National Scholar Updates

JEREMIAH #1

JEREMIAH’S EARLY CAREER (627-609 B.C.E.)

                                             By Rabbi Hayyim Angel

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

The words of Jeremiah son of Hilkiah, one of the priests at Anathoth in the territory of Benjamin. The word of the Lord came to him in the days of King Josiah son of Amon of Judah, in the thirteenth year of his reign, and throughout the days of King Jehoiakim son of Josiah of Judah, and until the end of the eleventh year of King Zedekiah son of Josiah of Judah, when Jerusalem went into exile in the fifth month. (Jer. 1:1-3)

The superscription dates the prophet’s career from the thirteenth year of Josiah (627 B.C.E.) until the eleventh year of Zedekiah (586 B.C.E.). In reality, Jeremiah’s career actually continued after the destruction of the Temple (chapters 40-44). Shadal explains that the superscription selectively presents Jeremiah’s career to convey the message that Jeremiah’s prophecies of the destruction were fulfilled. It also defines him as the prophet of the destruction.

The insertion and placement of chapter 52, which narrates the destruction of the Temple, also supports this conclusion. The “real” Book of Jeremiah had ended in the previous chapter:

And say, “Thus shall Babylon sink and never rise again, because of the disaster that I will bring upon it. And [nations] shall have wearied themselves [for fire].” Thus far the words of Jeremiah. (51:64)

In his introduction to his commentary on Jeremiah, Abarbanel suggests that the Men of the Great Assembly copied the last chapter from the Book of Kings and appended it to what became the final chapter of the Book of Jeremiah. The positioning of this appendix in the book’s climactic conclusion illustrates how the editor defines Jeremiah as the prophet of the destruction.

The Book of Jeremiah is presented out of chronological order, and to this day scholars debate how to structure the book. We present the central prophecies of the Book of Jeremiah in chronological order so that readers can appreciate how the prophet spoke to people in different historical periods.[1]

          The first time period in which Jeremiah prophesied was that of Josiah, a righteous king whose works are described in II Kings chapters 22-23. The finding of the Torah in 622 B.C.E. was the main catalyst in the king’s reformation. Jeremiah received his prophetic initiation five years earlier, in 627 B.C.E. Based on comparative chronologies of the period, Assurbanipal, the last great ruler of the Assyria Empire, died in 627 B.C.E. as well. Both Josiah and Jeremiah viewed these political changes as a spiritual window of opportunity.

          In 625 B.C.E., King Nabopolassar of Babylonia broke free from Assyria and began to capture Assyrian holdings. By 620 B.C.E., Assyria had retreated from Israel, and their collapse was sudden and total. In 612 B.C.E., their capital Nineveh fell to Babylonia. By now, nations no longer worried about Assyria, but instead became concerned about the rising power of Babylonia.

A decisive moment in Israel’s history came in 609 B.C.E. Egyptian forces marched northward through Israel to help Assyria make a last stand against Babylonia. Josiah tried to stop the Egyptians, so the Egyptians killed the righteous king. The abrupt death of Josiah dealt a traumatic blow to the religious factions in Judah, as Josiah’s successors were unfaithful to God. Egypt immediately deposed Jehoahaz, probably because he was pro-Babylonian. Egypt’s appointing Jehoiakim was the first time that a foreign power had installed a king of Israel.

In 605 B.C.E., the Babylonian army crushed the Egyptian-Assyrian forces in Carchemish (see Jer. 46:1-12), leaving Babylonia as the unchallenged power in the region. Nabopolassar died and his son Nebuchadnezzar assumed the throne of the Neo-Babylonian Empire.

          In Israel, the idolatrous factions that had gone into hiding during Josiah’s Reformation came back out into the open. The wicked King Jehoiakim adopted an anti-Babylonian stance. In contrast, Jeremiah preached repentance and submission to Babylonia as means to survival  (e.g., chapters 25, 27). Meanwhile, Egypt encouraged the surrounding nations to ally against Babylonia. Judah was divided over how to respond politically to the Babylonian menace, with her very existence at stake.

In 597 B.C.E., Jehoiakim died and his son Jehoiachin took over. Nebuchadnezzar exiled the new king after three months along with 10,000 of Judah’s best and brightest. Many false prophets arose during this period, who contended that that the exile of Jehoiachin was temporary and that Babylonia would soon fall miraculously (chapters 23, 28-29). Their essential message was that Judah should revolt against Babylonia.

          The last king of Judah, Zedekiah (597-586 B.C.E.), came under enormous pressure from Egypt and his own nobility to revolt against Babylonia (chapters 21, 34, 37-39). Jeremiah pleaded for him to surrender but to no avail. Zedekiah revolted, Jerusalem fell, and the Temple went up in flames in 586 B.C.E.

Soon after the destruction, the pro-Babylonian governor Gedaliah was assassinated and many surviving Jews fled to Egypt against Jeremiah’s prophecy, dragging him along (chapters 40-43). The last chronological chapter in the book has Jeremiah rebuking the Jews in Egypt for their idol worship. They ignored him since they believed their sufferings had come because they had served God (chapter 44).

Jeremiah’s mission was to justify the destruction of the Temple and teach that the God-Israel relationship is eternal even though the Temple is not. He prophesies that Babylonia would fall in seventy years and Israel would be redeemed (chapters 29-33). His inspiring prophetic message of hope during biblical Israel’s bleakest moment is one of the reasons Israel has endured as a people.

We now turn to some of the central prophecies of Jeremiah in chronological sequence.

CHAPTER 1

Before I created you in the womb, I selected you; before you were born, I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet concerning the nations…Have no fear of them, for I am with you to deliver you—declares the Lord…So you, gird up your loins, arise and speak to them all that I command you. Do not break down before them, lest I break you before them. I make you this day a fortified city, and an iron pillar, and bronze walls against the whole land—against Judah’s kings and officers, and against its priests and citizens. They will attack you, but they shall not overcome you; for I am with you—declares the Lord —to save you. (1:5-19)

Radak and Abarbanel observe that God encourages Jeremiah during his initiation. He is the only prophet told that he was chosen before birth. Aside from the encouragement, God with this same phrase signals to the prophet that he has no choice but to prophesy (Menahem Boleh[2]).

After Jeremiah’s initiation, he offers a prophecy reminiscing about God’s beautiful relationship with Israel at the time of the exodus before Israel became unfaithful:

Go proclaim to Jerusalem: Thus said the Lord: I accounted to your favor the devotion of your youth, your love as a bride—how you followed Me in the wilderness, in a land not sown. Israel was holy to the Lord, the first fruits of His harvest. All who ate of it were held guilty; disaster befell them—declares the Lord. (2:2-3)

That this prophecy is placed first does not demonstrate that it was Jeremiah’s first prophecy chronologically delivered to the people. However, its literary placement sets the tone for the book. The roots of love and hope existed at a time when it was remarkable to have any hope at all.

Rashi interprets God’s words as a plea for a restoration of the original relationship. Were Israel to repent, God happily would reaccept them. Abarbanel adds a personal dimension to Rashi’s reading. God was concerned that Jeremiah still was reluctant to prophesy, therefore, God opened with a positive prophecy. Not only would that encourage Israel, but it would give Jeremiah the strength to embark on a difficult career.

CHAPTERS 7, 26[3]

God’s encouragement to Jeremiah was certainly necessary. Although his initiation occurred during Josiah’s reign, Jeremiah’s rise to national fame began at the outset of the wicked Jekoiakim’s reign. Jeremiah 26 relates that the prophet entered the Temple precincts at the beginning of Jehoiakim’s reign (c. 609 B.C.E.) to threaten the destruction of the Temple if the people refused to repent. The people were outraged by Jeremiah’s message and tried him as a false prophet:

And when Jeremiah finished speaking all that the Lord had commanded him to speak to all the people, the priests and the prophets and all the people seized him, shouting, “You shall die! How dare you prophesy in the name of the Lord that this House shall become like Shiloh and this city be made desolate, without inhabitants?” (Jer. 26:8-9)

It is interesting that the people were immediately convinced that Jeremiah should be executed as a false prophet. Superficially, one might conclude that they were wicked people who did not want to change their ways. While this explanation may account for some of their motivation, other factors also may have been involved.

In chapter 7—likely the parallel prophecy to the narrative in Jeremiah 26—Jeremiah censured the people for claiming that the Temple would never be destroyed:

Don’t put your trust in illusions and say, “The Temple of the Lord, the Temple of the Lord, the Temple of the Lord are these [buildings].” No, if you really mend your ways and your actions; if you execute justice between one man and another… (Jer. 7:4-5)

Jeremiah accused the people—who served God albeit in an inappropriate manner—of maintaining the pagan belief that no deity ever would destroy his own temple. They served God as pagans would serve their deities by offering sacrifices to appease God while persisting in their immoral behavior (Jer. 7:9-11).

Additionally, even a fully righteous individual might have suspected that Jeremiah was a false prophet. Jeremiah prophesied the destruction of the Temple shortly after Josiah met his abrupt death (609 B.C.E.). This critique of Judean society, then, came in the wake of Josiah’s reformation (622 B.C.E.)! How could Jeremiah presume to say that the people were so wicked that the Temple would be destroyed?

Though this critique is valid based on the account of Josiah’s reformation in the Book of Kings, Jeremiah offers a different perspective concerning the sincerity of the ostensibly penitent Judeans:

The Lord said to me in the days of King Josiah: Have you seen what Rebel Israel did, going to every high mountain and under every leafy tree, and whoring there? ... And after all that, her sister, Faithless Judah, did not return to Me wholeheartedly, but insincerely—declares the Lord. (Jer. 3:6, 10)

The Talmud suggests that Josiah also overestimated the positive spiritual state of the people:

R. Samuel b. Nahmani said in the name of R. Jonathan: Josiah was punished because he should have consulted Jeremiah and he did not. On what did Josiah rely? On the divine promise contained in the words, Neither shall the sword go through your land (Lev. 26:6)…. Josiah, however, did not know that his generation found but little favor [in the eyes of God]. (Ta’anit 22b)[4]

Furthermore, Jeremiah stated this prophecy of destruction less than a century after the miraculous salvation of Jerusalem in Isaiah’s time (701 B.C.E.):

“I will protect and save this city for My sake and for the sake of My servant David.” [That night] an angel of the Lord went out and struck down one hundred and eighty-five thousand in the Assyrian camp, and the following morning they were all dead corpses. (Isa. 37:35-36)

In principle, the religious establishment might have cited this prophecy against Jeremiah.[5] Jeremiah could respond that Isaiah’s prophecy was intended for that generation, but times had changed and Jeremiah’s new prophetic revelation called for the destruction of Jerusalem. However, such a claim from an unproven prophet would be difficult to accept, even for the most righteous of the priests and scribes.

While the religious establishment who opposed Jeremiah might have appealed to Isaiah’s prophecy of Jerusalem’s salvation, several elders cited a different prophetic precedent from Isaiah’s contemporary Micah in Jeremiah’s support:

And some of the elders of the land arose and said to the entire assemblage of the people, “Micah the Morashtite, who prophesied in the days of King Hezekiah of Judah, said to all the people of Judah: ‘Thus said the Lord of Hosts: Zion shall be plowed as a field, Jerusalem shall become heaps of ruins and the Temple Mount a shrine in the woods.’ Did King Hezekiah of Judah, and all Judah, put him to death? Did he not rather fear the Lord and implore the Lord, so that the Lord renounced the punishment He had decreed against them? We are about to do great injury to ourselves!” (Jer. 26:17-19 [quoting Mic. 3:12[6]])

Jeremiah employed yet a third precedent, namely, the capture of the Ark and destruction of Shiloh in Eli’s time (I Sam. 4-7[7]). Just as the Ark did not save Israel when they had religious failings then; so Jerusalem and the Temple would not save Israel now unless the people repent (Jer. 7:12-15; 26:6).

Jeremiah’s argument could be framed as follows: only a prophet can know how and when to apply earlier prophecies and historical precedents to new circumstances. While the religious establishment could cite chapter and verse to support assertions for or against Jeremiah, only Jeremiah could know which precedent applied because he was a prophet.

This trial almost cost Jeremiah his life. How could he prove that he was not a false prophet? We have the Book of Jeremiah and therefore our tradition affirms that he was a true prophet. However, even a well-intentioned God-fearer in Jeremiah’s time would not necessarily have been sure. We explore this issue in the following chapter.

Are Pregnant Women Obligated to Fast on Religious Fast Days

opinion of  Rabbi Moshe Zuriel

Many Rabbis are questioned by pregnant women if they are obligated to fast on Yom Kippur and other fast days, such as Tisha B'Av. These women fear that fasting may lead to miscarriage or premature birth, with its consequent damages to the infant.

A respected rabbinic authority in Israel, Rabbi Israel Fisher, permitted pregnant women to eat and drink during Yom Kippur, if limited to small amounts, 30 grams of solids (about one ounce) and 40 grams of liquids, if no more than that is taken during any nine minute period. This can be done again and again at proper nine minute intervals. The reason for this, he claimed, is that to his knowledge tens of pregnant women doing this fast, had miscarriages. We know that Pikuah Nefesh, even of a fetus, takes priority over fasting.

Many prominent rabbis disagreed with this permissive ruling, citing the Shulhan Arukh which specifically prohibits eating or drinking anything on this day, even for pregnant women.

Rabbi Moshe Zuriel, a highly respected rabbinic scholar in Israel, has written an article in which he supports the view of Rabbi Fisher. Rabbi Zuriel checked with medical authorities and found that Rabbi Fisher is right!

Statistics gathered by the Siroka Hospital (Be-er Sheba) were drawn from the past twenty three years dealing with 744 births.  The study (http://dx.doi.org/10.3109/14767058.2014.954998)  has revealed that the risk factor was significantly higher among those Jewish women who were fasting on Yom Kippur. In cases of premature birth before 37 weeks of pregnancy, the percentages of death of the fetus were 75-80 percent.  Premature births also face problems relating to proper lung development, damage to the nerve system, stomach problems, sight and hearing problems.

In the Hebrew article that was published in the Israeli Techumin (volume 37, pages 71-81), Rabbi Zuriel cites a prominent Halakhic authority, Havot Yair who ruled that eating less than the prohibited quantity (Shi-ur akhila) is only Rabbinically prohibited. Therefore, if a pregnant woman feels weak and unable to fast the full day, she should be permitted to eat and drink less than the prohibited quantity.

