National Scholar Updates

The Nature of Inquiry: A Common Sense Perspective[1]

 Rabbi Shalom Carmy 

In an article in the first issue of The Torah U-Madda Journal, “Torah u-Madda and Freedom of Inquiry,” Rabbi Yehuda Parnes makes no fewer than three major claims that require more careful analysis. One is a theory about the nature of what he calls madda. The second is a reading of Rambam in Hil. ‘Avodah Zarah 2:2–3, the burden of which is to confine study of divrei kefirah (heresy) and idolatry to situations of le-havin u-le-horot (“understanding and decision-making”). Finally, his conclusion: “Based on all of the above, Torah u-Madda can only be viable if it imposes strict limits on freedom of inquiry in areas that may undermine the thirteen ‘ikkarei emunah” (principles of faith) (QED).[2] 

The second issue of this journal carried a response by Lawrence Kaplan and David Berger offering an alternative reading of the Rambam, and touching indirectly on Rabbi Parnes’s conclusion. They also say a great deal on behalf of a broad interpretation of le-havin u-le-horot, namely “[t]he possibility that grappling with a particular book or system of philosophy may lead to a revised and deeper understanding of Torah principles.”[3] 

My own contribution to the debate will consider all three of Rabbi Parnes’s contentions. On the matter of le-havin u-le-horot, I am very much in sympathy with Kaplan and Berger, as my remarks in this essay should amply illustrate.

I

Rabbi Parnes asserts that liberal arts education (= madda) cannot permit “any constraint on honest and inquisitive searching for truth” (p. 69). This is not true. Such constraints are quite common, on both ethical and intellectual grounds. 

Examples: Biological experiments in which human beings are tortured are generally prohibited, even when they promise to yield interesting scientific results. Scientists are increasingly reluctant to torment animals in the name of science. Many refuse to make use of results obtained through immoral research, such as that conducted by Nazi doctors in the concentration camps, in this respect adopting a standard more stringent than that required by halakha.[4] Many secularists (most notably in the feminist movement) would proscribe the reading of various works of pornography as inherently immoral. Others would advocate a moratorium on research dealing with racial and gender differences for reasons of social morality. Seriously entertaining false beliefs of an insidious tendency, taking them to heart, even when motivated by the “honest and inquisitive searching for truth” is, according to this view, morally wrong. Other concerns, not inherently moral in nature, would likewise stay the hand of inquiry according to most educators. Study that is likely to squander such precious resources as time, intellect, and money would be frowned upon and, beyond a certain point, effectively curtailed. When such considerations come into play, does it matter that the inquiry to be snuffed out is “honest and inquisitive searching for truth”? Surely not. No doubt there are laborers in the scientific vineyard who would try very hard to reject any, or all, of these constraints on research. For them “honest and inquisitive searching for truth” is an absolute, or almost absolute, value, which therefore cannot be overridden by any duty or competing value. It is also natural that those who love knowledge and wisdom will be averse to any limitation on inquiry, and loath to give voice to proscription even when they reluctantly recognize its appropriateness. This is especially so since suppression of free inquiry and free thought has often been employed deceitfully, to uphold the fraudulent heaven-groping facade of self-proclaimed authority, or to shelter the darting-eyed wickedness that cannot tolerate the light of day. Surely many contemporary demands to suspend critical thought on various subjects of consequence in the name of political correctness are self-important, self-serving, and redolent of intellectual and moral indolence and cowardice. 

Because restraining inquiry and its free expression has gotten a bad name, scientists and humanists usually conceal the fist of authority, both moral and intellectual, in a velvet glove: Only if the deviant fails to recognize his/her insensitivity, lack of sophistication, or ignorance will the stronger medicine come into play: the control of grades, fellowships, jobs, etc. We are a civilized society: The “wrong” position on homosexuality no longer rates the stake; merely suspension without pay at CBS (with prospect of early parole if the ratings warrant).[5] But whether particular moral curbs on free inquiry and expression are justified or not, is not significant for our characterization of liberal arts education. What matters is that claims on behalf of such restrictions on “honest and inquisitive searching for truth,” however skeptically scrutinized, are not dismissed out of hand, as violations of madda. 

Thus madda, as it is actually practiced, recognizes, for a variety of reasons and in a variety of circumstances, limits on freedom of inquiry. No intellectual activity can take place in isolation from the rest of our knowledge (a point that will become important to our discussion below); by the same token, no intellectual activity may be pursued in an ethical vacuum. Of course there is a difference between violating the moral and utilitarian norms incorporated in the practice of madda and violating the Torah’s prohibitions. It is the difference between being a fool and being a sinner, between breaching a man-made rule and rebelling against a divine law. But that difference, important as it is, has nothing to do with the fact of constraint itself. 

            The whole idea that whoever advocates or accepts any constraint on free inquiry runs “counter to madda and all that it implies” (as Rabbi Parnes puts it on p. 69), and is presumably self-banished from the garden of madda, is so fantastic that I must pause to consider why one would entertain a conception of madda so remote from reality and so alien to healthy common sense. Any attempt to explain the perennial attraction of the “absolute freedom” theory of madda must distinguish the differing motivations of its proponents. 

1. Thinkers opposed to Torah aim to exploit our healthy bias in favor of intellectual honesty either to undermine Torah or to divert our attention from the fact that madda does not really tender absolute and unrestricted allegiance to the unfettered search for truth. If Torah is against intellectual honesty, and madda is for it, then madda leads 1–0. 

2. Those who favor Torah, but oppose Torah u-Madda, would like to exploit our presumed healthy bias in favor of Torah to undermine either madda or our healthy bias in favor of intellectual honesty. If Torah is against it, but madda demands it, then some of us will reject madda. (What about the people who draw the opposite conclusion and reject Torah? Presumably their commitment was deficient to begin with, so we needn’t bother about them.) 

3. Many individuals, with no polemical agenda of their own, may accept the “absolute freedom” model of madda simply because they have not thought through the issues on their own. As R. Bahya ibn Pakuda points out, one of the consequences of eschewing philosophical reflection is that your mind is held hostage to what other people say.[6] 

4. A different account of the power exercised by the “absolute freedom” doctrine would occur to someone who has thought about the history of science and philosophy in the last several centuries. Such an individual might, at the risk of oversimplification, tell something like the following story: 

Early in the modern period (the sixteenth century would not be too early), scientific inquiry was held back by certain views prevalent among the official exponents of the then-current Christian teaching. As science succeeded in pushing back the frontiers of ignorance in many areas, while religion seemed to distinguish itself primarily in the promotion of strife, many thinking (and even more non-thinking) people concluded that the teachings of biblical religion were either false, or had been falsely interpreted. In addition, many were taken by the idea, going back to Plato, that the kind of argumentation traditionally employed in mathematics is the exclusive highway to privileged truth. Since Judaism, like Christianity, with its historical and anthropological orientation, does not speak in the name of mathematical truth, it must apply for recognition to science rather than itself judge the validity of human investigations. Hence, the best thing for truth is to let science alone, and certainly not to let religious “values” (by this point “religious knowledge” had been so discredited as to become a virtual oxymoron) hold sway over intellectual endeavor. 

The individual who has reflected on the matter knows that the inference of the last sentence is not conclusive. That religious authority has been abused, that even when properly exercised it is liable, occasionally, to fall into folly while fleeing from sin, does not imply that it ought never to be exercised. Observing those who fall under the three classes described above, the advocate of the last approach concludes that they have succumbed to an exaggerated account of the dichotomy between the freedom supposedly held out by madda and the bunker mentality ascribed to Torah. One knows that one owes one’s liberation from the evil enchantment of the “absolute freedom” fantasy, at least in part, to one’s understanding of the historical process whereby the spell was cast. One’s own ability to embrace the Torah’s limitations on free investigation is indebted to that enhanced understanding. One suspects that, had one not worked through the epistemological trauma and scotoma of modernity, one would have ended up either rejecting Torah or working one’s self into a vehement yet, at the same time, slyly vacuous exercise of piety, as one humoring a slightly deaf, and more than slightly rich, elderly relation. 

II

Rambam’s normative limitation of free inquiry, as understood by Rabbi Parnes, is the centerpiece of his critique. Both Rabbi Parnes and Kaplan and Berger agree that the key to a precise definition of the Rambam’s proscription is to be found in the rationale by which he augments the halakha: 

Any thought which leads a human being to uproot one of the principles of the Torah, we are enjoined not to take it upon our heart, and we should not divert our minds to such, and dwell [upon it] and be drawn after the thoughts of the heart. This is because man’s understanding is slight, and not all minds can attain truth thoroughly. If a man is drawn after the thoughts of his heart he may destroy the world as a result of his limited understanding. How? At times he will rove after idolatry. At times he will think about God being one: maybe it is so, maybe it isn’t. What is above, what is below, what is before, what is after. And sometimes about prophecy: maybe it is true, maybe it isn’t. And sometimes about the Torah: maybe it is from Heaven, maybe it is not. And he does not know the categories by which he should judge [ha-middot she-yadin bahen] in order to know truth thoroughly; hence he is liable to deviate into minut. 

Rabbi Parnes examines two interpretations of the restriction: (1) Rambam only prohibited study undertaken with the purpose of forsaking Torah, thus leaving the Torah u-Madda advocate untouched. This is untenable, for such a prohibition would not require a rationale. Thus we are left with (2) Rambam intended to prohibit what Rabbi Parnes calls “honest and objective freedom of inquiry” (p. 70). Kaplan and Berger, for their part, emphasize Rambam’s warning about the frailty of untrained human reasoning. In their opinion, Rambam prohibits individ­uals who are intellectually unprepared from undertaking the study of idolatrous literature and the like. 

Note that the two approaches to the Rambam do not necessarily exclude each other. Rabbi Parnes may very well maintain that Rambam prohibits “honest and objective freedom of inquiry” (except in cases of le-havin u-le-horot) and that he also prohibits inquiry by unqualified individuals. Conversely, one might agree with Kaplan and Berger that Rambam restricted inquiry only to those who are intellectually prepared, yet also agree with Rabbi Parnes that “honest and objective freedom of inquiry” is off limits as well. The difficulty in attempting to harmonize or contrast the two approaches is that I am not quite sure what Rabbi Parnes means by “honest and objective freedom of inquiry.” The precise meaning of this phrase is clearly crucial to the entire discus­sion, and we shall get to it in a moment.  First, however, let us direct our attention to the next part of Rambam’s rationale, which was not brought into the debate by any of my colleagues. Here Rambam sketches the outstanding features of the inquirer whom we are told not to emulate. What is this intellectual up to? This is a person who, as the occasion bemuses him or her, holds some principle of faith at arm’s length and speculates whether it is true or false. Yes, that person is not doing so in order to forsake Torah. Is that person then engaged in the “honest and objective freedom of inquiry” in which madda glories? By that person’s own lights he or she is. If that person is justified in regarding his or her activity as “honest and objective freedom of inquiry,” then Rambam’s vignette strikingly confirms Rabbi Parnes’s interpretation of the prohibition: What he infers from the existence of a rationale, I derive directly from the content of the rationale. If, however, Rambam’s anti-hero cannot lay claim to the halo of “honest and objective inquiry,” then Rambam is, in effect, adding a noteworthy dimension to his depiction of the unprepared person discussed by Kaplan and Berger. The unqualified person is not only one who is deficient in the tools of inquiry; he or she is also one engaged in an aimless free-floating speculation about religious matters, rather than a faith striving for greater understanding.[7] 

In this connection we should also take note of Rambam’s comment on Avot 2:14 (“know what to answer the apikoros”): “Even though you study the opinions of the nations to respond to them, beware that you not take to your heart any of those opinions.” Is Rambam prohibiting intellectual honesty, or is he enjoining us, in the course of studying heretical views, from “taking to heart,” i.e., seriously entertaining the heretical views?[8]

In any event, we cannot properly understand Rabbi Parnes’s position without trying to define what he means by “honest and objective inquiry.” To this task we shall now proceed. 

            Earlier we have seen that Rabbi Parnes means no more and no less than the ideal of “absolute freedom,” when he refers to the “honest and inquisitive searching for truth,” the tiniest deviation from which runs “counter to madda and all that it implies.” In formulating his halakhic position, he introduces the term “objective” to characterize the kind of inquiry the Rambam would rule out. 

“Objective freedom of inquiry”: What does it mean? The concept of objectivity has, of course, a long and elusive history in the philosophical literature. It would seem safe to assume, however, that Rabbi Parnes’s usage is based on ordinary language, rather than tracking the specialized meanings developed by professional philosophers over the centuries. The dictionary yields two meanings of objective that might apply to beliefs: 

1. belonging to the object of thought rather than the thinking subject; 
2. free from personal feelings; unbiased. 

Both definitions are confusing if they are applied to Rabbi Parnes’s account of the inquiry banned by the Rambam. Atheists indeed maintain that God, prophecy, Torah, and other articles of faith are not objective truths, but productions of “the thinking subject.” Believing Jews do not. We hold that the ‘ikkarei emunah pertain to reality independent of humanity, not merely to “the thinking subject.” As to the second definition: believing Jews assent to these propositions because they are convinced of their “objective” truth, not because they are indulging their personal feelings or predilections. To deny, let alone prohibit objectivity, in these senses, goes against the very idea of a revealed religion. This cannot possibly be Rabbi Parnes’s intent. 

Despite the linguistic muddle, it would not be presumptuous to explain Rabbi Parnes’s aversion to objective inquiry in the following manner: Madda, or more precisely the different intellectual disciplines that constitute the liberal arts body of knowledge as it is studied in the standard modern university, depends upon some consensus about data and methodology. Each discipline and discourse, from this perspective, is treated as autonomous and sovereign within its own boundaries. Each discipline determines its own methodology and recognizes the range of data to which the appropriate methods of investigation are applied. To introduce material—data or principles of thought—from outside the discipline, violates “the very integrity of the madda process itself” (to borrow Rabbi Parnes’s phrase earlier in his article). In less drastic language than Rabbi Parnes’s, the infusion of material extraneous to the disciplinary matrix is not acceptable because it is liable to raise diffi­culties for the orderly, methodical pursuit of research, and impedes scientific cooperation. Hence, the individual who, seeking admission to the temple of madda, brings along data external to the discipline, and who ignores the gatekeeper’s admonition that all beliefs must be checked in at the door; challenges the conventions; and, unless he or she succeeds in changing them, is charged with smuggling unsuitable personal predilections into the academic domain. Such stubborn insistence on one’s own perception of truth could be stigmatized as lacking objectivity. Now, as it happens, the gatekeepers of madda do not include, among the recognized disciplines and modes of discourse, any that accept the truth of the ‘ikkarei emunah. Because the believing Jew is committed to the normative beliefs taught by the Torah, he or she cannot approach the sciences or the humanities without those beliefs, and in many areas—in the most important areas—his or her inquiry will be guided by those beliefs. Therefore, on this account, the believing Jew is incapable of objective inquiry in virtually all the areas that really count. 

The view I have just described as implicit in Rabbi Parnes’s analysis of madda is asserted quite openly by others. I suppose that this is what is meant when certain academic types, including observant Jews, solemnly intone that no believing Jew can truly qualify as a biblical “scholar” because Orthodoxy prevents one from confronting the regnant academic theories with a genuinely open mind. I am less accustomed to hearing this argument from serious philosophers, for reasons that will shortly become clear. 

            Granted, the account of objectivity in madda that we have just encountered, according to which “honest and objective freedom of inquiry” and Orthodox Jewish belief do not mix, conforms to one strand in popular usage. Yet we may cast upon it a quizzical eye. Is it indeed the case that intellectual honesty requires us to forsake all knowledge that is not certified a part of the discipline we are studying at the moment? From a common sense perspective, inquiry that systematically ignores everything else we know (including the knowledge given us through revelation), is not honest. On the contrary—it is the height of perversity! 

To be sure, there are situations in which we legitimately, for a variety of reasons, set aside knowledge that we rely upon in other areas of life. A geometry student who is asked whether a triangle with sides 13, 12, and 5 inches in length is a right-angled triangle forgets that he has measured the angle (and pretends he has not peeked at the answer in the back of the book). Instead she appeals to Pythagoras’s Theorem. Why? Because the geometric method is constituted by a specific kind of reasoning, one that excludes measurement and/or looking at the back of the book. In real life, when laying bricks, for example, there is no objection to achieving a right angle by measurement, using a plumb line, or, if that is one’s pleasure, by consulting “the back of a book.” Similarly, the halakhic jurist must set aside the evidence of Moshe and Aharon because, as brothers, their testimony is not valid, without doubting in the least the truth of their assertions. The American juror, likewise, is occasionally instructed to erase certain information from his judicial consciousness not because it is false, but for reasons of legal propriety (e.g., the evidence was illegally obtained). As to the subject of the present discussion, an eminent school of Rishonim, including Saadia, R. Bahya ibn Pakuda, and Rambam, deemed it worthwhile to discover what religious knowledge can be obtained without recourse to the data of revelation. They were convinced that this study would deepen one’s understanding of the principles to which we, as religious Jews, are committed. 

In view of the frequent successes achieved by this method of isolating a discipline or discourse from its context in the real world, it is not surprising that many modern thinkers sought to establish all inquiry on the model of self-contained enterprises like mathematics. When we add modern people’s recurrent longing for self-guaranteed certainty, for intellectual self-sufficiency, for the God’s-eye perspective that the contemporary philosopher Thomas Nagel has called “the view from nowhere,”[9] we can even understand how certain thought-intoxicated philosophers like Hegel aspired, incredibly, arrogantly, and influentially, to a total system of knowledge that would refer only to itself. But the advantages accruing from the occasional narrowing of our intellectual focus hardly justify the implausible theory that “honest and objective inquiry” is predicated upon the deliberate and systematic suppression of all knowl­edge not mandated by the discipline constituted in terms of that narrow focus. Only in the psychiatric ward (and in mathematics, which is not “about” the real world) is ratiocination extolled that proceeds without regard for reality. 

Nonetheless, the rationalist project of knowledge without presuppositions, or knowledge based upon foundations entirely transparent to thought, has enjoyed a long run in our culture. It would be important, but beyond the scope of this discussion, to examine the major manifesta­tions of this tendency in modern thought. These include currents otherwise antagonistic to each other, like Cartesian rationalism, Hume’s phenomenalism (which supplements the ideas of logic with the impressions of sense experience), and Hegel’s circular epistemology. The common denominator of all these movements is the assumption that the human cognitive venture can, and should, be conducted independent of what we know, or think we know, outside of the “integrity of the madda process.” 

The inspiring rationalist project has not gone unchallenged. Real men and women lead a real existence before, and apart from, their official intellectual identities. They can neither undertake knowing, nor make sense of their knowledge, or even endeavor to revise their errors, save by placing their thinking in the context of their lives. Our language, our habits of thought, our assumptions, and so forth, are not discovered by us. Instead we find ourselves given to them, to the residue of tradition and the common stock of human experience. Last but not least, believers in revealed religion, including those who have stood at Sinai, know the absolute autonomy of “the madda process” to be a dangerous illusion. These data of lived human experience did not go unnoticed by masters of philosophical thought. To begin with, some of the most prominent exponents of a narrow epistemology took their skepticism with a grain of salt. Hume cheerfully admitted that his laborious attempts to establish, through rational ingenuity, the reality of the experienced world, had little bearing on the way he lived: “I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse with my friends; and when after three or four hours’ amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so cold and strained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find in my heart to enter into them any further.”[10] Of greater consequence to us: Each great rationalistic philosophy was met by the passionate critique of a great adversary. Thus, Descartes was countered by Pascal; Hume had his Newman; Hegel provoked Kierkegaard. While philosophy is hardly a monolithic discipline, it may safely be said that contemporary philosophers are more interested in overcoming the legacy of absolute autonomy, in its various incarnations, than in perpetuating it. 

No reasonable person has ever appropriated, in real life, the peculiar doctrine that sequesters madda from our everyday knowledge (including that derived from Torah). Why then is it still taken for granted among writers on religion? Current philosophy is not at fault. Surely the Torah does not impose upon us allegiance to deficient, outdated views. Only nescience of the history of modern thought can shackle us to a conception that exaggerates unnecessarily the tensions between Torah and hokhmah, and that ends up by subtly promoting, however inadvertently, the misunderstanding that the fundamental principles of Judaism are, God forbid, projections of the human mind. 

To review the last stage of our discussion: Rabbi Parnes is correct to point out that a program of free inquiry cannot be deemed kosher merely because the inquirer is not seeking to forsake Torah. A believing Jew cannot engage in the “objective” investigation of religious truth, if objectivity is defined as a stance of absolute neutrality. As we have seen, such a vantage point is phenomenologically impossible; the reasons that have led many people to take it seriously are philosophically misguided. Because we are accustomed to regard “honest and objective freedom of inquiry” as something good, there are individuals who automatically identify Torah ve-Hokhmah with “honest and objective freedom of inquiry,” without feeling the need to inquire carefully into the accurate meaning of the phrase. Because, as we have seen, the concept of objectivity engenders linguistic muddle, such individuals are likely to admire and emulate precisely the kind of aimless and foundationless rumination the Rambam takes pains to alert us against. For such individuals, Rabbi Parnes’s entire attempt to raise the question comes as quite a surprise; and not a minute too soon, if you ask me. 

