National Scholar Updates

Oliver Sacks (1933–2015) was dubbed by the New York Times as “the poet laureate of medicine.” His many years as a neurologist brought him into close contact with many human beings with severe disorders—and he seemed to learn from each of them. To him, they were not “cases” but real people, human beings whose lives had been seriously impaired, who needed care, who still had something to teach. His many books reached millions of readers and opened new and deep worlds to us.

            Dr. Sacks was raised in a fairly observant Orthodox Jewish family in Cricklewood, England. Although later in life he reminisced about the positive elements in his religious upbringing, by the time he was a teenager he was already drifting away from the religious lifestyle of his family. At some point he admitted to his father that he had homosexual tendencies, “but don't tell Ma, she won’t be able to take it.” But his father, a medical doctor, did tell his mother, also a medical doctor, that their son was homosexually inclined. The next morning his mother “came down with a look of horror on her face, and shrieked at me: ‘You are an abomination. I wish you had never been born’” (Gratitude, pp. 37–38). Although the subject seems never to have come up again with his parents, the searing pain of his mother’s remark never went away.

            After becoming a doctor in 1960, Sacks left his family and community, in search of a new setting for his life. He moved to Los Angeles where he continued his studies in neurology. Feeling an inner void, he turned to drugs and a near-suicidal addiction to amphetamines. He slowly recovered, and then found meaningful work in New York in a chronic care hospital in the Bronx, the Mount Carmel. “I was fascinated by my patients there, cared for them deeply, and felt something of a mission to tell their stories—stories of situations virtually unknown, almost unimaginable, to the general public and, indeed, to many of my colleagues” (Ibid., p. 39).

            Throughout his life, Sacks dealt with loneliness, feelings of not belonging. He had a variety of neurological problems of his own, and then later in life had to deal with injuries, and eventually with bouts of cancer. Perhaps because he had these issues, he was able to view life with deeper insight and intensity, greater empathy for sufferers, gratitude for all the genuine blessings he did enjoy.

            An underlying theme of his work was expressed simply and elegantly: “The essential thing is feeling at home in the world, knowing in the depths of one’s being that one has a real place in the home of the world” (Awakenings, p. 272). As we go through life, we need to feel that we are rooted in something real and strong, that we can live without fear and despair. But this is not easy to achieve.

For all of us have a basic, intuitive feeling that once we were whole and well; at ease, at peace, at home in the world; totally united with the grounds of our being; and that then we lost this primal, happy, innocent state, and fell into our present sickness and suffering. We had something of infinite beauty and preciousness—and we lost it; we spend our lives searching for what we have lost; and one day, perhaps, we will suddenly find it. And this will be the miracle, the millennium! (Ibid., p. 29)

            In his book, An Anthropologist from Mars, he tells the story of Franco Magnani, a man who had only one subject and who talked about nothing else. It was the story of his hometown in Italy, Pontito. Magnani could imagine every building, every brick in every building; he could hear the sounds of the church bells. He painted scenes from Pontito with amazing accuracy and eye for detail. During World War II, the Germans had occupied Pontito, and Magnani’s family had to escape. When they returned after the war, they found that things had changed for the worse. Buildings were defaced, the previously neat town was in shambles. Franco was a fatherless ten-year-old child at the time. He told his mother: “I shall make Pontito again for you, I shall create it again for you.” When he later was living in the United States, he began to paint scenes of Pontito. His first painting was of the house where he was born, and he sent it to his mother. “In some sense he was redeeming his promise to reconstruct Pontito for her” (p. 167).

            Oliver Sacks knew that Franco Magnani had an obsession; Franco felt himself the sole survivor and rememberer of a world forever gone. But Sacks then extrapolates from Franco’s situation:

Discontinuity and nostalgia are most profound if, in growing up, we leave or lose the place where we were born and spent our childhood, if we become expatriates or exiles, if the place, or the life, we were brought up in is changed beyond recognition or destroyed. All of us, finally, are exiles from the past. (p. 169)

            But being an “exile” also has its positive elements. When one feels at least somewhat of an outsider, the very feelings of unease can generate creativity and originality. Confrontation fosters friction that can lead to boldness, confidence, independent thinking. “It takes a special energy, over and above one’s creative potential, a special audacity or subversiveness, to strike out in a new direction once one is settled. It is a gamble as all creative projects must be, for the new direction may not turn out to be productive at all” (The River of Consciousness, pp. 139–140). People sometimes lock themselves into an intellectual box; they do not allow themselves “to encounter new ideas, to create a mental space, a category with potential connection—and then to bring these ideas into full and stable consciousness, to give them conceptual form, holding them in mind even if they contradict one’s existing concepts, beliefs, or categories” (Ibid., p. 205).

            Sacks had a “spaciousness of mind,” a deep and spontaneous curiosity about how human beings function; how our minds and senses perceive reality; how each detail of nature deserves close and concerted attention.

We take our senses for granted. We feel we are given the visual world, for example, complete with depth, color, movement, form and meaning all perfectly matched and synchronous. Given this seeming unity, it may not occur to us that there are many different elements composing a single visual scene, and that all of these have to be separately analyzed and then put together. (Musicophilia, p. 105)

            As he was facing his own imminent death, Oliver Sacks wrote a beautiful essay drawing on his memories of the Jewish Sabbath as observed in the home of his youth, and in the homes of many of his relatives. The peace of Sabbath was palpable, a time outside time.

And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life—achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest. (Gratitude, p. 45)

            Dr. Oliver Sacks’s mother had once wished that he had never been born. I suppose she changed her mind as she witnessed the impressive person he was to become and the significant achievements he was to attain. But those who have benefited from his care and his wisdom are very grateful that he was born. Our world is larger and better because of him.

*   *   *

            I first discovered Dr. Oliver Sacks when I read his book, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, published in 1985. He wrote about a variety of people who had serious neurological deficiencies, and who dealt with problems that most people—thankfully—do not have to confront. Although the symptoms were so strange, Sacks writes about them with warmth and empathy; we come to focus on the human beings not on their symptoms. We all, after all, have deficiencies of one kind or another—or many deficiencies. Dr. Sacks’s genius was not to judge us for what we lack, but for what we are.

            Someone once told Dr. Sacks: “You’ve always been a rover. There are rovers, and there are settlers, but you’re definitely a rover. You seem to have one strange adventure after another. I wonder if you will ever find your destination” (A Leg to Stand On, p. 66). I think that by the end of his life, Dr. Sacks had found his destination, calmly and wisely.

References

A Leg to Stand On, Simon and Schuster, New York, 1998.

An Anthropologist on Mars, Vintage Books, New York, 1996.

Awakenings, Picador Books, London, 1990 (first published 1973).

Gratitude, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 2019.

The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Summit Books, New York, 1985.

The Mind’s Eye, Picador Books, London, 2011.

The River of Consciousness, Vintage Books, New York, 2017.

Musicophilia, Vintage Books, New York, 2008.

For the past several years, I have contributed postings to a number of websites on the subject of the dangerously charismatic teacher in schools. The material was based on my book on Jewish school management that was published at the beginning of 2010. The section on the charismatic teacher was entitled “The Pied Piper.”’[i]

Tragically, between the time that the section was originally written (in 2007) and the time the book was published, a former Jewish Studies teacher at our school was arrested on very serious charges of sexual molestation and assault. His alleged offenses were committed in Israel. Following his arrest, an investigation in Toronto unearthed many issues of concern. He had exemplified many of the good and many of the bad characteristics of the charismatic teacher, especially one active in the religious life of the school. While in Toronto (as a shaliah) he had been immensely popular; had been idolized by students and by some staff; was a talented musician, much in demand locally as a singer at weddings and other community celebrations; and was also used by NCSY as a youth leader and resource. Many former students testified to the profound religious influence he had on their lives. Others—as it emerged—had far darker, tragic, and damaging memories.

The whole episode and its aftermath caused me many hours of reflection, and made me reconsider fundamentally many other encounters throughout my life with charismatic rabbis and teachers—in both personal and professional capacities. I concluded that although many good teachers and rabbis have elements of charisma in their personalities and style, the overtly charismatic personality almost always masks far more sinister agendas, and must be treated and managed with the utmost caution. The tipping point is where the personality of the teacher/rabbi is more important than the content of his message or teaching. Sadly, most readers of this article will be familiar with examples from within our own community, let alone examples from other educational and religious communities.

Where, though, are the boundaries? At what point does charisma become dangerous? In a community (and a wider world) where an elusive quality called “spirituality” is constantly sought as representing the “authentic” in the religious quest, how can the individual, or the community, or the responsible leader, distinguish the teacher with integrity from the predator?

It can be difficult; but there are some obvious danger signs. They may be present in different combinations, and seem to have some degree of overlap with recognized patterns of cult behavior, although they are rarely so blatant. They may include, but are not limited to:

The personality of the rabbi/teacher becomes the most important part of his presence, rather than the content of what he is teaching. When people go to a shiur, or a workshop, or a lesson, to see what “X” is doing or saying—rather than what “X” is teaching—a personality cult is in the making. The same applies when their conversation is about X’s latest action, or remark, or appearance—rather than X’s “Torah.” A truly spiritual personality, in a Jewish context, is concerned to bring people to God, not to himself (more rarely—herself).

Extreme emotional or pseudo-intellectual manipulations are being used to demonstrate that X, and only X, has “the answer.” A spiritually and intellectually honest teacher will rarely deal in absolutes.
The teachings and views of others—particularly rivals for the charismatic teacher’s popularity—are openly disparaged or undermined.

In an institutional or community setting, the followers of the charismatic rabbi/teacher become a group within a group. They do not mix with others, and see themselves as an elite.
Individuals or small groups regard themselves as favored protégés of the teacher. When they no longer uncritically accept the teacher’s philosophy or Torah, they are quickly dropped; disillusion—often accompanied by feelings of betrayal—sets in.
Counseling, advice and guidance are being given on deeply personal, perhaps intimate matters, far beyond the training and competence of the rabbi/teacher. The personalities we are describing will often invite such disclosures.
There is one clear sign that should immediately raise red flags:

The rabbi/teacher teaches, or shows by behavior, that he or she is exempt from the rules that apply to others. Mesmerized followers accept that “it”—whatever “it” is—is permissible or not problematic because the rabbi/teacher has special reasons, or a special argument, or special circumstances, or special authority, to justify the behavior. Often, there is an accompanying condition: Don’t tell anyone about this, because no one else can understand.

This is most obvious in a sexual context, but any and every such instance is suspect. Are meetings and encounters taking place at times, places, and in circumstances that violate accepted norms and practices? Are improper communications passed between individuals? Are money, gifts, favors, special treatment being exchanged?

The sad list goes on. Unfortunately, in our community context, too many people who should know better willfully ignore such danger signs, arguing that the ends justify the means. The word “kiruv” frequently figures in such discussions. It takes a great deal of courage, and a great deal of conviction, to stand up against this type of activity.

We live in a time of extremes. Some of the religious leaders of our age have embarked on a battle against the world we live in. The argument that to be a loyal Jew (a “Torah Jew”) involves rejection of science and culture has to involve an emotional, not an intellectual position, and ipso facto it has to involve rejection—usually vehement rejection—of others. Parallel or analogous political positions and beliefs will generate similar behaviors. They all encourage extreme personalities. Tolerating, let alone encouraging, extreme personalities makes the group vulnerable to unhealthy influence and behavior.

We need charisma—it has an honorable history in leadership, certainly including models of Jewish leadership—but we need it to be combined with uncompromising, uncompromised, and comprehensive integrity. That integrity has to be religious, emotional, behavioral, and intellectual. But it is very difficult to be a charismatic moderate!

[i]The character of the Pied Piper remains a seductive and sinister figure in folklore. According to legend, in 1284 130 children mysteriously disappeared from the medieval German city of Hamelin (Hameln). A man dressed in colorful (“pied”) clothing, and playing a pipe mesmerized the city’s children with his music. Bewitched, and entirely under his control, they blindly followed him out of the city to an unknown destination, and were never seen again. (Also by playing his pipe, he had lured the rats that plagued the city to their deaths by drowning in the local river. The town council refused to pay him for his services. In an act of revenge, he worked his magic on the children.) The poet Robert Browning (1812–1889) immortalized the story in verse (“The Pied Piper of Hamelin”).

"Behold, he stands behind our wall, he looks in from the windows; he peers through the lattice."

—Song of Songs, 2:9

Early in our marriage, my husband and I shopped for groceries every Sunday—not a simple event. Mama went with us. Each week we guided my husband's eighty-some year old mother to the car. She took tiny steps and held her son's arm as though she was walking a tight-rope. I took her opposite elbow and between the two of us, we placed her gently in the back seat and buckled her in. She would nod a thank you to her son and motion her daughter-in-law to stop fussing and get in the car. She was safe, thanks to family and God.

As we pulled away from our home, a soft, whispering breath would seep through the air. It was barely audible, yet persistent. The further we traveled, the stronger it became—not in volume, but in strength. Mama was talking to herself. Her mouth moved and soft hissing noises were all I could make out.

"She's frightened," I would announce to my husband. "Maybe we should stop the car and tell her everything is fine and not to worry."

"She's not frightened. She's talking under her nose to God. She never travels anywhere without talking to God."

I can't count the times I turned in my seat to observe Mama, praying in her home language of Yiddish. She was in a special world, just her and God. As she prayed beneath her nose, her facial expressions changed as if she was having a conversation with someone next to her.

"She's really talking to God." I surmised every time we traveled with her.

"Of course she is. Don't disturb her." My husband would answer with a serious tone. "She thinks she's alone and no one can hear what they're talking about."

For 12 years, I was privileged to listen to this old woman's prayers. In the early years, I was overly conscious of keeping a kosher kitchen that would meet Mama's expectations. Was I putting everything in the right place; was this spoon now non-kosher because I dropped it in the "red" sink instead of the "blue"? How many mistakes could I make before my mother-in-law would not accept me as 100 percent Jewish? She was such a holy lady. She'd survived Nazis, Stalin, and the KGB, and during these times of oppression, had never compromised on her halakhic responsibilities. She had learned religious boundaries from her parents and grandparents. My husband and his family had paid a handsome price for the privilege of living and remaining Jewish in the former Soviet Union.

Friday evenings, Mama carefully lit her candles, then scurried to each room announcing, “Shabbas. Gut Shabbas." My husband explained she needed to bless every piece of space in the house with Gut Shabbas! Every religious thought, each action was as natural to her as breathing. She gave it no thought and, I am certain, had no idea I watched and admired her every move.

Mama traveled from Moldova to America as a refugee in the early 1990s with her son and husband to be able to live as a Jew without being afraid. Now, she had an insecure, ba'alat teshuvah daughter-in-law who could not speak any of her languages and spent more time worrying about process than how the food tasted. No matter. All was solved one afternoon. Late one summer, Mama became ill and had to be hospitalized. She improved quickly, and while her son was at work, I sat by her bedside. The day before she was able to return home, a cheerful, Orthodox rabbi stopped by to wish her well. He spoke Yiddish and the two of them talked and laughed while I sat mesmerized, wishing I could understand at least every other word.

Finally, Mama fell asleep. The rabbi had pity on me and gently asked, "Did you understand what she was saying?"

"Not a word." I admitted.

"She was talking about you."

Oh, great, I immediately thought. Now the entire community will know what a Jewish failure I am. I waited, precariously for the rabbi to continue.

"She says you're a good girl. You keep a kosher home. You chant the blessing over Shabbat candles with a melody she's never heard before. It's a melody that touches her heart. You take good care of her son. She likes you. But she'd like you to be a bit more modest."

Modest? In a nano-second panic, I quickly checked my skirt and touched my head to see if I forgot to cover my hair that morning. Here was an opportunity for failure I had not counted on.

"No. That's not what your mother-in-law means." The rabbi interrupted as if reading my mind. "She wants to remind you that our people learned modesty from the cat. Everything a cat does is seemingly without effort. When a cat runs, it's as though they will never tire. They move effortlessly. When a dog runs, they labor, they pant and they call attention to themselves. She's overjoyed her son married an Orthodox, religious girl. But, she worries that you are becoming obsessed with right and wrong. You think too much. Rules are important, but if you don't have time to talk with God, what's the point? There is no shame in making a mistake—correct it and move on. She doesn't want you to exchange the spirituality she hears in your melodies for rules and build an empty shell for the sake of being an Orthodox Jew who lives only to recognize the right butcher."

It was a good lesson. But it was just one of many I'd collected long before I'd met Mama. I've been fortunate to have met excellent and balanced teachers over the years. I've sought out rabbis who I believed were respected, and who touched my heart in some way and were kind, compassionate and honest community leaders. I attended their lectures when I could, bought their books and listened to their tapes. I read and accepted the teachings of scholars and leaders they admired. Every year, I balanced the spiritual with the religious and became a bit more observant and "Orthodox."

