrew; they also include works in Italian, Judeo-Spanish, and Castilian in the centuries following. In this way, the question of what makes a text particularly Jewish is even more challenging and amorphous.

To be clear, these authors were pious men who penned biblical commentaries and liturgical poems—Jacob ben Elʿazar the author of liturgical poems and Immanuel of Rome the author of extensive biblical commentary. But they were also secular polymaths, descendants of those who were trained in the Arabic tradition of adab, a word that in modern Arabic simply means literature but in the medieval period referred to a broad, humanistic education that any young man of means would have pursued. Like their Muslim counterparts, wealthy Jewish men in al-Andalus in the golden age of Hebrew letters (ca. 950–1150) studied these same subjects, one of which was poetry, poetic composition, and, what today we would call literary criticism. One of the most profound results of this flourishing humanism was the tenth-century adaptation of Arabic quantitative meter and thematics for use in Hebrew poetry, both secular and devotional; the same poets, such as Judah Halevi and Solomon Ibn Gabirol, composed both varieties.[2]

The later authors whose works are the focus of my book lived in Christian Spain and Italy, in periods of increasing unease and turmoil, their predecessors already having been driven from their beloved Andalucia by increasingly stringent Muslim rulers. Ben Elʿazar and Immanuel, for instance, composed masterpieces in Toledo and Italy (exact location unknown), respectively, amid fraught historical realities: ben Elʿazar had to contend with increasingly stringent papal and monarchical controls on Jewish businesses and religious practice, and while Immanuel’s Christian counterparts deigned to exchange Italian sonnets with him, they made sure to refer to him as “Immanuel the Jew” (a moniker that has remained even today when some modern-day scholars of medieval Italian literature refer to him) and to position him in excrement-laden visions of hell in their own sonnets—forceful reminders that he and his fellow Jews were purportedly expelled from Rome by the Avignon papacy in 1321, though documentation of the edict is not extant.

In the past two decades, scholars have delved into the multiplicity of literary traditions of medieval Iberia, devoting studies to Hebrew and Sephardic literature within the Mediterranean setting, including, among others, wonderful books by Ross Brann (Iberian Moorings: Al-Andalus, Sefarad, and the Tropes of Exceptionalism); Jonathan Decter (Iberian Jewish Literature); Michelle Hamilton (Representing Others in Medieval Iberian Literature); S. J. Pearce (Andalusi Literary & Intellectual Tradition); and David Wacks (Framing Iberia and Double Diaspora in Sephardic Literature). These studies complement research collections that confront the multiplicities of medieval Iberia from a comparative perspective, such as The Literature of Al-Andalus (edited by María Rosa Menocal, Michael Sells, and Raymond P. Scheindlin); A Sea of Languages: Rethinking the Arabic Role in Medieval Literary History (edited by Suzanne Conklin Akbari and Karla Mallette); and Under the Influence: Questioning the Comparative in Medieval Castile (edited by Cynthia Robinson and Leyla Rouhi).

My contribution is a pause amid these broader studies; in slowing down to look at the intricacies of literary form and genre across traditions, I find particular moments of innovation among Jewish authors. Freeing themselves from the steady restraints of both meter and rhyme built into the fixed poetic forms employed by Hebrew poets of al-Andalus, some Jewish authors of prosimetric or polymetric texts explored new literary forms to address secular love. Although my most conspicuous examples come from certain Hebrew maqamas, I also consider other works, including Immanuel’s Italian lyrics and polymetric Judeo-Spanish oral poems, and I broaden my discussion into experimental poetic and prose compositions from the fifteenth through seventeenth centuries. I situate these examples with respect to relevant sources in ancient Greek, classical Arabic, Latin, Castilian, French, Galician-Portuguese, Italian, and Occitan. When viewed in the comparative context of the medieval Mediterranean, the evolving relationship between the authors’ combinations of literary forms and the theme of love adds nuance to our understanding of how Jewish literature of the period negotiates its position within Islamicate and Christian literary traditions.

The question remains: why love? Profane love is the only theme shared across prosimetra by authors of the three religions. While all Arabic treatises, no matter the subject matter, featured interspersed rhymed and metered poems, Romance-language texts—which evolved much later than classical Arabic works, mirroring the centuries’ later development of distinct Romance languages—favored poetry and most often featured love stories; of the few extant Romance prosimetra, love is the choice topic. Yes, this is the realm of courtly love—a highly problematic term that I address thoroughly—a world of knights, princesses, and unrequited love; indeed, a world in which some Jewish authors were eager to take part. At the crossroads of these literary cultures, Jews of the medieval Mediterranean pushed poetry toward something new, combining dominant cultures’ literary stylings, at times imbued with biblical Hebrew and Jewish thematics, and with an undeniably perceptive awareness of self and other.

Works Cited

Brann, Ross. Iberian Moorings: Al-Andalus, Sefarad, and the Tropes of Exceptionalism. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2021.

Hamilton, Michelle. Representing Others in Medieval Iberian Literature. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007.

Maimonides, Moses. The Guide of the Perplexed. Translated by Shlomo Pines. Chicago: University of Chicago, 1963.

———. Maimonides’ Treatise on Logic (Maqāla fī sināʿat al-mantiq). Edited and translated by Israel Efros. New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1938.

———. Mishna ʿim perush Rabenu Moshe ben Maimon. Edited and translated by Yosef Qaʿfiḥ. Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Quq, 1964.

Menocal, María Rosa, Michael Sells, and Raymond P. Scheindlin. The Literature of Al-Andalus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.

Monroe, James T. “Maimonides on the Mozarabic Lyric (A Note on the Muwassaḥa).” La corónica 17, no. 2 (1989): 18–32.

Pearce, S. J. The Andalusi Literary and Intellectual Tradition: The Role of Arabic in Judah Ibn Tibbon’s Ethical Will. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2017.

Robinson, Cynthia, and Leyla Rouhi, eds. Under the Influence: Questioning the Comparative in Medieval Castile. Leiden: Brill, 2005.

Scheindlin, Raymond P. “Hebrew Poetry in Medieval Iberia.” In Convivencia: Jews, Muslims, and Christians in Medieval Spain. Ed. Vivian B. Mann, Thomas F. Glick, and Jerrilynn D. Dodds, 38-59. New York: G. Braziller in association with the Jewish Museum, 1992.

Wacks, David. Double Diaspora in Sephardic Literature: Jewish Cultural Production before and after 1492. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2015.

———. Framing Iberia: Maqāmāt and Frametale Narratives in Medieval Spain. Leiden: Brill, 2007.

Book Review

Dennis Prager, The Rational Bible: Deuteronomy (Regnery Faith, 2022)

          This review is a sequel to my reviews of Dennis Prager’s volumes on Genesis and Exodus, found at https://www.jewishideas.org/article/review-dennis-prager-genesis and https://www.jewishideas.org/article/review-dennis-prager-exodus.

          Throughout the contemporary West, we find increasingly aggressive elements in our government, universities, schools, media, and many other influential venues that viciously attack God, the Bible, family values, the very notion of an objective morality, and many other core ideals we cherish. Many of the biblical principles America is built upon are brutalized or at best ignored.

          Dennis Prager is far better known as a political commentator than a Bible Scholar. Nonetheless, he is animated by his belief in the Torah and its enduring moral messages for humanity. Whether or not one agrees with all of his politics or individual interpretations of the verses, Prager’s commentary is strikingly relevant when he emphasizes the moral revolution of the Torah and the vitality of its moral teachings to today’s increasingly secularized Western world. Prager pinpoints several of the major differences between the Torah’s morality and the dangerous shortcomings of today’s secular West. In this review, we will focus on several of his central points.

In Deuteronomy 1:13, Moses selected judges who were “wise, discerning, and experienced.” All three traits pertain to wisdom, not goodness. Of course, judges also must be good people, but that trait alone is insufficient for leadership. A good society is unattainable without wisdom. Prager observes that “there have always been people who were personally good—individuals who have good intentions and even a kindly disposition—who enabled evil to prevail.”

On a personal level, parents who spoil their children without teaching them right from wrong may be good people, but they lack wisdom. On a global level, communism is the best example of good intentions without wisdom. Communism has killed approximately 100 million people, and enslaved a billion more. Their tyrannical leaders, and some of their supporters, are truly evil people. But many millions of their supporters sincerely believed that communism would build a better world for the future. However, they lacked moral and economic wisdom, thereby supporting and enabling the evil tyrants to obtain and retain power (6-10).

          The world’s freest society, the United States of America, is both a democracy and theocracy. Theocracy without democracy leads to an unfree society. Democracy without God leads to moral and intellectual chaos. George Washington stated, “Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports…reason and experience both forbid us to expect that national morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principle.” In a similar vein, John Adams remarked that “Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious People. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.” Prager observes that it is no accident that the two mottoes of the United States are “Liberty” and “In God We Trust” (283-285).

The Book of Deuteronomy repeatedly warns against following false gods. Prager enumerates several of today’s “false gods” (71-84). One of the most corrosive elements to the fabric of our increasingly secular society is the elimination of God and the Bible, and replacing its wisdom with an overvaluation of education and intelligence.

Prager quotes Professor Steven Pinker of Harvard University, who observes that “universities are becoming laughingstocks of intolerance.” Well-educated people disproportionately supported the Nazi party, as well as communism. The same is true for those today who hold anti-American and Israeli sentiments.

          In 2015 Prager participated in a debate at the prestigious Oxford Union at Oxford University on the subject of whether Israel or Hamas is a greater obstacle for peace in the Middle East. That this debate could even occur is truly terrifying, given the terrorist organization Hamas’ genocidal charter. Yet, the debate went on, and the majority of the over 400 elite students in attendance voted that Israel is the greater obstacle to peace, as this is what they are taught.

          Education uncoupled from God and morality becomes a false, and a very dangerous, god. Among those naïve enough to think otherwise was Sigmund Freud, who confidently stated in 1927 that secular education could replace religion as the basis for a moral society: “Civilization has little to fear from educated people and brain-workers. In them the replacement of religious motives for civilized behaviors by other, secular motives would proceed unobtrusively.” Within ten years of making that statement, Freud witnessed many of his fellow Austrian and German intellectuals support Nazism and even participate in the atrocities.

          Of course, people who claim to be religious can be evil, and people who do not believe in God can be exceptionally moral. The issue is society and its institutions. Without religious core values, secular society almost inevitably loses its wisdom, and then risks becoming evil.

          The Book of Deuteronomy promises national reward for righteous behavior, and national calamity for wicked behavior and unfaithfulness to God. To the modern mind, such promises often appear to reflect a low-level religious system. Prager defends the Torah’s discourse on several grounds (142-143).

          First, the Torah could have omitted all reference to reward and punishment. This idealistic system is simply untrue to human reality. When people are rewarded for competent work, they work harder and more competently. This is why the capitalistic free market economy was the only system that enabled people to lift themselves out of poverty. Some are seduced by the Marxist socialist ideal of people being rewarded “according to their needs,” rather than for the excellence of their work. This ideology, however, eliminates the incentive to work hand. Further, who determines the “needs” of individuals? Generally not the individual, but the state. This is the road to tyranny and totalitarianism. Prager concludes, “And who doesn’t want to live in a just world? Only the unjust.”

          The Torah could have shifted focus to reward in the afterlife, but its entire agenda is to build a great society in this world.

          Finally, the Torah could have demanded faithfulness based on love of God. However, that argument would work only for the religiously elite few.

          Therefore, the Torah’s stress on this-worldly reward and punishment is the most effective means of promoting a universally righteous society.

          A central theme in Deuteronomy is gratitude. God blesses Israel with a beautiful, bountiful land. The religious hazard of that blessing is that Israel may in turn become spoiled and arrogant, considering their prosperity as their own achievement. Prager comments that “gratitude is the mother of both happiness and goodness.” The easiest way to undermine gratitude is to take something or someone for granted. Most people appreciate what they had only once they have lost it. Parents spoil their children when they give them everything, as children come to expect everything. Saying “thank you” is not merely polite etiquette; these words inculcate gratitude and appreciation. Jewish law has blessings for everything, including eating and even relieving oneself in the bathroom. These blessings, when taken seriously, infuse gratitude and happiness into the most mundane moments (154-156).

          In Deuteronomy 12:20, the Torah permits “secular slaughter” away from the Temple, enabling Israelites to eat meat outside of a sacrificial context. Prager uses this commandment to launch into a discussion regarding animal rights activism gone awry in the secular world. There is an increasingly prevalent value of people and animals being of equal worth. Prager quotes a 2003 PETA ad campaign, which appallingly equated barbequing chickens with the cremation of Jews in the Nazi death camps. They entitled their ad campaign, “Holocaust on your Plate.” It was a Jew at PETA who created that ad campaign, and he doubled down on his assertion that chickens and humans are of equal value when he was challenged.

          In Deuteronomy 19:13, the Torah insists that we show no pity for murderers. The Torah understands that if we see the condemned, we naturally will have pity, and consider withholding the capital punishment. However, such pity overrides the true victims, namely, the person who was murdered and his or her family. In a debate on American television with the leader of an anti-capital punishment vigil being held in front of the prison where a murderer was about to be executed, Prager “asked the activist if he and his supporters had ever held a vigil in support of a murder victim’s family. I received no response” (303-304).

We should lead the world in morality, but not promote a morality so far beyond realism that we subject ourselves to mortal danger. Prager quotes Rabbi Irving (“Yitz”) Greenberg reflecting on the modern State of Israel, surrounded by vicious enemies committed to Israel’s destruction: “If we Jews are five percent better than the rest of the world, we can be a ‘light unto the nations.’ If we are twenty-five percent better than the rest of the world, we can bring the Messiah. If we are fifty percent better than the rest of the world, we’ll all be dead” (316).

          Through these and so many other religious-moral teachings, the Torah was a revolution in world history, and continues to bring relevant, and sorely needed, teaching to the modern world.

Relationship Between Ideals and Commandments in Judaism

By Pinchas Polonsky (Ariel University, Israel), Galina Zolotusky, Gregory Yashgur, and Raphael BenLevi (Bar-Ilan University, Israel)

(Thanks to Lise Brody, Rivka Efremenko, and Lilian Mellech for translation and editing, and

to Prof. Michael Sherman for corrections and helpful discussions.)

Introduction

For many hundreds of years, Judaism has been defending its ideals against those of Christianity. In the Medieval Era everybody knew which religion they belonged to, and conversion from one religion to another was more of an exception than the rule. In the modern era, however, an overwhelmingly large proportion of Jews and Gentiles have become indecisive about which religion they belong to. This has caused the relationship between Judaism and Christianity to change drastically: Judaism is now in a constant state of competition with Christianity for the souls of these uncertain individuals.