III

Many factors go into the formulation and execution of an educational program for the individual, for groups of individuals, for the community as a whole. One factor, not the least important, is the place, if any, to be accorded to studies that introduce thoughts of kefirah. Kaplan and Berger offer impressive illustrations of the manner in which these studies have enriched some of the most profound and most enduring works of Torah, as was freely acknowledged by masters like the Ram­bam and maran ha-Rav Joseph B. Soloveitchik. Many lesser individuals can attest to the value of their liberal arts studies for the attainment of greater insight into Torah. We would also do well to recognize the need for broad knowledge and understanding of human culture in the service of our love for other Jews and even for humankind.[11] 

Furthermore, we must never overlook the fact that, as participants in the modern world, we are affected by it, be it consciously or unwittingly. Our brief excursion into the history of ideas highlighted the powerful attraction of the illusion that humans can take up an observation post above, and independent of, their prior experiences and beliefs. We ought not to indulge our absent-mindedness to the point where we forget that this applies to us too. There is no “view from nowhere.” Yet God has granted us free will. We need not remain captives of the unpropitious spiritual climate in which we find ourselves implicated; but, in order to free ourselves, we must shrewdly map out the terrain from which, and over which, we intend to make our escape. In other words, in order to undertake the slow, unending task of reviewing, revising, and elevating our thoughts and feelings, we must know whence we come and where we are to make our way. As Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein has observed, the apikoros (heretic), whom we are instructed to rebut, as often as not, is the “apikoros within.”[12] 

In the light of these considerations and others, we approach Rabbi Parnes’s final assertion: “Torah u-Madda can only be viable if it imposes strict limits on freedom of inquiry....”At first blush this statement is nothing but an obvious corollary of our entire discussion. A careful reading, however, reveals one word that invites additional analysis: the adjective strict. If Rabbi Parnes is using the word for emphasis, there is nothing more to discuss with respect to this particular point. It is possible, though, to give the adjective a more ambitious sense. Adopting this interpretation, Rabbi Parnes’s text would advocate the devising of a rigid, clear-cut index of studies permitted and studies forbidden, a kind of Kitzur Shulhan Arukh of Torah u-Madda. 

The formulation of a fixed, mechanical liberal arts canon is one way to settle the problem of halakhic constraints on general studies. In individual cases it may indeed be the best solution. As a sweeping disposition of a central intellectual dimension of our spiritual lives, however, it is the wrong approach. The complexity of the issues involved, both for the individual and for Jewish and American society as a whole, defy the imposition of black and white dicta. The inner life may draw sustenance from wise guidance; it requires, as we have seen, a measure of halakhic constraint and humility. But it is the glory of God that each individual’s inner life presents a portrait of abilities, inclinations and needs that can never be replicated. “Each individual possesses something unique, rare, which is unknown to others; each individual has a unique message to communicate, a special color to add to the communal spectrum.”[13] Hence, the inner life, whether it is manifested in the intellectual adventure, in our relations to our fellow human beings, or in the lonely encounter with God, cannot be completely comprehended and controlled from the outside. 

Much hostility to Torah ve-Hokhmah is accompanied by a tendency to downplay the uniqueness of human inwardness. Many opponents of Torah ve-Hokhmah also seem to be under the impression that doubt can be avoided if we just avoid thinking about questions of theology. This presumes that not thinking is the same as not being affected. R. Bahya b. Asher the Kabbalist, like R. Bahya ibn Pakuda the proponent of philosophy, disagrees. He states, in his Commentary to Avot (2:14): “Know what to answer the apikoros: [Traditional] faith should not suffice for you until you have faith through knowledge and wisdom. For one who has faith through tradition is likely to listen to the deniers.”            

Contemporary contemners of secular education boast of having constructed, in this age of rapid communications, compulsory education, mass media, etc., a more tightly insulated air bubble than was available to fourteenth-century Kabbalists! If the R. Bahyas are right, and their opponents are wrong, we have even more reason to be skeptical of static, mechanical limitations on the individual’s intellectual destiny within the boundaries of Torah. 

The reality and authority of inwardness, as it affects our confrontation with outlooks inimical to Torah, was clearly identified by Rambam. The Mishnah “Know what to answer the apikoros” is immediately succeeded by the dictum “Know before whom you labor.” Commenting on the connection between the two statements, Rambam explains: “Beware that you not take to your heart any of those opinions. And know that the One before Whom you labor knows what is hidden in your heart. This is why he says: Know before Whom you labor, meaning that he should lead his heart to the divine faith.” 

Here I shall also appeal to ma’aseh Rav. As Kaplan and Berger have noted, Rav Soloveitchik openly exhibited his mastery of the philosophical and theological classics of the Greek and Christian traditions. Though aware that not everyone was up to the experience, he had no inhibitions about recommending broad intellectual exposure and in speaking of his enthusiasm for such congenial thinkers as Kierkegaard, Scheler, and Karl Barth. On several occasions I presented to the Rav the difficulties that troubled some of our students confronting the challenge of the liberal arts curriculum, specifically their fear that the humanities include books by objectionable authors whose works it was wrong to read. Each time I entreated the Rav for hard and fast guidelines that I could share with students, he resisted the suggestion, recommending instead that I exercise my own judgment. Moreover, he scoffed at the notion that going to college, or what to study there, can be decided “like a question in Yoreh De’ah,” with the mechanical straightforwardness suitable to “the kashrut of fish.” 

I was privileged to benefit from the Rav’s guidance. Others, no doubt, will recollect similar conversations with him. 

IV

In the course of their demonstration that Rambam’s objections to the wrong kind of inquiry should not be viewed as a rejection of intellectual aspiration, Kaplan and Berger quote from the Guide I:32: 

The intention of these texts set down by the prophets and the Sages is not, however, wholly to close the gate of speculation and to deprive the intellect of the apprehension of things that it is possible to apprehend—as is thought by the ignorant and neglectful, who are pleased to regard their own deficiency and stupidity as perfection and wisdom, and the perfection and the knowledge of others as a deficiency and defection from Law, and who thus “regard darkness as light and light as darkness” (Isa. 5:20). 

The specter of an unspoken fear has haunted many readers of Rabbi Parnes’s essay. Has the position staked out by Rabbi Parnes given aid and comfort to proponents of spiritual and intellectual mediocrity who would palm off their indolence as piety, and are “pleased to regard their own deficiency and stupidity as perfection and wisdom, and the perfection and the knowledge of others as a deficiency and defection from Torah”? Quite possibly. Yet, in the free marketplace of ideas, the harm may well be outweighed by the benefits conferred upon followers of Torah ve-Hokhmah. By virtue of the care and precision of his essay, Rabbi Parnes has set a standard of earnest civility often absent from this kind of interchange. For that reason I, and those who think like me, are no less grateful to him than we are to the cogent and spirited rejoinder by Kaplan and Berger. 

The debate over the Rambam has helped to unmask and clear away certain persistent and popular misconceptions about the character and purpose of serious intellectual activity. And precisely because I, and those who think like me, do not believe in the wisdom of rigid formulas in this area, it is good that we are recalled, from time to time, to the intellectual challenge of self-examination, that we remember, as the Mishnah instructs us, before Whom we labor. 

Notes

Psychology is the modern-day philosophy. If something is psychologically sound, it almost automatically becomes a desired reality that we should embrace. If it is not psychologically sound, it deserves to be dismissed, even if such dismissal contravenes religious norms.

            Consider the matter of guilt. Psychology has just about convinced the general population that guilt is psychologically unhealthful; it raises our anxiety level, interferes with our blood pressure, and compromises our ability to function happily. The remedy—drop the guilt by dropping the values that instill the guilt.

            We should therefore not be surprised that many of the hallowed values of yesteryear are under attack, either bluntly or subtly. Take for example the elementary idea of "should." The thought that we "should" do this or that, ostensibly because we are obligated, is the primary precipitant of guilt. This is because "should” and "ought" do not always translate into deeds. Those who “should” or “ought” (but actually do not fulfill), feel guilty about not living up to their responsibility. And we know where unresolved guilt can lead straight into the depression pit, an admittedly awful place, which in its extreme renders people incapable of any useful life activity. 

            Of course I am generalizing, even over-generalizing. Not all psychologists are radical anti-guilt proponents. But the main point is clear—that we live in an era of guilt avoidance, which has serious implications for any religion, and certainly for Judaism. We have no way of accurately measuring how many have left the fold entirely or even partially because they do not want to be imposed upon with obligations. With no obligations, there is no possibility of feeling guilty for failing to live up to those obligations. Thereby, one has removed a major obstacle to the ultimate apex of modern desires, to be physically and psychologically healthy. 

The entire Jewish package is a potential guilt inducer, as are the separate but inter-related components within Judaism. Shabbat and kashruth, as arguably the most onerous and ubiquitous of Jewish observances, are simultaneously the most likely guilt-inducers. Undoubtedly, the major factor in choosing to abandon these observances, if consciously made, is the challenge these affirmations pose when trying to squeeze in the best that modern society has to offer, including unfettered access to all sorts of eateries and food, as well as a full slate of weekend activities either social-, cultural-, or sports-related.

            Guilt is a factor in such value choice. How strong a factor I do not know, but a factor nevertheless. I have spoken to enough people over time that I can be sure of this; sure that some people have unburdened themselves of Shabbat, kashruth, and/or other components of Judaism, so that they do not have to feel guilty if they do not fulfill all the obligations.

            Assuming that these observations are correct, either partially or totally, the obvious question is—how do we tackle the situation? Is there a way around this? Is there a way to counter this trend?

            I would like to propose two approaches, one dealing with the psychology part, the other dealing with the Judaism part.

            For the psychology part, the issue of guilt avoidance as a way to live deserves further scrutiny. Clearly, psychological health is a major concern. We realize that the Divine Spirit (Shekhina) does not reside in melancholy (Talmud, Shabbat 30b). On the other hand, Judaism is loaded with mitzvah obligations, and general imperatives to fulfill them, aside from the explicit biblically based mandates. Such well known statements as "...if not now, when?" (Talmud, Avot 1:14), or "It is not incumbent on you to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist therefrom..."(Talmud, Avot 2:21), speak to the notion of assuming responsibility and thereby living responsibly.

Judaism seems to run contrary to contemporary psychological wisdom, in that it affirms the value of a life that is depression free, yet seems to place upon its adherents a load of responsibility that if not fulfilled leads to guilt, which leads to possible depression. Obviously, there is a difference of world views.

            Judaism, let it be stated unequivocally, has a different view of guilt: Guilt is a healthy part of who we are. This sounds absurd, even crazy. But give the thought a chance to develop.

Guilt is a debilitator or a motivator, depending on the attitude we take to it. The attitude is the key. There are those who, in the face of having failed to fully actualize a responsibility, will be devastated by it, crushed to the point of being convinced they are unworthy. And there are those in the face of having failed are motivated to improve, to do better the next time.

Attitude is the key to whether failure is the excuse for more failure, or the catapult to future success. And it all begins with the importance of realizing that we are mortal, that we are not perfect, that we are not expected to be perfect. The aforementioned citation that, "It is not incumbent on you to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist therefrom...," directly addresses this matter. We cannot do everything; we are not expected to do everything—but we are expected to try our best. 

            We will fail, either via acts of omission or commission. That is certain. What is not certain is how we will bounce up or down after that. And if we use past failure as the boost to future fulfillment, the failure itself is transmuted into fulfillment. How do I know this? I know this from the Talmud, and I know this from corroborating life experience. The Talmud (Yoma 86b) tells us that those who willfully sin but then, in the expression of penance, joyfully and completely renounce the sin and embrace the right way, have transmuted the sin into a fulfillment.

            This is something we see in so many different aspects of life; in the flunkee who jumps to the head of the class, the weakling who becomes strong, the loser who resolves to become a winner, the sinner who embraces the way of righteousness.

            Put another way, a life totally free of guilt, devoid of any responsibility, is most likely to become an unfulfilled life, even an empty life. And emptiness is itself a more dangerous harbinger of depression; anomie gives birth to aimlessness, to a vacuous, depression-inviting existence. It may therefore be forcefully argued that we need a balanced measure of healthy guilt in order to be fully human. It is all the difference between feeling "guilty from," or embracing the approach of "guilty toward."

            For the Judaism part, we need to look more carefully and critically at how we package Judaism—in the home, in the classroom, and from the pulpit. There is no escaping that the dictates of Judaism, the do's and the don’t’s, the affirmations and prohibitions, are obligations, not options. Whether or not we choose to observe does not diminish from the reality that we must embrace the full package.

The question is—how do we inspire ourselves and others to fulfill the commandments? There are those who have no problem imposing Judaism, precisely because there is no choice. They will sometimes succeed in at least achieving a perfunctory adherence to Judaic norms. But it is all too often realized at a heavy price, the price that is exacted when people feel imposed upon, with no joy in what they are doing.

            Enlightened pedagogues and parents will try to transmit the joy of Judaism, the meaning and fulfillment associated with each mitzvah. They will not resort to the harangue that if you do not do as God says, God will punish you. They will not convey the feeling that failure to observe should make one feel guilty. Instead, they will attempt to show that non-compliance is a missed opportunity to experience the joy of mitzvah fulfillment.

            This is guilt-free Judaism. It is Judaism perceived, transmitted, and lived in gratitude for having been blessed with such a wonderful formula for life. Gone is the imposition, gone is the guilt, and in its place, we find the wonderful opportunity to live life as God wanted for us. And God wanted it for us to enable us to appreciate the fullness of life in God's wondrous world.

The goal of Judaic value transmission needs to go beyond doing the mitzvoth. It needs as its aim that the mitzvah is actualized with joy and with enthusiasm. Lest you think this is apologetics, pray tell me how you understand the prophetic charge (Isaiah 58:13) to call the Shabbat "oneg," or delight? How can something transmitted as an onerous collection of impositions be experienced as a delight? Obviously, something is getting lost in the transmission. In other words, if we experience Shabbat as a burden, then you can be assured that you have missed the essence of Shabbat. 

It is clear that in order to teach Shabbat properly, its status as oneg is essential to the way we teach. Can anyone dispute the simple proposition that the more Shabbat is conveyed as oneg, the more likely that those being taught about Shabbat will be eager to embrace it fully and enthusiastically?

Does it sound absurd to suggest that God is “pained” when the mitzvoth of God are apprehended as burdens, rather than joys? If it sounds absurd, then again we have missed the boat. God did not put us here to tantalize us, waving all the niceties of life in front of us and telling us—do not touch, do not taste, do not enjoy.

We are told that we will have to answer for all the good things God created in this world that we failed to enjoy (Jerusalem Talmud, Kiddushin 4:12). The more we meaningfully enjoy God's world, the more we are likely to appreciate God in the fullness of appreciation. Of course there are rules guiding how we experience the world, and parameters for enjoying, but they are parameters, not the objective. The objective is to enjoy, to appreciate, to share; the parameters are to give proper context to how we enjoy.

How interesting it is that the guilt of which we speak is the guilt for "not enjoying," instead of the more standard, accepted, and wrong idea of guilt as associated with enjoying. It is clear that we are missing some vital ideas and ideals in the experience of living as God wants us to live.

            One of the issues associated with guilt is the damage that this causes to one's self image, or vice versa (the guilt that is caused by having a low self-image). It is the fad of this generation—the obsession with self-esteem. Try finding any mental-health worker who is not totally convinced that self-esteem is critical to proper functioning. And this is reinforced by the constant media barrage, linking delinquency, violence, addiction, and every other aberrant behavior with low self-esteem.

            There are many problems with all this. The first is that this seems to suggest that low self-esteem is at the root of the problem. But this would only be the case if we could show that the majority of people with low self-esteem descend into the ugly cesspool of deviance. That is not the case. The fact that most murderers have low self-esteem does not mean that people with low self esteem tend to be murderers.

            The same misleading presumption is true of the oft-cited fact that a higher percentage of abusing parents were themselves abused as children. This does not mean that most abused children become abusing parents. That too is not true. Most children who are abused do not abuse as adults. This does not excuse any abuser, but it does correct a misnomer that in a perverse way suggests to those who were abused that they are almost doomed to perpetrating abuse when they get married and/or have children. Such an implied suggestion is wrong—and irresponsible. 

            Another problem with self-esteem is that it can become dangerously addictive. If we demand to be told that we are good, and we are "lucky" enough to have parents and teachers who feed this esteem frenzy, then the moment that we get new teachers, or our parents slip up and do not offer compliments, we will be more open to becoming dejected or depressed. That is unhealthy, and the expectation to be constantly fed with prop-up compliments is fraught with unpleasant consequences when the unrealistic expectations are not met, which inevitably is the case.

            A third, and perhaps even more serious problem with self-esteem, is that the notion itself seems to welcome some measure of arrogance into our daily vocabulary. How could it be otherwise if we are urged to think of ourselves as good, as worthy? If we then get into a tiff with someone, are we not more likely to attribute the blame to the other person, since we are good, and therefore unworthy of blame?

            Arrogance, even a tinge of it, has no place within Judaism, which places uncompromising primacy on humility in the face of God. Arrogance is roundly condemned as being antithetical to Judaism. God cannot abide where arrogance exists (see Talmud, Sotah 4b).

            But we cannot so easily dismiss the notion of self-esteem. After all, self-esteem is intimately connected to the fulfillment of the enveloping imperative to love our fellow as we love our self (Vayikra 19:18), which Rambam says that we fulfill by saying nice things to others, to make them feel good, as we would feel when we are told nice things about ourselves (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot De'ot 6:3).

The middle ground in all this is that we need to think of ourselves as capable of achieving good things, that we are not bad (see Avot 2:18). But any good that we achieve is nothing more than preparatory to achieving more good. There is a lurking danger in doing good, and then resting on whatever laurels that such good brings. We are here to do good, so whatever we achieve is nothing more than justification for our being created (see Avot 2:9).

So, self-esteem as the potential to do good, to be good, is essential. Self-esteem as actually being good is arrogant, unacceptable, and unhelpful for human achievement. All this may spark off some angry reaction by you, the reader. But before you let loose, let me share with you something about anger. You and I, and almost everyone, have been raised with the teapot theory of anger—that anger is like a boiling kettle that needs to be expressed, to boil over, to spill over, rather than being repressed.

That too is a mistake. There is no way that you can read any of the major Jewish ethical treatises and not come away overwhelmed at how unanimously and fully anger is condemned. There is no halfway on this. Anger is put on a par with idolatry, and yes, according to Sefer Haredim, is biblically prohibited. Yes, you read that correctly—anger is biblically prohibited, like eating hametz on Pesah (see my Best Kept Secrets of Judaism, pp. 200–202).

The teapot theory itself is being questioned. Today, we are being told by more enlightened experts who have studied anger that rather than getting rid of the anger, exploding actually rehearses it. So what are we to do with anger? There are two facets to the approach. One is what to do when we are just about ready to explode. The mussar experts have suggested many good techniques, such as filling the mouth with water and holding the water for ten or fifteen seconds before letting the water out. Since anger is a seething fire, what better way to extinguish fire than by water?

The other approach is to confront anger on a long-range basis, to sit down and write an inventory of those things that are worthy of us losing our cool. If you try this on your own, you will be surprised at how empty your page will be. And then, having realized how few, if any items, are worthy of exploding over, the next step is to integrate that rational thought into our emotive selves. For some it is easier than for others—but it is an achievable goal.

This brings me to my final point. There are some who are more temperamentally cool than others, some who are more naturally hot-tempered than others. The main point is that with work, sometimes difficult work, we can overcome tendencies. We have the ability—and hopefully the will—to do so. We need to get away from the rampant psychological determinism that suggests that because we were abused, we will abuse; because we are hot-tempered, we will lose our cool; because our parents were alcoholics, or drug users, we will be the same; or that because we were once addicts, we are doomed to a life of addiction.

We have free will; we have the ability to transcend innate tendencies. Yes, there are many good things in psychology, but when the philosophy underlying the psychology comes into direct conflict with Judaism, I will go with Judaism all the time. My faith includes the full confidence that God Who created us knows us better than any conglomerate of mental-health professionals. 

The Generation of the Lie (reprinted from Marc D. Angel, The Wisdom of Solomon and Us, Jewish Lights Publishers, 2016.)

He who justifies the wicked and he who condemns the righteous, even they both are an abomination to the Lord. (Proverbs 17:15)

Death and life are in the power of the tongue; and they who indulge it shall eat the fruit thereof. (Proverbs, 18:21)

The United States suffered a horrible and horrifying terrorist attack on September 11, 2001. Arab terrorists flew airplanes into the Twin Towers killing thousands of people. Two other airplanes were hijacked leading to the murder of all the passengers.  One of the hijacked airplanes was flown into the Pentagon, not only killing the passengers but killing or grievously wounding many individuals in the Pentagon that day. The trauma of that day for the survivors and the families of the victims will never entirely disappear.

Moral clarity prevailed in many circles. The terrorists were murderers, hateful and misguided individuals who believed that they would be rewarded in heaven if they murdered Americans. They were willing to sacrifice their own lives for the sake of inflicting damage on the United States. But, there were those who justified the wicked and who condemned the righteous. They described the murderers as “martyrs.” They rejoiced that America, the great devil, had suffered a serious blow. The same pattern often is evident when acts of terror are committed against Israel. The murderers are described as “militants” or as “martyrs.” The Israeli victims are blamed for their own deaths, and the murderers are honored by the societies from which they emerged. The United Nations routinely condemns Israel for defending itself against terrorism, and routinely ignores the heinous acts of murder committed against Israel.