Many years ago, a good friend had recently married and moved to the upper midwest. She was newly observant and had married a man who came from an observant Orthodox family. I'd been invited to their new home for Pesah. I arrived early to assist my friend with cleaning and other preparations. Everybody knows it's exhausting to prepare for Pesah. But this was different. My friend was frightened. She feared shame. She was worried she would make a mistake, not make the grade, or that she would say the wrong thing to the right person.

We cleaned and scoured, making sure we had the right food and the right utensils and plates unpacked. Together we worked from sunup until well past midnight. We slept a few hours and were at it again early each morning. Finally, we were close to finishing. As we sat in the kitchen, I observed how tired my friend looked. She could barely hold a conversation. Normally, her eyes sparkled with joy and energy, but on this day they were dull and mirrored defeat.

That afternoon, her husband asked a question about the Pesah silverware. As we soon realized, we'd forgotten to unpack them. My friend immediately sprang to her feet and rummaged frantically through boxes she'd carefully labeled. I watched her body stiffen. She turned to her husband and announced the silverware was misplaced and had been packed with the hametz dishes.

Her husband, a kind person, offered a joke to break the gruesome tension that had entered the room. It was the worst thing he could have done. My friend burst in

to tears of exhaustion and shame, sobbing, "I am just not a good enough Jew. I'm not Orthodox enough. I'll never fit in."

I decided it would be a good time to take a walk around the lake and give my friends some privacy to reignite shalom bayyit into the world. While walking, I had a conversation with myself that has continued on and off until this day: What are we doing to ourselves? Is our pursuit of halakhic perfection taking the place of the oppressors that plagued my husband and his family in the former Soviet Union? After all, a Torah observant life should be joyful and balanced with spirituality, connecting us to the source of our purpose and beginnings.

Another story—this one is about a woman who'd lived longer than anyone I'd known. Her

name was Sophie. I met Sophie on her 90th birthday. She lived in a community that had once had an active Orthodox presence, but had succumbed to in-fighting and assimilation. Only a few Jewish families remained and those who had not inter-married, had moved to communities with stronger Orthodox lifestyles. Sophie refused to move. She was responsible for the Hevrah Kadisha, the religious burial society. It became her responsibility to teach the non-religious to bury their dead in the proper manner.

"Just because Jews aren't acting like Jews, doesn't mean they aren't Jews. It's my job to teach them how to do a taharah, a purification. My purpose in life is to teach how to sew takhrihim[DEA1] . If the young ones want to buy them from New York, fine. But they still need to learn how to take care of our dead and our cemeteries."

The only services that continued after this century-old community began to dwindle were Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Shabbat services had long since ended. Every Shabbat, I walked to Sophie‘s home and we prayed together, silently—each at our own pace. Sophie fixed an elaborate Shabbat lunch and we talked about Israel and Judaism in general. Sometimes, I'd bring a friend along.

One Shabbat a young woman I'd met at a Women's Study Group in Winnipeg called and asked for Shabbat hospitality. I obliged and arranged to take her to Sophie's house to pray and enjoy Shabbat with this elder, who had joyfully become my best friend. My visitor asked many questions about kashruth and whether or not Sophie was “Orthodox.” She didn't ask if the old woman was Jewish, just Orthodox. I began to regret inviting this young woman to spend Shabbat with us. I could just imagine her telling Sophie the recipe for mock-liver passed down to her from her great-grandmother who was not really Jewish. Silly, I finally decided. Why worry about Sophie? Now 95, she could take care of herself.

We arrived and were welcomed into Sophie's modest home. Sophie made sure we were comfortable before suggesting we join her while she finished her Shabbat prayers. Our visitor began swaying and shuckling; bowing, sitting and standing. Our elder hostess sat on a kitchen chair she always placed in her living room for prayer purposes. Whether she stood or sat, the only discernable movement was in her lips. They moved, continuously without uttering a word. I'd become focused on my own religious expression and upon completing the service, I noticed our visitor had closed her siddur and sat motionless as she listened to Sophie complete her prayers by chanting a soft, haunting melody.

"That was beautiful." Our guest complimented. "Where is that niggun from? Is it Hassidic? Is it Mitnaged? It sounds German. Which rebbe is it from?"

Sophie placed her siddur on her table and smiled, pleased with the attention. "It's from Sophie. My great-grandmother told us when we were little girls that if a woman doesn't have her own melody, she's destined to be in exile all her life—God forbid."

We chatted and then found our way to Sophie's kitchen where a meal was about to unfold, layer by layer. It was a particularly dark, winter day and Sophie had forgotten to leave the light in the kitchen on. It was like entering a dark cave.

"Oy. The light." Sophie clasped her hands together. "I forgot the light."

This revelation began a halakhic discussion about turning lights on and off on Shabbat. Sophie's two young guests began to discuss ways we could turn the light on. Is there a neighbor we can call, a non-Jew? We talked on and on. This rabbi said that, and that rabbi said this—it went on until Sophie decided to take the matter into her own hands.

"Girls. You rely too much on rabbis. Here's the solution." Sophie, who was all of four feet eight inches tall and almost as wide, reached behind our visitor and switched on the light. "There. Now, that wasn't too much work—was it? You two talk too much and you both take yourselves too seriously."

Did Sophie violate the laws of Shabbat that afternoon? Yes, she did. A few years later I received a call from my visiting friend. She began, "I was wondering. Is Sophie still alive?"

"No, she left the world well after her 100th year."

"Ah, I thought she'd probably passed away. Surely she is in the highest heaven. Do you know there is not a week that goes by I don't think of the Shabbat I spent with you and her. Remember her story about melody? It has taken me 10 years to find my own melody. I appreciate our teachers, but I've learned to celebrate my own actions and opinions. I am not so afraid to make an error. I have a little girl now. Her middle name is Sophie and I teach her that if she makes a mistake, instead of feeling ashamed or less than Jewish, she should celebrate by singing in a voice only God can hear. If I'd never heard Sophie pray, or if she'd never teased us about our seriousness by switching on that light on Shabbat, I'd never have understood our rules and laws are meant to be borders that form a vessel for spirituality."

Many years have passed since I last saw Sophie. Not so long ago, I realized when I speak of my beloved and respected teachers, they are all rabbis—all men. Sometimes, the strongest influences in one's life are so subtle, it's easy to forget that much of who I've become spiritually is because of the inspiration I've received from the gentle and quiet elder women I've known. Each one had a personal understanding of God. Their faith was solid, whole, and beyond words or explanation. They had strong boundaries and mischievous smiles. They were not talkers, but celebrated their private affairs with God, stretching their arms to ensure boundaries were far enough apart that the vessel of spiritual, holy expression could hold all it needed to say. They had such wealthy souls, their hearts and homes were open to anyone regardless of the spiritual level they were on, or followed. The old women who took time with me knew who they were, where they belonged and their purpose in our world became little seeds I carried with me and watched bloom no matter where I ended up. Their secret, private melodies were so obviously from the heart that strangers fortunate enough to overhear them were certain they were listening to remnants as old as our days in the wilderness.

I have built friendships with Jewish sisters who have roots many believe are traceable to David haMelekh. Their faith and knowledge of Judaism and its practices are beyond reproach. Many of my contemporary sisters are recent returnees, or converts to Judaism in search of understanding and balance in their religious expression. Besides being Jewish, all of us have a common thread: the quest to express an individual spirituality within the boundaries of halakha fully, without fear, shame or censorship. Many rabbis teach the story of the Baal Shem Tov where some 200 years ago, the BeSht predicted, in the days just before Mashiah, all things spiritual will be in the hands of women.

I don't know if Mashiah has signed a lease, or invested in Israeli real estate to date, but I feel a tension in the Jewish world. It's a tension like the one that invaded my newly wedded friends' home on Pesah long ago. Some Orthodox Jewish leaders are saying assimilation of American Jews is like a holocaust—worse than the Nazis (God forbid). Some of our most learned, hessed-focused and grass-roots rabbis are compromising. In order to keep their communities alive, strong, and financially viable, they sanction eating in restaurants that are not kosher. They dismiss our Shabbat laws as optional and pen sermons that rationalize intermarriage and call our Torah a series of harmless myths. They are angry their conversions are not recognized and they contend Orthodoxy is marginalizing their ideas and input. They announce that the most Torah observant among the Jewish people have lost spirituality. They too are ashamed that maybe they are not able to fit within Jewish Orthodox boundaries. They find solace and understanding in the more dominant, Christian culture of America, calling themselves bridge-builders. Instead of modeling Jewish spirituality and ethics, they are eager to blend into the greater society, to be accepted and taken seriously.

Have we become our own oppressors? Have the melodies of Orthodoxy become so haughty and superior that we've created a hierarchy of snobs who can't appreciate new songs? Has it become too difficult for the common Jew to adhere to halakha without losing the deep, inner spirituality and faith our ancestors celebrated and expressed so naturally?

I'm a simple, humble Jewish woman. I don't pretend to understand the complicated factions that are rising within and beyond Orthodox Judaism. I worry that our communities are assimilating and our community leaders often times are more interested in baseball scores than studying Torah or finding deeper understanding of our beautiful religion and spiritual path. I cry because we are learning to fear and mistrust each other instead of teaching strength, tolerance, and compassion to the non-Jewish world. I am concerned that the most learned among us are forgetting how to balance strength with compassion. Their creative spirits have been overshadowed by an interpretation of laws and rules that offer such a narrow space, there is little room to celebrate shalom veShalvah in our communities, let alone the world. It is tragic that many of us have lost our taste for creating haunting, beautiful melodies that are new, yet feel old, because we fear that sharing our souls with our own people may prove we don't really belong, or were never wanted in the first place.

I am saddened that many traditional Jews spend so much effort making what they perceive as gray into black or white; they have forgotten the world is actually in color. It is equally worrisome our more liberal, grass-roots community leaders have deep souls, yet do not think it worthy to tame and groom their spiritual selves with strong boundaries and observance that connect us to our past, eventually influencing our future and current state of spiritual health.

But, I know my limits. Not long ago, I admitted to myself that it is easier to leave the intellectual parsing and dissection of complex Jewish religious dogma versus spirituality to my teachers, more learned brothers and sisters, or better yet, to haShem. I've become a victim of my own oppression and am afraid my opinion will not only be unwanted in Orthodox circles, but someone will ask me to leave, suggesting I never belonged in the first place. I have also learned that liberal Jewish communities are just as likely to exclude those with an opinion that differs from the majority.

Last Shavuoth I could not stop thinking of Mama, Sophie, and all the elders who have helped shape my soul. I decided I am no longer a child with ears and no voice. I have learned from others and have perfected my practice of Judaism while finding my spiritual center. The elders I cherished over the years have passed on, leaving behind pieces of their souls and an abundant inheritance. Over the years, Orthodox rabbis and teachers have taught me boundaries. They've provided a map that guides me even in the driest, flattest desert. In between these boundaries are memories of Mama blessing the air with Shabbat, teaching me simplicity and the importance of sincere expression of spirituality within our traditions. The sound of Sophie's melody fills this space as well. I sit shoulder to shoulder with women my age who are just one step away from assuming the responsibility of becoming community elders themselves. They've found their spiritual voice and pray to God beneath their noses when no one is the wiser.

In traditional Judaism, our Rebbetzins often appear silent. One must listen closely to hear their voices. They sing strong melodies with silent words. Many have such vast roots it is as though they have no beginning or end. Others come from secular homes, families who have intermarried or have conversions in their histories. But, all sing new songs that may as well be from old voices. They sing of compliance, borders, and rules. They cover their hair and tell stories no one has heard before, because these stories come from their paths and are filled with their spirituality. They have discovered that our Torah is the source of our being. They seek out each other and the men relax, grow quiet in their presence and have more time to pray and strengthen their boundaries as Jews. These holy women exhale belonging while nurturing and encouraging everyone, no matter what sound another person's prayer makes.

These holy Rebbetzins have learned not to operate from anger. They teach that where there is anger, there is no possibility of sustaining a relationship or communication. They teach about the great sin; a sin that can never be excused. What action, speech, or behavior among Jews could be so unforgivable? They answer with a softness one cannot ignore: When human beings offers you their special gift, something only they can see or teach the world, and we refuse to listen to their contribution and celebrate their presence, there is no way this kind of arrogance can be forgiven. It is bad enough for relationships between Jews and the non-Jewish world to experience this kind of impasse—but for such sadness to exist between Jews is enough to break the heart of the whole world.

Perhaps our collective concern should not be the assimilation of Jewish culture as our great rabbis and thinkers suggest. It might be as important to worry about our individual and collective character traits. If you are standing in the place where you belong, and a family shows up on Shabbat by car because they live too far to walk, why not welcome them? Maybe next year they will buy a home in the neighborhood. If a member of the community is seen buying shrimp at Sam's Club—assume it is a special gift for their non-Jewish neighbor. Isn't it a mitzvah to always assume and think the best of each other? If as an individual, you keep your heart open; your community will reflect this.

Kind, sweet communities attract special people-Jew and non-Jew alike. Conversely, if you draw your boundaries, or speak out about a subject in your "kind and sweet community" and find you are a minority, don't let fear or anger consume or affect you negatively—move on. Keep speaking, keep listening and stay balanced with a little compassion, a little kindness and a lot of strength. It's a privilege to sing an old melody, but the world and haShem are hungry for new songs that have the exact same notes that old voices have already sung.

My great grandmother taught, there are two ways to do things-the right way and the wrong way. The wrong way is telling everyone how to do it the right way. Every Jew is connected to the other—be they Orthodox or Reform; ger, frum or ba'al teshuvah; Sephardic or Ashkenazic. Each Jew has a special song, a special melody and the whole world enjoys a good tune—one that reflects the past, present, and future. We should fix our ears and eyes to be able to hear, see, and share our own holiness in the world we live in. We should be blessed with the knowledge to know where our boundaries begin and end, and when we take a big breath we should not fear our own healthy expansion.

I was visiting a synagogue earlier this year and a heavy-set woman sitting next to me placed her hands in her lap, turned her palms upward and began to sob. Little tears ran down a face that suggested the woman had aged beyond her years. She wept because she had something to say; she prayed because she believed God was lonely for her voice. She came to the synagogue and sat in the women's section because that is where she belonged. An affinity grew between us in the short time we sat together. It was a beautiful moment of belonging and loneliness, and instead of a transient moment one might attribute to chance, something magical made us look at each other as though we were related. The stranger dropped her gaze to the floor and spoke, "Sorry, my prayers sound like little tears. My grandmother taught me to talk to God with tears. I usually stay home so as not to upset anyone."

I answered, "No problem. God and the world need every tear and every Jew. Did you ever hear the story that one day all things spiritual will be in the hands of women?"

The holy stranger laughed. "I'm just a convert. My husband and I are on vacation. He thinks I'm too emotional. I need to learn more rules. Maybe I'll fit in with time."

And with that parting comment, she stood and disappeared into the crowd. If it had not been Shabbat, I'd have found a pen, written her name down and never lost track of her. This special soul had the capacity to bless the whole world with strong vessels and demand we fill ourselves with tears of sason veSimha. These are the kind of people whose melodies sound old, but are really as new as the morning sun. May our people be blessed to find their special melodies and may we never become so afraid of each other that we fail to sing and share our special songs.

Freedom and Redemption

            At the Pesaḥ seder, toward the end of the Maggid section of the Haggadah, after we have recounted and, ideally, experienced for ourselves the Exodus as if we ourselves had departed from Egypt (perhaps one of the most difficult assignments in Judaism), we raise the second cup of wine and declare the following:

Therefore it is our duty to thank, praise, laud, glorify, exalt, honor, bless, raise high, and acclaim the One who has performed all these miracles for our ancestors and for us; who has brought us out from slavery to freedom, from sorrow to joy, from grief to celebration; from darkness to great light and from enslavement to redemption; and so we shall sing a new song before God. Halleluya![1]

The responsibility of Jews to be grateful to God is not only for facts of creation and our lives, but also for our liberation. Yet why the need to provide two versions of what would appear to be the same idea: from slavery to freedom and from enslavement to redemption? Why both formulations? Are freedom and redemption the same thing?

Let My People Go

“Let My people go!” In this manner, Moses relayed God’s demand of Pharaoh. The Egyptians enslaved the Hebrews, and Moses sought to secure their freedom. In this we see that liberation from slavery and tyranny and “God’s identity as the liberator of slaves” rests at the foundation, the very birth, of the Jewish nation.[2] The Exodus from Egypt transformed what had been a family, and then a tribe, into a nation. This account of liberation underlies not only Jewish history, but has often served as a symbol, an example, a rallying point for enslaved and oppressed people the world over, most notably for African Americans in the struggle for civil rights in the United States. And this example remains shockingly relevant in our own days, with tens of millions of people the world over enslaved.[3]

In daily prayers, Jews recall the Exodus from Egypt, and once a year bring considerably greater focus to the event. The weeklong Pesaḥ holiday commemorates this departure and journey. Indeed, the prayer book refers to the holiday as zeman ḥerutenu, the “season of our freedom.” During the Passover Seder, Jews recite the text of the Haggadah, seeking not only to retell the story, but to experience it for themselves: “Generation by generation, each person must see himself as if he himself had come out of Egypt....’”[4] Indeed, from the very beginning of the Haggadah, the theme of freedom is raised: “This year we are slaves; next year, may we be free people.” The language used here is the vernacular Aramaic, the common language of the people for whom the Haggadah was first written.