So far, Judaism has been losing, and the reason is clear: While Christianity has always revolved around ideals, Judaism has evolved to be a religion of commandments. This is, of course, very disturbing because original and authentic Judaism is very clearly a religion of ideals. If Judaism were to return to its ideals, more and more Jews would find meaning in identifying with and practicing it. However, Judaism must win this contest for another, much broader reason: for the sake of the general advancement of the world through the acceptance of Jewish values. Even if this proves to be too vast a goal, then Judaism must win for the sake of these assimilated Jews.

These two goals are intertwined. The only way to develop the world and to bring the assimilated Jews back to their roots is to restore Judaism to what it used to be in the times of the Tanakh—namely a religion of ideals and morals; the commandments function as a tool to express its values. Once this transformation occurs, both Jews and Gentiles will understand the truth of Judaism, and that in itself will be a great achievement for all of humanity.

Part 1: A Problem in the Orthodox World Today: Jewish Religious Consciousness Lacks the Concept of “Ideals”

            Historically, Judaism has come to be seen as a religion of commandments and laws. If someone unfamiliar with Judaism approaches many contemporary rabbis with queries, they would likely briefly be told about faith in God and the Bible, but then would immediately be encountered by an enumeration of commandments and laws. Similarly, in the library of any Orthodox synagogue or yeshiva, we would find a huge number of books under the general category of halakha (Jewish law), with the laws of everyday life, the holidays, Shabbat, kashruth, and so forth. What we are unlikely to find in this collection is a book called The Ideals of Judaism. We may find bits and pieces in different places, but a systematic exploration of ideals in Judaism is lacking. For this reason, the Judaism that has evolved in the Diaspora, at least outwardly, creates an impression of being a religion that is devoid of ideals.

            This tendency to reduce Judaism to a system of law and observances is not a recent development, however. Beginning with early Christianity this charge was being made, most famously by Paul of Tarsus, who argued for the abolition of the Mosaic Law, at least in any obligatory sense, identifying the law itself as the cause of sin. The charge was that Rabbinical Judaism, and the very institution of the law, was associated with the neglect of higher divine ideals. This motif continued to be echoed almost two millennia later among German Idealist philosophers, particularly Kant and Hegel. In their understanding of Judaism, the Torah is, above all, law. Kant held that if the Torah was given by a deity external to reason, then the Mosaic Law could not represent morality based on autonomous reason. Hegel also believed that, for this reason, Judaism had been superseded by Christianity, and therefore become irrelevant to history’s march toward absolute universal religion, which, he said, was on the horizon in his day. Many contemporary thinkers continue to give voice to this view today.

            However, this view of Judaism is incorrect and represents merely a reduction of the authentic Hebraic system in which moral ideals are in a dynamic interaction with the law. It is correct, however, that, unfortunately, as a result of the long exile where the Jewish people could not manifest the original idea of a sovereign and independent society, there arose a tendency within Judaism to emphasize the laws and commandments over moral ideals. This tendency is still prevalent today and permeates much of the discourse in Jewish Orthodoxy.

            Judaism, in fact, has a two-fold approach to the issue: It recognizes that people generally dislike laws, mainly because laws evoke a sense of obligation. Even if a person agrees with the necessity of obligations, he would still prefer that ideals, goals, and meaning stand behind these obligations. It is no coincidence that Christianity focuses precisely on this issue and accuses Judaism of being a religion of duties, laws, and formalities, devoid of freedom and flight of the soul. On the other hand, the need for laws is also defended: After all, everything falls apart without the laws; the laws are the basis of life. Without self-restraint, spirituality would greatly suffer. Thus, laws have a clear dichotomy: Although they push some away from Judaism, others find Judaism meaningless without them. We claim that while laws are an important part of Judaism, an obsession with, or imbalanced over-emphasis on them, destroys the spiritual content of Judaism.

            Some think that what drives people away from observing commandments is the external secular influence of our day. The problem, however, is much deeper; the divine nature of humanity resists seeing the commandments, the laws, and the duties as the main focus of Judaism. Freedom is a divine quality. It is intrinsic to human nature to strive to emulate God, and everything that creates a distinction from God makes us feel uncomfortable. Therefore, seeing Judaism as merely a set of commandments creates a negative view of the human soul. The commandments are necessary, but only after a person moves freely in the direction of ideals. Self-restraint must stem from freedom, and not the other way around.

The Source of Morality

            There are two levels to this topic that should be differentiated. The first question is that of the source of morality: Is God the exclusive source of moral knowledge for humans, meaning that an act is good solely because God has declared it to be so—and if He were to declare otherwise any act would become moral or immoral accordingly? Or is moral knowledge, from the human perspective, something that can be engaged with independently of revelation by God—and that God, in fact, cannot or will not change it?

            We argue that the Jewish answer to this question is that it is actually a false dichotomy. The truth is that God is, on the one hand, the source of everything, including the moral conscience of humanity. On the other hand, because God endowed humans with the capability for moral thought, it is incumbent upon humanity to use it.

            The most classic source that illustrates this is Genesis (18:25), where Abraham is described as arguing with God. God informs Abraham of his intention to destroy Sodom, but Abraham resists, asserting that God must do justice. Beyond the obvious implication arising from the text that Abraham has the ability to engage in a debate over morality with God, none of the classic Jewish commentators criticize Abraham for asserting his opinion.

            Of course, the account of the Binding of Isaac (the Akeidah) is often raised as the ultimate example that proves that God’s will must be obeyed even in the face of morality. This is also, we argue, a simplistic and inaccurate reading of the story. A thorough treatment of this story is beyond the scope of this article but it can be explained as follows: The most important point to note, here, is that at the end, Abraham does not actually slaughter his son. And it is clear from passages throughout the Tanakh[1] that God is not interested in child sacrifice. In fact, God forbids it in the strongest terms.

            The message of the Akeidah can be understood thus: to clarify once and for all that, by definition, there cannot be a situation where God will command something that is immoral—not because God’s command defines morality, but because God wants to promote moral behavior. The Akeidah story is a dramatic way of driving this point home. Rabbi Avraham Yitchak Kook relates to the Akeidah in his commentary on the Siddur, Olat Hara’ayah (I, p. 92):

…the ultimate [moral] command, whether the imperative to not engage in the evil of murder, or from the natural avoidance of anything that undermines the feelings of love of a father for his child, stands stridently in its place. The clarity, that is natural and holy, which is engraved in the spiritual and material nature, does not lose its high stature at all, by the encounter with the higher vision of God’s word…. Do not think that there is any inherent contradiction between the pure love of a father for his son, and the higher love of God.

            R. Kook is saying that the natural moral conscience—that rejects hurting Isaac—is not in contradiction to the divine command. Any apparent contradiction between humanity’s moral conscience and God’s command will always be superficial. This is because both the feelings of love of a father for his son and the moral conscience that rejects murder are both integral parts of the system of God’s command. Accordingly, Kant’s mistake is that he saw autonomous morality and heteronomous morality as being contradictory to begin with. In Judaism they are not and cannot be so.

            R. Kook says this even more clearly in Orot haKodesh (Section 3:12):

The fear of heaven must never be allowed to thrust aside man’s natural morality, because then it would cease to be a pure fear of heaven. A sign of the pure fear of heaven is when the natural morality, rooted in man’s upright nature, is brought to higher and higher heights that he would not otherwise reach, because of it [the fear of heaven].

            But this is not only a position held by R. Kook. The classic sages seem to say the same thing. R. Nissim Goan (990–1062) states that all people, including non-Jews, are beholden to the moral imperative, even if they were not directly commanded by explicit divine revelation. The human conscience is also a source for approaching God’s will, even where God has not spoken. He states: “All the commandments that are dependent on common sense and the hearts’ understanding are obligatory from the day that God created man in this world” (Introduction to Sefer haMafteah).

            Likewise, R. Abraham ibn Ezra in his commentary on the Torah (Exodus 20:1), states:

God forbid that even one of the commandments should contradict common sense, but we must in any case observe everything that God commanded, whether its secret is revealed or not. And if one of them seems to contradict common sense, we must not understand it at face value, and must search our sources for its meaning, possibly as a parable.

            Maimonides, in his Guide to the Perplexed (II:45), argues that humanity’s internal moral compass is itself a form of prophecy:

The first degree of prophecy consists in the divine assistance which is given to a person, and induces and encourages him to do something good and grand, e.g., to deliver a congregation of good men from the hands of evildoers; to save one noble person, or to bring happiness to a large number of people; he finds in himself the cause that moves and urges him to this deed. This degree of divine influence is called “the spirit of the Lord.”

            The nineteenth-century Italian rabbi, Elijah Benamozegh, puts it slightly differently, in what he called the “unity of the law”—the unity of the universal or divine law, and the law of humanity. He explains that the law of the universe and of humanity are one and the same. “God keeps the laws,” as it were, and this is the meaning of the midrashic statements where God is described as observing the commandments such as tefillin and sukkah. R. Benamozegh says that God and humanity are bound to the same moral imperative, in essence. Humans are expected to emulate God because they must both meet the demands of morality. In fact, God observed the mitzvoth [the commandments] before there were humans; and it is because God did so that God commanded humans to do so as well. As he states in his work, Israel and Humanity:[2]

The many biblical passages which declare that the true knowledge of God is moral knowledge, the fear of the Lord, thus become clear… Practical morality or ethics is thus raised to the level of divine knowledge. The law of man and the law of God are but a single identical law…. (p. 226)

…The Torah affirms that the moral life is indispensable to the dignity of all men without distinction… Moses says: “for all the abhorrent things were done by the people who were in the land before you, and the land became defiled” (Lev. 18:27), suggesting that ethical laws are universal, applying to Gentiles as well as Jews…. This text is but a single example… in which we see God approving or condemning, rewarding or punishing the Gentiles—appraising their conduct, whether as Lawgiver or Judge, and doing this with reference to a higher law to which they are held as responsible as the Israelites, which is in fact the same for all men. This universal moral standard is invoked not only in the pagan’s relation to God but also in his relation to Israel, and in a general way in the relations of all men with one another…. Moral values are perhaps assumed to be generally known, whether by a natural instinct of mankind or through a tradition common to all peoples. (p. 279)

The Reasons for the Commandments (Ta’amei haMitzvoth)

            This first level of the fundamental source of morality leads directly to the second level, which is how exactly this morality is related to Judaism’s system of commandments. Should we be occupying ourselves with the details of this relationship at all? And how are we to incorporate general moral considerations when deciding issues of halakha over time and in different contexts?

            Here, there seems to be a certain tension that is built into Judaism even among the classic commentators. All seem to recognize that, in principle, there are deep reasons for all the commandments; but many express great caution over involving ourselves with these reasons out of concern that it will result in a loss of the fear of heaven and lead to neglecting observance. So the obligation to observe the commandments even without directly engaging with their particular moral ideals is a fundamental part of the rabbinic tradition. It is only the over-emphasis, the extreme imbalance that we seek to correct. Let us take note of some of these sources.

            The most famous source that demonstrates a deep skepticism of the attempt to engage with the higher ideals of the mitzvoth is in the Talmud, Sanhedrin 21a:

Why were the reasons in the Torah not revealed? Because the reasons for two commandments were revealed and the great one failed through them. It says: “[The king] must not have many wives, so that they not make his heart go astray” (Deuteronomy 17:17). Solomon said: “I will have many, but I will not go astray.” And it says: “And it was, when Solomon become old, his wives led him astray after foreign gods” (I Kings 11:4). It says: “[The king,] however, must not accumulate many horses, so as not to bring the people back to Egypt to get more horses” (Deuteronomy 17:16). Solomon said: “I will have many, but I will not bring them back.” And it says: “And the horses went up out of Egypt” (I Kings 10:29).

Here, the sages demonstrate that the concern regarding revealing the reasons behind the commandments is justified. If a reason is given, people may come to see the validity of the commandments not as resting in God, but as resting in the supposed reason. In such circumstances, it will be human nature to relate to it in a lax fashion and propose changing it if it seems out of date or inconvenient, as King Solomon demonstrated.

            Rabbi Jacob ben Asher, known as the Ba’al haTurim, writes in his major work of halakha the following: “We need not seek out the reason behind the commandments, because the King’s command is upon us, even if we don’t know the reason” (Tur, Yorah Deah, 171). He expresses the concern that knowing the reason will undermine our recognition of the kingship of God, and we will only observe the commandments with which we identify with and feel attachment. Other sages over the generations have voiced similar opinions. It should be noted, however, that none of them seem to believe that there is no deeper reason behind the Mosaic Law, but only that we, as humans, cannot fully grasp it, and, that pursuing this realm of knowledge will do more harm than good.

            The above quotations notwithstanding, many classic and modern commentators very much believed that we should be engaging ourselves in the pursuit of the meanings, ideals, and reasons behind the Mosaic Laws. In Guide to the Perplexed (III:31), Maimonides writes clearly that the commandments include intelligible logic and that a person can and should understand them:

There are persons who find it difficult to give a reason for any of the commandments, and consider it right to assume that the commandments and prohibitions have no rational basis whatsoever. They are led to adopt this theory by a certain disease in their soul, the existence of which they perceive, but which they are unable to discuss or to describe…. But if no reason could be found for these statutes, if they produced no advantage and removed no evil, why then should he who believes in them and follows them be wise, reasonable, and so excellent as to raise the admiration of all nations? But the truth is undoubtedly as we have said, that every one of the six hundred and thirteen precepts serves to inculcate some truth, to remove some erroneous opinion, to establish proper relations in society, to diminish evil, to train in good manners, or to warn against bad habits.

            Nachmanides presents a similar view in his commentary on the Torah (Deut. 22:6):

…this is one of two possible positions: There is the position that there are no reasons for the commandments beyond God’s desire, but we are of the second position that every commandment has a reason…. The only explanation for cases where we do not know the reason is our own intellectual blindness.

            Often, the commandments are classified into two categories, mishpatim and hukim, meaning commandments that are rationally understandable and ones that are not (Yoma 67b; Maimonides, Guide III:26). However, many sages did not seem to feel that this distinction is so absolute as to preclude finding ideals and meaning even in the commandments that are not readily understandable.

            R. Samson Raphael Hirsch described the commandments as symbols that come to express ideas. In his book The Mitzvot as Symbols, he states that God commanded the observance of practices so that we will be constantly aware of certain concepts and truths and that they will be engraved in our hearts. For him, it is precisely the commandments that are not clearly rational that have symbolic meaning that represent ideas to those who perform them. In justifying his approach, he explains that the reformers of his time claimed that because they identified the higher ideal behind the commandments, actual observance of them was no longer needed. As a reaction to this, he explains, the traditional circles that came to be called “Orthodoxy” insisted that there is no symbolic or expressive meaning at all. Both, however, are wrong in R. Hirsch’s eyes, because there is symbolic meaning in all the mitzvoth.