We should not be surprised by the massive hypocrisy that justifies the wicked and condemns the righteous. This has been going on for many centuries. Not only does Solomon note this phenomenon in Mishlei, his father David screamed out against it in his Psalms. Psalm 12 has been described by Martin Buber as a prophecy “against the generation of the lie.” The Psalmist cries out: “Help, O Lord, for the pious cease to be…They speak falsehood each with his neighbor, with flattering lip, with a double heart they speak.” The generation is led by oppressors who say “our tongue will make us mighty,” who arrogantly crush the downtrodden. They act sinfully but are confident that their smooth talking propaganda will keep them immune from retribution.

Buber comments: “They speak with a double heart, literally ‘with heart and heart’…The duplicity is not just between heart and mouth, but actually between heart and heart. In order that the lie may bear the stamp of truth, the liars as it were manufacture a special heart, an apparatus which functions with the greatest appearance of naturalness, from which lies well up to the ‘smooth lips’ like spontaneous utterances of experience and insight” (Good and Evil, p. 10). The Psalmist is not merely condemning his “generation of the lie,” but future generations that also will be characterized by lying, bullying, oppressing; that will be led by smooth talking and corrupt demagogues. But the Psalmist turns prophet and proclaims that God will arise and protect the victims of the liars. Truth will prevail. “It is You, O Lord, who will guard the poor, You will protect us forever from this generation.” Although the Psalmist is confident that God will set things right, meanwhile the ugly fact remains: “But the wicked will strut around when vileness is exalted among humankind.” Although God will ultimately redeem the world from the “generation of the lie,” this will not happen right away. As long as people submit to the rule of the wicked, the wicked will stay in power. If the wicked are not resisted, they will continue to strut around and feel invincible.

The Nazis understood the power of propaganda. If you tell a big lie often enough and loud enough, people begin to believe it. Even if they do not fully believe it, they will lose the spiritual courage to resist the liars. They will either remain passive or will actively conspire with the wicked. The “generation of the lie” continues to flourish in our day, when tyrannies are viewed favorably and democracies are judged negatively. Every vote that justifies wickedness is an act of complicity with the wicked. Every abstention that refrains from condemning wickedness is also an act of complicity with the wicked. Albert Einstein described the moral decay which he felt was setting into society. “One misses the elementary reaction against injustice and for justice—that reaction which in the long run represents man’s only protection against a relapse into barbarism. I am firmly convinced that the passionate will for justice and truth has done more to improve man’s condition than calculating political shrewdness which in the long run only breeds general distrust. Who can doubt that Moses was a better leader of humanity than Machiavelli?” (Out of My Later Years, p. 10).

Rabbi Abraham Yitzhak ha-Cohen Kook (1865–1935) is, without doubt, one of the most celebrated rabbis of the twentieth century. He is known to most people simply as Rav Kook, the founder of Religious Zionism, and we frequently overlook the fact that the foundations of his teachings reflect a deep modernization of the Jewish faith itself and of its approach to an array of contemporary problems.

To discuss the religious approach to the role of the Jewish people and the State of Israel in today’s world, we must turn to the ideas of Rav Kook who saw Zionism in a religious light. At the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries, Zionism was not seen as an aspect of Judaism. In fact, it contradicted Judaism in many ways, and occasionally even came into sharp conflict with some of Judaism’s conceptions.

Despite these contradictions, Rav Kook not only “supported” Zionism, as did many rabbis, but he also formulated Zionism in religious terms. Furthermore, he demonstrated Zionism’s importance for the development and deepening of Judaism. We will examine how Rav Kook’s conception of Zionism shaped a more profound form of Judaism.

The central idea of monotheism is that God created humankind in His likeness. The individual is the image of God, and our entire life is a dialogue with Him. All of our actions are the words we speak to God, and everything that happens to us is His answer to us. Rav Kook’s main philosophical concept is that the Jewish understanding of life as a dialogue with God has not one but two central themes: a dialogue on an individual level and a dialogue at the national level, i.e. a dialogue between God and the Nation.

The religious significance of the State of Israel is that its very creation compels the Jewish people to act as a single entity. Zionism and the creation of the State of Israel bring the Jewish people back into a full dialogue with God.

Rav Kook was a poet by nature, not a university professor. Thus, he believed that mysteries are explained only by other mysteries. This approach makes a systematic study of Rav Kook’s philosophy difficult. In the following article, we will attempt to outline Rav Kook’s philosophy in more concrete terms.

1. A Step in the Development of Judaism

According to Rav Kook, one vital step in the evolution of Judaism is the revival of those sparks of Divine light that have hitherto been lost, or that were insufficiently realized in the process of historical development. It must be noted that the outline presented below represents a simplification of Rav Kook’s views. It is described in more detail in his article, “The War of Ideas and Faiths” (Orot, p. 129; see also Shemona Kevatzim 1:16).

The central problem Rav Kook faced was the wave of Jewish souls leaving Judaism for various ideological movements alien to it. This wave was particularly strong in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when many deserted yeshivas closed their doors and Jewish youth turned en mass to secular Zionism, socialism, or other “isms.” According to the mainstream Orthodox view, these departing youths were “lost and mistaken,” the problem was thought to lie

in them—they were not taught correctly, they did not fully understand their traditions, and so forth. Thus, the task of religious leadership was to influence these souls through explanation and teaching so that they would return to Judaism.

It was at this moment that Rav Kook proposed an entirely different approach to the problem. According to him, the reason Jews were rejecting the Torah lay not only in the error of their ways, but also in the flaws of the modern religious world—in Judaism as it existed at the time. In order to bring about the return to Judaism of those who had fled, it was necessary not to drag them back to the Judaism that they had rejected, but to correct the defects within Judaism itself. Then those Jewish souls would gradually return of their own accord to the renewed Judaism of tomorrow. In other words, Rav Kook regarded the exodus of Jews from Judaism as an indicator of the presence of flaws in Judaism; furthermore, he saw it as a sign that the time was ripe for correcting these defects and believed that social/historical circumstances required that we do so without delay.

Basing his approach on Kabbalah, Rav Kook maintained that if a large number of Jews rushed to a particular ideology under the banner of morality and virtue, this meant that despite its apparent distance from Judaism, or even hostility to it, that ideology must contain a spark of Divine light. The anti-religious appearance of this alien ideology would merely be its shell, which fed off the energy of the spark inside. It is that spark, not the shell, that attracts the souls of those who turn away from Judaism, as Jewish souls, on the whole, are drawn to good and reach for it innately. Furthermore, the “breach”—the spontaneous, morally grounded mass movement of the Jewish people—is itself an indicator of the ripeness of the spark, a sign that it is time for its activation.

2. The Teaching of Rav Kook as Torat haKelal, Teaching for the Entire Nation
Of course, Rav Kook did not believe that every Jew is an entirely upright person, who strives for good in every deed. We know perfectly well that among Jews there are plenty of fools and criminals. However, when a large group of Jews leave their tradition for another ideology, we see not the rejection of the Torah by an individual Jew, but a socially significant movement. Such a movement is always accompanied by a sense of moral righteousness declared and subjectively felt by its participants. Without this sense, a social movement cannot develop.

Rav Kook believed that a human sense of morality, which is the manifestation of God in the individual, is the world’s driving force. Therefore, he viewed a spontaneous, morally grounded social movement by the Jewish people as a definitive manifestation of the role of the Jews as the chosen people—even though the form that this manifestation takes might directly contradict the directives of the Torah—and held that we must, in the end, view the situation as “hitgalut Elokim,” the revelation of the Divine.

Thus, Rav Kook’s teaching is a Torat haKelal, a teaching of national unity, viewing the Jewish people as an integral whole, capable only as a single entity of bringing the Torah to the world, and seeing disparate groups within the Jewish people as essential parts of the whole.

3. Flaws in Judaism and the Process of their Correction
Continuing our analysis of the outline for Judaism’s development, it is important to note that the ideas presented so far—that inside every shell are concealed sparks of holiness and Divine light, that the shell feeds off the energy of this spark, and that Jewish souls carry within themselves—the role of the chosen and the attraction to good—do not constitute the unique and truly revolutionary teaching of Rav Kook, as all of these ideas have been stated and discussed many times in Kabbalah and in Chassidism.

The true revolution in thinking put forth by Rav Kook lies in the proposition that this situation arises due not only to the attraction of the sparks, but, above all, to a defect in Judaism as it exists, evidenced in the lack or insufficient activity of a given spark within it.

The process of activating the spark involves several stages. The first step is to extract the sparks from the shell (see Shemona Kevatzim 1:71, also p. 63, passage 9). Guided by our Divine moral intuition, we must explore and determine the precise nature of the Divine spark that is drawing masses of Jewish souls to a particular ideology. To do this, it is necessary not only to approach the views of those who have joined the new ideology or movement with extreme respect and deep attention, but also to demonstrate genuine sympathy for the “ism” itself.

In the language of Kabbalah, we must feel the Divine spark locked within the foreign ideology. Clearly, in order to extract the spark from any specific “ism,” it is necessary, while staying within the framework of Judaism, to show sympathy toward the “ism,” as sympathy and empathy are the first steps toward understanding. But any individual religious person may not sympathize with every ideology. Some may simply be too deeply repulsive to him or her. This merely shows that this person is not equipped to extract the spark of Divine light from those particular “isms.” Rather, that person must work with those ideologies that he finds himself naturally in accord with, as only in them he or she will be able to find the spark of Divine light. It is impossible for any one person to sense the sparks in all “isms,” and it is wrong to attempt to spread oneself so thin. Every person must focus on what is genuinely close to his or her Divine soul.
At this stage, those who, in the course of their lives, have spent time near to or even within the foreign ideology being examined may play an especially important role. In particular, when Western values are integrated into Judaism—or, to put it more precisely and formally, when those sparks of Divine light that nourish the values of contemporary Western culture are revived within Judaism—an important role must be played both by Jews from Western countries and by Jews from Russia, who have been educated in the crucible of totalitarianism and communism.

The process of identifying the Divine sparks in secular ideologies is only the beginning of our work since, as stated above, we cannot integrate that spark into Judaism directly. Such a heavy-handed transplant would lead to a rejection of the tissue, which could even result in the death of the entire organism. Therefore, unlike Reform Judaism, which swallows the spark whole from the other teachings and so takes in with it elements of shell that radically contradict the Jewish approach and tradition, the Modern Orthodoxy of Rav Kook strives before all else to find this spark’s native, authentic manifestation in Judaism. Orthodoxy must seek out the spark and its true Jewish form in the fundamental tenets of Judaism—that is, in the complete and ideal Judaism, encompassing all the ideas contained in all of its texts and oral traditions. To do this work, one must not only be an expert in Torah, Halakha, and Aggadah, but one must also have the particular wisdom to sense behind the traditionally expressed formulations the deep contemporary content that accurately reflects their Divine light while resonating in today’s world.

Next, the given spark must be cultivated within a renewed Judaism. The process of the cultivation of sparks is carried out in our model through modern Judaism, as it does not alter the existing, historically formed Judaism, but supplements and corrects it. (See for example, Midot HaRe’aya, Emuna (Faith) 28.) The concept presented here is not Reformism, which is associated with the abolition of ritual commandments, but Modern Orthodoxy, in which a process of development is continually taking place alongside the preservation of tradition. Judaism loses nothing, but only increases.

Rav Yochanan Fried, who studied at Mercaz HaRav in the seventies, gives an example of this complementary kind of learning. He once received a letter which related how two Mercaz HaRav students, Yochanan Fried and Hanan Porat, were invited by Rav Tzvi Yehuda Kook to the Ein Harod Kibbutz to participate in a discussion on “What does the youth do in its free time.” When their turn came to speak their mind, they said, “Yeshiva students don’t have free time. Therefore, we don’t have this kind of problem. Yeshiva students are above all this—we study Torah continuously and don’t have time for recreation.” As a result of their words, an hour-and-a-half long discussion evolved, at the end of which a women sitting at the end of the hall stood up and asked, “If you are so great, what can you learn from us?” When Rav Tzvi Yehuda later heard about the question, he asked the students, “What did you answer her?” When they responded that they didn’t answer anything, he criticized them. “Be ashamed of yourselves! You traveled all the way to Ein Harod and didn’t learn anything about love of the land and about hard work? You didn’t learn anything from the wonderful relationships that exist between members of Ein Harod?” This encounter gave rise to a correspondence between Rav Tzvi Yehuda and Hanan Porat, who published his letters in his book Et Ahai Anohi Mevakesh (first published as Et Anat Anohi Mevakesh).

As a result of the activation of the spark, the defect in Judaism is corrected, and Judaism takes a new developmental step. In place of the existing Judaism of today comes the Judaism of tomorrow. Furthermore, because the spark whose light had been attracting the souls who left in process is now restored and active within Judaism, these souls begin to return to Judaism (see Shemona Kevatzim 8:51).

Of course, we do not in any way mean to say that those who will return to Judaism are the very same people who earlier left it. The step in development described here occurs over the course of several decades, and those who have left have left. At the individual level, a return to Judaism is possible at any moment; but the return of a whole generation is impossible without the restoration of that spark that gives life to the new ideology and that triggered the exodus from Judaism in the first place—a process that must ripen over many decades. Finally, people with “kindred souls” to those who left earlier now return, as they are the souls attracted to this particular spark—but this takes place two to four generations. In other words, it is their spiritual grandchildren and great grandchildren.

4. Example 1: The Integration of Sparks from Zionism
We will now use examples to illustrate how this model functions in practice.
For the first example, we will examine a fairly simple “ism,” with regard to which the above model has been fully carried out from beginning to end: secular Zionism.
At the beginning of the twentieth century, “Judaism” and “Zionism” were not only contradictory, but in many ways hostile to one another. The first heralds of Zionism were religious (Rav Tzvi Hirsch Kalischer, Rav Yehuda Ben Shlomo Chai Alkalai, and others) but they did not succeed in creating a mass movement. The Zionist mass movement sprang up in the twentieth century and was mostly secular. At that time, the slogan of secular Zionism was “we will become a nation like all others.” This entailed, in particular, the abandonment of religious principles as a basis for Jewish self-identification in favor of a civil-national identity. Because of this, many rabbis condemned secular Zionism as an attempt to destroy the Torah and traditional Judaism.

Under these circumstances, Rav Kook took an entirely different position. He maintained that we should not berate secular Zionism for being outwardly wrong, that is, for straying from the Jewish heritage, the Torah, and God. His method was not to focus on the outward defects of Zionism, but to seek out its inner truth, to find its Divine spark and then, to correct the existing Judaism accordingly by integrating into it the spark that had attracted Jewish souls to secular Zionism. As Rav Kook writes,
The nefesh [that is, the lower part of the soul in kabbalistic tradition] of sinners of Israel in the “footsteps of Messiah”—those who join lovingly the causes of the Jewish people, Land of Israel and the national revival—is more corrected than the nefesh of the perfect believers of Israel who lack the advantage of the essential feeling for the good of the people and the building of the nation and land. But the ruah [that is, the higher part of the soul] is much more corrected in the God-fearing and Torah observant… The tikkun [correction] will come about through the “Light of Messiah”… Israel should bond together, and the nefesh of the observant will be corrected by the perfection of nefesh of the better transgressors, in regard to communal affairs, and material and spiritual ideals attained to human understanding and perception. Whereas the ruah of these transgressors will be corrected by the influence of the God-fearing, observant and great of faith. And thereby both groups will receive Great Light… The higher tsaddikim, masters of neshama [the third and highest part of soul] will be the uniting conduits, through which the light of the nefesh will flow from left to right, and the light of the ruah from right to left…This will be accomplished through the light of Messiah, who is David himself, who erected the yoke of teshuvah. For the sake of David, Your servant, do not rebuff Your Messiah.” (Arfilei Tohar, § 21, published also in Orot, Orot HaTehiya 51)

The situation was somewhat simplified by the fact that this spark consisted of the desire to resurrect a full and authentic Jewish national life in the land of Israel. Not only does this ideology not contradict Judaism, as many mistakenly believed at the beginning of the twentieth century, but, on the contrary, it is an essential condition for Judaism’s further existence and development. Therefore, Rav Kook focused on the study of those sources in Judaism that address the religious significance of Jews coming back to their Land [See, for example, Orot HaTehiya 8]. In his articles and books, he conducted a thorough and deep analysis of these sources, and he made this analysis the central component of his educational program at the Zionist “world-wide Yeshiva” (Merkaz haRav) that he founded. After his death, Rav Kook’s students, and especially his son, Rabbi Tzvi Yehuda Kook, brought up a new generation of rabbis and religious activists at that yeshiva, for whom Zionism—the claiming of the Land of Israel and active participation in its government—was an integral part of the living Judaism that they studied, taught, and abided by. Graduates of the yeshiva Merkaz haRav transmitted the same active contemporary Zionist spirit to their students and to the religious circles they influenced.

Since this teaching was in keeping with the times, it began to spread far and wide. All of this took place as an undercurrent over the course of nearly half a century, from the 1920s to the 1970s. And when, after the Six Day War (1967) and especially after the Yom Kippur War (1973), the question of creating Jewish settlements in the territories of Judea, Samaria, and Gaza came up, the tens of thousands of students of Rav Kook’s school, united in the movement Gush Emunim, were the driving force behind the new wave of Zionism.

In other words, in the 1970s and 1980s, the religious Zionists—that is, the adherents of Modern Orthodoxy, Rav Kook’s school—became the leading Zionist group in the country. The perceptions of society were transformed: People’s ideas of “Zionism” and “Judaism” ceased to contradict one another and drew closer. The struggle for the settlement of the Land of Israel by Jews took on a religious character far different from the anti-religious character it had had at the beginning of the twentieth century. As a result, those who had a Zionist soul, who cared about Jewish settlement in Israel, began to draw closer to Judaism, rather than to distance themselves from it. One could say that in the late twentieth century, Zionism “returned” to Judaism the souls that it had “borrowed” at the beginning of the century.

As a result of all of these processes, the right wing of Israeli society (that is, people who seek to settle and claim all of the territory of the Land of Israel) is today significantly closer to religious values than the left wing. This distinction is so strong that the expression “religious right” has become a stock phrase in the Israeli political lexicon. In the 1920s, it was the opposite—those concerned with the settlement of Israel were significantly farther from religion than those who were indifferent to the issue. In this way Judaism has completed a step in its development, having extracted a spark from secular Zionism. A side-effect of drawing “Zionist souls” to religion was, in particular, that hardly any such souls remained on the atheist side; this has led to the fact that today secularism is most often associated with a rejection of Zionism, or “post-Zionism.”

5. Example 2: The Integration of Sparks from Atheism
We will now examine a different example, one that may appear shocking at first, but that nevertheless fits within Rav Kook’s overall model for approaching secular ideologies (see, for example, Orot Hakodesh 3, Musar Hakodesh, pp. 125–127, 129.) Specifically, we will apply the system described above to atheism. We will attempt to carry out the process of extracting a spark of Divine light and furthering the development of Judaism by means of atheism.

Rav Kook writes,

Atheism displays the power of life. Therefore, the real spiritual heroes extract sparks of great kindness from their atheism and turn its bitterness into sweetness. (Arfilei Tohar, § 120)

The destructive wind of disbelief will purify all the filth that gathered in the lower realm of the spirit of faith... all will grow in purity and strength, in supernal holiness, from the firm, pure exalted kernel, which no negativity can affect. Its light will shine as a new light upon Zion with a wondrous greatness. (Shemona Kevatzim 1:476, Orot haTehiyah, ch. 51, p. 199)

Atheism, according to our model, fully qualifies as an outside “ism.” It stands in opposition to Judaism, it displays the banner of rejection of religion, yet Jews join its ranks in significant numbers, proclaiming its morality and worth.

Because in Rav Kook’s time atheism was actively growing and attracting supporters,
Rav Kook devoted a significant amount of attention to its analysis in his works (for example, Midot HaRe’aya, Emuna (Faith), pp. 27–28; Orot Ha’Emuna, Kfira (Heresy), p. 84). As always in his approach to a foreign ideology, Rav Kook did not focus on a critique of atheism’s mistakes, its rejection of God and tradition, and so forth. This would have been trivial, and it was attended to at the time by much of the religious establishment. Rather, he attempted to understand where the deep attraction of atheism lay, what was in it that drew Jewish souls, and how Judaism needed to evolve so that, instead of leaving, souls of this type would find their rightful place in it.
What is the “spiritual core” of atheism, its Divine spark? In order to find this, we can ask the following question: From where do members of this group derive pride? For pride reveals the correlation between our achievements and our Divine spirit. We take pride in those achievements that gladden our Divine spirit, seeing them as truly worthy. In other words, the point of pride of any ideology signals what must be culled from it, as it is the root of the attraction of the Divine soul. This, therefore, is where we must seek out the concealed spark.