Let My People Go, and…?

“Let My people go!” In this manner, Moses relayed God’s demand of Pharaoh. And we repeat it here—because this is not the complete statement. Twice, in Exodus 7:16 and 7:26, the Torah tells us that God told Moses to tell Pharaoh “Send out My people, and they will serve Me.” V’ya′avduni, and they will serve Me—the same root letters as in the Hebrew word for servant or slave: ′ayin, bet, and dalet. As Rabbi Ezra Bick asks, “Is that merely a trading of one master for another, more exalted perhaps, but essentially the same?”[5] Did the Hebrews go from servitude to freedom, or from one servitude to another servitude? Or, is it possible to conceive of servitude to God as a kind of freedom, as redemption even? In reliving the Exodus, the Hagaddah tells us why we must, in each generation, see ourselves as if we had been liberated from Egypt: “It was not only our ancestors whom the Holy One redeemed; God redeemed us too along with them, as it is said: ‘God took us out of there, to bring us to the land God promised our ancestors and to give it to us.’”[6]

The Exodus is not limited to the physical liberation from Egypt. The physical liberation is intended to result in service to God and some sort of redemption. Indeed, at the Passover Seder one learns that freedom is not a simple idea, but rather a nuanced concept. A central part of the Haggadah is the elaboration of four different dimensions of freedom and redemption, of God leading the people to freedom: (1) “and I removed you” (v’hotseiti); (2) “and I rescued you” (v’hitsalti); (3) “and I redeemed you” (v’ga′alti); and (4) “and I took you” (v’lakaḥti). There are various, overlapping explanations of these four—as stages in a single process, as a journey, as types (including physical and spiritual), as increasing closeness to God—but the point is that freedom is not a single thing. And perhaps also that freedom and redemption might not quite be the same thing.

Two Types of Liberty

To understand the notion of serving God as an act of freedom rather than one of slavery, as well as a possible means of distinguishing between freedom and redemption, we might first turn to a classic text by a renowned thinker, a Jew, though not one hailing from a traditional, religious community: “Two Concepts of Liberty” by Isaiah Berlin (1909–1997). In this landmark essay, first published in 1958, Berlin articulates a distinction between what he names “Positive Liberty” and “Negative Liberty.”[7] In brief, Negative Liberty refers to the absence of restrictions. The less others interfere in my life, the freer I am. Some describe Negative Liberty as freedom from, in contrast with what Berlin termed “Positive Liberty.” This latter type of freedom concerns the ability of a human to make something of his or her life and has been termed freedom to.

How do most of us commonly understand freedom? We generally characterize freedom as the absence of restrictions. If I am free, I can do absolutely anything I want. It makes sense to us, seems self-evident, to say I am most free when I am least restricted, and vice versa, that when I am most restricted, I am least free. And this sense of freedom accords with Berlin’s Negative Liberty.

Proponents of Positive Liberty might argue, however, that a person could have all the Negative Liberty one could want, an absence of any and all external restrictions, but illness or poverty or debt or depression or lack of education or something else might yet prevent this individual from acting freely, from functioning as the master of one’s own life. Some would therefore posit that by providing universal health care or subsidized education or, at an even more basic level, safe sanitation and water systems, or by otherwise helping put in place the foundations for productive living, a government can help people be free, become freer—even if in providing such foundations a government must violate the Negative Liberty of its citizens.

In a sense, Negative Liberty proposes no end goals, no aim for living freely; such is left to each individual. Positive Liberty, by contrast, implies at least some sort of ability to act in the world, to do something with one’s life, whether as an individual or as part of a community. To many, it further implies some sort of goal, some destiny even—the fulfillment of which is an achievement of living freely. Or, in other words, Negative Liberty is solely concerned with removing external constraints from living freely, whereas Positive Liberty addresses the means of living freely, and possibly the ends as well.

Perhaps one might fairly describe Berlin’s Positive Liberty as noble and ennobling, but is it freedom? The question is difficult—mostly because, as we have noted, both positions make some sense intuitively. We think of freedom as the absence of restrictions, as not being imprisoned by others. This often seems to us what freedom really is. And yet, if we consider someone who, while free from restrictions, nonetheless does not have the capacity—the foundations, the resources, the security—to build a life, we do not necessarily think of such a person as living a truly free life.

A Free Person in Servitude?

What might be the consequences of unlimited Negative Liberty? If a person is totally free, is he or she free at all? To have no restrictions, no limitations, is this not an invitation for anarchy and chaos? Indeed, one might suppose that an anarchic freedom without limits would quickly become chaotic, violent, and far from free—as per Hobbes and his notion of life outside of society being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”

With no anchors or standards, the completely free person risks becoming a slave to desire and to whim. Unencumbered by morality, by societal taboos and customs, by laws, a person is free to follow desire and seek pleasure without end. I am speaking philosophically here—to make a point about freedom—and I do not at all mean to suggest that nonreligious individuals must be or even often are slaves to their whims and desires. None of us lives absolutely freely, and empirical evidence unambiguously demonstrates that living an ostensibly religious life provides no guarantee against living by whim or even immorally. Indeed, the thirteenth-century giant, Rabbi Moses ben Nachman (1194–1270; also known as Nachmanides and as the Ramban), found a need to coin the term naval b’reshut ha-Torah: “a scoundrel with the permission of the Torah.” By this he meant, for example, someone who ate only kosher food, but to gluttonous excess. Although some might find it difficult to understand, it is possible to not break a single law of the Torah and yet not be a mentsch, a decent and kind human being. And likewise, to live a secular life is not at all determinative of living by whim or immorally. The point, rather, is that our commonsense notions of freedom reveal something of a paradox, or at least an irony: that although fewer restrictions means greater freedom, at some point freedom can become excessive and chaotic, undermining itself. Again, this is a philosophical point—that, in principle, an individual living under a regime of pure Negative Liberty, an apparently free individual, could live for all practical purposes as a servant, at least to his or her desires or appetites.

A Free Servant?

We still find ourselves with the inverse conundrum: even if we might agree intuitively that an ostensibly free person can be enslaved to his or her passions, how can we say that someone who is avowedly a servant can be free?

And the Torah and Talmud make pretty clear that Jews are servants.

To begin, we find as one of the key themes of Rosh haShanah, the Jewish New Year the notion of kabbalat ′ol malkhut shamayim, the “acceptance of the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven,” or the “receiving of the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven.” The phrase is also associated with the recitation of the Shema, Judaism’s central statement of faith: “Listen, Israel, Ha-Shem (The Lord) is our God, Ha-Shem (The Lord) is One.”[8] The statement is meant to be recited twice daily and even a third time before going to sleep at night. The second line of the prayer refers to God’s Kingdom, providing a clear link to this “yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven.” We also speak of ′ol ha-mitzvot, the “yoke of the mitzvot.” Like oxen, we are yoked in our servitude of God and in the performance of God’s commandments. A yoke achieves its basic function in constraining free movement. It would seem therefore that restriction functions as something of a basic theological principle in Judaism.

In Pirkei Avot 6:3, Rabbi Neḥunya ben haKanna explains that “One who takes on himself the yoke of Torah will be spared the yoke of government and the yoke of worldly responsibilities, but one who throws off [from himself] the yoke of Torah will bear the yoke of government and the yoke of worldly responsibilities.”[9] In addition to the yokes of the mitzvoth and the Kingdom of Heaven, we have here the yoke of Torah, the yoke of kingship, and the yoke of the way of the land. One interpretation, perhaps the more straightforward interpretation of this teaching, has it that one who accepts the yoke of Torah will merit not being burdened by the difficulties of government and of earning a livelihood. An alternative interpretation would be that the yoke of Torah provides a spiritual or emotional freedom from government and livelihood, though not necessarily a practical or political freedom. In this sense, accepting the yoke of Torah frees us by helping us understand what is truly important.

In any case, whether the yoke of Torah, the yoke of mitzvoth, or the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven—surely, this does not sound like liberty!

Furthermore, religiously observant Jews consider themselves ′ovdei Ha-Shem, “servants of God.” And the book of Deuteronomy characterizes Judaism’s greatest prophet, Moses, as an ′eved Ha-Shem, which can be translated as either “a slave of God” or “a servant of God” (Deut. 35:4). Nowhere does the Bible describe prophets or Jews in general as “free individuals.” In the times of the Temples in Jerusalem, the carrying out of animal sacrifices was known as the ′avodah, the “service.” In the understanding of the rabbis, prayer replaced sacrifice as the central means of service to God, and they called prayer ′avodat ha-lev, the “service of the heart.” Many Jews pray three times each day and thereby undertake this service of the heart. Such Jews offer up their prayers to God, just as their ancestors offered up animal and agricultural sacrifices to God. How can people who engage in such service, or servitude—and within Judaism this is an obligatory, not a voluntary servitude—be considered truly free? And given all of the other, many religious obligations—including prohibitions on performing certain activities on the Sabbath, as well as various dietary and relationship prohibitions, and also positive obligations to do certain things, such as honoring one’s parents and enjoying the Sabbath— it might seem that we cannot but conclude that any ritually observant Jewish life is lacking in freedom, that it is even perhaps a sort of subjugation or enslavement.

*****

Having cited the evidence of our servitude, can we find an argument establishing our freedom in such servitude? There are, indeed, a few different possibilities.

1. Structure. As we have already suggested, perhaps the most basic argument or claim is this: if the complete lack of restrictions leads to anarchy, any meaningful freedom requires some degree of structure. To take the claim further, one might say that structure not only allows for freedom but that some structural frameworks can facilitate or cultivate freedom—and some frameworks more than others.

Let us take the Jewish Sabbath as an example. Who is freer? The Jew who adheres to the Sabbath laws, including the prohibitions on such activities as driving, watching television, talking on the telephone, and spending money? Or, the Jew who has no Sabbath? And what about the Jew who observes something of a Sabbath, but makes exceptions when some other demands arise?

To start, although there might not be evidence from surveys, experience suggests that the majority of those who keep the Sabbath generally experience it as freeing, especially in our days of a wired world, where many people feel naked without a charged cell phone in their hands. Instead of being enslaved to the car, the television, the telephone, and money, a person is free of these demands, perhaps even compulsions. A person is free to learn, to socialize, to spend quality time with one’s family. It is time set aside, and not to be eclipsed by so many other competitors for one’s attention. Furthermore, this mandated structure affects the experience of the entire week, building a rhythm, and creating a sanctuary in time, as Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel described it.[10] Without the Sabbath, every day can be the same. Meaningful time spent with one’s spouse or children or other relatives or friends can be put off indefinitely when there is no day of rest set in the calendar. This is not to say that living a meaningful life of freedom is impossible without the Sabbath, just that this structure can help generate meaningful freedom.

This principle could be applied well beyond the Sabbath to the broad and intricate structural framework of the mitzvoth, and of Jewish law—the halakha—which really means not “Law” but rather “Way” or “Path.” Ideally, Jewish law does not merely enumerate dos and don’ts, but instead provides a pathway through life.

Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo takes such ideas one step further, arguing that the halakhic framework can engender creativity. In arguing that Judaism can provide a structure and community within which an individual can exercise great freedom, Rabbi Cardozo offers a fascinating analogy, comparing the musical genius of Beethoven and Bach. Which one, he wonders, was the greater composer?

Bach was totally traditional in his approach to music. He adhered strictly to the rules of composing music as understood in his days. Nowhere in all his compositions do we find deviation from these rules. But what is most surprising is that Bach’s musical output is not only unprecedented but, above all, astonishingly creative. . . . What we discover is that the self-imposed restrictions of Bach to keep to the traditional rules of composition forced him to become the author of such outstandingly innovative music that nobody after him was ever able to follow in his footsteps. It was within the “confinement of the law” that Bach burst out with unprecedented creativity. . . . Beethoven (in his later years) broke with all the accepted rules of composition. He was one of the founders of a whole new world of musical options. But it was his rejection of the conventional musical laws which made him less of a musical genius. To work within constraints and then to be utterly novel is the ultimate sign of unprecedented greatness.[11]

Rabbi Cardozo’s understanding of Bach and Beethoven shows how freedom can be found within the law and not simply in its absence. Although Bach might have seemed less innovative, the fact is that he worked within a stricter framework and nonetheless exhibited great creativity. Bach found freedom within structure, within a set of rules, and Rabbi Cardozo counts this as a more masterful achievement than that of Beethoven, whose innovation took place with fewer rules and limits. Likewise, the argument continues, within the framework of Jewish law, the halakha, there is the potential for greater creativity, innovation, and even freedom than in a system without such constraints.

In this regard, the Talmud offers a telling play on words. Exodus 32:16 tells us about the first set of tablets Moses brought with him down Mount Sinai: “The tablets, they are the work of God, and the writing, it is the writing of God, engraved on the tablets.” In Pirkei Avot 6:2, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi comments on the verse, considering the word “engraved,” ḥarut in the Hebrew: “Read not ḥarut (‘engraved’) but ḥerut (‘freedom’), for the only person who is truly free is one who occupies himself with Torah study.”[12] That is, the very word we use to describe Passover as zeman ḥerutenu, the time of our freedom, appears to share a linguistic root with the word for engraving, for carving something into stone! To carve something into stone, or into one’s body, indicates a kind of permanence, a binding or sorts, the seeming antithesis of freedom. Rabbi Levi is teaching that such an engraving or binding actually generates freedom. To generalize, one might say that structure and limits can and do allow freedom to flourish.

Indeed, as John Locke—long an inspiration for generations of libertarians and others championing Negative Liberty—himself wrote, “the end of Law is not to abolish or restrain, but to preserve and enlarge Freedom: for in all the states of created beings capable of Laws, where there is no Law, there is no Freedom.”[13]

2. Purpose. Considering the themes of Passover, one might again ask whether or not redemption is the same thing as liberation? Did God liberate the Jews or redeem them? And can one be redeemed without becoming free? Both terms clearly indicate removal from a situation of servitude or imprisonment. To what alternative situation, though? Liberation does not really point to any future state, it is fundamentally about shedding restrictions. To redeem someone, by contrast, suggests a reason—redeemed for or to what purpose? For example, we speak of redeeming captives or, to use a more prosaic example, redeeming coupons. We may be freeing up a little bit of money with our coupon, but redemption is not in this case liberation. In the context of the Exodus, the purpose of redemption was to serve God. On the face of it, this would seem to prove contradictory to freedom, yet in this situation, at least, redemption required freedom as a precondition, meaning that it is not contradictory.

3. A Different Kind of Master. While we can conceive of the service of God as voluntary, certainly the Egyptian bondage of the Jews was not. Relatedly, Rabbi Bick, who raised for us the question about trading one master for another, points out what he takes to be a critical difference between servitude of God and servitude of Pharaoh or another human being: “A slave is totally dependent on his master. The basis of his life and his destiny is in the hands of his owner. Since the master is one who has needs of his own, who needs to acquire power to achieve his goals, the slave becomes an instrument in achieving the ends of the master.” A servant of God, by contrast, has a very different relationship with his or her master:

God has no needs that we can fill. The individual does not become an instrument for achieving the ends of God by being dependent on Him. The dependence on God is total, absolute. Everything we have, everything we want, everything we can possibly achieve, must come from Him. Avoda, service of God, is the recognition of total dependence. The dependence is so total, so absolute, precisely because God has everything, and THEREFORE, HE NEEDS NOTHING FROM US.[14]

That is, although earthly masters provide some sustenance to their servants or slaves, they also expect and demand and extract something, labor or otherwise, in return. Although God might command us, God needs nothing from us, and this fact cannot but alter the entire dynamic of servitude. Now, not everyone agrees on this theological point, that God needs nothing from human beings, but given this axiom, Rabbi Bick’s logic does seem to follow—at least that there might be a difference between serving a master who needs things and extracts them and serving a master who requires nothing. In this sense, a person is not simply exchanging one master for another, though one might question whether Rabbi Bick is describing freedom in servitude or just a different kind of servitude.

