National Scholar Updates

El Dio no aharva kon dos manos! God doesn't strike with both hands!

In late summer 2020, I was invited by Kol BeRamah Torah Learning Center of Santa Fe to offer a class in Ladino via Zoom. I had been attending their Zoom classes and other events to both support and take advantage of the offerings of my friends Rabbi Avraham and Rabinessa (Italian for Rubisa) Liora Koén Sarano Kelman.

The idea for a Ladino class had come from a member of the community: Karen Teutsch, born in Belarus of parents from Colombia and Nicaragua, where she also grew up, aware of her Ladino-speaking Sephardic origins on her mother's side. After reading The Key from Spain: Flory Jagoda and Her Music by Debbie Levy, illustrated by Sonja Wimmer (2019) to her three-month-old son, Asher Emanuel, she was inspired to ask the Rabinessa if we could have Ladino classes. I assumed that Karen had been inspired by my good wishes in Ladino sent by chat at the Zoom pidyon haBen ceremony for Asher, which I attended because his name combined my family name, my father's first name, and one of my passions, German. Karen never did see the chats, but this story is worth sharing as an example of the wonderful connections between members of our diverse group. Having taught Ladino Language and Culture to students at Tufts University for 17 years, and, after Tufts, to a very special student, I was anxious to share our Sephardic language and culture with yet more people. I also realized that exploring this culture with its positive outlook embodied in the language might be just what we needed in these challenging times. And so was born "Explore Ladino!"

The class was approved for an initial session of six weeks, starting December 1, 2020, but all wanted to continue. Except for a Pessah break, we have been meeting weekly ever since, for one hour, at a mutually convenient time. Participants come from various parts of the United States and Canada and range from beginners to native Ladino speakers, from undergraduate and graduate students to retired professors and grandparents, from Jews and others of Sephardic, Ashkenazic, and combined origin to those seeking to join our people. In terms of our ages, we range from one—Asher, our Asheriko—to 90. 

While some have left because of illness as well as family and professional obligations, a few have also returned, and others have joined. Given our remarkable diversity, it is a challenge to find ways to bring us together and to ensure that every participant can benefit. One enjoyable, instructive, also typically Sephardic activity is singing in Ladino, even if we don't sound our best all together on Zoom.

At our first meeting I introduced El Dio ke te dé salú i vida, my musical version of our essential wish: May God give you health and life! This wish is first addressed to a single person, te, then expanded to the plural vos, all of you, and finally extended to include all of us, mos. Underlying this wish is the great value we place on health and, above all, life, and the unmistakable, confident hope that God will, indeed, hear and grant our wish. We sang these words together when we first met, and they have set the positive tone that characterizes our meetings.

We sing often, and often together. For Hanuka we sang not only “Hanuká linda” (Beautiful Hanuka), also known as “Ocho kandelikas” (Eight little candles), by Flory Jagoda, but also my own “Hanuká.” Both celebrate the miracles and pleasures of the holiday with a Sephardic twist. Flory's song mentions the many joyful parties and the pastries with almendrikas (little almonds) and honey. The diminutives used to describe the candles and the almonds imply affection and closeness, thus enhancing the positive experience in a way characteristic of the language. The refrain emphasizes how the light multiplies and progresses to reach its full potential for "me," each individual. My song proclaims that even—just when—the weather and times are cold and dark, Hanuka is coming, and that we can, indeed, prevail, with courage and kon el nombre del Dio. The refrain, my mother's saying, found in a Hanuka parody from Salonika, features aunt and grandmother dancing for joy in the holiday and the hanukía (menorah). Both songs convey the happiness and promise of Hanuka in a specifically Sephardic way, as expressed in their very language.

We are blessed to have among us Susana Behar, who sings and composes songs in Ladino. For Pessah, she treated us to her stirring rendition of a Moroccan version (in Haketia rather than Ladino) of Mose [sic] salyo de Misrayim (Moses went out of Egypt). The familiar story of Moses' meeting with God at the burning bush is told in stark, almost minimalist terms. In typically down-to-earth, no-nonsense Sephardic fashion, God tells Moses to tell Pharaoh, if he doesn't let my Jewish people go, I'll punish him with 10 plagues that I'll send, pa ke sepa ken se Yo—so he should know who I am! The forceful, direct, very Sephardic language shocks us into reliving the heightened drama and relishing the liberating joy of Pessah.

On July 21, 2021, we were honored to welcome two special guests from Israel: Matilda Koén-Sarano, grande dame of Ladino and author of our textbook, and her sister Miriam Sarano Raymond, writer and specialist in dreams, whose poem “La talega” (The Gift Bag—for Tu BiShvat) we had discussed. We owe the idea and the realization of this wonderful occasion to the Rabinessa, Matilda's daughter, who planned it for during the time she would be visiting her mother. As our surprise gift, Susana and Matilda's grandson, Barli (Baruch-Lev Alfredo Kelman), gave a resounding rendition of Matilda's dramatic masterpiece, Diálogo de amor (Dialogue of Love, music by Haim Tsur), which we had sung in a previous class. The dialogue is initiated by and stars a strong, passionate young woman who falls in love with a passionately hostile young man on the bridge in Istanbul. We're told at the end that "They took each other by the hand, / And they went dancing. / And if they're not married yet—today they're going to get engaged." This song is so typically Sephardic, featuring a strong woman who knows and gets what she wants, passion on both sides, a locale that is still home to many Sephardim, and, not least of all, a happy end that respects tradition—they must get married! The dialogue itself is full of scathing negativity, but the outcome reaffirms our positive outlook.   

This positivity, almost palpable through the Zoom screen, pervaded the whole meeting: Matilda singing along with gusto, her masterful telling of a classic Joha tale in which negatives like ignorance and anger are dissipated through the lens of humor, members of the group conversing with our guests in Ladino, all of us laughing together. At least for this hour, the joy seemed to overwhelm the negatives: the technological difficulties that delayed our guests' arrival, the accident one had on the way, the passing this spring of their sister. Of course, we already knew Matilda from her wonderful textbook, the Fourth English Edition (my translation) of Kurso de Djudeo-Espanyol (Ladino) para Prinsipiantes/Course in Judeo-Spanish (Ladino) for Beginners (2008), which has provided a common focus for our meetings. A combination grammar, reader, workbook, and cultural resource, it includes a historical introduction, traditional and contemporary songs—like Flory Jagoda's “Hanuká linda”—essays, conversations, and proverbs. Lisión No. 1, the first lesson, teaches the basics of pronouncing and writing the language. It then presents, as the very first Reading (Lektura), a list of 15 Refranes, Proverbs (p. 9). They appear suddenly, like an unexpected gift, a reward for having gone through the preceding mechanics of the language, and are a prime example of its spirit, the culture it exemplifies. 

These proverbs are overwhelmingly positive, affirming the preponderance of good and the joy of life and respecting women as human beings and as the decisive force in the home. Proverb 1 provides a suitable beginning: De la spina nase la roza. From the thorn the rose is born. Out of something that seems bad—sharp, potentially harmful—comes something good— smooth, definitely pleasurable. A similar message is conveyed by Proverb 11, La ora mas eskura es para amaneser.

The darkest hour is right before it dawns. This proverb has its counterpart in English, but the language of the Ladino version suggests a yet richer meaning. Para amaneser can mean "about to dawn," as reflected in the above translation. But it can also mean "in order to dawn," suggesting that the relationship between darkness and light is not only temporal, but causal as well. Not only will the darkest hour soon give way to light; the darkest hour is, exists, in order to dawn.

Light can grow out of darkness, much like the rose from the thorn in the first proverb. The negative forces and aspects of life become, then, not only things to avoid and overcome, but also sources that nourish the positive. Though we were already in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic when our class was proposed, and I realized the potential of exploring our positively inclined language and culture to provide an antidote, we could not foresee the challenges the following months would bring, nor did anyone anticipate the full effect of that antidote. At the beginning of each meeting I offer the traditional greeting, Ke haber? Literally, "What news?" I expect and hope for the stock response, Todo bueno, "Everything's OK." Too often I've gotten the alternative answer, which I taught half in jest: No demandes. "Don't ask." In these past nine months we have, indeed, faced more than the usual, expected challenges—as individuals, as a group with ties to Jewish and especially Sephardic culture, as a nation, and as creatures who inhabit the earth.