            R. Kook agrees that all the mitzvoth have meaning beyond the simple fulfillment of God’s will. However, he disagrees with R. Hirsch’s position that the mitzvoth only represent philosophical ideas, that they are symbols of the idea. Instead, R. Kook says that the mitzvoth are not just philosophical symbols but are organically related to the world. They act on the world independently of our understanding of the ideas behind them. He states,

When one penetrates to the depths of knowledge it is clear that the commandments are not symbols, that come merely to remind us and to emulate a depth on the imagination. Rather, they are the substance that make up the human and cosmic reality. (Igrot Hara’ayah II, letter 378)

            R. Kook proposed a synthesis whereby he rejected the clear distinction between hukim and mishpatim altogether. We can’t say any of the commandments are merely rational, but they’re certainly not irrational either. He proposed that within each category of commandment, both hukim and mishpatim, there is both a rational quality and irrational quality. We understand somewhat, but we can never understand them in the totality of their depth. Both aspects must be felt when observing the commandments and, in doing so, we can connect to their higher meaning without coming to devalue the divine authority vested in them.[3]

            The above sources are but a sample of the numerous classic and modern Torah scholars who state clearly that the commandments do hold within them moral ideas and ideals. Despite this, much of Jewish practice has become imbalanced, where the emphasis was put heavily on the side of the irrational and blind commitment at the expense of the substantive ideals. Furthermore, the focus of the engagement with ideals that has existed was on the personal, individual realm, mainly in character development and not the national societal level.

            The reasons often discussed are of two types: hidur mitzvah (the enhanced performance of a commandment) and tikkun haMiddot (a person’s continual struggle to improve his personality traits). Some of the few classical ideals discussed in books like Mesilat Yesharim are zerizut, haste in the performance of the commandments; zehirut, prudence, carefulness not to sin; tseniut, modesty; teshuva, repentance; and so forth. Hovot haLevavot speaks mainly about one’s obligation to believe in God’s existence, unity, and eternity, in His wondrous wisdom and His providence.

            The problem with placing middot (character traits) at the center of Judaism is that they are not ideals toward which society as a whole can strive; they do not provide a direction for national development. Ideals, on the other hand, are not limited to personal goals but rather they transcend the boundaries of neighborhoods, communities, and countries. A system of middot played an essential role in the closed Jewish communal life in exile. Being part of the “national life” was not an option for individual Jews due to external factors and internal self-censorship. Today, with the creation of the State of Israel and the exposure of the Jews to the larger world, Jews can no longer progress without adapting the broader view of Jewish ideals. Middot, therefore, are only a part of a system of ideals and must be viewed as such. Perfecting one’s middot is a worthy cause for an individual, but a system built only on middot is insufficient for the end purposes of a community or society or, all the more so, a government.

            As such, much of the discussion of the reasons behind the commandments focused on providing interpretations for the various commandments, and not necessarily presenting a coherent, overarching system of ideals and how they interact with each other. It seems, that during the exile period, it was natural that legalistic concerns and the individual realm became the focus of scholars’ attention. However, with the return to a national existence we must refocus our attention precisely on clarifying the system of ideals. This is not just because we live in modern times but also because of the universal meaning expressed by the Jews’ national existence as a holy nation.

            We believe that the very essence of Judaism is the integration of laws and ideals, where ideals are placed before the commandments. To become a leading force in promoting Judaism, the ideals should not be derived from commandments, but on the contrary, commandments should be derived from Torah ideals, and serve to protect and preserve these ideals.

            Developing the ideals into a well-formulated logical system will promote Judaism as a world religion, and consequently provide the motivation for increased observance of the commandments by Jews, as people are willing to do what is meaningful to them. Indeed, the non-observant Jews do not keep the mitzvoth not because they are difficult to observe, but because these Jews do not see the rationale behind the commandments.

            It is vital that the true rapport that exists between the ideals and the commandments enters into the public conscience. To achieve this, it would be necessary to write an entire book that will organize and promote the ideals of Judaism as an essential part of our spiritual horizon. To make things clear: We certainly have no intention of creating a new religious system. On the contrary, we seek only to return to Judaism in its original form. This article is only a preliminary sketch that outlines the general direction of our work. To give a wider picture of the ideals in Judaism, it would be necessary to give a detailed analysis of each of the ideals rooted in the Talmud and the Rabbinic and contemporary Jewish philosophy literature. Our immediate goal in this article is only to define a specific problem in the Jewish Orthodox worldview and to outline a way of solving it.

Particularism versus Universalism in Judaism

            Rabbi Marc. D. Angel, founder and director of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals,[4] claims that Judaism’s main goal is to maintain equilibrium between being both particularistic and universalistic, i.e., be careful about preserving our traditions and rituals, but at the same time maintain the universalistic vision of being “a light unto the nations.” He claims that the current tendency in the Modern Orthodox world has been to lean toward particularism, as manifested by the extreme growth of the Haredi community and its domineering influence throughout all aspects of Jewish thought. The turn inward, which can be explained by centuries of persecution and the negative attitude toward Gentiles that are expressed in rabbinic literature, is the result of a tradition of hateful attitudes toward the Jews. Even today, modern leadership is cautious regarding our acceptance and responsibility toward Gentiles. For example, R. Aharon Soloveitchik argues that our responsibility toward the non-Jews is conditional: If they are decent to us, we are obligated to act decently to them; if they persecute us, however, we have no hiyyuv (obligation) to work for their wellbeing.

            In another article, Rabbi Angel[5] quotes Rabbi Yitzhak Shemuel Reggio, a nineteenth-century Italian Torah commentator, on the verse “love your neighbor as yourself” to mean as follows:

Torah Judaism demands not only a keen commitment to truth, but also a keen sense of responsibility to human beings. Rabbi Reggio’s universalistic understanding of the “golden rule” teaches that all human beings—whatever their race, religion, or nationality—are entitled to be treated “like ourselves.” They too, were created by God. They, too, have the human qualities with which we are endowed. If we can see “them” as being just like “us,” we are more likely to develop a sense of kinship and responsibility to all of humanity.

            R. Angel is echoing here the view expounded greatly by R. Elijah Benamozegh. R. Benamozegh believed that Judaism has an inherently universal dimension and that this is reflected in both the Mosaic and Noahide laws. The Mosaic Law, is incumbent only on the Jewish people, whereas the Noahide law is meant for all humankind. Regarding the relationship between the two codes of law, he writes (Israel and Humanity p. 317),

The eternal truths, practical as well as theoretical, are—like the universal Noachide Law—older than the revelation to Moses. This does not, however, mean that they are not part of it. Indeed, the entire Noachide code is contained in the Mosaic revelation, at the same time that (from a different perspective) the one is independent of the other… From the philosophical point of view, all this may be summed up in the concept of a double law: the rational and the supranational, the knowable and the unknowable, the intelligible and the super intelligible. It is the first of these two dimensions which we find in the Noachide Law; it is the second which corresponds to the Torah.

            As a prime example of the way Judaism’s particularism is itself directed toward a universalist aspiration, R. Benamozegh cites the sages’ comment on the passage in Deuteronomy (11:12): “It is therefore a land constantly under God your Lord’s scrutiny; the eyes of God your Lord are on it at all times, from the beginning of the year until the end of the year.” On this passage, The Midrash Sifrei asks if we are to understand that God is only interested in this corner of the Earth, and answers: No—but through the care that He lavishes on the land of Israel, God extends His providence toward all the other countries. On this R. Benamozegh writes (Israel and Humanity p. 318),

It seems to us that the strikingly universalist idea which the sages derive from this text, which is apparently so exclusive in its implication, beautifully characterizes the authentic spirit of Judaism. A country which finds itself chosen to be a means of grace and blessing for the entire world, but is in no way licensed to hold others in contempt: This is dominating the concept of the entire law, written and oral, beginning with Abraham, in whom all races should be blessed….

Deriving Ideals from the Torah

            We said before that introducing the concept of “ideals” into the social consciousness is essential for a proper structural organization of Judaism. We also discussed at length the correct interrelation between mitzvoth and ideals, but what are these ideals that we are discussing here? Consider two specific examples of ideals: freedom and love of humanity.

            We all know that freedom plays a crucial role in Judaism. It is clear that without freedom of will there can be no true fulfillment of the Torah. Into what category should freedom be included? Obviously freedom is not a commandment enumerated among the 613 mitzvoth, but we do have a mitzvah to remember that we were slaves and then became free. If we were to have a category of ideals, then liberty and freedom would become the most essential parts of Judaism. Jews became a nation when they received the Torah on Mt. Sinai, but first they had to leave Egypt to become a free people. Thus, while the commandment of “zekhirat yetziat mitzrayim” (remembering the Exodus from Egypt) is written explicitly in the Torah, the ideal of freedom is derived from this commandment.

            The second example also has this double aspect of commandment and ideal. In the non-Jewish world, the verse “love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18) is understood as love for all of humanity. In Judaism, however, the commandment of “love your neighbor” obligates us to love only the Jews but not non-Jews. It often happens that when non-Jews hear about this, they are dismayed. How can this be? Does Judaism not have that same love of humanity that they believe to be the most important achievement of the Jewish Bible? The answer is that, of course, Judaism has the concept of love for all of humanity. But again, the commandment of “love your neighbor” is written explicitly, while the ideal of loving humankind is culled from the text.

            This dichotomy is also felt in the halakha that rules that there is a fundamental difference between the love for Jews and the love for Gentiles: Loving other Jews is an obligation, whereas loving all of humanity is an ideal. Again, only after we introduce the category of ideals, is it possible to assign the “love of humankind” to its rightful place in Jewish hashkafa (worldview). Additionally, love of humanity is ranked; the love for those who are closer to you precedes the love for those who are more distant. As the Rambam states (Matanot Aniyim 7:13):

A man’s poor relative has priority over any person; the poor in his own household have priority over the poor in his town; the poor in his town have priority over the poor of another town as it is written: “Open your hand to your brother, to your needy, to your poor in your land” (Deut. 15:11).

(A similar idea is expressed in the English expression, “charity begins at home.”) In this way, Judaism defines “love your neighbor” in a much more complete manner by coupling a commandment with an ideal, as opposed to Christianity, which sees this principle only as an ideal.  

            A third example is found in the traditional commentary on the Shema, which says: “Why does the passage of Shema precede the passage of “veHaya im Shamoa”? So that a person would put on the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven and only afterward the yoke of the commandments” (Berakhot 13a). Although the second paragraph also speaks of love of God, the first paragraph is called kabalat malkhut shamayim (accepting the yoke of heaven), and the second one kabalat mitzvoth (accepting the commandments) because the second paragraph discusses rewards and punishments. The word “yoke” gives the impression of some type of obligation. However, the first passage is not talking about responsibilities, but about ideals. Of course, the first fragment can be read in a halakhic sense, deriving from the commandments of the Shema, tefilin, and mezuzah. However, focusing too much on the commandments prevents us from seeing the ideals, namely, to love God and to understand the divine unity. This is an example of how an ideal is realized through a mitzvah: The ideal of loving God is facilitated by the mitzvoth of tefilin and mezuzah mentioned in the Shema. This understanding of the interplay between mitzvoth and ideals should fill all aspects of our lives (both in our secular and religious pursuits), sitting at home or traveling on the road, lying down or getting up.

Interplay Between Commandments and Ideals in Halakha

            The above discussion has related to the issue of the essential meaning of the various mitzvoth; but there is an additional realm—the practical application of the commandments in life in various contexts—the determination of halakha. To fully appreciate the complexity of authentic Judaism, we need to further analyze the interconnection between ideals and halakha. It is important to note that any positive aspiration may develop in the wrong direction if it is not restricted. Ideals are not absolute and their implementation is not a guarantee of any “good.” Ideals are important, but they are also dangerous. Therefore, in addition to ideals we also need commandments that will preserve the ideals. The commandments become vessels and the ideals become the substance that fills these vessels. Another major difference between commandments and ideals is that each of the commandments is intrinsically valuable. However the ideals are valuable primarily as the building blocks of a system. If a person fulfilled commandment A but did not do commandment B, the fulfillment of A is still good. However, if a person realizes ideal A at the expense of ideal B, then the result is dubious. It could be that the person is acting wickedly although the ideal is very good.

            The question is what happens if we encounter a contradiction between the commandments and the ideals? Which one takes precedence? Let us consider the following allegory: driving by car through the city. Locally, the traffic signs direct the car’s movement, but it is the final destination that defines the car’s ultimate direction. So, too, regarding commandments and ideals: As we go through life, the commandments take precedence locally, but it is the ideals that guide us in the bigger picture. Without understanding the ideals, the commandments can easily turn into an empty formal system that does not interact with the reality around us. Hence, the commandments and the ideals do not contradict each other but rather, the commandments show us how to successfully and correctly implement the ideals into our day-to-day life.

            The twentieth-century scholar, R. Eliezer Berkovits, discussed this issue at length in his writings. He took a clear position that the halakha is primarily about moral values rather than rules. He states that the halakha is meant to translate the intention of the Torah into application in real-life situations, and in doing so, it grants “the priority of the ethical, according to which it is understood as furthering the larger moral principles embodied in the Torah.”[6] Thus, the law is a vehicle for realizing this morality in society and advancing human history.

            R. Berkovits’s approach is not the same as that promoted by Conservative Judaism. For the Conservative movement, changes in halakha are necessitated by the need to create a synthesis between traditional Judaism on the one hand, and modern life and its values on the other. The impetus for change, then, is not the result of eternal Jewish principles, but from some external source, from modernity. R. Berkovits’s understanding of halakha, and what is being described by the present authors, is entirely different. For R. Berkovits, change in halakha is meant

…to reflect the careful, incremental adjustment of legal means to further moral ends that are themselves intrinsic to Judaism and unchanging. These moral ends are not an external “anti-thesis” with which the tradition must come to terms by changing its internal content in keeping with them; they are themselves the moral core of the same revealed message from which the law receives its authority… while the law may change, the values which underlie it do not; on the contrary, the purpose of the change is to permit the continued advancement of the Bible’s eternally valid moral teaching under new conditions.[7]

            To summarize, the Judaism of the Diaspora has come to emphasize the system of commandments. In this essay we have presented a very different approach, claiming that Judaism is really a system of ideals, and the commandments are required for the correct realization of these ideals. We believe that the more people see the truthfulness of the second approach, the more advanced Judaism will be.

Conclusion to Part I

            We do not intend to provide an analysis of all the Jewish texts here, but rather are endeavoring to intuitively derive some of the ideals from the Torah. “Intuitively” means that we use our modern way of thinking to build a system of values. This is not the usual way for Judaism that customarily uses the traditional galut philosophy developed during the Talmudic Era and the times of the Rishonim. On the other hand, if we believe that there is an ongoing Divine Revelation, then the fact that today we look at the world differently is also part of the Divine Revelation. Therefore, when this philosophy is used for the derivation of ideals, this means that the ongoing Revelation is being integrated with the Classical Revelation (of Sinai). This methodology is far from perfect, but for the purposes of this article, it will suffice.