Rabbi Zuriel cites other halakhic authorities who concur with Rabbi Fisher's ruling. The halakha calls for leniency when there is a doubt concerning saving human life. Pregnant women who feel great weakness due to the fast and had no chance to ask their doctor's advice before the fast day, and during the fast day have not the ability to ask their rabbi, should eat and drink the modicum amounts aforementioned at no less than nine minute intervals. It is advised that  pregnant women consult their doctor and rabbi prior to the onset of a fast day, in order to determine what is best in their own specific case.

(The first part of this article is drawn from Marc D. Angel, Voices in Exile, Ktav Publishing House, Hoboken, 1991, pp.152-155.)

            Grace Aguilar (1816–1847) belonged to the Sephardic community of London. Although her life was cut short by an untimely death, she left a remarkable literary legacy. Aside from a number of novels, she also wrote works relating to Jewish religious teachings.

            She was concerned that the wave of modernism was undermining the foundations of traditional religious life. Jews were seeking success in the secular world; the bond of religion was weakening. She was particularly aware of the spiritual turmoil among Jewish youth, and she sought to address their religious questions and to thereby strengthen their faith.

            Aguilar corresponded with Isaac Leeser, spiritual leader of the Spanish and Portuguese Congregation Mikveh Israel in Philadelphia, and he was of much help to her. Indeed, he edited several of her works for publication, including Shema Yisrael: The Spirit of Judaism. This work reflected Aguilar’s deep concern that Jewish youth were not receiving a proper spiritual education in Judaism. She feared that they would be attracted to Christianity, which was popularly portrayed as a religion of the spirit. In contrast, Judaism was described as a religion of numerous detailed observances. Presented as an elaborate commentary on the first paragraph of the Shema (which she transliterated in the Spanish and Portuguese style as Shemang), the book dealt with a wide range of religious topics, emphasizing the profound spirituality inherent in Judaism.

            Grace Aguilar argued that if Jews understood the true power and beauty of their religion, they would proudly assert their Jewishness instead of trying to conceal it. The repetition of the Shema itself is a source of holy comfort. If recited regularly “we shall go forth, no longer striving to conceal our religion through shame (for it can only be such a base emotion prompting us to conceal it in free and happy England); but strengthened, sanctified by its blessed spirit, we shall feel the soul elevated within us” (Shema Yisrael: The Spirit of Judaism, p. 9).

            She stressed the need for Jews to devote themselves to the study of the Bible, the foundation of Judaism. In so doing, she made some pejorative remarks about “tradition,” apparently referring to the traditional stress on fulfilling the details of the law. (Isaac Leeser, in his notes to the book, took her to task on several occasions for her detraction of “tradition.”) (Ibid., pp. 21, 100, 104) However, Aguilar can hardly be accused of being unorthodox and opposed to the observance of mitzvoth.

She consistently called for the faithful observance of the commandments in their details: “Instead then of seeking to find excuses for their non-performance, should we not rather glory in the minutest observance which would stamp us as so peculiarly the Lord’s own, and deem it a glorious privilege to be thus marked out not only in feature and in faith, but in our civil and religious code, as the chosen of God?” (Ibid., pp. 225-226).

            It may be argued that her stress on the Bible and seeming deprecation of “tradition” was her way of trying to appeal to the religious needs of her audience. She perceived her readers as being under the influence of Christian notions of what a religion should be. By asking Jews to read the Bible, she was asking them to do something that was desirable even for Christians, who also venerated the Bible. By emphasizing the spirit of Judaism, she wished to convey to Jews that they had no spiritual need whatsoever to turn to Christianity. But in the process of stressing the Jewish spirit, she found it necessary at times to downplay the details of the laws of Judaism as transmitted by tradition. These details themselves had to be framed within a context of spirituality and not be seen as ends in themselves.

            In The Jewish Faith: Its Spiritual Consolation, Moral Guidance, and Immortal Hope, completed shortly before her death, Aguilar presented her arguments in the form of a series of letters from a knowledgeable Jewish woman to her beloved young friend, an orphan with little Jewish education. She felt that this style of presentation would be more interesting for her readers, especially younger readers whom she hoped to influence.

            In the introduction to the book, she emphasized the need to present sophisticated religious educational materials to young people. Youth were easily influenced by outside sources; unless they had a proper understanding of Judaism, they would be tempted to abandon it. Indeed, the orphan to whom the letters in the book were addressed had been considering the possibility of converting to Christianity, believing that Christianity offered more spirituality than Judaism. The author, of course, forcefully refuted this claim; in the end, the orphan did not convert, but rather became a more devoted Jew.

            Grace Aguilar expressed the conviction that it was necessary to provide Jewish education for girls as well as boys. She lamented the fact that the education of Jewish girls had not been given adequate attention. She described her book as “an humble help in supplying the painful want of Anglo-Jewish literature, to elucidate for our female youth the tenets of their own, and so remove all danger from the perusal of abler and better works by spiritual Christians” (The Jewish Faith, p. 10).

            Arguing that the new knowledge and ideas brought about by the advances in science did not contradict the truth of the divinely revealed Torah, Aguilar wrote: “So simple, so easy appears to me the union of Revelation and all science, that how any mind can reject the one as contradicting the other is as utterly incomprehensible as it is fearful” (Ibid., p. 124). Scoffers who scorned the truth of religion were guilty of arrogance; they did not have a proper understanding of religion. Aguilar was obviously troubled by the increase in skepticism among Jews and by their intellectual surrender to the antireligious proponents of modern science and philosophy.

            Moreover, Jews were not learning the spiritual aspects of Judaism. They were taught laws and customs, but often had no insight into the deeper meanings and ideas of Jewish tradition. She noted that the Spanish and Portuguese Jews tended to stress the external forms of religious ceremony, giving the impression that these forms were the essence of Judaism. While she recognized the reasons for the emphasis on form, she argued for the necessity of emphasizing the spiritual aspects of Jewish teachings. She warned, however, that people should not abandon religious observance, thinking that spirituality was of higher value. On the contrary, the observances gave expression to the spiritual feelings of love of God. She wrote that “every spiritual Hebrew, instead of disregarding the outward ceremonies, will delight in obeying them for the love he bears his God, welcoming them as immediate instructions from Him, even as a child obeys with joy and gladness the slightest bidding of those he loves” (Ibid. p. 221).

            Aguilar was troubled by the phenomenon of Jews who achieved success in general society but in the process moved away from Jewish commitment. “Many, indeed, have lately distinguished themselves in the law, and in the fine arts of the English world; but why will not these gifted spirits do something for Judaism as well as England? There is no need to neglect the interests of the latter, in attending to the need of the former. We want Jewish writers, Jewish books” (Ibid., p. 264). She was convinced that if the most enlightened Jewish minds devoted themselves to presenting Judaism at its best, the non-Jewish world would be duly impressed. Hatred of Jews would diminish as non-Jews came to learn about and respect Judaism and Jews.

Grace Aguilar’s writings reflected major issues of modernism: the education of women, the need for spirituality, the renewed interest in the Bible, the critique of blind obedience to details of the laws without understanding their deeper meanings. They also shed light on the religiosity of her reading audience: relatively unversed in Jewish learning, skeptical about the mitzvoth, susceptible to the spiritual charm of Christianity. (Leeser challenged the latter point, believing that it was very rare for a Jew to convert to Christianity. As he saw the problem, Jews were simply becoming apathetic to their own spiritual heritage.) (Shema Yisrael, pp. viii, 165)

Grace Aguilar’s essential goal was to demonstrate that loyalty to traditional Judaism was not antipathetic to success in the modern world. By studying the classic sources of their religion and maintaining observance of the commandments, Jews would be secure in their own faith and could function more confidently in the general non-Jewish society.

(The following pages are drawn from Ronda Angel Arking, “’A Spirit of Inquiry:’ Grace Aguilar’s Private Spirituality and Progressive Orthodoxy,” Conversations, Issue 3, Winter 2009, pp. 31-41.)
            While not a “feminist” in the modern sense of the word, she was a strong advocate of women’s rights and responsibilities within Jewish life. Indeed, women played a central role in the maintenance and transmission of our traditions. “Free to assert their right as immortal children of the living God, let not the women of Israel be backward in proving that they, too, have a station to uphold, and a “mission” to perform, not alone as daughters, wives, and mothers, but as witnesses of that faith which first raised, cherished, and defended them…. Let us then endeavor to convince the nations of the high privileges we enjoy, in common with our fathers, brothers, and husbands, as the first-born of the Lord” (The Women of Israel, pp. 12–13).

Jewish mothers had an amazing role of instilling Judaism in the hearts of their children. “A mother, whose heart is in her work will find many opportunities, which properly improved, will lead her little charge to God. … A mother’s lips should teach [prayers and Bible] to her child, and not leave the first impressions of religion to be received from a Christian nurse. Were the associations of a mother connected with the act of praying, associations of such long continuance that the child knew not when they were implanted: the piety of maturer years would not be so likely to waver” (Shema Yisrael, p. 225).

Aguilar faced several issues as a traditional Jewish woman. First, she was denied access to rabbinical texts. Although Jews were relatively emancipated in English society, Jewish women were not fully emancipated in traditional Jewish circles. Second, she felt the pressures of Christian missionaries who sought to convert Jews, and saw Jewish girls and women as prime candidates for conversion.  Aguilar wrote, therefore, to help women stand strong against conversionary pressures. For example, in her novel The Vale of Cedars, she presents a heroic main character who chooses to give up the (Christian) love of her life—and ultimately suffers at the hands of Inquisitors—in order to remain true to her Jewish faith.

What Jewish women needed, according to Aguilar, was to be strengthened in their Judaism, and to feel fulfilled intellectually and spiritually. She wrote The Women of Israel as an apologetic text; in it, she “proves” women’s equality in Judaism—stressing that even the ideal Victorian womanhood can be found in Jewish texts. Jewish women, she argues, should not be seduced by missionaries’ arguments that Judaism relegates them to second-class citizens.

The Women of Israel became a very popular book among Jewish and Christian readers. It highlights some of Aguilar’s theological ideas, her social values, and some of the tensions inherent in her enlightened traditionalism. When examining the lives of biblical women, she glorifies the domestic sphere as the arena of true spirituality and communion with God. For example, in retelling the story of the matriarch Sarah, Aguilar envisions a Victorian model of domesticity—who is at the same time equal in God’s eyes to her husband, Abraham: “The beautiful confidence and true affection subsisting between Abram and Sarai, marks unanswerably their equality; that his wife was to Abram friend as well as partner; and yet, that Sarai knew perfectly her own station, and never attempted to push herself forward in unseemly counsel, or use the influence which she so largely possessed for any weak or sinful purpose….There is no pride so dangerous and subtle as spiritual pride….But in Sarai there was none of this… it is not always the most blessed and distinguished woman who attends the most faithfully to her domestic duties, and preserves unharmed and untainted that meekness and integrity which is her greatest charm” (The Women of Israel, p. 49).

To a modern reader, the idea that a meek, domestic wife has attained equality with her husband seems odd. Aguilar is here promoting Victorian ideals of womanhood alongside a Jewish philosophy that holds women equal in status and responsibility to men. Although she believes that women and men necessarily have different “stations,” or prescribed social roles, she emphasizes women’s spiritual equality, or her equality in worth as a human being in the eyes of God.

In her description of Hannah, for example, she lauds Hannah’s ability to privately utter her own prayers: her poetry shows her intellect, as her poem is “a forcible illustration of the intellectual as well as the spiritual piety which characterized the women of Israel, and which in its very existence denies the possibility of degradation applying to women, either individually, socially, or domestically” (Ibid., p. 260). Additionally, Hannah is able to enter the Temple, showing that she has equal access to holy places. Hannah’s private, quiet prayer—the first of its type—is used by rabbis as the model of prayer in general. Aguilar praises Hannah’s prayer for its quiet modesty and its feeling and intellectual composition, thus elevating a woman’s role to the paradigm of all prayers said by Jewish men and women.

Aguilar’s concern is for the private, spiritual nature of Judaism and the individual’s ability to read Jewish texts and draw use these texts to preserve and strengthen one’s identity. For example, in discussing Yokheved, the mother of Moses, Aguilar follows the rabbinic interpretation that Moses was sent to live with his birth mother until he was weaned. In these few years, Yokheved was able to educate her son and create in him an identity that would enable him to become a great leader of the Jewish people. Home, the site of maternal love and education, is glorified as the only place a Jewish woman should desire to reside and lead: “[Mothers of Israel should] follow the example of the mother of Moses, and make their sons the receivers, and in their turn the promulgators, of that holy law which is their glorious inheritance” (Ibid., p. 144).

In the nineteenth century, Jewish women were not taught Talmud; they were exempt from public prayer; and they could not hold positions of authority in the Jewish community. But rather than chase after a “male” type of emancipation, Aguilar raises the “female” spaces of the Jewish woman to a higher plane than that of Jewish men. Private, personal relationships with God are seen throughout the Bible; thus spirituality should be an individual, private affair. But while spirituality is elevated as a private value for women and men, she believes that public societal positions should be left in the male domain; women should remain in that spiritual, private sphere.

            While Aguilar’s thinking was rooted in traditionalism, she recognized the need for a more progressive and inclusive approach. “A new era is dawning for us. Persecution and intolerance have in so many lands ceased to predominate, that Israel may once more breathe in freedom.… The Bible may be perused in freedom… A spirit of inquiry, of patriotism, or earnestness in seeking to know the Lord and obey Him…is springing up” (Ibid.,  pp. 11–12).

Aguilar continually placed the Bible on a pedestal of unquestioned authority. For example, she declared that “the Bible and reason are the only guides to which the child of Israel can look in security….Those observances…for which no reason can be assigned save the ideas of our ancient fathers, cannot be compared in weight and consequence to the piety of the heart” (The Spirit of Judaism, p. 228).