In what, then, do atheists take pride, specifically as atheists? Of course, I am not speaking here of those atheists who have never given either religion or atheism a serious thought, and who were simply taught to be atheists. Any movement has fools in plenty; we must not focus on these, but on those who think for themselves. We speak here of real atheists—intelligent, thinking, and active. In what do they take pride as atheists? Based on my own acquaintance with atheists and their books, I believe that the atheist prides himself on being a doubting, critically thinking person. The atheist says: “You, the religious, merely believe. But I doubt. I cannot unquestioningly accept all of this. I am a skeptic.” It is not for nothing that a conversion to atheism in Israel is called hazarah beShe’ela, literally, a “return to the question” (as opposed to coming to religion, which is traditionally known as hazarah beTeshuva, or “return to the return,” which can also be read as “return to the answer.”) With this formulation, atheists establish themselves in opposition: “You, the religious, have the answer (teshuva)—but we have the question (she’ela). This is their source of pride, that they “have the question.” We are not discussing simple questions, of course, such as what is or is not kosher, but the fundamental and eternal questions of existence. The atheist stresses: “You are attracted to answers, we to questions.”

Thus, the true atheist has skepticism as his or her core conviction and declares him or herself to be a critical thinker who has unanswered questions to which no one can have ready answers. Is this core of atheism attractive? Picture two teachers, one who says, “Come to me. I have answers for everything,” and one who says, “Come to me. I have questions and doubts for every problem.” Which of them seems more spiritually advanced? Whose lectures would you wish to attend? The skeptic’s, of course. We know that there are no ready answers to the truly complicated questions. We also know that answers are very often superficial and questions much deeper. Therefore, if one says that he has answers, and the other that he has questions, we will, of course, go to the one who has questions.

By means of this analysis, with the help of our own religious intuition, we have found the spark of Divine light in atheism. Our intuition clearly confirms that questions and doubts are a great thing, and that in them there lies the source of atheism’s spiritual attraction.

Does this component—unanswerable questions—exist within Judaism? Clearly, in Judaism as it existed 100 to 200 years ago, the emphasis was primarily on the “answers.” Today, unfortunately, within the popular, rather primitive Judaism with which certain demagogues try to “capture” the masses, the stress is also frequently placed on the answers. But if we are deeply convinced of the religious importance of unanswerable questions, then let us look to ideal Judaism and try to find out where within it the central questions and doubts lie.

The first thing that comes to mind is the book of Job. Job is a righteous and good man, yet he is showered with misfortunes: the destruction of his possessions, the death of his loved ones. And so, three of his friends come to him, and after the period of silent mourning, they begin to ask: Where is justice in the world? Why does the righteous man suffer? Job’s friends offer highly reasonable explanations, but Job rejects them all, telling his friends that they are wrong, that they understand nothing. The discussion continues for the length of the book, about 40 chapters. At the end of the book a voice rings out from the heavens, saying to the three men, “Ye have not spoken of Me the thing that is right, as My servant Job hath.” (Job 42:7)

In other words, the Book of Job concludes by telling us that there is in principle no answer to these essential questions. The question of justice remains open. It is necessary to seek an answer, but one must never assume one has found it.
Thus, we have an example from a book from Tanakh that clearly states that there can be no answer to this and, apparently, to many other fundamental questions. Another such book is Ecclesiastes (Kohelet). And although this book ends with the words “fear God… for this is the whole man(Ecclesiastes 12:13) which can be seen as an “answer,” the entire book in essence tells us that answers to real existential questions do not exist. This is one more typical instance in Judaism of the “unanswerable question.” One must admit that had the books of Job and Ecclesiastes consisted of a collection of answers about the meaning of life, the Tanakh would have been greatly impoverished.

However, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, this aspect of doubt was not a developed area within existing Judaism. Its spiritual leaders considered doubt to be a flaw and discouraged their followers from discussing questions that sowed it. They were to stay inside and never venture out. The leaders feared that one of their flocks might leave—yet many did flee Judaism because those spiritual leaders were unable to reveal its inner potential to address adequately the problems of the times. The leaders discouraged the reading of certain books, but people read them and turned away from Judaism and its lack of tolerance for doubt.

We have found the Divine spark in atheism, and we determined that that spark was not realized in existing Judaism, which feared doubt to the point that the thirst for it became a force for the spread of atheism. Our next steps are to develop within Judaism the spark of doubt that we have discovered in its roots, so strongly that it will shine more brightly there than it does in atheism.

The following conception formulated by Rav Kook provides us with a roadmap for revealing the spark of doubt in Judaism. He tells us that any faith that lacks doubt is not an ideal faith. On the contrary, belief without doubt is primitive and simplistic [See for example, Shemona Kevatzim 1, 36; Orot, Zir’onim 5]: Doubts are an integral part of true faith. As the Divine is by its very essence eternal, and all things human are, by their essence, temporal and finite, including all of our thoughts, ideas, and reasoning about God, our understanding of God cannot, in principle, be correct.

But what are we to do, if we are finite and temporal? How can we at least draw closer to the eternal Divine, come to understand even partially? At the very least, we must doubt everything we think about the Divine, for when the finite being feels his limitations and doubts himself, he becomes “less finite,” some potential of the infinite appears within him. If we are sure of ourselves and do not doubt, then our finite and temporal conceptions of the Divine become “even more finite,” moving further from the eternal Divine. If what is finite wishes to become less finite and to move closer to the infinite, it must be dynamic. That is, we cannot become actually infinite, but we must at least be potentially infinite, if only through doubting the certainty of our understanding and wishing to move forward. Therefore, doubts are an integral, necessary part of true faith, aiding, not impeding, its progress.

When students in a yeshiva or school are taught this concept of faith, an entirely new generation of religious people rises up, whose views can be characterized as “religious post-atheism,” which uses the religious achievements of atheism in the development of Judaism. Unless it activates within it the aspect of doubt, religion will be primitive. Doubt is necessary for its existence. Because the aspect of doubt was not adequately developed in religion over the last centuries, atheism came along, smashed everything, and advanced among people the concept of the value of doubt—and for this, religion owes it a debt of gratitude.

Atheism comes, says Rav Kook, to ridicule the primitive form of religion and destroy it, clearing the ground for the construction of a more exalted religious system. From the point of view of the development of religion, atheism was a historical necessity, as we ourselves—even the religious community and leaders who recognize the importance modernization—would never have decided to destroy that primitive aspect of religion. We simply would not have had the strength and nerve. Therefore, atheism enters and does all of that work for us.

The observant religious person who has grasped the ideas of post-atheism holds a different sort of religious consciousness. He combines Orthodox religiosity with a willingness to doubt his own religious tenets. Such a person emanates this new type of faith, changing the ideas of those around him, opening the way to religion for doubting people. These doubting souls begin to approach Judaism, seeing that post-atheist Judaism contains the spark of doubt, and that the spiritual necessity of doubt is even more developed here than it was in atheism.

The difference between the post-atheist religious consciousness and the classical one is easy to see. The Israeli essayist and philosopher Dr. Daniel Shalit says that one needs to converse with a religious person for no more than ten minutes to determine whether he or she is post-atheist or pre-atheist. Approached this way, atheism is not an enemy of religion. It is an enemy of primitive religion, but an ally in the creation of a more advanced one. If we can make the ideas of atheism the general property of the religious world, we will move religion forward and make it possible for those whose souls instinctively and absolutely correctly thirst for skepticism and doubt to approach this religion.

What Is to Be Doubted?

Thus, according to Modern Orthodoxy and post-atheism, doubt is critical for the growth of faith; without it a person cannot believe truly. If people, limited by nature, do not doubt their own limited religious ideas, they will remain much farther from God in their understanding than those who, though limited, at least doubt.
When we frame the problem this way, we frequently encounter the following question: “Should one doubt everything? There must be something, from the religious perspective, that is absolutely beyond question. God’s existence is certain—how can that be doubted?” The answer, from the point of view of religious post-atheism, is that everything can and must be doubted. To doubt is not to deny, but to subject to criticism and analysis. This applies even to the tenet that God exists. What is to be doubted is not the words themselves, but our interpretation and understanding of them. Since doubt is not denial but analysis and clarification, it is necessary for our religious understanding. It would be incorrect to see doubt in the existence of God as a choice between the statements “God exists” and “God does not exist.” This is a different kind of doubt entirely. What we must doubt is the meaning that we give to the word “existence” as it relates to God.

Rav Kook proposes a completely radical approach to this problem. He explains that there is a faith that is not faith. And there is a lack of faith, or atheism, that is, in its essence, faith (see Shemona Kevatzim 1, 633). What does he mean by faith that is not faith? He refers to the person who believes in God, but whose belief is so primitive that his image of God is closer to a caricature than to what God is. And what is lack of faith that is faith? This is the situation when a person says that he does not believe in God, but he says that because religious groups have pictured God in such a primitive form that he is unable to believe in such a God. This unbelief reflects not a lack of faith, but a high level of religious feeling.

The words “I believe in God” or “I do not believe in God” do not reflect true faith or lack of faith. We must hone the meaning of these words during our whole lives—not just our individual lives, but over the course of all human life. We can and must doubt these meanings in every way, for doubt is not denial; doubt is dissatisfaction with simple answers and a thirst for more precise understanding.

6. The Concept of Continuing Revelation

The religious concept of the continuing Revelation of God asserts that the Divine Revelation did not stop at Mount Sinai, but continued throughout time and continues still, manifested not in miracles, but in the course of human history, above all of Jewish history. Therefore, this Revelation can and must be listened to, and to do this we must see history as a dialogue with God.

There is no doubt that the very idea of monotheism as a religion of dialogue implies a continuing interaction between humans and God throughout all of human history. What is more, Jewish monotheism, as Rav Kook’s concept emphasizes, is characterized by the idea that not only does every individual carry on a dialogue with God, but the nation as a whole, and all of humankind do the same. It would be natural to suppose that through this dialogue, God continues to speak. Of course, God does not say anything to contradict God’s earlier words; God’s word cannot be revoked. The earlier Revelation is never rescinded, but it must be continually developed and added to. Thus, the idea of a national dialogue with God leads to the principle of continuing (or ongoing) Revelation, and that, in its turn, to Modern Orthodoxy.

The view of history as a dialogue between humans and God means that God is continually speaking to us, and all innovations that bring forth progress in culture, society, and religion are not simply human invention, but also Divine Revelation. Therefore, they must be integrated into our religious ideas and not discarded. In other words, the need for progress and modernization, even in the area of religion, is not merely a human trait; it is a manifestation of our Divine nature. Religion, therefore, must develop—not in order to make it easier and more convenient for us humans, but because without development religion will not adequately reflect God (see Shemona Kevatzim 8:43, as well as many other sources.)

It stands to reason that not everything that has occurred in the course of history is Divine. Many developments can and should be criticized, changed, repaired. However, it would be categorically wrong to cast away historical development as a whole, as we would be discarding with it essential elements of the Revelation. According to this conception, we do not have the right to reject historical change—not because we must protect human creative activity from primordial religious dogma, but on the contrary, because we adhere to a religious viewpoint.

7. 1. The Spiritual-Religious Value of Science and Technology

Science and technology play a big role in society, but do they have a spiritual-religious value in and of themselves? The general opinion is that they don’t. However, already in the first chapter of Genesis, immediately following the creation of Adam and Chava, God commands them, “Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it” (Genesis 1:28). This verse contains a commandment to conquer the earth, which means to build a civilization. This building is impossible without the development of science and technology. Conquering the earth means gaining control over nature. It means using power and knowledge to improve the conditions of human existence despite nature’s limitations: being able to turn on the light when it is dark outside, to heat your house when it is raining and cold, to move at great speed, to transmit sound over long distances. All this is included in the concept of “conquering,” and technological development needs to be seen as the fulfillment of this commandment. Why then is the “commandment of conquering,” i.e., constructing of civilization, not enumerated among the 613 commandments? The reason is that it pertains to humanity as a whole and does not address any individual or even any nation—and commandments that are intended for the human race are not counted among the commandments. There are those who interpret this verse as a blessing and not as a commandment; however, the grammar of the verse suggests the formulation of a commandment. Additionally, “be fruitful and multiply” is understood as a commandment. Therefore, if the first half of the verse is a commandment, it stands to reason that the second half is also a commandment. See also Orot Hakodesh 2, Hamegama Haelyona 33, page 563; Orot Hatechiya sections 16 and 30. According to Rav Soloveitchik as well (in The Lonely Man of Faith), the ambition to develop technology is engrained in humans, who are created in God’s image, and therefore, it is clearly a spiritual value. It follows, then, that science has religious worth. We must see those who advance science and technology as performing a commandment and feel national and religious pride towards Israelis who receive the Nobel Prize. Moreover, in order return those souls who are attracted to “Americanism” as expressed in the desire to conquer and develop nature, we must create a positive religious image of scientific and technological development; to do so we need the explicit support of our religious leaders. Many of them are focused on finding halachic solutions to the halachic problems that arise from technology. But unfortunately, very few of them see the religious significance of science and connect it with Torah.

7. 2. The Spiritual-Religious Value of Art

In ancient times, the sole purpose of art was decoration and beauty. In both secular and religious life, decoration and beauty were used to convey a divine message to the people. Judaism did not have a problem assimilating this view of beauty: there are numerous Jewish sources that emphasize its importance. For example, Ten measures of beauty came down to this world - nine of them were received by Jerusalem and the rest by the entire world (Kidushin 49b) and, “whoever did not see the Beit haMikdash that Herod built, never saw a beautiful building in his life” (Bava Batra 4a).

In the Renaissance period, the perception or art underwent a metamorphosis: art became an expression of the innermost world of the artist, and was no longer a means of transmitting a religious message. In the modern age, a new phenomenon that facilitates this newly gained purpose appeared: all of society began promoting and encouraging creativity.

During the course of history, art lost its association with religion, and became a secular, universal phenomenon. Religion did not comprehend this new kind of art, which exists in and of itself and expresses the inner world of the artist; religion surely did not see any religious value in it and therefore limited its interaction with art by using strictly halachic terminology, defining what is permitted and what is forbidden. The tension between religion and art intensified until they reached a point where each one saw the other as hostile and dangerous.

Rav Kook changed religion’s perception of art. He taught that there is religious value in the expression of a person’s inner world. (See introduction to Shir Hashirim (Song of Songs) in Olat Hara’ayah; Rav Kook’s letter to the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design; Rav Tzvi Yehuda Kook, Mizmor 19 (Eretz HaTzvi in Ma’amarey HaRav Tzvi Yehuda.)
A person is created in the image of God, and the more a person comes closer to Him, the more he realizes himself as a human being and makes himself complete. The Torah opens with a description of the creation of the world—God creates the world and humans. Creation is the first act; thus, a person’s ability to create brings him closer to God. [In The Lonely Man of Faith, Rav Soloveitchik speaks a lot about how a man resembles God through creative action.] Therefore, art, which gives expression to human creativity and teaches society about creativity, opens before mankind a new way to draw nearer to God.

It should be emphasized that art’s religious significance becomes clearer when we contemplate art’s role in history rather than the lives of individual artists.

8. The Embedded Implication that Judaism Must Lag Behind Culture in Its Development
Looking at this model for the development of Judaism by means of sparks from “isms,” we are obliged to make note of one critical feature, which from a religious point of view might well be seen as an embedded “flaw.” Namely, the model presupposes that Judaism lags behind culture in its development. The “ism” appears first, arising in relation to progress in the larger society. As a result of this, people become dissatisfied with flaws in Judaism that earlier generations accepted (see Arfilei Tohar, 2 and 68); they leave and build a new ideology; and only two or three generations later does a segment of the religion adopt, develop, and realize the essence of these new ideas to create.

But if it is always thus, how will religion ever be able to lead? How will it accomplish what it is called upon to do?

The answer to this problem comes in two complementary parts.

The first is the fact that, indeed, within the structure of assimilating sparks from various ideologies and movements, Judaism will never be in a position to overtake those “isms.” However, Rav Kook explains that Judaism has “in reserve” another most important concept, namely, that of God’s dialogue not only with the individual, but also with the nation as a whole. Christianity or Western society never adopted this idea, inherent to Judaism from the start; humankind has only today begun to explore it. Therefore, Judaism will be able to lead civilization by means of this idea, rather than through its assimilation of sparks, which, as important as it is, merely serves to correct accumulated flaws that occur in the process of transition from Judaism of Diaspora to a Judaism of the Nation of Israel. Until we have adequately corrected these flaws, we will continue to fall behind and so will be unable to make ourselves heard by the world. We must continue to correct them, while at the same time developing that concept of national dialogue with God that is uniquely ours. We would later bequeath this concept to humankind, thereby making an essential contribution to the development of civilization.

This is the first part of the answer. However, the problem has another aspect. The second part of the explanation as to why Judaism lags behind culture in its development is that, as Kabbalah explains, our entire world is “tikkun olam”—“a world of correction.” Godliness is infinite and therefore human perception cannot fully grasp it. Similarly, no traditional movement can reflect Divine perception in its entirety because it is limited by time and wording. (Orot HaEmuna, p. 64) In kabalistic terms, God’s light cannot appear in our world immediately in its true form. At the beginning of Creation and again in every new stage of development, there is shevirat kelim, the breaking of the vessels, and the sparks of Divine light become enveloped by shells. Judaism’s “lag” is grounded in the very foundations of existence. Every idea first appears in a wrong form, in the context of the “ism.” And only afterward, as a result of our efforts to improve the world, it appears in a purer and more correct form.

This arrangement of things is, of course, not accidental. It is related to God’s desire to allow us to become God’s “companions,” God’s co-creators in the universe.

Recently I attended a Hassidic wedding and was seated next to one of my Hareidi co-religionists. During the course of the evening, it became known that I was a mohel. The question of metzitzah came up. I explained that I was a "modern" mohel and that I did not perform metzitzah b'peh (i.e. direct mouth-to-wound contact to perform metzitzah.) I used either a sterile plastic tube or a gauze pad to perform metzitzah. Having been in this situation before, I began to ask a few gentle, probing questions. "What if we know that a baby could possibly transmit a disease to a mohel or the reverse?" "What if the mohel and baby both appear healthy, yet there was something which could cause illness in either one of them?" The responses were typical. "If the baby is ill, we don't perform the Bris." "If the mohel is ill, we get a different mohel." "We've been doing metzitzah b'peh on thousands of babies, and they didn't get sick." I pressed on. "But what if it could be shown that there is the possibility that even one child could become ill or, God forbid, die from something transmitted by the mohel?" There were two responses. "You'll never get them to give up doing metzitzah b'peh;" and "Today, there is no possibility of change," accompanied by a look which I can only describe as "It does not compute." In other words, in this gentleman's mind, these two concepts could not be reconciled. In all fairness, I should point out that this gentleman is a former Rosh Yeshiva and would qualify as a talmid hakham, a very learned individual. He insisted, however, that he was not a posek, a religious decisor.

What is metzitzah? What is its origin? What is its purpose? What is the controversy?

There are three steps to performing a Berit Milah. Milah, the excision of the foreskin; periah, the drawing back (or removal) of the secondary layer of skin, the mucosal membrane; and metzitzah. Metzitzah is the drawing of the blood from the wound following the ritual circumcision. The source is found in the Mishnah, Shabbat 19:2. "One performs all the necessary steps for the milah on Shabbat: One circumcises, draws back (or tears) the secondary layer of skin (the mucosal membrane, periah), suctions, and bandages the wound with cumin powder." It was believed at that time that there was a positive health benefit to the child. 
The basic understanding of the Talmud is that metzitzah is not part of the actual mitzvah of Berit Milah. It is performed to prevent any health hazard to the child after the circumcision. In the Talmud, Shabbat 133b, Rav Papa states: "Any mohel who does not perform metzitzah creates a danger, and therefore should be removed from his post." The reason the mohel is removed from his post is not because he failed to perform metzitzah, but because he endangered the life of a child. The Talmud states very clearly: "Mal v'lo para, k'ilu shelo mal." "Someone who was circumcised but for whom periah was not performed, it's as if he was never circumcised." Metzitzah is not mentioned. Referring back to Rav Papa's statement, he said the mohel should be removed from his post. Rav Papa didn't say that the milah was invalid. In Nedarim 32a, we read that if the mohel forgot to perform metzitzah, the milah was valid. Maimonides reinforces this aspect of the Gemara by stating: "After [milah and periah], the mohel suctions the area until blood flows from the far places (away from the wound). He does this so that the (health of the) child will not be endangered."
The key question is: How does one perform metzitzah? There is no description or explanation of how metzitzah was performed. It is implicit that metzitzah was performed orally. In the Shulhan Arukh, Yoreh Deah 265:10, the Rama offers the following commentary: "We spit the blood into the earth." It seems that the mohel had sucked the blood into his mouth.

There were several incidents in Europe during the nineteenth century related to metzitzah b'peh. In 1837, Rabbi Eliezer Horowitz, the Chief Rabbi of Vienna, was consulted regarding a number of children who had become ill (infected) following their circumcisions. Some of the children had died. Dr. Wertheim of Vienna asked Rabbi Horowitz if instead of using oral suction to perform metzitzah, a s'fog (a sponge, or what today we would call a gauze pad) could be used to squeeze the blood from the circumcision site. Rabbi Horowitz, before rendering a final pesak, consulted his teacher, Rabbi Moshe Sofer, the Hatam Sofer who wrote:

Metzitzah b'peh is a requirement of a few of the mekubalim (the kabbalists). Therefore, as long as we can draw the blood out from the faraway places, it may be done in any way. We should rely on the experts regarding which technique is as effective as metzitzah b'peh...Even if the Talmud had stated that one must perform metzitzah with the mouth, metzitzah is not part of the mitzvah of milah, i.e. it is done to prevent danger to the child. According to the halakha, if one circumcises and does periah but neglects to perform metzitzah, he has completely fulfilled the mitzvah." (The letter of the Hatam Sofer was first printed in 1845 by Menachem Mendel Stern in the periodical Kokhvei Yitzhak. The ruling is also quoted in Rabbi Moshe Bunim Pirutinsky's book, Sefer haBerit.)

