National Scholar Updates

Rabbi Daniel Harstein, a teacher in Yeshivat Lev HaTorah in Beit Shemesh, points out that throughout Sefer Bemidbar there are many individuals and small groups who had a huge impact on the community at large. At first, the Torah mentions those who changed the community for the worse. The spies created chaos and rebellion which doomed an entire generation to death in the wilderness. Korah caused an internal unrest over the leadership of Moshe. Bilaam, according to the Midrash, incited the Israelites to sin, leading to a plague that killed 24,000 people.

Beginning with Pinehas at the end of Parshat Balak, we finally see how one individual is capable of changing things for the good.  By killing the flagrant sinners--Zimri son of Salu, a Prince of the tribe of Shimon, along with Cozbi-- Pinehas, in this one act stopped the Israelites from their sins and ended the plague.

In Parshat Pinehas, there is another incident of a few individuals making a big change. In the beginning of Chapter 27, the Torah relates the story of the daughters of Tzelafchad. Tzelafchad had five daughters and no sons, so upon his death, there were no sons to receive his inheritance. His daughters approached Moshe and the other leaders of Israel to ask for a portion in the land of Israel as inheritance. Moshe turned to Hashem to resolve this issue, and was told: “The daughters of Tzelafchad speak properly.” Rashi (27:1) points out that these women were righteous and held the land (of Israel) to be precious; this is why they desired to have a portion in the land of Israel. 

Rabbi Yoni Levin, assistant Rabbi of Congregation Aish Kodesh, quotes another comment of Rashi (26:64) that after the sin of the spies, the Israelite women were not punished with death in the wilderness as the men were because the women of Israel held the land to be precious. The men of Israel said they wanted to go back to Egypt after the incident of the spies, but the women asked for a possession in the land. 

How do we get from the daughters of Tzelafchad loving the land to all the women of Israel loving the land?  

Rabbi Levin answers that the single action of these five daughters of Tzelafchad had a ripple effect of inspiration, making the other women realize their love for Israel, which ultimately  saved the entire generation of women from being punished. 

Every individual is capable of performing acts of great good and great evil; everyone is capable of causing great influence and making great change. However, changing the world does not always have to be the end goal. Doing good deeds can still be tremendously impactful on the micro level. Acts as seemingly trivial as greeting a neighbor with a smile or holding the door for a stranger can completely turn around someone’s day. 

Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan, the Chafetz Chayim was asked how he became such a big influence on the Jewish community, to which he responded: “Originally, I set out to change the world, but I failed.  So I decided to scale back my efforts and only influence the Jewish community of Poland, but I failed there, too.  So I targeted the community of my hometown of Radin, but I achieved no greater success.  Then I gave all my effort to changing my own family and I failed at that as well.  Finally, I decided to change myself and that’s how I had such an impact on the Jewish world.”

The Chafetz Chayim teaches us that it is not always possible to save an entire generation from punishment in one moment, but everyone at any time is capable of doing something positive, which over time, can have a great effect.

Is it proper to let one's children watch movies?

It is proper to let parents decide for themselves if their children should watch movies, as well as  which movies they should or should not view. The variables of the decision are significant: age and maturity of the child; content of the movie; the religious dynamics of the family and extended community. Responsible parents need to evaluate what is best for their children.

Many of our children and grandchildren grow up in relatively sheltered cultural environments. They have limited exposure to people and ideas outside their own circle of family, schools, and synagogues. Victor Hugo noted that “narrow horizons beget stunted ideas.” If we want our children to expand their horizons and to feel a connectedness with humanity at large, the arts—including film—can play a vital role.

Through books, films, and art, children are introduced to various perspectives. They grow as thinking and sensitive human beings. They become aware of the lives and concerns of people outside their immediate experience. They confront ideas, emotions and conflicts that help them cope with the complexities of life.

Parents have a huge responsibility in guiding their children so that they are exposed to the best that is available in our culture. Although many of the popular movies today are problematic from a religious point of view, other movies are powerful, instructive, or just plain entertaining.

Is it proper to watch or enjoy the sport of boxing?

Martial arts include a variety of forms—boxing, wrestling, krav maga, and a host of Eastern techniques. People participate in these activities as a means of building physical strength, developing self-confidence, and learning strategies of self-defense. Many find much value and enjoyment in their experience of martial arts. And that is fine.

When martial arts competitions are conducted under proper supervision, they can be positive experiences for participants and viewers.

A problem arises, though, when these sports go beyond healthy limits. Professional boxing, for example, puts two people in a ring with the express goal of having one of them knock the other one unconscious. This transcends the realm of sport and becomes an expression of violence and blood-lust. While people might enjoy seeing two muscle bound boxers clobber each other, this is a kind of enjoyment fine people will want to pass up.

Et hata’ai ani mazkir: As a teenager I would sometimes watch boxing matches on television. In 1962 I saw a fight in which Benny Kid Paret was brutalized so badly that he was taken to the hospital…where he soon died. I—and all the thousands of viewers—literally saw someone being beaten to death…all legal and in the name of the sport of boxing.  I don’t think I’ve watched a professional boxing match since then. And I wouldn’t recommend watching or enjoying such a “sport”. It leaves a stain on one’s soul.

Should an ordinary Jew endeavor to say Tikkun Chatzos?  If not regularly, perhaps sometimes?

A person should endeavor to say Tikkun Hatsot only if one feels a spiritual need for these midnight prayers. The texts lamenting the destruction of the ancient Temples and the “exile of the Shekhina” may be meaningful to various individuals, especially those influenced by kabbalistic practice.

Many people, though, will not feel the need to say Tikkun Hatsot. Their religious life is full enough without requiring participation in this kabbalistic tradition. For them, waking up to recite midnight lamentations is unnecessary, unfulfilling, and counter-productive. It is better to conduct one’s daily life with the steady consciousness of the presence of Hashem. Instead of excessive crying for what has been lost, it is preferable to pray for and work for a restoration of proper religious life in our society.

When I was a student in Yeshiva, one of my Rabbayim advised us not to stay up all night for the Shavuot learning. We should rather go to sleep at our regular time, wake up refreshed so we could say our prayers with proper kavanah, and then spend quality time studying Torah during the day of Shavuot. Most people who stay up all night have difficulty concentrating on their learning when overly tired; because of excessive tiredness they don’t say the morning prayers properly; and they are exhausted the rest of the day. The losses of the custom of staying up all night can be much greater than the gains.

These arguments could equally apply to Tikkun Hatsot, except for rare individuals with a kabbalistic bent.

Throughout his writings, Rabbi Haim David Halevy expressed unwavering faith that the founding of the State of Israel and the Six Day War were overt miracles. Anyone who denied the supernatural nature of these events was spiritually blind (Mekor Hayyim 4, pp. 367–368). There were two options: to believe that this was the beginning of the messianic era, or to be wrong (Mekor Hayyim 2, p. 9).

At the same time, the Sages debate fundamental aspects of the messianic age. Is redemption contingent on repentance? Will the messianic age be a supernatural era, or completely natural? Will it be a lengthy process with ups and downs, or a consistently ascending path? The Rambam concluded from these and related disagreements that there was no single authoritative tradition on the messianic age. We would not know its nature until it arrived (Hilkhot Melakhim 12:1–2). Rabbi Halevy was fully aware of the uncertainties inherent in identifying the messianic period.

Rabbi Halevy, quoting Rabbi Eliyahu of Vilna, considered two aspects of the modern period as definite signs of the first stages of redemption: the return of agricultural fertility to the Land of Israel (cf. Sanhedrin 98a); and the ingathering of exiles (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12; 4:6). For Rabbi Halevy, it was the responsibility of world Jewry to recognize the miraculous nature of the founding of the State of Israel, make aliya, repent, cooperate with each other, and live a unique national existence in order to set a religious and moral example for the world to emulate (Dat uMedinah, pp. 21, 34–35). [1]

Rabbi Halevy’s writings reflect a conflict. On the one hand, he firmly believed that we were at the beginning of the period of redemption. On the other hand, he acknowledged that no one knew for certain how the redemption process would unfold. Rabbi Halevy evaluated sources about messianic calculations, natural vs. supernatural redemption, repentance during the period of redemption, and other matters relating to Divine Providence.

Messianic Calculations

Confident that we were living in the period of redemption, Rabbi Halevy justified messianic calculations. Although the Talmud (Sanhedrin 97a) had criticized such calculations, Rabbi Halevy argued that this caveat applied only if a failed prediction might diminish one’s faith in the advent of the Messiah. If one certainly believed that the Messiah will come, and made calculations for the purpose of religious awakening, one did not violate the talmudic injunction. Rabbi Halevy further maintained that talmudic opposition to messianic calculations arose because redemption was so remote from their period; now that the messianic age had arrived, there was no impediment to trying to determine its precise date. Initially, he proposed 5750/1990 as the deadline for the final redemption; but if people repented, it could come earlier (Asei Lekha Rav 1:2).

In a later Responsum, he offered an original interpretation of a talmudic argument about the messianic age based on events from the past century. In Sanhedrin 99a, the Sages debated whether the period of redemption would span 40 years, 70 years, or three generations. Rabbi Halevy explained that all three positions turned out to be true. Forty years covered the period from the 1947 U.N. partition plan until 1987; 70 years spanned the Balfour Declaration of 1917 to 1987; and three generations went back to 1897, the year of the first World Zionist Congress. Given the coincidence of those three dates in relation to 1987, Rabbi Halevy predicted the final messianic redemption for 1987, only ten years after he composed the essay (Asei Lekha Rav 2, pp. 253–256).

When his prediction for 1987 proved false and yet another major wave of Arab terrorism had recently begun, Rabbi Halevy did not back away from his prediction, nor did he conclude that the Jews had missed a great opportunity for the final redemption. Rather, he stressed that Arab nations were sitting down with Israel to discuss peace, a major component of redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 9, pp. 395–396). Rabbi Halevy had offered a similar rationale for the Yom Kippur War, which led to peace talks afterward (Asei Lekha Rav 1:6).

Be-itah, Ahishenah

R. Alexandri said: R. Yehoshua b. Levi pointed out a contradiction. It is written, in its time [will the Messiah come], but it is also written, I [the Lord] will hasten it! (Isa.60:22). If they are worthy, I will hasten it; if not, [he will come] at the due time. (Sanhedrin 98a)

This talmudic passage presented a resolution to a contradiction within a biblical verse in Isaiah: will the messianic age come “on time” (beItah), or will God hasten it (ahishenah)? The Talmud answered that the outcome would depend on the merit of Israel.

Rabbi Halevy found different ways of interpreting and applying this passage, depending on the message he was trying to convey and on current political events. For example, in Dat uMedinah (p. 26), Rabbi Halevy applied the interpretation of Radak (Isa. 60:22): Once the proper time for redemption arrives, the process will accelerate. Only 19 years separated the founding of the State in 1948 until the victory of the Six Day War in 1967, demonstrating the imminence of the final redemption.

But after the Yom Kippur War in 1973, Rabbi Halevy shifted to a modified reading of the aforementioned talmudic interpretation of beItah, ahishenah: If the messianic age were merited early, it would not be accompanied with suffering. If it came “on time,” it would be a natural process, entailing affliction. No longer did Rabbi Halevy think in terms of a quick process; he began to view the prolonged struggle of the State as part of a longer divine plan of redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12).

To explain the prominent role of secular Zionism in the redemption process, Rabbi Halevy wrote that the State of Israel arose as a result of beItah, a natural process. The Talmud (Megillah 17b; Sanhedrin 97a) stated that wars would precede the final redemption. Historically, Jews had gradually adopted the idea of a supernatural redemption since they had suffered so much during their exile.

Thus, by the time the process of redemption began during the twentieth century, most religious Jews rejected the possibility of natural redemption. It was specifically the secularists who were able to achieve success. Yes, some religious Jews were involved, but the majority of modern Zionists were not religiously observant. In retrospect, it had become obvious that the process of establishing and defending the State had been miraculous. God’s plan of redemption was achieved, but most of the religious community had failed to respond. Unwittingly, the secularists became God’s agents of redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 1:3).

Rabbi Halevy explained the struggles and wars of Israel not only through beItah, but also with the idea that it would not be dignified were God simply to deliver the Land on a silver platter. Ancient Israel understood this message, evidenced by the way they fought Amalek (Exod. 17:8–17). They did not expect supernatural intervention once they had left Egypt. Rabbi Halevy expressed disappointment that many contemporary Jews still had not recognized the messianic potential of today, mistakenly waiting for supernatural miracles (Asei Lekha Rav 1:4-5).

Rabbi Halevy viewed natural and supernatural as different stages in the messianic process, rather than as alternatives. Mashiah ben Yosef (the first stage of redemption) will be characterized by suffering, whereas Mashiah ben David (the final stage of redemption) will be characterized by a supernatural redemption and the ingathering of the exiles (Asei Lekha Rav 4:6, 4:8). He thought that the Six Day War completed the first stage in the process of redemption, but we still required national repentance to merit the final redemption (Dat uMedinah, pp. 23–24). To this end, Rabbi Halevy considered his five-volume series, Mekor Hayyim, to have been driven by his passionate desire to hasten the arrival of the messianic age through repentance (introduction to Mekor Hayyim 1, pp. 9–14).

The common denominator of Rabbi Halevy’s responses is that we certainly are in the early stages of the messianic age. Rather than allowing the Yom Kippur War, Arab terrorism, or other tragedies to negate that belief, Rabbi Halevy offered interpretations that were in tune with unfolding realities. At the same time, he continued to advocate national repentance and unity as the primary catalysts to effect the full redemption.

Rabbi Halevy adopted a finely nuanced position toward military exemptions for yeshiva students. Fundamentally, he favored military exemptions for yeshiva students. Were the entire nation to engage in Torah study, supernatural miracles would occur to protect Israel (see Sanhedrin 14b). But after his praise for full-time Torah study, he emphasized that this exemption applied exclusively to those who were truly dedicated to Torah learning. Those who enrolled in yeshivot simply to dodge the draft desecrate God’s Name. Additionally, all yeshiva students must serve in the military during actual wartime. Acknowledging the difficulty of explaining this concept to those not committed to Torah values, he praised yeshivot hesder, which combine yeshiva learning with military service, thereby sanctifying God’s Name (Asei Lekha Rav 1:21, 3:58).

In a response to pamphlets opposing military service for yeshiva students, Rabbi Halevy defended his position that all yeshiva students must serve in the military during wartime. Training did not take that long; and even if the students could not be trained quickly, they could serve in non-combat roles. In this Responsum, Rabbi Halevy maintained that those who did not serve at all during wartime were violating halakha, not just giving religion a bad name. He also reiterated his earlier position that any exemption referred exclusively to those who were genuinely engaged in serious Torah study. Insincere students should be drafted to regular military service (Asei Lekha Rav 7:72).