Aguilar argues that “Circumstances demand the modification…of some of these Rabbinical statutes; and could the wise and pious originators have been consulted on the subject, they would have unhesitatingly adopted those measures” (Ibid., p. 31). Rather than reject rabbinic law, Aguilar promotes modification—based on contemporary realities. The process of halakhic decision-making is a fluid, changing structure. By viewing the Oral Law as “divine,” one discredits the whole nature of the halakhic process, which necessarily evolves as new realities crop up. Additionally, Aguilar notes, it is important to understand the backgrounds and biases of those rabbis who wrote the halakha. Looking at halakha as an evolving process, Aguilar demands an honest assessment of the origins and intellectual validity of each law as it is practiced. She thus encourages every Jew to go back to the original source—the Bible—to try to understand the essential spirit of the halakha. As a traditional Jew, she encourages a more rational, Bible and reason-based, evolving Orthodoxy that will be rich in tradition and spirituality for men and women alike.

Rafael Medoff, The Jews Should Keep Quiet: Franklin D. Roosevelt, Rabbi Stephen S. Wise, and the Holocaust (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2019)

Reviewed by Dr. Peter Schotten 

    For almost ninety years, there has existed something of a love affair between American Jewry and Franklin Roosevelt.  Many Jews reflectively have regarded Roosevelt as their friend and protector--as the President who overcame a worldwide depression while later helping vanquish Hitler's world-wide genocidal ambitions.  In the academic world, however, the verdict has not been so clear.  Ever since the 1984 publication of David Wyman's The Abandonment of the Jews, Roosevelt's special status among Jews has undergone serious challenge.  Wyman believed that Roosevelt was largely indifferent to the fate of persecuted European Jews.  Passing up numerous opportunities to mitigate the effects of Hitler's genocide, inaction and indifference were Roosevelt's responses.  Nor, according to Wyman, did America's Jewish leadership do enough to save the lives of European Jews.  In particular, Reform Rabbi Stephen Wise, the most prominent American Jewish Zionist leader of his day, failed notably. The source of Wise's failure, argued Wyman, was his misplaced trust in Franklin Roosevelt.   

    Rafael Medoff chairs the David S. Wyman Institute for Holocaust Studies and, not surprisingly, dedicates his book to Wyman, his late friend, literary collaborator and teacher.  Medoff endorses Wyman's scholarship but ups the ante. It was not mere political calculation or indifference that motivated Roosevelt but also anti-Semitism.  Despite Roosevelt's failings, Wise constantly supported Roosevelt, prizing his access to the President.  Roosevelt took for granted Wise's constant loyalty and played the Rabbi.  Medoff presents a history of Roosevelt's deceptions and Wise's self-deception.   It is not a pretty picture.   

      Medoff describes Roosevelt’s dealings with Wise on Jewish matters of concern to be manipulative, dishonest and expedient. But more importantly is Medoff's description of Wise's effectiveness and character. It constitutes the most important aspect of his scholarship.  Charmed by Roosevelt's commitment to progressive causes, Rabbi Wise (who helped found the ACLU, was a board member of the NAACP and was active in women's suffrage, labor and disarmament causes), found Roosevelt politically admirable. Throughout Roosevelt's Presidency, Wise generally refrained from public criticism of Roosevelt and sought to prevent other Jewish leaders from voicing criticism of the President.  He sought no alliances with Republicans, putting his entire faith in Roosevelt. He prized his access to the White House and often later, in private conservations, would exaggerate his influence on the President.  All the time, Wise wanted to fit into the assimilated mainstream of secular American life and he wanted other Jews to do so as well. Too often, he opposed calling excessive attention to his peoples' distinctiveness or to their unique suffering, a political failing according to Medoff. Nor did he like having his leadership challenged.  His private letters to and about critics--even his public pronouncements--could be nasty and self- serving.  Often, it seemed that Wise was far too concerned with maintaining his  power and authority within the numerous Jewish organizations he headed or in which he participated.   

     Here is one striking example.  By September, 1942, Wise had received confirmation of his worst fears regarding the ongoing and intended genocide against European Jews.  His private correspondence spoke of his utter distress and sleepless nights.    Medoff writes that although he does not doubt the Rabbi's sincerity, "one would have expected him to set aside the more mundane matters on his usually daily schedule to focus on the pressing life-and-death situations in Hitler-occupied Europe."  "Yet,” continues Medoff,, "Wise's activities in September indicate that he did not separate himself from his usual business."  This self-indulgent organizational mania was evident even late in his life when he was battling a variety of serious health issues.  Even then, Wise was reluctant to let go.

     Medoff's book is the sober work of a serious historian.  His use of source material is excellent and, for the most part, his observations are considered and judicious.  His scholarship reinforces the unsustainability of the widespread unqualified popular Jewish adulation of both President Roosevelt and Rabbi Wise.  It fortifies the new scholarly consensus: that there was more President Roosevelt could have done for the Jews with relatively modest effort.  He could have quietly worked to increase the number of Jewish refugees admitted into the United States, even under existing quotas.  He could have countered the endemic anti-Semitism so deeply entrenched in the State Department. He could have led far more effectively in educating public opinion about the Nazi's specifically anti-Jewish genocide.  Such an effort may not have made a difference but it would have been the right thing to do.  Regarding Rabbi Wise, Medoff causes us to understand the complexity of motivations and temptations that often influence important individuals and compromise those who intend good in public life.  As to the question of whether the more vigorous, less administration-friendly political tactics favored by Wise's rivals'  (and Medoff) would have ultimately proven more effective in influencing American policy--indeed if any pro-Jewish advocacy strategy would have made much difference --remains a matter of conjecture.   

    But is Medoff's more radical critique of the failure of Jewish leadership and Presidential leadership correct?  Perhaps; but this most important question is not so easily settled. Admittedly, Roosevelt could have done more.  But Roosevelt himself, and Jewish defenders like Lucy Dawidowicz, have argued that, in the largest sense preserving Jewish lives was dependent on winning World War II. That was what mattered most.  Of course, it was not predestined that the allies would emerge victorious from that conflict.  To the contrary, at the time that the news of Hitler's final solution was filtering to the West in late 1942, the War's outcome was in doubt. Yes, the fate of most all of Europe's Jews was likely pre-ordained.  Nonetheless, a successful conclusion to the War would end Hitler's malignant menace forever, saving some Jewish lives in Europe and worldwide.  In that sense Roosevelt's war management mattered, to all free peoples generally and to Jews in particular. Furthermore, a skillful waging of the War saved Jewish lives in other ways that are often overlooked, perhaps even at the time by Roosevelt. As Breitman and Lichtman point out in their indispensible FDR and the Jews, Roosevelt's shipment of A-20 bombers and Sherman tanks helped the British defeat Rommel's armies at the decisive second battle of El Alamein. Admittedly, Roosevelt's main purpose was to join the Brits in safeguarding the Suez Canal. But by stopping Nazi domination of the Middle East and North Africa, Roosevelt also defeated stillborn a plan that had been hatched by the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem and Adolf Hitler (among others) to extend the Holocaust beyond Europe.  That numerous Jewish lives were saved is certain.  How many they were remains undetermined.

     Before the War, dealing with an isolationist Congress that favored neutrality proved challenging for Roosevelt. Even more daunting was the later task of waging War.  It brought multiple problems that had to be surmounted on a daily basis.  Although Medoff effectively discusses the bureaucracy and personalities surrounding Roosevelt as he dealt with Jewish concerns during World War II (and earlier during the depression), one does not always get a sense of the larger picture. Larger contextual questions of strategy, economics, maintaining supplies and alliances and broader issues of international relations during the War are largely ignored.  One does not have a sense of the many competing international and national trade-offs and pressures that constantly faced Roosevelt during this time of extreme and extended stress.  Rather, Medoff's book is focused narrowly on the relationship between the Jews and the Roosevelt Administration, almost always to the exclusion of all other considerations.  In that dynamic, Jewish concerns were of course everything to Jews. Yet given Roosevelt's larger political and strategic concerns, Jewish concerns simply did not loom large.  On those occasions when President Roosevelt sat across the room from Rabbi Wise, and disagreed about what should or could be done, these two men simply prioritized their political and moral obligations differently.  Whatever feelings existed or did not exist in Roosevelt's heart, each was differently situated, empowered by different constituents, seeking to achieve different, but sometimes overlapping, goals   

    There is another vexing problem when it comes to evaluating this book's thesis.  Just as it was difficult to determine if Roosevelt possessed anti-Semitic sentiments (as Medoff suggests), so it is difficult to evaluate many of Roosevelt's actions or inactions at this time.  It is not only that the President lived in a world of many, often competing demands which made it difficult for others to understand why he acted as he did.  It is also that Roosevelt's actions or inactions usually admitted more than one plausible explanation.  Over time, the historical record regarding Roosevelt has become much clearer. But Roosevelt has not.  He remains an enigma.  As Dawidowicz writes succinctly "he left scarcely any record of his feelings and ideas."  Interpreting Roosevelt is a scholarly art, and yet it frequently it is an art that yields disputable results. 

      Medoff's case against Roosevelt (and by implication against Wise) looks at the President (and his administration's) political actions and policies.  Medoff's topical analysis examines Roosevelt's interaction with Jewish leaders, specifically his action (or inaction) regarding Jewish immigration, Roosevelt's  efforts (or lack of effort) regarding possible Jewish worldwide resettlement, the St. Louis incident, the possibility of bombing Auschwitz and the railroad tracks leading to it, and Roosevelt's post-war thoughts regarding the creation of an eventual Jewish homeland.  Except for his effort to win the War, no one overarching perspective or point of view defines or unites Roosevelt's response to these concerns. There are numerous reason why. Roosevelt remained ever the pragmatist.  He spoke differently to different people.  Both nationally and internationally, political considerations mattered.  Thus, his language was often calculated and prudent. Additionally, he also trafficked in political generalizations.  Often he was inscrutable. 

    Multiple illustrations of this pattern of persistent elusiveness exist.  Examining one proves useful and illustrates the frequent tentativeness of rendering conclusive historical pronouncements regarding Roosevelt's thoughts and actions.  On February 14, 1945 an exhausted Franklin Roosevelt made time to meet in Egypt with Saudi Arabia's King Saud's aboard the cruiser USS Quincy. The President had just returned from Yalta.  He was not well; in two months he would be dead.  But that day, with the War winding down, he wanted to discuss the future of the Middle East and also wished to create space for a greater Jewish presence there.  To do that, he would have to persuade Saud. Roosevelt had received numerous warnings that the King was intransigent on the matter and not open to accommodation. Still he went.  Why?  The most likely explanation supplied by Radosh and Radosh (in A Safe Haven: Harry Truman and the Founding of Israel).  According to them, "FDR still believed that his charm and commitment to negotiation could work and that he would be able to make a breakthrough that would be acceptable to all sides."   But the talks went nowhere as Saud's hostility to an enhanced Jewish Mideast presence proved to be intractable and fanatical. Roosevelt assured Saud that there would be future consultations and assured him that he would not advantage the Jews at the expense of the Arab interests. Subsequently, on March 1, in an address to Congress.  Roosevelt ad-libbed that "I learned more about the whole of Arabia--the Muslims--the Jewish problem--by talking to Bin Saud for five minutes than I could have learned in the exchange of two or three dozen letters." 

    What did Roosevelt mean?  Naturally, Jewish leaders were outraged, interpreting his remark to constitute a change in policy and an explicit endorsement of the Arab Middle East perspective. More likely, as has been widely pointed out, the remarks reflected that Roosevelt now felt that a mutually acceptable Palestine solution, however desirable, was impossible.  He now believed that any such attempt probably would end badly because Arab hostility to Jewish aspirations was unalterable and therefore was likely to produce even more Jewish deaths, perhaps even another Jewish genocide.

      The ambiguity of interpretation that surrounded Roosevelt's language to Congress (and to King Saud for that matter) grew out of Roosevelt's elusiveness and partially from the fact that in the midst of wartime Roosevelt had not enunciated, and perhaps had yet not formulated, a clear vision of a post Holocaust Middle East.  It is not surprising that Roosevelt may have had no carefully formulated, specific view of this matter.  Throughout his presidency, Roosevelt tended to react ad hoc to issues involving the Jews.   Breitman and Liebtman (in FDR and the Jews) argue that FDR's relationship to the Jews was ambiguous and ever changing.  Medoff offers a different explanation. FDR did not much care for Jews and consistently desired that they would keep quiet and leave him alone. This was the Roosevelt Rabbi Wise seldom saw. Too often Wise was charmed and seduced by his access and direct encounters with the charismatic President.  Also, Medoff argues that Wise often rejected bolder pro-Jewish strategies and overlooked political alternatives while focusing all his considerable efforts on the President.  As provocative as Medoff's criticisms are, questions linger.  Was there really a critical mass in the Republican Party that would have made any difference?  Would going around Roosevelt have proven more productive in advancing Jewish goals?  How much influence could any Jewish presence, exercising any strategy, truly have wielded?  Inquiring minds continue to wonder.

      Perhaps that is the point.  Rafael Medoff has provided a thorough, well documented interpretation of the Roosevelt-Wise relationship.  Read the book.  But if you want to understand the many nuances in the interaction between FDR and organized Jewish interests during this historical period, at a minimum, also read the comprehensive and well-balanced FDR and the Jews by Richard Breitman and Allan Lichtman.  Should you have even more time, also take a look at two essays by Lucy Dawidowicz that paint President Roosevelt and Rabbi Wise in a more favorable light.  Although a bit dated, her essays "Could America have Rescued Europe's Jews?" and "Indicting American Jews" still have bite and saliency. They appear as chapters 10 and 11 in  Neal Kozodoy's edited volume of her essays, What is the Use of Jewish History?  All of these works shed considerable light on this important and troubling intersection of American and Jewish history.  Together, they provide a rich legacy of education as well as a continuing source for further reflection. 

  Catastrophes are all too well known in Jewish history and therefore in the Jewish psyche and in the Jewish faith. There is even a Hebrew word for such an event: Hurban.  This word comes from a verb that means “to destroy” and is related to the Hebrew word for sword.  It means destruction and it is used primarily to refer to the destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem.  By extension it can refer to any of the catastrophes in Jewish history: the Crusades (during which many Jewish communities in Europe were massacred), the Expulsion from Spain in 1492, and the Holocaust among others. There is an entire literature on the subject.  I will look at some of the events related to the destruction of the two Temples in ancient Israel, and the responses to them by those who witnessed them.

            I would divide the kinds of responses into three categories: lamentation, destruction (the desire for revenge or power), and construction (acts of faith and building for the future).  The second and third are two sides of the same coin, as each is a way of seeking empowerment in the wake of being overwhelmed by violence or oppression.  It is the choice between these two that is most crucial in drawing lessons from the catastrophes in Jewish history.