Note that the purpose of this article is merely to give food for thought and to crystallize and categorize the main points, to begin the discussion but not to end it.

Part II: Organization of the Ideals

            We looked at the ideals of freedom and love of humanity and the way they are intertwined with mitzvoth, but what are the other ideals in Judaism? Is there a way of systematizing them into one concrete, all-encompassing scheme?

            Let us begin by looking for ideals in the Torah that are not derived from the commandments. The natural place that comes to mind is the Book of Genesis, as this book precedes the vast majority of the commandments that begin only in the middle of the Book of Exodus. We see that ideals take up a large part of Genesis; it is therefore critical to formulate the commandments so that they take their rightful place in our contemporary understanding of Judaism.

It would be logical to put the ideals into the following categories:

a) Ideals of Adam and Noah: ideals of humanity as a whole
b) Ideals of Abraham, Isaac,and Jacob: ideals of our forefathers
c) Ideals of Joseph and his brothers: family ideals
d) Ideals of Moses and Aaron: ideals of the Nation of Israel
e) Ideals of the Mashiah: a special group of messianic ideals for future times.

            In this section we are going to talk about the ideals of Adam haRishon (primordial man), Noah, Abraham, and a bit about the Messianic ideal. The ideals of Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, and Aaron are currently in the process of being developed. Any suggestions are more than welcome.

Ideals of Adam and Noah: Ideals of Humanity as a Whole

            The first mitzvah that Adam receives is, “Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and rule over it” (Genesis 1:26–28) or, in modern terms, develop the world. In a similar way, two aspects of human’s mastery over nature are described later on: “The Lord God took man and placed him in the Garden of Eden to cultivate it and to guard it” (Genesis 2:15). It is clear what “cultivate the world” means, but from whom or from what should man guard the Garden? The answer is from man himself. For, as we all know, it was man himself who destroyed the Garden through the violation of the prohibition of not eating from the Tree of Knowledge. In our society, we protect the world and the environment from the destructive influence of humans. Progress and environmental protection can coexist, but they should keep each other in check. Progress is a spiritual necessity, although the role of religion is to keep it from self-destruction.

            These sources disprove the common notion that religion opposes the advancement of civilization, progress, and technology. According to the Rambam, authentic Judaism is very much concerned with material and technological progress—so much so that it sees scientific and technological progress as a religious value.

            To counter the mitzvah to advance the world comes the Torah’s account of the creation of humans, “…in the image of God He made him” (Genesis 1:26–28). This verse teaches us that a person as an individual becomes closer to God by imitating Him through one’s own personal choices.

            The story of Noah comes to show us how seriously God takes an improper imbalance between advancement of the self and advancement of the world. Noah was a man of great righteousness, who “walked with God” (Genesis 6:9). He wanted to be closer to God, but at the same time, as the commentators tell us, he did not have a sufficient sense of responsibility for all of humanity. Extremely laborious work in the Ark during the flood corrected Noah in that it showed him the importance of the correct balance between closeness to God and responsibility for civilization. Noah learned to balance Adam’s ideals, and his children took this balancing act even further. Shem became responsible for the ideal of coming closer to God, and Japheth for the ideal of building and advancing civilization. They were all instructed to integrate: “God shall enlarge Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem” (Genesis 9:27).

            By juxtaposing the story of Adam and Noah, we see that a personal level of self-advancement must be counterbalanced by building and advancing civilization. If Imitatio Dei can be understood on an intuitive level, granting religious significance to building a civilization is far from being obvious. These two ideals exhibit internal tension: striving toward a transcendental God may lead a person away from the world, while building a civilization forces him to be very much involved in the world. Being in opposition to each other, it is important that these ideals co-exist in equilibrium and that none of them are realized at the expense of the other. If a person leans toward the ideal of Imitatio Dei and exhibits indifference to civilization, it would mean that his Imitatio Dei is deficient. The opposite situation also holds true: If one is only involved in the needs of civilization, leaving aside “striving to imitate the ways of God,” one will not be able to rectify the world, and all one’s efforts would lead to the wrong result. Thus, the creation of humans in the image and likeness of God is the starting point of a human endeavor to bring humanity as a whole as close as possible to God.

Imitatio Dei in Judaism versus Imitatio Dei in Christianity

            The Jewish version of Imitatio Dei is clearly stated in Leviticus 11:14: “Ye shall therefore sanctify yourselves, and ye shall be holy; for I am holy.” We see that holiness is something that increases the similarity between God and humans, and brings us closer to God. This is a Jew’s obligation toward God, on a solely individual level.

            The ideal of Imitatio Dei is not only found in Judaism. Christianity borrowed the same idea from Judaism and accepted it as a pure monotheistic principle that stands at the core of its ethics. The essence of monotheism is that the Higher Power, or God, has a personality. It is based on the fact that God created the entire world and created humanity in His own image. Of course, human is not God, but the more one realizes the divine potential, the closer one moves toward God. For example, Imitatio Dei is based on the commandment of keeping Shabbat: “And on the seventh day God ended His work which He had made; and He rested on the seventh day from all His work which He had made” (Genesis 2:2). The implication is clear: So you, too, should have a day of rest.

            However, Judaism and Christianity implement Imitatio Dei rather differently. In the Christian view of the world, the Gospels evoked an image of Jesus that identified with God; therefore, the Christian ideal is to be similar to Jesus and Imitatio Dei turns into Imitatio Christi. Accordingly, all of the classical Christian ethics hallow poverty and missionary work, as this lifestyle imitates Jesus’s life. Judaism, on the other hand, believes in imitation of the divine attributes or divine actions that we find in the Torah. The Talmud explains this idea (Shabbat 133b) as a commentary to this verse: “Just as He is merciful, so should you be merciful. Just as He is kind, so should you be kind.” Similarly, Maimonides cites Deuteronomy 11:22 as the main source for a specific biblical commandment to develop a virtuous personality: “If you carefully safeguard and keep this entire mandate that I prescribe to you today, [and if you] love God, walk in all His ways, and cling to Him.” Maimonides interprets “Ve-halakhta bidrakhav” (and walk in all His ways) as imitating God’s traits. Thus, in Judaism there is no other way to “be like God” than through action or perfecting of the self.  

A Closer Look at Imitatio Dei in Genesis

            In this section we will show how ideals can be derived from the first few verses of Genesis. The first verse in the Torah, “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth” (Genesis 1:1), shows that God is the Creator. So, it is clear that the first ideal of Judaism is to create. Creating is the most divine act that a person is capable of doing. Creativity brings a person pleasure and divine light. However, there are not many books about Judaism that emphasize this as the main ideal. Creativity cannot be commanded. A commandment is an obligation, and creativity is free in its very essence; therefore, ontologically, creativity is independent because it precedes the commandments and carries forward the entire system.

            Creativity, like religion, cannot be realized without restrictions, for once restrictions are removed, creativity also disappears. If an architect creates freely without considering the laws of gravity and the laws of mechanics based on strength of materials, the structure will collapse, and creativity will have no effect. Any freedom has to be limited by some rules to make it possible for this freedom to be realized. If these rules are violated, freedom has no effect. Similarly, in religion there are rules called commandments, and if these commandments are violated, the religion collapses.

            The second act of God represents another ideal: “And God said: Let there be light” (Genesis 1:3). This verse shows that words have the power to create. Indeed, human beings, whose creativity stems from God’s creativity, live in order to express and possibly to create something of importance using words. A variety of arts, such as music, literature, and sculpture may well fit into this definition. Art strives to communicate something of consequence, and this desire should be recognized as an important aspect of Judaism. Thus, opening an art school would not only be a cultural act but a divine one. Similarly, if words are so powerful that they serve as the building blocks of the universe, then a School of Rhetoric would not only teach individuals to attain personal eloquence, but would have religious meaning as well. Thus, building a system of ideals in Judaism has practical implications for Jewish culture today.

            The third act of God is described: “And God saw the light” (Genesis 1:4). This is obviously not referring to simply a “vision” but “an evaluation of the situation.” Therefore, we, like God, like to assess and evaluate, regardless of any practical application. Judaism should see this personality trait as an important part of a person’s religiosity, and should advance and encourage people to develop and state their opinions.

            God’s fourth act is, “And God separated the light from the darkness” (Genesis 1:4). We, too, like to divide the world into black and white, into right and wrong, into good and evil, in our understanding of things. This should not be seen as simply a tendency of the human mind, but part of the religious experience. Therefore, like creativity and the desire to evaluate, Judaism should encourage people to develop their ability to discern right from wrong.

            Finally, people like to give definitions to everything because “God called the light day” (Genesis 1:4). When we give a definition to a certain event, experience, or idea, we imitate the Creator and thus perform a spiritual act.

            The ability to differentiate between good and evil, to create, and to evaluate a situation are characteristics that God implanted in us. To develop these characteristics is an ideal. The problem with contemporary religious society is that it does NOT present these ideals to its followers. This is unfortunate because what is really significant is what ideals we (the society) define as religiously meaningful; this in turn influences society’s development. This is so because a society is very much defined by the development of those ideals that are encouraged by its followers. The question, “What is an ideal?” means, “Which characteristics do we want to develop?” Obviously they are all implanted in us; otherwise there would be no possibility of developing them. Therefore the question, “What are the ideals whose development should be considered of religious value?” is crucial to the advancement of Judaism.

            Thus, in the first four verses of the Torah, we are presented with the basic ideals of human life in relation to the divine. By integrating ideals into Judaism, we let it influence our lives to a much greater degree.

The Ideal of Truth

            The Torah states: “Keep away from anything false.” (Exodus 23:7). From this we learn that there is a basic ideal of Truth in Judaism. Surprisingly, this ideal is not trivial, as there exist cultures that lack it, where personal advancement dominates over truth, and therefore lying could be a social norm.

Ideals of Abraham

            Let us proceed to the next subject of our study: the ideals of Abraham. First, we note that in Judaism there are two kinds of covenants between God and the Jewish people. One is called “the covenant of Abraham” and the other “the covenant at Sinai.” In “the covenant at Sinai” the Israelites received a system of precepts, and at its foundation lay the Ten Commandments. The “covenant of Abraham” was built on ideals and was in no way connected to commandments. Even circumcision was not a commandment per se but a symbol of the covenant. It is not our goal here to analyze in detail all of the ideals of Abraham and the Patriarchs. We will only attempt to learn what lies on the surface and understand what is relevant to us today.

Universalistic vs. Nationalistic Ideals of Judaism

            As discussed in the first part of this essay, universalism is an important part of Judaism. We see this explicitly written in the Torah when God selects and blesses Abraham, “All the nations of the world shall be blessed through your descendants—all because you obeyed My voice.” (Genesis 22:18). Thus, a universalistic goal of Judaism is to make an impact on all of humanity, to become a “kingdom of priests” (Exodus 19:6) and to look broadly beyond the scope of Jewish life.

            On the other hand, Abraham did not just spread religious and ethical teachings; he was commanded to create a nation, a special, separate people that would realize his ideals. Here too, we see that all aspects, the universal, cosmopolitan and the national, have to strike a balance to create a nation that is universalistic.

The Ideal of Progress through Argumentation

            One of the important characteristics of “Jewishness” is the capacity to debate with God. Abraham argues with God regarding Sodom. This is the most striking example of a dispute with God in all of the monotheistic literature. This dispute is not simply a request or presentation of arguments. Abraham is openly critical of the divine plan, and he doesn’t refrain from using rather severe words: “It would be sacrilege even to ascribe such an act to You—to kill the innocent with the guilty, letting the righteous and the wicked fare alike. It would be sacrilege to ascribe this to You! Shall the whole world’s Judge not act justly?” (Genesis 18:25). If a person on trial in a state court said anything like that to a judge, he would be accused of contempt of court. God however does not react in that way. On the contrary: He provokes Abraham to argue with Him. Abraham’s debate with God teaches us an important lesson about how humanity progresses: If a person always agrees, he will never grow in understanding. To truly understand, one must first put forward arguments and then discuss them. Judaism should therefore strive to encourage Jews to ask questions, no matter how sensitive they are, and they should not to be afraid to seem “impious,” for even Abraham disputed with the Almighty!

            In monotheism, there are three levels of humanity’s relationship with God: the level of subordination, when people carry out the divine orders; the level of love, when God wants to bestow benefits upon humanity; and the level of a dialogue, when God conducts a dialogue with humans. Judaism stresses the importance of all three levels. When God commands Abraham to “walk before me” (Genesis. 17:1), commentators note that it is said about Noah that he “walked with God.” “Walking with God” is to agree while “walking before God” is to argue and disagree when the divine guidance contradicts the divine spark of intuition within humans. Thus, the Jewish ideal is to “go before God.” Later, the Torah explains the reason for selecting Abraham as follows: “I have given him special attention so that he will command his children and his household after him, and they will keep God’s way, doing charity and justice. God will then bring about for Abraham everything He promised” (Genesis18:19).

            The way of God is a covenant of ideals. One of them is a combination of tzedakah (kindness) and mishpat (judgment). It is impossible for the world to exist on mercy alone, but the world cannot survive solely on justice either. Theoretically, we could say that one of the ideals is mercy, and the other is justice. This however would not be precise: mercy and justice must be pursued together rather than separately. This synthesis of mercy and justice is the ideal that God teaches us through our ancestors. Each of our forefathers added a fundamental ideal: Isaac taught us a lesson of self-sacrifice, and Yaakov sanctified God’s name by building a nation and wrestling with God.

Messianic Ideals

            Christianity puts messianic ideals at the center of its belief system. Judaism also has these ideals, but we believe that there is great danger in attempting to implement messianic ideals at a time when society is not ready for them. Any attempt to implement these ideals will immediately lead to undesirable results. Perhaps that is why the messianic ideals of Judaism are not given in the Torah, which is a guide to action, but rather are given in the Books of Prophets. Pacifism, a situation of “beat their swords into plowshares” (Isaiah 2:4), is precisely one of the criteria of the Messianic Era. A few other messianic ideals include nations of the world bringing offerings to the God of Israel and vegetarianism, which R. Kook believed to be a messianic ideal.

            It is well known that different strands of Orthodox Judaism agree mainly in understanding the actual commandments but differ significantly on the question of hiddur mitzvah. Apparently, with regard to ideals, the same holds true. It is imperative to start formulating the ideals of Judaism. By doing so, we will promote Judaism and move closer to being a “Light unto the Nations.”

Instead of a Conclusion: Moses’s Appearance Is Like that of Abraham’s

            The Midrash relates that when Moses ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Torah, the angels opposed him claiming, “Is a man fit to receive this Torah? It should not be given to humans!” Then God made Moses’s appearance and face similar to Abraham’s, and He then asked the angels: “Was it not to him that you came and with him that you ate?” The angels had no choice but to agree.