On Wednesday, January 6, we had the first meeting of 2021. I had hoped to share not only good wishes, but news of the many events and resources concerning Ladino and things Sephardic. But that night had already become defined by the unprecedented storming of our nation's capitol. Some emailed me that they were too upset to come. Others came, but they felt as if they were still watching the incredible events unfold live on television and could think of little else. This was no time for my notes and plans. Putting them aside, I asked everyone to think of what they had learned so far. Was anything still relevant? What response could Ladino and Sephardic culture offer? With just a little prodding, a gentle reminder of those proverbs, the answers came, first as a trickle, then as a mighty stream! First came a proverb we had learned, then another, and then one remembered from family tradition. The shocking images on television, though never completely displaced, became more and more overshadowed by the positive spiritual images from a cultural tradition that, rather than succumbing to the negatives, reimagines them as an often integral part of the basically positive grand design. De la spina nase la roza! La ora mas eskura es para amaneser! Though we did not leave that class meeting laughing and singing, as we often do, we did feel better equipped to face new challenges with hope and courage. A few days later, on Sunday, January 10, our Jane Mushabac, author of works in English and Ladino and founding creator of the annual Ladino Day in New York, played a starring role in this year's virtual celebration, which she had co-created. As for me, I left that January 6 class feeling strangely comfortable and confident, with renewed appreciation of and gratitude for the treasure that is our Sephardic tradition.

I usually follow my initial greeting and their responses with news regarding the progression of the Jewish year. As indicated, we celebrated Hanuka with contemporary songs in Ladino, notably Flory Jagoda's “Hanuká linda.” We also shared our impressions, some from personal experience, of Flory and her music. A little over a month later, we mourned her passing, on January 29, 2021. Some of us attended and even participated virtually in the shiva, the korte de trenta (sheloshim), and the memorial concert. In class we learned and sang another of her masterpieces, “La yave de Espanya” (The Key from Spain). Singing those beautiful words to that haunting melody, we could celebrate Flory even while grieving. Like the key from Spain, she was living on in our memory, even while hidden from our view.

We have had our share of challenges during the past nine months of Explore Ladino! Aside from the news of murders, devastating accidents and disasters, and tragedies like the collapse of the Surfside Condominiums in Miami, we faced our own illnesses, operations, accidents, and injuries. We cared for loved ones with COVID-19 and other afflictions, and even mourned them, as we mourned others close to us. Through it all, we have been comforted, nourished, and sustained by the energizing positivity of the language and culture we explore together. Early on I suggested that participants give short, informal presentations in Ladino, in whatever form and on whatever subject they choose. I wanted to encourage active participation and expected simple, pleasant vignettes. To my delight, we have been treated to a series of little masterpieces, with more to come. First to present was Judith Leznoff, who sang and discussed her favorite Ladino song, “Avre este abajur, bijú” (“Open This Shutter, My Jewel”), with feeling and obvious pleasure. Jane Mushabac told us how she came to write Mazal Bueno: A Portrait in Song of the Spanish Jews for National Public Radio, now a CD, starring Tovah Feldshuh as Jane's wise and exuberant Ladino-speaking grandmother from Canakkale.

Perla Vida (Pnina) Asher Samuels, my relative, shared her touching poem, in which her mother, of blessed memory, offers wise words, including the proverb about the darkest hour, that give her courage, hope, and even joy in these sad and stressful times. The Ladino version of a poem that Noa Eshkar had written in Hebrew and then in English (“An Actor”) challenged us to discover multiple layers of meaning, some related to her Sephardic heritage. Elsa Arditti Farbiarz conjured up for us a magical neighborhood in the Bronx, New York (mine!) where Ladino was heard on the streets and in restaurants like her grandfather's. There young men far from home would find familiar food, fellowship, fun, and even love—as did Elsa's father with her mother, who was working there.

In her moving "Sephardic story," Vivi Ojalvo Silverstein, cousin of Susana Behar, honors her family, originally from Istanbul, by detailing their journeys and challenges, recalling their customs, songs and sayings and reclaiming Ladino, her ancestral language. Showing photos she collected, Karen Teutsch told the story of the Teutsch family from late sixteenth-century Hungary, where the family name was Aschkenazy, to their long sojourn in Germany, to the present. Notable in Germany was Arthur (Asher) Teutsch, an honored lawyer. Arthur's two sons made it to the United States, but Arthur was killed in a concentration camp. Karen's son, Asher, is named after this great-great-grandfather. Each presentation is not only an original, contemporary piece in Ladino, but a unique, personal expression of the very spirit of the tradition. Thus Karen's story ends not with the victim of the Shoah, but with his namesake and heir to his legacy.

 Like our singing, learning, laughing, and struggling to find sense and hope together, these presentations have helped us connect to each other and to the language and tradition that unite us. Thanks to these shared activities, Ya mos izimos famiya! We have really become a family!

As such, we share anecdotes and jokes, family treasures, and news of our activities. Each participant has made a unique contribution. For example, Stanley Habib, Professor Emeritus of Computer Science, uses his expertise to save us in emergencies and facilitate communication. Stanley has also been introducing Ladino songs, proverbs, blessings, and other materials to the Boston Workers Circle, a traditionally Ashkenazic, Yiddish-speaking community to which he belongs.

Rhonda Miller suggested, set up, and manages our Google group, which helps us communicate beyond our meetings. Rashelika Cohen has organized a Jewish tour of her native Greece conducted in Ladino to be scheduled during a Jewish holiday, so that synagogues there will be filled with worshippers and thus saved from being repurposed by the government. Dianne Mortensen reads aloud and does grammatical exercises with pleasure and precision, reflecting her knowledge of and enthusiasm for linguistics. Torin Spangler, a graduate student who has researched Sephardic connections on his mother's side, enriches our meetings with his perceptive comments and unique Portuguese-flavored Ladino. Sara Gardner, a graduate student who is already a recognized scholar and popular writer, shares her expertise in Sephardic culinary history and its implications with characteristic enthusiasm. Adams Kornnblum Carney, an undergraduate currently exploring his Jewish roots, shares his considerable knowledge with humor and grace. Reed Spitzer, also an undergraduate, brings freshness and curiosity to his exploration of Ladino.   

The family treasure that Perla Vida (Pnina) Asher Samuels shared with us is found in a book published in memory of her cousin Shelomo Asher, son of Emanuel Asher, by the family: Para Munchos Anyos (For/Looking Toward Many Years, Tel Aviv, 2002). A compilation of blessings, prayers, and songs for Rosh Hashana, including the irasones (yehi ratsones), according to Izmirli custom, it is written in Hebrew and in Ladino in Hebrew letters (here in transliteration). At the end there are one hundred wishes, one for every occasion, as Perla Vida notes. It is these wishes that she has shared with us, 10 at a time. What a welcome, appropriate, typically Sephardic gift—expressions of hope for something positive, for us and everyone else! As one of the wishes says, Eyos tengan bien i mozós también! May they have it good and we, too! This wish, traditionally found at the end of a folk tale, was said in my family when something good happened to other people. Though we didn't begrudge them their good luck, we did wish for some for ourselves, too. This wish is a reminder of where we started: El Dio ke te, vos, mos dé salú i vida!—and of the positive path we continue to seek.

A month ago, when my dog, Jozepiko (Yosef, originally Joseph Francis) died, I was consoled by our Sephardic language and culture, transmitted back to me by my Ladino family. How wonderful to hear those proverbs and expressions from them! El Dio no aharva kon dos manos! God doesn't strike with both hands! A few days after his death, verses came to me, first in English and then, more forcefully, in Ladino. I offer them as a closing tribute to the healing power of our potent Sephardic antidote to all negativity.

                        Life is flat and empty.                La vida sta vazía, sin savor.

                        Joseph's gone.                          Jozepiko ya se fue.

                        True when I (just) wrote it.     Verdá kuando lo eskriví, agora.

                        Now, move on.            Ayde, alevántate!

What is the relationship between the halakhic and the ethical spheres? This question has been addressed widely by foremost Jewish thinkers and scholars, though with widely varying answers—from a total disinterest of halakha in the ethical,^[1] to the ethical consistently overriding all other halakhic factors.^[2] The goal of this paper is not to provide a comprehensive view of these opinions, but to argue for a halakhic outlook that includes within it a sensitivity for ethics rooted in traditional Jewish sources as larger meta-halakhic principles. Moral values derived from biblical sources lead to halakhic reality in nearly all spheres of life—economic, social, and marital. Meta-halakhic values can also generate new obligations, creating the category of Lifnim Mishurat haDin, beyond the letter of the law. In addition to examining cases in each sphere, this paper will look at two differing halakhic models that account for values-driven halakha. The contention of this paper is that throughout Jewish history, halakhic discourse has been unmistakably and remarkably shaped by meta-halakhic principles.