4. Communal Freedom. Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (1903–1993, also known as the Rav), the intellectual leader of Modern Orthodox Judaism in the twentieth century, presents yet another twist on the Exodus and the notion of Passover’s freedom. The Paschal sacrifice was critical to the Exodus itself and to the observance of Passover through to the times of the Temples in Jerusalem. One thing distinguishing the sacrifice of the lamb is that it cannot be brought by an individual. Rather, it is brought by a ḥavura, a group of people. This joining together was integral to the experience of freedom. The Passover sacrifice figured as the centerpiece of a meal devoted to solidarity and community and mutual responsibility.[15] One must note, however, that although we might find sensible the notion of achieving at least Positive Liberty in community and in cooperation, there always remains the danger that communal “freedom” transmogrifies into a kind of fascism, and a substantial loss of freedom. This becomes amplified yet further should the members of one community come to see the freedom of other communities as threatening, as incompatible with their own freedom, in which case war or subjugation can come to be seen as a means of securing the liberty of one’s own group at the expense of the liberty of another group or other groups.

5. Human Nature and the Natural World. Finally, the late Israeli scientist and thinker Yeshayahu Leibowitz (1903–1994), someone with at least libertarian leanings, offers a different understanding—a challenging and possibly problematic understanding—to reconcile servitude and freedom:

The claim that a man who accepts the authority of the Halakhah is in bondage is only too familiar. . . . If the world possesses constant regularity, man is subordinate to the entire system of natural reality, which includes not only his body but his soul. He is subject to it both physiologically and psychologically. Under these circumstances, what is man’s freedom? Willing acceptance of a way of life which does not derive from human nature implies the emancipation of man from the bondage of raw nature.

Leibowitz is arguing here that to live and act in accord with the natural world and with human nature is to live in a kind of servitude, to the way things are “naturally.” Only if one goes beyond human nature and beyond the natural world does she or he become free: “The only way man can break the bonds of nature is by cleaving to God; by acting in compliance with the divine will rather than in accordance with the human will.” Human will and desire remain part of the natural world. “The true meaning of the Talmudic adage ‘None but he who busies himself with the Torah is free’ is that he is free from the bondage of nature because he lives a life which is contrary to nature, both nature in general and human nature in particular.” In this way Leibowitz seeks to square the circle of servitude under God as freedom.[16]

6. Choice and Rationality. Returning to the question of whether or not the Hebrews merely swapped one master for another, perhaps the answer is yes and no. Or rather, swapped, but not merely swapped—that the Hebrews left one master to serve the Master, but to serve in freedom. Or maybe to serve freely, out of their own volition?

After all, although we discussed the imagery of the restraining yokes—of Torah, of mitzvoth, of the Kingdom of Heaven—we never described their wearing as involuntary. Perhaps there is no contradiction over freedom and servitude when someone accepts willingly such servitude. And neither did we say that it is impossible for someone to remove these yokes. One might reasonably argue that if you believe an infinite and omnipotent God commanded you and wishes you to place such yokes upon yourself it would be folly to refuse, yet one nonetheless remains free to do so.

Also, and in line with the thinking of Leibowitz, it is worth noting that although faith and reason are often contrasted, this is not necessarily the case in thought and practice. Submission to God need not be an abandonment of rationality. Rather, doing so can be and can be experienced by the adherent as a rational choice, perhaps in response to intellectual arguments or as a conscious commitment to a community and its traditions.

*****

            In the end, in Judaism we seem to find praise for both freedom and, if not slavery, then servitude.

Rabbi Soloveitchik writes of “the awareness of a compulsory covenant, submission and acceptance of the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven.” And the individual seeking God “encounters the Inscrutable Will. This Will reveals itself to man, and instead of telling him the secrets of creation, it demands unlimited discipline and absolute submission.”[17] Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein (1933–2015), Rabbi Soloveitchik’s son-in-law and a leader of Modern Orthodox Judaism in his own right, writes that “A Jew’s life is defined by being commanded. . . . Judaism is built on the notion of nullifying your will before God’s, of defining your existence as being called and commanded.”[18] Like Rabbi Lichtenstein, Rabbi Shimon Gershon Rosenberg (1949–2007, known as Rav Shagar, from his initials) characterized such an orientation as central to Jewish religious observance: “As Shagar says, accepting the yoke of Heaven is ‘that act around which the life of a Jew is organized.’”[19]

Taken together, the yokes and the servitude and the commandments, it might be fair to characterize traditional Judaism as fundamentally endorsing human submission to the divine will. Indeed, when God first offered the Torah to the Jews, the response was na′aseh v’nishmah, we will do and we will listen (Ex. 24:7). That is, the Jews agreed to submit to observance of the Torah and only then to learn and understand just what they had committed themselves to do. There is also, of course, the account of the Akeidah, of Abraham’s bringing his son Isaac as a sacrifice to God. Now, there are a plethora of interpretations of this story, some of which argue that Abraham made a mistake, that he should have challenged the command, just as he challenged God’s plan to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. Nonetheless, Abraham’s action is most frequently understood as a model of submission to the will of God.

And yet, to be clear, these very same thinkers who wrote eloquently about submission to God and God’s will, elaborated their thought in quite nuanced ways, seeking to integrate individual autonomy with submission to God. In one sermon, “Shagar argues that this act of submission is actually a necessary step in enabling freedom, rather than its own form of enslavement.”[20] Indeed, Rav Shagar appears to understand accepting the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven as part of process of creating oneself. And Rabbi Soloveitchik and Rabbi Lichtenstein likewise see it, perhaps in tension with personal autonomy, as part of creating a full personality and living a complete life.[21]

Between Servitude and Freedom

The fifth teaching in the fourth chapter of the talmudic tractate Gittin, concerning the laws of divorce and related matters, presents us with an unusual case: what do we do with someone who is half-free and half-slave? One wonders how an individual could end up in such a position. The Talmud explains how: an individual falls into servitude to two masters, and at some point one of the masters frees the individual while the other does not. The first suggestion is that the individual alternate days, one free, one as a slave, and so on. Yet is this a tenable arrangement? The second opinion insists it is not. The male individual in this scenario has a biblical obligation to procreate—but this remains impossible to him: as he is half-slave he cannot marry a free woman, yet because he is half-free he cannot marry an enslaved woman. The conclusion is that the second master must emancipate him.

This sugya reveals a genuine tension between servitude and freedom. In the end, this servitude must give way to freedom—at least within the human realm. The liberation of this half-servant from this servitude makes possible fulfilling a commandment of God. It’s a sort of redemption, becoming free to serve God.

Even more than a redemption. Fascinatingly, the reasoning for the conclusion that the half-servant must be freed relies upon the notion or imperative of tikkun ′olam, as do other teachings elsewhere in this chapter of the Talmud. Tikkun ′olam can be translated roughly as the fixing or repair of the world. In the context of this piece of Talmud, the very existence of a half-free and half-slave man who cannot fulfill his obligation to have children means there is something wrong in the world, something that needs to be repaired. Increasing freedom thereby helps repair what is wrong in the world, making it a better place.

Angel for Shabbat--Parashat Shofetim

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

“Justice, justice you shall pursue.”

Many have commented on the Torah’s repetition of “justice,” (tsedek).  Repeating the word is a way of emphasizing how important justice is and how careful one must be in pursuing it. It has also been suggested that one must pursue justice in a just way i.e. means do not justify ends, means must themselves be just and moral.

While the verse refers to judges, it also applies to everyone. We are all called upon to make judgments and we all need to be very careful to be just in our deliberations.

In their book, Noise, Kahneman, Sibony and Sunstein point out how our decisions are impacted by many seemingly extraneous things. Although we think we are being objective, our evaluations can be skewed by how we are feeling, by the weather, by the time of day. It has been shown that judges tend to be more lenient if cases are decided early in the day or right after lunch. Doctors are more likely to prescribe opioids to patients they see late in the day.  The authors point out:

“You are not the same person at all times. As your mood varies…some features of your cognitive machinery vary with it….Among the extraneous factors that should not influence professional judgments, but do, are two prime suspects: stress and fatigue” (Daniel Kahneman, Olivier Sibony and Cass Sunstein, Noise, Little, Brown Spark, New York, 2021, p.89).

When we’re stressed or tired, our objective powers of reason are compromised. When we feel elated, self-satisfied and optimistic, we also compromise our objectivity.

In other words, we are almost always at risk of making judgments that are not fully objective.

The authors point out another threat to our ability to judge fairly: “informational cascades.” A person of assumed expertise or authority makes a statement. The next person, not wanting to disagree with the expert, goes along. And then the others also fall into line. They set aside their own judgment, and defer to the first person’s views. A “cascade” ensues in which it is difficult for anyone to stand up against the prevailing view.

The search for truth must be conducted in an open and free environment, without coercion or intimidation. People must feel free to offer their insights and opinions, and must not succumb to “informational cascade.” Discussion and dissension are to be encouraged, not stifled.

Manifestations of informational cascades are ubiquitous in our society, and it requires considerable astuteness and courage to resist the pressures. It is increasingly evident in religious and political life, where small groups of clerics/pundits seek to impose their narrow views on the public. They state what is “true” and expect the public to go along with their pronouncements. Those who don’t follow the dictates of the power group are demeaned.

If “informational cascades” are highly dangerous for society at large, they are perhaps even more pernicious for religious life. They inject a spiritual poison into religion, gradually sapping religious life of vitality, creativity, dynamism. Instead of fostering a spirit of discussion and free inquiry, there is a demand for a ruthless conformity. Instead of empowering religious people to think and analyze and debate, religious people are pressured to stop thinking independently, to refrain from analysis and debate, and to suppress any ideas that do not conform to the framework of the “authorities.”

If we are to be responsible individuals, we must insist on the freedom to think for ourselves, to evaluate ideas independently, to stand up against coercion and intimidation. We must strive for a religious life that is alive and dynamic.

We must pursue truth and justice in a true and just way.

This week’s Torah portion reminds us of the importance of not letting external factors improperly mar our judgment. “Lo takir panim”—do not show favoritism. The Torah teaches not to favor the rich because they are rich, and not to favor the poor out of pity for the poor. Judgment must be fair, based on objective facts. “Lo tikah shohad”—do not take bribes. Bribery refers not only to monetary gifts, but to any favors that could tilt your judgment on behalf of one of the parties. The Torah states that bribery “blinds the eyes of the wise and perverts the words of the righteous.” Even people who are generally deemed to be wise and righteous can succumb to the influence of bribes.

The Torah requires us to seek mishpat tsedek, righteous judgment. This is best attained if we are aware of the factors that can impact on the clarity of our judgment—stress, tiredness, informational cascades…and more. We must strive for a justice…that is just, fair and righteous.

Talmudic discussions are often introduced by the phrase “ta shema,” come listen. The connotation is that we are to apply our intellects to analyze a particular passage, to “listen” to alternative interpretations, to iron out possible contradictions. “Shema”—listening—calls on us to utilize our intellects.

Discussions in the Zohar, the classic work of Kabbalah, often are introduced by the phrase “ta hazei,” come see.  The connotation is that we need to use our “vision,” to go beyond the realm of pure logic.  When we are challenged to “see” a text or teaching, we are asked to do more than “listen.” We are asked to draw on other human resources—imagination, creativity, aesthetics, faith.

Parashat Va-et-hanan includes the famous passage: Shema Yisrael…Listen Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. This verse, recited in our prayers several times each day, calls on us to be attentive to the reality of God and God’s unity. As Rambam taught, proper faith in God is based on intellectual striving and philosophic analysis.

Parashat Re’eh begins: “See, I have set before you this day a blessing and a curse.” We are told that if we observe the mitzvoth we will be blessed, but if we fail to observe them we will be subject to negative consequences. The Torah uses the word “re’eh”…see. What does seeing have to do with blessings and curses?

The Torah states that blessings and curses are correlated to our observance of the mitzvoth. The implication should be that religiously observant people enjoy blessings and religiously non-observant people receive curses. But in our experience, we see that this correlation does not always seem to hold. There are fine pious people who suffer terribly, and there are highly immoral people who enjoy good health and prosperity. If we rely only on our “listening”—our power of reason—we cannot understand why bad things happen to good people, or why good things happen to bad people.

So the Torah teaches: when it comes to comprehending blessings and curses, “listening” isn’t enough. We need the power of “seeing”—going beyond surface understanding.

Sages and philosophers over the ages have sought explanations as to why good people suffer and bad people thrive. Some have explained that the blessings and curses relate not to external conditions, but to internal life. Righteous people, even if suffering, find meaning and blessing in life. Their faith sustains them. Wicked people, even when seeming to be successful, may actually be extremely unhappy. They are cursed with all sorts of anxieties and frustrations that sap their lives of real joy.

Blessings and curses are not objective conditions in themselves, but are connected to how we relate to them. Different people may be undergoing identical physical sufferings, but one deals courageously and finds meaning in the suffering; while the other wallows in pain and self-pity. Different people may be enjoying identical blessings, but one expresses humble gratitude to the Almighty; while the other is dissatisfied and always wants more.

The Talmud (Hagigah 14b) tells of four great sages who entered the "pardes" i.e. the world of profound speculation.  Ben Azzai died; Ben Zoma lost his mind; Elisha ben Abuya became a heretic. Only Rabbi Akiva entered in peace and emerged in peace.

Elisha and Akiva listened to and saw the same things. Why did they come to opposite conclusions?

Elisha relied entirely on “listening”—his faculty of reason. He concluded that the world seems to operate without Judge and without justice. Things are random. There is no correlation between righteousness and blessing.

Akiva relied not only on “listening” but on “seeing.” He was just as aware as Elisha of the intellectual problem before them. But Akiva “saw” beyond. He was wise enough to be able to live with intellectual questions and to recognize that there is a dimension of understanding that transcends cold logic. A person of faith does not deny reality…but knows that there is a reality that goes beyond our power of reason.

If we rely entirely on “listening,” we sometimes come to a dead end.

If we also incorporate “seeing,” we learn to internalize blessings and curses as personal opportunities and challenges in our relationship with God. How we deal with blessings and curses is an indication of who we really are.

It is well known that the classic yeshiva curriculum is dominated by the Talmud, not by the Torah and its rabbinic and philosophical exegetes. When Torah is studied, it is largely limited by a focus on Humash, or Pentateuch, and does not go beyond this to the Ketuvim (Writings) and Neviim, (Prophets). Given the theological and ethical treasures in these books, it is certainly a shame and a loss to the observant world. It is also somewhat odd that these texts are not systematically studied, given that we read from these books in the Haftarot every Shabbat and Festival. Of the many Haftarot that we read, the book that we read most often is Yeshayahu or Isaiah. If Orthodox Judaism ignores Isaiah, Devarim Rabba places Isaiah alongside Moses as the greatest of the prophets (2:4). Isaiah has a central standing among the prophets of Israel and it is noteworthy, given our concerns with kedusha that the most common epithet for God that Isaiah uses is K’dosh Yisrael “The Holy One of Israel” (Is 1:4).

According to Isaiah and most of the other classical prophets, holiness is articulated in terms of social justice and political ethics. In focusing on social morality, the prophets, at times, appear to be opposing the centrality of the cult and issues of ritual purity. Despite this however, Jewish critics like Yehezkel Kaufmannn, Moshe Weinfeld and Shalom Paul, argue that the prophets did not seek the end of sacrifices and traditions or ritual purity any more than they wanted the monarchy to end. Rather, they were critics of these institutions who sought to rid them of corruption and place them in their rightful place in service to God. That Isaiah’s vision of the angels proclaiming God’s holiness: Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, occurred in the Temple (Is 6:3) and that the prophet Ezekiel was himself a priest, certainly suggests that the prophets did not intend to do away with the priesthood. However, with Isaiah, we do have one of the most forceful critics of excessive concern for the intricacies of ritual purity and holiness alone. That Isaiah refers to God as “the Holy One of Israel” and uses this appellation consistently throughout his text, suggests that ethics is not only required by the Holy One of Israel, but that the Holy One Himself is morally righteous and that human righteousness is grounded in God. In verse 5:16 Isaiah says: “And God the Holy One is sanctified through righteousness” (Holy Scriptures, JPS translation,1950); or an alternative translation could be “The holy God shall make Himself holy (n’qadesh b’tzedeq ) through righteousness.” So Isaiah’s view, following the Torah’s view, is that the moral law is underpinned and founded in God. Let us hear the words of Isaiah, which as he says, are the word of God.



Hear the word of the Lord…



“What need have I of all your sacrifices?”



Says the Lord.



“I am sated with the burnt offerings of rams,



And suet of fatlings,



And blood of bulls…



Who asked that of you?



Trample my courts no more;



Bringing oblations is futile,



Incense is offensive to me,



New moon and Sabbath



Proclaiming solemnities



Assemblies with iniquity



I cannot abide. …



Though you pray at length,



I will not listen



Your hands are full of blood—



Wash yourselves clean



Put your evil doings



Away from My sight,



Cease to do evil,



Learn to do good



Devote yourselves to justice;



Aid the wronged,



Uphold the rights of the orphan;



Defend the cause of the widow.”