            According to R. Kook (Kovets, “The Last of the Boyska,” § 24), the angels did not object to Abraham’s teachings being given to humans. Abraham taught that the world has a single Master, who created humans in His image and after His likeness, and from this concept he deduced principles that could be understood by humankind, such as loving and helping one’s neighbor. Abraham taught ideals of mercy, love for all creatures, and above all, love for one’s neighbor; these concepts are so comprehensible that it is clear why people need them. Moses’s teachings, on the other hand, are commandments whose meanings are not always clear; this raises the question whether or not this doctrine is suitable for humans. By rendering Moses’s appearance and face similar to Abraham’s, God demonstrated to the angels that Moses’s commandments are rooted in Abraham’s ideals and that they are the specification and implementation of the ideals that Abraham proclaimed. As a consequence, the angels withdrew their objections.

            Today, we in our lower world need to do what God did in His upper world on high at the time of the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai—show that Moses’s appearance resembles Abraham’s, and that Moses’s commandments are the realization of the ideals that Abraham declared; in this way we need to demonstrate that Abraham’s ideals are primary, while Moses’s commandments are a means of realizing these ideals. This understanding will help bring humankind closer to the Torah.

[1]Faith, Science, and Orthodoxy

How can an Orthodox Jew in today's world maintain faith in Torah in the face of the apparent challenges of natural science to that faith? I will here examine Maimonides' approach to the issue and then propose my own approach, one which relies upon reverting to what I understand as classic Jewish definitions of faith.

Before beginning I should like to note that I think that my task is relatively simple. Real challenges to Orthodoxy today do not come from the natural sciences but from literary criticism and history, which cast doubt upon the textual integrity of the Written Torah and upon Orthodox understandings of the nature of the Oral Torah;[2] from ethics, which challenges traditional Jewish understandings of the relationship of the sexes and of Jews and non-Jews, among other problems;[3] and from Enlightenment thought generally, which emphasizes the value of autonomy over faithful submission to God.[4]

How did Maimonides approach the reconciliation of Torah and science? He starts off by taking the text of the Torah as literally true in every case: "I believe every possible happening that is supported by a prophetic statement and do not strip it of its plain meaning."[5] But, there is an exception to this general rule: "I fall back on interpreting a statement [allegorically] only when its plain meaning is impossible, like the corporeality of God; the possible however remains as stated." What makes prophetic references to God as corporeal impossible to accept? Maimonides tells us in the Guide of the Perplexed (II.25, p. 328): "That the deity is not a body has been demonstrated; from this it follows necessarily that everything that in its plain meaning disagrees with this demonstration must be interpreted figuratively, for it is known that such texts are of necessity fit for figurative interpretation."

Maimonides' point is relatively straightforward: the Torah must be accepted as literally true in every case where its teachings do not contradict that which has been demonstrated to be true. By demonstration, Maimonides means "a syllogism both of whose premises are apodictic."[6]

Maimonides' position clearly makes demonstrated truth to be the criterion we use for determining which passages in the Torah we read literally, and which passages we read allegorically. If a scientific claim is demonstrably true, and the plain sense of Scripture contradicts it, we may not ignore or reinterpret the scientific claim; we must, rather, reinterpret Scripture. To all intents and purposes, science becomes our measure for understanding the Torah.[7]

Maimonides could be confident that this approach would cause him no problems since, at their deepest levels, Torah and science taught the same thing. Maimonides clearly states that ma^'aseh bereshit is the rabbinic name for that area of study called by the philosophers, “physics,” and ma^'aseh merkavah is the rabbinic name for that area of study called by the philosophers, “metaphysics”.

Maimonides had further reason for calm: the sciences he was concerned with, physics and metaphysics, proved that which he wanted them to prove, that God exists, is one, and is incorporeal. It is acceptance of these three beliefs, as taught by science, that Maimonides construes as the first commandment, “the great principle upon which all depends” ("Laws of the Foundations of the Torah," I.6), the “foundation of all foundations and pillar of the sciences” ( I.1). Monotheism is the central axis around which the entire Torah revolves, denial of which is tantamount to denial of the Torah in its entirety.

In short, as long as science does not refute the existence, unity, and incorporeality of God –and it appears that there is no way it could – progress in the sciences in no way threatens acceptance of the Torah and obedience to the commandments.

Maimonides opened his magisterial law code, Mishneh Torah with the following statement (here translated loosely):

The most important principle of all the principles of the Torah, and the fundamental axiom of all the sciences is the same, to wit, to know that there exists a First Existent, that It gives existence to all that exists, and that all existent beings, from the heaven to the earth and what is between them, exist only due to the truth of Its existence.

Knowing this, Maimonides goes on to say, is a positive commandment – indeed the first positive commandment in his Book of Commandments, not to mention the first of the 'Thirteen Principles'.

In making these claims Maimonides imports science (in the guise of ma'aseh bereshit, Greek physics, and ma'aseh merkavah, Greek metaphysics) into the very heart of Torah. Indeed the Twentieth Century's leading Maimonidean, Rabbi Josef Kafih, went so far as to deny the possibility of secular studies (limmudei hol) for Maimonides: if a discipline yields truth, it is not secular.

Moreover, to know something, for Maimonides (following Aristotle), is to know it through or with its causes. The first commandment of the Torah is to know that God exists; and, as Maimonides makes clear in the Introduction to the Guide of the Perplexed, the only way to fulfill that commandment is through the study of physics and metaphysics.

The implications of this are vast:

• The study of science becomes incumbent upon all Jews who want to fulfill even the first commandment of the Torah.
• Psychoanalysis may be a Jewish science, as its opponents claimed, and Lysenko's biology was certainly socialist 'science', but surely no reader of this book would claim that there can be a Jewish physics or Jewish metaphysics. Thus, the science which Jews are commanded to study is precisely that science which is taught (for Maimonides) by uncircumcised Greeks and oppressive Muslims.
• One who has mastered what Maimonides calls (in the Introduction to the Guide of the Perplexed) the legal science of the Torah (i.e., the Talmudist) is thus inferior to one who has mastered the secrets of the Torah, i.e., the person who understands physics and metaphysics. (It is no wonder that many who read Maimonides expostulate: "This is Greek to me!" and that medieval rabbis wanted to burn or at least excise the 51^st chapter of the third part of the Guide.)

Truth is absolute and objective; there can thus be no such things as intellectual (or spiritual) authority per se. Statements are true irrespective of the standing of the person making them. Maimonides could thus have no patience for the sorts of claims to rabbinic authority which underlie the contemporary doctrine of da'at Torah (charismatic rabbinic authority) in its various permutations.[8]

Thus far Maimonides, for whom natural science meant physics, who operated in a theistic universe, and for whom the greatest question posed by science was whether or not the world was created. What of contemporary thinkers, whose natural universe gets along quite well, thank you, without a final cause, confronted by the claims of geology, paleontology, and evolution, all of which demand far greater liberties with the "plain meaning" of Scripture than did Maimonides' naturalistic explanation of various miracles (but no greater liberty, I should note, than that demanded by his radically non-anthropomorphic reading of verses attributing corporeality to God)?[9]

Maimonides' position, challenging as it is to many contemporary conceptions of Orthodoxy, relies for its cogency upon conceptions of demonstrative truth foreign to the present-day scientific enterprise. Since little that science teaches today is demonstrably true in Maimonides' sense, his position offers us no guidance on how to relate Torah and science in the contemporary world.

Much of contemporary Orthodoxy has, it appears, backed itself into something of a corner with respect to the question of science and Torah. It has rather unreflectively adopted a kind of quasi-Maimonideanism according to which Judaism teaches truth in much the same way that science teaches truth. What brings Orthodoxy to adopt this stance? It makes two crucial assumptions, or, I should say, accepts two Maimonidean teachings which lock it into this position. The first concerns the "centrality of faith-commitments in Judaism" and the second the idea that Judaism recognizes a category of "commandments addressed to the intellect."[10]

Much of Orthodoxy today holds, in the words of Rabbi J. David Bleich, that "basic philosophical beliefs are not simply matters of intellectual curiosity but constitute a branch of Halakhah" and that matters of dogma are decided like other areas of halakhah. Bleich has recently reiterated the same position: "matters of belief," he maintains, "are inherently matters of halakha. It is not at all surprising that disagreements exist with regard to substantive matters of belief, just as is the case with regard to other areas of Jewish law. Such matters are subject to the canons of halakhic decision-making no less than other questions of Jewish law."[11] This position invites conflicts between science and Torah since matters of belief include issues under the purview of the sciences. That is what Maimonides did; but how many of today's Orthodox Jews who agree with this position today would be willing to follow Maimonides in making "demonstration" (i.e., science) the arbiter of what the Torah means?[12]

There are a number of things which have to be said in response to this sort of position. First, I think that it misrepresents Maimonides: basic philosophical beliefs are neither simply matters of intellectual curiosity nor a branch of halakhah. They are attempts to understand the true nature of the universe to the greatest extent possible. Ma'aseh bereshit is the rabbinic term for what the Greeks called physics; ma'aseh merkavah is the rabbinic expression for what the Greeks called metaphysics – and these two are called the "roots" of the specific halakhot (gufei Torah). Considering that these roots are either true or false absolutely, it is literally inconceivable that Maimonides could have held that their truth status depends upon rabbinic psak (decision), as would be the case were they matters of halakhah. This leads to my second point: can we seriously credit the idea that Maimonides would have held that before he "paskened" (decided halakhically) that Moses was superior to all the other prophets before and after him, for example, that the question was undecided in Judaism? Similarly, of course, with respect to the other twelve of the Thirteen Principles. Of course not. Third, even were this understanding of Maimonides correct, the latter's position is quite clearly an innovation in Judaism and it is simply incorrect to read it back into rabbinic texts.[13]

None of this is meant to minimize the contribution of Maimonides to Judaism. Maimonides' position that truth is objective and must be accepted whatever its source[14] and his willingness to understand the Torah such that it cannot conflict with the teachings of reason are two aspects of his thought that make it possible for many people today to remain faithful to Torah and Judaism without feeling that they must turn off their brains. These teachings concerning Judaism only make sense if we insist that the Torah addresses the intellect and not just the limbs.[15]

But if the Torah contains the truth, why not command its acceptance, or at the very least, teach it in a very clear and unambiguous fashion? The reason is that for Bible and Talmud the translation of ultimate truth into clearly defined and manageable statements was less a pressing need than it was for Maimonides. Let me put this as follows: Maimonides and the Talmud agree that God's truth is embodied in the Torah. The Talmud finds pressing the need to determine the practical, this-worldly consequences of that truth, while Maimonides, in addition, finds its necessary to determine the specific, cognitive content of that truth. On one level, Maimonides is clearly right: Judaism does teach truth; but, on the other hand, his insistence on expressing that truth in specific teachings is an innovation in Judaism.

The point I am trying to make here comes out in the well-known talmudic story concerning the oven of Akhnai (Bava Mezia 59b). The Sages debated whether a particular kind of oven could become ritually impure. The text says:

On that day R. Eliezer brought all the answers in the world [to support his position] but they were not accepted. He said to them: "If the halakhah accords with my opinion, let this carob tree prove it!" The carob tree uprooted itself and moved 100 amot [c. 50 yards] – some say, it was 400 amot. The [other] rabbis said to him: "One does not bring a proof from a carob tree." He continued, saying "If the halakhah accords with my opinion, let this pool of water prove it!" The water thereupon flowed backwards. They said to him: "One does not bring a proof from a pool of water." He continued, saying "If the halakhah accords with my opinion, let the walls of this house of study prove it!" The walls of the house of study thereupon began to fall inward. Rabbi Joshua reproved them [the walls]: "By what right do you interfere when Sages battle each other over halakhah?" The walls did not fall [all the way] out of respect for R. Joshua and did not stand upright [again] out of respect for R. Eliezer. To this day, they stand at an angle. He then said to them, "If the halakhah accords with my opinion, let it be proved by Heaven!" A voice from Heaven [immediately] spoke forth: "How do you disagree with R. Eliezer, when the halakhah accords with his opinion in every place?"[16] R. Joshua then stood upon his legs and said, It is not in Heaven! [Deut 30: 12]. [The Talmud then asks,] "What is the significance of It is not in Heaven?" R. Jeremiah said, "Since the Torah was given at Mt. Sinai we pay no attention to voices from Heaven [in determining halakhah] since You [i.e., God, the source of heavenly voices] have already written in the Torah at Mt. Sinai, turn aside after a multitude [Exodus 23:2]. R. Nathan met Elijah and said to him, "What did the Holy One, blessed be He, do when this happened?" Elijah replied: "He smiled and said, 'My children have defeated me! My children have defeated me!'."

Much can be (and has been!) said about this fascinating passage. Here it will suffice to quote an insightful comment of David Kraemer's: "Of course, we must assume that if the heavenly voice supported R. Eliezer's view, his view must have been closer to the 'truth.' Nevertheless, his truth is rejected, and the view of the sages, though objectively in error, is affirmed."[17] Judaism teaches truth, and that fact must never be forgotten. But the ultimate truth taught by the Torah need not necessarily be understood in its detailed specificity for us to live in the world in a decent fashion; while there is one objective "truth," the Talmud is interested in arriving at a halakhic determination, rather than at a determinate understanding of the final truth. We can safely put off determining the exact truth until the earth be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea (Isaiah 11:9);[18] but in the meantime we must know how to live.[19]

This talmudic position, I think, makes it possible for Jews to reach ever-greater understandings of the truth taught by the Torah and allows them to express that truth in language appropriate to each age. Had Judaism adopted a Maimonidean, as opposed to talmudic, understanding of the nature of our relation to the truth taught by the Torah, we would be forced to express our vision of the Universe in terms of the Neoplatonized Aristotelianism adopted by Maimonides. Our situation would be similar to that of Habad hasidim, who feel constrained to accept Maimonides' Ptolemaic description of the physical universe as "Torah from heaven," or to that of those Catholics who accept Thomism as normative and authoritative. But "the Torah is not in heaven" – it must be lived in this world, while the absolute truth which it embodies remains "from heaven," a constant challenge to our understanding, a constant critique of our tendency to intellectual complacency. The talmudic position, as hinted at in the story of the oven of Akhnai, allows Judaism to live and breathe in today's world as much as in yesterday's.

Maimonides, I have argued in a number of places, understood religious faith primarily in terms of propositions affirmed or denied. Bible and Talmud understood religious faith primarily in terms of trust and loyalty. This being so, "orthodoxy" is actually a misnomer, since Judaism, before Maimonides, knew no doctrines (=doxos) concerning which one absolutely had to be clearly and self-consciously "straight" (=ortho).

It is further important to realize that even though classical Judaism does not understand the nature of emunah as Maimonides does, and therefore places little value and emphasis on precise theological formulations, there are limits to what one can affirm or deny and still remain within the Jewish community. Note my terminology here: there are limits to what one can affirm or deny and still remain with the Jewish community. Denying the unity of God, for example, or that the Torah is of divine origin in some significant sense, or affirming that the Messiah has already come, are claims which place one outside of the historical community of Israel.