In these discussions, Rabbi Halevy revealed a strong belief in the supernatural powers of Torah, combined with a fervent commitment to the sanctification of God’s Name. He also explicated what halakha really taught about military service for yeshiva students. His deepest desire was for all Jews to be dedicated to Torah study, so as to merit God’s miraculous protection and bring about the full redemption. Until that ideal state was realized, though, Jews would have to maintain military defense forces.

The Yom Kippur War: A Challenge to Redemption?

Rabbi Halevy’s earlier writings expressed unreserved enthusiasm about the redemption process. Yet, many of his followers were perplexed by the Yom Kippur War. This war had exposed Israel’s vulnerability. No longer did the messianic age appear to be marching forward with increasing brightness.

Rabbi Halevy opened his Asei Lekha Rav series with several essays addressing this problem. He paralleled the contemporary situation with the redemption from Egypt. During the exodus, God created a moment of panic at the Red Sea, when the Israelites thought they were doomed. Only when the sea split did the Israelites retrospectively understand God’s plan of redemption. Similarly, the Yom Kippur War initially seemed like a setback, but it resulted in Egypt sitting down to talk peace with Israel for the first time (Asei Lekha Rav 1:6).

Rabbi Halevy observed that the Yom Kippur War was not a challenge to one’s messianic hopes unless one expected a consistently upward progression in redemption. Since we were not privy to God’s plans, we could not assume a trouble-free road to redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12, 4:6).

The Role of Peace Talks in the Redemption Process

Rabbi Halevy suggested that peace talks and recognition by Arab nations were essential to the redemption process (Asei Lekha Rav 1:6, end Asei Lekha Rav 9, pp. 395–396). Despite the losses caused by the Yom Kippur War in 1973 and the wave of Arab terrorism in 1987, Rabbi Halevy maintained his belief in the redemption process by appealing to the ensuing peace negotiations.

At the same time, he expressed skepticism about Israel’s so-called peace partners. Egypt entered negotiations only because it concluded that it was unable to annihilate Israel in a war, not from a genuine desire for peace. Rabbi Halevy was troubled about Israel being pressured to make land concessions, a process that threatened Israel’s security. [2] Additionally, he claimed that “the redemption of Israel will not be complete if the Land of Israel will not be complete” (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12, 3:62, 4:1). [3]

After expressing his personal reservations about land concessions to Egypt, Rabbi Halevy concluded that the ultimate decision in this matter rested with the Israeli government. Only high officials were expert in the political and security details; they had the halakhic authority to make such decisions (Asei Lekha Rav 3:62, 4:1). [4] Although he did not trust Egypt’s motives for making peace with Israel, Rabbi Halevy expressed the hope that a new generation would arise in Egypt, accustomed to peace.[5]

Is Redemption Contingent on Repentance?

Rabbi Halevy cited the talmudic debate (Sanhedrin 97b) whether repentance is a precondition for redemption or not (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12). He quoted a ruling of the Rambam, that repentance was mandatory (Hilkhot Teshuvah 7:5). [6] But elsewhere, the Rambam wrote that the messianic king would encourage repentance, implying that the messianic age could commence prior to a full national repentance (Hilkhot Melakhim 12:1–2). Rabbi Halevy reconciled the two statements by proposing that the messianic process could begin without repentance, but complete redemption required it.

Rabbi Halevy balanced optimism with realism in viewing the religious life of Israel. On the one hand, many Jews were returning to their religious roots; but many others were drifting away from religion. Rabbi Halevy noted that the aliya movement also started as a trickle. Yet, this trickle led to the creation of the State. Moreover, kabbalists predicted that the messianic age would be a time of religious confusion—many Jews would be religiously involved, but many others would be apathetic (Asei Lekha Rav 4:6). Although he appealed for more repentance, he still saw the “positive” aspect of non-religious behavior, that is, it was a characteristic of the early stages of the age of redemption. [7]

Missed Opportunities

Had you made yourself like a wall and had all come up in the days of Ezra, you would have been compared to silver, which no rottenness can ever affect. Now that you have come up like doors, you are like cedar wood, which rottenness prevails over. (Yoma 9b)

The Sages say: The intention was to perform a miracle for Israel in the days of Ezra, even as it was performed for them in the days of Yehoshua bin Nun, but sin caused [the miracle to be withheld]. (Berakhot 4a)

In the above passages, the Talmud taught that messianic opportunities could be squandered if people did not respond appropriately to the initial signs of redemption. The beginning of the Second Temple period could have heralded the messianic age; but since the Jews of the time failed to return to Israel and otherwise sinned, the redemption was postponed.

Rabbi Halevy frequently quoted the Yoma passage in his efforts to encourage aliya. He recognized that most Diaspora Jews remained in exile after the founding of the State and that assimilation among them was rampant. However, he never concluded that the current messianic potential was lost—only that we were missing opportunities to achieve gains within this definite period of redemption. [8]

Noting that many Jews were still not making aliya after the Yom Kippur War, Rabbi Halevy optimistically suggested that perhaps God was giving the Jews living in Israel a chance to establish and consolidate themselves financially. Increased economic stability ultimately would encourage others to come (Asei Lekha Rav 3:62). He further suggested that had the first 30 years of statehood been easier, perhaps the Jewish passion for independence would not have been as strong. Moreover, perhaps the Yom Kippur War would jolt Israelis out of their complacency, and intensify their devotion to the Land of Israel (Asei Lekha Rav 1:7–12).

Rabbi Halevy halakhically justified ascending the Temple Mount, since we know the precise dimensions of the Temple and we can avoid going to those spots that are ritually forbidden. The rest of the Mount is accessible to Jews who ritually immerse themselves and remove their shoes. He added that rabbis should not prohibit observant Jews from going to the Temple Mount out of concern that non-observant Jews will not follow the proper regulations (Asei Lekha Rav 1:15). He recommended that a synagogue should be built atop the Temple Mount (Asei Lekha Rav 6:82).

Two years after the liberation of the Temple Mount, Rabbi Halevy sadly noted that Israel had squandered the opportunity to build a synagogue there. He expressed anguish that Israel allowed our most sacred site to remain in Arab hands. Jews should have created facts on the ground by building a synagogue when we had the chance (Dat uMedinah, p. 117).

After the Sinai concessions and peace treaty with Egypt, he added that Jews were now forfeiting the opportunity to settle Judea and Samaria. Had a million Jews moved in right after the Six Day War, there would not have been any chance of negotiating its return. Rabbi Halevy quoted Yoma 9b, which criticized the Jews’ failure to make aliya during the Second Temple Period. If Jews did not freely come now, perhaps they will be forced to come in order to complete the process of redemption (Asei Lekha Rav 4:1). Elsewhere, Rabbi Halevy added a more ominous note to encourage aliya, observing that neo-Nazi movements continued to thrive all over the world (Dat uMedinah, p. 15).

Rabbi Halevy thought that Jews had erred in not having made aliya after the Balfour Declaration in 1917, a time when the Arabs were largely inactive politically. A large influx of Jews would have changed the reality drastically. Since Jews did not come willingly, then, they were compelled to come in the aftermath of the Holocaust. Perhaps the prophetic prediction of a purging nightmare before the final redemption (Ezek.20) was fulfilled as a result of Jewish reluctance to make aliya earlier in the twentieth century. He again emphasized that we cannot know the workings of God’s mind—but we could offer interpretations after the fact, in order to derive religious inspiration and guidance (Asei Lekha Rav 4:6).

Despite his claims of the forfeiture of individual blessings, though, Rabbi Halevy asserted that God never would abandon Israel (Dat uMedinah, p. 16). He continued to believe that the process of redemption was slowly and irreversibly unfolding, and he interpreted each new event in this light.

Halakhic Rulings

Because of Rabbi Halevy’s belief that we were living in the period of redemption, he reached a number of important halakhic conclusions. He believed that Israel Independence Day (5 Iyyar) and Jerusalem Reunification Day (28 Iyyar) should be observed as formal religious holidays, with Hallel recited (Dat uMedinah, pp. 88–113). Rabbi Halevy criticized those who opposed celebrating these holidays on the grounds that they were primarily military victories. Hanukkah also was celebrated because of military victories (Asei Lekha Rav 5:17). He noted that these opponents were driving less observant Jews to view those events in purely secular terms. If religious Jews refused to acknowledge God’s hand, why should secular Jews (Dat uMedinah, pp. 86–87)?

Rabbi Halevy reevaluated traditional practices pertaining to mourning over the destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Halevy maintained that we still must observe the Fast of the 9^th of Av until the Temple itself is rebuilt (Mekor Hayyim 4:202, pp. 179–180). But after the Six Day War, we should reword parts of the “nahem” prayer into the past tense. Since the prayer laments a desolate Jerusalem without any Jewish inhabitants, it simply would be a falsehood to retain the original text of the prayer (Asei Lekha Rav 1:13–14, 2:36–39).

Likewise, he suggested emending a passage in the Grace After Meals, which currently reads, “We thank You, God for the good and ample land that You gave to our ancestors.” Now that we are living in the age of redemption, we should say, “…that You gave to us” (Mekor Hayyim 2:81, p. 97).

With the settling of the Land, we should again recite the blessing, “Barukh matziv gevul almanah” (blessed is He who establishes the borders of a widowed [nation]). Rabbi Halevy was hesitant to rule that one should recite the full blessing with God’s Name, although he noted that Rabbi Avraham Yitzhak Kook had done so. Rabbi Halevy agreed with his reasoning (Asei Lekha Rav 4:5).

We still should say kinot (prayers of lamentation) on the 9^th ofAv, since the Temple is not yet rebuilt and the majority of Jews still lived outside of Israel. But we may reduce the number of kinot, as he himself did after 1948 (Asei Lekha Rav 4:34).

Although the original practice was to tear one’s clothing upon seeing the desolate cities in Israel, or the ruins of Jerusalem (Mo’ed Katan 26a), Jews now lived in Israel and the Temple Mount was again under Jewish control. Therefore, one no longer should tear one’s garments when going to the Western Wall. However, he thought that the Chief Rabbinate should issue the final ruling on this matter. [9]

The practice in Jerusalem was to don tefillin in the morning of 9^th ofAv at home, and then to come to synagogue for the recitation of kinot. Even one who previously did not observe this tradition should accept it, since we were living at the beginning of the redemption (Mekor Hayyim 1:35, p. 131).

Rabbi Halevy complained about the prevalent custom at the end of weddings to break a worthless glass rather than something of real value. After concluding that this was not a major issue worth fighting over, he added that especially now, in the age of redemption, we do not have to be as mournful as we had been in the past—and therefore the current practice may be tolerated (Mekor Hayyim 5:237, p. 36).

Although Rabbi Halevy allowed some room for leniency as a result of this being the period of redemption, he did not permit choir practice during the three weeks between the 17^th of Tammuz and the 9^th of Av. During that period, we should remain mournful (Mayim Hayyim 1:35).

May we accept converts nowadays, given rabbinic traditions that we will not accept converts in messianic times (Yevamot 24b; 76a; Avodah Zarah 3b)? Rabbi Halevy noted that only a minority of Jews, and very few non-Jews, have appreciated that we now have entered the beginning of the messianic era. Thus, no one would convert to Judaism today merely to join the messianic bandwagon. Additionally, several authorities (Rambam, Rashba, Meiri) ruled according to Berakhot 57b, that non-Jews would convert to Judaism even in the messianic age. The Talmud (Avodah Zarah 3b) noted that the Messiah would weed out insincere converts, so there was nothing to fear by accepting converts nowadays (Asei Lekha Rav 3:29).

The Talmud (Berakhot 54a) stated that one should make the blessing “Barukh haTov ve-haMetiv” for rainfall, but that practice stopped while Jews lived in exile. Rabbi Halevy ruled that since Jews have returned to Israel, they should once again recite this blessing— either after a prolonged drought is ended by rain, or if there is unusually heavy rainfall. The final decision on when the community should make this blessing should be left to the Chief Rabbinate (Mekor Hayyim 2:92, pp. 181–182).

Rabbi Halevy discussed whether the original practice of lighting Hanukkah candles outdoors should be restored. He quoted the Hazon Ish, who ruled that we still should light indoors, since (1) people might blow the candles out if they were left outdoors; (2) Israel was surrounded by enemies, and there was no guarantee that Israel would survive. Rabbi Halevy emphatically disagreed. Since this is the beginning of the redemption, one in Israel should light Hanukkah candles outdoors, when possible (Asei Lekha Rav 7:42).

Rabbi Halevy opened Dat uMedinah (p. 9) with an idea from R. Yehudah Halevy’s Kuzari: Redemption will not come until people desperately wanted it. Rabbi Halevy’s life was dedicated to inspire messianic hopes, to encourage people to take an active role in the process of redemption, and to promote a religious awakening (cf. Asei Lekha Rav 8:94–95). He added (p. 26) that the special role of rabbis during this period of redemption was to devote their energy to inspire the hearts of people with an understanding of God’s role in history. It comes as no surprise that he concluded his Mekor Hayyim series with a chapter on the Messianic age. Although the full redemption has not yet come, Rabbi Halevy did his best to hasten the Messiah’s arrival. [10]

NOTES

Visiting En-Dor in a Tenth-Century Babylonian Yeshiva[1]

For my dear teacher and friend, R. Hayyim Davidson

1. Introduction

The episode at En-Dor, detailed in 1 Shemuel 28, is one of the most puzzling and challenging in all of Biblical narrative. The exegetical challenges are well known, some more than others. They consist of detailed questions of nuance as well as broader, overall issues. I will adumbrate more fully below, but as an example of a nuance problem—why does Shaul request that the necromancer “raise” Shemuel (ha’ali li)—is this an idiomatic phrase or does it reflect something about the location of the spirits of the departed? One of the macro issues to assess is the efficacy of the entire enterprise—which will be the focus of this paper. Do the occult practices, forbidden explicitly by God in Devarim 18 and regarded as abominations, really “work”? Is it possible to communicate with the dead? And, if so, why did God allow Shaul to get reliable information from the spirit of Shemuel—but deny him access through the proper channels of prophecy and visions?

Just surveying the history of exegesis—even if we were to limit ourselves to the traditional commentators, would fill an entire volume. We will focus on one overall issue and that through the lens of two of the leaders of Babylonian Jewry in the tenth century. In order to understand the problems that they were addressing, we will first present the narrative.

2. The Text

Where necessary, I will transliterate words or phrases, otherwise, this English translation is taken from the “old” JPS translation (1917), with some minor modifications.