IS 1:10-17

The words of Isaiah here, uttered with so few Hebrew words are a wonder to behold. Isaiah rips through the fabric of sacrificial life, the very nexus of the relationship with God established by the Levitical priests, “Your hands are full of blood.” Here, the expiatory power of the blood of sacrifice is mocked and the line seems to suggest instead that there is an excess of bloodshed. The extent of the verbal charge against the sacrificial cult is comprehensive, from daily sacrifice, to Shabbat, to the festivals, and even unto verbal prayer. “What need have I of all this? Who asked this of you?” The answer could be easy: “What do you mean?” the people might say. “Certainly, it was You, God, who asked this of us. It was You, God, who established the sacrificial cult, who determined the rules of Shabbat and the festivals as the very vehicle to make us holy. Now you are telling us you have no use for it all!” Without answering these questions, God uses the language of purity, “wash yourselves clean,” and directs it in a thoroughly moral and non-ritual direction. Here, Isaiah makes a move that we often see in the prophets, to use ritual purity, as a metaphor for moral purity.

Then, through Isaiah, God presents the people with what simply could be called an ethical manifesto, which, following the short form of the Hebrew, could be put this way.

Cease evil,



Learn good



Seek justice;



Correct oppression,



Defend orphans,



Plead for widows.

Here, in short, is an ethical doctrine which begins in stopping evil in oneself, moves to education in the ways of goodness, and then extends human efforts outward to seek justice. Justice, here, is seen in countering oppression against those that are powerless, the orphan and the widow, thereby representing all who are marginal and have no obvious figures of power to protect them.

Isaiah is not alone in speaking the words of social ethics. His contemporary Amos, who prophesied in the Northern Kingdom, also put forth a doctrine of social justice:

Hear this, you who trample on the needy



And bring the poor of the land to an end,



Saying when will the new moon be over



That we may sell grain?



And the Sabbath that we may offer wheat for sale



That we may make the ephah small and the shekel great,



And deal deceitfully with false balances,



That we may buy the poor for silver,



And the needy for a pair of sandals,



…



I will make the sun set at noon,



I will darken the earth on a sunny day



I will turn your festivals into mourning



(Amos 8:4-10).

Is this a new instruction, a new Torah replacing the old? Is this a new way to holiness dispensing with all the laws of sacrifice, of Shabbat, of the festivals, and of dietary laws and ritual purity? Certainly, this is the position of Protestant Christianity.

Yet here I would suggest that the prophets are speaking to their contemporary moment in the strongest way possible. They mean to correct abuses in Israelite religious life and the cult, and were not attempting to abolish its institutions and structures. Certainly, from the position of rabbinic tradition, the Torah and its rituals laws of holiness and purity will never be abrogated. The Torah is given as an eternal covenant, berit olam, between God and Israel, and all of rabbinic Judaism is built on the divinely sanctioned status of the laws and rituals that are given in the Torah.

The great Jewish biblical critic, Yehezkel Kaufmannn, while recognizing real innovation in the texts of Isaiah and the classical prophets, argues that Isaiah works upon already existing moral themes in the Torah. Kaufmannn states that “the prophetic demands for social justice echo, for the most part, the ancient covenant laws” (1960, 365). He reminds us that, in the flood story, God dooms a whole society for moral corruption.” Sodom and Gomorrah were also destroyed for lacking ten righteous men, and the Canaanites lost their land because of their corrupt sexual ways” (1960, 366).

However, if Kaufmannn believes that the prophets did not want to abolish sacrifices and the cult, he is also clear that what we have in the classic Israelite prophets is not just a repetition of the morality of the Torah but an innovation beyond it. Here, Kaufmann argues that the prophets offer a heightened sense of morality. Where the Torah equated destruction of Israel with the heinous sins of idolatry and incest committed by a large group of people, we see that God “threatens national doom and exile for everyday social sins” (1960, 366). Kaufmannn states that it is remarkable how few times Isaiah refers to the sin of idolatry and how sensitive he is to moral slights to the poor and the powerless. Indeed, it is these “small sins” of social justice that bother the prophets and not the “venal sins” of murder, idolatry, incest, and inhuman cruelty that the Pentateuch is concerned with.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel also points us to the heightened moral sensitivity of the prophets. “Indeed, the sort of crimes and even the amount of delinquency that fill the prophets of Israel with dismay do not go beyond that which we regard as normal, as typical ingredients of social dynamics. To us a single act of injustice—cheating in business, exploitation of the poor—is slight; to the prophets, a disaster. To us injustice is injurious to the welfare of the people; to the prophets it s a deathblow to existence: to us an episode; to them, a catastrophe, a threat to the world” (1962, 4).

As to why the prophet is so sensitive to what appears to be trivial moral concerns, Heschel sees this as a reflection of the acute moral sensitivity and highest moral standards of God. The God of the prophets is concerned with the details of little human lives, his compassion is so great that he is fundamentally concerned with the seemingly insignificant poor. “Prophecy is the voice that God has lent to the silent agony, a voice to the plundered poor, to the profaned riches of the world” (1962, 5).

It is a shame that the curriculum of our Orthodox yeshivot do not include intensive, sophisticated study of the Neviim and have left these texts of the written Torah to the Liberal Jewish Seminaries and the Christians. For the words of the Prophets are no less words of Torah and divrei Elokim than are the words of the Humash and Psalms and the Mishna and Gemara.

In the pre-modern world where Jews were excluded by Christians and Muslims alike from working and participating in their host cultures, there were good reasons why Jews kept to themselves. In those times when Jews were often persecuted and Judaism derided as a dead or false religion, one can also understand that there was Jewish fear and antipathy toward non-Jews. Today, however, where Jews have civil and political rights especially in the West, the continued self-ghettoization of the Jews and negative remarks one sometimes hears uttered by some Jews and even their rabbis toward non-Jews are morally and spiritually reprehensible. When one hears of a group of Orthodox Rabbis in Israel who issue public prohibitions against renting apartments to Arabs, or “religious” Jews in the old city who spit on Catholic Priests, one wonders why these Jews, who so devoutly study Talmud, manage to miss these words of the great Tosafist, Rabbenu Tam. “One should be envious of the pious and more than these of the penitents, and more than these of those who…from their youth have been diligent in the service of the Lord, blessed be He…And one should be envious of the nations of the world who serve God in awe, fear, and submission.” [5] And our devout co-religionists might also learn from the words of Bahya ibn Pakuda, who said in his introduction to Hovot haLevavot, The Duties of the Heart.

I quote from the dicta of the philosophers and the ethical teachings of



the ascetics and their praiseworthy customs. In this connection our Rabbis



of blessed memory already remarked (Sanhedrin 39b): In one verse it is



said “after the ordinances of the nations round about you, you have done (Ezek 11:12); while in another, it is said “After the ordinances of those around you , you have not done (Ezek. 5:7). How is this contradiction to be reconciled? As follows: Their good ordinances you have not copied; their evil ones you have followed.” The Rabbis further said (Megillah 16a). “Whoever utters a wise word, even if he belongs to the gentiles, is called a sage.”[6]

The Orthodox community is where many Jews look for “authentic” Judaism. The Orthodox community is where Jews seek and expect to find our Tzaddkim and our Kedoshim, our righteous and holy ones. And one can say, too, that what the religious world needs most today are precisely these kind of exemplars of the righteous and holy life. Yet precisely at his moment of great need, Torah Sages are retreating from the world and advising their students and followers to do the same. This is tantamount to taking Torah and God out of the world at the time when the world most needs Torah and God. So my plea in my book and in this article is that Orthodox Jews live up to the challenge of the great figures of modern Orthodoxy and the command of God in the Torah. Kedoshim Tiheyu: Be holy in mind, in deed, in ritual and behavior, in the synagogue, in court and field. We must be exemplars of the Torah way of life, committed to performance of the ritual mitzvoth as well as the mitzvoth of justice, righteousness, compassion and derekh erets.

The Blessed One, Holy Be He, held a mountain over their heads, and said, “If you accept Torah, it is well. If not, this shall be your burial ground. R. Aba B. Jacob observed, “This constitutes a protest against the Torah.” Said Raba, “They accepted (Torah) in the days of Ahaseurus.” (BT, Shabbat 88a)

I

I speak as a religious Jew, bound to the Torah, Jewish tradition, and the people of Israel, who takes the value of personal liberty as a given. There lies the challenge.

Is there a one among us today who, after thriving in the freedom of democratic society,      does not deeply value the right to choose and express personal beliefs, to choose a lifestyle, politics, or place of residence? Now we are all committed "libertarians"—political conservatives as well as liberals. All of us accept the fundamental principle of liberty, differing only over the extent to which it should be applied.

Liberty represents the political dimension of the larger concept of autonomy. In a strict philosophic sense, autonomy means that people are capable of determining their actions based upon principles they give themselves. Since the influence of Kant, however, that metaphysical capability has been understood as a moral imperative: To act autonomously is the highest responsibility that we have as moral agents. In short, acting from our own principles gives our behavior moral character.^[1]

In a more popular sense, autonomy means the necessity of choosing for ourselves, of rejecting decisions imposed on us by external authority. Autonomy and choice are the hallmarks of modern experience, for what was once a person’s fixed destiny has become largely a matter of choice in modernity. That is, the process of modernization entails a transformation from fate to personal decision.^[2] All modern thinkers who defend traditional religion struggle to find a legitimate place for individual freedom and autonomy within their systems. Thus spokespeople for the Modern Orthodox theology^[3] consider choice to be an inescapable datum of our experience. For them it has a priori justification and its value is not subject to acceptance or rejection by the halakha.

Yet the commitment to autonomy when expressed as political liberty is at prima facie odds with Judaism’s central categories of divine authority and commitment to mitzvoth. Simply put, God has commanded and we Jews must obey. The Torah is an obligation-based system, rather than a rights-based political culture. Further still, since Sinai “the Torah no longer resides in heaven.” Classical Judaism invested human institutions (e.g., bet din, rabbinic authorities, Sanhedrin) and techniques (e.g., herem, pisqei din, sanctions and fines) with the authority to coerce Jews to obey and to punish them for disobedience. If these instruments are viewed as implementations of God’s will as realized in the halakha, wherein lies the basis for individual political freedom? Is there room for liberty in a religious Jewish polity?

If the authentic implementation of halakha ultimately denies the legitimacy of political freedom, no amount of dialectical analysis will make Orthodoxy compatible with Western political thought. On an existential level, no amount of economic affluence or participation in the mainstream of modern      society will allow a halakhic Jew to feel at ease. Modern Orthodox Jews will be condemned to lead a fractured life, torn between a principled religious commitment to obey political expressions of Torah authority and a deeply rooted freedom-consciousness.

This conflict is being played out regularly in Israel, where the use of political authority to enforce religious law is a real option. Modern religious Israelis and their political parties repeatedly agonize over how much they will support religious legislation that imposes Orthodox standards upon the Israeli populace. Such legislation would deny the rights of individuals to violate the Sabbath in public, to express themselves freely, and to be guaranteed full equality under the law. In the actual confrontation between human rights and coercive religious legislation, where can the Modern Orthodox Jew stand?^[4]

The problem is much deeper than the psychological discomfort of some religious Jews. It casts ominous clouds over the religious and political future of all Kelal Yisrael. Barring a messianic intervention changing the socio-political conditions of Jews today, it is certain that any philosophy or political arrangement that denies individual freedom will be rejected by the overwhelming majority of the Jewish people. In other words, any conception of halakha that fails to make room for liberty means that Am Yisrael will never be able to return to Jewish tradition and a belief in the authority of its Torah. In Israel such a conception means that religious Israelis have no halakhic option other than pursuing a politic that limits fundamental civil liberties through religious legislation. Thus Israel’s political arena will be the scene of an unending kulturkampf, with religious Jews battling against the free democratic structure of the State.

II

If we are to understand the halakhic attitude to political freedom we must first clarify the general concept of liberty. In his celebrated essay,^[5] Isaiah Berlin explicates two different notions of political liberty appearing in Western thought. The first, negative liberty, stresses the right of a person to act without interference from others. It is personal independence, the right to act however one likes in certain areas of his life. Deliberate interference by others within these areas constitutes a lack of political freedom, implying oppression and coercion. To quote John Stuart Mill, “The only freedom which deserves the name is that of pursuing our own good in our own way.”^[6]

English political philosophers (Hobbes, Mill, Locke) all agreed on this concept of freedom, even though they disagreed over the extent to which a state should protect these rights. They knew that unlimited political freedom produces social chaos, a primitive “state of nature” that destroys justice, security, and even freedom itself. Yet all these thinkers agreed that there is a certain domain of action that ought to be impervious to both legal and social control. The values that we cherish so dearly such as freedom of religion, of speech, the rights to property, privacy, and political expression, all emerged from this British school of thought to become the bedrock of American society and the foundation of Western democracies.

Moreover, the passionate defense of liberty always runs along the same lines. Without liberty humans cannot develop their natural faculties. People’s religious, intellectual, and moral character are all frustrated when they are overly constrained by others. Indeed, once people surrender totally to an outside authority, they are so degraded that they lose their essence, their “personhood,” becoming more akin to members of the animal world. Thus the lack of freedom is not only oppressive, it is humanly self-defeating. These philosophers debate what constitutes the human essence that pervasive authority destroys and what is a person’s minimum requirement of liberty, but all agree that freedom from absolute political authority and external interference is a fundamental value. The freedom to decide one’s own actions is as necessary to a person’s health and creativity as the air one breathes. Coercing adult humans for the sake of their own religious, rational, or moral interests is never justified.

The second concept of freedom, “positive liberty,” is not a “freedom from” outside authority but a “freedom to” be and do. It is the freedom to be one’s own master, to act from reasons that are one’s own, rather than from external causes. In a word, it is the impulse to be a rational, morally responsible subject, not merely an object.^[7] Each person, of course, is a complex personality with multiple dimensions often in conflict. Some philosophers saw the true challenge of life to be the realization of one’s ideal or “higher” self, and the liberation from one’s lower nature. The higher self is usually identified with some form of reason or rational will,^[8] while the interfering or baser human dimensions are identified with humanity’s irrational impulses, their uncontrolled desires, or their undisciplined character. A person swept along by every gust of desire is no better than a brutish animal. It is the disciplined person, acting out of rationally accepted principles, who realizes one’s humanity, one’s true self to the fullest. Freedom is thus a function of what one chooses and believes, not how one’s action is determined.

Superficially, negative and positive liberty seem to be two sides of the same coin: They appear to express the same concept with a mere change in qualitative mode. How different is acting without interference from others (negative liberty) from acting out of one’s true being (positive liberty)?

“Enormous” is the simple answer. In fact, as Berlin notes, Western thinkers developed the two concepts in divergent and ultimately antithetical directions. The British empirical philosophers seized negative liberty and developed it as actual behavior within a field without obstacles, while the political rationalists (Plato, Rousseau, Kant, Hegel) focused on positive liberty expressed more as a metaphysical notion of self-mastery. The latter were more concerned with freedom from spiritual slavery than with breaking the bonds of pervasive political authority. More important than freeing oneself from others was the task of being free from oneself.

It is here that positive liberty can conflict with the concept of negative liberty. According to the doctrine of positive liberty, realizing your empirical will or your actual preferences does not make you free. Freedom evolves, rather, from some idealized metaphysical will of what you would choose or how you would act if you were fully realized, perfectly rational or in accord with a particular philosophy’s supreme human attribute (e.g., obedience, productivity, social conscience). This leads to the paradox of one person forcing another to be free^[9]: For if I am (or think I am) more rational than you, in the name of positive liberty I can force you against your expressed will to act on my perceived rational choice. It is not my power to force you that astonishes here; it is my moral justification for coercing you. Indeed it is not coercion at all, but mere assistance in your own self-realization. According to positive liberty, my control “extends” your moral choice and freedom.

There is no need to explain here how pernicious the political application of such a conception can be. It is the basis for an Orwellian Newspeak universe, where the worst forms of repression and totalitarianism are justified in the name of freedom. Enough manipulation of the definition of humanity’s essence can transform freedom into whatever the manipulator wishes to do to you. Even well-meaning paternalism ultimately produces a coercive and repressive political structure.^[10] In the end, it is no accident that in Plato’s ideal republic an entire class of people was required to act as police officers, forcing the philosopher-king’s choices upon the irrational majority. This is what led Kant to declare that, “paternalism is the worst form of despotism imaginable.”

