National Scholar Updates

The Torah opens with the account of the creation of the universe and human beings; the early generations of humanity; the lives of the Patriarchs, Matriarchs, and their children; the slavery in Egypt and the redemption from it—all of this long before the giving of the Torah. The Master of the Universe did not begin the Torah with “I am the Lord your God” and with the giving of the Ten Commandments, but rather with the story of creation—the deeds of human beings and the way the world operated before the Torah was given. The world functioned in its natural glory even before the giving of the Torah. This fact elicited various interpretations in the teachings of our Sages. One of these lessons found expression among our Sages in the phrase, derekh erets kademah leTorah (the ways of the world precede the Torah).

In order to understand the significance of this phrase, we must first analyze its various components. The phrase derekh erets, in the usage of our Sages, refers to the natural ways of the world. Derekh erets is the phrase the Sages use when speaking of earning one’s living through labor; interpersonal relations; principles of good behavior among human beings; natural needs; and all things that are in fact the ways of the world, the way in which the world operates. As for “Torah,” this is explained by many Sages to refer to “the giving of the Torah;” this phrase, in the view of our Sages, emphasizes the fact that long before the giving of the Torah there existed derekh erets, the ways of the world.

Does this refer merely to a chronological record? Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, of blessed memory, asserted that this historical fact has broader significance relating to the structure of the Torah. The Torah accepts the natural ways of the world. It does not create derekh erets, and certainly does not negate it. Derekh erets is the basis for the fulfillment of Torah.

The Torah takes the derekh erets that already exists in the world, and builds upon it a second level. This second level is the level of holiness, purity, the unique Torah teachings on relationships among human beings. Many times, the Torah delimits the boundaries of derekh erets and demands that human beings restrict themselves by not following what they might want to do. For example, the Torah accepts the natural derekh erets of eating, but it establishes that there are forbidden foods, and that there are forbidden procedures such as the mixing of meat and milk. However, the starting point of the Torah is that human beings eat as a natural part of their functioning, and the halakha does not take issue with that. Sometimes, the Torah expands on the natural ways of the world, requiring humans to be more active and do more than is customary. For example, the Torah commands humans to be fruitful and multiply; according to our Sages, there is also a mitzvah to continue to expand the family even after the basic mitzvah has been fulfilled.

This position has numerous halakhic ramifications. In fact, all of halakha is based on this presumption. It is a common error to think that halakhic texts establish the image of a Jewish person in the world. What establishes this image actually has two sources: the Jew is a citizen of the world and is part of it, and in this respect functions in the framework of all humanity. However, the Jew also is unique, separate and alone, “not reckoned among the nations.” The Jew is, in his or her own way, sustained not merely from the natural ways of the world, but also from the higher level of humanity—the level that includes the acceptance of the yoke of Heaven, mitzvoth, and holiness.

This worldview is the key to confronting many problems of our generation. For example, an inseparable aspect of the human personality is the deep connection with culture—as a creator of culture and as one who needs culture. In recent years, we have witnessed a flowering of religious people in many fields of culture, such as the arts and sciences. Naturally, this phenomenon entails many halakhic and intellectual evaluations on the question of the place of culture in the worldview of the religious person. These analyses are quite similar to those that took place in the previous generation on the topic of Torah u’Mada (Torah and general knowledge/science).

It is necessary to consider two basic approaches that are reflected in the various analyses of these questions. One approach begins with the premise that we are obligated to find justification for culture or general knowledge/science, and only through this justification is it possible to bring them into our worldview. Some find justification in that these areas enable us to better understand God. Others find justification in that engaging in these areas enables us to influence the world. Still others find justification in various economic concerns, while others find justification in that the non-involvement in these areas will cause spiritual tension—and that one must engage in these areas in order to find some relief. The common denominator of all these religious philosophies is that there is a need for justification.

However, there is no Torah source for this approach. For example, the Torah finds no need to justify the fact that our Patriarchs were wealthy, or that some of our biblical ancestors were physically beautiful, or that our biblical heroes searched for love. The Torah, as has been stated, sees the natural way of life as the foundation of existence. Thus, its expression of ideas relating to wealth, love, beauty, and so forth, is natural and unself-conscious. Likewise, the concern for earning a livelihood by the labor of one’s own hands, one’s partnership with the world, one’s cultural ties, one’s general knowledge—these are self-evident in the Torah. There is no need whatsoever for any justification, since these things are part of the ways of the world. On these foundations, we must build the second level: the prohibitions of mixed species (kela’im) that limit the fields of science and agriculture, the principles of modesty that delimit art, and so on with additional mitzvoth.

The entire halakha is built this way. The laws of prayer do not establish the needs of humans. These needs are established by the normal ways of the world. Humans pray for what they need in light of the second level of the laws of prayer. The halakha does not essentially establish what is the proper rest for the Sabbath (see the Ramban on Parashat Emor); rest was determined in light of the definitions derived from the world of human beings; on these foundations did the Torah command the laws prohibiting certain forms of work. The Torah did not essentially establish how a married couple should relate to each other; these relationships are established according to the ways of human beings. Yet, the halakha builds a second level—the laws of family purity. The halakha does not establish what people talk about and what is important for human beings to know; these are established in light of the ways of human beings. However, the halakha limits speech through the prohibition of lashon hara (gossip and slander), and through the laws of chastising those who are sinning or of rising to aid someone whose life is in danger.

Without the principle of derekh erets kademah leTorah, we would not be able to function properly in the Bet Midrash. We would not be able to make rulings on the laws of how people should dress. It would be impossible to rule on monetary cases if we did not have the principles of natural ownership according to the guidelines of society; it would be impossible to delineate the forbidden labors on Shabbat if we did not first understand the natural workings of the world. We would be obligated to devote the entire governmental budget to healthcare to save lives, and we would be unable to arrange the government’s budget in the normal way governments arrange their budgets. The Torah itself indicates, when it discusses monarchy in Israel, the learning from the natural order of the world among the nations, “as all the nations around us.” My argument is that although only some of the posekim (rabbinic decisors) have written directly on this topic, in fact all of the posekim throughout the Responsa literature base themselves in a permanent and fixed way on the foundation of the world and the natural way of life. The “news” of the Torah is not in the denial of this principle, but in adopting it, strengthening it, limiting it, sanctifying it, purifying it, and giving it boundaries.