1) And it came to pass in those days, that the Philistines gathered their hosts together for warfare, to fight with Israel. And Achish said unto David: 'Know thou assuredly, that thou shalt go out with me in the host, thou and thy men.'

(2) And David said to Achish: 'Therefore thou shalt know what thy servant will do.' And Achish said to David: 'Therefore will I make thee keeper of my head for ever.'

(3) Now Samuel had died (uShemuel meit), and all Israel had lamented him, and buried him in Ramah, even in his own city. And Saul had put away those that divined by a ghost (ovot) or a familiar spirit (yidonim) out of the land.

(4) And the Philistines gathered themselves together and came and pitched in Shunem; and Saul gathered all Israel together, and they pitched in Gilboa.

(5) And when Saul saw the host of the Philistines, he was afraid, and his heart trembled greatly.

(6) And when Saul inquired of the Lord, the Lord answered him not, neither by dreams, nor by Urim, nor by prophets.

(7) Then said Saul unto his servants: 'Seek me a woman that divineth by a ghost, that I may go to her, and inquire of her.' And his servants said to him: 'Behold, there is a woman that divineth by a ghost at En-dor.'

(8) And Saul disguised himself, and put on other raiment, and went, he and two men with him, and they came to the woman by night; and he said: 'Divine unto me, I pray thee, by a ghost, and bring me up (ha’ali li) whomsoever I shall name unto thee.'

(9) And the woman said unto him: 'Behold, thou knowest what Saul hath done, how he hath cut off those that divine by a ghost or a familiar spirit out of the land; wherefore then layest thou a snare for my life, to cause me to die?'

(10) And Saul swore to her by the Lord, saying: 'As the Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.'

(11) Then said the woman: 'Whom shall I bring up (a’aleh) unto thee?' And he said: 'Bring me up Samuel.'

(12) And when the woman saw Samuel, she cried with a loud voice; and the woman spoke to Saul, saying: 'Why hast thou deceived me? for thou art Saul.'

(13) And the king said unto her: 'Be not afraid; for what seest thou?' And the woman said unto Saul: 'I see a lordly being coming up out of the earth.'[2]

(14) And he said unto her: 'What form is he of?' And she said: 'An old man cometh up; and he is covered with a robe.' And Saul perceived that it was Samuel, and he bowed with his face to the ground, and prostrated himself.

(15) And Samuel said to Saul: 'Why hast thou disquieted me, to bring me up?' And Saul answered: 'I am sore distressed; for the Philistines make war against me, and God is departed from me, and answereth me no more, neither by prophets, nor by dreams; therefore I have called thee[3], that thou mayest make known unto me what I shall do.'

(16) And Samuel said: 'Wherefore then dost thou ask of me, seeing the Lord is departed from thee, and is become thine adversary?

(17) And the Lord hath wrought for Himself; as He spoke by me; and the Lord hath rent the kingdom out of thy hand, and given it to thy neighbor, even to David.

(18) Because thou didst not hearken to the voice of the Lord, and didst not execute His fierce wrath upon Amalek, therefore hath the Lord done this thing unto thee this day.

(19) Moreover the Lord will deliver Israel also with thee into the hand of the Philistines; and to-morrow shalt thou and thy sons be with me; the Lord will deliver the host of Israel also into the hand of the Philistines.'

(20) Then Saul fell straightway his full length upon the earth, and was sore afraid, because of the words of Samuel; and there was no strength in him; for he had eaten no bread all the day, nor all the night.

(21) And the woman came unto Saul, and saw that he was sore affrighted, and said unto him: 'Behold, thy handmaid hath hearkened unto thy voice, and I have put my life in my hand, and have hearkened unto thy words which thou spokest unto me.

(22) Now therefore, I pray thee, hearken thou also unto the voice of thy handmaid, and let me set a morsel of bread before thee; and eat, that thou mayest have strength, when thou goest on thy way.'

(23) But he refused and said: 'I will not eat.' But his servants, together with the woman, urged him; and he hearkened unto their voice. So he arose from the earth, and sat upon the bed.

(24) And the woman had a fatted calf in the house; and she made haste, and killed it; and she took flour, and kneaded it, and did bake unleavened bread thereof;

(25) and she brought it before Saul, and before his servants; and they did eat. Then they rose up, and went away that night

3. The Problem(s)

There are numerous problems that even a cursory read of the passage brings to the fore. Perhaps the most intractable one is, What actually happened in the necromancer’s house? Are we to believe that necromancy “works” and that it is possible to summon up and communicate with the dead, that they can communicate with us? Besides the question of their having any knowledge worth sharing with us and how they would communicate, the essential problem of the efficacy of ma’aseh Ov sits at the core of this story. For if we believe, as the mainstream of Haza”l clearly did, as well as nearly the consensus of Rishonim, that the forbidden occult practices are effective (some even suggest that they are banned precisely because they work—see Ramban, Shikehat ha’Asin #8—in his appendix to Rambam’s Sefer haMitzvot) then the story has an internal logic, and we just need to fill in the blanks of the mechanics of it all. How do you summon a specific character, what does the character know, how does he/she communicate with the living, what is the role of the medium, etc. If, however, as an admittedly small group of Ge’onim and Rishonim maintain, these practices are all vain, foolish, and without any real efficacy—then how are we to read this story? Perhaps the most elegant and clear presentation of this view is Rambam’s epilogue to the laws of the occult practices:

All of the above matters [divination, necromancy, etc.] are falsehood and lies with which the original idolaters deceived the gentile nations in order to lead them after them. It is not fitting for the Jews who are wise sages to be drawn into such emptiness, nor to consider that they have any value, per: “ki lo nahash beYaakov velo kesem beYisrael: (“No black magic can be found among Jacob nor occult arts within Israel”—Bemidbar 23:23). Similarly, it states “These nations that you are driving out listen to astrologers and diviners; this is not what God…has granted you” (Devarim 18:14). Whoever believes in [occult arts] of this nature and, in his heart, thinks that they are true and words of wisdom but are forbidden by the Torah,[4] is foolish and feebleminded…. The masters of wisdom and those of perfect knowledge know with clear proof that all these crafts which the Torah forbade are not reflections of wisdom, but rather emptiness and vanity which attracted the feebleminded and caused them to abandon all the paths of truth. For these reasons, when the Torah warned against all these empty matters, it advised: “Be of perfect with God, your Lord” (Devarim 18: 13). (Hilkhot Avodah Zarah, 11:16)

This presentation of Rambam’s, which is echoed in passages in the Guide and in several other rulings in Mishneh Torah, is an abrupt departure from the attitude held throughout the rabbinic period, where the reality behind occult practices as well as demonic interactions and the like were both assumed and reported. Regarding the former, perhaps the most well-known report is the Aggadah about the pious man who went to sleep in a cemetery on Rosh haShanah and overheard two dead girls, buried there, conversing with each other about the fortunes of the upcoming year. The one who was able to escape her confines came back with a forecast about agricultural plagues, which the eavesdropper exploited and succeeded (BT Berakhot 18a). The entire story is brought to determine whether or not the dead are aware of what is happening on earth—and the end of the story, in which one of the girls tells the other that people are talking about them on earth, is left as an inconclusive resolution to the question. In other words—the dead continue to exist in some quasi-physical realm, they are able to visit places on earth, gain information, talk to each other, (perhaps) find out what people are talking about on earth, and care about all of that. Given these premises, if there is an effective method to communicate with spirits like this to gain information otherwise unavailable to mortals, people will be tempted to use it. A well-known talmudic story about necromancy itself is the report of Onkelos, before his conversion, who “summoned up” Titus, Balaam, and Jesus to ask them how the Jews were regarded in the “other world” and whether it would be worth joining their nation (BT Gittin 57a).

Rambam’s approach to demonology, magic, and the like was not a revolution of his own making. Two centuries earlier, several of the heads of the academies in Bavel were unabashedly taking the position that “[regarding] the words of our forebears, if they contradict reason, we have no reason to accept them.”[5] A more strident statement with more far-reaching implications for theologically and philosophically limned exegesis is found in a responsum of R. Hai Gaon (939–1038):

We should remind ourselves of the phrases used in the biblical text and to present them before our reasoning, and that which reason allows for from a straightforward reading of the text (“peshat hakatuv”) we will accept and if the matter allows for two or more interpretations, there is no reason to oppose (reject) any of them, rather whichever is closer (to reason) takes priority.[6]

These opinions, expressed in unequivocal terms, were put forth by the leaders of the central academies (metivtot) from where instruction and Torah were disseminated to the entire Jewish world. Bavel’s hegemony lasted until 1038 with the death of R. Hai. There are two startling developments here.

First of all, the teachers of the law and the guardians of the tradition were rejecting the need to accept the validity of earlier talmudic statements regarding things which did not comport with reason; they were even proposing a non-literal reading of biblical texts, where exegetically feasible, where reason was challenged by a straightforward reading of the text. This means that “reason” had become the prime determinant of truth—it was enough to allow an Aggadah to be ignored and it was strong enough to force a new reading of a biblical text.

The second surprise is how little of an impact this entire approach had on the next generations of rabbinic leadership; nearly all of the Rishonim turned their backs on their predecessors and in many cases, ignored their revolutionary approach as if it had never happened.

We will explore the first of these developments, using the exegesis of two of the Geonim to our episode at En-Dor as an example of their method.

R. Saadiah Al-Fayumi

Saadiah ben Yosef al-Fayumi haKohen was born in Egypt in 892 (some maintain 882) and was named to head the Sura academy in Babylonia in 928. This appointment granted him the title “Gaon” which had been the traditional title[7] of the heads of each of the two central academies (Sura and Pumbedita) for several hundred years. He was a trailblazer in numerous areas. He composed the first comprehensive Bible commentary, was a master halakhist as well as philosopher, and his Emunot veDeot remains a staple of Jewish rationalist thinking.[8]

R. Saadiah has the following interpretation of our episode. (This commentary is taken from the commentary of R. Yitzhak Al-Kanazi, a contemporary of Rambam):

I intend to explore five issues:

1. Did Shaul think that it was permitted to ask the necromancer to resurrect (?) Shemuel?
2. Did Shemuel indeed come back to life or not?
3. If he did come back to life, who resurrected him? The witch or Hashem?
4. Why did she see him, while Shaul did not?
5. Why did Shaul hear him speak, whereas the witch did not hear him?

The answer to the first question is that the text had already testified that Shaul was tormented and occasionally “out of his mind”… such that he would have thought that even an inanimate stone could resurrect the dead, all the more so a necromancer.

As to the second question: The text twice says “Shemuel said to Shaul,” therefore we must understand that Shemuel indeed stood from his grave truly alive. We may not interpret that she was telling Shaul that Shemuel was such-and-such (see below, in R. Shemuel b. Hofni Gaon’s interpretation) and that the text is merely reflecting what Shaul imagined by himself; if so, we would have to call into question every similar passage and every instance of vayomer or vaydaber we would have to interpret against p’shat.

In response to the third question, we must say that the Creator raised Shemuel in order to show his revivification. The text explicitly points out that she asked him “Whom shall I raise?” but it doesn’t credit her with the resurrection itself. It just states “the woman saw Shemuel and she cried out in a loud voice”; if she had been the one to raise him, the text would have explicitly stated “and she raised Shemuel.” If someone asks why the text didn’t state that God resurrected Shemuel, we will answer: It is impossible, based on our reason, for we know that no one is capable of reviving the dead except for the Creator, may His Name be blessed.

Regarding the fourth question, the text never states that Shaul didn’t see Shemuel from the beginning of the story until the end. It merely points out that [he asked] as soon as Shemuel arrived; had he waited until Shemuel arrived, he wouldn’t have asked her “what does he look like?” once he approached and he saw him, he wouldn’t have needed to ask her, but he was hasty to ask her.

The answer to the fifth question is that there is no mention in the text that Shaul heard his words and that the woman was present but didn’t hear. There is no doubt about this whatsoever; but when Shaul and Shemuel met each other, the woman distanced herself a bit from the two of them, went out and left them by themselves while they were talking with each other. She behaved this way per proper protocol. This is the reason that the text states “she came to Shaul and behold he was sore affrighted.”

Discussion

The first thing that we notice about Saadiah’s interpretation is that his frame of reference is resurrection. The only way that he imagines the scene is to picture Shemuel appearing in his body—which is why Saadiah insists, in no uncertain terms, that both Shaul and the necromancer both saw and heard Shemuel. This is a departure from the approach taken in the midrashic literature. Midrash Tanhuma (Emor #4), using our story as a base, states:

There are three things stated about raising someone via the Ov; the one who raises it can see it but not hear it; the one who requested it can hear him but not see him, and anyone else who is present can neither see him nor hear his voice.

It is clear that this presentation assumes the efficacy of ma’aseh Ov and also assumes that what is being “raised” is a spirit that has some real or envisioned form and some real or imagined voice such that only one specific party can see—and another one can hear—the apparition.

Since Saadiah rejects the entire enterprise of Ma’aseh Ov as being efficacious (as we will see below), he interprets the event as a resurrection, such that there is both body and voice that can be sensed by anyone present.

The second critical point in Saadiah’s interpretation is that he absolutely negates the possibility that the necromancer could have raised Shemuel—or anyone—from the dead. He accords this possibility to God alone. This is, again, a departure from the approach of the Midrashim (and Talmud); yet Saadiah does not feel bound to their interpretation if it is contrary to reason.

Saadiah’s motivation for interpreting thus is stated clearly. He is not willing to read the incident at “face value,” as an apparition is not part of his world-view, nor is he willing to interpret the entire thing as being imagined by Shaul (or some variation thereof), as that violates the straightforward reading of the text. Since we are able to interpret the entire narrative in a way that comports with reason, we will do so without having to resort to non-literal meanings of words like “he said,” “she saw,” etc.

We will reassess and complete our discussion of Saadiah’s interpretation after studying the approach of another Gaon.