III

With which concept of liberty is traditional Jewish thought most at home? Certainly the positive, metaphysical concept of freedom with its notion of an individual conquering oneself, resonates throughout rabbinic literature. The dual notions of the good and evil impulses, yetser ha-tov and yetser ha-ra, in perpetual conflict provide the Jewish philosophical background for this conception. Who is the truly strong and autonomous person? One who conquers one’s own passions.^[11] Who is really free? One who sheds the bonds of nature and impulse, losing oneself in the rational pursuit of Torah.^[12]

Maimonides formulates the most conspicuous point of departure within halakhic literature for analyzing the concept of positive liberty. After asserting that a get is defective when it is obtained through coercive means by a heathen court, but valid if the coercion is at the order of a bet din, Rambam explains the apparent inconsistency:

And why is this get not null and void seeing that it is the product of duress, whether exerted by the heathens or by the Israelites? Because duress applies only to him who is compelled and pressed to do something that the Torah does not obligate him to do, for example, one who is lashed until he consents to sell something or give it away as a gift. On the other hand, he whose evil inclination induces him to violate a commandment or commit a transgression, and who is lashed until he does what he is obligated to do, or refrains from what he is forbidden to do, cannot be regarded as a victim of duress; rather he has brought duress upon himself by submitting to his evil intention. Therefore this man who refuses to divorce his wife, inasmuch as he desires to be of the Israelites, he wills to abide by all the commandments and to keep away from transgressions—it is only his evil inclination that has overwhelmed him. Once he is lashed until his inclination is weakened and he says, “I consent,” it is the same as if he had given the get voluntarily.^[13]

This passage contains ambiguities that are mirrored by textual variations. One interpretation supported by the above version implies that Rambam is making one unified argument that articulates the Jewish concept of positive liberty with all its classical elements: A Jew has an essence, or “higher will” (to obey mitzvoth), as well as a lower alien dimension (evil inclination) that impels him to transgress mitzvoth. When the evil inclination “overwhelms” his true self, the court may administer corporal punishment or other sanctions until the husband relents. The issuance of the get is valid because the husband gives it voluntarily, as a result of his ideal metaphysical will, even though he appears to be coerced and his consent is extracted under duress. The halakha of get, it appears, is oblivious to the Jew’s empirical will and actual preferences; it concerns itself only with a predetermined metaphysical will as defined by halakhic obligation. Evidently the Jewish people’s original collective acceptance of Torah obligations while standing at Sinai millennia ago eclipses all subsequent individual volition to obey or disobey. Hence the action of the court is “therapeutic,” not punitive or coercive. The court is merely administering a kind of benevolent, albeit painful treatment to assist the husband in discovering his true self.

Note that Rambam’s formulation is not restricted to the limited case of divorce. He is positing a general principle of ideal will: Individual Jews are necessarily guided by an objective will to be Jewish. This, by definition, entails the voluntary acceptance of the Torah as a normative system as well as the desire to abide by each particular commandment.

Once this view is accepted, there is little room for the right of Jews to act without interference from Torah authority and its human agencies (i.e., negative liberty). Rabbinic authorities and courts or state institutions acting as agents of rabbinic authority will always be justified in ignoring the actual wishes of Jews and employing coercive measures to induce halakhic obedience. In principle, the freedoms of speech, travel, assembly, privacy, and political expression all collapse under the weight of halakhic directives. In other words, if we postulate that every Jew today has accepted the Torah at Sinai and stands obligated to obey its halakhic canons, it seems that the concept of negative liberty has no place in an authentic halakhic political theory. Accordingly, individual Jews would have no inalienable right to basic political freedoms in a Torah society.

Should it be otherwise? If Plato, Rousseau, Hegel, and Marx all were willing to sacrifice liberty to promote the highest values of their systems, should the halakha be any less committed to establishing its ideals and enforcing obedience to mitzvoth? For the traditional Jew, a fortiori the rule of Torah should supersede all other values. Perhaps political freedom, tolerance, and individual rights are amongst those respectable Western values that are simply a product of non-belief and a lack of religious commitment. Negative liberty may be a desideratum only for a community that lacks substantive value commitments or for individuals mired in theological apathy. In a word, negative liberty may actually be “the freedom of indifference.”

An interesting problem arises from this reading of Rambam. May rabbinic courts coerce one who has converted out of Judaism? In the eyes of the halakha, the convert is a sinning Jew and is still obligated by mitzvoth, i.e., his ideal will still wishes to follow the halakha, even though his empirical will indicates he does not “desire to be of the Israelites, to abide by all the commandments and keep away from transgression.” If we are concerned with his metaphysical will only, it follows that the court may indeed “coerce” the issuance of the get. Yet to totally ignore the fact that the convert has opted out of Judaism flies in the face of the real situation with which the halakha is dealing. Indeed, according to one opinion such a person cannot be legally lashed. His source?—the very same law of Rambam with a slight textual variation:

But we have found in the Maharit Zahalon who has questioned this (and maintains) that we do not coerce a convert to divorce even though he is one about whom the law rules (for other reasons) that he is to be coerced, and he bases his opinion on that which Maimonides has written: “And why is this get not null and void seeing that it is given under duress? Therefore this man who refuses to divorce his wife, in as much as he desires to be of the Israelites and he desires to abide by all the commandments, and to keep away from transgression, it is only his inclination that has overwhelmed him. Once he is lashed until his inclination is weakened and he says, “I consent,” it is the same as if he has given the get voluntarily.” According to this a convert who has transgressed every commandment indifferently and angers his Creator through serious transgression (and is coerced), is thereby consenting under duress; he is just like someone forced to give a present. And even after he is lashed and has divorced, his soul will not rest and he will be full of anger toward those who brought him to do this. Even though he performed a mitzvah, the soul of every evildoer is evil, “For the wicked boasts of his heart’s desire.” And so, he is completely forced to do this; therefore, how do we coerce even if the law decreed that for other reasons he should be coerced to divorce?^[14]

The text before the Or Sameah and the Maharit Zahalon contains the additional conjunction, and: ‘I. . . inasmuch as he desires to be of the Israelites and he desires (“ve-rotseh hu”) to abide by all the commandments. . . .” This implies that Rambam is concerned not exclusively with an ideal will, but also with a Jew’s actual will to obey mitzvoth and the evidence for realistically presuming that empirical desire. Under this interpretation, Rambam is making two connected arguments. First he asserts the principle of the ideal will: A Jew acts in accordance with his will when he does mitzvoth. But how does the Rambam know this? Evidently it flows not from the immutable historical event at Sinai, but from a second, more empirical assumption: Each Jew actually “wants to be of the Israelites.” This consent to communal membership provides the warrant for claiming that the Jew really desires to abide by all the commandments, a desire deeper than any temporary inclination to disobey. Thus the application of lashes is justified only because by opting for membership in Kelal Yisrael, the individual has told the Jewish community that he really wants to fulfill mitzvoth.

This thesis also need not be restricted to the sole instance of get. It establishes the general principle of empirical will: One’s actual consent, or presumption of consent, to obey mitzvoth is necessary to justify coercive legal action. Thus the Maharit maintains that in the case of the convert, who demonstrates that he does not want to be a member of the Jewish people, the presumption that he wants to do mitzvoth dissolves and with it disappears any rationale for coercion. Although disagreeing with the Maharit in the case of the convert, the Or Sameah also requires some realistic warrant for the assumption that a Jew actually wants to obey mitzvoth, maintaining that when we know in advance that lashing or other sanctions will not induce some actual expression of acceptance of mitzvoth, coercion has no halakhic justification whatsoever.^[15]

Of course both interpretations support “coercion”—but for very different reasons. In the first reading, only the ideal will is relevant. That objective will always express      preference to be a part of the Jewish people and this membership connotes acceptance of Torah obligations. Here the very concept of Jewish identity means being a party to the covenantal agreement at Sinai; therefore wanting “to be of the Israelites” conceptually entails acceptance of mitzvoth. An “unobligated Jew” is a contradiction, as misconceived as a “married bachelor”—and as difficult to find.

According to the Maharit’s reading of Rambam, the will to be Jewish is contingent, yet it serves as a sufficient basis for presuming that a Jew has an empirical desire to obey mitzvoth. The Maharit could assert this because throughout our history Jewish self-perception had always testified to that linkage. Before the Enlightenment, there was a broad general consensus among Jews that obligation to Torah law constituted their identity. All medieval Jews saw themselves as commanded people, even if they failed to be systematically observant. Only through conversion could they escape the “yoke of the commandments.” The case of the convert is illuminating precisely because it was the rare exception to the cultural norm. It shows how far a Jew had to travel to shed the identity of “commandedness.”

In our post-Emancipation Jewish communities of Israel and the Diaspora, however, what was unthinkable for Maimonides and unknown for the Maharit—the unobligated Jew—has become the sociological norm. In the words of one Orthodox rabbinic authority, “in our day the observant are called separatists and it is the sinners who go the way of the land.”^[16] Regrettably, contemporary Jewry has no consensus regarding what it means to be a Jew and a lack of observance pervades Jewish life. Now there are wholly secular, nationalistic, and ethnic formulations of Jewish identity for which acceptance of the Torah and traditional mitzvoth are largely irrelevant. These formulations may be heretical and even conducive to long-term assimilation, yet we cannot deny that today most Jews define their own Jewish identity independent of theological belief and halakhic commitment. These Jews do not seek assimilation. On the contrary, they often exhibit unflagging dedication to the Jewish people at great personal sacrifice. As Rav Abraham Isaac HaKohen Kook observed of the nonobservant majority of the Jews of his day, “they go astray, nevertheless many of them are loyal to their nation and are proud to be called Jews, even though they know not why. . . .”^[17] They “wish to be of the Israelites,” but do not wish to be obligated by the commandments—at least not the mitzvoth as defined by Orthodox tradition.

This radical shift in Jewish self-perception has posed a challenge for all post-Enlightenment Orthodox leaders and posekim. Unwilling to dismiss it as a mere chimera or product of heresy, several prominent religious authorities have given halakhic status to the fact that modern Jews act and think of themselves in non-traditional categories. This consideration has been materially relevant to reformulating the answers to a variety of halakhic questions regarding punishment for Sabbath desecration, eligibility for a minyan, conversion to Judaism, and contemporary definition of an apostate, to name but a few. Consider the opinion of R. Jacob Ettlinger in 1874, regarding heretics and Sabbath violators:

But I do not know how to consider Jewish sinners in our time, unless to apply to them the rule of “one who says it is permitted,” which means that they are only close to being sinners. For because of our sins the sore has spread greatly, to such an extent that for most of them the desecration of the Sabbath has become a permissible act. There are those among them who offer Sabbath prayers and sanctify the day and then violate the Sabbath.^[18]

Or the position of Rabbi David Zvi Hoffmann at the turn of the twentieth century:

In our time one is not called a public desecrator of the Sabbath, because most people are such. Were the majority of Israel innocent, and a few audaciously violated the law, they would thereby deny the Torah, boldly commit an abomination, and separate themselves from Israel as a whole. But since most Jews have breached the fence, their failing turns to their advantage. The individual thinks that it is not such a major offense, and one need not commit it only in private.^[19]

Even Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, one of the most fervent Orthodox leaders in rejecting any non-Orthodox ideology or institution, acknowledged that a mere general intention to join the non-observant Jewish community without any commitment to Sabbath observance was no necessary impediment to valid Orthodox conversion with its attendant Jewish identity.^[20]

Most important is the position taken by the Hazon Ish,^[21] one of the great fathers of twentieth-century ultra-Orthodoxy. Noting the pervasive lack of faith in modern times, he formulates a new halakhic approach to Jews who are non-observant in fact and in principle:

It seems to me that the law of throwing (the heretic) into a pit (to be left to die) applies only to those periods when the Blessed Lord’s Providence is apparent, such as when miracles took place, or the Heavenly Voice functioned, or the righteous men of the generation lived under a generalized Divine Guidance visible to all. At such times, those who commit heresy are acting with deliberate perversity, allowing their evil impulse to lead them into passion and lawlessness. It was at periods such as these that the destruction of the wicked was a salutary measure to save humanity, for all know that were the generation to be led astray, world catastrophes, such as plagues, wars, and famines would result. But when Divine Providence is concealed, when the masses have lost their faith, throwing (heretics) into a pit is no longer an act against lawlessness. On the contrary, it is an act which would simply widen the breach; for they would consider it an act of moral corruption and violence, God forbid. And since our entire purpose is to remedy the situation, the law does not apply to a period when no remedy would result. Rather, we must bring them back through the bonds of love and enlighten them to the best of our abilities.”^[22]

Not only does the law mandating killing the heretic not apply today, but even the commandment to admonish lapsed Jews cannot be implemented since today we do not know how to reproach effectively. In fact, because we cannot offer effective reproach, the entire halakhic category of the heretic becomes inoperative.^[23] Both the Hazon Ish and Rav Kook consider nonobservant Jews today to be pawns of the intellectual forces of the day:

Yes, my dear friend, I understand well the sadness of your heart. But if you should concur with the majority of scholars that it is seemly at this time to utterly reject those children who have swerved from the parts of Torah and faith because of the tumultuous current of the age, I must explicitly and emphatically declare that this is not the method that God desires. Just as the (Ba ‘ale) Tosafot in Tractate Sanhedrin (26b) maintain that it is logical not to invalidate one suspected of sexual immorality from giving testimony because it is considered an ones—since his instincts overwhelmed him—and the (Ba‘ale] Tosafot in Tractate Gittin (41b) maintain that since a maidservant enticed him to immorality he is considered as having acted against his will, in a similar fashion (is to be judged) the “evil maidservant” of the current age…who entices many of our youngsters with all of her wiles to commit adultery with her. They act completely against their will and far be it from us to judge a transgression which one is forced to commit (ones) in the same manner as we judge a premeditated, willful transgression.^[24]

The Hazon Ish and Rav Kook struggled painfully with the obvious fact that most of Kelal Yisrael of their day lacked a principled commitment to Torah and mitzvoth. Rather than reject the nonobservant by invoking biblical and talmudic categories mandating reproach, herem, or corporal punishment, they believed that changed sociological and intellectual conditions demanded a new understanding of halakhic categories and a pragmatic course of action.

But what of the classic approach of coercion? It appears that when these modern rabbinic authorities are understood in conjunction with each other, the halakhic imperative to coerce the sinner also disappears. The Maharit establishes the principle of empirical will: Coercion is justified only when we can reasonably assume the Jew accepts the obligation of mitzvoth. But the Hazon Ish and Rav Kook now assert that the Torah considers contemporary nonobservant Jews, being “coerced” by modern culture, to be in a category of individuals who lack this sense of obligation. For technical reasons they escape the reproach and punishment accorded to heretics as they have not willfully rejected the halakha. Yet as coerced parties they do not willfully express, nor can we presume that they would express, any acceptance of mitzvoth. In the absence of such acceptance, coercion provides no halakhic solution.^[25]

IV

If the previous analysis is correct, we see that there are two models within halakha for dealing with Jews who consistently violate Jewish law, even those whose lifestyle bespeaks a lack of commitment to mitzvoth. Biblical and talmudic literature often emphasize correction through coercion, since prior assent to the halakha is assumed. Late Rabbinic literature delineates the halakhic option of a non-coercive approach, applicable prior to assent, which focuses on education and moral suasion and tolerates behavior that conflicts with the halakha. Once the legitimacy of both approaches is established, a question facing halakhically committed Jews is one of techne, of means: Which approach will be the most effective instrument for bringing Jews today to a greater appreciation of Torah and mitzvoth? In the words of the Hazon Ish, which halakhic policy is likely to “remedy the situation,” and which will “widen the breach?”

On the pragmatic level, experience indicates that the non-coercive approach yields the best religious results. No one familiar with contemporary Israeli society can deny that coercive religious legislation—even the specter of such legislation—has caused deep alienation from and disrespect for Torah and its political spokesmen. Non-religious Jews in Israel harbor a well-founded suspicion that the dati community seeks no limitation on its political power, and that the objective of its politics is to manipulate the non-religious for its own ideological benefit, never treating them with the respect due all human beings. It is ironic that at a time in Israeli society when fewer and fewer citizens hold philosophies that in principle reject the theological and ethical ideas of Torah, nearly all non-dati persons evidence a palpable disgust for the coercive policies of religious political leaders. Quite simply, Israelis are more anti-clerical than anti-religious. This is doubly tragic, for with the withering of socialist-Zionist ideology many Israelis yearn for a value structure that Torah has to offer. Yet they find dat repugnant because the image of religious leadership is one whose face sneers at non-religious Jews and whose hands clutch at the throats of their civil liberties. In the prophetic words of the Hazon Ish, the policy of pushing restrictive religious legislation is viewed as an “act of moral corruption and violence.”^[26]

Nevertheless, Judaism values action—the doing of mitzvoth—not only attitude and relationship. If there are Jews who cannot do mitzvoth out of conviction and love of God, is not their obedience caused by threat of legal punishment preferable to their free disobedience? Indeed, the Rabbis claim repeatedly that “a man should always immerse himself in Torah and commandments even if his motive is impure; for from acting from impure motive, he will come to act with pure motive.” If this dictum is a principle of empirical prediction rather than dogmatic axiom, Israeli experience contradicts it, for it has produced the opposite results. Coercive legislation has induced only animosity and the denigration of Torah, not a voluntary attraction to mitzvoth. Even on a strictly behavioral level, the coercive policy has failed. All the restrictive Sabbath legislation has not made even one Israeli a Sabbath observer according to halakhic standards—one might just be someone who does not ride buses on Friday evening, someone who watches home videos instead of frequenting the theater.^[27]

Examining each talmudic context of this dictum, in truth we see that it is intended as prudent advice for an individual to continue to voluntarily participate in mitzvoth, even when he lacks immediate religious motivation. There is no hint whatsoever in the sources of any outside authority that would constrict personal freedom or choice.^[28] This is not surprising as the halakha usually adopts prudent and reasonable means to realize its end values. If the Torah’s goals are idealistic, its methods to achieve them are pragmatic. To quote Rav Kook, “Know that good sense is a fundamental value in our law. We are therefore obligated always to achieve the central purpose of good sense.”^[29]

Hazal were keen students of human behavior. They knew that a person can, by the power of his own will, condition himself to experience new-found love, joy, and religious meaning in any halakhically required act even when he is in the throes of spiritual malaise. Hazal had the “good sense” to know, however, that when any person or authority imposes laws on another, denying one free choice in the name of a doctrine to which one does not subscribe, no constructive religious motivation or character would result. Understood as council to continue voluntary assumption of mitzvoth however lacking in kavanna,“mitokh shelo lishma, ba lishma” modern Israeli experience does not falsify the rabbinic claim. It points, rather, to the lack of wisdom of authoritarian religious politics.