The Hatam Sofer continued by saying that applying cumin powder is also listed in the Mishnah, yet no one argues that only cumin must be used. Since talmudic times we have found more effective ways of bandaging and achieving hemostasis. This is why there is no halakhic requirement to use cumin powder. The Hatam Sofer argued that based on the Mishnah, no one could say that the mouth alone had to be used to draw the blood out. (The background to these events is the religious battle between the Orthodox and the Reform movements in Germany. During this time, the Reformists were attempting to change and or abolish certain religious practices. Milah, or anything related to it, was high on their agenda.)

In 1888, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch and Rabbi Azriel Hildesheimer, the chief rabbis of Frankfurt and Berlin respectively, publicized a halakhic ruling that metzitzah could be performed using a new instrument, a glass tube. It could be placed over the circumcision site and the mohel could use the tube to suction the blood with his mouth without any direct physical contact. This method seemed superior to the Hatam Sofer's suggestion of a cotton sponge. It protected the health of infant and the mohel. When I was trained as a mohel, my teacher, the former Chief Mohel of Jerusalem, Rabbi Yosef Hakohen Halperin of blessed memory, set up his instruments, which included a glass tube for metzitzah. He took a small wad of cotton and inserted it in the tube to prevent the blood from flowing up the tube and entering the mouth.

Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik reported that his father, Rav Moshe Soloveitchik, would not permit a mohel to perform metzitzah b'peh with direct oral contact, and that his grandfather, Rav Chaim Soloveitchik, instructed mohalim in Brisk not to do metzitzah b'peh with direct oral contact, either.

Another element of concern is the elevation of metzitzah b'peh from an ancillary step not even considered part of the mitzvah, to a "halakha l'Moshe miSinai," a law transmitted by Moses on Mount Sinai. The goal is to put metzitzah b'peh out of reach of any change. I have spoken to several ultra-Orthodox individuals, mohels and non-mohels, who have told me that a number of their rabbis have issued rabbinic responsa indicating that if metzitzah b'peh is not performed, the berit milah is invalid!

Five years ago, there was a public controversy related to metzitzah b'peh. An Orthodox mohel had allegedly transmitted the herpes simplex virus to a number of infants resulting in illness and death. The New York City Department of Health ordered the mohel to stop performing metzitzah b'peh. The Department of Health also recommended that metzitzah b'peh not be performed. Needless to say, the outcry form the Hareidi community was great. This was a religious matter in which the Department of Health had no business getting involved! They also disputed the data connecting herpes simplex to metzitzah b'peh. Finally, there were non-religious Jews in the Department of Health who, according to the Hareidi response, wanted to stop metzitzah b'peh and ultimately ban Berit Milah altogether.

This adverse publicity had an unintended affect in the non-religious Jewish community and in the non-Jewish world. Non-religious Jews now associated Berit Milah with illness and death, and instead of having a berit performed by a mohel, they opted to have their children circumcised in the hospital. As for the non-Jewish world, explaining metzitzah b'peh and not have it sound like child abuse was virtually impossible. This was publicity that we did not need.

The prime directive of the mohel is to safeguard the health of the child. If there is the slightest suspicion that the child is not well, we delay the berit. A mohel must also follow the strictest aseptic techniques. His instruments must be autoclaved (heat steam sterilized). Gloves must be worn, the mohel should use disposable blades and so on. I have been told by several of my Hassidic colleagues that they can't wear surgical gloves because it would be looked down upon by the people in their communities. How many times have I seen the mohel place his instruments in a stainless steel tray and pour alcohol on them to soak them prior to the milah; yet certain viruses won't be killed with alcohol alone. I even saw a mohel wearing the izmel (knife) around his neck on a chain! It wasn't until the mid- to late eighteenth century that it was discovered that washing one's hands could prevent the spread of diseases. And at the time, this concept was met with great hostility. Today, this is common knowledge and common sense. There are many ways that a mohel can spread illness to an infant, such as by using dirty or improperly cleaned instruments or not wearing gloves. And now, by performing metzitzah b'peh, we are placing the mouth, the most contaminated part of the human body, on an open wound.

Another very prominent issue related to Berit Milah is jaundice. Jaundice is a yellowish discoloration of the skin caused by increased levels of bilirubin. In the time of the Talmud (and still today), diagnoses were made by using visual methods. If the tint of baby's skin was blue or green or yellow, it indicated that the child had a particular health condition often resulting in the postponement of the berit. Today, we know that jaundice in newborns is normal. We have ways of measuring the bilirubin levels to determine if the jaundice is physiological (normal) or pathological (abnormal). Therefore, if the jaundice is normal, there is no need to postpone the berit. The baby is healthy and the berit may proceed. If a physician determines that the jaundice level is too high and recommends that the berit be delayed, the mohel must follow the directive of the physician. Conversely, the physician may opine that the berit may proceed, but the mohel may overrule the doctor on grounds and delay the berit. Again, every precaution is taken to safeguard the health of the child but we now know that jaundice is normal and should not prevent the berit from taking place. This concept is generally not accepted in the Hareidi community. If the baby is jaundiced, the berit is delayed until the jaundice clears up. Period.

In my opinion, the greatest difficulty as it relates to some in the Hareidi community is to convince them that bacteria and viruses exist, that they cannot be seen and they can cause illness or death. It is possible that a mohel (or baby) can carry a virus (herpes simplex, HIV, etc.), be asymptomatic and still transmit a disease that could result in illness or death. Both individuals appear healthy, yet one can infect and therefore, harm the other. This is clearly a matter of sakanat nefashot, danger to life. Knowing what we know today about the transmission of diseases, a mohel who performs metzitzah b'peh (i.e. direct oral contact) is potentially endangering his health, the health of the child, and the health of the other babies with whom the mohel will have contact that day or that week.

The other element of this discussion is that the Hareidi community does not recognize the opinions of secular individuals or government authority in relation to religious matters. Not long after the metzitzah scandal in 2005, I was a guest on a radio program pitting me, a modern mohel, against a representative of the Hareidi community. The topic was metzitzah. Certain things became very clear to me as a result of that radio program. The Hareidi community does not recognize the opinion or authority of anyone who is not part of their community. When I asked what would happen if it could be shown that a child could become ill, or God forbid, die as a result of a mohel transmitting a communicable disease, the response was that "The people in our communities don't get those diseases. Our people are holy;" and "We have been performing metzitzah b'peh on thousands of babies. How come they did not get sick?" Change, in this case, has been rendered virtually impossible.

For those who demand, insist, or require metzitzah b'peh, it can be performed orally by using a sterile glass or plastic tube. One uses the mouth, yet there is no direct contact. One may also follow the ruling of the Hatam Sofer and use a gauze pad. Metzitzah is performed and the health of the mohel and baby is protected. The custom is fulfilled.

Maimonides wrote "It is impossible to restore the lost life of a Jewish child" (Hilkhot Milah 1:18). This was written to allow the delaying of a berit on a child who is not considered healthy. Similarly, nothing done during a berit should allow the possibility that harm will come to the child, whether it is by unclean hands, improperly sterilized instruments or direct oral contact through metzitzah. Today, Rav Papa's statement might be modified to read, "Any mohel who performs metzitzah b'peh creates a danger, and therefore should be removed from his post." Knowing what we know today about the transmission of diseases, every precaution must be taken to safeguard the health of the child and the mohel.

David and Mephibosheth:

Being Overly “Even-Handed”

          King David is famed for his incredible righteousness, his inspiring prayers, and his powerful leadership over Israel as he brought his nation security by defeating nations which had bullied Israel for centuries. When we think of his sins, the episode of Uriah and Bathsheba comes quickly to mind. In this piece, we consider a lesser-known saga in the Book of Samuel, from which we may learn from David’s mistakes.

David and King Saul’s son, Jonathan, had a singular friendship. In addition to their mutual love and admiration, the political dimension of their relationship was essential. In addition to offering his unwavering support to David, Jonathan repeatedly had David swear that he would not exterminate Jonathan’s family once David became king. Of course, David honored that request.

          Following Saul and Jonathan’s death and David’s assumption of the throne, David searched the kingdom for any living descendants of Jonathan. He learned that Jonathan had one son, named Mephibosheth. David planned to invite Mephibosheth to dine with him whenever he would like, and care for him. David could not have anticipated that he would be entering an incredibly complicated situation.

          It turns out that a man named Ziba, who had been Jonathan’s chief servant, had taken over Jonathan’s house! Mephibosheth, who was physically lame from childhood, lived with a wealthy patron east of the Jordan River. It appears Ziba forced Mephibosheth out and became the master of the house. Enjoying his transition from servant to mansion owner, Ziba lived like a king, boasting fifteen children and twenty servants of his own.

          When David learns of this travesty, he immediately orders Ziba to return the house to Mephibosheth and to serve him:

The king summoned Ziba, Saul’s steward, and said to him, “I give to your master’s grandson everything that belonged to Saul and to his entire family. You and your sons and your slaves shall farm the land for him and shall bring in [its yield] to provide food for your master’s grandson to live on; but Mephibosheth, your master’s grandson, shall always eat at my table.”—Ziba had fifteen sons and twenty slaves—(II Samuel 9:9-10).

David thus fulfills his promise to Jonathan, cares for Mephibosheth, and demonstrates how he “executed true justice among all his people” (II Samuel 8:15).

          Reluctantly, Ziba obeyed David’s decree and returned the house to Mephibosheth (II Samuel 9:11). Nevertheless, he longed for his former royal lifestyle and waited for an opportunity to wrest control of the house from his weak master.

          That opportunity arose years later, when David’s son Absalom rebelled against David. David and his loyal followers fled Jerusalem to the forest, bewildered and abandoned. During David’s flight, Ziba brings food and donkeys for David and his weary men. He accuses Mephibosheth of treason against David, and David subsequently awards the house to Ziba:

David had passed a little beyond the summit when Ziba the servant of Mephibosheth came toward him with a pair of saddled asses carrying two hundred loaves of bread, one hundred cakes of raisin, one hundred cakes of figs, and a jar of wine. The king asked Ziba, “What are you doing with these?” Ziba answered, “The asses are for Your Majesty’s family to ride on, the bread and figs are for the attendants to eat, and the wine is to be drunk by any who are exhausted in the wilderness.” “And where is your master’s son?” the king asked. “He is staying in Jerusalem,” Ziba replied to the king, “for he thinks that the House of Israel will now give him back the throne of his grandfather.” The king said to Ziba, “Then all that belongs to Mephibosheth is now yours!” And Ziba replied, “I bow low. Your Majesty is most gracious to me” (II Samuel 16:1-4).

Ziba explains that Mephibosheth has harbored hopes for the return of the monarchy to himself! The narrative does not corroborate or refute Ziba’s claim. However, David knows Mephibosheth is physically lame and therefore may have been unable to make this journey. It also is puzzling as to how Mephibosheth would have expected to regain the throne. If Absalom wins the rebellion, he would become king. If he loses, David would remain king. In any event, Mephibosheth’s lameness makes it unlikely that he ever would vie for the throne. No less importantly, Ziba already has a proven track record of stealing this house, and therefore his credibility seems very low. There are good reasons for David to doubt Ziba’s story.

          Nevertheless, David appreciates Ziba’s generosity (notice how wealthy the servant is to supply all this food!), and accepts Ziba’s story without being able to hear Mephibosheth’s side. David concludes that Mephibosheth is an ungrateful traitor, and therefore awards Ziba the house. Ziba is most pleased.

          David goes on to prevail over Absalom and the rebellion ends. Because the civil war had torn Israel apart, many rifts needed to be healed. A man from the Tribe of Benjamin, Shimei son of Gera, had gravely insulted David when David fled Jerusalem. As the victorious David returned to Jerusalem after the rebellion, Shimei arrived with a large delegation of 1000 fellow tribesmen to apologize. Among them were Ziba and his fifteen sons and twenty servants (II Samuel 19:18).

Ziba says nothing, but he is visibly present when Mephibosheth subsequently appears to David:

Mephibosheth, the grandson of Saul, also came down to meet the king. He had not pared his toenails, or trimmed his mustache, or washed his clothes from the day that the king left until the day he returned safe. When he came [from] Jerusalem to meet the king, the king asked him, “Why didn’t you come with me, Mephibosheth?” He replied, “My lord the king, my own servant deceived me. Your servant planned to saddle his ass and ride on it and go with Your Majesty—for your servant is lame. [Ziba] has slandered your servant to my lord the king. But my lord the king is like an angel of the Lord; do as you see fit. For all the members of my father’s family deserved only death from my lord the king; yet you set your servant among those who ate at your table. What right have I to appeal further to Your Majesty?” The king said to him, “You need not speak further. I decree that you and Ziba shall divide the property.” And Mephibosheth said to the king, “Let him take it all, as long as my lord the king has come home safe” (II Samuel 19:25-31).

          Mephibosheth had not groomed himself from the moment David fled Jerusalem until this point. It appears that these gestures were signs of mourning and solidarity with David (Radak, Ralbag). Mephibosheth explains why he did not accompany David with the other loyal followers: He had ordered Ziba to take him on the donkey to flee the city, but Ziba rode off with the donkey, leaving the lame Mephibosheth stranded in Jerusalem.

          Despite his accusations of Ziba’s slander (and likely disappointment that David had believed Ziba initially), Mephibosheth humbly expresses profound gratitude for all David had done for him and his family. He reiterates his abiding loyalty to David. Ziba remains silent, but no doubt his physical presence served to remind David that he had helped David during the rebellion.

Spread over three separate episodes, we may summarize the “narratives” of the two characters:

Mephibosheth: My father Jonathan’s house belongs to me. Ziba forced me out, and stole my home. You, David, justly returned it to me and ordered Ziba to serve me again. However, during Absalom’s rebellion, Ziba stole my donkey, left me stranded, bribed you and your men with food, and lied about the reasons for my remaining in Jerusalem. You see now that I am unkempt, having mourned for you and your kingdom from the moment you fled Jerusalem until now. Ziba’s story is an outright lie.

Ziba: I fed you when you were at your lowest point and expressed my allegiance to you. Mephibosheth supported Absalom and believed the throne would ultimately return to him. You, David, awarded me Jonathan’s house as a result of my loyalty and Mephibosheth’s treason.

Although the prophetic narrator falls short of outright justifying Mephibosheth’s claim, many facts support his narrative: Ziba is a proven house thief, Mephibosheth is lame, he was in a prolonged unkempt state, and it seems most implausible that Mephibosheth ever expected to regain the throne himself.

It is therefore shocking that David uses an “even-handed” approach to resolve the conflict: “The king said to him, ‘You need not speak further. I decree that you and Ziba shall divide the property’” (II Samuel 19:30). It is unclear if Ziba’s bribe inclined David to divide the property, or whether David simply did not want to be bothered any further because he had many other important matters to attend.

          The evidence supports Mephibosheth. Instead of being treated as a criminal who exploits and abuses a handicapped man and steals his home, Ziba gains half of a mansion and continues to live as a prince. In the Talmud, Rav expresses chagrin that David would rule in this manner:

Rav Yehuda said that Rav said: When David said to Mephibosheth: You and Ziba shall divide the estate, a Divine Voice emerged and said to him: Rehoboam and Jeroboam shall divide the kingdom (Shabbat 56b).

In the earlier parts of David’s reign, he was famed for executing “true justice among all his people” (II Samuel 8:15). Now, however, his listening to patently unequal narratives to act “even-handedly” dealt a profound injustice to Mephibosheth, rewarded the dishonest Ziba, and, according to Rav, sowed the seeds for the nation itself falling apart.

By not standing for truth, justice, and principle, David directly failed his friend Jonathan and his family, and, ultimately, divided his nation. Through this intricate narrative, there is much we may learn from the prophetic author of the Book of Samuel.

Is it proper to go to a pool, beach, or boardwalk where both secular women and men are in bathing suits that are not tznius?

Each person must take responsibility for his/her moral life. We live in a society where many men and women dress and act immodestly. This is true not only at the beach, but almost everywhere in public.  Whether walking down the street or shopping in stores, one is likely to run into people who are dressed very far from proper standards of modesty.  We necessarily must develop inner moral resources that enable us to block out unwanted distractions.

Religiously observant people will try to avoid situations that will lead to improper thoughts or feelings. Different people have different thresholds for what they can or cannot tolerate.

It isn’t uncommon for religious young people to go on “shiduch dates” walking on the boardwalk at various ocean beaches. There are many non-tseniut people on the beach and the boardwalk…but these couples concentrate on their own conversations and are oblivious to the non-tseniut people. This is true of other religious people who enjoy a healthy walk on the boardwalk and do not get distracted by the presence of non-tseniut individuals.

While it isn’t proper to put ourselves in temptation’s way, it’s also not proper to restrict our lives unnecessarily. Each person must know where best to draw the line when it comes to his/her decisions.

Is it proper for children to call their parent's friends or other adults by their first names?

In traditional hierarchical societies, children are taught to respect their elders. Children defer to the authority of adults. They do not exhibit undue familiarity by calling elders by first name. Such behavior is considered to be very bad manners. Calling someone by first name assumes an equality of status.

When I grew up, we never referred to elders by first name—even if they were close friends of our parents. We would call them “uncle” or “aunty” or just not call them by name at all. It would have been unthinkable to call an adult by first name.

But those days of my childhood are long gone. General society has moved away from the traditional hierarchical model. Children grow up thinking that it’s fine to call everyone by first name…even their teachers, and sometimes even their own parents. While I bristle at these things, I also realize that society has become increasingly “egalitarian” where everyone feels entitled to equal treatment and equal respect.

I personally believe society is better served when children learn to refer to elders respectfully, not by first names. There should be social boundary lines between children and adults.

However, it is ultimately up to parents to teach their children proper behavior. In some circles, people feel that it’s fine for children to call elders by first name. They think that a more egalitarian spirit should prevail in relationships between children and adults.

While we each have our own opinions on the topic, it is really up to each family to determine what is most appropriate for them.

Is it proper to adopt if you have biological children?

Each situation requires its own analysis.

As a general rule, it is a great mitzvah to adopt an orphan and provide a loving home. If a couple has children of their own, it is all the more praiseworthy for them to extend their love to a child not of their own. Before making such a significant decision, the couple obviously has to consider many things relating to family dynamics, finances etc.

The question becomes more complicated when there are childless couples eager to adopt…but when there are very few children available for adoption. In such cases, it would be proper to give precedence to childless couples. But even here, it would have to be determined what would be in the best interest of the child that is to be adopted.

Whether or not couples have biological children of their own, the decision to adopt is not simple. The overriding concern should be for the welfare of the children who are to be adopted.

Is it proper to use new Simanim on Rosh Hashana?

The Talmud records the opinion of Abayyei: “Since you hold that symbols are meaningful, everyone should make it a habit of eating the following on the New Year: black-eyed peas, leeks, beets, and dates.” It is told that when the Babylonian scholar Hai Gaon left the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah, his students brought him a basket filled with different fruits over which he recited blessings and biblical verses.

Sephardim still follow this practice, generally before the evening meals of Rosh Hashana. Before tasting each item, a passage beginning with the words “yehi ratson” is recited, along with the appropriate blessing. This ceremony generally features delicious foods including dates, pomegranates, apple dipped in honey or sugar, pumpkin turnovers, leek patties, beets, black eyed peas. There also is a “yehi ratson” said over the head of a fish or lamb. Some Sephardim make a “soup of seven vegetables” that includes symbolic foods for a happy, peaceful and prosperous New Year.

Is it proper to add additional simanim? For us Sephardim, we already have plenty on our plates! Most others also have symbolic foods for the occasion, including apples dipped in honey. If they wish to add appropriate simanim that add joy to the occasion, why not?

The “yehi ratson” passages and the symbolic foods are a happy way to inaugurate the New Year. We pray that all of us, and all Israel, are blessed with a happy, healthy New Year. Tizku leShanim Rabbot, Shalom al Yisrael.

On trying to honor my pledge to work on behalf of the Jewish project with the Christian world

In 1964, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik set out in an article his misgivings on interfaith dialog, and particularly his opposition to theological discussions between Jews and Christians. At the time, the State of Israel was in its infancy and mainly ignored or rejected by the Christian world. After all, it was this Christian world who were responsible for the Shoah, especially in Germany and Eastern Europe.  But, as the 21st century dawned, the Roman Catholic Church woke up to the fact that Jews now had their own State and were a serious political entity. So, at the turn of the millennium, Pope John Paul II asked the Chief Rabbinate of Israel to engage with the Vatican.

Chief Rabbi Shear Yashuv Cohen of Haifa was tasked by the Chief Rabbis of the State of Israel to lead this ‘charge’ on behalf of the State of Israel. In February 2006, he made what is now considered to be the definitive statement on working with the Christian communities. This statement can be found in the English-language version of his biography, Rabbi Shear Yashuv Cohen: Between War and Peace (tr. Irene Lancaster, Urim, 2017, p 295).