The Destruction of the First Temple

            The Temple of Solomon, known to Jews as the First Temple, was built at the point in Jewish history which is regarded as the ideal, the high point of our history.  Our borders were at their greatest extent, there were no wars, and the kingdom was prosperous, engaging in trade perhaps as far away as India.  As with most peoples in that part of the ancient world, the Jewish kingdom considered the temple to its God as the symbol of the power and welfare of the entire nation.  When one nation defeated another the loser’s God’s temple was often destroyed.  In 586 BCE the Babylonians attacked and besieged Jerusalem because of repeated rebellions against their empire.  They destroyed the city and the Temple with it.  The people were forced into exile as was often the case with rebellious subject nations.

            The book of Lamentations in the Bible, usually ascribed to the prophet Jeremiah, is a lamentation over the destroyed city.  It begins

Alas!

Lonely sits the city

Once great with people!

She that was great among nations

Is become like a widow… ^[1]

This powerful elegy does much more than weep and wail, however.  It does describe the horrors of the Destruction and what followed and Jeremiah howls with grief.  However Lamentations also tells of why God allowed this Hurban to occur.  It was the just punishment for a people that had strayed from faithfulness to its covenant with God.  Many prophets had warned that this would happen, beginning with Moses in the books of Leviticus and Deuteronomy.  Jeremiah calls on the Eternal to forgive the people and to restore them to their land and to allow the city to be rebuilt.  Jeremiah calls on the people to repent.

                        Let us search and examine our ways.

                        And turn back to the Eternal.

                        Let us lift up our hearts with our hands

                        To God in Heaven.

                        We have transgressed and rebelled.

                        And you have not forgiven.^[2]

The justification of Divine Justice (theodicy) and the appeals for repentance represent a revolutionary departure from the thinking of the time.  Most nations that suffered this kind of destruction simply disappeared from history, their very identities obliterated.  Jeremiah affirmed that there is only one God and that God is sovereign over all nations.  The covenant made at Mount Sinai is eternal and still stands.  If the people will repent it will be restored.  Against all the rules of history the Jewish people survived destruction and exile because they were made to see beyond themselves and beyond the present moment.

            Jeremiah himself performed an act shortly before the destruction, which he foresaw.  Following a legal obligation he wrote a contract that would redeem a piece of family property in the future.^[3]  After following the most traditional form of the transaction he said to God,

…the city, because of sword and famine and pestilence, is at the mercy of the Chaldeans who are attacking it.  What You threatened has come to pass – as You see.  Yet You, Eternal One, O God, said to me, ‘buy the land for money and call in witnesses – when the city is at the mercy of the Chaldeans.’

Like many things Jeremiah did during his life, this was a symbolic act expressing faith that in the future what had been destroyed would be rebuilt and the people would return from their exile. 

The Destruction of the Second Temple

          After only seventy years the Persian Empire defeated the Babylonians and returned all of the exiled peoples to their homelands.  A contingent of Jews did go back and rebuilt Jerusalem.  The majority, who remained in Babylonia and elsewhere became the beginning of the Diaspora community.  From that time until this a majority of the Jewish people, but never all the Jewish people, has lived outside of the Land of Israel.  The task of creating a national existence outside of the Land of Israel was successful. For example, it is believed that the synagogue was created in the Babylonian exile as a center for meeting both spiritual and social needs.

            It would be too much to recount the history of the Second Temple here, but in the year 66 CE there was a revolt by Jewish nationalists against the Roman Empire.  That war lasted four years and ended predictably with a Roman victory and the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple.  Once again this was a completely devastating event.  There is a very large literature of responses to it.^[4] There were lamentations written.  These may be found within various works of Rabbinic literature that were edited and published long after this event.

            There were two primary reactions at the time.  The first was a continuing movement of rebellion against Rome.  The Zealots who started and led the revolt held out in the fortress of Masada for a few years, but were overwhelmed by the Romans.^[5]   The following two generations saw Jewish revolts all over the Roman Empire –  in Alexandria and Cyprus, among other places.  None of these succeeded.  Finally there was another great revolt in the Land of Israel led by a man named Simon bar Koziba, better known as Bar Kochba.  His followers believed he was the Messiah who would drive out the Romans, restore Jewish independence and rebuild Jerusalem with its Temple.  This revolt was a spectacular and devastating failure.  The Romans were driven out, but they came back, defeated Bar Kochba, and committed such a great massacre of Jews that it was said the Mediterranean ran blood-red all the way to Cyprus.  Jewish self-government, which had been allowed after the first Great Revolt, was ended.  Jerusalem was rebuilt as a Roman city called Aelia Capitolina dedicated to Jupiter.  Jews were not allowed to set foot there.  Bar Kochba has been rehabilitated as a heroic figure in modern times, but his contemporaries condemned him as an impious brute who brought destruction and exile on the Jewish people.^[6]  This response was one of seeking empowerment after destruction through war and conflict.  It ignored reality and reached out for a messianic solution to the destruction of Jerusalem.  If this had been the only Jewish response, Jewish history would probably have ended there and then.

            It was, fortunately, not the only response.  There was another which was every bit as revolutionary as the one that had followed the destruction of the First Temple.  The most respected Rabbinic leader at the time was Yohanan ben Zakkai who was already eighty years old.  He pled with the Zealots who had completely taken over Jerusalem, which was then besieged by a Roman force, to offer some token of conciliation.  He wanted to avoid the destruction of Jerusalem, which he knew would occur if the Romans entered the city by force.  The Zealots’ response was to declare that anyone who went over to the Romans in any way would be executed. 

Rabbi Yohanan confided in his nephew Abba Sikra, a Zealot leader, and asked for his help.  On his advice they would give out the news that Rabbi Yohanan had become ill and then that he had died.  That meant that his body had to be carried outside the city walls, because the dead were not permitted burial within.  They got past the Zealot guards at a gate and went immediately to the Roman camp where they were taken to the general Vespasian.  Yohanan ben Zakkai greeted Vespasian, “Hail Caesar.”  The astonished general said, “I am not the Emperor.”  Just then a messenger arrived to announce that the Emperor Nero was dead and that the Roman legions had declared Vespasian his successor.  Vespasian told the Rabbi, “Since you were the first to address me as Caesar, I shall reward you.  What would you want as a reward?”  Rabbi Yohanan replied that he wanted to establish a school in the nearby town of Yavneh, which the Romans already controlled.  Vespasian granted his wish.^[7]

The “school” that Yohanan ben Zakkai established was not a school in the sense of it being a place where students were educated.  Yavneh became the seat of the Jewish government that was allowed to govern after the Revolt.  At Yavneh the Rabbis created something new – a form of Judaism that could survive destruction and exile.  It would not require a central shrine or even a tribe of priests.  The practice of Judaism devolved to every Jew equally.  Rabbis would not be clergy, but teachers and judges.  The legal tradition, which existed mostly in oral form until then, was to be codified and published.  Community, family, and education, along with the synagogue would be the means of continuing the covenant tradition.  Essentially this group of scholars created Judaism as a religion.  This worked so well that it continues down to the present day, almost two millennia later.  The Dalai Lama, impressed with this history, consults with Jewish scholars to see if our history can serve as a model for Tibetans to have their identity, faith and culture survive in the long run outside of Tibet. 

There were two responses to the destruction of the Second Temple.  One was to try to recover what was lost by force.  That failed completely.  The other was to create something new.  That succeeded so well that the Jewish people far outlasted the Roman Empire.

^[1] Lamentations 1:1

^[2] ibid. 3:40-42

^[3] Jeremiah 32:6-25

^[4] The author’s Rabbinic thesis, entitled “Tannaitic Reactions to Persecution”, deals with some of this literature, especially the Midrash on Lamentations, Eykhah Rabbati.  That work is available at the HUC-JIR library in New York City.

^[5] For reasons far too complex to go into here the author does not believe that the famous mass suicide actually occurred.

^[6] This historic lesson is discussed and applied to modern Israel by Yehoshfat Harkabi in The Bar Kokhba Syndrome: Risk and Realism in International Politics, Rossel Books, Chappequa NY 1983.

^[7] Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 56a and Lamentations Rabbah I:33

(On September 12, 2004, a special service was held at Congregation Shearith Israel in New York (founded in 1654)  to mark the Congregation's 350th anniversary. Since Shearith Israel is the first Jewish Congregation in North America, this occasion also marked the 350th anniversary of American Jewry. Rabbi Marc D. Angel delivered a sermon at the 350th anniversary service, reflecting on American Jewish history through the prism of the experience of Congregation Shearith Israel. This is an abridged version of that sermon.)

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights,that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.” These words from the American Declaration of Independence reflect the deepest ideals and aspirations of the American people. America is not merely a country, vast and powerful; America is an idea, a vision of life as it could be.

When these words were first proclaimed on July 4, 1776, Congregation Shearith Israel was almost 122 years old. It was a venerable community, with an impressive history--a bastion of Jewish faith and tradition,and an integral part of the American experience.

When the British invaded New York in 1776, a large group of congregants, including our Hazan Rev. Gershom Mendes Seixas,left the city rather than live under British rule. Many joined the Revolutionary army and fought for American independence. Our story in America is not built on historical abstractions, but on generations of Jews who have played their roles in the unfolding of this nation. It is a very personal history, ingrained in our collective memory.

On this 350th anniversary of the American Jewish community,we reflect on the courage and heroic efforts of our forebears who have maintained Judaism as a vibrant and living force in our lives. We express gratitude to America for having given us—and all citizens—the freedom to practice our faith. This very freedom has energized and strengthened America.

Within Congregation Shearith Israel, we have been blessed with men and women who have helped articulate Jewish ideals and American ideals. Their voices have blended in with the voices of fellow Americans of various religions and races,to help shape the dream and reality of America.

The American Declaration of Independence pronounced that all men are created equal. In his famous letter to the Jewish community of Newport, in August 1790, President George Washington hailed the United States for allowing its citizens freedom—not as a favor bestowed by one group on another—but in recognition of the inherent natural rights of all human beings. This country, wrote President Washington, “gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance.”

And yet, if equality and human dignity are at the core of American ideals, the fulfillment of these ideals have required—and still require—sacrifice and devotion. Reality has not always kept up with the ideals. In 1855, Shearith Israel member Uriah Phillips Levy—who rose to the rank of Commodore in the U.S. Navy—was dropped from the Navy’s active duty list. He was convinced that anti-Semitism was at the root of this demotion. He appealed the ruling and demanded justice.He asked: are people “now to learn to their sorrow and dismay that we too have sunk into the mire of religious intolerance and bigotry?... What is my case today, if you yield to this injustice, may tomorrow be that of the Roman Catholic or the Unitarian, the Presbyterian or the Methodist, the Episcopalian or the Baptist. There is but one safeguard: that is to be found in an honest,whole-hearted, inflexible support of the wise, the just, the impartial guarantee of the Constitution.” Levy won his case. He helped the United States remain true to its principles.

Shearith Israel member Moses Judah (1735-1822) believed that all men were created equal—including black men. In 1799, he was elected to the New York Society for Promoting the Manumission of Slaves. During his tenure on the standing committee between 1806 and 1809, about fifty slaves were freed.Through his efforts, many other slaves achieved freedom. He exerted himself to fight injustice, to expand the American ideals of freedom and equality regardless of race or religion.

Another of our members, Maud Nathan, believed that all men were created equal—but so were all women created equal. She was a fiery, internationally renowned suffragette, who worked tirelessly to advance a vision of America that indeed recognized the equality of all its citizens—men and women. As President of the Consumers’ League of New York from 1897-1917, Maud Nathan was a pioneer in social activism, working for the improvement of working conditions of employees in New York’s department stores. Equality and human dignity were the rights of all Americans,rich and poor, men and women.

The Declaration of Independence proclaimed that human beings have unalienable rights, among them are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.These words express the hope and optimism of America. They are a repudiation of the tyranny and oppression that prevailed—and still prevail—in so many lands. America is a land of opportunity, where people can live in freedom. The pursuit of happiness really signifies the pursuit of self-fulfillment, of a meaningful way of life. America’s challenge was—and still is—to create a harmonious society that allows us to fulfill our potentials.

President George Washington declared a day of national Thanksgiving for November 26, 1789. Shearith Israel held a service, at which Hazan Gershom Mendes Seixas called on this congregation “to unite, with cheerfulness and uprightness…to promote that which has a tendency to the public good.” Hazzan Seixas believed that Jews, in being faithful to Jewish tradition, would be constructive and active participants in American society.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness were not reserved only for those born in America; they are the rights of all human beings everywhere. This notion underlies the idealism of the American dream, calling for a sense of responsibility for all suffering people, whether at home or abroad. American Jews have been particularly sensitive and responsive to this ideal.

On March 8,1847, Hazan Jacques Judah Lyons addressed a gathering at Shearith Israel for the purpose of raising funds for Irish famine relief. The potato crop in Ireland had failed in 1846, resulting in widespread famine. Hazan Lyons well realized that the Jewish community needed charitable dollars for its own internal needs; and yet he insisted that Jews reach out and help the people of Ireland. He said that there was one indestructible and all-powerful link between us and the Irish sufferers: “That link, my brethren,is HUMANITY! Its appeal to the heart surmounts every obstacle. Clime, color, sect are barriers which impede not its progress thither.” In assisting with Irish famine relief, the Jewish community reflected its commitment to the well-being of all suffering human beings.American Jewry grew into—and has continued to be—a great philanthropic community perhaps unmatched in history. Never have so few given so much to so many. In this, we have been true to our Jewish tradition, and true to the spirit of America.

Who articulated the hope and promise of America more eloquently than Emma Lazarus? “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” How appropriate it is that her poem is affixed to the great symbol of American freedom, the Statue of Liberty.

Alice Menken, (for many years President of our Sisterhood) did remarkable work to help immigrants, to assist young women who ran into trouble with the law, to promote reform of the American prison system. She wrote: “We must seek a balanced philosophy of life. We must live to make the world worth living in, with new ideals, less suffering, and more joy.”