 I wish to emphasize that the principle of the naturalness of life is not reflected only in halakhic leniencies. On the contrary, many times it leads to halakhic stringencies of a significant level. It obligates us to relate to natural morality, to the proper interrelationships among people even when no halakha specifically is involved. In this framework, one accepts upon him or herself the ways of the world in the matter of the ethics of warfare and the struggle against military crimes. It obligates us to rest on Shabbat, not merely from the proscribed labors, but even from those things that interfere with Shabbat rest. In fact, in some cases it transforms the notion of uvdin de’hol (mundane activities typical of weekdays) into the category of Torah prohibitions, for it is concerned with the natural human ways of rest. It requires a married couple to establish a deep bond between themselves, far beyond the halakhic and legal principles found in the tractate Ketubot. At root, it obligates a religious person to play a role in the development of the world and its advancement on all levels—societal, intellectual, and cultural.

Therefore, the Torah personality resembles a pyramid, specifically in light of the descriptions in the Torah. First, he or she is a being created in God’s image, called on to be fruitful and multiply, and to develop the world according to the natural and foundational principles upon which the world operates, in all areas of life, individual and public. Above this level is built the level of the Israelite nation. The Jew does not stand only as an individual before God, but as part of the entire Jewish nation. At the top level are placed the Torah and mitzvoth, which nourish the lower stories with the dimension of holiness and clinging to the Master of the Universe. Strengthening this Torah position is the basis of many halakhot and the way of the people of Israel in its relationship with the entire world.

          By the measurable standards of today’s corporate-driven society, producers and consumers of Jewish education in America have much to celebrate. More Jewish boys, girls, and adults are learning today in yeshivot, seminaries, Day Schools, kollels, and post-college programs than at any other time in our history. Foundations such as Avi Chai and Mandel, professional organizations such as PEJE, and large metropolitan federations across the country are pumping more dollars, developing more programs, and deploying more human capital—from teacher induction and education to vision-driven curricular deliberations, from managerial expertise to experiential learning initiatives via student missions to Israel and other Jewish communities globally—than ever before. These are surely the best of times, institutionally-speaking, at least; if only we could creatively solve the tuition crisis—no small feat, of course—we’d immediately usher in a new Golden Era of Jewish education, a model for the ages.

          Still, despite our strong numbers and increasingly professionalized infrastructure, ask a Modern Orthodox educator how our community is doing, and you’ll likely hear ambivalence or frustration at best, apocalyptic predictions of the imminent demise of our movement at worst—certainly not the triumphalism or chest-thumping that our ostensible institutional success would seem to warrant. Alternately identified as an eclipsing of yir’at shamayim, a lack of passion or punctiliousness in shemirat haMitzvot, a religious behaviorism that belies the richness and depth of an authentic religious sensibility of inwardness and meaning, or some other such critique, this prognosis now coexists side-by-side with the increasingly clichéd “slide to the Right” and the phenomenon of “Flipping Out”—every comfortable Modern Orthodox parent’s worst nightmare. With her flanks falling off to the sides, the center just won’t hold. The martial metaphor here is apt: our educational institutions, starting first with the family, are engaged in nothing less than a counter-cultural struggle against the forces of consumerism, sound-byte oversimplification, and functionalism, on the one hand, and an often disdainful and stifling parochialism that denies the Divine Presence in the totality of the order of creation, on the other. Unsurprisingly, the sociological and cultural dispositions of both these unhappy alternatives feed off of each other in a vicious circular frenzy, further eroding the chances for a healthy and vibrant culture of critically engaged Orthodoxy. To name these troubling spheres of influence for the hearts and minds of our children and students is not to equate the threat posed by each to the religious well-being of our constituent population. The one necessary thing—the cultivation of an unapologetic life of avodat Hashem—must always be paramount. But the emotional and intellectual fallout from this communal tug-of-war has created nothing short of a profound crisis of meaning for many of our students.

          Recent conversations, mainly in Israel but slowly trickling stateside, on the omnipresence of Talmud in the traditional yeshiva high-school curriculum and the perceived crisis of value looming in the dati-le’umi horizon have sharpened the focus of this educational deliberation. Much of the discussion to date has centered around the question of “relevance” in our contemporary Talmud curriculum, with the sides of traditional Brisker lomdus squaring off against the newer schools of applied, contextualized, values-driven interpretation and teaching. I also want to raise the issue of relevance, not only in the relatively thin sense that shor sheNagah et haParah will not naturally resonate with today's suburban students as much as it did with our farm-friendly ancestors but, far more significantly, in the more robust, foundational sense that our students do not perceive the worlds of knowledge, experience, or meaning through the lenses of a Torah-centered consciousness. Simply put, Modern Orthodoxy struggles to articulate and transmit a coherent, compelling, and systematic worldview for its students, a worldview that gives consistent meaning and value to the welter of experience comprising our engagement with reality. This lack of a comprehensive worldview impacts many areas of a student’s religious life and development, from an inability to identify and articulate basic theological principles and commitments to a widespread confusion regarding the viability and parameters of our community’s engagement with modernity, civil society, and both high and popular culture. The vast majority of our students are unable to articulate what an authentically traditional position might be on a host of live issues facing them in today's world, that is to say, what to think Jewishly. Furthermore, they appear even far less equipped to begin the deliberation of how one would go about thinking Jewishly, how to frame or perceive an issue from a place of authority, meaning, and Jewish understanding.