Among the most well-known debates between the schools of the great sages Hillel and Shammai is their disagreement on how to “dance before,” or greet, a bride.^[3] This argument demonstrates the inevitable clash between values when applied to real-world situations. The Gemara, on Ketubot 17a, asks what one should say about a bride on her wedding day while in her presence. Bet Shammai, in line with the value of emet, truth, states: “as she is,” while Bet Hillel, in line with the value of hessed, loving-kindness, maintains that one should call her “fair and attractive,” regardless of her appearance. As Bet Shammai immediately points out, Bet Hillel’s position will inevitably lead to compromising the truth in some cases, and therefore violates the verse “keep away from a false matter.”^[4] How could Bet Hillel hold a position that is in direct contradiction with a command from the Torah? The Gemara responds by stating the principle that “a person’s disposition should always be empathetic with humankind.” As with nearly every other dispute between Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel, here, too, we rule with Bet Hillel, that even in the face of an explicit verse, the argument of basic human empathy remains compelling. However, while this passage, in its most straightforward reading, seems to imply that hessed simply overrides the Torah prohibition on falsehood, Ritva interprets it differently. In fact, Ritva maintains that this case contains no clash between hessed and a Torah command at all. Instead, he asserts that when dealing with a case related to the “ways of peace,” the prohibition on engaging in falsehood is rendered entirely inapplicable.^[5] This assumes that there can be no conflict between law and morality, or that, at least, it does not exist in this specific case; a law simply cannot be applicable if it will lead to results that are at odds with the ways of peace. With either reading of this sugya, we see the unmistakable influence of the values of empathy and peace within practical decisions.

            Central to the halakhic discourse around larger Torah principles is the verse, Proverbs 3:17: “all her paths are pleasantness, and all her ways are peace,” from which stems the talmudic concept of darkhei shalom, ways of peace. As Rabbi Marc Angel states in reference to this verse:

The verse is also prescriptive: It reminds us that religious life must take into consideration the qualities of pleasantness and peace....They are not peripheral adornments to the Torah way of life, but are essential and central ingredients. Without these qualities, Orthodoxy is false to its mission and misrepresents the ideal Torah way of life.^[6]

Similarly, Rav Abraham Isaac Kook writes,

Morality in its natural state, with all its profound splendor and might, must be fixed in the soul, so that it may serve as a substratum for the great effects emanating from the strength of Torah…. Every element of Torah must be preceded by Derekh Eretz [= natural ethical behavior].^[7]

Pleasantness and peace—which encompass morality, decency, and human rights—are not detached from Jewish law. As is stated in Mishna Avot (3:23) “There is no Torah without derekh eretz.” Without the moral principles of the Torah guiding it, the halakhic system strays from its intended path. This is why a prescriptive reading of Proverbs 3:17 was employed by rabbinic tradition in shaping halakha to meet the standards of “pleasantness and peace.” In Masekhet Gittin, the Mishna lists a number of rabbinic institutions in the name of darkhei shalom, from establishing the order of aliyot during public Torah reading, to establishing property rights for minors and the disabled, to ensuring that non-Jews can partake in charity.^[8] None of these seem to have any explicit roots in the biblical text, yet the rabbis realized the importance of these enactments on moral and social grounds.

This in and of itself is remarkable, demonstrating the devotion of the rabbis to supra-legal values, but the Gemara takes this concept a step further.^[9] Commenting on the aforementioned Mishna in Gittin, Abaye expresses incredulity at the characterization of these laws as rabbinic in nature, questioning why they are not of biblical status. But they have no source in the Torah! How could Abaye possibly think the laws are de’Oraita, having the status of Torah (as opposed to rabbinic) law? The answer is that, according to Abaye, “Aren’t the halakhot of the entire Torah also given on account of the ways of peace, as it is written: “Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace” (Proverbs 3:17). This statement assumes that anything done in line with pleasantness and peace is by definition included in Torah law. The statement, in terms of practical application, is limited somewhat by the Gemara, but the moral force of the claim that the Torah itself is given on account of the ways of peace remains untouched. In this case, there, by definition, cannot be a way of Torah that is not a way of peace. For how could even one aspect of the Torah go against its raison d'être?

Rambam, in codifying the halakhic obligations of Jews to non-Jews includes Abaye’s reasoning, asserting that

Our Sages have commanded us to visit their [i.e., non-Jews’] sick and bury their dead along with Jewish dead, and sustain their poor along with the poor of Israel is for the “sake of peace”, since it says, “God is good to all, and His mercies extend upon all his works” (Psalms 145:9) and it says, “her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace" (Proverbs 3:17).^[10]

By including these verses in his legal code, Mishneh Torah, Rambam establishes the role of these meta-halakhic factors as the basis for action. From talmudic to modern times, we witness the influence of these factors in rendering practical halakha, including in areas of economic concern. One of the most well-known examples of a rabbinic institution that seems to prioritize financial needs is Hillel’s Prozbol. In the Torah, we find the explicit commandment for the cancellation of debts in the Shemitah year:

At the end of every seven years, you shall make a release. And this is the manner of the release: Every creditor shall release that which he has lent unto his neighbor; he shall not exact it of his neighbor and his brother; because Hashem's release has been proclaimed. (Devarim 15:1–2)

Yet, in the second temple period, Hillel the Elder, the leader of the Jewish people, realized that this commandment was leading to unintended negative consequences, as lenders would not give loans when the Shemitah year was approaching. The reality in which loans were not available to those in need of them was, to Hillel, untenable. As a result, Hillel instituted a Prozbol, which transferred the ownership of debts from an individual to a Bet Din (religious court), thereby allowing debts to remain despite the Shemitah year.^[11] Facing negative effects of the direct application of a Torah command, Hillel chose to create a loophole in order to preserve the moral integrity of the system.

Similarly, the Heter Iska has been utilized to avoid the prohibition of lending money to another Jew with interest, in the name of promoting overall social economic welfare. A Heter Iska restructures a loan to qualify it as an investment, thereby rendering a loan with interest halakhically valid, albeit on a technicality. One of the earliest decisors to implement this was the Terumat Hadeshen, a fifteenth-century Rishon, who asserts that “one is permitted to create a Heter Iska even when the goal of both parties is only to find a ‘kosher’ way of creating a transaction that is very similar to an interest-bearing loan.”^[12] This seems to fly in the face of Torah law! But the author of Me’or Einayim explains that although “this is something surprising that appears to evade the law, [...] it should not be forbidden when needed in a particular situation to provide sustenance to fellow Jews.”^[13] Both the Prozbol and the Heter Iska were instituted in the name of fostering a society that includes loans for those in need, without which many would have been adversely affected. However, this monetary concern is not only limited to Jews. In a responsa, Rav Ben Zion Uziel, the first Sephardic Chief Rabbi of the State of Israel, addresses the financial obligation of a Jewish man who fathered a non-Jewish child. After lengthy halakhic consideration that seems to exonerate the man of any financial responsibility, Rav Uziel nonetheless obligates the man in providing for his child, stating that “this is the way of Torah, whose ways are ways of pleasantness.…”^[14] Despite technical reasoning, Rav Uziel relies on the commitment of the Torah to the value of pleasantness and peace to enforce his ruling.

Within the social sphere, the emphasis on refraining from humiliation is used forcefully in demarcating the bounds of Torah law and in prompting rabbinic enactments to maintain it:

Rabbi Yoḥanan says in the name of Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai: It is more amenable for a person to throw himself into a fiery furnace if faced with the choice of publicly embarrassing another or remaining silent even if it leads to being burned, and not humiliate another in public. From where do we derive this? From Tamar, as she was prepared to be burned if Judah did not confess, rather than humiliate him in public.^[15]

This is not a halakhic statement, but a midrashic way of bearing out a Torah value. It is not, however, kept separate from the legalistic discussions of Judaism; rather, it is a principle used to reach implemented law. For example, when discussing the parameters of the commandment, “You shall surely rebuke your neighbor, and not bear sin because of him” (Lev. 19:17), the law only applies up to the point of causing embarrassment.^[16]Another case that elicited concern of humiliation was the case of a widow, who, due to having a child from her first husband, had been required to marry outside of the family of her former husband, after which her child died. Normally a childless widow either must marry a relative of her late husband, or undergo a ceremony, known as halitza, with that relative to terminate her obligation toward him. But in this case, when she was already married to another man, what should the rule on halitza be? The rabbis ruled leniently in this case, allowing her to remain married to her new husband without undergoing that ceremony.^[17] Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits writes,

From the point of view of talmudic reasoning, this was not at all obvious. A rule of talmudic deduction is employed to argue that really the woman ought to perform halitza. But all logical reasoning is pushed aside by the statement that such could not be a law of the Tora, for it is said of the Tora: “Her ways are ways of pleasantness.” In other words, it is inconceivable that the Tora would in this case require halitza. The woman is already married. To subject her to such a ceremony would be humiliating for her vis-a-vis her present husband.^[18]

The rabbis also instituted a number of rules surrounding burial and mourning to ensure honor and prevent embarrassment specifically for those on the lower economic rungs of society. In Moed Katan, the Gemara relates that while in mourning, the rich were brought baskets of gold and silver, while the poor were brought baskets made of twigs. As a result, the poor felt ashamed. Similarly, the corpses of the rich were carried on couches while the poor were carried in simple wood boxes. This, too, shamed the poor. The clothes that a corpse was expected to be buried in were so expensive that sometimes those without the means to buy such clothes would run away and abandon the body. In all of these cases, the rabbis commanded that the standards change to accommodate those who were humiliated by the previous customs.^[19] Baskets of gold and silver, ornate couches for carrying the dead, fine clothes for those being buried, and more were all prohibited, not because of a technical command or Torah obligation, but because of respect of the rabbis for the emotional needs of the lowest strata of society.