Americans see ourselves as one nation, indivisible, under God, with liberty and justice for all. Yet, liberty and justice are not automatically attained. They have required—and still require—wisdom, vigilance, and active participation. America prides itself on being a nation of laws, with no one above the law. The American legal tradition has been enriched by the insights and the work of many American Jews.

In one of his essays, Justice Benjamin Nathan Cardozo—a devoted member of Shearith Israel--referred to a Talmudic passage which has been incorporated into our prayer book. It asks that the Almighty let His mercy prevail over strict justice. Justice Cardozo reminded us that the American system relies not only on justice—but on mercy. Mercy entails not merely an understanding of laws, but an understanding of the human predicament, of human nature, of the circumstances prevailing inhuman society. Another of our members,Federal Judge William Herlands, echoed this sentiment when he stated that Justice without Mercy—is just ice!

Our late rabbis Henry Pereira Mendes, David de Sola Pool and Louis C.Gerstein, were singularly devoted to social welfare, to religious education, to the land of Israel. They distinguished themselves for their devotion to Zionism, and played their parts in the remarkable unfolding of the State of Israel. They, along with so many American Jews, have keenly understood how much unites Israel and the United States—two beacons of democracy and idealism in a very troubled world.

During the past 350 years, the American Jewish community has accomplished much and contributed valiantly to all aspects of American life. We have cherished our participation in American life. We have been free to practice our faith and teach our Torah. We have worked with Americans of other faiths and traditions to mold a better,stronger, more idealistic nation.

America today is not just a powerful and vast country. It is also an idea, a compelling idea that has a message for all people in all lands. As American Jews, we are committed to the ideals of freedom and equality, human dignity and security, to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, the pursuit of harmony among ourselves and throughout the world. We have come far as a nation, but very much remains to be done. May God give us the strength and resolve to carry on, to work proudly as Jews to bring the American dream to many more generations of humanity.

Without courage we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency. We can't be kind, true, merciful, generous, or honest.

—Maya Angelou.[1]

Courage, at its heart, is the trait that underlies every other. Now, this may seem counterintuitive. If one was to look at the classical character traits (what we refer to in Hebrew as middot), courage is not listed among the most normative or noble attributes. Courage does not necessarily impart anivut (humility); it may be only tangentially related to simha (joy); and it may actually be counterproductive to inculcating savlanut (patience). But, without courage, would we be able to go out into the world and fulfill our soul’s potential? Without the spark that illuminates the challenging path called experience, would we be able to satiate the desire to learn and grow? 

It is important to make a disclaimer. Courage is not reserved for the likes of Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Rosa Parks, or David Ben-Gurion. Each of us has opportunities for courage every day. Further, courage does not require putting the entirety of one’s life at risk. We do not need to have the temerity of someone like Nahshon ben Aminadav, who walks into the water hoping that God intervenes and creates a miracle. In fact, the rabbis teach that we may not solely rely on miracles if we are to be present in the world.[2] There is no virtue in taking senseless risks that put our lives or our family’s financial or emotional well-being in jeopardy. There is great risk in staying too comfortable and not changing, but there is also great risk in making ourselves and others too uncomfortable and demanding too much change too quickly.[3] 

In the following essay, we will explore eight variations on the types of courage that are necessary to excel at all other character traits. The following pages are by no means a comprehensive or definitive summation of Judaism’s ethical view toward courage, nor is it a list of categorical bromides. Rather, the eight classifications are based on my personal experiences and anecdotal meditations on the subject. In truth, the inherent definition of courage on display here will play with many facets of the term in a loose, deconstructionist manner. These characterizations will work in concert with each other and clash against each other; such is the nature of the word. Thus, this piece acts a stepping stone to place courage in the broader context of Jewish ethics. 

Courage of Being

The first category of courage is, at the most basic level, to understand that each of us is unique. Inherent in that uniqueness is the mandate to do extraordinary feats that will, in some way, change the world. While one of the great mysteries of existence is to unlock our innermost strengths, we never achieve these strengths if there’s an inability to possess self-value.

Peer pressure and the desire to fit in and to be loved are powerful emotions. But they are also crippling. Somewhere in the world, someone will despise you. It could be for your skin color, your religious beliefs, your favorite sports team; this litany of petty excuse to hate a fellow person is staggering. In the end, this is only noise; static in the ether. In this case, courage here means to have the courage to strive to be our authentic self. But how do we achieve this seemingly straightforward imperative? First, we have to realize that it takes enormous courage to hold ourselves accountable to our potential. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel breaks down the essence of this potential in a beautiful biblical metaphor:

We are all Pharaohs or slaves of Pharaohs. It is sad to be a slave of a Pharaoh. It is horrible to be a Pharaoh. Daily we should take account and ask: What have I done today to alleviate the anguish, to mitigate the evil, to prevent humiliation? Let there be a grain of prophet in every man![4]

While not everyone has the fortitude for criticism that a prophet must possess, staying true to one’s forthright convictions is an apt contemporary embodiment of the prophet’s purpose. Of course, the vision for our lives need not be steeped in the purely righteous. Courage means setting a goal for yourself—modest or grand—and have the perspicacity to see it made manifest. Even Steve Jobs, the late founder of Apple Inc., whose life was marked with as many failures as triumphs, remarked, pithily, that we should go out and pursue the dreams that will further our lives:

…[H]ave the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.[5]

Courage of being means asking hard questions; it’s an introspective pursuit. This is quiet courage, a courage that radiates from deep within the recesses of our essence yearning to break free.

Courage of Will

Mark Twain is credited as saying: “It's not the size of the dog in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the dog.”[6] In all we do, we must cultivate a sense of bravery, an intractable perseverance, and the capacity to have resilience. With the balanced mix of an indomitable persistence of grit and a reservoir of spiritual inspiration, we become better equipped to get through challenges.

This was the essence of courage for the rabbis. Certainly, in a moving talmudic passage, the rabbis posit the following inquiry: “Who is courageous?” There are manifold possible paths that the rabbis could have pursued here: The person with the most faith in God? One who adheres loyally to the letter of the law? One who can be victorious in battle? But instead, what do they say: “One who can control his or her own inner drive,” that one is the most courageous.[7]

Indeed, before we approach any type of action, our vigorous inner life must align with our outer life. At the center of this quest for enthusiastic earnestness is ratzon (will). We must have the desire to be courageous, otherwise we can’t be courageous. This is no mere tautology. We must desire to cultivate a burning passion and a lasting energy to overcome internal and external obstacles. We must desire to overcome our fear of pain, of failure, and of loss.
 

Courage of Speech

Humanity was endowed with the gift of speech. We must use it wisely. And when our minds and souls coalesce around an action, a passion, or a cause, it takes the human ingenuity of speech to convey the importance of said pursuits. A vital element of spiritual courage is being able to speak up when it is terrifying to do so. It is mitzvah to do so. As it says in the Tanakh:

You shall not hate your brother in your heart; you shall reprove your fellow and do not bear a sin because of him.[8]

The late social activist Maggie Kuhn (1905–1995), who spoke out passionately for protections for senior citizens in America, said powerfully: “Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes!” Indeed, we must give feedback otherwise we will “bear a sin” and be culpable of complicity as a bystander. In those moments, we will come to “hate your brother.”  We must never allow this type of moral timidity to invade our souls.

Courage of Action
 

Always do what you are afraid to do.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson[9]

To be sure, courage does not always require leadership but, at times, it requires a modicum of followership. Some either prefer to lead or be cynical. The middle space of participating but not being in control can require enormous courage too.

At momentous points during our life, we must be willing to take critical risks. Not life-threatening or impulsive risks, but measured considerations about how we intend to live our brief moment in this universe. For many, leadership is a constituent piece of their desire to see tangible change. Yet, inevitably, when one takes the difficult step to rise up and lead, the critiques not only begin, but may become incessant. These responses often stymie others who would love to lead but cannot take the negativity and constant second-guessing. To overcome this mindset, it takes a healthy amount of courage to maintain conviction and propel action. Nelson Mandela, whose life story is the stuff of courage, wrote:
 

I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

Courage of Restraint

For every notion about courage being an outward display of character, having the foresight to restrain oneself is an underexplored avenue of courageous behavior. Courage is not only about acting publicly or about speaking up, but about being silent when the times call for it. Not every situation requires our voice; not every pursuit needs our opinion. Knowing when to back off is as important, maybe even more so, than to stand up. And, to be sure, we learn in the Talmud that there is a mitzvah to give constructive feedback to our peers, to reprove or rebuke them as the times see fit. But there is also a mitzvah not to speak up when it will not be heard, or when our actions or speech make situations worse:

…Just as there is a mitzvah for a person to say words (of rebuke) that will be accepted, so to there is a mitzvah for a person not to say words (or rebuke) that will not be accepted. Rabi Abba said: … It’s an obligation (not to give rebuke that won’t be accepted). As it says: “Do not rebuke a scoffer, lest he hate you; rebuke a wise man, and he will love you” (Proverbs 9:8).[10]

Others suggest we should still speak up even when it won’t be heard.

R. Zeira said to R. Simon: Master should reprove these (officials) of the House of the Exilarch. (R. Simon) said to him: They do not accept (reproof) from me. (R. Zeira) said to (R. Simon): Even though they do not accept it, master should nonetheless reprove them.[11]

Another form of restraint is taking the initiative to step back and create space for others to shine. Lao Tzu, the philosophical progenitor of Daoism, teaches: “From caring comes courage.”[12] Indeed, when we start, not from the ego-filled position to be a hero, but with the compassionate conviction of love, then we step back when we need to. To do this, we often need to rebuild trust and connectedness. In his book, The Courage to Teach, educator and activist Parker Palmer writes about the necessity of harnessing the will to not act on our fear, even at a moment when it might feel most appropriate:

In response to the question “How can we move beyond the fear that destroys connectedness?” I am saying, “By reclaiming the connectedness that takes away fear.”[13]

Courage of Mind

It is, without a doubt, an immense challenge to exist in a world suffused with ambiguity. Indeed, most people struggle deeply with living within a gray zone rather than the easy binary of black and white. Some need to run toward certainty and clarity rather than orient their inner struggle with uncertainty; this is understandable. Palmer continues:

There is a name for the endurance we must practice until a larger love arrives: It is called suffering. We will not be able to teach in the power of paradox until we are willing to suffer the tension of opposites, until we understand that such suffering is neither to be avoided nor merely to be survived but must be actively embraced for the way it expands our own hearts.[14]

Not everyone can live up to the pressure of living in an un-bifurcated world But, one type of courage is about continuing to live mentally within the discomfort of uncertainty, continuing to grapple with questions before jumping to answers, and continuing to seek truth beyond ideological comfort.

Courage of Spirit

To cultivate courage on the soul level is to learn how to transcend self-interest, to transcend one’s own body, and perhaps even transcend one’s own consciousness. The late teacher of Mussar, Rabbi Chaim Shmulevitz (1902–1979, Lithuania/Israel), explains how people are capable of much more than he or she imagines, even during a trying moment of existential crisis: 

Our strengths are greater than we realize. A person really has the ability to reach much more than his natural [physical] strengths [we think we are limited to one level, we can move this, lift that, only stay awake for so long, etc.]. It appears that this is the explanation that our Sages give on the sentence, “The daughter of Pharaoh stretched her arm, and she took the basket that Moses was in. Her arm actually extended many “amot.” It's not intended to be understood that her arm physically got longer and then her arm shrunk back to its original state. Because through the gathering of all her energy and her will to save this child, in the merit of that it was in her ability to achieve even the strength of Adam prior to the sin even though the basket was far way. There is no measure to the strength of [people] when they arm themself with ometz [fortitude] and gevurah [strength]. If they do it's in their hand to reach much more than their natural strengths would dictate.[15]

To imbibe meaning from the constant renewal of our spiritual work should not only comfort us, but also challenge us in the best ways. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel encouraged the recitation of prayer to be a vehicle for the cultivation of courage in the soul. For Rabbi Heschel: 

Prayer is meaningless unless it is subversive, unless it seeks to overthrow and to ruin the pyramids of callousness, hatred, opportunism, falsehoods. The liturgical movement must become a revolutionary movement, seeking to overthrow the forces that continue to destroy the promise, the hope, the vision.[16]

Courage of Heart

Finally, and most importantly, courage is a product of the heart. To be sure, we must learn to be comfortable with honest vulnerability. Brené Brown, a professor at the University of Houston and an expert on the diverse dimensions of courage, writes affectingly on the inner nature of courage and its effect on her life:

[A]s I look back on my life… I can honestly say that nothing is as uncomfortable, dangerous, and hurtful as believing that I’m standing on the outside of my life looking in and wondering what it would have been like if I had the courage to show up and let myself be seen.[17]

Such a prospect can be terrifying, and that is normal for anyone. We all feel vulnerable at some point in our lives. To not be is to not experience the full expression of our humanity. Yet, being vulnerable is not equivalent to being weak or cowardly. On the contrary, vulnerability is an element of greater courage. As C. S. Lewis (1898–1963, United Kingdom) wrote:

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken…. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.[18]

One might think that acting courageously is antithetical to humility. This is not the case. Consider how Rabbi Abraham Isaac haKohen Kook (1865–1935, the first Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi of pre-State Israel), explains this point:

We need to make a careful distinction when investigating the emotion of pride/arrogance.  [We need to distinguish between] the regesh haPasul that distances a person from consciousness and consciousness of one’s Maker, and the delicate (adin) feeling that expands a person’s consciousness and reminds one of one’s full and splendid spiritual existence.  Often a person's heart will feel full of strength (‘oz). At first glance this feeling will seem similar to a feeling of arrogance. But after clarifying the matter, the reality is that one’s heart is filled with courage from the Divine light that shines in one’s soul.[19]

How does Rabbi Kook suggest we achieve such an end goal? He continues:

When it becomes difficult for [people] to emerge from this heaviness slowly, they must rise up at once and mobilize the middah of Holy Arrogance. They must look at themselves very favorably and find the good aspects of their shortcomings and weaknesses. For as one sets one’s mind to seek out the good, immediately all of their weaknesses transform into strengths. It is possible for a person to find within him/herself much good and to be very happy with their goodness. Day by day such a person will increase positive activities with a pure heart and full of compassionate hope.[20]  

One final note: We must learn to listen so we know what opportunities and moments are crucial for us to cultivate courage for. The former chief rabbi of the United Kingdom Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks writes about the imperative of being here, of listening to the voices:

There is no life without a task; no person without a talent; no place without a fragment of God’s light waiting to be discovered and redeemed; no situation without its possibility of sanctification; no moment without its call. It may take a lifetime to learn how to find these things, but once we learn, we realize in retrospect that all it ever took was the ability to listen. When God calls, He does not do so by way of universal imperatives. Instead, He whispers our name—and the greatest reply, the reply of Abraham, is simply hineni: “Here I am,” ready to heed your call, to mend a fragment of Your all-too-broken world.[21]

Every day, we should wake up with “Here I am” inscribed on our hearts and animated within our souls. Only in this way do we ensure that the grand experiment of humanity continues fresh and anew with every obstacle that the universe presents before us. Fortunately for the human spirit, we aren’t ill-equipped for such a challenge. We have courage. And as is true with all virtues, cultivating courage takes practice. We must come out of our comfort zone to grow. We must learn the art of when to listen and when to speak, when to act and when to hold back, when to paddle to ride a wave, and when to sit back to enjoy the calm waters.