Returning to the issue of "faith, science, and Orthodoxy," I am here proposing that we understand Jewish faith in terms of loyalty to God, Torah, and Israel, loyalty which finds expression in the fulfillment of the commandments and less as "commandments addressed to the intellect." It follows from this that the criterion for what we now call "Orthodoxy" should be construed less in terms of adherence to specific dogmas and more in terms of behavior which evinces trust in God. I further propose that we follow Maimonides in taking demonstrated truth to be the arbiter of how we understand Torah. But since we are not yet in the age of the Messiah, and the knowledge of the Lord does not yet cover the earth as the waters cover the sea, that means that we understand neither science nor Torah fully. One does not have to be a fan of Star Trek to know that we live in age in which we expect our scientific paradigms to change. One can be a fully "Orthodox" Jew and maintain that, yes, the Torah teaches truth, but that we do not yet really understand that truth.

In concrete terms, I am calling for modesty, both as scientists and as believers. Modesty yes, a total suspension of belief/disbelief, no. To reject the claim that the earth is vastly old, for example, is not only to reject the science of geology, but the entire edifice of contemporary physics and chemistry. The cosmos simply cannot be 5769 years old. This, of course, is only a problem for the most stubborn of Biblical literalists. But how about Noah's flood? There is no geological or archeological evidence that the entire earth was once covered by water; nor is it possible for humanity, in its rich diversity, to have developed and spread over the globe in the roughly four and one half millennia which have passed since the time of Noah. In these and other matters, the Written Torah cannot be taken literally without rejecting the crushingly overwhelming weight of scientific evidence.

But in many other, and more important areas, we may not fully understand the Torah, but science has not yet had its last word either: on God's existence, the creation of the cosmos, Sinaitic revelation, providence, prophecy, miracles, efficacy of prayer, the special relationship of God to the Jewish people, divine retribution, etc., science seems to have little definite to say to us, and it appears to me, is not likely to have much to say in the foreseeable future.

In the final analysis, if we are really to use the eyes God gave us,[20] we can do no other but revert to a qualified Maimonideanism: the Torah cannot contradict that which has been proven scientifically but science often proves less than what some scientists think they have proven. We must live in a world of fewer absolutes than many thinkers (rabbis and scientists alike) would like: the Torah cannot teach what science rejects as false, but the evidence of science is not yet fully in, so we do not yet know what the Torah really teaches^.[21]

Book Review

Sukkot: Insights from the Past, Present, and Future (The Habura, 2022)

          We once again have the privilege to review a book by The Habura, a recently-founded England-based organization that has been promoting thoughtful Torah learning since 2020. It is headed by Rabbi Joseph Dweck, Senior Rabbi of the Spanish and Portuguese Community of the United Kingdom (see www.TheHabura.com).

          The Habura promotes the inclusion of Sephardic voices and ideas in Jewish discourse, coupled with an openness to the broad wisdom of the Jewish people and the world. In this regard, their ideology strongly dovetails ours at the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.

          In addition to their Zoom classes and other programs, they have been publishing holiday companion volumes (as well as other material). I reviewed their Pesah volume last April (https://www.jewishideas.org/article/book-review-haburas-passover-volume).

Their recently published Sukkot volume contains an array of eighteen essays. The first two are by Sephardic rabbis of the 19^th and 20^th centuries, Rabbis Abraham Pereira Mendes (1825-1893, Jamaica, England, and the United States) and Hayim David Halevi (1923-1998, Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv). The rest of the book is divided between contemporary rabbis and scholars, and younger upcoming scholars who participate in the learning of The Habura.

          The essays span a variety of topics pertaining to Sukkot in the areas of Jewish thought, faith, halakha, and custom. They generally are well-written and well-researched, and often present enlightening ideas. In this brief review, I will summarize three essays that I found most edifying.

          Rabbi Joseph Dweck explores the unusual commandment to rejoice on Sukkot (Deuteronomy 16:14). It is curious that other faith traditions viewed the changing of the seasons to autumn (in the northern hemisphere) as cause for bleaker holiday reactions. Roman Catholics observe All Soul’s Day, which appears in Mexico as the Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). This holiday translates to the more widespread Halloween. The Angel of Death is even nicknamed “The Grim Reaper,” reflecting the incoming gloom of winter that follows the harvest season. How does Sukkot become such a profoundly joyous time?

          A central theme of Sukkot is the fleetingness of the physical world. This realistic perspective enables us to experience joy while recognizing that it is temporary. Sigmund Freud wrote an essay entitled “On Transience,” in which he asserted that life’s transience helps us appreciate the preciousness and beauty of each experience.

          Rabbi Dweck believes that Freud has identified the root of our joy on Sukkot and concludes, “When we can come to this understanding about the world, we can truly come to embrace and accept life on its own terms—and in doing that, we can truly know happiness.”

          Pursuing a different angle into the theme of joy on Sukkot, Gershon Engel explains that nowadays, we indeed emphasize our dependence on God rather than relying on the permanence of our homes (e.g., Rabbi Yitzhak Aboab, Menorat HaMa’or III, 4:6). Of course, the biblical Sukkot revolved around the harvest. This holiday was uniquely joyous in ancient Israel, as the harvests were in and farmers did not need to rush home as they would after Pesah and Shavuot.

          By transferring the meaning of Sukkot from agriculture to more universal religious themes, Jews were able to preserve a sense of joy on Sukkot even after the termination of the agrarian life that had characterized our people for much of our existence.

Engel quotes Benjamin Disraeli in his classic work Tancred, who expressed awe in the Jews for retaining their sense of joy on Sukkot while in the exile:

The vineyards of Israel have ceased to exist, but the eternal law enjoins the children of Israel still to celebrate the vintage. A race that persists in celebrating their vintage, although they have no fruits to gather, will regain their vineyards. What sublime inexorability in the law! But what indomitable spirit in the people!

          Addressing the halakhic question of wearing tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed the intermediate weekdays) of Pesah and Sukkot, Yehuda J.W. Leikin observes that the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmuds both appear to suggest that wearing tefillin on the middle days of Pesah and Sukkot is normative.

The three halakhic pillars behind Rabbi Yosef Karo’s Shulhan Arukh—Rabbi Yitzhak Alfasi (Rif), Rambam, and Rabbenu Asher (Rosh), all agree that wearing tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed is the proper observance. While several other leading medieval rabbinic authorities, including Rabbi Shelomo ibn Aderet (Rashba) and Rabbi Avraham ben David (Ra’avad), maintain that tefillin should not be worn, Rabbi Karo generally follows his three pillars of rabbinic ruling.

          In this case, however, Rabbi Karo forbids the wearing of tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed, and rules prohibitively because the Zohar strongly opposes the wearing of tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed (Bet Yosef, Orah Hayyim 31:2). Rabbi Karo reports that in Spain, the original practice was to wear tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed until they discovered the Zohar’s prohibition. In contrast, Rabbi Moshe Isserles (Rama) maintains that Ashkenazim should wear tefillin, following the ruling of Rabbenu Asher (Rosh).

          Thus, the Sephardic practice to refrain from wearing tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed reflects an unusual move from classical halakhic sources to kabbalah. Leikin concludes that Rabbi Yosef Karo may have been inclined to accept the kabbalistic ruling in this instance, since there also were great halakhists who also opposed wearing tefillin on hol ha-mo’ed.

          There are many other fine essays in this Sukkot companion, and we look forward to future volumes from The Habura.

*

          I had the privilege of giving a three-part series for the Habura in February-March, 2022. You may view these lectures on our YouTube channel:

Tanakh and Superstition: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PD68xZ4J4M8&t=5s

Torah and Archaeology:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dN1XAtia_x0&t=24s

Torah and Literalism: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K__jp8V9sXY&t=4s

          I also am scheduled to give two talks to the Habura on April 17 and 19, 2023.

The Institute looks forward to further partnering with The Habura in the future and building our shared vision together.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Noah

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

It is painful to hear hateful words. Unfortunately, hardly a day goes by when we aren’t confronted by statements of anti-Semitism, racism, political mud-slinging. So-called “celebrities” spout their malicious lies about Jews, about Israel, about any group they wish to slander.

Why is hateful speech so widespread?

Erich Fromm has written of the syndrome of decay that “prompts men to destroy for the sake of destruction and to hate for the sake of hate.” Because of their frustrations, feelings of inferiority and malignant narcissism, many people poison their own lives with hatred. Indeed, some only feel truly alive and validated when they express hatred of others.

When we hear bigots rail against “the Jews” or “the Israelis,” we instinctively sense that these haters are morally blind, ignorant about Jews and Israel.  When we are confronted by so-called human rights organizations and academics who malign Israel, we are appalled by their hatred and perversion of truth.  Haters are dangerous. It is imperative for moral and informed people to stand up and refute the lies and calumnies.

Hateful words are uttered by many people on various rungs of the social ladder. The common denominator is their participation in the syndrome of decay. Their hatred not only erodes their own lives, it contributes to undermining the social fabric of society as a whole. It makes all good people feel uneasy. Where will this hatred lead? To spreading hatred among others? To violence?

In this week’s Torah reading, God orders Noah to build an ark. Humanity had become so corrupt that the Almighty decided to destroy all but Noah and family. In providing instructions for the construction of the ark, God tells Noah: “You shall make a light for the ark”—tsohar ta’aseh latevah. Our commentators suggest that this light was a skylight window or a precious stone that could refract light throughout the ark.

A Hassidic rabbi offered a different reading of the text. The word “tevah” means ark; but it also means “word.” In his homiletical interpretation, the verse should be understood as follows: “make your word generate light.” When you speak, your words should be positive, encouraging, enlightening. They should contribute light to a world struggling against the forces of darkness.

Martin Buber diagnosed a serious problem within modern society. “That people can no longer carry on authentic dialogue with one another is not only the most acute symptom of the pathology of our time, it is also that which most urgently makes a demand of us.”  His observation relates to the breakdown of honest communication among people, especially among people outside one’s immediate circle of family and friends. It also relates to the breakdown in communication among nations.

Instead of viewing ourselves as co-partners in society, the syndrome of decay leads us to view others as enemies…real or potential threats to our well-being. When we can’t trust each other, when we can’t speak kindly to each other or about each other, then society is afflicted with the pathology that Buber laments.

Tsohar ta’aseh latevah: each of us, in our own way, can add light and understanding to our world by speaking words of encouragement, kindness, and respectfulness. We should work toward a society that repudiates hateful words and deeds, where the haters themselves will come to see the error of their way.

Those whose words are hateful generate darkness, mistrust, societal disintegration.

Those whose words bring light to the world are humanity’s only real hope.

Our National Scholar, Rabbi Hayyim Angel, reviews two recent books on the interface between traditional and academic Bible study, with consideration of the religious ramifications of various approaches.

The article appears in the current issue of Tradition, the journal of the Rabbinical Council of America.

You may access the article online here: https://traditiononline.org/when-blurring-peshat-and-derash-creates-a-new-theology-a-critique-of-participatory-revelation/

Freedom in world history and American history is tied to slavery. Slavery and the exodus from slavery are central to Judaism. Many cultures, do, or have, celebrated emancipation. But only Jews have a major religious holiday that is focused on enslavement and an escape from enslavement.

My main focus here will be on Jews and slavery in what became the United States, from the seventeenth century to 1865, when the United States ratified the Thirteenth Amendment, which prohibited slavery “within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.” However, to understand this very important topic, we need a longer historical perspective for world history and Jewish history.

I. Slavery and Freedom in Global Perspective

Slavery has been present in almost every human society, since at least the Neolithic period of pre-history. People of virtually every climate and culture have been masters and slaves, without regard to race, religion, or ethnicity. As the Harvard scholar Orlando Patterson observed, “There is nothing notably peculiar about the institution of slavery. It has existed from before the dawn of human history right down to the twentieth century, in the most primitive of human societies and in the most civilized.” Patterson found slavery in every “region on earth” and concluded that “probably there is no group of people whose ancestors were not at one time slaves or slaveholders.”[1] Indeed, it is likely that almost all people today have ancestors who were both slaves and slaveowners.

Slavery has differed from place to place. In some cultures, slaves had rights or protections that slaves in other cultures did not have. In ancient Rome, for example, slaves could own some personal property, but in the United States (except in Louisiana) a slave could legally own nothing. Even their clothing belonged to the master. But whatever the differences, slavery was always predicated on the domination of some people by others, with the power of the state (or its equivalent in less formal settings) to support that domination.[2] It always involves force, violence, the dishonoring of those enslaved, the denial of basic human rights to those held in bondage, and the commodification of people as property. As Aristotle noted, the “the slave is not merely the slave of the master but wholly belongs to the master. These considerations therefore make clear the nature of the slave and his essential quality: one who is a human being belonging by nature not to himself but to another is by nature a slave, and a person is a human being belonging to another . . . is an article of property.”[3] Similarly, in discussing what penalties a Jewish master might face for punishing a slave—whether a fellow Jew or foreigner—to the point of death, the Torah notes that the law should not presume a master intentionally killed a slave “because he [the slave] is his [the master’s] property.”[4]

Many people assume that slavery in Europe died out after the fall of Rome and was somehow revived in the Americas, after the European expansion into the New World. But, in fact slavery existed in parts of Europe from ancient times until at least the eighteenth century. The very term “slave” comes from the Slavic peoples, captured by Norsemen (the Vikings) and sold in the slave markets of southern Europe after the collapse of the Roman Empire. Throughout this period the Roman Catholic Church and all established Protestant Churches in Europe supported slavery and approved the enslavement of various classes of people. Systems of slavery operated on the southern rim of the Mediterranean from antiquity into the twenty-first century.[5] Slavery was endemic to Africa, the Middle East, south Asia, and found in many indigenous cultures of the New World before the arrival of Europeans at the end of the fifteenth century.

European nations formally rejected slavery at the Berlin Conference in 1884 and in the Berlin Act of 1885, declaring that slave trading was “forbidden in conformity with the principles of international law.” Five years later The Brussels Act “was the first comprehensive multilateral treaty directed specifically against the African slave trade.”[6]

The League of Nations pushed hard to end human bondage with the Slavery Convention of 1926, mobilizing international cooperation for the “abolition of slavery in all its forms.” Slavery was now broadly defined as “the status or condition of a person over whom any or all of the powers attaching to the rights of ownership are exercised.” The Convention and the League of Nations had some successes, such as pressuring Nepal and Burma to formally end slavery.[7]

 But this accomplishment was short lived. Slavery reemerged in the 1930s in the Soviet Gulag, the German Third Reich, and the Japanese empire. From 1939 to 1945, Germany transported some 12 million foreigners to the Reich proper as forced laborers. In the mid-1940s there would be as many people enslaved inside Germany as there had been enslaved in all of the Americas at the highpoint of slavery in the nineteenth century. In addition, millions of Eastern Europeans, especially Jews, Roma, and captured Soviet prisoners of war, some of whom were Jewish, would be used as slave labor both outside and inside Germany, often in inhuman, barbaric conditions where they were literally worked to death. Enslavement was one of the crimes against humanity for which Nazi leaders were prosecuted and hanged at Nuremberg. After the War, the United Nations forcefully condemned slavery in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) and subsequent documents. By 2013, every nation on earth had formally prohibited slavery, and numerous international agreements and treaties had also forbidden it.[8]

II. Slavery in the Ancient and Early Modern World

Slavery was common throughout the world when the descendants of Abraham morphed from being Hebrews to Jews. Not surprisingly, these ancient people had slavery. This would matter for Jews in British North America because on its face Jewish law permitted slavery.