            One of the most challenging halakhic issues of modern times, that of the Aguna, arises in the marital sphere. Aguna, literally a chained woman, is a status that occurs when the husband of a married woman disappears or is recalcitrant to give his wife a get, or Jewish bill of divorce. In either case, the Aguna is stuck with her husband and unable to remarry. The tragic nature of this situation was not lost on the rabbis and led them to do whatever possible to evade an Aguna situation. Discussed on Yebamot 88a, the Gemara asserts that unlike normal cases, a single witness can be relied on, responding to objections that, “due to the case of a deserted wife (Aguna), the sages were lenient with her.” The Rambam codifies this very line in his Mishneh Torah.^[20] The Tosafot explains this as “not the uprooting of a matter in the Torah, for the matter appears inherently credible [and hence a single witness is acceptable]….”^[21] But the Maharsha explicitly rejects this reading of the Gemara as “far-fetched.” Instead, he argues that without rabbinic intervention in the normal system,

she may thereby become an Aguna, which is not a peaceful state…. And it says “there is great peace to the lovers of your Torah,” for this is not an uprooting; rather, it is an application of the attribute of peace to prevent having the woman become an Aguna, as is written, “Its ways are ways of pleasantness.” And the passage concludes with the verse (Ps. 29:11), “The Lord will give strength to His people,” for it is not a matter of uprooting something in the Torah, inasmuch as the Holy One Blessed Be He gave strength and power to his people, who are scholars, to rule leniently in this matter, for “the Lord will bless His people with peace,” as is written, “all its paths are peace”— and there will be no peace if she becomes an Aguna.”^[22]

Tosafot’s reading of this Gemara would keep the conversation surrounding Agunot as one of technicality—perhaps the plausibility of this claim generates different standards of testimony. But to the Maharsha, the technical conversation yields to one of values and sensitivity. For the Maharsha, there is no more likelihood that one witness is more accurate than in any other case, in which we would reject the testimony of a single witness. It is the value of preventing an Aguna, which contends with the Torah’s desire for peace, that elicits the deviation from normal halakhic standards. One of the Torah giants of the modern era, Rav Ovadia Yosef was known for his dedication to preventing women from becoming Agunot:

Generally, it is the way of some of the Sages of our generation to remove all possible doubtful situations to make universally applicable legal rulings that cannot be challenged. This is generally a good path to take, but by Aguna I follow in the footsteps of earlier and later Sages that would find every possible facet of the law that could be used to treat an Aguna case with leniency.^[23]

Rav Ovadia expresses the need for deviation from standard proceedings when dealing with such sensitive cases, and rejects the application of halakha that is divorced from the nature of the case. In the case of the Aguna, we see the willingness of the rabbis, from talmudic to modern times, to bypass the established norms in order to maintain peace for these women.

            Not only do meta-halakhic principles guide the halakhic process, but they can also create new obligations in cases where the halakha is silent. This yields the category of Lifnim Mishurat haDin, beyond the letter of the law:

The Gemara relates an incident involving Rabba bar bar Ḥanan: Certain porters broke his barrel of wine after he had hired them to transport the barrels. He took their cloaks as payment for the lost wine. They came and told Rav. Rav said to Rabba bar bar Ḥanan: Give them their cloaks. Rabba bar bar Ḥanan said to him: Is this the halakha? Rav said to him: Yes, as it is written: “That you may walk in the way of good men” (Proverbs 2:20). Rabba bar bar Ḥanan gave them their cloaks. The porters said to Rav: We are poor people and we toiled all day and we are hungry and we have nothing. Rav said to Rabba bar bar Ḥanan: Go and give them their wages. Rabba bar bar Ḥanan said to him: Is this the halakha? Rav said to him: Yes, as it is written: “And keep the paths of the righteous” (Proverbs 2:20).^[24]

As Rashi points out (commenting on “the way of good men''), this is “Lifnim Mishurat haDin.” Yet, there is no indication from this passage that Rav is giving a mere suggestion of what to do—he is giving a ruling. But how could a ruling be given on something that is beyond the letter of the law? The answer must be that it is not only the letter of the law that obligates, but the spirit of the law as well. In fact, when Rabba bar bar Hanan asks, “Is this the halakha?” the Gemara seems to imply that the letter of the law is with him, not Rav. As Rabbi Sperber explains, “The Law itself may have supported Rabbah’s position, but Rav compelled him to pay more than the law required: the ethical value of walking in the paths of the good and righteous trumped the letter of the law.”^[25]

One of the most well-known formulations of Lifnim Mishurat haDin is Ramban’s conception of Naval Bershut haTorah, a scoundrel with permission of the Torah.^[26] That is to say, people can follow the letter of the law to a tee, but nevertheless can remain a “scoundrel” if they do not conform their behavior to the general principles the Torah presents, beyond merely its legal precepts. To Ramban, Lifnim Mishurat haDin is not optional, but specifically commanded in verses such as “be holy,” and “And you shall do the straight and the good.” This concept is powerfully expressed in a passage in Baba Metzia discussing Lifnim Mishurat haDin:

Rabbi Yoḥanan says: Jerusalem was destroyed only for the fact that they adjudicated cases on the basis of Torah law in the city. The Gemara asks: Rather, what else should they have done? Should they rather have adjudicated cases on the basis of arbitrary decisions [demagizeta]? Rather, say: That they established their rulings on the basis of Torah law and did not go beyond the letter of the law.^[27]

To Rabbi Yohanan, not acting beyond the letter of the law is such a grave sin that the Temple was destroyed on its account! Lifnim Mishurat haDin is not an expression of extra piety, but foundational to functional halakhic life. The Torah’s directives are multiplanar. There is the strict Din, the letter of the law, but beyond that are the values of peace and pleasantness, respect and love for all creations, and more. These together—the specific Din and the general values—make up the obligations of the halakha.^[28]

            Even among thinkers who accept the role of general Torah principles in halakhic decisions, there are multiple conceptions of the halakhic system and its relationship with those principles. One model is put forth by Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, in his essay “The Human and Social Factor in Halakha.”^[29] This model parallels Ritva's reading of the argument regarding dancing before the bride. There, Ritva acknowledges no discrepancy between values, but rather assumes that different values help set boundaries on others, maintaining a closed system that still gives voice to each value. Rav Lichtenstein similarly advocates a model of halakha that neither ignores what he refers to as “human and social factors,” nor overrides the halakha in the event of a clash—because for Lichtenstein no such clash can exist. As Lichtenstein writes,

The human and social factor is relevant to halakha at its various levels; and the point can be briefly illustrated by the example of shalom perceived not only in moral and hortatory terms, with primary reference to the aggadic sphere, but as a halakhic element. At the teleological plane, it is described in one context as the impulse for the entire Torah.

While shalom is of teleological import, its implementation comes about as a result of its status as a “halakhic element.” This integration allows for sensitive halakhic decisions in line with the broader values of the Torah, while in no way compromising the system, which can only be “superseded by the internal dynamics of the halakhic system proper.” This approach also asserts that neglecting the human and social factors is not just “insensitive,” but “bad halakha” as well, for to neglect any halakhic factor in giving Pesak, halakhic decision, must be “bad halakha.” This is not fundamentally different than ignoring any other technical factor that may affect the final ruling. Lichtenstein propounds that “to the extent that kevod ha-beriot [basic dignity], for instance, permits a "violation," be it of a de-rab-banan [rabbinic] injunction, actively, or of a de-oraita [biblical law], passively, failure to act on that principle undercuts a spiritual ideal.” Halakhic ruling demands consideration of any internal element that may affect the outcome, and principles of peace and human dignity are no different. Rav Lichtenstein in no way condones using moral arguments to push aside halakha, but rather asserts that perhaps “what had been apt and perhaps even necessary in a given socio-historical setting was no longer ideally suited to his own.” This promotes obedience to traditional halakha, while recognizing that the halakhic system itself contains paths to avoid consequences seen as contrary to Torah values and does not mandate uniform application of previous rulings to new cases. This model minimizes, if not eliminates altogether, the language of clash between halakha and larger meta-halakhic principles, while striving to stay true to those principles.