          Thomas Mann once defined authenticity as a kind of "life full of citations," a way of being that draws on our lived and total engagement with our textuality, that constructs our consciousness out of the shared storehouse of our sacred scriptures, texts, and sources for our deepest sense of meaning and purpose. Our educational institutions fall far short of this ideal not just in the obvious inability of the vast majority of her students to quote or even simply recognize biblical verses, sayings of our Sages, or other sources from tefilla, mahshevet yisrael, mussar, and Hassidut—although talking to most Modern Orthodox high schoolers today will easily confirm this sad reality. Torah doesn't merely have something to say about everything we encounter in our lives, public and private, from politics to popular culture (often confused these days in our media-drenched society), from economic theory to sports, and everything in between; it is the very ground of our thinking, the prism through which we ought to understand all reality—beOrkha nir’eh or. This is first an epistemological claim, and only secondarily a pedagogical one. In both keys, this lack of a coherent and comprehensive hashkafat olam precludes our students from seeing knowledge, beauty, and experience in a religiously relevant fashion. (Although the literature on the religious significance of “worldview thinking” is rapidly growing in the communities of Christian academic and educational inquiry [see, most recently, James W. Sire, Naming the Elephant: Worldview as Concept, InterVarsity Press, Downers Grove, Il, 2004], to date, little has been contributed to the world of Jewish Thought in this important area. Two exceptions to this lacuna in our contemporary theological literature are Max Kadushin’s classic, The Rabbinic Mind, and, more recently, an important article by Jonathan Cohen, “Deliberation, Tradition, and the Problem of Incommensurability: Philosophical Reflections on Curricular Decision-Making” in Educational Theory 49 (1), pp. 71–89. Needless to say, more must been done to creatively appropriate this useful concept in Jewish educational circles.) There are, blessedly, study halls in Israel that are just beginning to seriously engage in this explicit work of worldview-formation from the rich depths of our mesorah and its robust application to the realia of cultural and political life. I have in mind here places such as Beit Morasha, Yeshivat Siach Yitzchak's Machon Bina l'Itim, Beit Midrash Ra'avah, and, on a more public scale, the Shalem Center. However, nothing remotely like this is happening in our Day Schools, yeshivot, or other mekomot haTorah in America—nor are there any signs that this vision- and value-driven talmudic inquiry is likely to take hold in major institutions of Torah study in the United States. We seem to be stuck in a sort of collective communal time-warp when it comes to our Talmud Torah, bound by modes of mechanical mastery of a technical or conceptual nature. Without the kind of values-driven, reflective halakhic study we’re describing here, Modern Orthodoxy in America will remain a religiously minimalist community of affluence and mediocrity, a spiritual halfway house for those on a serious quest for meaning, unable to provide its adherents with the religious and cultural resources to realize its ambitious and holy mandate.

To illustrate what I’m trying to capture in this call for the cultivation of a comprehensive worldview, I want to briefly focus on one particular area where I think our failure is most obvious and acute. For all the talk about the primacy of mitzvot bein adam leHaveiro in our tradition, I submit that our yeshivot and Day Schools would look very different if we didn’t merely pay lip-service to this domain of religious life, but, instead, really lived as our faith requires. What would our curriculum look like if we took seriously Hillel’s maxim that the entire Torah can be distilled into the principle of veAhavta leReakha kaMokha, and that the rest of the Torah is simply an elaboration of this ideal? What would our Day School and yeshiva graduates look like if they lived their lives as if the closest we came to the Divine Other in this world was in the divine face of the human other, if they really internalized C. S. Lewis’s powerful expression from his war-time sermon, The Weight of Glory, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal…but it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit”? Something like Levinas’ transformational reading of Rav Hayyim Volozhin or Rav Simcha Zisl’s ideal of acquiring Torah by “bearing the burden of the Other,” is what we’re programmatically—in the most tentative, telegraphic form—grasping at here. (For Levinas’ ethical-theological reconstruction of Nefesh haHayyim, see “’In the Image of God’ According to Rabbi Hayyim Volozhiner,” reprinted in Beyond the Verse: Talmudic Readings and Lectures (London and New York: Continuum, 2007), 148–163. For Rav Simcha Zisl, see Hokhma U’Mussar, chs. 1–4, MeOrei Orot haMussar, vol. 2, ed. Simcha Zisl Levovitz (Jerusalem, 2003) and the thoughtful analysis in Ira F. Stone, A Responsible Life: The Spiritual Path of Musar, (New York: Aviv Press, 2006.) But where is this embodied ethical learning and teaching taking place in Modern Orthodox America, or in most places in Israel, for that matter? Let me leave the reader with a couple of suggestions toward cultivating a mussar consciousness in our communities, one curricular, the other centered around school culture—before closing on a more hopeful note.

First, our choice of texts and topics—especially the way in which we study our traditional texts—should more concretely reflect this goal of making explicit the mostly implicit value-system or worldview contained within our mesorah. From Nezikin to Nashim, as well as in the more straightforward areas of ethical inquiry embodied in the halakhot governing shemirat haLashon, tsedakah, bikkur holim, ribit veOna’ah, kibbud av veEim, tseni’ut, and kavod haBeriot, to name just the most obvious cases, our curriculum must raise the questions of human value, of personal identity, of conceptions of gender and community, of social and political justice, and, above all, of the radical commitment to an ethic of religious humanism, a theological anthropology, that saturates our tradition. Obviously, more attention should be paid to classics in mahshava, mussar, and Hassidut, which treat these concerns in a direct manner (again, read and studied in a deliberate and reflective fashion—Mesillat Yesharim can be taught, and usually is, I’m afraid, in a way that bypasses almost all of these concerns, making it less, not more, of a source of real, transformative power), but the yam shel Talmud and halakha are still the most significant sources for this sort of study. Second, our schools and yeshivot need to create the spiritual space for faculty, rebbeim and teachers, to engage in their own religious and ethical growth and development, a personal-pedagogical discipline of heshbon haNefesh. Rav Dov Singer, Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Makor Hayyim in Kefar Etzion and one of our community’s most thoughtful educators, once told me that when his yeshiva’s students are not experiencing tefilla with the proper kavana, or are becoming too competitive and not forming a cohesive cohort, or are otherwise not striking a healthy balance between an appropriate work ethic and a sense of the larger goals of learning, the faculty look inward, and search within themselves for the latent sources of dysfunction. Institutional and classroom leaders must model this kind of introspective habit if our students are to see spiritual practice in action and be receptive to its proper place in their own lives.

          In 1789, Samuel and John Phillips founded their academy in Andover, Massachusetts, and wrote the following lines, elegantly articulating the very kind of comprehensive religious and moral educational vision we’ve just outlined:

But above all, it is expected that the Master’s attention to the disposition of the minds and morals of the Youth under his charge will exceed every other care; well-considering that, though goodness without knowledge…is weak and feeble; yet knowledge without goodness is dangerous; and that both united form the noblest of character…the first and principal object of this institution is the promotion of Piety and Virtue. (Cited in F. Washington Jarvis, With Love and Prayers: A Headmaster Speaks to the Next Generation, [Boston: David R. Godine Publishers, 2000], xxi.)