Most ancient cultures and communities preferred to enslave foreigners—the ancient Greeks considered all foreigners to be “barbarians,” ripe for enslavement, while biblical law made it far easier to enslave a stranger than a fellow Jew. But members of both societies ended up in bondage in their own countries. As the historian Moses I. Finley observed, while most classical slaves were foreigners, there were “Greek slaves in Greece [and] Italian slaves in Rome.”[9] Similarly, there were Chinese slaves in China, Russian slaves in Russia, and Muslim slaves in Islamic societies. And there were Jewish slaves in ancient Israel.

Slavery existed among the ancient Hebrews and the post-Sinai Jews. Abraham, like masters in almost every slave culture, fathered children with his female slaves Hagar and Keturah. His grandson, Jacob, had children with his two wives, Leah and Rebecca, and with two slaves, Bilhah and Zilpah.[10] Throughout the ancient world, the children of a slave woman and her owner were often considered the children and heirs of their father. Jacob’s sons with his slaves, like those with his wives, were his heirs, and the founders of the Twelve Tribes of Israel. Thus, at least in theory, all Jews are the descendants of slaveowners (Abraham and Jacob) and their slaves, as well as the descendants of those enslaved in Egypt.

            The story of Hagar illustrates the unpleasantness of slavery and the desire of slaves to escape their bondage. For nineteenth-century U.S. slaveowners it also supported the rights of masters to recover their fugitive slaves. After all, if God could send an angel as a slave catcher to recover Abraham’s property, then surely the United States could send a federal marshal.

The story of Joseph underscores the acceptance of slave status across the ancient world. The favored and clearly spoiled youngest son of the patriarch Jacob, who had given his son “a coat of many colors” the 17-year-old Joseph relished his father’s favoritism, bragging to his older brothers that one day they would be subservient to him. Given this favoritism combined with the teenager’s arrogance, it is perhaps not surprising that his older brothers “hated him . . . [and] could not speak a friendly word to him.” When their hatred boiled over, the brothers “sold Joseph for 20 pieces of silver to the Ishmaelites, who brought Joseph to Egypt.” [11] For Jacob’s sons, this was a plausible solution to sibling rivalry.

The Ishmaelites accepted Joseph as they found him: a youth devoid of any trappings of his status as the favored son of an elite family. He appeared to be a slave, and those who sold him clearly held him in captivity. The Ishmaelites never asked how or why Joseph became a slave or who his family was. They took Joseph as they found him—a teenager in bondage. The Ishmaelites later sold Joseph in Egypt. No one in this story doubted he had been legitimately reduced to the status of a slave by the people who sold him to the Ishmaelites. The fact of Joseph’s slave status—and its acceptance by the Ishmaelites and later the Egyptians—is emblematic of the law and international practice at the time.

            The Hebrews would later be enslaved in Egypt, and in the Exodus story—the central story of Jewish identity—they escaped their bondage, received the law at Mt. Sinai, and then moved into ancient Israel. Significantly, their Egyptian bondage did not turn them into abolitionists. The Ten Commandments admonishes the Hebrews—who are becoming Jews—to allow their slaves to rest on the Sabbath and also reminds them not to “covet” their neighbor’s male or female slaves.[12] The Sabbath provision suggests a level of humanity in Jewish slaveholding that was not found in some other slave cultures. But the language of both commandments also demonstrates that slaveholding itself was theologically and culturally acceptable.

The very next chapter (Exodus 21) contains rules on how to enslave fellow Hebrews or foreigners, how to sell one’s daughter into bondage, and how to treat slaves. The language (at least in English translation) in both chapters uses the words slave and “servant” interchangeably. This resembles the practice of the antebellum South, where some slaveowners referred to their slaves—people they bought, sold, and often whipped—as their servants. Similarly, the Latin term for a slave—servus—could also mean a “servant.”

Biblical law gave slaves some legal protections. For example, slaves severely injured by their owners might be emancipated, which is unusual in slave societies. And, unlike Roman law, biblical law did not allow masters to kill their slaves on a whim. American law would follow this biblical rule. But the text here is ambiguous. Throughout Exodus 21 the text provides that for various crimes the persons convicted “shall be put to death,” “die,” or in one case be exiled.[13] But here the text says only that “should a man strike his manservant or his maidservant with a rod, and [that one] die under his hand, he shall surely be avenged.” It is not clear what “avenged” would mean, given that the dead slave might have no kinfolk to avenge the crime, receive compensation for the death, or even seek some sort of punishment or fine by the government that would constitute “avenged.” Even here, the punishment (whatever it might be) was only for a slave who died while being punished. Under biblical law, a master was not liable for the death of a slave who survived a severe punishment but died a day or two later from his injuries. A master would not be punished for the subsequent death of a slave from injuries because “because he is his property.”[14] Like the later American law, a slave had no control over his children, who belonged to the master, and could marry only with the master’s permission.

III. Jews and Slaveholding in the Early Colonial Period

            Before 1500 Jews in Europe and the Middle East were slaveowners, just like Christians and Muslims. Many scholars have argued that Jews were also active slave traders from the fall of Rome into the early modern period. In 452 ce Pope Gelasius permitted Jews to transport heathen slaves to Christian countries, and according to the first edition of the Jewish Encyclopedia, “From the 8^th century until at least the 11^th century Jews were particularly active in selling Christians into the Muslim world, as well as bringing Slavs overland into the northern rim of the Mediterranean.” More recently, the Israeli scholar Michael Toch has challenged this argument. But, all scholars seem to agree that Jews themselves in Europe and the Middle East owned slaves, bought and sold them, and sometimes converted them to Judaism.[15]

Throughout this period the Catholic Church authorized the enslavement of heathens, some Christians who were captured in inter-European wars, and others. Columbus brought enslaved Carib Indians back to Spain after his first trip to the New World.[16] Thus, the initial Atlantic slave trade went from West to East. The direction of the Atlantic slave trade quickly changed, as European diseases, overwork, and savage Spanish treatment of natives led to massive deaths of Indians in the Caribbean and elsewhere. The Spanish and Portuguese insatiable desire for labor to support for sugar cultivation and mining led to the African slave trade.

Every European colony in the western hemisphere adopted slavery. With a few exceptions—most notably in Suriname—most New World Jews lived in urban places—usually ports—and few engaged in agriculture. They owned slaves to serve them in their houses and businesses. Some Jews were involved in the African slave trade, although in very small numbers. An extensive study by Eli Farber found that of 45,224 slaves imported into Barbados, only 128 of them were on ships in which Jews had invested in the voyage. No Jews actually owned any of these ships or were actively participating in the trade on a personal level. Farber’s research showed similar results for other Caribbean colonies.[17]

While Jews generally shied away from the brutal and horrible Atlantic slave trade, they were not squeamish about buying African slaves. Most of these early Jewish migrants had a Sephardic-Portuguese heritage. Slavery was a thriving institution in both Moorish and Christian Iberia from ancient times to the sixteenth century and beyond. Thus, Jews of the Portuguese Nation (as they called themselves) came from a culture where slavery was normal, common, and unexceptional. When they were expelled from Iberia, Jews brought their slaves to the southern rim of the Mediterranean.[18] As Orlando Patterson observed, for most of world history there was nothing peculiar about slavery.

Suriname and Barbados had the first two synagogues in the New World. Many urban Jews in both places owned some slaves, a few Barbadian Jews owned sugar plantations with many slaves. There were a significant number of Jewish plantation owners in Suriname. Jews in both places were pretty much like their Christian neighbors, eagerly purchasing Africans brought to the colonies. In Kingston, Jamaica, urban Jews were more likely to own slaves than Christians, but they owned fewer of them.[19]

In her superb recent book, Once We Were Slaves, Laura Arnold Leibman shows that in Barbados and Suriname—the two largest early New World Jewish communities—Jewish men often fathered children with slave women. Sometimes they acknowledged their paternity and even manumitted their concubines and raised their children as Jews. Sometimes they did not. Some of the mixed-race children and grandchildren of these relationships would marry into some of the leading families of Jewish America. Sarah Rodrigues Brandon, a mixed-race woman who was born a slave in Barbados, formally converted to Judaism, and married Joshua Moses, whose father was at one point the richest Jew in Philadelphia, a founder of Mikveh Israel, and later a leader of Shearith Israel. Their mixed-race son, Lionel Moses, married Selina Seixas, the granddaughter of Gershom Mendes Seixas.

IV. Jews and Slavery in the New Republic

            By the eve of the American Revolution the New World Jewish community was shifting to the mainland colonies. When the Revolution began, slavery was legal in every one of the thirteen colonies, as well as in every other New World colony. There were thriving Jewish communities in New York, Philadelphia, Newport, Charleston, and Savannah, and slavery was important in all these places. Charleston was at the center of the slave trade into the mainland colonies. Its wealth was predicated on slavery. Jews there, and in Savannah, like those in the Caribbean, owned slaves in their urban households and businesses and on the few rural plantations some of them owned. These southern Jews and their descendants would remain committed to slavery until the U.S. army, President Lincoln, Congress, and the Thirteenth Amendment ended slavery.

While the British overwhelmingly dominated the African slave trade into the mainland colonies, a small amount of slaving was done by Rhode Islanders, mostly out of Newport. The city’s most important slaver (and its wealthiest resident) was Aaron Lopez, a Jewish refugee from Portugal. Another Portuguese Jew in the city, Rodrigues Rivera (whose daughter Lopez would marry) was also a slaver. Lopez and Rivera probably brought about 3,000 slaves to the New World, while four other Jewish men in Newport invested in a few slaving voyages but were not the principal importers.[20]

In colonial Philadelphia and New York almost all whites—Gentiles and Jews—who could afford to owned slaves. It was simply part of their culture. For example, both the future president of the Pennsylvania Society of the Abolition of Slavery (Benjamin Franklin) and the future president of the New York Manumission Society (John Jay) owned slaves. After the Revolution they would become dedicated abolitionists. Jews, like their urban Christian neighbors, owned slaves as well. In a world without electricity, refrigeration, running water, or indoor plumbing, urban life required an enormous amount of labor. Slaves also provided the labor to run many businesses, as black slaves did the heavy lifting for Jewish merchants.

Before 1775 there was no organized opposition to slavery in the Anglo-American world. A few dissenting Christian faiths—Quakers, Mennonites, Methodists, and some Baptists (and some Congregational and Unitarian ministers)—had identifying slavery as sinful, and urged or even required their members to give-up slaveholding.[21] But, except for the Society of Friends, all major Christian denominations and established churches accepted slavery and many of their clergy and individual churches as corporate entities owned slaves. English and Anglo-American Protestants defended slavery, even as they baptized their human property. In the mid-eighteenth century, Rev. George Whitefield, the most famous Anglican preacher of the Great Awakening, believed in converting slaves to save their souls, but he also found biblical support for slavery and owned a Georgia plantation with about 75 slaves.[22]

            In this environment no Jewish leaders opposed, although a few individual Jews did. As David Brion Davis, the great Pulitzer Prize winning historian of slavery, noted: “The small number of Jews who lived in the Atlantic community took black slavery as much for granted as did the Catholics, Muslims, Lutherans, Huguenots, Calvinists, and Anglicans. And while at least one Jewish merchant joined New York’s first antislavery society in the 1790s, Judaism was as resistant as other tradition-oriented religions to such intellectual and moral innovations.”[23] In this sense Jews in colonial America were like the vast majority of other whites in the colonies.

            The Revolution changed American thinking on slavery. Even before the war began, slaves in Massachusetts petitioned the colonial legislature for their freedom. The first person to die in the Boston Massacre in 1770 was Crispus Attucks, was either a former slave or a runaway slave (the evidence is not clear). His status and race illustrated the problematic nature of white Americans wanting their liberty, while enslaving others. During the Revolution the English Tory Samuel Johnson ironically wondered, “How is it that we hear the loudest yelps for liberty among the drivers of negroes?”[24] By the time he asked this, many white Americans, mostly in the North, but also some in the South, were addressing the issue.

            On April 14, 1775—just five days before the Battle of Lexington and Concord, twenty-four Philadelphia men (seventeen of whom were Quakers) formed The Pennsylvania Society for the Relief of Free Negroes Unlawfully Held in Bondage. This was the first organization in the world dedicated to ending slavery. However, because of the war with Britain, the Society dissolved itself after just four meetings. In 1780, Pennsylvania passed a gradual abolition law, which would lead to the end of slavery by providing that the children of all slave women would be born free, subject to an indenture. Those already enslaved were not freed. This was the first law in world history to begin to formally end slavery. By 1804, Connecticut, Rhode Island, New York, and New Jersey had passed similar laws. Meanwhile Massachusetts, New Hampshire and the new states of Vermont and Ohio simply abolished slavery in their first constitutions. In 1817, New York passed legislation freeing all slaves in the state on July 4, 1827.

            Under the gradual abolition laws the slave population in the North plummeted as many masters simply freed their slaves. For example, from 1800 to 1820 the New York the slave population declined from 21,000 to 10,000, while the free black population grew from 10,000 to 29,000. In the same period Pennsylvania’s free black population went from 15,000 to 30,000, while the slave population dropped from 4,000 to just 800.

After the war, the opponents of slavery in Philadelphia reorganized themselves as The Pennsylvania Society for Promoting the Abolition of Slavery and the Relief of Free Negroes Unlawfully Held in Bondage (usually called the PAS) and shortly thereafter Benjamin Franklin became its president. In 1785, New Yorkers, led by John Jay and Alexander Hamilton, formed The New-York Society for Promoting the Manumission of Slaves, and Protecting Such of Them as Have Been, or May be Liberated. The PAS was heavily Quakers, with some deists (like Franklin, Dr. Benjamin Rush, and Thomas Paine) and other Christians. The New York society was led by Episcopalians such as Jay and Hamilton. However, a few Jews also joined. Moses Judah, a leader of Shearith Israel, joined the New York Society in 1799 and served on numerous committees. In Philadelphia, Benjamin Nones, who had owned slaves most of his adult life, freed his slaves and joined the PAS. Other members of Mikveh Israel, including Mordecai M. Mordecai, Jonas Phillips, Moses Myers, and Isaac Moses freed their own slaves and were involved in the manumission of other slaves.