R. Shemuel Ben Hofni

Shemuel b. Hofni Gaon, (d. 1034) was the last Gaon of the yeshiva in Sura. Full disclosure—he was R. Hai Gaon’s (quoted above) father-in-law. He was a noted halakhist as well as an exegete, although few of his commentaries are extant. One of the valuable tomes that we have available is his commentary to the book of Shemuel. As regards our episode, he comments:

“In reality, she did not revive; rather, the necromancer fooled Shaul….When it states “Shemuel said…” it truthfully means to say that the woman, the ba’alat Ov, told him that “behold Shemuel is telling you thus and thus.” If someone challenges this, saying that the text did not state “the woman said to Shaul that Shemuel is telling you…” we will answer him that indeed that is true, but reason dictates that in truth that’s what it means that the text is telling us what the ba’alat Ov’s words…for it isn’t reasonable that Shemuel would speak after he died and it is unreasonable that God would revive Shemuel through the office of the witch for this is against nature and is a unique power given to Nevi’im. But indeed it was she who convinced him to ask for this when she said “whom should I raise for you?” and he said “raise Shemuel for me” and she misled him to believe that she had this power. Anywhere that we see the word amar or vaydaber and it is impossible for it to be the speech of that one about whom it is written, we will interpret it there as we said in this story; but if it isn’t impossible, then we need not reinterpret every vayomer and vaydaber in a non-literal way as long as it isn’t against reason and not impossible. You see this in the language of the text: “the vine said to them” [in Yotam’s parable, Shofetim 9—YE].

It isn’t impossible to imagine that it was well-known in Israel what [Shemuel] said while still alive “and Shemuel said to him: ‘God has torn the monarchy of Beit Yisrael from you’ “and the necromancer heard of this and encountered him with this. Regarding the victory of the Pelishtim, it may be that she saw signs and indications of this from the might of the Pelishtim and the weakness of Yisrael, similarly what she said about the death of Shaul and his sons. None of this is support for “secret wisdom” [i.e. the occult practices] because she said all of it as an educated guess.”

Discussion

The fact that R. Shmuel ben Hofni is responding to at least one of R. Saadiah’s points is fairly plain to see. He overtly addresses the problem of reading vayomer Shemuel as “Shaul imagined that Shmuel had spoken with him” (through the deception of the necromancer). Saadiah had already weighed in on the issue by pointing out that we have to accept the straightforward reading of the narrative for “otherwise, we will have to revisit every mention of vayomer and vaydaber.” R. Shmuel b. Hofni responds to this by pointing out that even words as simple and common as vayomer are sometimes understood metaphorically, such as in the case of Yotam’s parable (trees don’t speak). It is up to the reader to determine how convincing a defense this is—but his entire thesis is dependent on this read of vayomer Shemuel.

Like R. Saadiah, R. Shmuel b. Hofni absolutely rejects the possible effectiveness of necromancy and he therefore finds it necessary to interpret the narrative differently from Haza”l. Unlike R. Saadiah, however, he is willing to go much further with the story and read the entire scene as a deception. Here is how Rada”k reports his comments:

…Shemuel didn’t speak with Shaul, and Heaven forbid that Shemuel would have ascended from his grave or speak, but the woman did all of it deceptively. She immediately recognized that [her client] was Shaul but to try to show him that she had “the wisdom” and that was how she recognized him and identified him she said “why did you fool me, yet you are Shaul!” It is the manner of the ba’alat Ov to place a person who speaks from a hiding place in a quiet voice and when Shaul came to make his request of her and she saw him upset and she knew that he was going out to war on the morrow and that all of Israel were greatly afraid and she knew what Shaul had done when he killed the Kohanim of Nov, she fed the “speaker” the words that we find in the story. As to when it says “and Shemuel said to Shaul”—that is what Shaul thought to be the case, for he thought that Shemuel was speaking to him. As to what “he” said: “And you didn’t fulfill God’s anger against Amalek,” the matter was known that from that moment Shemuel had said to him “He has rejected you from being king”. Regarding what “he” said: “[He gave your kingdom] to your fellow, David” it was known throughout Israel that David had been anointed as king. When “he” said: “tomorrow you and your sons will be with me,” “he” said following reason [i.e. it stood to reason that they would die in battle, given the odds, etc.]. This is the commentary of R. Shmuel b. Hofni haGaon z”l and he added that even though the sense of the words of Haza”l in the Gemara is that the women really resurrected Shemuel, these words aren’t to be accepted where this a logical refutation.

The lines are quite clear—whereas the talmudic tradition and the post-Geonic mainstream read the story as literal, these two Geonim (along with R. Hai, who adopted R. Saadiah’s approach) rejected a literal read based on reasoning, maintaining that necromancy (and the other black arts) were all vanity and foolishness. This metaphysical principle (if we might call it that) drove their interpretive strategies. The one point which divided R. Shemuel b. Hofni from his esteemed predecessor (and his own son-in-law) was the impact of taking Shemuel completely out of the equation; even though it impacts on the way that the entire passage is read, the consideration is a relatively minor one—relative to the macro question of the efficacy of the black arts. Note that both of our commentators explicitly address themselves to talmudic interpretations and reject them due to their not conforming to reason.

The foundational question I’d like to address in this final section is what caused these sages to turn their philosophical backs on the Babylonian (and Palestinian) tradition of spirits, the reality of the occult and so much more.

4. The Geonic Period

The Geonic period, from roughly the middle of the ninth century through the middle of the eleventh century, was a time of significant changes affecting the Jewish community. There was little question as to where the center of Torah learning and erudition was—every question of ritual, history of Torah transmission, proper practice and attitudes posed during these two centuries by any Jewish community, from North Africa through the Iberian peninsula was addressed to the “two yeshivot,” housed in Baghdad. The academies of Sura and Pumbedita had been uprooted from their eponymous towns and moved to the newly founded caliphate center. Although a significant percentage of the Geonic literature that was available to us until the end of the nineteenth century was made available via secondary sources (e.g. quoted in the literature of the Rishonim), a literal treasure trove of responsa, commentaries, codes and more was unearthed with the discovery of the Cairo Genizah. That immense storehouse has done more to open our eyes to that era, including much about the world in which the Geonim lives and their challenges, both from within and from without.

Of the challenges which speak most directly to our issues, two presented the rabbinic leadership with unprecedented situations and called for unprecedented responses.

A Note on the Flexible Nature of the Jewish Community and Leadership

One of the hallmarks of Judaism throughout its evolving millennia is its ability to stay true to its mission and to the ideal of declaring God’s Unity at the cost of comfort (exile) or even at the cost of life (martyrdom). Balancing this staunch commitment entails the ability to flexibly shift and adjust to new conditions.

Perhaps the most obvious example of this takes us 1,200 years before the era under question. In 539 bce, the Jewish communities from east of Babylonia through Israel came under the rule of the Persian Empire. Until this point, the Jews had either been independent and sovereign (e.g. the David era) or completely subjugated (e.g. the Babylonian exile). For the first time in history, the Jewish people were autonomous but not sovereign. This means that they had rights, including the right of redress, had standing in the Persian courts and had representatives to the court. As a result, they had to learn to speak the language of the court (Aramaic), to use the pagan month-names (e.g. Nisan, Iyar) used by the Persian court (for dating documents) and had to use the Aramaic script in use in the court (instead of the Hebrew script they had used since the introduction of writing). In other words, issues that were felt to be non-essential to Jewish identity, mission and belief were “negotiable” in order to be able to survive and thrive in their new surroundings.

It may be argued that a parallel transformation took place at the tail end of the Hellenistic era, after the kulturkampf that led to the Hasmonean revolt was no longer an issue. The mode of traditional study and Halakhic instruction shifted from the prophetic mode to the system of discussion, debate, prooftext vs. prooftext and argument vs. argument that we know as the Midrash Halakhah and, later, as the Talmud. This shift seems to sit at the heart of the sugya of “Tanuro Shel Akhnai” (BT Bava Metzia 59b) where R. Eliezer, representing the “old way” is rebuffed and ultimately excommunicated by the “new generation,” led by R. Yehoshua, whose brilliant use of the phrase “it is not in heaven” is used to support the methodology of thrust and parry, proof and disproof—all of which are hallmarks of the Greek method of discussion.

Babylonia (Iraq): The New Norm (Eighth–Tenth Centuries)

The Geonic era brought a similar change. The Jewish people had never been in an environment of free inquiry, of philosophic discourse among members of “competing” religions and of scientific thought. Even though the Jews had had interactions—not all belligerent—with the Greeks in the fourth century bce through the first century ce, they were not (for the most part) of a philosophic, speculative type. Witness the few such interactions (whose historicity is not at all assured) between “the sages of Israel” and “the sages of Athens” or the Aggadah about R. Yehoshua b. Hananya and the wise men of Greece (BT Bekhorot 8–9). The rabbis’ adoption of Greek methods of argumentation speaks to exactly that and no more—method, but not axioms.

After centuries of life in Sassanian Persia, with an up-and-down relationship with the monarch but a decidedly antagonistic one with the religious Habar priests of the reigning Zoroastrian faith,[9] the Islamic era of the eighth to tenth centuries ushered in a revolutionary period of philosophic inquiry and free intercourse between representatives of Islam, Christianity and Judaism. The premises for the discussions, dialogues and debates where philosophic principles which could be argued without recourse to Scripture (which, of course, could not be adduced as proof against someone who does not subscribe to the sanctity of that Scripture). Much of this was generated by the appearance of the Kalam school, whose teachers, the mutakallimun, a school which arose in the middle of the eighth century as a means of developing arguments against detractors and doubters of the fledgling Islamic faith. This mode of inquiry, using rational and universally accessible argument to promote religious doctrine was a first—at least as far as the Jewish polity was concerned. Even though the Kalam began as a means of rebutting Jewish (and Christian) arguments, the mode of thinking and rhetoric spread in this relatively open society and was adopted by both Christian as well as Jewish thinkers. It is clear from his writings that Saadiah’s approach was significantly impacted and driven by the Kalam. Even though both Saadiah and Maimonides rejected the arguments and conclusions of the mutakallimun, this new frame of thinking and style of expression became the norm.

This should not be perceived as such a surprising move; as illustrated above, Jews have, when possible, engaged in cultural conversation with the “other” and have often been influenced as much (if not more) as they have impacted. As stated above, the core ideals and commitment to halakha do not waver—but there are entire worlds that revolve around this core existence that move and shift along with Am Yisrael’s changed circumstances.[10]

It is important to keep in mind that the “traditional” Babylonian beliefs in demons, spirits and the like were never seen as religious doctrines; they were all perceived as “reality.” Just as modern man accepts the existence of microbes, bacteria and the like—and they all help to explain the phenomena that we experience—people living during the rabbinic era assumed the existence of demonic beings who were responsible for “the crowding at the Kallah…knees that are tired…clothes of the students that wear out….”[11] This would be just as true about the existence of spirits who outlive their physical lives and continue to visit earth in that form and who (in spirit form) could be contacted.

This entire frame of reference shifted in the post-Kalamite era and those who were engaged in these interactions and in study were quick to eschew the entire other-worldly existence of demons and the like, along with spirits independent of their bodies. As such, the only way that the episode at En-Dor could be explained would be via resurrection—body and soul together; based on hard-core philosophic standards and the intensified monotheism that came with it, this was seen as an act that only God Himself could produce. Saadiah and Shemuel b. Hofni took these premises in two different directions—based on their consideration about the “slippery slope” of interpreting the simple word vayomer as anything but literal.

To put it simply—as much as (even) a Hakham of the Amoraic era, such as Rava (BT Berakhot 6a) would assume the existence of the “spirit world” around him—by the tenth century in Iraq, rabbis (such as Saadiah) would utterly reject that point of view and would explain phenomena in a way that accorded with their thought system.[12] They would regard it as most modern traditional Jews view the medical advice in the Talmud—as the best way that that era had of diagnosing and curing—but not reflecting any theological truth that must be maintained at the cost of reason.

“A Wise and Discerning Nation”

One final word about the cultural shifts outlined here, of which the Geonic “revolution” is only one. Although we know nothing about prophets or early sages engaging in mathematical or astronomic calculations, by the time we get to third-century Eretz Yisrael, no less an authority than Bar Kappara (student of R. Yehudah haNassi) would be quoted as follows:

Rabbi Shimon ben Pazi said that Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said in the name of bar Kappara: Anyone who knows how to calculate astronomical seasons and the movement of constellations and does not do so, the verse says about him: “They do not take notice of the work of God, and they do not see His handiwork” (Isaiah 5:12). And Rabbi Shemuel bar Naḥmani said that Rabbi Yoḥanan said: From where is it derived that there is a mitzva incumbent upon a person to calculate astronomical seasons and the movement of constellations? As it was stated: “And you shall guard and perform, for it is your wisdom and understanding in the eyes of the nations” (Deuteronomy 4:6). What wisdom and understanding is there in the Torah that is in the eyes of the nations, i.e., appreciated and recognized by all? You must say: This is the calculation of astronomical seasons and the movement of constellations, as the calculation of experts is witnessed by all. (BT Shabbat 75a)

In other words, there was an understanding that the statement in Devarim that the nations of the world would exclaim “what a wise and discerning nation” was not merely descriptive—it was also prescriptive and obligated Am Yisrael to constantly maintain an image of being at the forefront of mathematical, scientific and, we would argue, theologico-philosophical thinking. Am Yisrael should never be seen as “backwards,” “primitive” and the like and anyone who has the ability to demonstrate the wisdom which we have been granted has an obligation to engage in it.

I believe that this sentiment has played a central role in Jewish cultural-methodological flexibility throughout the millennia and was part of the unstated (and perhaps, subconscious) adoption by the Geonim of the new, rationalistic modes of thinking that swept through the high culture of tenth-century Bavel.

For Further Study:

Wolfson, Harry Austryn, 1887–1974. Repercussions of the Kalam in Jewish philosophy 1979.

Nemoy, Leon: Al-Qirqisani on the Occult Sciences: Jewish Quarterly Review, 76/4, pp. 329–367.

Rabbi Marc Angel Replies to Questions from the Jewish Press

Should a person who enjoys learning on his own force himself to find a chavrusa?

The Talmud (Shabbat 31a) cites the opinion of Rava about what we will be asked when we eventually come before the heavenly court. One of the questions is: kavata itim leTorah, did you set aside fixed times to study Torah? Regular study of Torah is expected of us, and we will have to answer for ourselves in due course.

We won’t be asked if we learned on our own or with a havruta.

The goal is to study Torah regularly and effectively. We need to be able to set times for study, and to have the mental framework for gaining most from the time we devote to our studies.

For some people, having a havruta is an effective way to advance in Torah. Since two or more people are involved, it’s necessary to set times to meet. A havruta system enables the partners to struggle through texts together, to share knowledge, to challenge assumptions.

But for others, learning on one’s own is preferable. A self-disciplined person can often accomplish a lot more by oneself. While one loses the give and take of a havruta arrangement, one gains the ability to approach topics and texts as he/she thinks best and on his/her own schedule.

No one should feel compelled to find a havruta. If one feels that one can learn best with a learning partner, then one should choose a suitable havruta. If one feels that one can learn best alone, then study alone…but, either way, be sure to study!

If a person believes based on medical expert advice that wearing a mask on a quiet sidewalk is unnecessary, should he wear it anyways because of the chillul Hashem it will cause in some circles if he doesn't?  Does the answer depend on his motivation (convenience vs. making a political statement)?