          Less than a century after the founding of the Phillips Andover Academy and halfway around the world, Rav Yisrael Salanter made a similar claim for the priority of ethical education over traditional forms of talmudic scholarship, of charity over theory, radically revolutionizing the landscape of Jewish education for the next fifty years. If not for the destruction of European Jewry in the middle of the past century, the Mussar Movement may still have been advancing the aims of reflective, practice-based character education, stemming from a comprehensive worldview grounded in the sources of our mesorah, to ever more sophisticated heights. Perhaps what this postmodern world needs most, with its deep skepticism toward abstract rationality divorced from pragmatic value, is another kind of Salanter-inspired renaissance.

It is with great hesitation and trepidation that I write this essay. I do not want to be misunderstood. I am in love with Judaism, rabbinic tradition, and halakha. I regard them as holy, and they are at the very core of my existence. Nonetheless, I am concerned about the future of Judaism and its impact on our young people.

This essay is an emotional appeal to our religious leadership, and should be read in that spirit. It is not an academic paper, citing many sources and raising intellectual arguments; rather, it is written out of deep concern, and should be viewed as an honest attempt to deal with some serious problems which plague the contemporary Jewish religious community. It is written in sweat and blood. My intention is not to spread discontent, but to help Orthodox Judaism move forward in an age which is radically different from that of our forefathers.

I teach Jewish Philosophy. I am confronted daily with countless young Jews who search for an authentic Jewish religious way of life, but are unable to find spiritual satisfaction in the prevalent halakhic system as practiced today in most Ultra or Modern-Orthodox communities. For many of them, typical halakhic life is not synonymous with genuine religiosity. They feel that halakha has become too monotonous, too standardized and too external for them to experience the presence of God on a day-to-day basis. Beyond "observance", they look for holiness and meaning. Many of them feel there is too much formalism in the halakhic system, and not enough internal meaning; too much obedience and not enough room for the individualistic soul, or for religious spontaneity. More and more sincere young people express these concerns, and many of them are deeply affected by their inability to live a conventional halakhic life. Since they sincerely long for the opportunity to experience halakha, I struggle to find a response to this acute growing predicament. The solution must simultaneously acknowledge that a genuine Jewish religious life cannot exist without being committed to the world of halakha. This existential tension greatly influenced the content of this paper. The following observations are therefore not written from the perspective of a halakhist, but from the perspective of a deeply concerned Jewish thinker, who wants young people to be authentically religious while living a halakhic life which is meaningful to them. The following suggests a new insight into the world of halakha and its practical application.

Surely there are many arguments which can be brought against the contents of this essay, some of which I can point to myself. However, the purpose of this essay is to get people thinking, not to claim the definitive truth of my observations and suggestions.
I am fully aware that the views expressed may not be palatable to most bona fide and respected poskim. My analysis and suggestions will probably not carry their approval. I hope only to act as a catalyst in the hope that some halakhic authorities and Jewish thinkers will take my suggestions seriously and be prepared to discuss them. They are nothing more than thoughts which came to mind when contemplating and discussing these issues with students.

It is essential that the reader realizes my intention is not to simplify Judaism by making it more compatible with the progressive spirit of our age. Nor do I seek to make Judaism easier and more user-friendly by finding leniencies and short cuts. I do not believe that this is at the heart of the problems Judaism faces today. What is vital is whether or not Judaism is able to offer the Jew a divine mission, transforming the modern Jew into a holy, religiously inspired being, who embodies the very essence of Torah in modern society. Judaism needs to be infused with greater spiritual vitality and religious vigor. This is what so many young people are searching for today.

In order to achieve this, the spiritual dimensions of Judaism need a lot more attention. This may require application of aggadic (non-legal) inspirational sentiments in halakhic decision making. No doubt many formal poskim will object to this approach, based on the notion that aggadic and halakhic material should be separated. Nonetheless, I believe that if we wish to keep Judaism alive for the many people who seek different paths to Jewish religiosity, this approach must be carefully considered. Once additional spiritual dimensions are infused into the world of halakha, and the very image of halakha is seen in a different light, young searching people will be able to find the Jewish religious life which they seek. This may require going beyond the conventional kelalei pesikah (principles of halakhic decision-making) which were used in the past. This approach is not meant to undermine the conventional ways in which halakha works; rather, to find a way to inspire young people who seek to find themselves in halakhic Judaism.

The observations and suggestions brought here are based on the belief that while halakha has a stiff and formal side, it also includes a cry for personal religious creativity, a call for human nobility and a demand for devotion and kedusha (holiness).

1

The Problem of Codification

Over the last five hundred years, famous rabbinic leaders have called to limit the overwhelming authority of Rabbi Josef Karo's Shulhan Arukh and Maimonides' Mishneh Torah. They felt that these works do not reflect authentic Judaism and its halakhic tradition. The reason is obvious. Both these great codes of Jewish Law are very un-Jewish in spirit. They present halakha in ways which oppose the heart and soul of the Talmud, and therefore of Judaism itself. They deprived Judaism of its multifaceted halakhic tradition and its inherent music. It is not the works themselves which are the problem but the ideology which they represent: The ethos of codifying and finalizing Jewish Law.

This problem has taken on formidable proportions in our day. There is more Jewish learning today than in the last two thousand years. More and more young people dedicate themselves to a life of shemirath hamitzvot (religious observance). This should be cause for great optimism. What more could we want in an age of extreme secularism? However, it is hard to deny that this commitment reveals a worrisome side-effect. It exposes elements of an artificial Judaism which has been re-written in ways which detrimentally oppose its very nature.

A careful read of modern Jewish Orthodox literature reveals that many authors misunderstand the nature of Jewish law. Much of this literature is dedicated to extreme and obsessive codification, which goes hand in hand with a desire to "fix" halakha once and for all. The laws of muktzeh, tevilath kelim, tzeniut and many others are codified in much greater detail than ever before. These works have become the standard by which the young growing observant community lives its life. When studying them one wonders whether our forefathers were ever really observant, since such compendia were never available to them and they could never have known all the minutiae presented today to the observant Jew. Over the years we have embalmed Judaism while claiming it is alive because it continues to maintain its external shape.