Rabbi Yisrael Salanter (1809–1883, Lithuania) leaves us with a final message of hope. For Rabbi Salanter, every person must hold on to and keep precious three qualities in order to lead and live a life with courage: not to despair, not to get angry, and not to expect to finish the task. Courage does not mean one makes an appearance and then hurries out the door. No, courage must be cultivated daily. It must be cultivated for years before it’s even given the chance to blossom. Courage comes from realizing that our role in the universe is unique but limited. Yet, it’s this limitation that allows us to excel beyond our wildest dreams. It allows us to pursue our destiny. And whether we know it or not, courage is the engine that allows us to move forward perpetually, with intentionality, with compassion, and with the knowledge that meaning is found through navigating the tribulations of living a full, active life. 

   How can we best re-design synagogues today to fit changing Jewish needs? In an era when social institutions everywhere are undergoing transformation, it is a key question-—and current economic strains make it more urgent. Especially concerning   the growing impact of millennials on American-Jewish culture with their heavy usage of smartphones and social media, we must first decide: what do we really want contemporary synagogues to be? What is our guiding vision?

   In this light, Jewish tradition provides a valuable perspective, for according to diverse midrashic sources, our patriarch Abraham’s tent was no ordinary structure. It had a doorway on all four sides, so that visitors could feel comfortable entering whatever their point of origin. The ideal synagogue, our sages have therefore explained, is one like Abraham’s appealing tent--that welcomes all Jews. 

   In modern-day America, another Abraham has given the world many worthy ideas for social improvement: psychologist “Abe” Maslow. Born in New York City, in 1908, to economically struggling Jewish immigrants from the Ukraine, he became one of our country’s most influential psychological thinkers. First as a charismatic professor at Brooklyn College from 1937-1951, and then as a founding faculty leader at Brandeis University until his death in 1970, Maslow significantly impacted such fields as counseling and psychotherapy, management theory and organizational psychology, education--and even health care, particularly nursing, in its emphasis on treating the “whole patient” rather than simply disease symptoms. As Maslow’s biographer, I was impressed to discover that traditional Jewish thought influenced many aspects of his psychological system--such as the provocative Talmudic (and later Hasidic folkloric notion) of the “lamed-vov”: the thirty-six hidden righteous persons in every generation who quietly sustain humanity with their altruism and good deeds. In Maslow’s view, this notion offered an inspiring model for self-actualization in men and women.

   In 1955, Maslow received the first of several invitations to head the psychology department of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, but declined due to his recently-hired status and commitment to Brandeis University. A few years later, Maslow became the first major American psychologist to promote the work of Viktor Frankl, the Austrian-Jewish psychiatrist and Auschwitz concentration camp survivor whose memoir Man’s Search for Meaning eventually became a worldwide bestseller. As Frankl told me in a phone-interview, he considered Maslow his friend as well as his intellectual colleague because they both sought to infuse spirituality into psychology theory and practice.      

   Maslow popularized such terms as self-actualization, peak-experience, and synergy, but undoubtedly, his most famous concept is the “hierarchy of inborn needs.” In essence, he argued that basic to all humans everywhere are six sets of psychological needs, for: 1) physical safety; 2) belongingness; 3) self-esteem; 4) respect; 5) love; and, 6) spiritual fulfillment, which he called self-actualization. Virtually everyone who has taken Introductory Psychology in the past half-century remembers this hierarchy, typically depicted in the shape of a colorful pyramid.     

   “It’s quite true that man lives by bread alone—-when there is no bread,” Maslow asserted in a famous article published in The Psychological Review during World War II. “But what happens when there {is} plenty of bread and when [our] belly is chronically fed? At once, other and `higher’ needs emerge and these, rather than physiological hungers, dominate {us.} And when these, in turn, are satisfied, again new and still `higher’ needs emerge, and so on. This is what we mean by saying that human basic needs are arranged in a hierarchy.” 

   Though committed to the well-being of Jewish life in post-World War II America, Maslow never worked directly with synagogues (or any other social institutions besides Brandeis University), preferring to advance organizational theory rather than engage in consulting practice. Nevertheless, Maslow’s psychological system is highly relevant for the re-empowerment of American synagogues. That is, by examining each of our key six psychological needs in Maslow’s hierarchy, we can identify how synagogues can be improved and best re-designed today.   

                A Hierarchy of Synagogue Needs

1)Physical safety. Unfortunately, for perhaps the first time in our nation’s history, American Jews can no longer ignore this fundamental need. The recent murderous assaults on synagogues in Pittsburgh and suburban San Diego, as well as several thwarted planned attacks, and most recently, a rampage at a rabbinic home in Monsey, New York, make this unmistakably clear. However, a variety of governmental and private programs, with relatively ample funding, are enabling American synagogues to initiate appropriate action. For example, in January 2020, ten New York State members of Congress urged synagogues to vamp up security with the help of $90 million in federal funds. Of course, in many other countries during the past dozen years, including France, Germany, and India, Jews have likewise experienced lethal terrorism when gathered en masse to pray or just socialize; they cannot take life-and-limb for granted. 

   From Maslow’s hierarchy-of-needs perspective, we can therefore affirm: synagogues must actively address our most basic need as Jews everywhere on this globe-—for sheer physical safety. How can this safeguarding be accomplished? Many means are possible.  For example, each synagogue could establish a committee responsible for such activities, such as inviting guest speakers involved with global Jewish security, publicizing relevant news items in their newsletter or blog, and assisting in broad fund-raising to combat antisemitism and related “hate mongering” involving all Jewish communities.

2) Belongingness. In our world increasingly dominated by smartphone usage and social media, especially among millennials, traditional face-to-face communities are vanishing. Whether we’re residing in new or old suburbs, city cores or small towns, we all yearn for a greater sense of connectedness with others. In 1970, sociologist Dr. Philip Slater authored the influential book The Pursuit of Loneliness, and fifty years later, our society is far more fragmented and lonely. If American synagogues are to thrive in coming years, they will be obliged to fulfill our innate need for belongingness which Maslow aptly identified.

   How can this be accomplished? The free-spirited chavurot of the 1960s and 1970s offered one model, but its lasting impact on American-Jewish life has been modest. Perhaps the chavurot were too influenced by the “hippy” counterculture of that era to catalyze long-term appeal. But other ways exist to gratify our need for belongingness. Nearly everyone agrees that the most successful synagogues today are those that provide genuine warmth and camaraderie. Thanks to Maslow’s seminal work, organizational psychologists have developed techniques to build empathy and trust among individuals.

   How can synagogues satisfy Jewishly our need for belongingess? The over-riding goal should be to lessen anonymity and isolation, so that each member feels a valued part of a friendly group. In this regard, it is essential that that religious services—-under rabbinic guidance-—become more participatory and less passively spectator-like. To encourage discussions based on sermons is similarly beneficial. Periodic “Shabbaton” retreats can also help strengthen the sense of synagogue as true community.

3) Self-esteem and 4) respect. According to Maslow’s hierarchy, we all need to feel valued as individuals for our interests, skills, and talents. As the Baal Shem Tov aptly observed, everyone yearns for the recognition that “For my sake, the entire world was created.” Unfortunately, this inspiring teaching influences few synagogues today, for generally members receive minimal attention for their skills and talents-—and even less so for their hobbies and leisure interests. Strikingly, recent psychological research is revealing the importance of hobbies for individual mental and even physical well-being--beginning as early as adolescence (Shin & You, 2013) and continuing through midlife and beyond (Paggi, Jopp & Herzog, 2016).      

  Maslow pioneered the technique of human assets accounting for organizations: that is, drawing up a “balance sheet” or inventory to identify each employee’s specific interests, training, and skills. By then deliberately cultivating these qualities, enlightened managers have found that employee motivation, job satisfaction, and productivity dramatically improve.

   Synagogues can do likewise. Upon joining a synagogue, all new members would be invited to list their particular skills, hobbies, and interests: for example, “Jason Kaplan, accounting/fund-raising, playing acoustic guitar; “Ayelet Rabinyan, journalism/travel-writing, knitting and reading Sephardic literature.” Teenagers would also be included in the list, and this information would become part of an online directory made available to members and updated annually. Such an inventory could serve as a springboard for a variety of projects reflecting the unique composition of each synagogue’s members. Remember, as Maslow emphasized, we all want to feel liked and respected for our personal interests, knowledge, and competencies.    

5) Love. Positioned higher on Maslow’s hierarchy is the basic human need to give and receive love. Traditionally, the closely-knit family was the center of Jewish life in virtually all countries on the globe. To be a Jew somehow apart from one’s spouse, children, parents, siblings, and extended family members was almost unthinkable.

   Today, matters are very different. In the United States, it’s hardly unusual for adult siblings or parents/children to live in separate states or even separate geographic regions. The type of extended Jewish families once celebrated by writers like Amos Oz or Sholom Aleichem are rare indeed, yet our need for close companionship remains as strong as ever. As social scientists have documented, the ideology of individualism has not only undermined Jewish family life in the United States but in Israel as well; see, for example, Orit Rozin’s illuminating book The Rise of the Individual in 1950s Israel.      

   Until recently, American synagogues did little to satisfy this inborn desire. But much can be accomplished to nurture friendships and love. One encouraging, relatively new trend is the family-centered approach to Jewish learning, which is directly strengthening ties among parents and children by joint religious study and activity. Another method is the time-honored Talmudic technique of collaborating with a study partner for mutual enhancement of Jewish learning. The more that synagogues can foster friendships and close family life (not just communal belongingness), the greater their appeal in coming years.

6) Self-Actualization. Consistent with Torah insights, Maslow asserted that everyone has an innate need for spiritual fulfillment—-and thereby to become all that one is capable of becoming. Through empirical investigations, Maslow found that people experience transcendence in a variety of ways, such as aesthetics, creativity, justice, nature, mentoring, or helping others altruistically--besides, of course, engagement in family life. Maslow’s research also revealed that people differ in the particular domain that provides the greatest sense of spirituality. As the Hasidic leader Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav observed, “Each one reaches God through the gates of his own heart.”  

   Synagogues can become an important force for self-actualization. For instance, the creative arts-—including music, literature, and drama-—scarcely receive the attention they deserve. Much more can be done to promote their role in childhood, adolescent, and adult education, as well as in holiday and life-cycle events. Aside from arts-and-crafts activities for young children, how often is our aesthetic need recognized at all?

   Similarly, we often hear about the prophetic call for helping to make a better world, but few synagogues take the challenge seriously. At the very least, each synagogue should coordinate links with other local voluntary groups serving those in need of economic, medical, or legal help. If American Jews begin to see the synagogue as a place of inspiring spiritual growth, it will certainly attract those with energy and commitment.

   Abe Maslow’s psychological system has brought much benefit to the world. In this year that marks the 50th anniversary of his death, it is time for the American-Jewish community to apply his insights to the unique task of synagogue re-empowerment.

                       References      

Hoffman, E. (1995). The Right to Be Human: A Biography of

  Abraham Maslow, 2^nd edition. NY: McGraw-Hill.

Hoffman, E. (1996). Future Visions: The Unpublished Papers of

  Abraham Maslow. Thousand Oaks, CA.: Sage Publications.  

Maslow, A.H. (1971). The Farther Reaches of Human Nature. New  

  York: Viking.

Newman, L.I. (1975). Hasidic Anthology. NY: Schocken.

Paggi, M.E., Jopp, D. & Hertzog, C. (2016). The importance of

  leisure activities in the relationship between physical

  health and well-being in a life-span sample. Gerontology,

  62, 450-458. 

Rozin, O. (2011). The Rise of the Individual in 1950s Israel: A

  Challenge to Collectivism. Waltham, MA: Brandeis University

  Press.  

Shin, K. & You, S. (2013). Leisure type, leisure satisfaction

  and adolescents’ psychological wellbeing. Journal of Pacific

  Rim Psychology, 7 (2), 53-62.

Slater, P. (1970). The Pursuit of Loneliness: American Culture

  at the Breaking Point. Boston: Beacon. 

  Faith is above all a state of mind not a state of the world. Either we have faith

within us or we don’t; it is a dimension of the soul, an orientation of the heart, an orientation of the spirit; it transcends the world that is immediately experienced, and is anchored somewhere beyond its horizons.

—Victor Frankl

  Faith is something we get, as it were, from “elsewhere.” It is what gives us the strength to live and to try new things.

—Walt Whitman

Both Frankl and Whitman acknowledge that faith is a gift given from above, beyond our will and ego control. We use our reason to get closer to this dimension (with our ruah and nefesh) but ultimately the neshama (beyond reason) is bestowed upon us as a gift and gives birth to Faith. We yield to Hashem, and only then this Higher Faith is bestowed upon us, say the Hasidim. But what about Doubt?    

The Hebrew word for doubt is safek, which in numerological terms is 240. The word Amalek, the arch-enemy of the Jewish people also has a numerological equivalent of 240. Hence, the idea emanates from that numerical relationship that the energy of Amalek is what bestows doubt on the Jewish psyche. Amalek represents the actualization of radical evil in the world, and when it triumphs faith is damaged. We believe that divine providence is prevalent at all times; if there is not protection for the Jewish people against Amalek it introduces doubt into the Jewish psyche. Yes, we have the doctrine that God proclaims a hester panim, an absence of intervention due to the sins of the people, and it is God’s plan to allow human beings to utilize free will, choosing the good over evil. Nevertheless, the impact of the radical power of Amalek, and the victory of this destructive energy presents a challenge to our inherent faith.