 As responsible citizens, we are obliged to follow the laws of our government. We are currently required to wear masks and practice social distancing when in public, in order to lessen the impact of the covid 19 pandemic. These practices have been mandated for the health and well-being of all of us.

Those who do not follow the rules, regardless of motivation, are thereby endangering the health—and possibly the lives—of themselves and others. When people obviously identified as Jews spurn the regulations, this casts a bad light on themselves and on the Jewish community as a whole. In a recent example of a throng of Hassidic Jews attending a funeral, the Mayor of New York made unfortunate comments—not just about the scoff-laws, but about the “Jewish community.” Kol Yisrael areivim zeh lazeh, we are all responsible for each other; our individual actions reflect on our people as a whole.

If one is walking in an area where there are few or no other people nearby, it should be fine to remove the face mask since no one is endangered by this. However, when one is in a public setting where multiple other people are present, one should certainly wear the face mask and observe social distancing.

The consequence of violating the rules is not only a matter of hillul Hashem; it is possibly to endanger the health and lives of oneself and others.

When bad things happen to someone else, is it appropriate to speculate why?

It is appropriate for everyone to mind his or her own business; it is inappropriate to speculate about why bad things happen to others.

Tanakh makes this clear in the book of Iyyov, where Iyyov’s friends “speculate” that he is suffering because of his sins. Hashem states that only He knows the ultimate reasons for things. Speaking to Eliphaz, Hashem says: “My wrath is kindled against you and against your two friends; for you have not spoken of Me the thing that is right, as My servant Iyyov has” (42:7). In other words, leave judgment to the Almighty who alone understands why things happen as they do.

In the Pirkei Avot, we read the words of Rabbi Eliezer: “Let the honor of your fellow be as precious to you as your own” (2:15). Just as you would not someone to judge you in a manner that casts aspersions on your honor, so you should not judge others in a manner that diminishes their honor.

It is religiously and morally repugnant to suggest theological reasons to blame victims for their sufferings. People who are not prophets should not arrogate to themselves the right to proclaim that they know Hashem's will. They don't.

We have the right and responsibility to judge ourselves and to self-reflect when we deal with adversity. We don’t have the right or responsibility to stand in judgment of others. As we all learned from our parents, if you don’t have something good to say about someone…don’t say anything at all.

For bar mitzvah boys: Should you give them a sefer in Hebrew, which they may not be able to read for another five years (or perhaps ever), or should you give them something in English?  

King Solomon, the wisest of men, taught: "Educate each child according to his way" (Kohelet 22:6). Every child has his or her own strengths, weaknesses, aptitudes, interests. When considering a gift for a bar or bat mitzvah boy or girl, one needs to think about what would be most suitable for that individual child. If the decision is to give a book of Jewish content, then one needs to think carefully about what book/s would be most appreciated.

Making the right choice requires a lot of thought. Ideally, one should know the child very well so as to have a good idea of what book/s would be relevant. Giving an impressive set of Hebrew books might be of interest to the giver: but would these books be of interest to the recipient? Or is it reasonable to assume that the book/s will indeed one day become relevant to the child as he/she grows up?

Before giving a book or set of books, first think of what would be most appropriate for the child. Then consider whether the child already has the book/s or is likely to receive them from other bar/bat mitzvah guests.

My general suggestion for someone who is uncertain as to what book/s to give:  buy a gift certificate from a Jewish book store and let the child choose for him/herself.

...Even if bandits were to carve you up savagely, limb by limb, with a two-handled saw, he among you who let his heart get angered even at that would not be doing my bidding. Even then you should train yourselves: “Our minds will be unaffected... we will keep pervading the all-encompassing world with an awareness imbued with good will—abundant, expansive, immeasurable, free from hostility, free from ill will.” That's how you should train yourselves.

                        —Midlength Discourses of the Buddha, Sutta 21[1]

When R. Aqiva was taken out for execution, it was the hour for the recital of the Shema, and while they combed his flesh with iron combs, he was accepting upon himself the kingship of heaven. His students said to him: Our teacher, even to this point? He said to them: All my days I have been troubled by this verse, “With all your soul,” [meaning] “Even if God takes your soul.” I said: When shall I have the opportunity of fulfilling this? Now that I have the opportunity, shall I not fulfill it?”

—BT Berakhot 61b

            As R. Aha ben Ada said in the name of R. Hamnuna in the name of Rav, one must study even the ordinary conversation of the sages. Tree-like, the sap of wisdom feeds and secures every leaf of their conversation; it is not in their nature to let drop wholly irrelevant remarks.[2] This teaching returned to me when I came across a rough draft by a teacher of mine. It was its epigraph that caught my eye, a creative re-writing of a passage from Kierkegaard’s Either/Or.[3] Where the original had the word “poet,” my teacher had substituted the word “sage,” so that it read like this:

What is a [sage]? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.... And people flock around the [sage] and say: “Sing again soon”—that is, “May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.”

Here, in an unpublished, unelaborated prelude to a work that has since undergone substantial revision, now existing as far as I know only in a tattered folder wedged into my bookshelf, is a thought which cracks wide open an issue strangely neglected in the study of Talmud. I speak of the issue of pain.

            Pain is an overwhelming theme in the lives of Haza”l. Examining aggadic material, one finds that the majority of prominent sages suffered intensely. Explicitly, they undergo chattel slavery,[4] public beatings,[5] the deaths or abductions of their children,[6] their own arrest, torture, and execution,[7] and the witnessing of the same happening to their teachers and parents.[8] They go mad with grief;[9] they seek death by locking themselves in rooms[10] or climbing into lit ovens.[11] To expand this list properly and so include the major categories of grief, madness, and trauma would be to halfway-write a talmudic encyclopedia. Implicitly, the reaches of this theme may be even further, as some sages bear classic behavioral marks of trauma in response to events about which the text creates a tender silence.[12] Pain itself is experienced by the sages as a force of supernatural strength, emerging from within them to reduce others to ash[13] or piles of bone.[14] They worry that it is powerful enough to consume the world:

‎They banded together against [R. Eliezer] and banished him, and said, “Who will go to notify him?” R. Aqiva said, “I will go, lest an unsuitable person notify him, and in consequence the whole world will be laid waste.”[15]

The gentleness with which R. Aqiva breaks the news to R. Eliezer averts the end of the world, but nevertheless, at the moment that R. Eliezer begins to weep,

A third of the olives, a third of the wheat, and a third of the barley in the world were destroyed, and some say even the dough in women’s hands expanded. It is taught that a great tragedy happened on that day, as every place on which R. Eliezer rested his eyes was burnt up. Even Rabban Gamliel as he was traveling by ship was nearly drowned by a wave.[16]

This is not merely a stylistic way of speaking of intense feelings. In the Talmud, joy does not usually cause flowers to bloom or sickness to heal, although tellingly enough aggadatha records comparatively few instances of unbounded happiness anyway. Even an intimate encounter with the divine may only leave one as whole as one was prior to enlightenment.[17] We must ask ourselves what the Talmud means by presenting such overwhelming suffering. It does not suffice to say that lives back then were harder than they are today, since despite the fact that the sages had moments of great happiness, we are seldom invited to read of their weddings, births, and joyful reunions, but are redirected again and again to the site of their pain.

            Ultimately, we will see that pain in the Talmud, as in the human nervous system, operates as a warning, not as a blessing; Haza”l not only deny that pain brings insight, but show how it functions as a barrier to insight. But first, the filial obligation of long-time students bids me to take up the proposition of my teacher’s epigraph, using a seriousness and generosity that will read it best. What would it mean to say that the sage is not merely characterized by their learning, but by the depth, refinement, and expressiveness of their suffering? How would this characterization situate the sages in their communities as teachers and deciders of law? What would the decisions of a sage rooted in suffering look like? We might venture that to dwell primarily in the world of pain is to cultivate despair in response to the social environment. This in turn precludes the mindset that legislation can fix human behavior, rather than address human beings; in other words, it inoculates against dangerous, utopian-minded overreach. This agrees with what the poet said:

Let judges secretly despair of justice: their verdicts will

be more acute. Let generals secretly despair of triumph;

killing will be defamed. Let priests secretly despair of faith:

their compassion will be true.[18]

            Precisely such an approach can be seen in the way Haza”l deal with sexual violence. In one piece of agadatha, the rape of women and girls is described as inevitable,[19] and we see that the sages made no attempt to engineer a perfectly rape-free society. We may contrast this with many attempts to do just that, which are inevitably supposedly achieved by restricting women’s freedom and visibility in the name of their protection.[20] The very isolation of women that is said to protect them then prevents them from publicizing their actual experiences with sexual violence, lending the venture a public image of success. The sages resisted gender segregation as a solution, as we can see in BT Gitin 57a:

It happened that a certain person was planning to divorce his wife, but her ketubah [divorce-payment] was high. What did he do? He went and invited his good friends over, and gave them food and drink until they became intoxicated, and lay them down on one bed, and took an egg white and sprinkled it around them. He set witnesses on them and came [to prosecute his case] before the Bet Din. There was an old man there who had belonged to the inner circle of Shamai the Elder, [who informed the Bet Din that] “Egg white contracts in fire, whereas semen evaporates in fire.” They tested it and found that he was correct, and brought [the husband] before the Bet Din, and whipped him, and collected her ketubah from him.[21]

            The lack of rabbinic condemnation of a mixed-gender drinking party, even in the face of sexual disaster, is striking. When blame is assigned, the problem identified by the rabbis is not a lack of chastity, nor an overabundance of freedom, but rather the lack of remembrance of pain. Hearing of the incident an unspecified time later,

Abayye said to Rav Yosef, “But since these people were all righteous, what is the reason they were punished [i.e. divinely, by undergoing such an incident in the first place]?” He replied, “Because they were not mourning for Jerusalem.”

The true danger of revelry, as identified by Rav Yosef, is that it precludes an admixture of mourning into one’s emotional palette. Yet there is something too in this conversation that gives us pause in our investigation of the value of suffering, as we see that the text portrays its lack as a failure in virtue that impairs one’s relationship with God, rather than as an impairment to one’s ethical sensibilities or ability to deal wisely with others. It is for this reason that when the text seeks for a detail which illustrates the value of pain, it selects the wife and guests, doing so as an exercise in theodicy. It does not attribute the insight of the Bet Din to their relationship with suffering, nor does it critique the machinating husband for lacking pain; indeed, we may suspect that if anything, its surfeit is what impedes him.

            This brings us to a sticking point. Pain courses through the lives of the sages, and its overwhelming presence in the Talmud is clearly a communication, but I contend that the nature of that communication is not an equation between wisdom and suffering. One strain of thought denies that there is even an alliance between wisdom and suffering. An aggadic text in which suffering rises perhaps most rawly to the surface shows antipathy not only to suffering but to any benefits said to arise from it:

R. Eliezer fell ill, and R. Yohanan came in to visit him. He saw that he was in a dark house, so he bared his arm and light shone from it. He saw that R. Eliezer was crying. He said to him, “Why are you crying? Is it because you did not learn enough Torah? We have taught: The one who does much and the one who does little are equal, if both act for the sake of heaven! Is it because of [the lack of] food? Not everyone has the privilege to eat at two tables! Is it because of [the lack or death] of children? This is the bone of my tenth child!” He replied, “Because this beauty will be swallowed up by the earth.” He joined in weeping, and said to him, “This is indeed reason to cry,” and both of them cried together. After a time, he asked, “Are your sufferings dear to you?” He answered, “Neither them nor their reward.” He said to him, “Give me your hand.” He gave it to him, and he raised him up.[22]

            We see here that suffering imparts something, but it is not wisdom, and though R. Eliezer seems to concede that there is a “reward,” it is not welcome. Yet complexity blooms around this perspective. Above on the same daf, it is stated that learning will stick fast in the memory of one who suffers—but only if the suffering is accepted with love.[23] Perhaps this is to say that while we often seem to remember well those teachings which were close to us in times of distress, higher thinking is derailed by deep internal disorder. Pain sharpens memory, but the memory of Torah must not be made so sharp that consciousness shrinks to touch it. Without equanimity, pain threatens wisdom.

            Further, while we have seen that the sages set realistic rather than utopian expectations for human behavior, can it really be said in general that their approach is characterized by despair? On many points, their work with Torah is characterized by an attentive, cautious optimism, revealed in halakhic institutions that reflect an understanding that human nature is neither immutable nor, as a matter of course, demonic. Examples include their emphasis on restorative justice[24] and their push for mediation between parties in conflict,[25] both of which reflect a stance that communities can and should work to re-incorporate destructive individuals. One of the central halakhic projects of the sages is also perhaps their most aspirational: Shabbat, with its high expectations of ethical behavior, its weekly undercutting of both class[26] and gender[27] divisions, and its creation of space for all to participate in study and contemplation. With the institution of Shabbat, the sages express that human nature at its very root is responsive and changeable, that it can and must grow into accountability. This thought is most poetically formulated in the idea that people gain a second soul on Shabbat, and that it is the observance itself of rest that makes the second soul possible.[28] In this way, human efforts at self-transformation are understood to be desired and assisted by the divine, and so flow with the momentum of creation, rather than counter to a harsh and unyielding reality.