The majority of halakhic literature today is streamlined, allowing little room for halakhic flexibility and for the spiritual need for novelty. For the most part, the reader is encouraged to follow the most stringent view without asking whether this will actually help her or him in their Avodath Ha-Borei (service of the Almighty) according to her or his distinct personality. The song of the halakha, its spirit and mission are entirely lost in this type of literature. When the student looks beyond these works seeking music, he is often confronted with a dogmatic approach to Judaism which entirely misses the mark. We are plagued by over-codification and dogmatization.

Another obsessive attempt which contrasts the very nature of Judaism is the attempt to codify Jewish beliefs. Jewish beliefs are constantly dogmatized and halakhicized by rabbinic authorities, and anyone who does not accept these rigid beliefs is no longer considered to be a real religious Jew. A spirit of finalization has taken over Judaism.

These and Those are the Words of the Living God

One of the Talmud's greatest contributions to Judaism is its indetermination, its frequent refusal to lay down the law. Talmudic discussions consist primarily of competing positions, often lacking a clear decision which view is authoritative. The reason is obvious: There should not be one. The well known Talmudic statement, "Elu ve-elu divrei Elohim hayim" - "these and those are the words of the living God" (Eruvin 13b), supports this position. Halakhic disagreement and radically opposing opinions are of the essence. There is a profound reason for this principle. The Torah, which is the word of God, can only be multifaceted. Like God Himself, it can never fit into a finalized system, for it is much too broad in scope. Every human being is different; the Torah must therefore be different to each one of them, showing infinite dimensions and possibilities. This is one of the most fascinating aspects of Jewish Tradition, making it strikingly distinct from the religions of the world.

In an illuminating discourse, Rabbi Shelomo Luria, Maharshal (1510-1573) states:

One should never be astonished by the range of debate and argumentation in matters of halakha. ... All these views are in the category of "these and those are the words of the living God" as if each one of them was directly received by Moshe at Sinai... The Kabbalists explained that the basis for this is that each individual soul was present at Sinai and received the Torah by means of forty-nine tzinoroth, spiritual channels. Each one perceived the Torah from his own perspective in accordance with his intellectual capacity as well as the nature and uniqueness of his particular soul. This accounts for the discrepancy in perception inasmuch as one concluded that an object was tamei in the extreme, another perceived it be absolutely tahor, and yet a third individual argues the ambivalent status of the object in question. All these are true and authentic views. Thus the sages declared that in a debate among the scholars, all positions articulated are different forms of the same truth. (Yam shel Shelomo, Introduction to Bava Kama)

Maharshal's observations go to the heart of Judaism. There is no such thing as a fixed Torah which is identical for all. Surely there are objectives which need to be achieved: namely, the fulfillment of God's commandments. But there are no passive recipients. Each person receives the Torah individually, according to his or her own personality and exceptional circumstances. In fact, one could argue that ideally no written text should have been given at Sinai since no two people are able to read the same text in an identical way. The meaning of the text is dependent to a large extent on the reader and is therefore not a fixed reality. The fact that a text was even given at Sinai is in itself a compromise. Even if a text should have been given, a priori, it should have been in as many versions as there are Jews since Sinai. This did not happen; only one text was revealed due to the fact that there was a need for unity and affiliation among Jews, sharing the experience of a divine text in a bond of togetherness, shaping a chosen people that would carry the word of God to the world. There was a need for a grundnorm through which Jews would be able to discuss the word of God and share it wherever they go. Above all, a fixed text was necessary to facilitate discussion, not agreement. In this way it would stay alive, infinitely enhancing new possible interpretations and unique insights.

It could even be argued that not all Jews were in need of the same mitzvoth. It was only for the sake of comradeship, and the common destiny of the Jewish people and their mission to the world, that they all had to commit themselves to all of the mitzvoth. In the words of Rabbi Mordechai Yoseph from Isbitza, "And although not every Jew is in need of every prohibition in the Torah, he is still obligated to heed and suffer this prohibition for the sake of his fellow Jew."(Mei Hashiloah, Parashat Bereshith 22:12)

The Nature of Halakha

Halakha is the practical upshot of un-finalized beliefs, a practical way of life while remaining in theological suspense. In matters of the spirit and the quest to find God, it is not possible to come to final conclusions. The quest for God must remain open-ended to enable the human spirit to find its way through trial and discovery. As such, Judaism has no catechism. It has an inherent aversion to dogma. Although it includes strong beliefs, they are not susceptible to formulation in any kind of authoritative system. It is up to the Talmudic scholar to choose between many opinions, for they are all authentic. They are part of God's Torah, and even opposing opinions "are all from one Shepherd" (Hagiga 3b).

Halakha transforms the fluid liquid of Jewish beliefs and transforms them into a solid substance. It chills the heated steel of exalted ideas and turns them into pragmatic actions. The unique balance between practical halakha and un-finalized beliefs ensures that Judaism will not turn into a religion which is paralyzed in awe of a rigid tradition or evaporate into a utopian reverie.

Still, it would be entirely wrong to believe that the need for practical application of halakha has anything to do with absolute truth. Practical halakha is in principle only one way to act. It carries authority only as far as the practical implementation of the halakha is concerned. Even when practical halakha must be decided upon, the heat of debate must stay alive. Jewish beliefs are like shafts that dart to and fro, wavering as though shot into the air from a slackened bowstring; halakha must reflect this. While halakha is more straight and unswerving, it must adhere to the unequivocal truth that even opposing halakhic opinions are "all the words of the living God," and each of them carries the potential to become practical halakha.