‘The question of how far we should go in inter religious dialog compels us to draw a fine line and walk with great care. On the one hand we seek ‘rapprochement’, to get close to the ‘other’ through ‘paths of pleasantness’ and ‘ways of peace.’ On the other hand, we have to step back in order to emphasize our own distinctiveness…. Anyone involved in inter religious relations needs to set out beforehand a clear set of parameters, so that both parties know from the outset what is distinctive to our own religion and what is part of our ‘mission’ toward the wider world. In other words, we have to be clear about the difference between yichud (distinctiveness) and yi’ud (mission)’.

Chief Rabbi Shear Yashuv also stipulated that the Vatican sign a solemn agreement beforehand: dialog should not contain any debate or disputes on the core issues of each other’s faith, and the dialog should deal only with shared values; and any hint of an agenda aimed at conversion should be abandoned.

We shall see how these commitments were effectively abandoned over the years; and the Church of England, about which more later, never even got to the point of making any such commitments.  But of all this I knew absolutely nothing when I found myself thrown willy- nilly into this arena.

Not that I was unfamiliar with anti-Jewish prejudice.  The child of two Polish Holocaust survivors, starting afresh in a small seaside resort near Liverpool, my first negative encounter with the Christian religion (apart from snide remarks from neighbors to my mother) came in compulsory Religious Education lessons at school.

We Jewish girls were exempt from New Testament lessons, but had to attend ‘Old Testament’. One day, aged 14, I sat in a class where the local Church of England clergyman was about to tell us about ‘Abraham, Isaac and Jacob’. I was astounded when he wagged his finger at me and informed the entire class that I had ‘deliberately, and with malice aforethought, murdered our Lord Jesus.’

This happened more than once: I informed the teacher in charge of pastoral care, who took me immediately to the school Principal.  I told her that I was unable to attend further classes with someone who didn’t stick to his curricular brief, and would, therefore, have no option but to leave the school. The Principal - though a committed member of the Church of England - was clear in her response; I never encountered this clergyman again.

Since then, whenever I’ve encountered bullying, bystanderism, or worse from Christian clerics and laity, I think back to that fine lady (still going strong in a suburb of Liverpool at 95 years of age), who, to my mind at least, represented the best of authentic British spirit.  She set the tone for the school: despite daily bullying from some other girls, I have never, before or since, encountered such a philosemitic and empathic set of educators as our teachers.

All these potential hurdles were helpful for my later work with the churches, the universities, the Press and other environments hostile to Judaism.

In the 1970s, newly married with a baby, I had the opportunity to learn biblical Hebrew properly with a local rabbi, whose rabbinical colleague later recommended me as tutor in Hebrew to a training college for Christian clergy. After moving back to Liverpool, we embarked on a year’s sabbatical in Israel. There, near Yad Vashem and the beautiful Jerusalem Forest, I had a ‘now or never’ moment: there was a seminary for women (mainly from North America) nearby, and I enrolled for intensive learning in the Hebrew-language section, and learned a great deal of Tanach, Jewish thought and modern Hebrew. Another nearby seminary provided advanced Tanach study and even Gemara, as well as Jewish philosophy. Meanwhile, I also devised my own course in Ivrit, to benefit both my elder daughter, aged 8, who was struggling at school in Jerusalem, where no assistance was offered to newcomers from abroad, and myself (it involved the first series of Sesame Street - Parparim, i.e. ‘Butterflies’ – in its Israeli version).

The effort was not in vain. On return to Liverpool, I substituted on one occasion for a sick Israeli shaliach as an Ivrit teacher, and was informed that the class unanimously wanted me to carry on as their regular teacher.  Soon after, in 1986, I received an unexpected phone call from Liverpool University, inviting me to teach Hebrew at this august institution.

I decided to be totally honest, and informed the Director that I had no qualifications whatsoever in Hebrew, apart from seminary study in Jerusalem, and an excellent advanced Ulpan in the same city.

‘Exactly’, they said. ‘What’s good enough for the Jewish community is good enough for us.’

It seems that one of my modern Hebrew students, a secretary in the Medical Department at Liverpool University, had recommended me to the secretary to the Director of Continuing Education, So, on one very rainy evening in the fall of 1986, I turned up to Liverpool University to give my first lesson in Ivrit.

For the only time of my life, I can say that at Liverpool University I never once encountered, in eleven glorious years of teaching Biblical Hebrew, modern Hebrew (yes, we added that as a subject eventually), Jewish thought, Jewish literature, and the rudiments of Jewish mysticism, the least iota of antisemitism. Some of my former students went on to become Church leaders, or sincere friends of Israel. One or two even converted to Judaism.

There was one snag. By ‘Hebrew’, the University had meant Biblical Hebrew.  But as I always start with the same Hebrew alphabet for both Biblical and Modern Hebrew, that was no great problem. But in the years that followed it became increasingly obvious that my Jewish students preferred to study modern Hebrew, whereas, on the whole, the Christians preferred Biblical Hebrew. So, at the end of the day, the Biblical Hebrew classes came to be dominated by Christians.  And this is how I began to engage with the Church.

The Director of the Centre encouraged me to embark on a PhD, and even helped find me a supervisor. In 1989 I had, to my great surprise, been invited by the Spanish Government to the first major conference on Abraham ibn Ezra, marking the 900^th anniversary of his birth in Tudela, northern Spain. The conference was held there and in Madrid and Toledo.

I had also been teaching a course about the Jews of medieval Spain to the Jewish community of Liverpool, but ibn Gabirol and Yehuda HaLevi were my favorites, mainly because of their poetry and philosophy.  It was a chance meeting at this 1989 Spanish conference that led to an invitation by the great Professor Haim Beinart of the Hebrew University to a major world conference to be held in Jerusalem later that year, where I was introduced to Moshe Idel, not yet the famous Professor of Kabbalah that he later became. 

So that is how I embarked in middle age on my PhD on ibn Ezra, which later led to a book. Alas, my Jewish supervisor, the greatest expert on medieval Muslim thought in the UK, had just lost a case against another university in Liverpool for gross anti-Semitic behavior (which I had also witnessed), and moved for good to the USA.

But around the same time, the Professor of Spanish at Cambridge University recommended me to an academic publisher specializing in translations of medieval texts (including unpublished material) from Spain. These publishers turned out to be related to the 1991 Nobel Peace Prize laureate, Aung San Suu Kyi of Burma, married to an Oxford academic. And when the publishers informed me that their sister-in-law had won the Nobel Peace Prize for 1991, I decided to help her cause. We founded the Liverpool Burma Support Group at my kitchen table, assisted by Burmese refugees and exiles in the area, as well as some of my adult university students from the Hebrew courses.

We were a mix of Jews, Christians, Muslims and Buddhists, all working together as one for the sake of the Burmese people.  The Anglican Bishop of Liverpool’s chaplain and the chaplain to the Roman Catholic Archbishop were both especially proactive.  I was amazed and honored to receive a personal invitation from the Norwegian Nobel Committee to attend the event where Aung San Suu Kyi’s son accepted the Nobel Prize on her behalf.  Once in Oslo, I was also invited by the Nobel Committee to attend the parallel 90^th Anniversary Celebrations for all preceding living Nobel Peace Laureates, where I was able to meet Eli Wiesel (Peace Laureate 1986), whose works I’d just introduced to the curriculum at Liverpool University, as well as the Dalai Lama (Peace Laureate 1989), who informed me that Israel was ‘the best country in the world’, and that, given the ongoing struggle faced by contemporary Israelis in a hostile world, only the Jewish people could understand the plight of the Burmese people.

In 2004, the Dalai Lama reiterated these positive sentiments about Israel in Liverpool’s gigantic Anglican Cathedral, when asked by the Dean of the Cathedral to condemn the Jewish people for their ‘violence’. The reply was that the Church could learn a great deal from the Jewish people, and should repent by embarking with Jews on pilgrimages to Jerusalem - ‘the capital of the State of Israel’, he added, to general consternation.

However, the 1990s saw the beginning of an escalation in the public denigration of Jews and Judaism in the UK.  It was during this time that the UK, which until 1958 had recorded more people leaving the country than arriving, opened its doors to an increasing number of Muslim immigrants, many from global terrorist hotspots, and later to East European immigrants from post-Soviet newly-constituted independent countries that had just joined the European Union. Many of these newcomers brought with them extreme anti-Jewish sentiments; some refused to learn English, and had no point of reference outside their own language and culture, thus reinforcing their anti-Semitism, while at the same time, Jews slipped further and further down the radar of the British Establishment.  More Jews began leaving for Israel, a trend which increased after 9/11, when the BBC and most of the left-leaning Press, the universities, the Churches and the unions, intensified their attacks on the UK Jewish community; it seemed that we (all 250,000 of us) were being blamed for all the ills of the planet.

By this time, my family had moved to Manchester, which had a far bigger Jewish community than Liverpool. In the year 2000, I was invited to start the new subject of Jewish history at Manchester University. This proved a sad contrast to Liverpool. Antisemitism was rife in the University; Islamist societies spouted hatred with impunity, and the Christians who ran the Department of Theology and Religions did nothing to protest; nor did those whose job it was to prevent racism on campus (they often proved to be part of the problem). And too often, Jewish staff and students simply accepted this, without even the semblance of a fight.

When the book on Ibn Ezra was published in 2003, I embarked on a series of book launches around the world, starting of course with the Jewish community of Manchester, my home town, to be followed by Glasgow, Dublin, Florida and lastly Jerusalem. In that year, Cambridge University invited me as Visiting Lecturer in Jewish Studies to teach about Ibn Ezra, and also offered to host their own launch of my book. While there, I noted the fear on the faces of Jewish students – and the ridiculous denials by Jewish staff that anything was wrong.  From Cambridge, I went directly to an educators’ conference at Yad Vashem on teaching the Shoah, where the main speaker was Professor Robert Wistrich, formerly of University College London. Robert was regarded as the greatest expert on antisemitism in the world, advisor on the subject to the White House and the Vatican, alike. After his session (in which he argued that the UK was now the most anti-Semitic country in Europe), Robert took me aside and said that it was my duty as an academic to put my life on the line and to spend the rest of my days working on behalf of the Jewish community. Having suffered discrimination at UCL, he could speak with authority on the UK situation. The problem, he said, was fourfold: in ascending order, the unions, the left-wing media (especially the BBC), the churches (which he stated were ‘absolutely dire’) and, worst by far, the universities. People needed information and guidance to take on these powerful vested interests – which is where academics like myself came in. But, he said the Jewish institutions tasked with defense of the Jewish community had completely sold the pass. I promised him that, on return to the UK, I would do my best.  

Back in England, it was a case of where to start. I decided that the unions were too difficult to tackle (later, most of the Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn’s, supporters and major parliamentary backers were to come from a union background tinged with prejudice against Jews and Israel).   For similar reasons, the universities were impossible to engage with - and, depressingly, the Jewish academics still teaching at universities, especially those in Jewish Studies departments, colluded with the situation, passively accepting the Jewish lot in life.

So, the two institutions that were left to tackle from Robert’s list were the Churches and the media.  At this point, there was talk in the Church of England about disinvestment from Israel (a matter I’ll come back to). The assistant rabbi of my Shul approached all the Greater Manchester Bishops (I still have a copy of the letter) recommending me as a regular shul-goer ‘of the utmost integrity and outstanding academic credentials’, with an unrivalled knowledge of the State of Israel. He added that I was totally supported by the entire Jewish community in all my work, ‘and in particular in relation to the proposal by the Church of England to disinvest in Israel.’

This letter led to an invitation to visit by one of the Assistant Bishops of Manchester, a strong supporter of Israel.  The Diocesan Bishop himself also took supportive steps.  He moved sideways one Assistant Bishop who was a consistent and vocal critic of Israel, and asked me to give a talk to the Anglican Diocese on why the very large Orthodox Jewish community of Greater Manchester refused to dialog with the Church, where I spoke not only about the two-millennium history of violence and bigotry but about the contemporary sympathy of the Church with Islam. At the same time, I was formally requested by the Jewish community of Greater Manchester to review the Church Press on a weekly basis – especially Anglican, Roman Catholic, Baptist and Methodist outlets.

To my near-despair, I found no willingness to engage with the Jewish project or with contemporary Jewish experience.  I challenged the Anglican Church Times (which a professional Israeli academic monitoring service listed among the 20 worst organs of antisemitism world-wide) on their coverage, to be told by the Deputy Editor that the paper’s position on Israel was ‘in line with our readership.’  But the Features Editor invited me to write a number of articles, starting with what was wrong with the Church in the UK (in the end, I wrote five major articles over the decade that followed). However, the main thrust of the paper, read by every Anglican of note in this country, remained highly negative towards Jews and Judaism.

During this period, the BBC asked me to make a program about Judaism. It was very hard going, and reinforced the sense of a massive vested interest hostile to the Jewish community. To make matters worse, incidentally, there is a well-trodden path from journalism to the headship of Oxbridge colleges, so that anti-Jewish prejudices were likely to be confirmed in Higher Education institutions, especially the so-called ‘cream’ of our educational system.

Why bother with the Church at all, you might ask? Fewer than 2% of the population attended church in cities like London and Manchester. But the Church remains ‘by law established’, the Archbishop of Canterbury takes precedence after the Royal Family in British protocol, and a number of bishops sit as of right in the legislature and are able to influence attitudes and policies. A sense of entitlement is built in - a stark contrast to the situation in the US.  The Queen is still ‘Supreme Governor’ of the Church of England. This survival of the union between Church and State is the real reason for bothering to be involved with a failing institution.

I mentioned earlier the disinvestment question.  In February 2006, the General Synod – the supreme deliberative body of the Church of England – passed a motion recommending disinvestment from a company active in Israel (and this only a week after Hamas had taken power in Gaza!).  The wording of parts of the motion, as well as the tone of the debate, together with the action proposed, were marked by the influence of the BDS agenda. The vote seriously soured Anglican-Jewish relations, and was regarded by many as the worst setback in rapprochement for over 50 years.  I persistently made representations to the Ethical Investment Advisory Group of the Church Commissioners (who made the final decision); without such representations the motion might have been implemented, and could well have influenced government policy in the Middle East. In the event, on this occasion, we managed to halt proceedings. 

But there were many negative experiences. Friends in the neighboring county of Yorkshire, informed me that of over 1000 letters written by the Jewish leadership in that area to the Archbishop of York and his Assistant Bishops, as well as to local clergy, requesting meetings to put the record straight, only three had been answered. The 1190 York Massacre, mourned by the world-wide Jewish community every Tisha B’Av, seems not to have registered with the present-day Church there. Even recently, the latest Archbishop shortly after his appointment stated that Jesus was ‘black’; while he explained that he meant simply that Jesus was ‘not a white European’, the phraseology could be taken to deny the historical Jewishness of Jesus, and many criticized his comments on these grounds  He has also more recently used language redolent of religious compulsion.

‘McDonald’s makes hamburgers, Cadbury’s makes chocolate. Starbucks makes extremely horrible coffee. Heineken makes beer. Toyota makes cars. Rolex makes watches. The church of Jesus Christ makes disciples. That is our core business.’ (reported by Kaya Burgess in The Times of London, August 2^nd, 2022).

Nothing about fear of sin, love of truth, piety, humility, studying, learning, guarding one’s tongue, listening to the other, debate, 70 faces, love of one’s fellow human beings … No wonder, therefore, that there is a stream of would-be converts of all ages, religions, ethnicities and walks of life currently clamoring to become Jewish through the extremely strict Greater Manchester Orthodox Bet Din - and ironically, quite a few of these would-be converts to Judaism themselves come from black Christian backgrounds!  Do we actively encourage converts? Of course not. But what is a person trying to find a religious home to do if the ‘State Church’ is failing so conspicuously? 

Meanwhile, I had concluded that it was time to leave the UK.  From August 2006 until February 2008 I lived in Israel and experienced first-hand how well the minorities (comprising between 20 and 25% of the Israeli population) were actually doing. Haifa University was full of Muslim, Christian and Druze professors heading every department under the sun. I was invited to input into the University’s Arab-Jewish Center, whose Director was a Muslim mayor from a nearby village. He asked me to get the British not to boycott Haifa University. ‘Where will I go, if they close us’, he asked?

Shortly after arriving in the war-torn city in the middle of the Second Lebanon War, I was invited for Shabbat by the Chief Rabbi of Haifa and his wife. This was in October 2006, just after the Yom Tovim had ended. Back in the UK, the Church leadership and various political pundits from across the spectrum were blaming Israel for the latest hostilities from Hezbollah – unaware, apparently, of the sights I saw, a third of Haifa’s population having to flee, PTSD affecting people of all ages.

That evening I was greeted by Rabbi Shear Yashuv Cohen with the question, ‘What do you think about the Church of England?’ I thought I had misheard.  But this is Israel - no small talk at all, no words of welcome, straight down to brass tacks (I later learned that he had been alerted by the Chief Rabbi in the UK to my work for the Jewish project). I answered in kind: ‘They hate us.’

‘Yes, I know’, said the Chief Rabbi, but what are they really like?  They want me to be part of a new Anglican-Jewish Commission,’ he said.’ Should I do it, or not?’

This was a man who didn’t shy away from a challenge. As we’ve seen, he had already headed a similar delegation with the Vatican, so was in fact the chief interfaith representative of the Chief Rabbinate of the State of Israel.  I explained something of the role of the Church of England and how it differed from the Roman Catholic Church.  In the end, Rabbi Shear Yashuv went ahead with this venture of rapprochement. While he was alive, things went reasonably well with the Church of England. We even wrote a joint article about this sudden change of heart by the Church of England for the Church Times.

But since his death, his mistrust has been shown not to be misplaced. In November 2015, both the Archbishop of Canterbury and the present Bishop of Manchester made very public and widely-reported comments which assimilated the Isis attacks in France to the murderous behavior of Jewish ‘zealots’ at the time of Jesus (as reported in the Christian Scriptures).  Neither agreed to meet to discuss, let alone to retract, their statements.  I was pressured not to make public criticism of these two prelates. But associating Jews with the murderous activities of Isis, in which contemporary Jewish people were targeted by this Islamist organization, is to invite huge negative repercussions for Jewish communities.

More recently, the Archbishop of Canterbury has used highly inflammatory language in written criticisms of the State of Israel (particularly in respect of the treatment of Christian communities), and refused to retract when faced with incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. 

Meanwhile, the situation in the Roman Catholic Church has also deteriorated.  In August 2021, Pope Francis gave an address in which (reworking some words of St Paul) he spoke of the Jewish Law as ‘dead’ or bringing death. This effectively tore up 60 years of apparent Catholic repentance, and wholly undermined the undertakings made at R Shear Yashuv’s insistence fifteen years before, as well as the Second Vatican Council’s statements in the sixties, by implying that there is no spiritual nourishment in Judaism. Such a theology of contempt trickles down from the hierarchy to the ‘lower orders’, of course.

Beyond a few statements of protest from Israeli rabbis, there was little reaction to this. In contrast, when Pope Benedict seemed to be backsliding in his attitude to the Jewish community, Chief Rabbi Shear Yashuv had simply broken off relations with the Vatican - with the result that he became the first rabbi in history to be invited to address assembled bishops at the Vatican, which he did in 2008! But the Chief Rabbinate of Israel no longer seems to be the spiritual inheritor of Rav Kook, Rabbi Herzog, Rabbi Uziel and Rabbi Eliyahu.

Roman Catholics may feature far more prominently in the Jewish psyche than Anglicans; but we can recognize in both the same old tired anti-Semitic warhorses. Wherever Jews appear to be weak, the forces bent on destroying the Jewish people will rush in, which is why it is tremendously important that Israel remain strong, both physically and spiritually. If only the Anglo-Jewish community of the UK would also see the light and act accordingly in its relations with the State Church over here.

So should we all give up and go the only place we can think of as home – to Israel? A large and growing proportion of my own community and district have voted with their feet. My children have already left this country and are living happily in Israel. And now during and post Covid, many of my closest friends from this area have followed them.

But this is not quite the whole story.  After returning to Manchester in 2008, encouraged by my younger daughter, I started a fortnightly dialog group between learned Jews and Christians, which is still going strong and, since Covid, has even attracted new online participants from all over the UK, as well as from North America and Israel.

Meanwhile, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams, having retired to become Master of Magdalene College, Cambridge, hosted and chaired the book launch of my English-language version of the biography of  Rabbi Cohen (the Chief Rabbi had specifically wanted me to undertake this work on the basis of his knowledge of my record as a translator and a scholar).  The book launch (at the end of January 2017) was a marvelous event; but unfortunately, at the same time, an issue arose about the infamous Holocaust denier, David Irving.  I had been invited to visit Churchill College Cambridge (twinned with Haifa Technion), and there discovered a copy of one of Irving’s chillingly anti-Semitic books on display in the College’s Churchill Library.  Bad enough; but openly anti-semitic fliers in the city of Cambridge were another matter entirely.  It was clear that university cities were a major problem. Along with Rowan Williams, I worked to try and challenge this situation in other universities, including Manchester, where, once again, Irving’s books could be found filed under ‘History’ as if they were reliable sources for fact.

Despite my record as a teacher in the University, the Manchester University leadership refused to budge., A leading Jewish psychiatrist and myself visited the university, where we were informed that we were trying to prevent ‘free speech’, and that in any case both the Council of Christians and Jews and the University Department of Religions and Theology, led (they said) by a Jew, completely supported the university.