V

Clearly, classical Judaism posits a metaphysical and moral ideal of human experience. It maintains that a human realizes its highest being when relating to the Divine Will and obeying God’s commandments. Philosophically, the Torah is committed to this conception of positive, substantive liberty. Yet in practice, the option exists to pursue a policy of tolerance: one that poses no coercive interference to Jews following their own will, so long as that individual liberty does not diminish the rights and religious opportunity of others. In other words, it is a policy that allows for political freedom and fundamental human rights. Paradoxically, this policy also holds the most hope of encouraging positive religious attitudes, given the historical and intellectual conditions of Am Yisrael today.

Adopting such a “libertarian” policy that allows for freedom and individual difference does not imply axiological agnosticism or lack of commitment to the ideal of obligatory mitzvoth for the Jewish people. Nor does it lessen the religious obligation for all Jews to be responsible for one another, including the promotion of halakhic observance. The policy shifts the thrust of religious politics from an authoritarian approach to one stressing education, tolerance, and identification with the whole of the Jewish people. The political approach utilizing coercive law has the illusory quality of a “quick-fix.” Yet in purely practical terms, attempting to deny a Jew the liberty to violate religious law is not an option in the Diaspora and does not work in Israel, as we have seen. The quick-fix is a fantasy, nurtured by a longing to retreat to the ghetto of the past that is much too narrow to house the majority of the Jewish people today. As fantasy, it is a flight from any serious religious responsibility toward Kelal Yisrael.

Religious Jews should be resolute in their conviction that halakhic behavior is the ideal for every Jew. When one confuses legal tolerance with pluralistic value equivalence one departs from both the halakha and religious Jewish thought. Because of this belief in the validity of mitzvoth, religious Jews both in the Diaspora and in Israel have a responsibility to be uncompromisingly active in promoting religious and educational opportunities where every Jew can study, assess, and personally decide on their acceptance of Torah. This educational approach implies a difficult and long-term program of “openness” by the religious community toward all Jews rather than a posture of social isolation. It means developing honest relationships with non-religious Jews, sharing experiences where we all treat each other with full dignity and where we can nurture voluntary religious growth. It also requires utilizing personal, institutional, and even state resources toward these ends.^[30]

Without a serious commitment to a program of religious opportunity and Jewish education, any society of Jews where civil liberties and human rights are legally guaranteed can easily yield a “freedom of indifference” and evolve into a society where pockets of religious commitment are lost in the dominant cultural quest for hedone. The resulting culture glorifying youth, sex, and wealth is far from anyone’s ideal vision of the Jewish people. It strikes fear in the hearts of all past and present Jewish thinkers—be they religious, secular Zionist, or merely cultural. In addition to threatening authentic Jewish moral and religious standards, elevating these hedonistic values to ideals would spell the end to all Jewish culture as a distinctive and enduring phenomenon.

VI

The pragmatic argument for adopting a policy of political freedom in a Jewish society is compelling. Its attractiveness for halakhic Jews lies in its ability to synthesize Judaism’s conception of religious action as the ideal of human experience (positive liberty) with a commitment to tolerance, autonomy, and human dignity (negative liberty).

The previous argument that makes room for liberty—and its concomitant of tolerance—is casuistic, the classic method of argumentation of law in general and halakha in specific. How effective this argument can be in securing a permanent acceptance of personal liberty within Jewish law remains to be seen. By definition, casuistic arguments apply to specific cases and are embedded in particular empirical assumptions. Hence their conclusions are contingent and inevitably limited in scope. On this basis liberty seems to be an unstable value not only within the Western political tradition,^[31] but also in halakha. Liberty within the halakhic system is further imperiled because the argument depends on the lamentable historical conditions, i.e., the absence of national consensus, agnosticism, and widespread rejection of mitzvoth and Torah. Thus the casuistic argument helps us only “to muddle through,” in Professor Stone’s phrase. Liberty flows from religious failure, rather than from a spiritual or political ideal. In short, “because of our sins” we are allowed to be free.

Whether or not the casuistic argument can serve as a secure foundation for liberty in Jewish society, we cannot deny that it is spiritually unsatisfying and philosophically inadequate. Liberty should be an inspiring value that emerges from principle, not a concession to circumstance. Is there a principle within Judaism that can illuminate political freedom as such a value? The concept of Tzelem Elohim has been explored as the foundation for the ethics of human respect and dignity elsewhere,^[32] but within this concept also are fertile seeds for a conceptual breakthrough that transforms freedom into a principled ideal within Jewish thought and law. R. Meir Simcha HaCohen identified Tzelem Elohim with human freedom.^[33] This does not go far enough, for we have seen that Jewish sources and Enlightenment rationalists and romantics alike understand freedom as positive liberty that can easily lead to totalitarian politics. Further development is required for the concept of Tzelem Elohim to lay the foundations of negative liberty.

Human beings created beTzelem Elohim are the crowning glory of God’s creation. A contemporary rabbinic thinker has observed that Tzelem Elohim has two constituent components.^[34] First, human beings are differentiated from beasts because God gave them the unique metaphysical gift of free choice. Second, God’s ideal for creation is for each person to employ this gift by freely choosing the good. Both are necessary and neither is sufficient for the divine plan to be complete. Unbounded free will can opt for evil and return creation to darkness and chaos (tohu ve-vohu). Involuntary human behavior undermines God’s plan for the universe by transforming human action into determined behavior akin to that of lower animal species. In a word, absence of freedom robs a person of his unique humanity. Therefore, preserving individual freedom (i.e., negative liberty) and promoting choice for the good (positive liberty) are both requisites for realizing Tzelem Elohim.

As Isaiah Berlin never tired of telling us, freedom and order must exist in tension with each other. Neither condition can be realized absolutely; only in the messianic era will both values concurrently blossom into full expression. In our unredeemed world, therefore, we need to adopt a dialectical political policy. On religious grounds this policy should seek to maximize Tzelem Elohim by restricting individual liberty only when allowing individual choice would undermine the liberty, dignity, and equality of another. The rationale for limiting liberty is neither spiritual rectitude nor religious ideal, but functional and social. In principle, restricting personal freedom and coercing behavior for any ideological or halakhic end robs such behavior of its unique spiritual character, and as such it is devoid of religious value. 

Mishna Sanhedrin 4:5 instructs us that human diversity testifies to the greatness of God: “The supreme King of kings, the Holy One, Blessed be He, stamped all people with the seal of Adam the first, and not one of them is similar to another.” As the Mishna indicates, from Tzelem Elohim flows the uniqueness of each human person. Difference in human opinion^[35] and behavior should therefore be celebrated as religious values. Though the Mishna is old, the recognition of diversity—and the tolerance required for it to flourish—is a modern religious insight. Previously, religious cultures prized uniformity, but the bold claim of the Mishna is that the empirical pluralism of modernity is a religious value that reflects God’s glory, not religious failure. The right and freedom to be different illuminate God’s infinitude and each person’s sacred uniqueness. Hence, to flatten out differences by coercing toward uniformity is a spiritual sin and tantamount to rebelling against God’s plan for creation.

It is precisely here that Judaism must differ from other philosophies espousing objective values and substantive positive liberty. For Plato, philosophical truth and the rational ordering of society were ends in themselves. For Marx, productive labor represented the highest human value. Because of their absolute commitments to these values, any means to optimize them were justified. In the political systems of these thinkers individual human beings were regarded as mere instruments toward realizing these goals. Indeed, it is hard to find even a hint of considerations of individuality in these philosophies. Ultimately, a person’s real hopes, desires, choices, and values—one’s empirical will—were robbed of any worth and one’s identity was reduced to a perishable part of a well-running rational organization. Accorded no intrinsic value of “personhood” or “humanness,” the individual was crushed under the weight of a rational totalitarian politic.

Because Judaism posits that every person is created in the image of God, it insists on the unique spiritual integrity of each human being and can never lose sight of a person’s immeasurable value. Judaism’s ideals are intrinsically spiritual: the love of God and humanity’s honest testimony to God’s Presence. The goals of Torah, therefore, cannot be merely external behavior in conformity with religious law. Halakha and mitzvoth are only means—perhaps indispensable means—of a system designed to realize these goals for every Jew.

Here the contradictory nature of the coercive approach is apparent. Today, when no prior voluntary assent to Torah and mitzvoth exists, imposing halakhic standards entails forcing a person against one’s will. In as much as free will is necessary for one’s religious and spiritual development, “imposing” the love of God on a person in contemporary circumstances is a sterile, self-contradictory policy. On a collective level also, Am Yisrael is charged with being a “holy people,” whose behavior and values testify to God’s sovereignty. But if religious observance is merely a result of political decision, human legislation, and police enforcement, our observance testifies only to the fear of governmental punishment, and speaks nothing of divine acknowledgement. Such observance corrupts the halakhic meaning of edut. In classic rabbinic parlance, it is edut sheker—false testimony.

The above is fundamental to those who understand the Torah’s concept of humanity created in the image of God as ensuring      the dignity and worth of every individual. The divine character of every human being demands that each person be considered an end-in-oneself. One may never be used merely as a means within some larger system, and must never be dominated completely by any form of coercive political or legal authority.

God created neither robots nor slaves to acknowledge God. God acted out of hessed, endowing each person with free will, reason, and a spiritual character. At Sinai God offered the Torah to the Jewish people, and they voluntarily accepted with complete understanding and freedom.^[36] The proper religious approach for Jews today is one that fulfills the commandment of imitatio dei,^[37] emulating that divine standard: one that preserves the dignity and liberty of each person, touching one’s spiritual character while simultaneously bringing one to Sinai in order to freely accept the Torah.

It is true that the conceptualization of Tzelem Elohim that celebrates freedom, tolerance, and human diversity as religious ideals constitutes a break with the past. Previously, attempts to pressure toward both religious observance and communal uniformity were normative values in Jewish life. Yet, this conceptual change need not be viewed negatively. The evolution of authentic moral ideals can be understood as part of God’s plan for Jewish history and the flowering of ultimate Torah values.^[38] We have gone as a people from sacrifices to prayer, from polygamy to monogamy, and from monarchy to democracy as part of the positive evolution of Jewish values. Unlike the Western philosophic proponents of positive liberty who moved from freedom to coercion in their political vision, the dynamic of Jewish thought must move from coercion to freedom. The talmudic ideal dramatized in Shabbat 88a points to a necessary logical relation, and resolves the freedom/ obligation paradox that has long bedeviled political thinkers: The validity of legal obligation grows out of voluntary acceptance, not the reverse. Only with prior free acceptance of Torah do mitzvoth and the system of halakhic responsibility make moral sense.

As the talmudic passage indicates, movement from an authority-based understanding of observance to the voluntary acceptance of mitzvoth is also an evolution toward the Jewish people’s fuller acceptance of Torah and effective testimony to God. Out of the power of Tzelem Elohim a new world awaits us—one with broad horizons and exciting challenges that nurture hope for a future heading closer to our messianic dream. It is a society where the Jewish people express the image of God fully, bear witness to the gift of freedom and acknowledge Torah out of the noblest human spirit reflecting God.

Of course there is no absolute certainty that Jews, both in Israel and the Diaspora, will emerge from a politically free society to voluntarily return to religious values. This lack of a priori certainty is the price we pay for treating each other as dignified human beings, as moral creatures who quest after spiritual achievement. Yet religious Jews have good reason to believe that modern Jews will ultimately resist the allure of radical secularism. Just as in biblical times when Jews voluntarily accepted God’s Torah, the Jewish people today can choose similarly when it is brought to Sinai with love and understanding. The Torah promises this, for God offers each new generation of the Jewish people the opportunity to renew the covenant: “Neither with you only do I make this covenant and this oath; but with him that stands here with us this day before the Lord our God, and also with him that is not here this day.”^[39]

Religious Jews today believe in the God of Israel and the truth of God’s Torah. Are we to believe any less in the eternal spiritual capacity of Am Yisrael to accept, with integrity freedom and conviction, partnership with the Divine?

Notes

It is one of the great paradoxes of Jewish history that antithetic events, centuries apart, should have had the same effect on Judaism. The reestablishment of Jewish independence and the ingathering of exiles have proven as catastrophic for the Jewish religion as were, in their day, the destruction of the Jewish state, and the dispersion of the people. After the Roman conquest of 70 ce, the generation of Yohanan ben Zakai was confronted with the fateful question: Can a valid Judaism survive the loss of the sacrificial system? The revolutionary turn of events that has now produced the State of Israel confronts our own generation with an equally fateful question: Can a valid Judaism survive the emergence from conditions of Diaspora and political subservience in which it has subsisted for so long?[1]

The first and the twentieth centuries have probably been the two most tumultuous in Jewish history: the destruction of the Temple and the beginnings of exile and Diaspora on the one hand; the Holocaust and the foundation of the State of Israel on the other. Although they can be viewed as opposite to one another, dispersion to ingathering, they must also be seen as having a major common denominator: the rupture of a long-enjoyed status quo and the need to adapt to completely new circumstances.

My attempt here is to sketch the biography and thoughts of two outstanding rabbinic leaders in the period from 70 to 135 ce—their attempts to adapt, formulate, and apply their beliefs and ideals in circumstances of such major upheaval—and to see them as alternative models for our own generation’s orientation toward the events of our day and engagement with the questions with which we are all concerned.

Rabban Yohanan Ben Zakkai: The Courage of Compromise

Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai was the major rabbinic leader in the year 70 ce as the Roman siege of Jerusalem neared its close. Deep divisions existed between those trapped behind the city walls regarding what approach they should take to the Roman armies outside the wall. On the one hand were the kana’im—the zealots—who rejected any form of compromise, and would rather fight to the death than surrender to Rome. On the other hand were those willing to negotiate with Rome, albeit from a position of weakness—better, they reasoned, for something to be salvaged from the impending unavoidable defeat. It was to this latter group that Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai belonged. To be opposed to the policy of the zealots was not easy—they had burned the food provisions within the city to strengthen the inhabitants’ resolve, and would kill anybody seeking to escape whom they suspected of leaving to negotiate with Rome. It is in this context that the following near-mythic story of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai’s escape occurs.

[When R. Yohanan ben Zakkai saw that the zealots of Jerusalem did not accept his plan for compromise,] he sent for his students and told them to place him in a coffin (to escape from Jerusalem). Rabbi Eliezer held him by the head and Rabbi Joshua held him by the legs and carried him until dusk. As they arrived at the gate, the guards said to them, “Who is this you carry?” They responded, “It is one who has died, and do you not know that a corpse may not pass the night in Jerusalem?”… They carried him out of the city until they reached the Roman general Vespasian. They opened the coffin and he stood before them. Vespasian said, “Are you R. Yohanan ben Zakkai? Ask of me and I shall grant it.” He responded, “All I ask from you is Yavne, where I will teach to my students and institute prayer there and perform all the commandments.” Vespasian said, “Go! And do everything that you propose.”

In this short exchange, one of the most seismic shifts ever to take place in Jewish history occurs: The central location of worship moves from Jerusalem to Yavne, a small community of scholars on the coast, which would develop into a major academy, and from which the foundations of the Mishna and Talmud would emerge. Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai, seeing that the resistance’s days are numbered, gives up Jerusalem in order to save something from the flames. The Jewish people will lose their national center and political independence, and will cease to worship God through the medium of sacrifices. But their continued existence will be safeguarded by the new central practice of the study of Torah, an activity that is at once portable and democratic. As we will see, whether he had made the right decision was a question that would plague Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai for the rest of his life, but the decision had been made and would shape Judaism and Jewish practice for the next two millennia.