Critique of Maimonides and Rabbi Joseph Karo

As mentioned earlier, several outstanding Talmudists have argued that Maimonides' Mishneh Torah and Rabbi Joseph Karo's Shulhan Arukh starved Jewish law of this very spirit. Maimonides eliminates all references to the basis of his rulings and almost entirely ignores even the existence of dissent and minority opinions. On the occasion where he does refer to them, he seems to express a negative attitude, as if he would like to save Judaism from this embarrassment. (See, for example, Hilkhot Mamrim 1:3-4.) Although less extreme, Rabbi Joseph Karo also states his rulings in the Shulhan Arukh in general language without mentioning sources or other opinions. It is true that he first authored the "Beit Yosef" in which he brings many opinions and citations, so one might argue that he did not want his Shulhan Arukh to become a distinct and self contained work. However, the fact is that once he authored this work, it quickly assumed this very status. It would be hard to argue that the author did not foresee this possibility.

Maharshal, Maharal and Rabbi Haim ben Betzalel

Three early authorities were deeply concerned about this development: Rabbi Shelomo Luria, known as Maharshal (1510-1573); Rabbi Yehudah Low ben Betzalel, known as the Maharal of Prague (1520-1609); and Rabbi Haim Ben Betzalel (1530-1588), brother of the Maharal. Each in his own way attacked the Mishneh Torah and the Shulhan Arukh, claiming they were anti-Talmudic and therefore anti-halakhic. Maharshal accused Maimonides of acting "as if (he) received it (the Mishneh Torah) directly from Moshe at Mount Sinai who received it directly from Heaven, offering no proof ..." (Yam shel Shelomo, Introduction to Bava Kama). Directing his attack to Rabbi Joseph Karo's Shulhan Arukh in which the author follows the majority opinion of three authorities (Rif, Rosh and Maimonides), Maharshal asked how the author had the right to do so. Did Rabbi Joseph Karo receive such a tradition going back to the days of the sages? (ibid)

Maharshal goes on to state that the Shulhan Arukh's entire enterprise is dangerous. Those who study it will come to believe that what Rabbi Joseph Karo wrote has finality, and even "if a living person would stand in front of them and exclaim that the halakha is different, citing excellent arguments or even an authoritative received tradition, they will pay no heed to his words..." (Yam shel Shelomo, introduction to Hulin). Rabbi Haim ben Betzalel adds that people will fail to realize that this current authority is "just one person among many". (Vikuah Mayim Haim 7.)

Moreover, such codices lead to intellectual laziness. People will no longer study the Talmud in their reliance on these works. They can be compared to a pauper who collects alms from wealthy people and shows off his riches. At first it seems that he is indeed rich. After all, he has food and clothing. But in truth this is illusory, for all he has are the items he collected. (ibid) Similarly, one who studies only these codices and rules does not know the ins and the outs of the Talmudic debates which preceded them.

Rabbi Betzalel warns of yet another danger. How can one ever know whether the law as stated in the Mishneh Torah or Shulhan Arukh is applicable to a particular situation? Such matters are in a state of flux. A minor change may require a radically different response. Even more daring is his observation that since the "[Torah] is no longer in Heaven" (Baba Metzia, 59a-b) and halakhic matters must be decided upon by human beings, it is possible that the same halakhic authority may see things differently today than he did yesterday. As such, he may rule differently today than he did yesterday. This is not a shortcoming or inconsistency. It is all part of the principle that "these and those are the words of the living God."

Maharal adds that the Rabbi can only rely on his own intellect: "And even when his wisdom leads him to err, he is nonetheless beloved by God as long as he has used his best reasoning. And this person is by far preferred to the person who determines the halakha from within one work, without knowing the reason, walking like a blind person along the way" ( Netivoth Olam 16, end ).

These authorities agree that the Talmud alone should be the source of halakhic decision making. All declare that the concern "that there will be many Torahs in Israel" (Sanhedrin 88b) has no bearing on this matter. It is not the multitude of halakhic opinions which creates the danger of many Torahs; it is the rejection of the Talmud as the only authoritative text to decide on halakhic issues which presents this danger. In fact, it is codification which causes the problem of many Torahs in Israel, since it no longer requires the posek to return to the various opinions stated in the Talmud! The Talmud embodies Judaism in its most authentic form. It is the validity of each of the opposing opinions as part God's Torah which makes Judaism vibrant and true to its own spirit. It is only from the Talmud itself that the Rabbi needs to decide the law, taking into account all the different opinions mentioned therein.

No doubt Maimonides and Rabbi Joseph Karo had the best of intentions. They wanted to create common ground and felt that a unified codification would make that possible. Both felt that their fellow Jews needed a streamlined Judaism in which nearly nothing was left to imagination. As Maimonides' thirteen principles of faith gave Judaism an appearance of a dogmatic religion, so do the Mishneh Torah and the Shulhan Arukh. These codified works introduced foreign elements into Judaism. Looking back, we can see that they caused a misrepresentation of the nature of Jewish law and its spirit. It set in motion an entire genre of halakhic literature which is un-Jewish in spirit. The result was a severe false impression of Judaism, which became the cause célèbre for attacking Judaism as a religion of stern rigidity. Spinoza's Tractatus Theologico Politicus is a typical example of this, and extreme codification in today's Jewish world is the obvious result.

By all means, we should continue to study the works of Maimonides and Rabbi Joseph Karo and possibly even live by their directives. They belong to the best which Judaism has to offer. But we should be careful not to create an impression that there are no alternative ways. We must make our young searching people aware that halakha is much more than what these works represent. Above all, we should see these works as sublime commentaries on the Talmud. Specifically, Maimonides' Mishneh Torah offers us profound insights into how his genius mind read and understood the Talmud. It is in this, and not in his attempt to codify Jewish Law, that Maimonides made his greatest contribution to Jewish learning. Ultimately, it is only by the discussions in the Talmud that we, with the help of our rabbis, should decide how to live our religious lives.

Judaism is an Autonomous Way of Living

The question we now need to ask is how to bring Judaism back to its original authentic "self" in which the halakhic tradition of "elu ve-elu," is once more recognized and applied. Can we reactivate this concept in order to bring new life into the bloodstream of Judaism for those young people who are in dire need? Surely the principle of "elu ve-elu" is not a blank check that anything goes. The principle should only be implemented if it will stimulate greater commitment to Jewish religious life while simultaneously responding to the many drastic changes which have taken place in our modern world. The need for human autonomy as well as spirituality and meaning which are sought by so many young people will have to be addressed.