Rowan Williams wrote to the Vice Chancellor (she hadn’t agreed to see me) and received the response that she was following the Jewish Studies Department in her decision. The upshot was that David Irving on his website thanked the University of Manchester profusely for housing his works as real history. I had the same treatment on his website as his legal nemesis, Professor Deborah Lipstadt.  And Manchester University, the largest in Europe, is now widely regarded as a ‘no-go’ area for Jews.

There is a similar story to be told about York University, whose library also housed Holocaust Denial material - though in this case, a Jewish university student was eventually awarded compensation for the anti-Semitism he had experienced at the hands of students, university authorities and the Christian chaplains alike.

Around this time, the UK Press reported that only eight universities out of around 150 were regarded as ‘safe spaces’ for Jews, thus depriving Jewish students of the choice that was available to students from other backgrounds. At least three of these eight have been found more recently to have forfeited that confidence; one of the favored eight has also had to compensate a Jewish student for gross and persistent antisemitism. Neither the State Church nor the institutions devoted to protecting the Jewish community have made any effective intervention in all this.

In May 2017, I was invited by Ruth Gledhill, then editor of the global website, Christian Today, to contribute fortnightly ‘scholarly articles on Judaism’ in a popular style. My first article appeared just after the Manchester bombing of May 22nd 2017, in which, at a highly-advertised Ariana Grande concert, 22 children and young people were murdered by a Muslim bomber with links to the Didsbury Mosque (which had recently entered into a link with Manchester’s Anglican Cathedral).   In the last couple of years, Rowan Williams and I have collaborated in a number of joint articles on sometimes controversial topics for Christian Today, which I hope have done something to dispel misinformation about the Jewish project.

A by-product of this was that Rowan who, in November 2021, was to give an address at the Glasgow CoP 26 conference, asked me for the three main points I would make from a Jewish point of view on the subject of the environment. I chose Rashi’s famous comment on the first words of Bereshit and the first fruits, as well as the passages in Humash on Shemitta and the Jubilee Year, with its cancellation of debts and the freeing of slaves and prisoners. Rowan’s talk focused entirely on these subjects in their Tanach context, reiterating more than once that Jesus of course had been Jewish, and that his teachings were all Jewish teachings (a little later, Rowan repeated the substance of this talk at a seminar with the Secretary General of the United Nations).

At the same time, our own dialog group, after 14 years of studying in depth the 2000-year history of Jewish-Christian relations, decided that we needed to look at contemporary Jewish history in North America, too big a topic for me to tackle on my own.  By great serendipity, I had made contact once again with one of my original Jerusalem teachers, the now very famous and radical Rabbi Nathan Lopez Cardozo. His daughter had invited me to the synagogue in South Manchester where her husband had been appointed as rabbi, to be the scholar in residence over the May 2018 Shavuot weekend, and the subject was to be conversion in Judaism.  Despite the rival attractions of the wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle (no-one in Church or State having noticed the clash with Shavuot, it seems…) quite a crowd turned up to hear my talk on the Book of Ruth and how we should welcome converts. And in my spare time that weekend, I devoured the latest book by my former teacher, Jewish Law as Rebellion, and, frankly, couldn’t put it down (I later reviewed it for Christian Today).

In the Fall of 2020, when were all in lock-down, Rabbi Cardozo was due to speak online to a synagogue in Detroit hosted by Rabbi Asher Lopatin, who welcomed me with open arms to his Zoom presentation with Rabbi Cardozo, and then agreed to be the first North American speaker for our dialog group, concentrating on the history of American Orthodoxy in the last 150 years.

This was followed by Rabbi Eli Spitz of Orange County, California, giving us a similar Zoom talk on the Conservative movement in the USA, and finally Rabbi Raachel Jurovics from North Carolina, a Renewal Rabbi. All the Americans encountered as part of our dialog work were open, erudite, friendly and, frankly, a complete breath of fresh air. Rabbi Eli invited me to participate in his wonderful Covid-inspired online Psalm-a-Day series for his congregants. Rabbi Raachel introduced me to her husband, Dr Steve Jurovics, who talked to our group about his book, which advocated Tanach-based environmental issues for churches. I reviewed this book too for Christian Today.

And then the largest faith-based environmental group in the world, Hazon, contacted me from the USA. In an extraordinary coincidence, its founder, Nigel Savage, was born around the corner in North Manchester, and I had even taught at one time in his school. On top of this, the rabbi for Hazon was a UK native, now living in Israel, who had been the Jewish chaplain at Cambridge University around 20 years earlier, during my various book launches and spell as visiting lecturer. Nigel met our group online to talk about how to ‘let go’ in our lives, and Rabbi Yedidya Sinclair also agreed to talk to us on environmental issues. Later, I reviewed his own new book on Rav Kook’s thinking, which included brilliant translations of some of Rav Kook’s meditations on Shemitta.

The fourth contributor on this issue was former President of the Jewish Vegetarian Society of North America, Professor Richard Schwartz, also now living in Israel, whose book on vegetarianism I again agreed to review for Christian Today. So I was not totally surprised when Hazon asked to partner with our own Broughton Park Jewish-Christian Dialog Group and invited me to write a guest article for their Shemitta publication. As all this took place just before CoP 26 in Glasgow, it brought me some added kudos in the field of Jewish environmental thinking!

These new contacts helped with a very pressing situation affecting Londoners living in the area around Parliament. The tiny World Heritage park just outside Parliament was marked out by developers for the construction of a massive ‘Holocaust Memorial’. I turned to all my new friends in North America and Israel.  Everyone I knew from the Conservative Synagogue Psalm group in Orange County, California, including their wonderful Rabbi (a friend of Eli Wiesel), gladly signed our letter of protest, as did Rabbi Raachel and her husband, along with Professor Schwartz, Rabbi Sinclair, and my neighbors and friends from Greater Manchester, some of whom had recently made Aliyah. Most of these signatories were either Holocaust survivors themselves, or came, like myself, from Holocaust survivor or refugee families.  Rowan Williams and the local Anglican Area Dean of that part of London offered support, and Rowan and I wrote several joint articles and letters about what is really needed to increase awareness of the Jewish project - destroying a World Heritage park not being the most obvious option in the struggle to stem British antisemitism. The great Eli Wiesel had told me over thirty years ago at the 1991 Nobel Celebration in Oslo that constructions are not the answer; the answer is what I was doing in Liverpool – education, education and more Jewish education, bringing the Jewish project into the school curriculum at all levels. This country doesn’t have the will or the inclination to do this, and changing the mind of the British Establishment is no small task.  But for the help and solidarity of all our friends, we can be truly grateful.

There have been other projects where working together has proved to be fruitful. Rowan asked me to help with a choice of Jewish poetry for a new anthology of religious poems. [I steered him towards several names, so that we could include not only Paul Celan’s poems of agony and darkness, but also the great Yiddish poet, Avrom Sutzkever, fighter in and survivor of the Vilna Ghetto, as well as others who mainly wrote in Hebrew, such as Bialik, Rav Kook and Amichai.] I made suggestions for interpreting Paul Celan’s German and did some draft translations of Hebrew and Yiddish from scratch.

So, yes, in the field of ‘thought’ – philosophy, poetry, not to mention public matters on which we tend to agree – there can be a certain meeting of minds. But problems persist. A couple of years ago, I was asked by an Anglican clergy training college to lead some sessions on Hebrew Scripture for their students. But it was a different experience from my work with trainee clergy all those years ago in the seventies. Students – and staff  - would ask why Judaism is ‘such a violent religion’. I was taken aback by the ignorance of Hebrew Scripture and the unexamined stereotyping of ‘Jewish legalism’ and other unfounded tropes displayed by prospective clergy (as by their superiors).  Progress at grass roots in knowledge of Judaism seems if anything to have reversed, even on matters - like ‘evangelizing’ Jews - which we thought had been settled.

There are voices in the USA, Jewish as well as Christian, which seem to be sympathetic to a closer rapprochement between State and religion, But for Orthodox Jews to come closer to evangelicals and the Catholic Church, both of which at source do not wish us well, is not healthy, given the very small size of the Jewish diaspora community. Aligning with the style and values of proselytizing faiths like Islam and Christianity does Judaism no favors.

Here in the UK the two main political parties will exploit reference to ‘the Jews’ to advocate their own very different political agendas.  This is damaging for us.  The truth is that people do not really understand Jews, Judaism, or the Jewish project - least of all, it seems, the Church.  But despite the disturbing prospects of what the religious future here may hold after the death of the present monarch (whose successor seems to be fascinated by the Islamic world), one silver lining remains – the existence of a strong and powerful State of Israel.  Another is the advent of the Internet, enabling Jews all over the world to work together in dealing with the critical and complicated issues of our contemporary world - as our group has discovered to our amazement in the last two or three years.

Was Robert Wistrich asking too much when he urged me 20 years ago to take on this yoke of constantly challenging people who despise us and ultimately hope to cause our destruction? Have I wasted my time? Possibly.  In theological terms, will Esau never cease from hating Yaakov?

But Pirke Avot does say it all: ‘We may not be able to complete the task, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t give it a go.’

            Recent popular and aggressively anti-religious books have highlighted the Bible’s sanctioning of slavery as evidence of the Bible’s immorality.[1] One striking example can be found in a best-selling and deliberately provocative book by journalist, author, and political commentator Christopher Hitchens, who argues that the ethics of the Bible lead the sensitive modern thinker not so much to atheism as to “anti-theism:”

By this I mean the view that we ought to be glad that none of the religious myths has any truth to it, or in it. The Bible may, indeed does, contain a warrant for trafficking in humans, for ethnic cleansing, for slavery, for bride-price, and for indiscriminate massacre, but we are not bound by any of it because it was put together by crude, uncultured human mammals.[2]

Given the enormous outrage and repulsion that the modern Western world feels toward slavery, arguments like Hitchens’ find fertile ground.

Not all readers of the Bible have been moved to throw down an atheist gauntlet in the manner of Hitchens. Recent progressive theologians point to biblical slavery, along with animal sacrifice and the prohibition against homosexuality, as a moral anachronism that the Western world has outgrown. Unlike atheist critics, these progressive theologians are unwilling to reject their biblical traditions outright; in fact, they claim to take much inspiration and guidance from these traditions. Nevertheless, they find so many gaps between their modern moral sensitivities and the particular commandments and institutions of the Bible that their divergence from those institutions appears systemic. For example, in an article supporting the concept of single-sex marriage, Reform rabbi Devon Lerner points to biblical slavery as a basis for concluding that “Our world is very different from the world of the biblical times, and so all of our religious practices and interpretations of the Bible have necessarily changed and evolved through the centuries.”[3]

Orthodox Judaism has its share of morally sensitive thinkers, and they also have had to deal with the Western outrage over biblical slavery; naturally, in order to remain Orthodox, they have not been moved, as Hitchens was, to reject the Bible as primitively mammalian. They are, therefore, left with the task of resolving the conflict between the modern moral outcry against slavery and the Bible’s obvious sanction of the institution. Among Orthodox Jewish thinkers of the modern period, several creative—and sometimes mutually exclusive—approaches to this contradiction have emerged. Some have reinterpreted the biblical system in order to render it less offensive; others have questioned the moral superiority of the anti-slavery position; still others see biblical slavery as one of a few ephemeral accommodations to particular historical circumstances that the Western world has thankfully outgrown. This paper will examine these Orthodox approaches.

The case of slavery serves as a paradigm, as it helps us generate diverse approaches to a wide range of apparent ethical conflicts between Judaism and Western morality. It also traces the boundaries of acceptable theological resolutions within contemporary Orthodox Jewish thought. The three basic models for dealing with potentially noxious biblical systems and laws—limiting via reinterpretation, moral and social justification, and historical qualification—are found both in their pure forms and as alloys in this context, and they shed as much light, and perhaps more, on the general approach of the contemporary Orthodox commentator as they do on the institution of slavery itself.[4] As we shall see, in cases such as this, in which tradition so vividly seems to clash with modern thinking, even conservative rabbinic figures will feel compelled to subject tradition to large scale re-evaluation and re-interpretation.

The Biblical Systems of Slavery

            The Bible allows for several different systems of slavery, some more moderate than others—one applies to the Hebrew manservant (Ex. 21:2-6, Lev. 25:39–43), another to the Hebrew maidservant before the age of majority (Ex. 21:8–11),[5] and the third to Gentiles of either sex (Lev. 25: 44–46).[6] In order to highlight the three basic models for resolving the conflict we are presently studying, I will focus only on the biblical system of slavery most grating to the modern sensibility. A model that successfully disarms the offense in the most “unjust” system will easily disarm the relatively modest “injustices” of the more moderate systems. Although a study of the various systems of slavery as they are presented in the Bible itself would be interesting, we will take the talmudic categorization of these systems as a given, since all the Orthodox thinkers whom we will discuss accepted the talmudic understanding as the authoritative meaning of the Bible.[7] 

From the modern, egalitarian perspective, the Gentile slave is at a remarkable disadvantage. To be sure, even he benefits from significant rights that temper his obviously unfortunate state. These rights include, most notably, the right not to be killed, and given the history of slavery, this is a right that must not be taken for granted. According to Jewish law, the murder of any slave is a capital crime,[8] and a slave is freed should his master inflict a severe and permanent bodily injury.[9] Even the spiritual rights of the Gentile slave are protected to a degree; for example, a slave residing in the Land of Israel may not be taken to the Diaspora against his will, and if he is sold to a master in the Diaspora, he must be released.[10] Maimonides concludes his Laws of Slaves with an appeal to masters to treat their Gentile slaves mercifully, in accordance with “the attributes of saintliness and the ways of wisdom.”[11] 

Nevertheless, despite his many rights, of all types of slaves, only the Gentile slave is a slave for life. Children born to him are slaves as well, unless he succeeds in purchasing his freedom or is set free upon having suffered a severe and permanent bodily injury. The Hebrew slave, on the other hand, goes free after six years if he was sold by a court; his term of service could be longer if he sold himself into bondage or agrees to extend his term at the end of the six years imposed by the court, but in all cases, he goes free at the Jubilee year.[12] The Hebrew maidservant goes free automatically upon reaching the age of majority.[13]

The Hebrew slaves’ temporary status, together with the fact that they must be treated with great dignity by law, somewhat attenuates the moral difficulty of the institution.[14] Rather than harsh slavery, they could be likened to indentured servitude—a desperate and passing solution to the hunger of poverty or a reforming expiation following an act of theft. Maimonides notes that a Jew is sold into slavery against his will only after a theft that he is unable to repay; he may sell himself only if he is reduced to such poverty that “he has nothing left, not even a garment.”[15] Similarly, a Jewish girl is sold by a father unable to care for her needs.

In summary, although modern moralists may have many reservations about any of the Bible’s systems of slavery, they will clearly find the system of Gentile slaves-for-life the most offensive. For Orthodox thinkers, this system presents the greatest challenge. We turn now to examine the ways in which they responded to this challenge. 

Approach I: Limiting via Reinterpretation

R. Hirsch

            R. Samson Raphael Hirsch (1808–1888), the founder of German Jewry’s Torah im derekh eretz movement, moderates the conflict by reinterpreting the institution of biblical slavery. He limits its scope and emphasizes how—in this limited scope—it was of practical benefit to any individual slave.

 In R. Hirsch’s Germany, Jews were debating emancipation of a different kind—the emancipation of the Jews—and R. Hirsch was a cautious supporter. As a young rabbi in Oldenburg in the 1830s, R. Hirsch dedicated a chapter to the subject of Jewish emancipation in his first published book, The Nineteen Letters of Ben Uziel, a bold defense of Jewish tradition. The reasons R. Hirsch gives there for supporting Jewish emancipation could easily apply to the emancipation of slaves as well:

I rejoice when I perceive that in this concession of emancipation, regard for the inborn rights of men to live as equals among equals, and the principle that whosoever bears the seal of a child of God, unto whom belongs the earth, shall be willingly acknowledged by all as brother....[16]

Later in this chapter, R. Hirsch expresses some reservations about the emancipation of the Jews, since it might lead to greater assimilation, but this was a consideration unique to the Jewish condition in exile. Implicit in these particularistic reservations is the appreciation that the emancipation of other groups is an unqualified blessing. 

R. Hirsch more explicitly addressed the institution of biblical slavery several decades later in his commentary to the Pentateuch, which was published over the course of a decade (1867–1878). In several passages, he makes clear his discomfort with the biblical institution of slavery by emphasizing its limits, noting in his comments to Exodus 12:44 that nowhere does the Bible permit a Jew to enslave a free person; one may only purchase a person who has already been enslaved by others. In circumstances in which not only the concept of slavery exists, but actual slaves exist, the best thing a Jew can do is to buy them and care for them according to the relatively merciful laws of the Torah.

It is telling that R. Hirsch chooses to discuss biblical slavery in the context of the slave sharing in communal worship, in this case the Passover offering, which is itself a symbol of Jewish liberation. R. Hirsch emphasizes this irony and uses it to distinguish biblical slavery from its contemporary forms.

The consideration of certain circumstances is necessary, correctly to understand the fact that the Torah presupposes and allows the possession and purchase of slaves from abroad to a nation itself just released from slavery. No Jew could make any other human being into a slave. He could only acquire by purchase people who, by then universally accepted international law, were already slaves. But this transference into the property of a Jew was the one and only salvation for anybody who, according to the prevailing laws of the nations, was stamped as a slave. The terribly sad experiences of even the last century (Union, Jamaica 1865) teach us how completely unprotected and liable to the most inhuman treatment was the slave who in accordance with the national law was not emancipated, and even when emancipated, wherever he was, looked upon as still belonging to the slave class, or as a freed slave.[17]  

From this passage, it is clear that R. Hirsch sees biblical slavery as a practical improvement and not as an ideal. He argues that the purchase of a slave by a Jew would improve the lot of the slave, since slaves, wherever and whenever they existed and until his day, had no rights except in the house of a Jew. Even when emancipated, the freed slaves were often treated with the same exploitation and cruelty that they received in their master’s house. By becoming the property of the Jew, the slave became, to a great degree, a member of the Jewish people, with rights, religious obligations approximating those of his master, and a sense of community to the point that he was allowed to eat of the communal Passover sacrifice. The slaves of Jews were protected by law, and as R. Hirsch points out elsewhere in the same spirit, even the mental suffering of slaves is seen by God, who protects them and comforts them.[18]

R. Uziel

The first Sephardic Chief Rabbi of the State of Israel, R. Ben Zion Meir Hai Uziel (1880–1953), later adopted this same approach to slavery. R. Uziel explicitly writes his defense of biblical slavery in response to “those who mock the Torah of Israel, which permits the ownership of the Canaanite slave’s body.”

[B]ut were those mockers to think carefully, they would understand that this acquisition was not permitted other than regarding those who were already sold to their brothers under the same conditions. And even so, it was not permitted to exploit their bodies. Rather, even if one should damage a major human limb, this slave goes free, even for a tooth or an eye.… From here you see that the acquisition of a Canaanite slave that the Torah permits is for the good of the slave himself, to save him from his Canaanite brothers so that he should not be enslaved cruelly and physically exploited to the point of death.[19]

Both R. Hirsch and R. Uziel contrast the relatively merciful slavery of the Bible with the cruel slavery of the ancient world, a theme that is expressed repeatedly in popular Orthodox literature.

R. Hertz

Another example of this approach contrasting biblical slavery with other forms of slavery appears in R. Joseph H. Hertz’s commentary on the Pentateuch. R. Hertz (1872–1946) was the Chief Rabbi of the British Empire from 1913 until his passing, and his commentary was ubiquitous in English speaking congregations for some 50 years following its publication in 1936. In his comments to Leviticus 25:46, R. Hertz details how the “system of slavery which is tolerated by the Torah was fundamentally different from the cruel systems of the ancient world.” The Bible never permitted the chaining, maiming, branding, and crucifixion of slaves that were permitted in Greece and Rome; “A Fugitive Slave Law, such as existed in America, with the tracking of runaway slaves by blood hounds, would have been unthinkable to the Israelite of old.” Here, R. Hertz gives powerful expression to the historical premise that forms the foundation of R. Hirsch and R. Uziel’s argument: The system of slavery tolerated by the Bible was relatively merciful and represented a vast improvement not only over ancient forms of slavery, but even when compared to the nineteenth-century American iteration.

But for R. Hirsch and R. Uziel, an argument like that of R. Hertz did not go far enough. They were not satisfied with asserting that the Bible was only relatively merciful, tolerating a less offensive form of a basically unjust institution. As they led Judaism in the milieu of, respectively, modern Western Europe and the new Jewish State, they consistently attempted to show the Bible’s absolute morality—and therefore pertinence—in all times. In this case, they did so by imposing a qualification: Jews, they argued, were permitted to improve only the lot of the already enslaved by modifying the conditions of their enslavement. When qualified in this way, the purchase—but not the creation—of a slave could be viewed as something of a redemption and salvation. As we will see, other Orthodox thinkers are satisfied with the more modest argument that the Bible was merciful only in a relative manner.

Even if we accept the historical premises that underlie this approach, it remains difficult for several reasons, on both the universal and particular levels. One ethical problem that can be raised is that the Jewish purchase of slaves, even if good for any particular slave, would seem to encourage the enslavement of people in general. Both R. Hirsch and R. Uziel would agree that Jewish law forbids the purchase of stolen goods because such a purchase creates a market for stolen goods and thereby encourages theft.[20] One could plausibly argue that the purchase of slaves would similarly seem to encourage enslavement by creating a market for them. In response, R. Hirsch and R. Uziel might counter that we should care more about the actual and acute suffering of the already enslaved—who suffer in a way that stolen goods do not[21]—than the hypothetical effects on the slave market.  