 We read a similar theme in Exodus 17:8–16, where Moses, Joshua, and the Israelites are locked in a battle against Amalek. Perhaps we can view this also as a battle of Faith vs. Doubt. When Moses’ hands are uplifted to heaven as a sign of faith, the Israelites triumph, but when Moses is weary and his hands need support, the forces of doubt prevail. But God states that the fight against Amalek will continue in every generation. Our Sages suggest that this fight will continue till the ultimate triumph over evil in the Messianic era (Nidah 61b).

 The battle of good (Faith) vs. evil (Doubt) is manifest in the story of Purim. Haman is identified with Amalek in his attempt to destroy the Jewish people and their faith. The triumph over Haman (Amalek) makes the holiday of Purim the one mitzvah that will be observed during the Messianic era when doubt will be abrogated and evil defeated; where the unification, the Oneness of God’s Presence will be apparent to all. Rabbi Aharon Feldman, in the name of the Maharal, explained that Purim was a time when there was an eclipse of God. We do not find God’s name in Megilat Esther. The people were making the Oneness of God (ehaD) into a diminution of God’s Oneness (aheR). They made the dalet into a reish. In the Torah we find two places where the dalet and the reish are enlarged. In the verse Shema Yisrael …Hashem Ehad. (Devarim 6:4), the dalet is enlarged; and in the verse Ki lo tishtahaveh l’ el aher (Exodus 34:14), the reish is enlarged. The Sages explain that we should not make the One into the Many. (Hence, the enlargement of the letters). The holiday of Purim takes place in the month of Adar which contains the letters dalet and reish as well. When the Jews worshipped the Golden Calf, Moses was told (Ex. 32:7), “Go down (Lekh REID-R-D), for your people that you brought out from Egypt have become corrupt.” They have made the DALET into a REISH hinted to by the word “reid,” reish, dalet. They have made the one into the many. Purim is an attempt to unify the psyche, to remove doubt, which is what will occur during the Messianic era; thus the holiday of Purim is the appropriate mitzvah to celebrate during the time when the Oneness of God is manifest and revealed to all. In the pre-Messianic world, doubt is part of our psyche, and it presents an opportunity to strengthen faith because doubt is created to be defeated in its encounter with faith. We are commanded to fight against Amalek in every generation and our final victory will give birth to the truth of God’s Oneness in the Messianic era.

 The Ramhal states that doubt and evil were part of the divine plan to ultimately create a Messianic world.[1] Indeed, our Sages posit that if we did not have doubt, we might be blasé about our spiritual tasks, as Rashi and the Sfat Emet point out at the end of Bereishith. The Midrash states at the end of Vayehi that when Jacob gives blessings to his sons on his death bed, he wants to reveal to them the time of the coming of the Messiah to support their faith. However, Jacob is prevented from doing so, because this knowledge would have attenuated the children’s drive to seek meaning. It was necessary to have some doubt along the journey toward wholeness. Indeed, this dynamic is preferable to a life of absolute faith, which might lead to lethargy and mediocrity. The doubt would force them to conjure up greater faith in order to overcome their doubt thereby leading to greater virtuous deeds in their lifetime.

 Paul Tillich, in his book Dynamics of Faith, makes an interesting point about how doubt affirms faith. He suggests that a strong faith in the Highest Power is so beyond human capacity and comprehension, that it inevitably brings along with it the concomitant doubt. Thus, doubt proves that you are actually contemplating the correct “highest of the High” reality. If we say we have no doubt about our concept of God, it probably suggests that we are not contemplating the Ein Sof who is beyond our comprehension. As Tillich says, “Doubt is not a permanent experience within the act of faith. But it is always present as an element in the structure of faith. There is no faith without an intrinsic ‘in spite of’ and the courageous affirmation of oneself in the state of ultimate concern.”[2] Furthermore, the ability to acknowledge our doubt leads to a clearing out of resistance and an opening to an existential faith which tolerates some doubt.

 It is told that they once asked Ghandi, Do you have faith that God is love? He replied, “I am not sure if God is love; God is so beyond my definition of Him. But I do know that ‘to love’ is God.” Faith becomes manifest in the loving deeds of human beings. The same idea is expressed in the Talmud (Yoma 86a) on the verse, “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart.” The Talmud explains: God shall become loved through your deeds. Carrying on your business honestly, speaking respectfully and gently with others will lead others to say “how beautiful are his deeds and how uplifting.”

For me personally, I have a great connection to the God of the Cosmos who has created this magnificent world and the infinite complexity of the human being. But when at times the world does not fit my ego scheme, I allow a depression to enter my psyche that then gets projected outward to doubt and lack of connection with (my) the Higher Power. So faith is not only contingent upon how I see the outer world, it is also affected by my inner mood and emotional wellbeing. I become revivified either through action, through giving, through experiencing nature, through studying Torah and through prayer and meditation. In prayer when I say “give me strength,” or “Thy will be done,” then I allow my neshama to shine again. My mind may be necessary as a beginning in my quest, but it is not sufficient. I must make a space open for God’s energy to enter. It is within the heart where faith is found; the mind is too influenced by chatter and thoughts that may lead us away from our centeredness on Hashem. Thus we say Shema Yisrael, “Listen O Israel, quiet down your mind, be still and listen to the sounds of the Infinite.” The eyes and the mind are distracting and lead us astray.

 As we live our daily lives, we are constantly encountering change within and without. We have different energies that filter through us, and we can be easily affected by all the choices and stimuli that impact us. What promotes a reliable faith is a lifestyle that constantly connects us to our Creator. Attending a daily morning minyan imparts within us a connection to Hashem; the group energy that elevates all participants allows for a palpable feeling that Hashem is within this Holy Space. The rhythm, the inspiring words, the sounds of the Hebrew words and letters conjure up a memory, an association of connection to Hashem. We leave our mindful chatter and distraction as we get caught up in this rhythm. Some sit and learn Torah before davening, and some remain after to learn before going off to work. Tzedaka (charity) is donated during the service as well, which touches on our inner capacity to be giving. And yes, there are also moments of surprising synchronization, when things occur beyond probability and we intuit that they are more than just coincidences. Jung calls these synchronistic hints of God’s Presence.[3] We are then awakened to a whisper of God, or a “rumor of angels,” a spark from the infinite, and we are awakened to faith once more.

 And yet, there are periods of darkness and distance from Hashem when we return to a state of ego consciousness, when our human needs for connection, recognition, comparisons to others, awareness of our imperfections begin to seep into our psyches. This promotes, jealousies, anger, and impatience, etc. We then become isolated from our neshama and from others.

 There are also times when we encounter challenges in our tradition that create some doubt, such as the second paragraph in the Shema that does not seem to be akin to our experience.

But our rabbinic tradition continues to make Torah sacred through interpretation, and continues to develop relevant responses to modernity based on earlier precedents and sanctioned methodologies. This allows us to reclaim our faith, and our doubt is assuaged as we encounter the brilliant commentary and insights of our Sages. As Rabbi Emanuel Rackman points out, our Torah is the most definitive record of God’s encounter with humanity.[4] Our tradition is a cumulative process. It uses stories to teach, not to present historical facts, and continues to reveal new meanings and relevant responses to our current times. Tradition may be defined as the sum total of past events and thinking, that is also continually adapting and developing while maintaining the accepted norms from our past history. Moreover, in addition, we experience the wonders of God in our everyday lives.  

  Though there have been many classic writings asserting why we should have belief in God. But each of them has been logically undermined.[5] The Rambam and others also write brilliantly about why we should have faith in our specific Jewish Tradition and its profound wisdom. Judah Halevy gives a very persuasive argument for the veracity of our tradition through the historical witnessing of our whole people at Sinai, and the Prophets who witnessed God directly. After all, he claims, would the most honest and evolved of people (our Prophets) lie? If so whom can we trust?[6]

 But it is the constant mitzvoth that return us to our brothers and sisters and to Hashem. The whispers of Hashem also enter us when we encounter the beauty of nature, the flowers, the ocean, the mountains, the animals, the smiles, the synchronistic events that occur beyond probability and remind us that there is more to this world than our senses. Although our senses and instincts also can be an entry point to something greater than our small I.

Another important factor that promotes faith is connection to community. Rather than living an isolated existence, we grow by connecting to others who manifest the divine image in their actions and temperament, the shining humility of true spiritual leaders, and the lifestyle of mitzvoth. The word mitzvah itself means to join—to join the soul within to the soul without through the deed done with kavana (focused consciousness).

In Bemidbar (21:8), in the story of the Copper Serpent, we find a clue as to how to reconnect to our neshama. We are told that after the Israelites traveled around the land of Edom in the wilderness, they complained about a lack of food and water. Hashem released snakes to bite the complaining people; the people are contrite and ask Moses to pray to Hashem for an antidote. Moses prays and Hashem tells him to raise a copper serpent on a pole and have the people who have been bitten stare at the serpent and they will live. They had to face what bit them and trace it back to the origin, to what was causing their suffering. That which bites you can heal you, if you engage with it. The suggestion in the story is that we must face that which is biting us. Trace it to its root, in order to understand its origins and how it has affected our behavior. Of course, living a lifestyle of mitzvoth also helps us return to a connected state. Through the deed, through the ritual itself, our energies are elevated to a higher level of Soul. A traditional community helps this process as well.

But many of us live in assimilated communities, or in lonely spaces, and we also observe a world where evil prevails. Doubt and distancing from Hashem slowly creeps in. The antidote is reconnection.

R. Nahman of Bratzlav suggests an exercise to return to faith when we reach a place of doubt and alienation. We must get to know our darkness, without remaining in a state of guilt and shame. Despair and self-flagellation are counterproductive. Rav Nahman comments on the verse v’ahavata l’reakha kamokha (Vayikra 19:17–18) by suggesting that the word re’ah (neighbor) has the root letters reish and ayin, which means evil (rah). Thus we must learn to love the darkness (evil) within, get to know it, and befriend it rather than repress or deny it out of shame; for if we do not identify our dark places we project that evil energy on to others. This, indeed, is the root of all discord in the world, alienation within and seeing others as darkened, rather than identifying these very qualities within ourselves.

When the Israelites stood at Sinai, there was such a close connection to others (vayihan sham Yisrael—a singular unity of love) at the foot of the mountain that they reached a level of soul consciousness (of love) so that God became manifest to them. Their faith at that moment was so strong (Exodus 19:2), and thus they were worthy of receiving the Torah.

But now that we live distant from Sinai, we have to recreate that faith through mitzvoth, community, a trip to nature, a warm Shabbat, and a commitment to do good deeds where we experience the beauty of others through the deed. Their appreciation touches us, and we gain more by giving than taking.

In Psalm 133:1, we read: “Behold how good and how pleasant is the dwelling of brothers, moreover, in unity.” Hinei mah tov u’mah naim shevet ahim GAM yachad. A Hasidic commentary expounds on the extra word gam: this connotes that when we dwell together in unity, the Divine Presence dwells with us. It is the act of love between human beings that makes God manifest in the world and creates a renewed faith.

Another path to create faith is to encounter the awesome beauty and grandeur of nature. So much of our Holy Scripture contains the description of nature and the awesome beauty contained within, whether in the Psalms, the Song of Songs, Job. Paying attention to the magnificent beauty of God’s creation touches our soul and elevates our faith. Job was overwhelmed with great faith, awe and humility as God exposed him to the waterfalls, the glistening sky, the roaring lions, the flying ravens, the goats, the gazelle, the birth of babies, the wild oxen, the wild donkeys, the pastures, the greeneries, the wings of the ostriches, the stork with its feathers, the strong horses, the butterflies, the insects, the fish, the hawk, the eagle, the behemoth, the leviathan. We, too, are transformed and elevated by simply walking along ocean sands, watching the seagulls fly, and the dogs jumping into the waves.

The Hazon Ish defines faith as the perception that nothing is random: “Every occurrence under the sun is by Hashem’s proclamation, whether good or the opposite.”[7] Nothing is random, nor will anything ever be, whether a perfectly clear day, or the most seemingly chaotic political acts, what time the rooster crows, or the occurrence of one scorching summer after another, or the crystalline structure of a gem that has never seen the light, or the position of the electron. Even electrons, supposedly the paragons of unpredictability, are tame and obsequious little creatures that rush around at the speed of light, going precisely where they are supposed to go.

Any event, no matter how small it is, is intimately and sensibly tied to all others. All rivers run full to the sea; those who are apart are brought together; the perfectly blue days that have begun and ended in golden dimness continue. The ocean, the mountains, the butterfly, the roses, the eyes of animals, and humans are always there and open us to the Holy One.

 And yet, there are times when there seems to be a randomness in the universe; the student chooses when to rise, the snowflake falls as it will, earthquakes occur, hurricanes ravish our cities. How can this be? But if nothing is random, and everything is predetermined, how can there be free will? Thus within the order, there is also some disorder, so that we can be free to choose order, strengthen our faith, and know that the doubt that also arises at these times is a necessary concomitant in the pre Messianic world to strengthen our faith. When we reach the end of the days, the unity that we are currently missing will be manifest and the Great Faith will be the reality for all. Our task is to build toward that future by uplifting the world with our commitment to faith, to our connection to spirit, to love our fellow human beings and all who inhabit our planet and acknowledge doubt along the journey as a necessary companion.

Notes

I have a problem. I would like to have my cake, and eat it, too. To put the problem more formally, I would like to maintain

• that truth matters (I abhor epistemological and moral relativism[1])
• that Torah (as I understand it) teaches truth in some non-trivial fashion and that traditionally observant Judaism[2] is the only form of Judaism that has a chance of long-term survival

I also want to maintain

• that other forms of Judaism (and forms of traditionally observant Judaism that often annoy me deeply) are Jewishly genuine and must be treated with respect (and not just “tolerated”).

Can I indeed have the first two of these, and also the third? On the face of it, it would seem that I want to eat my cake, save it, and not even gain weight in the process. Medieval philosophers, Maimonides prominent among them, were convinced that truth is one, objective, unchanging, and accessible. In such a world, error is unforgivable and those with whom one disagrees are at best weak-minded and at worst evil—thus the wars of religion. In our postmodern world, epistemological (and moral) pluralism is often seen as a positive value. On the one hand, this undercuts actual warring over ideas; on the other hand, it makes serious conversation impossible: We are all talking past each other and about different things.