We must realize that Judaism is an autonomous way of life. While the need for conformity within the community must constantly be taken into consideration, ultimately one is expected to respond as an individual to the Torah's demands. Each human being is an entire world, and no two human beings are identical in their psychological make up, religious needs or experience of God. One can only encounter God as an individual. What, after all, is the purpose of my existence if not to relate to God differently from my neighbor? To imitate what others do in their service of God is to demonstrate that there is no reason for me to have been born. The overwhelming need for human distinctiveness is demonstrated by the fact that no Jew received the Torah or heard the voice of God at Sinai in a similar way, as the Maharshal observed. The need for more halakhic autonomy is not for the sole purpose of adapting Judaism to the spirit of modern times, but also to make Judaism more authentic and true to its own spirit. While the necessity for communal conformity often made it difficult for Judaism to emphasize the need for personal autonomy, the difficulty experienced by so many young people today may propel this matter to the forefront of our concern.

Difficult Questions

In light of the abovementioned observations, I wonder whether we can re-introduce the great Talmudic debates in a way which will reshape Judaism into its original multifaceted and colorful self, so that the young searching Jews of today will fall in love with it. Should we perhaps permit, and even encourage, people or communities to decide themselves which of the many opinions in the Talmud they would like to follow?

To answer this question we surely must move beyond the conventional way in which halakha has been applied throughout later generations. In many ways the question is not only a halakhic one; it is also one of hashkafa. We need to find new paths to Jewish spirituality, and the world of aggada may be able to help us. While it is not at all clear where issues of halakha end and where matters of hashkafa, aggada and spiritual needs which influence halakhic thinking begin, it is necessary to enter into a new halakhic way of thinking; one which has rarely been used, but is clearly part of the world of the Talmud. This is the concept of multiple truths within God's Torah. In our modern world the spirit of halakha as a multifaceted living tradition becomes extremely relevant. Conventional rules on how to reach a halakhic decision may have to incorporate more spiritual requirements. However, this can be done only as long as they are rooted in the Talmud and do not violate the underlying principles of halakhic debate as disclosed by "elu ve-elu." The debate regarding whether individuals can decide on their own which opinion in the Talmud they would like to follow is of utmost importance.

Halakhic Scholars and Religious Crisis

The great halakhic scholars of today and tomorrow will have to decide whether we are permitted to implement this idea. Will they be prepared to sincerely consider these questions? Are they equipped with enough knowledge about our world - the moral, spiritual and religious crisis in which so many young people find themselves - to handle this matter? Do they fully understand the central place that human autonomy occupies in today's society and in authentic Judaism? Do they connect enough with the religious melody of halakha to even see the need for these questions? They can easily reject these questions as irrelevant, unacceptable, non-kosher or even heretical; but this won't do. Too much is at stake. The existential predicament of mankind at large and the Jewish people in particular is so great, that rejection of these problems will ultimately distance many fine Jews from the Jewish tradition and religious observance. Ignoring the growing need of so many young, intelligent searching people for an autonomous approach to a personal halakhic life is no longer possible. Great courage is required to even raise these questions, let alone give answers. What is needed is sincere willingness to think out of the box.

Halakhic Problems

At first glance, it seems that many halakhic principles might bar the possibility of reintroducing the concept of elu ve-elu. The Talmud includes minority opinions concerning dinei d'rabbanan - rabbinic law. This is the category which urgently necessitates dealing with issues of spirituality and established halakha. Generally, minority opinions are not meant to be followed. The reason is obvious: allowing people to re-enact these opinions would have a destructive impact on the Jewish community and its need for uniform and normative behavior i.e. "so as not to fragment the Torah into many Torahs" (Sanhedrin 88b).

But what if following minority opinions would only increase the love for and adherence to Torah law (d'oraita) by many fellow Jews? Many of the rabbinic laws are fences for the distinct purpose of preventing people from violating Torah law, but what if they produce the opposite result, the absolute rejection of Torah law? Today, many of these rabbinic laws keep people out instead of inviting them in. They are not conducive to the spirituality longed for by all people trying to observe Torah laws. What if some of the minority opinions would be more conducive to the observance of Torah law? This is specifically true about rabbinic laws which affect the individual. These matters require great spiritual investment on an individual level. Would it not be wiser in these cases to encourage the implementation of minority opinions as recorded in the Talmud instead of prohibiting them and standardizing the majority opinions?

Beit Shamai and Beit Hillel

We wonder whether such an approach would be valid when dealing with the ritualistic controversies between Beit Shamai and Beit Hillel. Halakha unequivocally follows Beit Hillel, and under normal circumstances it is forbidden to abide by the opinions of Beit Shamai (Eruvin 13b). However, the reason is not entirely clear (See Yebamoth 14a). In fact, it seems there were cases in the past where following Beit Shamai's ruling was even encouraged (Berakhoth 53b) Whatever the reason, would it be permitted to follow the opinions of Beit Shamai when some people feel more connected to this view? After all, many of these differences of opinion are not just legalities or academic disputes; they are, above all, differences in approach to religious life. (See for example volume 2 of Michtav Me-Eliyahu (p.120) by Rabbi Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler concerning the question whether one should light all eight candles on the first day of Hanukkah (Beit Shamai) or only on the last day (Beit Hillel).)Would it not be more in the spirit of Beit Shamai and Beit Hillel to allow people this choice, now that religious commitment in a secular society is of an entirely different nature than it was in earlier days?

Ignoring Minority Opinions

Moreover, would the Talmud allow us not only to ignore majority opinions but minority rabbinic opinions as well if the result was people keeping the Torah laws? Undoubtedly many rabbinic laws make it easier to observe Torah laws, but what if people feel confined by these laws which deny them the spirit of, say, what prayer or Shabbat is all about? In many instances it is not clear whether a law is d'oraita or d'rabbanan, and in such cases one cannot take any chances. But where we know for a fact that they are d'rabbanan, would this be permitted? After all, human beings are most complex. Freedom in one area often leads to greater commitment in another.