In addition to the replacement of the sacrificial order with the study of Torah, another major theme can also be discerned in Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai’s work: the renewed emphasis on the power and centrality of gemilut hasadim, acts of kindness.

In Avot DeRabbi Natan, chapter 4, we read:

It once happened that Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai was leaving Jerusalem with Rabbi Joshua, and they witnessed the destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Joshua said, “Woe to us, for the place where the sins of Israel were atoned for has been destroyed.” Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai said, “Do not be bitter, my son, for we have another form of atonement which is as great, and this is gemilut hasadim; as the verse states, “for it is kindness I desire and not burnt offerings” [Hos. 6:6].

As they pass the Temple mount in ruins, Rabbi Joshua laments to his teacher that the prime mechanism through which Israel gained forgiveness from God—the sacrifices—has been destroyed. How could Israel now maintain its relationship with God? Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai responds—acts of loving-kindness are just as efficacious at achieving atonement. We do not detect in his words even a hint that a relationship with God that is mediated through acts of kindness rather than sacrifices is in any way bedi’eved—a non-ideal second best—but that it is certainly on a par with the sacrifices. In fact, from the verse of the prophet Hosea that is quoted, the strong implication emerges that kindness and charity are far more preferable in the eyes of God than burnt offerings![2]

A simple way to put these developments is to recall the words of Simeon HaTzaddik, who, while head of the Sanhedrin when the Temple stood, had said that the world stands on three pillars: Torah, avoda (the sacrificial order), and gemilut hasadim. After the destruction of the Temple there was no longer avoda. If the world is to be pictured as a three-legged stool, the question arises as to what one can do after one of the legs has been destroyed. Two options present themselves: Either find a new leg, or strengthen the remaining two. It seems that Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai chose the latter, building on gemilut hasadim and Torah to maintain and rebuild the Jewish people’s world.

The Role of the Temple in a World without the Temple

After the momentous events and decisions of the year 70, the most significant work of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai appears to have been nine pieces of legislation. All nine were concerned with various laws and practices that had taken place in the Temple, whose place in a world without the Temple was now uncertain.

This raft of legislation can be seen as having a dual goal: (1) remembering the Temple so that it would not become a distant memory; (2) articulating a Judaism that did not require a Temple and that could flourish even without political sovereignty, a centralized religious structure, or the sacrificial service.[3]

An obvious tension emerges between these two points: Does not ensuring the remembrance of the Temple hamper attempts to come to terms with a world without the Temple? The genius of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai’s enactments is that they manage to embrace both objectives. To take but a single example, we read in Tractate Rosh HaShana regarding one of the enactments: “Kohanim [priests] are prohibited from ascending to perform the priestly blessing [in the synagogue] while wearing shoes.”[4]

The priestly blessing was one of the most ancient and significant features of the service in the Temple. By decreeing that it must also be performed in every synagogue, the significance of the ceremony and the special status of the kohanim were preserved, and the memory of the Temple retained.

The purpose of the enactment, therefore, would appear to be preserving the memory and significance of the Temple in the life of the Jewish people. Yet reading between the lines of the Gemara another theme emerges. The kohanim had been forbidden from wearing shoes in the Temple due to the sanctity of the location, in the same way in which Moses had been told to take off his shoes at the burning bush: “The place upon which you stand is holy ground.”[5] Viewed from this angle, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai’s decree is radical. Every place where Jews gather to pray, no matter where, no matter how many of them, now has the level of sanctity of the Temple, and those who ascend to perform the priestly blessing must remove their shoes just as they would have done in the Temple.[6]

Thus, as well as maintaining the memory of the Temple and its service, a very different objective was also achieved: The synagogue took on the role and even sanctity of the Temple, and allowed for religious and national continuity in a world that had been ruptured by the destruction of the Temple.

What, then, characterizes Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai’s life and work? A crucial shift of Judaism away from the Temple and sacrificial order as circumstances dictated, and the replacement of this with a teaching that emphasizes deeds of kindness, intellectual study, and prayer. An ability to compromise, and a daring to innovate new strategies and practices of religious and national import when the larger goal is unattainable.

At certain moments history may be compared to a crucible. The material inside the crucible reaches such heat that its shape can be changed very dramatically and very quickly. Once the material cools, those changes assume a permanent nature and a return to the original shape is impossible. The master craftsman is able to manipulate the material in the heat of the moment in such a way that its shape when settled is the one best suited for the object’s purposes. The year 70 was such a moment, and Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai was such a craftsman. What Isaiah Berlin said of Bismarck could easily apply to him: “Political genius consists in the ability to hear the distant hoof beat of the horse of history, and then by a superhuman effort to leap and catch the horseman by the coat tails.”[7] Jerusalem fell, Yavne was saved, and Jewish history was changed forever.

Rabbi Akiva: Theology and Politics as One

R. Yohanan ben Zakkai said, “Give me Yavneh and her wise men.” Rabbi Akiva said, “He [God[ turns wise men backward and makes their wisdom foolish.” [Isa. 44:25].[8]

Akiva ben Joseph lived two generations after Yohanan ben Zakkai, a student of his students. The major political event of his day was not the destruction of the Temple but the Bar Kokhba revolts 65 years later. Whereas Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai had opposed the zealots by advocating accommodation and compromise, Rabbi Akiva considered this foolishness—lamenting that had Rabban Yohanan ben Zakai had only requested of Vespasian that Jerusalem be spared, then everything could have been saved.

Presumably Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai had also understood that potentially he could ask Vespasian for Jerusalem—but fearing that the magnitude of such a demand might make the general renege altogether, his political realism pushed him to choose the lesser, yet attainable, goal. In his cast-iron conviction Rabbi Akiva viewed this as a terrible missed opportunity and a decision of weakness.

Perhaps the best known story regarding Rabbi Akiva’s response to the destruction of the Temple is the episode described at the end of Tractate Makkot:

Once Rabbi Akiva and his colleagues ascended to Jerusalem. When they reached Mt. Scopus, they tore their garments. When they reached the Temple Mount, they saw a fox emerging from the place of the Holy of Holies. The others started weeping; Rabbi Akiva laughed. They said to him: “Why are you laughing?” He said to them: “Why are you weeping?” They said to him: “A place [so holy] that it is said of it, ‘the stranger that approaches it shall die,’ and now foxes traverse it, and we shouldn’t weep?” He said to them: “That is why I laugh.”[9]

Rabbi Akiva goes on to explain that the prophet Isaiah had foreseen both the destruction of the First Temple and the rebuilding of the Second Temple. The Temple Mount would fall into desolation and be ploughed like a field. Yet Jerusalem, after falling to such a low, would one day be rebuilt. He goes on to explain that until he had seen the first prophecy of utter devastation fulfilled, he was doubtful as to whether the second one of hope would come true. But now that he has seen a fox running through the Holy of Holies, he knows with certainty that “Old men and women shall yet sit in the streets of Jerusalem.” His colleagues respond: “Akiva, you have comforted us! Akiva, you have comforted us!”

The story is usually read as illustrating Rabbi Akiva’s optimism, his ability to comfort his colleagues—and the moral of laughter over tears in the face of calamity. But to my mind there is another, more fundamental element that lies at the root of Rabbi Akiva’s behavior: his conviction that the destruction and absence of the Temple is only a temporary situation, and one that would soon be rectified. Do not cry that the Temple has been lost, he says to his colleagues—for its return is guaranteed.

This reading of the story is borne out by the striking parallel to the passage from Avot DeRabbi Natan quoted earlier. In both cases Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai and Rabbi Akiva are walking with their rabbinic colleagues past the Temple mount, which lies in ruins. In both cases the colleagues lament the loss of the Temple and in both cases Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai and Rabbi Akiva respond with words of comfort. But these parallels only serve to draw attention to the enormous gulf between their words of consolation: Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai tells Rabbi Joshua not to be downcast at the loss of the Temple for even in its absence the relationship of the Jewish people with God can and will be maintained. We can survive and flourish without the Temple. Rabbi Akiva, on the other hand, tells his colleagues not to be downcast at the loss of the Temple, for before long it will be back with us.

Consideration of the argument between these two rabbinic leaders raises the question of whether their dispute is simply one of tactics and strategy vis-à-vis Rome or a more deeply rooted dispute over theology. From a number of sources it emerges that Rabbi Akiva has a very clear response to the fundamental question of to what extent our theology and politics are related to one another. His answer is that they are one and the same.

The Talmud in Tractate Hagiga discusses a difficult verse in the book of Daniel, which mentions two heavenly thrones. If one of the thrones is for God, then who is the other one for? “Rabbi Akiva taught, one is for Him [i.e., God] and the other for the House of David. Rabbi Jose HaGelili responded, ‘Akiva! Until when will you make the Shekhina [Divine Presence] profane?! Rather, one is for justice and the other for charity.’”[10]

If Rabbi Akiva’s understanding of the verse is not immediately apparent, then the sharp response to it makes it clear: For him there is no division between sacred and secular, no distinction between realms of religious belief and of gritty reality. If God’s throne represents the heavenly or religious ideals, then the second throne for the earthly House of David represents the immediate implantation of those ideals.

For this reason, the Jerusalem Talmud tells us not only of Rabbi Akiva’s support for the Bar Kokhba rebellion, but of his belief that Bar Kokhba was himself the King Messiah.

Rabbi Simeon bar Yohai taught: Rabbi Akiva would expound the verse “A star [kokhav] will emerge from Jacob” as “Koziba will emerge from Jacob”—for Rabbi Akiva considered with certainty that Bar Koziba was the Messiah. Rabbi Yohanan ben Turta said: “Akiva—grass will grow over your face, and the son of David [i.e., the Messiah] will still not have come.”[11]

For Rabbi Akiva our deepest-held beliefs and ideals can and must be made tangible in the politics of this world—without compromise, adjustment, or dilution. From the response of his colleagues in both of the pieces just quoted, we see just how controversial and contested such a position was. How great is the contrast to Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai, who understood that what he valued the most was unattainable and instead set about reformulating his values so that they could be compatible with the politics and realities of this world.

To really capture the difference let us contrast the stories of the deaths of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai and Rabbi Akiva.[12] Concerning the former, we read:

And it was that when Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai fell sick, his students came in to visit him. As he saw them he began to weep. His students said to him, “Candle of Israel, mighty hammer, for what are you crying?” He responded, “If I was to be brought before a king of flesh and blood, who is here today and tomorrow in the grave, who, if he is angry with me, his anger is not forever, and if he imprisons me, the imprisonment is not forever, and if he kills me, that death is not forever—and I could pacify him with words and bribe him with money—even if this was so I would still weep. And now that I am being brought before the King of kings, the Holy One who reigns forever, who, if He is angry with me, His anger is forever, and if He imprisons me, the imprisonment is forever, and if He kills me, that death is forever—and I cannot pacify him with words nor bribe him with money. Moreover, I see two paths before me, one stretches to Gan Eden and the other to Gehinnom—and I do not know which one they will lead me down—and should I not cry?!”[13]

Rabbi Akiva dies not at home and not of illness, but is executed at the hands of the Romans during the Hadrianic persecutions:

“And you shall love the Lord your God”—When they were taking out Rabbi Akiva to be executed, the time for the recitation of the Shema had arrived, and as they removed his flesh with iron combs he accepted upon himself the yoke of Heaven. His students said to him, “Rabbi, even until this point?!” He responded, “All the days of my life I was troubled by the verse ‘[love God] with all your soul’—even if He takes your soul.” I would say to myself, when will I have such an opportunity? Now that the chance is here shall I not fulfill it?”

He extended his pronunciation of ehad until his soul left him proclaiming the unity of God. A heavenly voice proclaimed, “Happy are you, Rabbi Akiva, whose soul departed proclaiming God’s unity.” The ministering angels proclaimed, “Happy are you Rabbi Akiva, who has merited life in the World to Come!”[14]

Rabbi Akiva meets his death with calm determination—Judaism’s paradigmatic martyr, willing to undergo terrible pain secure in the knowledge that he is fulfilling God’s will. His place is assured in the World to Come. He was one of the ten martyrs executed by the Romans—an embodiment of the principle, “Better to die on his feet than to live on his knees.”

Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai is anything but calm—he is in terror in his final moments. He sees two paths stretching before him—one to heaven and one to hell—and has no idea which he will be led down. Astute readers of the passage have seen the two paths as a clear reference to that fateful decision made all those years before: in responding to Vespasian’s question two paths stretched before him—he could choose the ultimate goal of the Temple and Jerusalem yet risk losing everything, or he could choose the lesser yet attainable goal and sacrifice Judaism’s greatest symbols of national and religious pride.[15] He chose the latter—fatefully changing the next 1,900 years of Jewish history—and even at the very end of his life he did not know whether he had made the right decision.

The Historical Legacies of Rabban Yohanan Ben Zakkai and Rabbi Akiva

Ulla said: Since the destruction of the Temple, God has had no place in this world except in the four cubits of halakha.[16]

In the end, the Bar Kokhba revolt failed, Masada fell, and a Diaspora of nearly two millennia began. National existence with a single religious and political center ceased, and Jewish peoplehood was maintained by common prayer and study, and a shared lifecycle. Rabbi Akiva had failed, his enormous contribution to the world of the oral law faring far better than his religious-political vision. Although, as far as we know, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai never left Israel, his legacy created the infrastructure for a religion that could survive and even flourish in the Diaspora—a framework for a people without a land. God had withdrawn from history; Jewish religiosity and national existence had withdrawn to the private sphere, existing within the four cubits of halakha: Shabbat, kashruth, and family purity. Grand themes and narratives—king messiahs, armies, nationhood, land, agriculture, and politics—became distant memories.

Even with the rise of secularization in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, newly emancipated Jews embraced many of the values Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai had positioned at the center of Judaism: study and intellectualism as central practices of Jewish life and shaping the necessity of an existence devoid of political power into a virtue.

And then Zionism came. In the words of Amos Oz:

The Zionist revolution aspired not only to obtain a bit of land and statehood for the Jews, but also—perhaps mainly—to upend the spiritual pyramid as well as the economic one. To change the norms, create a new ideal, new focuses of solidarity and a new scale of desires…. Everyone agreed to undergo metamorphosis and be a new person, no longer a Jew but a Hebrew, tanned, strong and brave, free of complexes and Jewish neuroses, a person who loved to labor and loved the soil.[17]

In the search for models and historical templates to provide the imaginative underpinnings of a project that necessitated such a sea change for Jewish life, the attributes associated with Rabbi Akiva and ideological cousins of his such as the Maccabees returned to the fore, even though they frequently underwent secularization in the process.

From Trumpledor’s “It is good to die for one’s land” to Rav Kook’s equation of messianism and politics, Rabbi Akiva’s image loomed large, if only subconsciously. Even mainstream secular socialist Zionism exhibited this trend: The ethic of pioneering, of giving oneself up completely for the national dream and collective, draws, if only selectively, on the sorts of convictions Rabbi Akiva expresses.[18] The commitment necessary to settle, cultivate, and defend a land, to establish and maintain institutions of state, could only be brought about through ideologies that inspired belief in large, powerful ideas and inculcated a willingness for self-sacrifice. Without the energy and collective effort on the part of thousands inspired by the images and ideas associated with Rabbi Akiva, the reality of Zionism and the State of Israel would never have come into existence.

BaYamim HaHem, BaZeman HaZeh

It would be an overstatement to say that in the Rabbi Akiva–Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai tension all great figures and thinkers of the last century have emulated Rabbi Akiva. In every stream of Zionist thought there have been those who emphasized themes and ideas that could be associated with Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai.[19]

Nevertheless, contemporary discussions about Zionism, not to mention current events and politicians’ statements, can often feel straitjacketed within a Rabbi Akiva view of the world. The commitment of Diaspora Jews to the State of Israel is viewed as an all-or-nothing question, and advocating compromise on core issues is often seen as weakness or as stemming from a lack of conviction. The first stage of Zionism, the necessary hard graft of state-building, is long over. The critical priorities of today are not draining swamps or training an army, but resolving core issues about the state, society, and citizens. Questions of religion and state, the balance of the Jewish and democratic elements of the state, of the status of Israel’s non-Jewish minorities, of borders and relationships with the Palestinians and the Arab world, of social and economic justice all require answers.

Might now not be the time to turn back to the figure of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai for guidance, and absorb afresh his teaching that a meaningful and flourishing existence can be attained even when reality falls short of our dearest dreams; that compromise is often necessary (and that this is nothing to be ashamed of); that acts of kindness and social justice are as valuable as worship in our holiest places; that authenticity can be attained even under the most trying of circumstances—and that all of the foregoing points are thoroughly Jewish?

There is a space between absolutes, between redemption and damnation—and it is called life.