            We can see this at work not only in halakhic institutions, but in the process of crafting halakha:

Rav Yosef said, “Originally, I thought, whenever someone tells me the halakha is like R. Yehudah, who said that a blind person is exempt from commandments, I will throw a party for the rabbis, since I am exempt but still perform them. Now that I hear from R. Hanina that the one who is obligated in them and performs them is greater than the one who is not obligates them but still performs them, it’s the opposite – whenever someone tells me the halakha is not like R. Yehudah, I throw a party for the rabbis.”[29]

Is this text cynical about rabbinic motives for endorsing this or that ruling? On the contrary, it is presented in an approving manner which forces the reader to re-think what it means to be self-serving. To Rav Yosef, a ruling is intuitively suspect when it causes in its subject a feeling of dread and loss of place in the world—marks, perhaps, that one has not been truly understood by the ruling’s author. Conversely, a good interpretation of Torah can at least partly be recognized by a feeling of delight. The specific outcome of the ruling and its hermeneutic justifications are secondary to this first response, which encodes a lifetime of conscious and unconscious knowledge of oneself and one’s place.[30]

            It is time to step through these texts and examine the problem from its other side: What does wisdom itself mean to the sages? For such a complex concept, one finds a remarkable unity in descriptions of wisdom in the Talmud. In contrast to their vision of the world and their own troubled existence in it, the sages describe their relationship with Torah as warm, nurturing, and maternal. In fact, the transmission of Torah is classically imagined as breastfeeding:

 “Her breasts will satisfy you at all times” (Mishlei 5:19): Why are words of Torah compared to a breast? Just as a baby will find milk in a breast as long as he nurses, so is it with words of Torah: As long as a person recites them, they will find flavor in them.[31]

            The details of this metaphor are developed throughout Talmud. In Masekhet Pesahim, we see a refinement in the assignation of roles. Now the breasts are the sages themselves, or perhaps the location of Torah learning, while milk is the wisdom that comes through Torah:

 “I am a wall, and my breasts are towers” (Shir haShirim 8): R. Yohanan said: “I am a wall”—that refers to Torah; “And my breasts are towers”—that refers to the sages. Rava said, “I am a wall”—that refers to the congregation of Israel; “And my breasts are towers”—that refers to the synagogues and study halls.[32]

            Similarly, R. Aqiva compares himself to a cow, and his student to a nursing calf. At the moment he chooses such a language to describe the transmission of his Torah, he is awaiting torture and execution in a Roman prison. Although one might have thought such a context would make suffering-based models of wisdom more vivid for him, the only pain he alludes to is that of swollen mammary glands.[33]

            This use of nursing imagery is so well-entrenched in talmudic culture that it also works in reverse, that is, human breasts remind the sages of wisdom,[34] just as today the heart may remind one of love. And it is not a simple symbolism: metonymic bonds tie breastfeeding to wisdom almost as closely as a map is bound to its territory. The mechanism of nursing is itself a guide to how wisdom is best acquired, namely, through a closeness to the human source of one’s learning, and with loving appetite for the material itself:

 [R. Ahadvoi bar Ami] answered [Rav Shesheth] mockingly. R. Sheseth felt wounded. R. Ahadvoi bar Ami lost his power of speech, and his learning left him. [R. Shesheth’s] mother came and, crying, stood before him and commanded him [to forgive R. Ahadvoi]. He paid her no attention. She said, “Look at these breasts from which you suckled.” He then asked for mercy for [R. Ahadvoi], and he was healed.[35]

            Here we see clearly that the sages did not consider pain the path to wisdom; it is rather the paralyzing by-product of ineffective learning, depicted here as a combative style of debate. Here is an echo to the tragedy of R. Eliezer of the nearly world-destroying pain, at odds with all his colleagues, whose exile also deprives him of the power of speech. The breasts of R. Shesheth’s mother, and her recollection of him nursing when he was young, embody the paradigm of learning which Haza”l depict as leading to the return and reflowering of wisdom.

            That suffering can cripple moral intellect, aside from one’s emotional soundness, in fact can be found in my teacher’s Kierkegaard passage, once we examine it in its original context. In Either/Or, it is not presented as the thought of the philosopher himself, but of the persona A. A is an aesthete whose greatest conscious fear is the inexorable dulling of pleasure by boredom.[36] He is unable to form any relationship other than the most fleeting and predatory, nor can he put down roots in any moral framework, since he is unable to evaluate ethical perspectives except in the aesthetic sense. This is because he is not alive to the realities of others, which would feed an ethical perspective. The second persona of Either/Or, Judge Wilhelm, puts his finger on what is behind A’s ideological and emotional detachment:

...alone in one’s boat, alone with one’s care, alone with one’s despair, which one prefers cowardly to retain rather than to suffer the pain of being healed. Permit me now to bring to light the sickly aspect of your life—not as though I wanted to terrify you, for I am not posing as a bugaboo, and you are too knowing to be affected by that sort of thing. But I beg you to reflect how painful, how sad, how humiliating it is to be in this sense a stranger and a pilgrim in this world.[37]

In contrast:

            It is only responsibility that bestows a blessing and true joy.[38]

Responsibility here is understood as a non-disposable, in fact indispensable, relationship with one’s surroundings and the object of one’s activity. This quality exists in opposition with detachment, described as follows:

The intellectual agility you possess is very becoming to youth and diverts the eye for a time. We are astonished to see a clown whose joints are so loose that all the restraints of man’s gait and posture are annulled. You are like that in an intellectual sense; you can just as well stand on your head as on your feet. Everything is possible for you, and you can surprise yourself and others with this possibility, but it is unhealthy…. Any man who has a conviction cannot at his pleasure turn himself and everything topsy-turvy in this way. Therefore I do not warn you against the world but against yourself and the world against you.[39]

Perhaps, prior to his admonition by the Judge, A is already in some sense aware that his philosophy is propelled by his pain; at any rate, he appears to feel its effects. Let us look again at the epigram:

What is a [sage]? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music....

Elided here is a revealing elaboration by A:

His fate is like that of the unfortunate victims whom the tyrant Phalaris imprisoned in a brazen bull, and slowly tortured over a steady fire; their cries could not reach the tyrant’s ears so as to strike terror into his heart; when they reached his ears they sounded like sweet music.

One imprisoned in a brazen bull is unable to see anything or anyone outside of the bull. Articulate response of any sort is impossible. The only possibility is an involuntary expression of pain, which contaminates the destiny of its audience with its savagery—the classical Greek understanding of consequence demands that those who delight in the bull must also burn in it. Not only is this a poor recipe for a sage, it is a poor recipe for a poet, or else we would prefer above all artists the exquisitely insensible pain of the guitar-fumbling high school bard. No, the task of poets is not to weep prettily about their own inner torment; their place is outside the bull, in radical attentiveness to everyone and everything around them. This quality is named by Keats as negative capability. He writes:

A Poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence; because he has no identity—he is continually in for—and filling some other Body—The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute—the poet has none; no identity... When I am in a room... the identity of everyone in the room begins to [for so] to press on me that I am in a very little time an[ni]hilated—not only among Men; it would be the same in a Nursery of children...[40]

            Negative capability involves more even than this; it demands a complexity of vision and articulation that can only be governed by intuition rather than attendance on formal paradigm, and it demands comfort in uncertainty. Keats saw both of these as benevolent characteristics,[41] famously describing them in a language of love: “I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart's affections and the truth of Imagination.”[42] Here is a description of an art which I believe the sages of the Talmud would happily recognize as their own.

            To use the words of Judge Vilhelm, the Talmudic sage must be able to “suffer the pain of being healed” before attending to the needs of others. As Elaine Scarry explains in her work The Body in Pain,

To witness the moment when pain causes a reversion to the pre-language of cries and groans is to witness the destruction of language; but conversely, to be present when a person moves up out of that pre-language and projects the facts of sentience into speech is almost to have been permitted to be present at the birth of language itself.[43]

Nowhere is this better illustrated than in the well-known tale of R. Shimon bar Yohai, who escapes arrest and execution by fleeing with his son to a cave, where they dwell in complete isolation for 13 years, learning Torah. When the danger passes and they are able at last to emerge, father and son are unable to respond even to the ordinary people of their own community except by the reflexive, indiscriminate unleashing of their pain:

They left [the cave]. They saw people ploughing and sowing. [R. Shimon] said, “They abandon eternal life to busy themselves with life in the moment!” Everything they placed their eyes upon was immediately burnt up.[44]

By divine command, they are re-imprisoned in their cave for another year. After this, while his son continues to wound others, R. Shimon is able to heal them. In a less magical but not less marvelous fashion, he is able to move past an initial judgment of others’ behavior as transgressive by asking the reason for their actions, and listening carefully to their responses.[45] But his process of healing has only just begun, and it is here, where popular interest in the story begins to decline, that it is worth paying close attention.

R. Pinhas ben Yair, his son-in-law, heard about it and went out to meet him. He took him to the bathhouse. When he was tending to his flesh, he saw cuts, and began to cry. Tears fell from his eyes into [the cuts], and [R. Shimon] screamed [from the pain of the salt].

I am curious about these fresh cuts, and wonder if they might indicate something about R. Shimon’s response to his imprisonment, or to the world he found outside the prison. Rash”i posits that they are the result of sand abrasion.[46] It is also significant that R. Shimon is accepting treatment in a bathhouse, an institution he condemned at the beginning of the story, saying that they were built by the Roman occupiers in order to indulge themselves.[47] A door has opened in R. Shimon’s thinking, first regarding his own community, and now, perhaps, those outside it as well.

 [R. Pinhas] said to him, “Woe is me, that I see you like this!” He responded, “Fortunate are you to see me like this, for if you did not see me like this, you would not have found me as I am.” [He meant] that before [his exile], R. Shimon ben Yohai would ask a question, and R. Pinhas ben Yair could give him 13 answers, whereas now, R. Pinhas ben Yair could ask a question, and R. Shimon ben Yohai could give him 24 answers.

            When his suffering was raw and unprocessed, his learning in the isolation of the cave was indistinguishable from illiterate violence. Equanimity to suffering—both his own and that of his community—is given space to grow in a place of safety, with the loving ministrations of a family member. A sense of wholeness, rather than a sense of injury, is what allows him finally to make use of the Torah he acquired:

He said, Since a miracle happened for me, I will go fix something, as it says (Bereishith 33:18) “And Yaaqov departed whole”: Rav said, whole in is body, whole in his possessions, whole in his Torah... He asked, Is there anything that needs fixing?

            R. Shimon hears that there is a nearby field containing unmarked graves. The inability of kohanim to cross this field without contracting potential tum’ah causes them difficulty. We must pay attention to the role of asking, as it is his means of identifying a worthy problem, as well as his means of identifying a solution; R. Shimon begins work by interviewing the elderly to see what information can be excavated. Finally, he enters the field himself, marking loose soil as potential grave sites, releasing hard soil from suspicion, and forming footpaths across the field. Having once been a prisoner of earth, R. Shimon is able to return to that element in full possession of himself, in the name of usefulness to others. This being aggadatha, nothing is wholly tidy, and shortly afterward, his gaze incinerates the man who originally informed on him to the government.[48] Apparently, one does not need to be a saint to be a sage, and equanimity is not the same virtue as obliviousness.

            If it is not to teach us that the truest sage is the most exquisite sufferer, what is the meaning of all the pain in the Talmud? It is not a simple question, and the richness of this portrait of the sages’ life is not reducible to a single function. The stories work at multiple levels of consciousness in the listener or reader, with different details emerging to attention at different points in one’s life. As is characteristic of oral literature, the mess of human lives depicted is itself a teaching tool: It communicates an expectation of similar complexity in the way the listener responds to life, as opposed to parable, which communicates an expectation of simplicity. But it is possible to suggest some reasons for the unusual prominence of pain. I think that Haza”l expected that their students, and their great-great-great-grandstudents, would have difficult lives. When life is at its most difficult, it is impossible for the student of Talmud to think to themselves that they are experiencing a pain that, by virtue of the brokenness it forces on the sufferer, expels them from the world of worthy people. Rather, worthy people bear the same wounds that we do, although they bear them best when they respond with discipline and a reorientation to the nurturing mindset that characterizes effective wisdom.

            In turn, such a gentle, continuous return to a maternal model of wisdom is not only a recommendation, but a warning. Any education is replete with those who urge their students to discard their ethical sensitivities in favor of what are termed the hard truths of human nature. More often than not, this approach conceals a fear of truly facing what trouble one’s hard truth is causing others, and goes hand-in-hand with limitations in one’s ability to help others wisely. According to the sages, information may well hurt, but Torah, that is, a wise response to such information, can be recognised by its nourishing quality. There is no good student of rabbinic literature who has not encountered a text which wounds, perhaps even a text that horrifies. There is blood in the milk. In a nursing model of Torah, an informed reaction of woundedness should act like one of R. Shimon’s markers of loose soil, which say, do not enter here: Find a path on the sturdier earth that is nonetheless connected to it. May all of us students of Torah find such paths; may we open the doors of the brazen bull and help one another to solid ground.

[1]

Who am I, this worshipper? A person with, I’d like to suppose, a certain integrated unity. I have some understanding of the world, and I have certain desires, both for long-term goals and short-term pleasures, some purely selfish and some other-directed (concern for family, community, nation, humanity), some conscious, some less so. My unity consists of the fact that my actions are reasoned—that I can believe each action is instrumental to some goal in an integrated hierarchy of purposes, and according to some integrated understanding of the world. These purposes and this understanding are jointly at the core of my personal identity. But then what happens when, resolutely committed as I am to mitzvot, I thrice daily recite a petition to God to reinstate the Davidic dynasty in Jerusalem (in the fourteenth blessing of Shemoneh Esreh)? This simply does not square with my real, reasoned, day-to-day understanding of what the world is like and what it should be like, the understanding that defines who I am. For all its wretched faults, I’m still in favor of sticking to Israeli electoral democracy; in any case, how would David’s offspring be identifiable as such; and does anyone imagine David’s leadership qualities transmit this far down through the DNA? Or when, on Sukkot, I wave a lulav and etrog in all directions, supposedly to signal my recognition of God’s control of the universe and to petition God to curb pernicious storms,[1] do I really believe this action could persuade God of my recognition and to tamper with the rain cycle—that because of their symbolic meaning, my flapping them somehow impresses God more persuasively than if I just verbalized my statement? Honestly, I don’t. Or when we cover the challot at the Shabbat table, putatively so that they won’t be embarrassed or envious when we first make Kiddush over wine,[2] although I frankly have trouble believing challot have emotions? Performing these actions, deeply unconvinced by these putative reasons, yet in some way entertaining the notion that they soundly explain what I’m doing—is this really me, the person identified with this everyday hierarchy of beliefs and purposes? Or do I, when I worship God, just enter some make-believe consciousness, momentarily imagine the challot are covered to save them from embarrassment, and for that moment pretend to be a person who believes it? If so, then it’s not me worshipping but the make-believe; I’d be presenting to God a fake self.

[2]

It might be said that my difficulty here is really a non-issue, as it’s founded on the specific and disputable view, associated with Maimonides, that each mitzvah serves a purpose. We might assume instead, with Leibowitz (supposedly the polar opposite), that the sole reason for fulfilling any given mitzvah is to worship God, by unquestioningly doing as God has commanded us. If this is correct, and if my putative reason for (e.g.) waving my lulav and etrog is to petition God for a clement winter, then this is inessential to the real purpose; so that there’s no problem if the putative reason is not at one with my real understanding of reality. I’ll still be acting rationally by fulfilling the mitzvah just out of my wish to worship God.

But this by no means resolves the difficulty. It may well be true that what really makes us wave a lulav and etrog—the desire that actually, psychologically motivates us—is simply the fact that this is halakha. We typically first find out what halakha requires of us and do it, and only afterwards learn it’s for this or that reason; hence this supposed reason could not really be our motivating reason. By deed, we’re Leibowitzians. At the same time, however, upon learning that the reason for waving the lulav and etrog is to petition God to curb the storms (or, with some accounts, to petition for human fertility), we tell ourselves that this is our reason for doing so, and present ourselves to God as if this is why we’re performing this action, though we may have no belief whatever that God is persuaded by our gesturing with these symbols.