            These early anti-slavery Jews were a minority within their community. Most northern Jews, like most other northern whites, ignored the issue of slavery, especially because the gradual abolition laws and state constitutions had set northern slavery on the road to extinction. As slavery died out in the North, many masters manumitted their slaves, but some Jews held on to their slaves as long as possible. While Moses Judah in New York was actively fighting slavery, his hazzan at Shearith Israel, Emanuel Nunes Carvalho, owned three slaves, and bought at least one more when he moved to Charleston.[25]

Jewish southerners, like their white Christian neighbors, usually supported slavery, although there are records of individual owners manumitting particular slaves.[26] In 1961, Bertram W. Korn detailed southern Jewish slave owning from the Revolution to the Civil War in his presidential address to the American Jewish Historical Society. Korn found that most middle class and affluent urban Jewish southerners owned slaves who worked in their houses and businesses, but fewer than a dozen Jews owned plantations, with large numbers of slaves. He identified eight Jewish firms engaged in professional slave trading, buying slaves in the upper South and transporting them to the Gulf Coast states where when could be sold at huge profits. He found other Jewish mercantile and auction houses that sold slaves along with other merchandise.[27] The bottom line here is that Jewish southerners actively and with very few (if any) qualms, participated in the South’s most important economic and social institution—owning human beings and exploiting their labor. Freedom, for Jewish Southerners included the freedom to own, buy, and sell other people. Almost no Jewish southerners even blinked at the irony of black slaves serving food and clearing dishes at a Passover Seder celebrating the Exodus.[28]

V. Jews, Politics, and Slavery

A few Jews held various political offices in the new nation, starting with Francis Salvador, a slaveowner in South Carolina elected to the colony’s pre-Revolutionary provisional Congress in 1774. From the early national period to the Civil War there may have been more Jews elected to office in the South than the North, although the numbers for either section were small. But, whether northern or southern, until the Civil War most Jewish political leaders were either proslavery or silent on the issue.

The most important early Jewish politician was Mordecai Manuel Noah. Born in Philadelphia, he grew up in South Carolina, where he studied law, fully embracing southern views on race and slavery. While not apparently a slaveowner, he became a vigorous opponent of black rights and black freedom, and a supporter of slavery. He briefly served as a diplomat in Tunis, where he tried, and mostly failed, to liberate about a dozen captured American merchant sailors being held as slaves in Algeria. He did manage to help ransom two of these sailors. Noah’s acts illustrate his support for freedom for white people. He then moved to New York, where he was a Democratic Party leader, and held various offices, including sheriff of New York and a judgeship. At this time, the Democratic Party was dominated by slaveholding presidents—Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe, and later Andrew Jackson—and was aggressively proslavery and anti-black. Noah embraced this ideology. His newspaper, the National Advocate, railed against free blacks. In 1821, New York Democrats, led by Martin Van Buren, who had grown up in a slaveholding Dutch family outside of Albany, wrote a new state constitution which eliminated property requirements for white voters, but not for blacks. In the 1830s Democrats in Pennsylvania simply prohibited blacks from voting. Noah, as a Democratic Party leader, supported these policies.[29]

            In the southern states there was no movement to end slavery, and Jews in Charleston, Savannah, Baltimore, Richmond, New Orleans, Mobile, and elsewhere owned slaves and supported the system. Despite antisemitic claims, southern Jews were rarely involving in the interstate slave trade. And, since few Jews owned plantations, they were rarely owners of large numbers of slaves.

            In the 1830s a new abolitionist movement developed across the North, starting with the publication of William Lloyd Garrison’s newspaper, The Liberator in 1831, and his founding of the American Anti-Slavery Society in 1833. The Revolutionary-era organizations, such as the PAS and the N.Y. Manumission Society, had focused on ending slavery in their own states. The new movement focused on ending slavery throughout the United States. By the 1850s tens of thousands of northerners would be engaged in antislavery agitation. Much of the movement was rooted in evangelical Protestant theology and many of the movement’s leaders were clergymen. Many abolitionists were anti-Catholic, as well as anti-slavery, and a few articulated hostility toward Jews.

The abolitionist movement also undermined and altered many traditional roles. For the first time in U.S. history, significant numbers of women participated in public meetings and demonstrations and sent petitions to Congress. The movement was racially integrated, with African Americans—most famously Frederick Douglass—addressing integrated anti-slavery meetings.

            During this period the first dedicated opponents of slavery were elected to Congress, initially from New England, New York, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. So too were the first Jews. Until the Civil War began, all the Jews in Congress were either aggressively proslavery, or passively supported the institution. In 1844, Pennsylvania elected Lewis Charles Levin, the first Jew to serve in Congress. Raised in South Carolina and always connected to the South, he was a member of a fringe, anti-immigration party. In the 1850s, he would oppose the Republican Party, in part for its stand against slavery. His main political interest was reducing Catholic immigration into the United States. In 1845, the new state of Florida sent David Levy Yulee to the Senate. He was a staunch defender of slavery and would leave the Senate in 1861 to support secession. Elected in 1850, Emanual Hart was a proslavery northern Democrat from New York. He served one term in Congress and then held patronage positions in the proslavery Pierce and Buchanan administrations. In 1852, Alabama elected Philip Phillips to the House of Representatives. He was a native of South Carolina and had attended Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim in Charleston as a child. His wife, Eugenia Levy, was from a distinguished slaveholding Jewish family in Charleston. Phillips supported slavery, and helped draft the Kansas-Nebraska Act, which allowed slavery in most of the existing federal territories. But while always a supporter of slavery, Phillips was also a unionist in this period. At the beginning of the Civil War, he was practicing law in Washington, D.C., and wanted to remain there. He was one of many southern leaders who remained loyal to the Union. However, his wife was a rabid secessionist and allegedly a Confederate spy. Thus, he was forced to return to the South.

The most important antebellum Jew in American politics was Judah P. Benjamin of Louisiana. Like Phillips, he was raised in Charleston and attended Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim. Benjamin made his living as a lawyer but purchased a sugar plantation with 140 slaves on it, making himself a proper southern gentleman, and the largest Jewish slaveowner in the country. He entered the U.S. Senate in 1853 (the same year Phillips entered the House), where he vigorously defended slavery. Senator Benjamin Wade of Ohio, who was vigorously anti-slavery, correctly referred to Benjamin as an “Israelite with Egyptian principles.”

Benjamin resigned from the Senate when Louisiana seceded and became a Confederate leader, holding three different positions in Jefferson Davis’s cabinet, where he vigorously defended slavery. After the War, Benjamin fled to England, where he was an enormously successful attorney, and where he continued to defend Southern slavery, even though the system no longer existed.[30]

While Benjamin was the highest-ranking Jew in the Confederacy many other Jewish southerners served in the Confederate army, with some rising to the rank of colonel, lieutenant colonel, and major. Jewish southerners killed, and were killed, trying to create a nation, as the Confederate Vice President Alexander Stephens put it, whose “foundations are laid, its corner-stone rests, upon the great truth that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery subordination to the superior race is his natural and normal condition. This, our new government, is the first, in the history of the world, based upon this great physical, philosophical, and moral truth.”[31] Jewish Southerners, from the Revolution to the Civil War, were in the end, southerners who supported and profited from slavery. Freedom for them was the “freedom” to treat other people as property and commodities, to be bought, sold, and treated, or mistreated, with impunity.

VII. Jews, Anti-Slavery, and the Civil War

            From 1840 to 1865, about 150,000 Jews moved to the United States, expanding the nation’s Jewish population tenfold. Most came from Central Europe—Germany, Austria, Hungary, and what later became Czechoslovakia.[32] Many were fleeing the failed liberal revolutions of the 1840s and 1850s. Most went to northern cities, although some moved to the upper South—Baltimore, Louisville, and St. Louis. Educated, committed to liberty, and often idealistic, many gravitated to the Republican Party after 1854 and to the antislavery movement. When the Civil War began many of these new Jewish Americans served in the United States army, fighting against southern treason and for freedom. At least four Jews became generals—Frederick Salomon, Frederick Knefler, Edward S. Salomon, and Leopold Blumenberg—making them the first Jewish generals in any army in the western world. There would be a slew of other Jewish senior officers. These new immigrants universally supported the Union and opposed slavery. Illustrative of these new Jewish immigrants was the German-born teenager, Private Dankmar Adler, the son of a Rabbi, who served in the war and would later become one of the most important architects in American history, with his partnership of Sullivan and Adler in Chicago.

            Even before the war, a few examples of Jewish immigrants, among many, illustrate the changing nature of the Jewish response to slavery.

            When John Brown was trying to make Kansas into a free state—during the brief civil war there known as bleeding Kansas—his ragtag “army” of antislavery rough riders included Theodore Wiener a recent immigrant from Poland and August Bondi, a recent immigrant from Bohemia. They rode with John Brown and helped defeat the proslavery terrorists in Kansas. Bondi then served in the 5^th Kansas Cavalry during the war.

            While Kansas was in turmoil, Lewis Naphtali Dembitz moved from Prague to Louisville, Kentucky, with his brother-in-law and sister, Adolph Brandeis and Frederika Dembitz Brandeis. Dembitz was practicing Jew, a lawyer, and a Jewish scholar. In 1860, he was one of the very few slave state delegates to the Republican national convention.[33] He translated Harriet Beecher Stowe’s antislavery novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, into German. Although living in Kentucky, Dembitz was deeply antislavery. His greatest influence was on his nephew, Louis David Brandeis, who changed his middle name to Dembitz, to honor his uncle, and later become the first Jewish Supreme Court Justice and the president of the Zionist Organization of America (ZOA). Dembitz’s son, Arthur A. Dembitz, would become the founding professor of Jewish history at Gratz College, in 1897. All of this subsequent important social activism began with Lewis N. Dembitz’s opposition to slavery and his commitment to Judaism.

VIII. The Great Rabbinical Debate over Slavery

            In February 1860, Dr. Morris Jacob Raphall, of New York’s Congregation B’nai Jeshurun, became the first rabbi in American history to give the opening prayer at a session of Congress. A year later, in January 1861, with the Union dissolving, Raphall gave a sermon on slavery that was published in newspapers and reprinted as a pamphlet, as A Bible View of Slavery. Raphall’s sermon was vigorously proslavery. Like most southern ministers, he asserted that Africans were the cursed descendants of Ham, from the story of Noah, and thus doomed to be the “meanest of slaves,” although there is no scriptural support for this claim. He endorsed racist notions that blacks were mentally inferior to whites, and that blacks had never achieved “human excellence, either mental or moral.” He mocked ministers and others who condemned slaveholding as “sin.” Relying on both Jewish and Christian texts, he defended the system as ordained by God. He quoted the Ten Commandments to support his position. He claimed that Hebrew slaves were better treated than those in the South, but, using biblical analysis, he emphatically supported the fugitive slave laws. He concluded that slavery had “existed since the earliest time,” that “slaveholding is no sin” and that “slave property is expressly placed under the protection of the Ten Commandments,” and that the slave was “a person” who had some “rights not conflicting the lawful exercise of the rights of his owner.” He condemned anti-slavery northerners for being “righteous overmuch” and “denouncing ‘sin’ which the Bible knows not.” He suggested some unspecified reforms in southern slavery, while urging Jews and other northerners to accept its legitimacy.[34]

            Two Jewish leaders answered Raphall. The first was an editorial in the New York Tribune by Michael Heilprin, a Jewish scholar and journalist who fled Hungary after the failed revolution of Lajos (or Louis) Kossuth. His own history reflected that of many other recent Jewish immigrants, who were appalled by slavery. In this relatively short piece, Heilprin denounced Raphall’s notion that it was “his duty to proclaim from the pulpit that it is a sin to preach against Slavery in the South! I had read similar nonsense hundreds of times before; I knew that the Father of Truth and Mercy was daily invoked in hundreds of pulpits in this country for a Divine sanction of falsehood and barbarism; still, being a Jew myself, I felt exceedingly humbled, I may say outraged, by the sacrilegious words of the Rabbi. Have we not had enough of the ‘reproach of Egypt?’”[35]

A more substantive rebuttal to Raphall came from David Einhorn, a German-trained Rabbi at Congregation Har Sinai in Baltimore. Einhorn preached in German, but the sermon was quickly translated.

Einhorn conceded that “slaveholders may be men of honor and character.” He noted “Abraham was a slaveholder . . . any yet he is for us a model of virtue, when we take into consideration the age in which he lived.” The central question was: “’Is the institution of Slavery, per se, a moral evil or is it not?’” Einhorn’s unrestrained and sarcastic critique denounced Raphall’s claim that it was not a sin:

And here it is that Dr. Raphall, earned for himself the sorry reputation of declaring, on the authority of the divine law, the legitimacy of the moral rectitude of slavery, and inveighing sharply against Christian ministers who happen to differ from him. A Jew, the offspring of a race which daily praises God for deliverance form the bondage of Egypt, and whose fellow-believers are to this hour groaning under the have yoke of slavery in most of the cities of the old world and crying to the Almighty for help, undertakes to parade slavery as a perfectly sinless institution, sanctioned by God, and to confront those presumptuous people who will not believe it, with somewhat of an air of moral indignation! A more extraordinary phenomenon could hardly be imagined. 

Einhorn denounced Raphall’s use, or misuse of history “to invest his favorite institution with a halo of glory.”[36]

Einhorn used various texts to refute Raphall, but the real thrust of his position was the spiritual and ethical nature of Judaism. He argued that since Jews had suffered under Egyptian bondage they had a special obligation to oppose slavery. Starting with the story of Adam, he argued that it was inherently sinful to enslave and mistreated people who were created in God’s image.

            Einhorn’s sermon nearly cost him his life. A proslavery mob came for him, and he quite literally had to flee Baltimore (in the slave state of Maryland) in the middle of the night, taking a train to Philadelphia where he became the Rabbi at Congregation Keneseth Israel, which became known as the “Abolition Temple.”

            Einhorn’s response to Raphall, and his escape to Philadelphia, is perhaps emblematic of the change in the Jewish American community on the eve of the Civil War. Southern Jews still embraced slavery. They rejected freedom. So did some northern Jews, like Rabbi Raphall. But most northern Jews had moved to support freedom. Many of these Jews were refugees from European autocrats and understood that freedom had to be for all people. Northern Jews would soon join in the crusade that would end slavery in the United States. Ironically, this would also enhance Jewish freedom. When the Civil War began, no Jew had ever been a general in a western world army, and in the United States all military chaplains were Protestant ministers. By the end of the war, there would be a handful of Jewish generals and a fair number of colonels and majors as well as Jewish chaplains. Thus, the freedom for African American slaves also furthered the freedoms of Jewish Americans. In Lincoln’s words, this was a “new birth of freedom” for all Americans.

Notes