            In contrast to this stands the model wherein one maintains a separation between Torah values and technical halakha, and navigates those situations by prioritizing the value, as put forth in the writings of the Dor Revi'i and Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits. Rabbi Moshe Shemuel Glasner, known as the Dor Revi’i, while discussing whether one should eat an explicitly forbidden food or human flesh, which is not explicitly forbidden in the Torah, writes,

You should know that as to all the loathsome things that man finds despicable, even if the Torah had not forbidden them, anyone eating such things would be regarded as being far more abhorrent than one who violates an explicit Torah prohibition….

But tell me now, a dangerously ill patient having to choose between meat from an improperly slaughtered or congenitally defective animal and human flesh—which should he eat? Do we say that he should eat the human flesh, which is not forbidden by a Torah prohibition—even though it is forbidden by the moral code accepted by civilized man, so that anyone eating or feeding another person human flesh is cast out from the community of men—rather than eat meat which the Torah forbids with a negative commandment? Would it enter your mind that we, the chosen people, a wise and understanding people, should violate this moral code in order to save ourselves from violating a Torah prohibition?^[30]

The Dor Revi'i similarly rules that in a case where one’s house is on fire, and he can either run out naked or in a women’s dress, that although wearing women’s clothing seems to be a more serious prohibition, it is undoubtedly preferable to wear it than to run out unclothed. He roots his opinion in the concept of Tzelem Elokim, man as made in God’s image. To the Dor Revi’i, it is clear that in these two cases there is a clash between a Torah prohibition and “moral code,” which he gives credence to by linking it to the biblical principle of Tzelem Elokim. Unabashedly, the Dor Revi’i upholds the moral principle in the face of the halakhic. It should be noted that Rav Asher Weiss expresses incredulity at this position of the Dor Revi’i, but nevertheless recognizes that it is within the bounds of normative halakhic Judaism.^[31] Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits similarly describes the “priority of the ethical” when discussing the application of halakha.^[32] To Rabbi Berkovits, there are certain immutable Torah values that the halakha must, by definition, reflect.  Any halakha that does not conform to those principles is “inconceivable.” In his essay, “The Nature and Function of Jewish Law,” Rabbi Berkovits writes,

The rabbis in the Talmud were guided by the insight: God forbid there should be anything in the application of the Tora to the actual life situation that is contrary to the principles of ethics. What are those principles? They are Tora principles, like: “And you shall do that which is right and good in the sight of the Eternal”; or, “Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace” (according to Talmudic teaching, this refers to the ways and paths of the Tora); or, “That you may walk in the way of good people, and keep the paths of the righteous.”... Quite clearly, these principles, and such an understanding of the meaning of the Tora, give priority to the ethical demand.^[33]

Unlike Rav Lichtenstein’s model, which integrated the quoted verses into halakhic discourse by conceiving of them as formal halakhic elements, Berkovits and the Dor Revi'i allow for a separation of halakhic factors and values, yet maintain a dialogue between the two. For both Berkovits and the Dor Revi’i, that dialogue must always conclude with a halakhic decision that is in line with Torah principles, even if that means foregoing normative halakhic reasoning. In this approach, halakha is seen as a vehicle for the application of values that therefore must inform and completely shape any halakhic ruling.

            With either model—one being the formalization of general principles into finite halakhic categories, the second being the shaping of halakha to conform to those principles—we see the emphasis on values-driven Pesak. The statements of the Torah regarding ethics and human dignity, peace, and pleasantness, must remain central factors in halakhic dialogue. As we have seen, in a wide array of cases, from Rav Uziel obligating a man to financially support a non-Jewish child, to the rabbis of talmudic times enforcing new norms around mourning, to generations of halakhists, from Talmudic to modern times, ruling leniently in the case of Aguna, values matter. In Halakhic Man, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik states “the actualization of the ideals of justice and righteousness is the pillar of fire which halakhic man follows.”^[34] We must not sever the connection between halakha and Torah values. When Abaye asks (albeit rhetorically), “Aren’t the halakhot of the entire Torah also given on account of the ways of peace?” we must resoundingly answer yes!

Growing up as a young teenager, I can recall the vivid imagery and depictions of suffering and horror that the Jewish people had experienced throughout many centuries. I also was taught an extreme veneration of Jewish heroes, sages, and rabbinical leaders. As such, my perceptions of Jewish life, throughout history, consisted of persecution, hate, slaughter, and anti-Semitism. Learning of Jews being devoured by animals in the Roman Colosseum, the massacres of Jews during the Crusades, the persecution of Converso Jews during the Spanish Inquisition, and the mass extermination of European Jewry during the Holocaust, all contributed to my initial grim and dark perceptions of how to view the lives of my Jewish ancestry and heritage, as well as my future life in a cruel and malevolent society that seemed to have an irrational fear for those who professed or were born to a Jewish identity.

A possible reason for the history of the Jewish people being depicted as a history filled with suffering and persecution stems from the complex nature and identity that the notion of anti-Semitism plays in Jewish culture and identity. Following this principle, Jewish suffering and persecution is based upon an irrational hate for the Jewish people—a burden the Jewish people must endure until the coming of the Jewish messiah and an intervention by the Almighty. Consequently, the association of anti-Semitism with Jewish History creates negative ramifications for the future of a contemporary Jewish society, as well as its relationship to a broader global society.

Firstly, framing Jewish life and culture within the context of anti-Semitism serves to differentiate and separate “us” Jews, from “them”, i.e., a larger global society that possesses an irrational hate for the Jewish people. Furthermore, the separation and divide between Judaism and an omnipresent world culture, as a result of anti-Semitism, creates the impression that identifying with Judaism is in direct contradiction with the universal values and customs of modern contemporary society. Secondly, viewing the history of the Jewish people in terms of a seemingly endless cycle of violence and persecution does not bode well for the hopes and aspirations of younger generations. Looking back at the suffering of their Jewish ancestors creates a sense of despair toward the future.

Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I was ingrained with the mentality of a constant anti-Semitism intertwined within the framework of Jewish History. This mentality created a personal conflict and, at the time, unanswerable questions. How would I live in a society that had an irrational fear and hatred against my professed Jewish identity? Learning about the suffering and persecution of my Jewish ancestors, I wondered if my future would entail similar forms of suffering and persecution. In retrospect, my questions were not wrong or misguided, but rather it was my perceptions and definitions of the history of the Jewish people that were misunderstood.

An additional problematic component of traditional learning of Jewish History that I had been exposed to was in regard to the extreme reverence for the exploits of Jewish heroes and heroines, as well as scholars and rabbinical leaders of the past. The closer Jewish leaders were to the Second Temple and biblical eras, the higher level of “holy” or divine their status would be to their future descendants. Consequently, as each incoming generation is a further lifetime away from biblical times, each incoming generation is viewed with a constant diminishing value in spirituality and righteousness compared with previous generations. In retrospect, I can see two potential problems in regard to the extreme veneration of past historical figures in Jewish History. First, the elevation of Jewish figures to such a degree conflicts with the Jewish importance of venerating God and his commandments. Second, on a personal note, the intense veneration of historical figures in Jewish history had them appear inhuman from my perspective, and as a result I did not see them as relatable.

As I grew older and entered University, I began to realize that there was much more to Jewish History than I had been exposed to. With mentorship and guidance from University professors and advisors, I began to view Jewish History in a more complex manner. I began to study different topics in Jewish History that I was never exposed to before; topics that I perceived to conflict with my beliefs on Judaism as a result of my previous outlook on the History of the Jewish people. I learned of many different sects of Judaism, including, among others, Sadducees, Essenes, Karaites, and Samaritans, all of which professed beliefs about Judaism that were different from my own. I was introduced to the historical background of the Maccabean revolt, and I discerned that the story of Hanukkah was not a revolt against the Seleucid Greeks and was in reality primarily a civil war between Jews over the impact of Greek customs and values on Jewish society. Furthermore, I identified Jewish leaders and their constituents interacting with their neighbors and being part of and contributing to a greater global society.

With further study, I began to view the history of the Jewish people in addition to great Jewish figures and leaders in a more relatable society that somewhat resembled the modern contemporary society in which I reside. Retrospectively, I do not view Jewish History in terms of the extensive persecution of Jews and to the extreme veneration of Jewish historical leaders. Conversely, I see a past where I imagine my fellow ancestors staying true to their religious beliefs while dealing with internal obstacles within their local Jewish communities as well as the broader environment surrounding them. Like today, there was division among Jewish communities, and as in contemporary times, Jews have dealt with times of persecution in addition to times of prosperity from their non-Jewish neighbors.

            As an aside, I do not mean to fully discredit the value of elements of Jewish History to which I had previously been exposed. Persecution of Jews has been a common theme throughout history and should be acknowledged. Similarly, there have been many great religious, political, and military Jewish leaders that should be venerated for their extraordinary leadership. Nevertheless, these features, mentioned above, if taught and studied on their own, persist to take away the humanity and importance of the common people of the past. Additionally, these features serve to alienate contemporary members of society as they evoke messages of persecution, suffering, and unworthiness. As such, the study of Jewish History should be based upon the pretext of discussing the complexities and divisions of different Jewish communities in addition to their complex relationship with their non-Jewish neighbors. Furthermore, the involvement of past Jewish historical leaders and local Jewish communities with their larger global society should be identified and addressed. By adding these new elements in the traditional study of Jewish History, the History of the Jewish people will represent a more authentic outlook in addition to being more relatable to contemporary Jewish society.