A greater problem, however, is that the legal premise of their argument—that Jews may not themselves create Gentile slaves—seems to be inaccurate according to Jewish law. For example, a Gentile, monotheistic resident of Israel, a “ger toshav,” may sell himself to a Jew and become a permanent slave.[22] In fact, according to the code of Maimonides, a Jew who “seizes” a Gentile child or finds a Gentile baby can choose at his discretion to immerse him as a Gentile resident, as a slave, or as a free Jew.[23] In addition, a Jewish slave owner is allowed to breed Gentile slaves by ordering his Jewish slave to impregnate a female Gentile slave mate.[24]

The strength of these questions seems to cast some doubt on the validity of this approach to biblical slavery. At the same time, the Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel and the undisputed leader of Orthodox German Jewry were certainly aware of these laws. The degree to which they struggled to explain biblical slavery in a way that would conform to modern ethical sensibilities only highlights the importance of those sensibilities in their eyes. Although unquestionably Orthodox in outlook, they seemed to have little compunction about explaining a biblical law in a way that modestly can be termed “creative.”[25] One can only wonder if they would also rule based on their premises, were these laws to become practically relevant.

Approach II: Moral and Social Justification

Netziv 

A very different approach is found in the Bible commentary of R. Hirsch’s Eastern European contemporary, R. Naftali Tzvi Yehudah Berlin (1816–1893), head of the famous Volozhin Yeshiva. In his work of biblical exegesis Ha’amek Davar, R. Berlin (commonly referred to by his acronym as “Netziv”) accepts slavery as being in the moral and religious interest of the pagan. While R. Hirsch and R. Uziel reinterpret the laws of slavery and then show how purchase by a Jew is to the existing slave’s benefit, Netziv justifies the entire institution of slavery by appealing to the religious benefit any Gentile would derive from joining the nation of Israel, even in the limited and restrictive role as a slave.

The Bible (Lev. 25:44–45) states that slaves may be taken from both the pagan nations and the resident alien population:

And as for the male and female slaves whom you may have—it is from the nations that are around you that you shall buy male and female slaves.

Moreover, you may buy them from the children of the strangers who sojourn among you and from their families that are with you, whom they have begotten in your land; and they will be your possession.

In his commentary on these verses, Netziv notes that there is a positive biblical commandment to take slaves from the neighboring pagan nations (“from among them there was established a commandment”) in order to, as he puts it, “remove them from their idolatry.[26] In contrast, the ger toshav achieved his status by committing to abandon idolatry. Although he need not keep other ritual laws and is not considered a full convert to Judaism, there is no general obligation (“there is no commandment at all”) to convert Gentiles to Judaism, and therefore there can be no positive commandment to enslave the sojourner.

Still, the verses do give explicit permission to enslave even the monotheist sojourner, and Netziv does not seem to be have been troubled by this. Perhaps he would argue that although the religious development entailed by transforming a sojourner into slave is too small to make such enslavement a positive commandment, there is nevertheless still significant improvement. The Canaanite slave is, after all, obligated in Jewish law and ritual to a high degree, in a way similar to the obligations of any free Jewish woman, and that improvement would make the enslavement an overall positive development even for a ger toshav.

Sometimes, Netziv claims, slavery is the only way to help a vulgar person find positive religious expression in his life. For example, when discussing the curse of Ham, the son of Noah, Netziv writes that slavery fits the nature of Ham and his descendants. His comments are a response to the fact that although Noah cursed only Ham with slavery, many descendants of Shem and Japheth have also been enslaved, while at the same time many of descendants of Ham remain free.

Rather the curse was that one who arrives at the state of slavery would be fit for this, insofar as he is from the seed of slaves from birth, and from the womb, and from conception. This is not the case of Shem and Japheth. His seed is not fit for this, and even when he is a slave, his inner spirit longs to be free. Consequently, it is inconvenient to use him, and through some effort he will be made free.…[27]

            The modern moralist accepts personal autonomy and liberty as sacrosanct. In the conception of Netziv, however, the imposition of moral standards and monotheism is far more important, since only through moral practice and monotheist belief can any person fulfill his purpose on earth and return his soul to its divine source. Morality and monotheism accepted autonomously may be the ideal, but for a corrupt Ham and his descendants—both figurative and literal—a regulated and merciful system of slavery is a clear second best. One who views slavery only as a social institution may certainly find it terrible, and a Bible that supports it immoral; but Netziv, who sees slavery as a vehicle through which the pagan may participate to some degree in the covenant and commandments of Israel, justifies the sacrifice of personal liberty as worthwhile.[28]

Interestingly, in discussing the curse of Ham, R. Hirsch takes a position that on its surface closely approaches that of Netziv. He points out that Noah does not say that Canaan, the son of Ham, “will be a slave of Shem” as a prophetic description; rather, Noah prays, “may Canaan be a slave of Shem.” According to R. Hirsch, only through domination by the spiritual Shem can the sensual Canaan find a path to worshiping God, “to fulfilling his divine purpose.”[29] From this comment, one might easily understand that R. Hirsch believes in a form of racist elitism, but this would be inaccurate. True, the children of Shem have inherited their patriarch’s spiritual and moral disposition, while the children of Ham have inherited antinomian sensuality; nevertheless, R. Hirsch clearly describes Ham’s servitude as a historical vehicle for Ham’s spiritual reform and ultimate freedom: “From Shem will man learn to make his home a dwelling for the divine presence, and the divine presence will return to dwell among men.”[30]

In R. Hirsch’s conception, the ultimate subjugation of Canaan to Shem is not economic, material, or political; it is an inner acceptance of Shem’s values, of the yoke of self-restraint for the sake of heaven. Compared to R. Hirsch, Netziv’s emphasis is more practical and prosaic, dealing less with sweeping historical development and more with the moral and theological merits of actual slavery for actual individual slaves. According to Netziv, Noah’s curse remains eternally valid, and slavery thus remains the best hope for the morally challenged Canaan.

R. Kook

            R. Abraham Yitzhak Ha-Kohen Kook (1865–1935) was a close student of Netziv, and like his teacher, he unapologetically accepts slavery as just when controlled by the divine laws of the Bible and when practiced within the context of a merciful and moral society.[31] R. Kook’s acceptance of slavery is based on the premise that human beings are naturally and inevitably unequal—not in moral terms, as in the conception of Netziv, but rather in physical and economic terms. R. Kook argues that in order to prevent the strong from exploiting the weak, employers should be given an economic interest in the welfare of their workers, and this is best achieved when the latter are treated as property.

R. Kook cites the contemporary predicament of coal miners who, as free laborers, worked (and often still work) under horrible and sometimes tragic conditions. Were the mine owners to have an economic property interest in each individual worker, R. Kook argues, the owners would surely care for them better. When slavery is regulated by the laws of the Torah (which R. Kook understands to include not just the Bible but the oral tradition as well), the institution of slavery may, in fact, be the most merciful mode of life for such workers. Only when slave owners are cruel does the institution become monstrous; under such circumstances, it is better that there should be no slaves at all.

R. Kook is of the opinion that the laws of slavery are a noble, if not ideal, solution to a less than perfect economy. The ideal solution presumably would be merciful labor laws fulfilled by merciful people. Jewish law, however, recognizes that in reality, people will act in a way that is exploitative, and the Bible deals with this sad reality by prescribing slavery as one solution. As previously noted, however, in a world where people take cruel advantage, it is better to do away with that institution entirely.

R. Kook’s approach to slavery echoes his approach toward other Jewish laws—they are directed at people who are basically righteous, but who still have the human failings of a pre-messianic age. For R. Kook, the institution of slavery is an accommodation to historical reality, not just to the reality of slavery in the ancient world, but to the reality of any age before the advent of the messiah. On the one hand, in a messianic world, the laws of slavery would be unnecessary—similar to what R. Kook writes about the strictly modest separation between the sexes prescribed by the Jewish tradition.[32] In a perfected world, not only will slavery of humans be proscribed, but even the human domination of beasts—described by R. Kook as “ugly slavery”—will pass from the earth as humans return to the vegetarian state of Adam.[33] On the other hand, in an overly corrupt world, the laws of slavery that should protect the worker from exploitation are themselves abused and used to exploit the worker to a monstrous degree and must, therefore, be abandoned.[34]  

R. Kook writes that the Jewish People’s exilic state is a sign and a result of this moral corruption. In practice, therefore, he would have little sympathy for contemporary slavery. His practical renunciation of slavery on these grounds, despite the theoretical utility of the institution, recalls his discussion of Israel’s abandonment of political activity while in exile.[35] According to R. Kook, political activity is necessary in order to effect change on a communal level; nevertheless, in its exile, Israel abandoned the political arena, as political activity in the hands of the corrupt can only be destructive both to the self and to the polis.

Today, more than half a century after the New Deal, in an era in which labor laws and social safety nets are ubiquitous if not always generous, one might question to what degree R. Kook’s defense of biblical slavery is ingenuous. R. Kook, however, wrote his opinion about slavery in 1904, at a time when the exploitation of the proletariat was acute and driving much of the world toward economic and political revolution. We may honestly wonder how he might have amended his opinion after witnessing the reforms that developed in this social ferment and which are today accepted as standard practice in modern countries, but it is difficult to suggest that R. Kook did not sincerely present what he felt was a genuine and ancient solution to a perennial social and economic problem.

R. Dessler

            R. Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler (1892–1953) served as the spiritual and educational supervisor (“Mashgiah Ruhani”) of the Ponevezh Yeshiva in Israel. Many of R. Dessler’s teachings—which draw from the Mussar movement, the Hassidic movement, and the Lithuanian yeshiva tradition—have been collected in the five-volume Mikhtav me-Eliyahu, which is widely read in contemporary Orthodox circles. He referred to the matter of slavery in a short address to the yeshiva in the fall of 1950; his approach to slavery seems to borrow elements from both Netziv and R. Kook.  

Like Netziv, R. Dessler notes that the source of slavery is rooted in the biblical Ham’s moral corruption. Noah’s reaction to Ham’s act of violence, according to R. Dessler, indicates that the institution of slavery was intended to enable a “small” person to perfect himself by becoming a “vessel for a great” person.[36] Nevertheless, like R. Kook, R. Dessler disavows the practical utility of slavery in his contemporary world. He explains that over the course of history, the originally constructive relationship between slave and master changed for the worse, so that the relationship became defined less by moral superiority and more by inequalities of power in which the weak became the slaves of the strong. The powerful tried to justify their exploitation by taking on the external trappings of moral superiority—gentility and superficial manners—but these gestures were empty and often hypocritical.[37] Ultimately, the slaves threw off their yokes to become the dominant cultural force themselves, sadly lacking not only moral excellence but even shallow manners.

            R. Dessler’s explanation traces a history of ethical degeneration, from true moral leadership to exploitation supported by superficial and hypocritical moralizing and from empty exploitation to bald immorality. Without question, the world should be freed from the grip of hypocritical masters, moralizers, and imperialists, but in practice, we have found ourselves in an even worse state.

            While R. Hirsch views emancipation as a step along the road of social progress, R. Dessler sees it as just the opposite. This description of slavery parallels his general perspective on historical degeneration, yeridat ha-dorot,[38] a perspective grounded in classical rabbinic literature[39] that defines, to some degree, more right-wing Orthodoxy.[40] Modern humans rage against slavery because they know it only in its corrupted and cruel form. Were we to witness this institution as the Bible intended for it to be practiced, for the physical (R. Kook) or moral/spiritual (R. Dessler or Netziv) benefit of the slave, even modern people would agree that this is a useful institution.

Approach III: Historical Accommodation

R. Nahum Rabinovitch

            The several approaches we have summarized above were articulated by rabbinic thinkers who have become accepted in the Orthodox world as leading luminaries of past generations. Nevertheless, not all have found their approaches satisfying. Several contemporary rabbis have continued to grapple with the ethics of biblical slavery, both in writing and in the classroom, and it remains to be seen if their contributions will be widely accepted.

            One major current theme is that slavery, even in its biblical form, is indeed unjust. Above, we saw that R. Hertz refers to the Bible’s toleration of slavery when regulated by merciful laws. This is essentially an admission that slavery is not in the best interest of the slave—even having saved him from a worse slavery at the hands of a cruel master (R. Hirsch and R. Uziel), having saved him from idolatry (Netziv and R. Dessler), and having saved him from being fodder for the coal mines (R. Kook). Despite the admitted injustice, however, the Bible tolerated regulated slavery.

R. Hertz did not explain the reason for this tolerance, but contemporary Orthodox thinkers have developed this theme, arguing that the laws of slavery are not an ideal; rather, they fall into the category of laws that were given, in the words of the Talmud, “to appease the evil inclination.”[41] Accepting the concept of historical progress, R. Nahum Eliezer Rabinovitch (1928–2020), who served for many years as the Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Birkat Moshe in Israel, argues that the laws of biblical slavery were a practical accommodation and a minimum standard for the developing cultural circumstances described by the Bible, in which slavery remained a norm. As with the laws of polygamy, divorce, and war, here too the Bible speaks to circumstances that are real, not necessarily ideal.[42] R. Rabinovich bases his historical contextualization of certain commandments on the following passage from Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed:

Many things in our Law are due to something similar to this very governance on the part of Him who governs, may He be glorified and exalted. For a sudden transition from one opposite to another is impossible. And therefore man, according to his nature, is not capable of abandoning suddenly all to which he was accustomed.… Just as God perplexed them in anticipation of what their bodies were naturally incapable of bearing—turning them away from the high road toward which they had been going, toward another road so that the first intention should be achieved—so did He in anticipation of what the soul is naturally incapable of receiving, prescribe the laws that we have mentioned so that the first intention should be achieved, namely, the apprehension of Him, may He be exalted, and the rejection of idolatry.[43]

            R. Rabinovich points out that there is no positive obligation to buy a slave, because the ownership of another person is a violation of the essential equality of all humanity. Nevertheless, in giving the Torah to Israel, God recognized that this young nation was living in a world in which slavery was a normative institution. For reasons both social and economic, the Jews would have been unable, at that point in history, to give up the institution of slavery completely. The Bible therefore chose to regulate and improve the existing institution until the time came when humanity would grow out of it.[44] Like animal sacrifice, slavery was permitted as an accommodation; but unlike animal sacrifice—and in applying Maimonides’ principle to slavery, this seems to be R. Rabinovich’s subtle innovation—slavery could ultimately vanish completely, since there is no positive obligation to own slaves, as there is to offer sacrifices.[45]

Whereas R. Dessler and other Orthodox Jewish thinkers see history as a process of ethical decline, R. Rabinovich, like R. Hirsch, takes ethical progress for granted. R. Rabinovitch's approach is echoed and amplified by R. Norman Lamm (1927–2020), who served as the President of Yeshiva University for many years. R. Lamm catalogues several biblical laws, including slavery, that were passively suspended when they were regarded as “counter-productive” in a moral climate of “heightened sensitivity.”[46] This claim was recently re-articulated by the former Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, R. Jonathan Sacks (1948–2020):

In miracles, God changes nature but never human nature. Were He to do so, the entire project of the Torah—the free worship of free human beings—would have been rendered null and void… God wanted mankind to abolish slavery but by their own choice, and that takes time. Ancient economies were dependent on slavery… Slavery as such was not abolished in Britain and America until the nineteenth century, and in America not without a civil war. The challenge to which Torah legislation was an answer is: how can one create a social structure in which, of their own accord, people will eventually come to see slavery as wrong and freely choose to abandon it?[47]

            R. Rabinovitch addresses two related difficulties with this approach. First, if the institution of slavery is only an unfortunate and temporary accommodation, we would imagine that emancipation would be encouraged for Gentile slaves at all times, just as it is required for Hebrew slaves every Jubilee. In fact, the opposite is true, as Leviticus (25: 39, 43–46) seems to encourage the purchase of Gentile slaves:

If any of your brothers become impoverished and sell themselves to you, do not work him as you would a slave… Do not rule over him ruthlessly; but fear your God. And your male and female slaves—from among the foreigners who live among you may you purchase male or female slaves. Also from the children of the resident foreigners who live among you may you take, and from their family that is with you, to whom they gave birth in your land; they shall be for you as an inheritance. And you shall pass them on to your children after you as a permanent inheritance, and with them should you work; but with your brothers the children of Israel—a man and his brother—do not rule over his ruthlessly.

R. Rabinovich responds that by actively encouraging the enslavement of Gentiles, the Bible was weaning Israel away from the enslavement of Jews; in the future, however, even the enslavement of Gentiles would be discouraged. In a world where slavery was considered economically necessary, the Jews were directed to take neighboring pagans instead of their monotheist brothers.[48] This at once limited slavery, gave the slaves rights, educated the pagans, and slowly led to a transformation of thought. From a perception that slavery was necessary, it became viewed as a necessary evil; later it became viewed as simply evil. 

A second difficulty for this approach is that it seems to contradict the talmudic law that forbids freeing a Gentile slave.[49] Again, if all people would be emancipated in an ideal world, we would expect Jewish law to encourage the emancipation of any particular slave at any time, but in fact, the opposite is the case.

In response, R. Rabinovich recognizes the paradoxical nature of these laws, and explains that once the Gentile entered—to a limited degree—the people of Israel, he could not simply be given his freedom:

Once a slave had tasted of God’s commandments, it would be unreasonable for him to return to idolatry. And so it was forbidden for his master to sell him to a Gentile, and even more so to restore him to full Gentile status.

If, on the other hand, he were to be set free as a full Jew, he would have converted to Judaism without any volition on his part. R. Rabinovich argues that the prohibition against freeing slaves derives mostly from concern that Israel should not be making masses of, in effect, forced converts.[50]

Finally, R. Rabinovich argues that the prohibition against freeing slaves should not be overemphasized. The Talmud and later codes note many instances in which slaves could and should be freed. For example, a slave could be freed in order to facilitate the enhanced performance of any commandment, even one of only rabbinic authority; the Talmud reports that R. Eleazer once freed a slave in order to be able to pray with a minyan (Berakhot 47b and Gittin 38b). This precedent was accepted as law by Maimonides[51] and R. Yosef Karo[52] in their codes. In effect, that which seems categorically prohibited in the Bible was accepted as relatively banal in the time of the Talmud.

Apparently, it was so common for the Jews of the tannaitic period to free their slaves that Jews were even persecuted for this very reason by the Romans. The Talmud reports that R. Eleazar ben Parta was brought before the Roman authorities and accused of freeing his slaves. When he denied this, one of his former slaves rose to testify against him (Avodah Zarah 17b). The Talmud does not elaborate on the basis for the Romans’ displeasure with R. Eleazar, leading Rashi to suggest an explanation. He comments that the Romans decreed against the freeing of slaves because it was understood to be a Jewish custom (“dat Yehudit”), and this, apparently, was one of the many decrees enacted to break the uniquely Jewish spirit.

R. Shlomo Goren (1917–1994), as Chief Rabbi of the Israel Defense Forces (he would later become the Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi of Israel), celebrated this story and the history it symbolizes in an article written for the army magazine Mahanaim.[53] The Romans identified the Jews with emancipation, and ever since, R. Goren claims, Jews have continually been at the forefront of the emancipation movement. The degree to which this claim is historically accurate is beyond the scope of this article.[54] For our purposes, R. Goren’s spirited embrace of the values of emancipation, and the ease with which he marginalizes the normative institution of biblical slavery, including the apparent prohibition on freeing slaves, testifies to this Orthodox rabbi’s unambiguous acceptance of certain modern egalitarian values, as well as his comfort in reinterpreting biblical values and laws in light of modern ethical conceptions.

Conclusion

            The moral outrage that modern thinkers share against slavery has elicited widely different responses to the moral status of biblical slavery. Not only are there differences between the religious and the anti-religious, but there are differences even within the ranks of Orthodox Jewry. This subject highlights various Orthodox perspectives on history: Some Orthodox thinkers lament the loss of a potentially valuable social instrument due to the moral decline of society throughout history, while others point to emancipation as a sign of moral progress. Even more centrally, our examination of the topic shows the varying degrees with which Orthodox thinkers acknowledge the moral values of their contemporary society and the different models with which they confront those values. Some are more apologetic, limiting biblical slavery so that it conforms to modern conceptions. Others assert that the Bible contains moral accommodations that society has transcended.

Interestingly, even conservative thinkers—who justify slavery by pointing to the social, economic, moral, and spiritual benefits it gives to the weak and the vulgar—may have been moved by modern conceptions to justify slavery in accordance with those conceptions. Accepting that only a direct benefit to the slave himself could be an acceptable justification for enslavement, almost all would agree that the practical application of this once normative institution would be unthinkable today. Of course, the most conservative rabbis might argue that their approaches are informed only by unchanging biblical values, that their views have always been the Jewish view,[55] and that they have not been influenced by modern notions of egalitarianism. These claims would have to be tested by a comparative study of the talmudic and medieval rabbinic literature on this subject—a study that would be of great value, but which is beyond the scope of this paper.

Acknowlegments

My thanks to David Berger, Meira Mintz, Yitzchok Segal, David Shatz, Meir Triebitz, and the anonymous referees of The Torah U-Madda Journal for their comments and suggestions.