I must note also that, contrary to what’s often assumed, the Leibowitzian and Maimonidean understandings of mitzvot are perfectly consistent with each other, for they’re speaking of different things. Leibowitz refers to our proper reason for fulfilling a mitzvah—what should properly motivate our action, or why it’s right that we do so—in his view, that we thereby worship God; the Rambam’s claim is about the reason it’s a mitzvah in the first place, why God has commanded this particular mitzvah. Thus it could be that God has directed me to wave a lulav and etrog so that I thereby petition God for a better winter; while my proper reason for doing so, why it’s right that I do, is just that God has (for His reason) directed me to do so and I wish to obey Him. The present problem, however, is that it’s of the nature of our inquiring human minds to wonder what purpose could be served by our action—what the role is of this action in the large, teleological scheme of things. Even if one’s actual motive for waving a lulav and etrog is one’s wish to worship God, one cannot help wondering why God has given us this particular mitzvah, why it’s cosmically right. One then learns that the putative reason is that we thereby petition God for a good winter, and one embraces this as one’s own rationale—one adopts it as the explanation of one’s own action—even if it doesn’t authentically engage with one’s real-world beliefs. One thus presents oneself to God in this false mental posture.[3]

[3]

The integrity of the psyche can be especially challenged by prayer. Reciting the liturgy, I must surely be committed to the notion that all this text states is true and right. I might not be aware of what these true and right thoughts and wishes stated by the text specifically are; but insofar as I do know this or that thought or wish it states, I must surely agree with it. For I’d otherwise be presenting myself to God as a person who has this thought and is acting to communicate it, though I at the same time know I have no such thought. What am I to do, then, when I recite the second blessing of Shemoneh Esreh, aware it praises God for some day resurrecting the dead, while I have difficult doubts about how true and right this could be?

This awkwardness is exacerbated where, in many siddurim, special kavanot are provided—interpretations of expressions, annotated into the text, which it’s recommended the user reflect upon while reciting them, sometimes literal interpretations but often going imaginatively beyond.[4] The popular Sephardic siddur, Kavanat haLev, for instance, is permeated not only with expression-related kavanot, but also includes many broader recommendations of propositions which one should, in some way, have in mind as one recites certain passages or sections. Just one example here: It recommends that, while reciting HalleluYa’h halleli (Psalm 146) in Pesukey deZimrah, one direct one’s thoughts to the truth that one who trusts in God, Who supports one in all situations, will be happy.[5] To be clear, I certainly have no wish to question whether this is truth; my concern here is just with the question, if I somehow don’t believe it’s truth, must I recite the psalm while directing my thoughts to the idea and pretending I believe it? The Artscroll siddur, too, offers recommendations of this sort. An example: Its annotation at the beginning of the second paragraph of Shema asks us to “concentrate on accepting all the commandments and the concept of reward and punishment.”[6] But I’ll of course be unable to concentrate on any such acceptance if I have doubts about the precept of reward and punishment. I could perhaps concentrate on my faking of my acceptance of this precept—but I’d not thereby enter the elevated mindset that surely must be a precondition for connecting by prayer to God.

We have techniques for dealing with these difficulties. One familiar recourse is to reinterpret the problematic idea: to assume, for instance, that what we really mean when we say that God will raise the dead is that God will reawaken us from our spiritual slumber; or that our reference to the Davidic dynasty is our plea to restore the status of Jerusalem as a beacon of justice to the nations of the world. But there is some dishonesty in this. For the text has a fairly clear, literal meaning; it’s that literal meaning we’re stating if we’re stating anything. (I can tell myself all I like that what I mean when I say “It’s a sunny day” is that it’s fortunate that it’s raining, but if the perceivable context and assumptions of my audience don’t make this clear, then that’s not what I’ll have communicated.) This is a meaning largely determined by its traditional understanding—the meaning rabbinically authorized and (more significantly) that this text has conveyed in its millennia of usage. We admittedly have some interpretative leeway, but our interpretative hypothesis will require justification. This may enable us to build on the received meaning, recognize some subtle distinctions hitherto tacitly assumed, but not to arbitrarily replace the meaning of this text with another, just because it better suits our temperament. To ignore the literal, traditional understanding of the resurrection of the dead is simply to sidestep the issue.

Then it may seem the difficulty is overcome insofar as one achieves the kavanah[7] one must aim for—the mental state ideally entered—when praying. It’s our common understanding that this kavanah consists, in part at least, of thinking about the meaning of the text as one recites it. It seems to us even a truism that my reciting the second blessing could not be worth much if my consciousness is not, during those moments, in some way directed (in part) at the idea of the resurrection of the dead. This indeed seems to be the instruction of Shulhan Arukh when it writes that in praying one must “direct one’s heart to the meaning of the words one issues from one’s mouth….”[8] Now, if this means just that I must try imagining such a reality—just picturing or, in some way, consciously representing the meaning of the text—then it won’t solve the problem of my seeming deceitfulness. For to picture in my consciousness the resurrection of the dead is not to believe it will happen. (I can conjure an image of pink elephants flying over the horizon without believing this will ever happen.) Something more is needed than just picturing the dead arising. Perhaps, then, I must try entering a mental state that is subjectively identical to my having this belief; something like imagining this event, but together with some sense of affirming that it will happen. It seems to me in fact that many practitioners of prayer suppose, albeit in some unclear way, that what they’re attempting is something much like this. Accordingly, while reciting the blessing, I’d try inducing a state of consciousness which, from the inside, seems just like that of inhabiting a reality in which God will someday raise the dead. I’d need for those moments (among other things), to become oblivious to my ongoing, lucid conviction that if this event ever occurred it would be geopolitically and ecologically catastrophic, but also that the prospect of it happening is (fortunately), unintelligible. In what bodies would the dead arise? Where on this earth would they all live? Would they remember who they were and their past biographies and, if not, then in what sense are they those same individuals? Ignoring the contrary thoughts I really have, I’d indulge in this blurred, as if conviction;[9] I’d become a momentary mimicry of a person who believes in the resurrection of the dead. For that half minute, I’d present to God not myself but, like a stage actor, this alien persona.

In that case, perhaps what I must do here is more than just adjust my consciousness so that it internally seems to me I have the belief. What’s required, possibly, is that, by some special mental exertion, I induce an actual state of believing in (e.g.) the precept of reward and punishment. But this is all the more impossible. To believe that good deeds are rewarded and sinfulness is punished is to be configured with a certain pervasive understanding. This view of the world, of life, and of our relation with God, would need to be integrated with many more of my beliefs. It would need to penetrate into my thoughts about the unhappiness of good people and happiness of the wicked, of life after death and the possibility of a posthumous balancing out, of the Holocaust and the terror of innocents, and plenty more. It would need to govern the way I’d talk about and actively relate to these and many other matters. But there’s just no way I could, in those moments of my reciting the second paragraph of Shema, transform my thoughts so radically that I could be said to actually, if only briefly, believe in this principle. It would, moreover, need to be the way I think about these things not just during those moments but fairly enduringly: it won’t really have been my belief in those moments if, a few minutes later, having undergone no process of reassessing those associated truths, and without encountering any opinion-changing evidence, I rediscover myself as a person with no such belief.[10] While to induce a seeming-belief appears pointless, to induce an actual belief is impossible.

One further possibility: that my standing before God in prayer does not prerequire my accepting as truth all that’s stated by the liturgy, but is my way of acquiring that acceptance. The purpose of prayer, accordingly, is self-development: my kavanah is my engaging in a continuing project—even a life-long endeavor—of nurturing my real and lasting acceptance of the vision and agenda espoused by the text.[11] Day by day, through prayer, I’d incrementally strengthen my commitment to the agenda listed in Shemoneh Esreh and to the vision of the liturgy as a whole, thus bringing my religious personality into shape. I’d do so specifically by, during each session, rehearsing my commitment—inducing a mental state resembling commitment—until I eventually become genuinely committed.

Surely, however, my best way of nurturing (with the Artscroll example) an acceptance of all the commandments is to meditate upon sound reasons for this acceptance; to so meditate in some protracted, penetrating manner that articulates with my broader understanding of the world and my life-goals—to thus sustain a process of integrating my whole personality into this acceptance of all the mitzvot and divesting myself of whatever obstructive attitudes I may have. This perhaps consisting of, in short, learning Torah—with particular focus on the propositions stated by the liturgy itself. Whereas it’s hard to see what that brief pretense of accepting the meaning of the text, which I may muster in the course of prayer itself, will contribute to this project. Even more problematic: If the purpose of my reciting (e.g.) Shemoneh Esreh is self-improvement—as opposed to addressing God—then it’s hard to see why this should count as prayer.

[4]

On the face of it, then, worship demands not make-believe but truthfulness. That the dead will arise must (we’d naturally assume), be the actual belief of this person I really am and continue to be, not merely something which, by fabricating a false state of consciousness, I can momentarily imagine I believe. Yet we seem to commonly proceed as if there’s also a merit—a certain religious piety—in sustaining some such mental fabrication; as though, while it’s ideal that we really believe in the resurrection of the dead and in reward and punishment and accept fully the yoke of mitzvot, there’s failing that also value in fleetingly entering a mental state which resembles that of being enveloped and animated by this vision. This seems so commonly and instinctively our method, that we should perhaps wonder if it could somehow really be inherent to the nature of worship.

Indeed, it’s only insofar as we allow ourselves to indulge in some make-believe that so much of the color and substance of Jewish life is at all possible. Consider Shabbat candles. One often-cited reason for lighting them is that they ensure domestic well-being.[12] In earlier epochs, of course, it was realistic that the Shabbat lamp was conducive to well-being in the home, in preventing members of the family from bumping into things or each other, or from tripping over and sustaining personal injury. It probably also thereby created a calmer and more secure atmosphere and reduced irritability and domestic strife. Shabbat lights were thus materially functional in achieving these ends. But this doesn’t apply when, in our day, the light added in the home by Shabbat candles is typically negligible. The meaning of candles has thus shifted, from being directly instrumental in enabling domestic well-being, to acting as a remembrance to a time when it did.

Then what goes on in our minds as we now light or observe Shabbat candles? Some of us, possibly associating them with their erstwhile functional meaning, doubtless perceive them as potently symbolic of peace and well-being. But the difference between symbolic and functional meaning is easily blurred. I suspect that many of us, learning of this connection to domestic peace, retain the notion that they somehow, in our day too, have a power to achieve it by operating through some instrumental mechanism—though clearly not by contributing physically to the illumination of the home, nor by any other mundane process. Hence we’re open to unearthly ideas; on one well-received view, the twin candles induce domestic peace by representing the souls of husband and wife.[13] Now, I stress that I don’t presume to have anything of interest to say about the plausibility of this or any of the many extant rationales for Shabbat candle-lighting.[14] I mean just to point to the ambivalence with which we’re able to embrace our favored reason. For sure, not all Shabbat candle-lighters and observers subscribe, in particular, to the idea that Shabbat candles are imbued with a peace-inducing force—but some of us do. And possibly many of us do believe this literally and unequivocally. But many of us at least, though not really giving this idea clearheaded credence, do nonetheless apportion it mental space of some kind. We don’t believe, really, that our presenting this symbol somehow persuades God more effectively to preserve peace in our home than our verbalized petition—nor that it achieves this peace by bringing together the two souls through some metaphysical harmonizing magnetism. Yet the idea that Shabbat candles induce domestic well-being could well be what we uncritically reply with if asked why we light them. Some such notion, it seems, can loom large for us and can act as an explanation to ourselves of why we’re acting. This account and others like it are discontinuous with our regular, rational, workaday relation to the world—yet they insinuate themselves centrally into our experience of Shabbat candles.

Shabbat candles also impart their character to the experience of Shabbat in a quite enveloping way. Anyone who’s experienced their Friday night glow knows the sense that it infuses the home with a nearly palpable and magical substance.[15] Shabbat candles are among those focal archetypes that spill their color over Shabbat and over Jewish life altogether, producing a kind of higher-order overlay. Possibly some symbolic meaning bleeds through this overlay and injects additional vigor, but there’s also something irreducible—I’m tempted to say primal—about it; the overlay subsists independently of any symbolism. Looking at the two candles burning, we see not only these two physical objects in this confined physical space. We sense they are surrounded by an aura of meaning, an almost visible dimension that comes into being just when two otherwise plain sticks of combusting wax are, with the reciting of a blessing, exalted to the role of Shabbat candles. This sense derives, perhaps, from our knowing this ritual is ancestrally bequeathed, charged with some meaning possibly apprehended only by God, sanctified and delivered to us by millennia of practice. But the explanation doesn’t lessen the fact that the secret, sacred dimension we thus glimpse can seem to us more real than the candlesticks and table they stand on.

But do I really believe in any such dimension? Unfortunately not—I’m too rational and too much a realist for that—at least not in the same yom hol way I believe in metallic candlesticks and wooden tables. Yet it is a real part of my world; I do not quite believe, in the fullest sense of believing, in its existence, but I do have a cognitive relation to it of some sort.

[5]

At least since Maimonides’ formulation of his Thirteen Core Principles of Faith, it’s been explicitly part of our religiosity that we—stating this broadly—have certain beliefs.[16] These are often beliefs which we don’t receive passively, which are not forced on us by the evidence of our senses or as the logical implication of our everyday understanding, and which we therefore need to actively contrive to acquire. Alongside the praxis of mitzvot, the effort we make in inducing these cognitions is part of our repertoire of worshipful acts. Success is not straightforward; Maimonides’ Guide was written on the premise that its reader was confounded by doubts that had to be seriously addressed, as well as that certain matters are necessarily beyond the comprehension of the human intellect.[17] Before Maimonides, Saadya Gaon had recognized that, as humans are created beings, human understanding is necessarily laden with doubts, for “the very fact of their being creatures necessitates their entertaining uncertainties and illusions.”[18] Saadya saw doubt as a productive force, the engine of a dialectical, reasoned process ideally culminating in conviction; that ideal state, if ever achieved, would be permanent. But it meanwhile inevitably remains, in Saadya’s view, our normal predicament to face God, en route to that ideal, with a faith that’s stricken with doubt—and with a constant worshipful obligation to overcome that doubt.[19]

It’s become immeasurably more difficult in our age to believe what we’re obliged to believe. We expect our ordinary understanding of the world or even science to corroborate a thought before we accept it, and doubt fills the vacuum where it does not. It may comfort us that, in a certain respect, the collapse of certainty is our blessing: insofar as we’re compelled into certainty by logical inference or clear evidence or simply an incapacity for doubt, our reaching to God is not a free act of worship; we’re thus all the more able to manifest the love drawing us to God by overpassing our doubt with this freedom—the more difficult the doubt, the greater our worship.[20] As R. J. Sacks has said, “Faith is not certainty, but the courage to live with uncertainty.”[21]

The question remains, however, whether we can deal with our doubt, not by dishonestly dismissing it with false argument or ignoring it, but by acknowledging it, incorporating it, and defying it. Nor by fabricating a state of consciousness in which we lose sight of our real selves and enter an alien identity, but rather—and this could be the key—by somehow incorporating this state of consciousness into our own person. Could we somehow rise toward God by adopting a strange mental posture which, though ungrounded in our understanding of the world, leaves us nonetheless able to recognize ourselves—even as we’re then hovering, vertiginously distanced from firm ground, unfamiliarly contorted?