Book Review

Ronald Benun, Psalms and the Prophetic Message of Jeremiah, vol. 1 (Tebah: 2021), 368 pages.

Reviewed by Rabbi Hayyim Angel

After many decades of research, Ronald Benun has published the first volume of his life’s work on the Book of Psalms. Benun follows in the footsteps of his revered mentor, Rabbi Solomon David Sassoon.

This work is original and creative, as Benun identifies a plethora of proposed allusions between selected psalms and the entire Bible, most notably the Book of Jeremiah.

Benun’s thought-provoking analysis combines careful attention to minor details within a psalm, as well as the interlocking nexus of the entire Tanakh (“intertextuality”). In the 1980s, Benun developed then cutting-edge software to improve his ability to compare multiple biblical passages at once. He presents the results of his research in his book.

Benun also submits explanations of the sequencing of the psalms: “Psalms is not simply an anthology of unrelated poems. Rather, it also has the characteristics of a book, with an overall message, and sequence from chapter to chapter and from unit to unit” (306). Ibn Ezra (on Psalm 3:1) rejected this approach out of hand, but other great commentators, such as Rabbi Saadiah Gaon, pursued this line of inquiry.
 

The volume is best suited to scholars and other highly educated laypeople with strong backgrounds in Jewish Studies.

The sheer quantity of potential parallels Benun adduces is breathtaking. Each reader likely will reach different conclusions as to which to accept as compelling and which to consider more tenuous. Even once a set of parallels is established, individuals also may disagree over how to interpret the significance of those parallels. As the adage goes, one person’s peshat is another person’s derash.

Following the path of the best of Jewish scholarly tradition, Benun encourages his readers to evaluate his arguments based on the evidence. He painstakingly presents his arguments with careful documentation, rigor, and clarity.

Another compelling methodological contribution is Rabbi Solomon Sassoon’s “bumps in the road” interpretive stance. Many academic scholars have a tendency to smooth out difficulties, often by mechanically proposing text emendations. Benun retorts that more thoughtful attention to these anomalies may serve to unlock the intent of the biblical authors. For example, by deviating from an alphabetical acrostic or another pattern, an author may deliberately convey a shift in idea and mood. Emending a text to “correct” the anomaly, by contrast, is not only facile and tenuous, but may well obscure precisely the point the biblical author wishes to express through the use of that variance!

On a personal note, I also am coming out with a book on Psalms this year (Hayyim Angel, Psalms: A Companion Volume (New York: Kodesh Press, forthcoming). I found it particularly enlightening to read an entirely different approach to the psalms. There are endless facets to the prophetic works of the Bible, and we are blessed to have high-quality scholarship like that of Ronald Benun now in the mixture of ideas and approaches to the ever-inspiring and elevating words of the Psalms.

Thoughts for Yom Ha'Atsmaut
by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

A tiny nation, often misunderstood and maligned, changed the course
of history for the good. This tiny
nation produced the Bible and its prophets; sages and mystics; poets and
dreamers. This tiny nation, generation after generation, in many ways has been
the conscience of humanity, the litmus test of human civilization.

This tiny nation lived in a tiny land in antiquity. Its King David
established Jerusalem as its
capitol city a thousand years before the dawn of Christianity and more than
1600 years before Mohammed. It was seldom allowed to live in peace: other
nations threatened, attacked, made war. It saw its capitol city razed by
vicious enemies, its Temples destroyed
by Babylonians and Romans, its citizens ravaged and exiled.

This tiny nation, scattered throughout the world, faced persecutions and
humiliations. Its men and women and children were confined to ghettos, deprived
of elementary human rights, subjected to pogroms and pillage. Millions of them
were murdered during the Holocaust.

Exiled from its land for nearly 2000 years, it always dreamed of
returning to its ancestral soil and re-establishing its sovereignty. It prayed daily
for the return. Many of its members made pilgrimages, and some remained living
in the land throughout the generations, in conditions of poverty and
oppression.

In spite of the persecutions it suffered and in spite of the callousness
of so many nations of the world, this tiny nation maintained faith in One God
and in the mission He assigned it to bring the lofty teachings of Torah to
humanity. In spite of all its sufferings, this tiny nation maintained faith in
humanity: it strove to make the world a better place for all human beings, with
an eternal optimism that is truly a wonder.

This tiny nation, born 3500 years ago, wove its way through history and
refused to be destroyed or silenced.
This tiny nation, scattered throughout the lands of the world, found the
will and the courage to return to its historic homeland after nearly 2000 years
of exile. The return home has been difficult. It has had to fight wars, withstand
terrorism, overcome economic boycotts, endure political isolation, and combat
hateful propaganda.

Yet, this tiny and ancient nation, against all reasonable odds, has
re-established its sovereignty in its historic homeland; it has created a
vibrant, dynamic, idealistic society, dedicated to the ideals of freedom and
democracy. With its memory spanning the millennia, it has created a modern,
progressive state.

My wife Gilda and I first visited this historic land in the summer of
1968, a year after our marriage. When we glimpsed the shoreline from the
airplane window, we both found ourselves with tears in our eyes. We were not
born in this land; we had never been there before; and yet we were returning—we
and all the generations of our families were returning through us. “When the Lord turned back the captivity of Zion, we were
as in a dream (Psalm 126:1).”

This tiny people is Israel. This tiny
land is Israel. This
nation of dreamers and visionaries, builders and farmers, sages and scientists,
warriors and peace makers—this nation is Israel. This tiny nation is a great nation. This tiny
land is a holy land. “The tiny shall become a thousand, and the least a mighty
nation (Isaiah 60:22).”

Israel is a bastion
of hope in a world filled with despair. It is a wellspring of human dignity in
a world filled with shameless hatred and strife.

To stand with Israel is to
stand for the redemption of the people of Israel and
humanity. To stand with Israel is to recognize
the sheer wonder of the survival and contributions of the people of Israel. It is to
affirm the preciousness of life over a culture of death; righteousness over
hypocrisy; idealism over despair. This tiny nation in its tiny land is a
testament to the greatness of the human spirit. It is a testimony to God’s
providence.

It is a privilege, beyond words, to dream with Israel and share
its destiny.

“For Zion’s sake I shall not be
silent, and for Jerusalem’s sake I shall not rest, until her righteousness go
forth as brightness and her salvation as a flaming torch (Isaiah 62:1).”

Is it proper to bring very young children to shul?

Many parents want their children to become accustomed to attending synagogue from an early age. That’s fine; but parents must assume responsibility for their children during services. If the children become restless, noisy, and disruptive to others, then parents need to bring them out of the sanctuary until they settle down.

Many synagogues provide child care during services, so that children can spend some time in the main sanctuary and the rest of the morning in child care/youth programs/youth services.

If children are very young, it’s very difficult to expect them to stay quiet for a long stretch of time. As they grow older, the time they spend in services can be gradually increased.

It is essential for parents to be extra sensitive to the needs of the entire kahal when they bring their children to synagogue. It is essential for the kahal to be very understanding and patient when it comes to the needs of parents and young children. Striking the right balance isn’t always easy. But it can be done with the goodwill of all the members of the community—young and old.

Is it proper to daven for the demise of Putin in order to save lives in Ukraine, and stop him from additional aggression?  What about a supporter of Russia davening for victory in taking over Ukraine?

It is proper to pray for peace. It is proper to pray that human beings will all strive to live up to their potential as having been created in Hashem’s image. It is proper to seek Hashem’s guidance for a troubled humanity…for refuat hanefesh and refuat haguf.

It is not proper to use prayer as a magical gimmick or as a p.r. event.  Prayer is not a tool for manipulating the actions of the Almighty, but a humble gesture of dependence on Hashem.

Bruriah taught that it’s best not to pray for the demise of sinners…but to pray for the elimination of the sins themselves. Our prayers should seek Hashem’s help in showing tyrannical leaders the errors of their ways; moving them to reconsider their destructive policies; guiding all leaders on all sides to genuinely consider what is right and best for their own citizens.

It is proper to pray for peace and human understanding. It is proper—and vital—for these prayers to be accompanied by suitable actions that help make our world a better, safer, and happier place.

Is it proper now to own a smartphone? When is it appropriate to use one and when not? Does using the filter solve the problem?

Each of us has the right and responsibility to make decisions that affect our lives. When we face change—technological or otherwise—we need to be able to evaluate the positives and negatives—and then decide what’s best for us.