Is there no way out of this impasse? In the past, I have argued that what is needed is a form of epistemological modesty: affirming the truth of one's positions, while admitting that one might be wrong (but not actually thinking so).[3] In the present essay, I want to expand on this idea. This is not simply tolerance: I am not interested in tolerating other views, but in respecting them. Nor is this pluralism: I do not want to say that all views are equally true (which basically means that they are all equally false).

Several years ago I read a book by Jonathan Haidt (The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion), which resonated with me deeply. Haidt shows that our deepest convictions are rarely (if ever) the result of rational argument. Rationality, he maintains, is primarily used to justify our antecedently held positions, positions that are the result of many factors, rational argument often the least of them. Haidt helped me to understand why it is that people whom I respect (and often love) hold views that to me are clearly and evidently wrong. In their eyes, my views are equally wrong (about which, "of course," they are wrong).

The upshot that I took away from the book (which may or not have been Haidt's intention—please do not blame him for what I write here) is that we are not likely to convince people with whom we disagree over political or religious issues to give up their views, admit the falsity of those views (which Maimonides says will happen to the Gentiles in the messianic era), and accept the truth of ours. That is truly a messianic desire. Rather, realistically, we should look for common values and areas where we can work together, while agreeing to disagree about many important issues. Despite Haidt, I am an epistemological messianist (i.e., a Maimonidean messianist)—I believe that eventually reason will win; I just do not see it happening anytime soon. In the meantime, if we really want Jews and Judaism to survive, we have to get along. Getting along does not mean agreeing; I have no doubt but that my take on Judaism is correct, but I also realize that I might be wrong. In the meantime, we have lots to do.

Let me be clear: I am convinced and believe that much of what is called Jewish Orthodoxy today (in its manifold varieties) is closer to the Judaism of the last two millennia than other "denominations" and is of them all the most likely to survive into the future. This conviction and belief is constantly strengthened by the ways in which Conservative and Reform Judaism are becoming ever less traditional. But, I am aware enough of Jewish history to know that I might be wrong: It is only in retrospect that we now know that Pharisaic Judaism was destined to be the future of Judaism, not the Sadducees, not the Essenes, not the Zealots, and certainly not the Nazarenes. As Yogi Berra famously said, "It is tough to make predictions, especially about the future."

I want to add a few more words about what I learned from Haidt. I am basically a liberal on most issues. This is clearly a matter of upbringing (in the Orthodox Jewish home in which I was raised, there were things Jews never did: violate Shabbat, eat treyf, cross picket lines, and never, never vote Republican). It is also a matter of personality: I am pretty much a live and let live kind of fellow. It turns out, when I look back on it, that my liberal orientation was clearly established long before I knew of the tensions between liberty (a virtue often prized by conservatives) and equality (a virtue often prized by liberals), between freedom and organization. Even now, when all too many self-declared liberals ("progressives" in today's PC-talk) hate Israel (and by extension hate me), I cannot be comfortable in the conservative camp. Jonathan Haidt helped me to understand that conservatives cannot help themselves (any more than we liberals can help ourselves). That being the case, what point can there be in arguing over these issues?

Now it is obviously the case that people do change their minds. Many are familiar with Irving Kristol's gibe that neo-conservatives are liberals "mugged by reality." But how often does this actually occur? There are a tiny number of cases of quasi-"religious" conversion, as it were, and a somewhat greater number of cases of people dragged, kicking and screaming as it were, from one position to another. But this is usually a very long process, and how often does it really happen? In my experience, only rarely.[4]

Similarly, it seems to me that different takes on Judaism on the part of different sorts of Jews are not arguments over facts or their interpretation. When each group insists that only it knows the truth, that only it truly represents the message of Sinai, constructive conversation becomes impossible. We should learn to disagree, but join hands when we can—there are certainly enough challenges facing the Jewish people to give each and every one of us plenty to do together.

To my mind, there is nothing new about this; it is the way Judaism has always worked. Had Descartes been Jewish, he would have said, "We argue, therefore we are." As I will try to illustrate, I mean something more than a trite reference to the culture of talmudic mahloket, something more than trotting out "these and these are the words of the living God"—I mean something deeper.

I am writing these words during the summer months, which means that we are reading Sefer Bemidbar (the Book of Numbers) in the synagogue. Recently, I came across Rashi on Numbers 8:4. The Torah there says, According to the pattern that the Lord had shown Moses, so was the lampstand [menorah] made. On this passage Rashi writes: "God showed Moses with His finger [how the menorah was to be made], as Moses had difficulty [visualizing it]." Did Rashi really believe that God has fingers? We will never know. What is clear, however, is that Rashi was not troubled by the fact that his readers might easily understand him to think that God has corporeal form. He simply seemed to have no problem with the issue. Thus, in two other places in Sefer Shemot (the Book of Exodus, 7:5 and 14:31) Rashi tells us that references to God's hand are to yad mamash, "a hand actually." In these cases, he may not have meant to be taken literally, but, again, he certainly had no qualms about that possibility. Indeed, I will show below that there is good reason to believe that Rashi might well have thought that God actually had hands and fingers.[5] But first, let us see what Maimonides says about this matter.

In "Laws Concerning Repentance," III.6, Maimonides writes that "The following have no portion in the world to come, but are cut off and perish, and for their great wickedness and sinfulness are condemned forever and ever." In paragraph 7, he specifies one of the groups of people here mentioned:

Five classes are termed sectarians [minim]: he who says that there is no God and that the world has no ruler; he who says that there is a ruling power but that it is vested in two or more persons;  he who says that there is one Ruler, but that He has a body and  has form; he who denies that He alone is the First Cause and Rock of the universe; likewise he who renders worship to  anyone beside Him, to serve as a mediator between the human being and the Lord of the universe. Whoever belongs to any of these five classes is termed a sectarian.[6]

On this text, Maimonides' acerbic critic, R. Abraham ben David (Rabad), writes:

Why has he called such a person [he who says that there is one Ruler, but that He has a body and has form] a sectarian? There are many people greater than, and superior to him, who adhere to such a belief on the basis of what they have seen in verses of Scripture, and even more in the words of the aggadot, which corrupt right opinion about religious matters.[7]

I do not believe that Rabad was affirming the corporeality of God (after all, those who do believe in divine corporeality are misled by Torah verses and aggadot that “corrupt right opinion about religious matters"); rather he was affirming that one is allowed to be mistaken about that issue. It would appear that Rashi might very well fall under the heading of people "greater than and superior" to Maimonides who got this matter wrong, or at the very least was unconcerned about possibly misleading others about the issue. But, according to Maimonides, if Rashi held that God has hands and fingers, then he is a min (sectarian) who has no share in the world to come![8] God's corporeality is an issue about which no one is permitted to remain mistaken, not even "children, women, stupid ones, and those of a defective natural disposition" (Guide I.35, p. 81).[9]

So, is Maimonides right? If so, is Rashi a heretic (at whom God is angry and whom God hates)?[10] If Rashi is not a heretic, does he have a share in the world to come, and is he arguing with Maimonides about this subject in heaven? If so, then was Maimonides, the greatest theologian whom Judaism has ever known, wrong about a core issue of Jewish belief?[11]

In a preface he kindly wrote for my book, Maimonides' Confrontation with Mysticism,[12] Moshe Idel pointed out that Maimonides and Judah Halevi, despite the many important differences between them as laid out in that book, could have prayed together in the same synagogue. Maimonides, I am sure, would be welcome in Rashi's shul, but I very much doubt that Rashi would have been made welcome in Rambam's synagogue.[13]

Let us use Rashi in Sefer Bemidbar for another example. In Numbers 12:1, Rashi seeks to explain aspects of Aaron and Miriam's criticism of their brother Moses. One of the objects of their criticism of their brother is that Moses had taken to wife "a Cushite woman." Rashi there indulges in unfortunate racism[14] and also explains part of the verse by reference to the evil eye, which he seems to take literally.[15]

I very much doubt whether Maimonides took the notion of evil eye in the literal way in which Rashi apparently presents it.[16] Be that as it may, I would be surprised if many readers of Conversations really believe in the power of the evil eye in the non-metaphorical way in which Rashi seems to take it. So, those of you readers of this article who do not believe in the evil eye: are you (and I) heretics (for denying something taught, with all apparent seriousness, in Talmud and Rashi), or are believers in the evil eye mistaken and perhaps simply superstitious? If the latter, what does that say about Rashi in your eyes, what does it say about your emunat hakhamim, about "da'as Torah"?[17]

Remaining with Sefer Bemidbar, I was struck by verse 14:42, where a group of Israelites sought to ascend to the Land (after the affair of the spies) without divine sanction. They were warned: Do not go up, lest you be routed by your enemies, for the Lord is not in your midst—and indeed they were routed by their enemies. It occurred to me that anti-Zionist Hareidim probably read that verse as a warning against Zionism. (Of course, thank God, it is our enemies, and not us, who are consistently routed, which undercuts any possible Hareidi reading of the verse—but, for them, as Herzl famously said, "If you will it, it is no dream.") Thanks to the successes of the State of Israel (and thanks to the Zionist taxes, which support so many Hareidim) the fundamental debate between Zionists and Hareidi non- and anti-Zionists is largely dormant today. But the debate is actually quite fundamental—one need not go as far as the Satmar Rebbe who blamed the Holocaust on the "sins" of Haskalah and Zionism to understand that in the eyes of Hareidim one who sees the State of Israel as having positive religious value (messianic or otherwise) is at the very least foolish and more likely sinful. If one also sees the State of Israel as the "first flowering of the messianic redemption," then, in Hareidi eyes, one violates the twelfth of Maimonides' Thirteen Principles of Faith, which adjures Jews to wait for the coming of the Messiah.

Continuing with my current reading, I recently came across a passage in Rav Kook's Orot[18] that really surprised me.[19] Rav Kook maintains that one who holds that all human beings are holy, that all are children of the Lord, that there is no difference between nation and nation, that there is no chosen and holy nation in the world, that all human beings are equally holy (the repetition is in the text), such a one is a follower of Korah and gives expression to the latest form of the sin of Cain. Rav Kook condemns this view in the strongest possible terms.

Okay, so I am an evil follower of Korah—but so is Maimonides.[20] One is tempted here to recall the late Yeshayahu Leibowitz's joking (?) claim that there are two inconsistent traditions in Judaism, one beginning with Moses, continuing through Isaiah, Rabbi Yishmael, Maimonides and on to Leibowitz himself, the second beginning with Korah, continuing through Ezra, Rabbi Akiva, Judah Halevi, the authors of the Zohar, Hassidut, and on to the two Rabbis Kook. But this is really no joking matter. As in the previous examples, we have here dramatically different views about core issues in Judaism, within what is ordinarily called Orthodoxy. These arguments are not about peripheral issues, nor can they be papered over. If truth is God's seal, and if we affirm "Moses is true, and his Torah is true,” we should not be able to look at such debates with equanimity, pretending that they are not important. But that is precisely what Jews have always done!

In making this claim, and in citing the examples above, I have, in effect, been following up the thrust of my book, Must a Jew Believe Anything?. In that book, I argued that historically Jews paid more attention to what people did than to what they thought, and that a focus on orthodoxy per se is a modern—and unfortunate—innovation.[21] If we insist on our version of Jewish truth alone, and reject competing views as illegitimate, then we must decide whom to admit to our Orthodox synagogues: Rashi or Maimonides, Rav Kook or Maimonides, those of us who accept superstitions or those of us who reject them, Zionists or non/anti Zionists. If we admit all of them (and give them aliyot!), how can we exclude the "Open Orthodox," Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist, Reconformodox Jews? We simply cannot have it both ways.[22]

Of late, the issue has come to the fore dramatically. Rabbis, all of whom are ordinarily considered Orthodox, and who certainly look it, are more and more allowing themselves publicly to ask questions about the historicity of the biblical stories, about the nature of the Revelation at Sinai and about the morality of many biblical stories.[23] It is questions such as these that caused the late Louis Jacobs to be hounded out of English Orthodoxy.[24]

I foresee at least two immediate objections to my thesis in this essay. I will be "accused" of advocating orthopraxy, or social orthodoxy.[25] It will also be argued that however far apart Rashi and Rambam are theologically, for example, at least they both put on tefillin and kept kasher and that therefore their theological differences can be ignored, or at least minimized.

The first accusation is wrong: My argument here rests on the notion that emunah, faith, in Judaism is first and foremost a relationship with God, and not something defined by specific beliefs (Rambam, of course, to the contrary).[26] Biblical and talmudic Judaism were uninterested in theology per se, and also preferred practice for the wrong reason (she-lo lishmah), but only because it would lead to practice for the right reason (li-shmah) and this right reason certainly involved trust in God. Ruth said to Naomi: "Your people are my people"—but did not leave it at that; she immediately added: "Your God is my God." To all intents and purposes, Maimonides sought to change Judaism from a community, in effect a family, defined by shared history, shared hopes for the future, and a never clearly defined faith/trust in God, into a community of true believers. In other words, Maimonides reversed Ruth's statement and in so doing created Jewish orthodoxy. For the past 800 years this innovation has been both accepted and resisted. Accepted, at least pro forma, by all those Jews who think that Maimonides' Thirteen Principles define Judaism;[27] resisted, by all those Jews who refuse in practice to accept the consequences of this definition of Judaism, finding all sorts of excuses not to persecute (unto death) heretics.

The second objection involves a kind of self-contradiction, or circular reasoning. At bottom, it depends upon a notion of "orthodoxy" introduced into Judaism by Maimonides, but willfully ignores the issues which he himself thought most important. Of course, Rashi and Rambam would be made welcome in our synagogues (thank God for that!). But for Maimonides punctilious fulfillment of the mitzvoth does not make one Orthodox: only orthodoxy (=correct doctrines) makes one Orthodox.

Both objections to my argument here seek to have their cake, and eat it, too.

In conclusion: Can I hold on to traditional "Orthodoxy" (in terms of community and practice[28]) while refusing to reject non-Orthodox versions of Judaism out of hand? Sure, if I resist Maimonidean orthodoxy and return to the way in which Judaism was understood in Torah and Talmud.[29]