[6]

How drably unholy our religious lives would be without this capacity to mentally inhabit a dislocated reality. Much as if literature and theater were not able to likewise draw us into blissfully abandoning ourselves to impossible worlds; or if, at the cinema, we could not be seduced uncritically by even the most outrageously impossible premise into the ridiculous universe it implies (where, e.g., a 12-year-old boy suddenly turns into his adult self;[22] a woman formed from clay is endowed with superhuman strength, durability, flight, and more;[23] a man is eternally doomed to waking up every morning in the day that just ended[24]). The possibility of journeying into an impossible world—one held together by a matrix of symbolism—gives meaning to the possible. Not that we become convinced that this is reality: we accommodate it or, we might say, compartmentalize it, alongside the world in which we parked the car, bought the tickets and squinted to our seats—and to which we’ll presently reemerge, edified, enlarged, uplifted by our journey. The alluring aura of Shabbat candles, our reverie of the dead arising, or any make-believe rationale for this or that mitzvah, are likewise our openings to an odyssey through a transcendent, sacred reality; we go there, looking to carry back sanctity to our everyday. Equivocation of this sort is part of the richness of our religious lives.

[7]

Peter Lipton, a leading figure in the Philosophy of Science, was until his sudden untimely death in 2007, intensely preoccupied by a concern to accommodate his own progressive Judaism in his broader world view, particularly with his scientific realism. There are clear inconsistencies, he acknowledged, between the claims of our religious texts and science. He argued,[25] however, that this does not force the scientist to reject outright (say) the biblical narrative. In fact, well-grounded scientific understanding can sometimes contradict even the most fundamental tenets of our common sense understanding of the world. The physicist Arthur Eddington pointed out that he simultaneously has two incompatible understandings of a table. It’s incontrovertibly the solid, substantial, colored, permanent object holding up (in the case of this table before me) my computer and elbows; but it’s at the same time the scientifically understood table, comprising sparsely scattered electric charges rushing about at great speed, holding things up by the impacts they jointly, probabilistically impart, totaling less than a billionth of the bulk of the table of our commonsense conception. Lipton invoked a theory about the nature of science and knowledge developed by Bas van Fraassen, known as constructive empiricism, the strength of which is its ability to sustain conflicting scientific theories (and hence dialogue between proponents of different theories before and after scientific revolutions). This account of science takes each theory’s claims as literal descriptions, though not all of these will be believed as true descriptions, even by their proponents. A scientific claim, on this view, can meet with a cognitive attitude different from belief, an acceptance, which “is not just partial belief; it is also a kind of commitment to use the resources of the theory.”[26] Thus a scientist may be committed to a subatomic understanding of the table, not fully believing in that understanding, but, in the suggestive term of this account, immersed in it. Lipton suggests a kind of equivalence between scientific and religious theories, in that where either contradicts our ineliminable everyday beliefs, it may elude belief, but is accessible to this different cognitive relation of immersion. “To immerse oneself in a theory is to enter into the world of that theory and to work from within it. This is not to believe that the theory is true, but it is to enter imaginatively into its ‘world’.”[27] A scientist might, for instance, take literally the Genesis account of Creation, possibly not believing it’s true, but immersing herself in that world. The religious text can thus work for her as “a tool for thought, as a way of thinking about our world.”[28] Tradition can in this way figure in our thinking, as a means for better understanding our lives and projects.

Lipton describes, in these terms of acceptance and immersion, what I’ve spoken of as our indulgence in as if belief. But what’s most important here is that he also validates our doing so. He does so by showing it’s of a kind with the attitude to scientific theory which a scientist is often forced to adopt. Despite evidence and firm theoretical grounds for believing in such-and-such a reality, that reality doesn’t have, for the scientist, quite the solidity of our common-sense world. The story of the subatomic electrical space of the table is well-grounded; the scientist is fully justified in believing it; yet the sense of its reality can never be as cogent as that of the solid table of common sense. Our imaginary depictions of events in which the dead arise, or in which twin candles literally pressure together the souls of husband and wife, may likewise cognitively animate us as if they’re real—though never with the same force as the realities of death and wax and flames. We sense even a rightness about these depictions, that a certain piety is conferred, by our inherited tradition, upon our upholding them; although we know, looking out again at our objective world, that they have no basis here.[29]

It’s the incorrigible nature of many of us to critically assess ideas put our way and so to relate skeptically even to certain foundational tenets. But we may have an equally incorrigible sense that it’s our religious duty to accept whole the vision delivered by tradition—that we have no business questioning it and that, by sustaining our doubts, we’re betraying our pact with God. This is the conflict inherent to homo religiosus, familiar from R. J. B. Soloveitchik’s elaboration, between autonomy and submissiveness: between our creative, scientific, political activism and, pitched against this, our craving to overcome existential loneliness by quietly and uncritically attaching ourselves to God—specifically by sacrificing ourselves unprotestingly to the demands of halakha.[30] But the conflict, it’s seen here, is not just practical—it extends also to our cognitive obligations. It’s between, on the one hand, our psychic integrity and, on the other hand, our submissive self-immersion in a make-believe. We’re aware, as we indulge in this make-believe, that it’s a hiatus in the fabric of the real world; but also that, by our ambivalence, we sanctify our whole world.

[8]

There is some danger in this. Make-believe can lead us, through the pathway of tradition, back to God. But this must never permit us to lose sight of the divide between what belongs properly in our here and now, and what is not of this present reality. There are mitzvot that were early on rendered inoperative fiction by rabbinical interpretation in a world that had already vastly changed (such as ben sorer u'moreh, a parent’s initiation of the public execution of his or her wayward, rebellious son[31]), but which continue to provide content to our religious imagination. The danger lies in the risk of upholding make-believe as a directive for some real-world action which, realistically, is inadmissible. The recent Israeli movie, Yamim Nora’im,[32] about the assassination in 1995 of Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin, reminded those who experienced this dark, traumatic moment of Israeli history how a blurring of the difference between what is real and what is make-believe could authorize evil. The movie shows the assassin going from rabbi to rabbi in search of halakhic consent to murder. The justification he sought would come from the principle of din mosser, the debated meaning of which revolves around a right to murder a Jew in order to prevent him from life-threateningly informing on another Jew to non-Jewish authorities for what is not Jewishly an offense. In the movie at least, no rabbi explicitly granted him that right, but too many failed to unequivocally deny it. Arrogantly swaggering on the flimsy divide of ambivalence, they spoke of din mosser in a broad halakhic language, as so tightly constrained that it’s all but obsolete, but at the same time, with artful obscurity, insidiously invited their inquirer to move to its realization—with abominable consequence.

Our religious consciousness may essentially involve, not an ability to find internal consistency between contradictory understandings, but the mental versatility to accommodate inconsistencies. We have warrant to sanctify our world with make-believe, but must always remain conscious of our rational and realistic scheme of things, carefully measuring that make-believe against a humane, responsible code of conduct.[33]

Is there anything wrong with playing violent video games?  Does the answer depend on whom the video game wishes you to fight or kill or how gory the violence is?

Experts debate whether or not playing violent video games induces people to commit acts of violence. But we must remember that violence existed in the world long before the invention of video games. Human history is drenched in the blood of wars, terrorism, and crime.

From an early age, children learn to “play out” acts of aggression. Games such as “cops and robbers” entail mock murdering of enemies. Even quiet games like checkers and chess involve destroying “men” on the other team. Do these activities induce violence…or are they merely pastimes that are substitutes for actual violence?

Tanakh is replete with incidents of violence and bloodshed. Nearly all humans drown to death in Noah’s time; Sodom and Amorah are devastated by fire and brimstone; Moshe murders an Egyptian taskmaster; the Israelites are brutalized by Egyptian taskmasters; Egyptians suffer ten plagues etc. As we go on in the books of Tanakh, we confront wars, cruelty, murder.  Do these narratives incite readers to acts of violence? Most of us would not think so.

It could be argued that playing violent video games is a harmless way to work out aggressive feelings. It could also be argued that playing such games is a waste of time, with possibly negative impact on one’s psychology. Let people decide what’s best for themselves and their children.

In a Jewish marriage, is cooking and cleaning primarily the woman's job?

Every good marriage, Jewish or otherwise, is characterized by love, mutual respect, and a sincere desire to live a happy, cooperative and meaningful life together. It often happens—based on pre-modern patterns—that women assume primary responsibility for household chores and men assume primary responsibility for earning a livelihood to support wife and family.

But it also happens that the pre-modern model does not work well in many marriages. Unlike earlier generations, many women today have full time employment and spend long hours at their jobs. In some cases, women are the main earners for their families.  In such circumstances, it would be extremely unfair to expect that women also assume primary responsibility for cooking and cleaning. Husband and wife must come to a reasonable accommodation of sharing responsibilities, based on their own specific situation.

Sharing responsibilities is not only sensible and decent, it also sets a proper model for children. Boys and girls grow up seeing parents who work cooperatively for the benefit of the family. They learn by personal experience that men and women are not pigeonholed into stereotyped roles, and that fathers and mothers are loving people who care deeply about each other’s wellbeing.

     Is it important for an introvert "get out of his shell"?

The great 20^th century thinker, Isaiah Berlin, wrote an essay (“Two Concepts of Liberty”) in which he made the following point.“Paternalism is despotic…because it is an insult to my conception of myself as a human being, determined to make my own life in accordance with my own… purposes, and , above all, entitled to be recognized as such by others.”  Each person has the right—and responsibility—to live according to his/her best judgment, without being treated “paternalistically” by people who think they know what’s best for him/her.

Some people tend to be shy and introverted by nature. Others tend to be gregarious and extroverted. The important thing is for each person to live comfortably with who he/she is…and to be accepted as such. Some of the deepest thinking and kindest people are introverts “who don’t get out of their shell.” They don’t pretend to be what they aren’t.

If a person feels that his/her introversion and shyness are impediments to their proper functioning, they themselves should turn to trusted loved ones for advice and/or decide to seek psychological guidance.

Jewish tradition teaches of 36 “tzadikim nistarim,” hidden righteous people upon whom the world depends. I suspect that since these tzadikim are so hidden and unrecognized, they probably are introverts!

What nationality should a Jew in America consider himself? Jewish? American? Both?

     The question assumes that one actually must make an active choice as to how to consider his/her nationality. But this is generally not the case.

    According to the Oxford English dictionary, nationality is “the status of belonging to a particular nation.” Every American citizen, for example, is automatically of American nationality. A second dictionary definition is “an ethnic group forming a part of one or more political nations.” Thus, people of American nationality also may belong simultaneously to “sub-nationality” groups i.e. Irish-Americans, Italian-Americans, African-Americans…and Jewish-Americans.

   By these definitions, then, American Jews are both American and Jewish by nationality.

  Jewish nationality, though, differs from other nationalities that are based on lands of origin. The Torah describes us as benei Yisrael, children of Israel. Jewish nationhood, in principle, is the consciousness of being part of an extended family. We were still a nation for nearly 2000 years when we did not have sovereignty in our own land. Jewish nationality reflects the connection Jews have to their common origins, religion, culture, customs etc.

   Each person has multiple dimensions of self-identification. For example, I am American, Seattle-born, New York resident, Jewish, Sephardic of Turkish/Rhodes background etc. I am a composite of all these things, just as every person is a composite of all the components that form his/her identity. It is not fruitful to try to dissect ourselves and to consider ourselves to be only one of the multiple components that constitute who we are.

Angel for Shabbat, Behar-Behukotai
by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

In this week's Torah portion, God reminds the Israelites that He brought them out of Egypt. "And I have broken the bars of your yoke, and made you go upright (komemiyut)" Vayikra 26:13. The commentary, Hizkuni, notes that just as an ox lifts its head when the yoke is removed, so the Israelites' heads rose when they were freed from servitude in Egypt. Rashi comments that "komemiyut" means the Israelites could now walk upright, rather than be stooped over like slaves. Saadia Gaon notes that "komemiyut" indicates that the Israelites were now free people.

In kabbalistic thought, it is taught that when people receive something that they did not earn they are guilty of eating "the bread of shame". Thus, in order for the Israelites to walk upright and not be ashamed of their newly given gift of liberty, they had to "earn" their freedom by serving God through fulfilling His commandments. This was their side of the covenant with the Almighty. By living according to the Torah's precepts, they would "earn" the right to be a free and upright people.

This lesson applies to many aspects of life. We should not simply be "takers" who receive goods and services from others. We also should be "givers" who do our share to repay the many benefits we enjoy. If we take out of proportion to what we give, we are guilty of eating "the bread of shame". We don't live with the quality of being upright and free.

This is true on a personal level. We should not exploit the kindness of friends and acquaintances, but should return their kindnesses gladly and generously. This is true on a communal level. We should not expect synagogues and schools and other institutions to be there for us when we need them, but we should be members and supporters so as to carry our own weight to the best of our ability. This is true on the national and international level. We should not expect others to provide for us, without our willingness to provide for their needs as well.

Sometimes people think they come out ahead if they take something without having given anything commensurate in return. They think they have "beaten the system". Actually, such people humiliate themselves because they are eating "the bread of shame". They do not realize that taking something without giving back to the best of their ability--is degrading and debasing. It is the behavior of people who lack pride and self-respect.

God wanted the Israelites to walk upright--komemiyut. He did not want them to have a slave mentality any longer. To give dignity to them, He gave them the Torah's laws and traditions--He gave them a way of "repaying" God, of earning their bread. They could create a righteous community; they could become a light unto the nations. By working for these lofty goals, they would avoid eating "the bread of shame".

Our lives should not be viewed as a contest to take as much as we can and to give as little as we can get away with. Rather, life is an adventure of human interrelationships where we all win when we all do our share. To walk in freedom and dignity, we need to avoid eating "the bread of shame".