Smart phones are incredibly useful in so many ways. They are amazingly helpful in maintaining quick and easy communications. They provide instant information on the weather and the news. The apps make it easy for us to drive without getting lost; to order an Uber driver or a pizza; and so many other features that simplify our lives.

Yes, it’s possible to over-use or mis-use a smartphone. But that is true of many things. The question isn’t whether it’s proper to own a smartphone; the question is are we responsible enough to use smartphones wisely.

If you wonder whether or not you should own a smartphone, ask for advice from others who do own one. Find out if this device is something that will enhance your life or be a waste of money. Then make your own decision.  Whatever you decide is not final; you can re-evaluate as time goes on and as circumstances change.

Think clearly. Make your own decision. Adjust your decision if and when needed.

Is it proper to click and follow the personal social media accounts of the opposite gender? If so what about chatting socially with them using the platform's direct messaging?

It would seem unwise to click and follow the personal social media account of anyone outside your immediate family and circle of friends, whether of the same or opposite gender. It is also a bad idea to chat with anyone you don’t know personally.

 Unfortunately, people are lured into activities and conversations without realizing the long-term (or even short-term) implications. It is all too frequent to hear of people who have been financially or physically harmed due to careless use of social media and chatting platforms.  People may think that these things only happen to others and that they can handle things without getting into trouble. But why put yourself at needless risk? Why waste your valuable time?

 The yetser hara is very powerful and relentless. It’s best not to give it an opening by engaging in problematic online behavior. Remember: you are answerable to the Almighty Who is fully aware of your actions. You are not alone, even if you are in a room by yourself.

According to the NYPD, six teens between the ages of 12 and 16 were approached by three male teens, who “stated that they wanted to fight them and that because they were Jewish, they wanted to get them.” “The suspects brandished a knife, crow bar and a sword, and followed them towards their residence before fleeing,” said a spokeswoman for the NYPD. “There were no reported injuries as a result of this incident. The NYPD’s Hate Crimes Task Force was notified and is investigating.”

     The above news story about a recent incident on the Upper West Side of Manhattan is disturbing…and not entirely accurate. Yes, the Jewish teens were not physically harmed and the perpetrators got away. But the report states that there were “no reported injuries”…and that is only partially correct.

    In fact, there were very serious injuries. The Jewish victims were not simply confronted by weapon-wielding haters; they were psychologically injured by the confrontation. Their level of trust in their personal safety has been compromised. Their trust in their fellow human beings has been shattered. They will now need to keep wondering if they will be attacked again…only because they are Jewish. 

     The injuries go beyond the psychological damage to the teen victims. All Jews have another reason to feel that they can be victimized only because they are Jews. We can try to put this incident aside as a fluke aberration from our normal sense of safety and well-being…but a scar—however small it may seem—will remain.

     And it’s not just Jews who have sustained injuries in this incident: it is also the perpetrators themselves. One act of hatred and violence tends to lead to another, and then another. The teen haters are condemning themselves to a life of hatred and violence that may ultimately land them in prison. Even if they escape justice this time, eventually their violence and bigotry will backfire on them.

     It is very upsetting watching the news these days. Not only do we view the horrific situation in Ukraine and Palestinian terrorism in Israel; we see images of violent people in our own city and country who hit, rob, shoot, and murder others. We are witnessing a rise in hate crimes against Jews, Asians and other groups. 

     On the positive side, politicians speak out forcefully against bigotry and gun violence. Law enforcement leaders assure us they will catch the criminals. But on the negative side, we sense a breakdown within society. Pundits blame racism, anti-Semitism, gangs, mental illness, availability of guns, frustration due to the Covid pandemic etc. 

     While so much needs to be done in order to maintain civility and safety, a key area that needs to be studied is the family. Healthy families produce healthy, productive children. Healthy families convey moral values. Healthy families strive to help family members who are moving in dangerous anti-social directions.

     When families do not properly fulfill these functions, our entire society suffers the consequences. But what is being done by our government, schools, and media to promote healthy families? Have things deteriorated beyond repair? Have the leaders and opinion makers given up on promoting healthy families?

     We are told that a high percentage of violent crimes are committed by a small number of criminals. But who are these criminals? Where did they learn to hate and hurt? What kind of families do they have? What could parents do to better guide their children? What resources do parents of problematic children have to help them steer their children in the right direction? And if the parents themselves are haters and criminals, how can the children be freed from the bad influences of their parents?

     When society was first confronted with the Covid plague, vast financial and human resources were mobilized in order to deal with the virus and its spread. It was quickly realized that the virus posed a threat to all of us.

     But the virus of hatred, violence and bigotry receives inadequate responses. This virus undermines the foundations of civil society and is a threat to everyone. It demands a strong response. The goal is not only to punish perpetrators but to strengthen families and schools so that our younger generations grow up with healthy moral frameworks.

     The Covid crisis demonstrated how society rallied massive energy and budget to bolster society’s physical health. Shouldn’t we be able to act with an equal sense of emergency on behalf of society’s moral and psychological health?

Blurring the Boundaries between Divine and Human Love:

The Sanctification of the Song of Songs[1]

Hayyim Angel

Rabbi Akiva said, “…No one in Israel ever disputed that the Song of Songs renders the hands impure, since nothing in the entire world is worthy but for that day on which the Song of Songs was given to Israel. For all the Scriptures are holy, but the Song of Songs is the Holy of Holies! (Mishnah Yadayim 3:5)

Introduction

One of the ways we seek holiness is through communion with God through the study of Holy Writ, but that that idea is easier to toss around glibly than actually to define. The Song of Songs is the context in which our greatest commentators and thinkers expressed themselves the most directly in that regard. The question at the heart of our discussion is: Can a biblical text be physical and spiritual, openly erotic and about the love of God, all at the same time? In this essay, we explore the wide range of opinions found in classical rabbinic commentary, modern Jewish Thought, and contemporary academic scholarship. These scholars provide critical means of building bridges between the realms of the loving relationships between God and humankind, and the loving relationships between people.

The Song of Songs contains some of the most tender expressions of love and intimacy in the Bible. On its literal level, the Song expresses the mutual love of a man and a woman. From ancient times, traditional interpreters have almost universally agreed that there is an allegorical or symbolic layer of meaning as well. In both traditional rabbinic circles and contemporary academic circles, some scholars attempt to deny one level of meaning or the other by insisting that the author cannot possibly have meant both. However, others allow for the possibility of attributing both layers of meaning to the author. In this essay, we argue that the dismissal of either layer of meaning does a disservice to the Song and its interpretation. The blurring in interpretation unlocks the full sacred potential of the Song, which bridges the love of people and the love of God into its exalted poetry.

From Literal to Allegorical

The allegorical mode of interpretation can be traced as least as far back as the second and third centuries C.E., and possibly even to the first century C.E.[2] It also is plausible that the written evidence is long preceded by an oral tradition, possibly going back all the way to the original composition of the Song. The most prevalent allegorical interpretation in Jewish tradition (as exemplified by the Targum, and the commentaries by Rabbi Saadiah Gaon [882-942], Rashi [1040-1105], Rashbam [Rabbi Samuel ben Meir, 1080-1160], and Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra [1089-1164]) understands the Song as symbolizing the historical relationship between God and Israel.[3] The ancient Aramaic translation called the Targum was the first to present a coherent historical narrative based on earlier midrashim.[4] Following Rabbeinu Baḥya Ibn Pakuda (first half eleventh century), Maimonides (1138-1204) maintained that the Song is an allegory representing the love between God and the righteous individual.[5] Many allegorical, poetic, philosophical, mystical, and other interpretations of the Song also have been part of the Jewish landscape over the past two millennia.[6]

How did this allegorical interpretation come to be? Many contemporary scholars maintain that it is superimposed onto what was originally a secular love poem. Representing this widespread position, James Kugel imagines that the first generation of allegorical interpreters knew full well that the Song is nothing more than a secular love poem between a man and a woman. These original Sages fancifully interpreted the Song to reflect the love between God and Israel, all the time winking at one another. Subsequent generations lost those winks in translation, and erroneously concluded that this interpretation reflected the true meaning of the Song. In Kugel’s view, Sages such as Rabbi Akiva simply were “misled” by the allegorical interpretation. However, contemporary scholars “know” that the Song is part of a “great ancient Near Eastern tradition of love poetry, with its conventional descriptions of the lovers’ physical beauty and its frank exaltation of eroticism.”[7] The religious allegorical interpretation made the book Bible-worthy. However, the original meaning of the Song is indeed irrelevant for inclusion in the Bible.[8]

Gabriel Cohn flatly rejects this explanation: Why would the Sages take a secular love poem and completely reinterpret it to refer to the love between God and Israel? They did not need to include the Song in the Bible at all! Evidently, they believed the Song was sacred from its inception.[9] Gerson Cohen expresses the matter more bluntly:

The rabbis of the first and second century, like the intelligent ancients generally, were as sensitive to words and the meaning of poetry as we are. How, then, could they have been duped—or better yet, have deluded themselves and others—into regarding a piece of erotica as genuine religious literature, as the holy of holies! Should not the requirements of elementary common sense give us reason for pause and doubt?[10]

The assumption that the Song was a secular love poem that early Sages reworked into a religious allegory to make it Bible-worthy does a disservice both to the Song and to the Sages. Once we can accept that the Sages always understood the Song as sacred, we can find layers of sanctification of divine and human love within the Song.

The Allegorical Meaning Inheres in the Text

            Some scholars maintain that an allegorical meaning of divine love can be demonstrated from a careful text analysis. In his introduction to the Song, Ibn Ezra observes that the prophets frequently apply the metaphor of a marriage to the relationship between God and Israel. Therefore, the allegorical interpretation of the Song as a metaphor of the love between God and Israel is reasonable within its biblical setting.[11]

Gabriel Cohn adds that the emphasis on the Land of Israel seems to have greater meaning than simply the natural setting of the relationship. Israel seems to be a vehicle for promoting the relationship. The Song mentions several cities in Israel (1:14; 2:1; 4:1; 6:4; 7:5-6). The lovers also liken one another to places in Israel (4:1 [6:4]; 4:4; 7:6. 4:11). In 5:1, milk and honey appear together. Cohn lists additional features of the Song that also have no parallels in other Near Eastern love poetry.[12]

Of course, these points hardly create a compelling case for an intended allegorical reading. After all, the book never reveals an allegorical meaning. This is unlike the prophetic metaphors of a God-Israel marriage, where the meaning always is made explicit. However, the above evidence makes allegory a comfortable possibility as part of the author’s original intent.

The Literal Meaning Is the Intended Meaning and Is Sacred, and the Allegorical Meaning Is Ascribed to it by Tradition

            Another approach is to understand the literal reading of human love as the primary intent of the book. The symbolic interpretive approach that takes the Song as being about God and Israel or about God and the religious individual would then belong to the category of “tradition,” or “midrash” rather than the p’shat.

Alon Goshen-Gottstein summarizes the view of those contemporary scholars who accept the literal reading as the primary intent of the Song. In their reading, the Song speaks of the sanctity of human love:

The Song celebrates human love for what it is. Scripture would be incomplete if it did not have in it an expression of an aspect of life so germane to humanity, its pursuits and its happiness. What could be more natural, beautiful, and even spiritual, than the inclusion of human conjugal love as a value to be admired, praised and celebrated?[13]

Within this reading, the inclusion of this remarkable book into the Bible is the strongest vote for the supreme religious value of interpersonal love in Jewish tradition. Scholars who would distinguish between a “secular” human love interpretation and a “religious” God-Israel interpretation fail to recognize that love and human relationships themselves are essential aspects of biblical religion. Precisely because both are sacred, tradition could express itself regarding the nature of the relationship between God and Israel, or between God and the religious individual, within the descriptions of human love and intimacy.

From this vantage point, the rabbinic concern with the literal reading of the Song does not stem primarily from its biblically unparalled expressions of physical human love and sexuality, but rather from the potential to treat those physical expressions as secular or vulgar:

Our Rabbis taught: He who recites a verse of the Song of Songs and treats it as a mere ditty and one who recites a verse at the banqueting table unseasonably [that is, in an inappropriate or secular manner, HA], brings evil upon the world. Because the Torah girds itself in sackcloth, and stands before the blessed Holy One and laments in God’s presence, “Sovereign of the Universe! Your children have made me as a harp upon which they frivolously play.” (Sanhedrin 101a)

Rabbi Akiva says: One who sings the Song of Songs with a tremulous voice at banquets and treats it as a mere song has no share in the World to Come. (Tosefta Sanhedrin 12:10)

Of course, there is no way to disprove that there also is an allegorical dimension intended by the author of the Song.

Human Love is a Symbol of the Love between God and Israel

            A middle approach based on the above evidence is to view the literal element of human love as essential to the author’s intent, and that the author also intended that human love serve as a symbol of divine love. Gabriel Cohn maintains that for an allegory, an interpreter must set each detail into a larger allegorical framework. In contrast, if the Song is a symbol, then one must interpret every detail of the literal love poem, and then more generally understand this human love as a symbol of divine love.[14] In this approach, the literal human love is part of the original intent of the Song, as is the symbolic meaning of the God-Israel relationship.

To summarize: Either the Song is sacred because it was always intended as an allegory describing divine love; or it is sacred because it celebrates the sanctity of human love and tradition sees in that human love a symbol of the love of the divine. Or perhaps it is a human love poem with built-in symbolism intended by the author to point to the mutual love between God and Israel or between God and the religious individual.

The Literal Reading as an Essential Aspect of Tradition

            Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik asserts that unlike the case with respect to any other biblical book, the midrashic-allegorical reading has come totally to supplant the literal meaning of the Song. Not only does the Song contain a layer of divine love, but it is exclusively about divine love. He maintains that one who adopts the literal reading of the Song denies the sanctity of the Oral Law, since there is rabbinic consensus that the symbolic meaning is the sole acceptable one. To bolster his point, he notes that the halakhah codifies that the name Shelomo (the Hebrew version of Solomon) that appears seven times in the Song is mostly to be taken as a sacred name of God, reading Shelomo to mean, “The Song to Him whose is the peace (le-Mi sheha-Shalom shelo).” That word must not be erased in the Song, since it does not refer to the earthly King Solomon, but rather to God. Thus, halakhah itself shows that the literal meaning (King Solomon) is supplanted by the symbolic meaning (God):[15]

Every “Solomon” mentioned in the Song of Songs is sacred… except for this one verse: My vineyard, which is mine, is before me; you, O Solomon, shalt have the thousand (Song 8:12)—Solomon for himself [shall have a thousand]…And there are some who say this also is secular: Behold it is the bed of Solomon (Song 3:7). (B. Shevuot 35b)

Although Rabbi Soloveitchik is correct that there is near-universal acceptance of an allegorical meaning within tradition, there is a range of opinion pertaining to the value of the literal reading of human love. In the introduction to his commentary, Malbim (Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel, 1809-1879) criticizes rabbinic commentaries on the Song who altogether ignore its literal meaning. While he maintains that there is a symbolic meaning as well, one first must understand the literal meaning to attain other layers of meaning:

Most interpretations [of Song of Songs]… are in the realm of allusion and homiletical interpretation distant from the establishment of the p’shat.… Of course we affirm that divine words have seventy facets and one thousand dimensions. Nonetheless, the p’shat interpretation is the beginning of knowledge; it is the key to open the gates, before we can enter the sacred inner chambers of the King.

Most earlier rabbinic commentators find value in the literal reading, while they simultaneously insist that the Song contains an allegorical level of meaning as well. Elie Assis surveys classical commentators and determines that their opinions fall into several larger categories.

1. The Song was initially composed as a human love poem and it was elevated to the sacred when being edited into a biblical book (Rabbi Joseph Kara [1050-1125], Rabbi Isaac Arama [1420-1494]).
2. The Song is an allegory in a general sense, but the interpreter must focus on the details of the human love song (Rashbam, Rabbi Joseph Kara, Rabbi Isaiah of Trani [c. 1180-c. 1250).
3. The literal reading is necessary to understand the allegory, and the allegory is primary (Rashi, Ibn Ezra).
4. Despite what we suppose the simple meaning to be, we must interpret only the allegory (Rabbi Obadiah Sforno [1470-1550]).[16]

Tzvi Yehudah further observes that only in the nineteenth century do we begin to find rabbis who deny the value of the literal reading of the Song. Prior to that, the Sages and commentators generally embraced the literal and symbolic meanings of the Song.[17]

It should be noted further that although the halakhah rules that most references to the name Shelomo in the Song are sacred because they refer to God, the classical sages and the later commentators never allowed that ruling to supplant the literal meaning in their minds. Shelomo also could refer to King Solomon. They still maintained, for example, that when the opening verse states, “The Song of Songs of Solomon,” this means that King Solomon authored or played a significant role in the composition of the book. Despite the halakhic ruling of the Talmud that this reference to “Shelomo” is a sacred name of God, the word continues to refer to the human king as well. It is difficult to conclude that the halakhic-symbolic-allegorical meanings of the Song altogether supplant the literal meaning within tradition.

In the final analysis, it is impossible to ascertain where original authorial intent ends and where added meaning begins. As Rabbi Saadiah Gaon says in the introduction to his commentary, “Know, my brother, that you will find great differences in interpretation of the Song of Songs. The Song of Songs is likened to locks whose keys have been lost.” However, it is precisely this uncertainty that unlocks the potential of connecting human love and divine love.