If, arguably, practical halakha would indeed allow us to ignore the minority opinion, this would be true only in exceptional circumstances (bedi-avad) and for specific individuals. It was never encouraged as a new way of dealing with religious crisis in which whole communities of people long for autonomy while genuinely searching for religious commitment. Indeed, in pre- Mishnaic and Talmudic times many of these rabbinic laws did not yet exist, and people made their own decisions on how to ensure that they would not violate Torah law or how to give meaning to their relationship with God through their own prayers or other rituals. There were no prayer books and it seems that it was strictly forbidden to write down any prayers (Shabbat 115b). Is it not possible that we need a similar approach today?

Personalizing Blessings, Prayers, and Synagogue Services

Could people adopt other versions for blessings, such as those discussed in the Talmud but not codified in practical halakha? Would the Talmud really object to people formulating their own berakhot if it was more meaningful to them? When people complain that some of the official berakhot and prayers seem irrelevant; that these berakhot and prayers are of such beauty that they are unable to absorb their magnificent meaning and therefore feel hypocritical when saying them; or, that the constant reciting of the same berakhot and prayers no longer allows for saying them with religious fervor, is there not some truth to their claim? After all, was it not the purpose of the Sages to formulate these religious texts in order to inspire people to sincerely praise and thank God? Is it not preferable for us to say different prayers when this goal would be better served? Needless to say, certain spiritual-religious requirements would have to be preserved.

Could various types of synagogue service be created in which alternative prayers and rituals are offered from which people can choose? Minhagim, rituals and other traditions are most important and should not be taken lightly. They have greatly contributed to Judaism. But what if people desperately need to express their religious devotion in a different way? Just as it is possible for a Rabbi to make a halakhic decision one day and a different one the next, because he sees matters differently, could this not also apply to the praying human being? What if this would help create a more genuine religious experience?

These questions and others are of the greatest importance if we want to revitalize Judaism in the hearts of many people.

Hora'ath Sha'ah

In this vein, perhaps we should look to halakhic concepts which deal with circumstances where the suspension of a particular law will "bring back the multitudes to religion and save them from general religious laxity" (Mishneh Torah, Mamrim 2:4). Such concepts might include hora'ath sha'ah, the need for temporary suspension of a law; lemigdar milta, improvement of a particular matter; and et la'asoth Lashem, a time to act for God. As the great Talmudic sage Resh Lakish remarked, "There are times when the suspension of the Torah may be its foundation" (Menahoth 99a-b). These concepts usually refer to short-term deferments, and are generally limited in scope. However, there have been cases in Jewish religious history where matters have been changed on a long-term basis, and in some instances were never revoked. In fact, these principles have even been used for totally opposing religious needs depending on the hashkafot of communities who were at wit's end how to enable Judaism to survive in modern times. Such examples can be found in Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch's concept of "Torah im Derekh Eretz"; the Hatam Sofer's opposition to general culture; the Hafetz Hayim's permissive ruling about intensive Torah education for young women; and the rabbinic prohibition in certain circles, concerning women's prayer groups. All of these were a response to an acute crisis, whether le-kulah or le-humrah, permissively or restrictively. They probably can't be included in the strict definition and parameters of hora'ath sha'ah, but they clearly carry its character and were accepted as such by different communities. They are all "hora'ath sha'ah-like."

To avoid any misunderstanding, I reiterate that in no way am I suggesting that we do away with parts of Judaism, or deny the divinity of the Torah and the importance of Rabbinic Law. The reverse is true. My observations and suggestions flow forth from a deep love and appreciation for what halakha is all about. It is out of love for the word of God which came down to us at Sinai that this essay was born.

Postscript

It is not the changes themselves which will bring young people what they are looking for. It is important that such changes create a new image of Judaism and halakha. They will set Judaism and halakha in a positive light and will ensure that Judaism is again understood as a living organism which is averse to dogmatism, finalization and obsessive codification. The tradition of "elu ve-elu" must again stand at the center of Judaism's overall religious philosophy. The call for human autonomy as a condition for deep religiosity together with profound commitment to the word of God is essential.

It is impossible to discuss any of these issues without a deep commitment to Yirat Shamayim, fear of God. No motive other than Yirat Shamayim may guide us. It is this same Yirat Shamayim which forces us to ask these questions and propose possible solutions. Denying their urgency would be a serious dereliction of our duty as religious Jews.

My suggestions in this essay are only proposals by an educator who wants Judaism to become much more meaningful to many young people who are otherwise unable to connect. No doubt some of the suggestions are fraught with risk, but no spiritual search is risk free, and by shutting the door to all error we risk blocking the chances for greater love and commitment to Judaism. These observations have nothing to do with making Judaism easier so that people can be more lax in their observance. The reverse is true. I believe that Judaism may have to be made more difficult in order to become more meaningful. Simply making it user-friendly, by introducing all sorts of leniencies, will not bring young serious people closer to its message. After all, they expect sweat, challenge and discomfort in order to accomplish great achievements in university studies, music, sports and martial arts. They are well aware that to conquer these disciplines they need to fight, not be entertained. It is the very need to exhaust themselves that gives them the satisfaction of accomplishment.

Living a genuine Jewish life is hard work, and the revisions I suggest require hard work. Young people must be sure they are familiar enough with Talmudic texts to make the autonomous decisions they seek. Our young people will only value Judaism when it is at least as challenging and demanding as all the other disciplines they study. In fact, it may need to be more challenging, since it is a lifelong involvement which requires constant attention even to the sanctification of daily trivialities. There are no short cuts. For many of them Judaism will become a joyful experience because it demands sweat and discipline while its reward is deep meaning and a strong notion of mission and holiness.

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I recognize that the road to implementation of these ideas is not simple; nonetheless the route must be drawn out before we can begin this journey. My intention is not to suggest a new halakhic way of living for all Orthodox Jews. Those who are deeply inspired by their religious commitment in accordance with well established traditions should definitely continue to do so. If we come to implement some of these suggestions, one must never forget that one does not discover new lands by losing sight of the shore from which the journey had begun. I do hope, however, that my observations will bring them new insights as well, and help them realize how beautiful and dynamic Judaism really is. They should ask themselves whether the issues expressed have not a direct bearing on their own religious lives.

What the leadership of Orthodox Judaism needs to realize, above all, is that the internal danger is greater than the external threat of secularism. Judaism must renew itself, or face decline. The greatest problem Judaism faces is lack of belief in itself. Orthodox Judaism must stop being defensive and looking over its shoulder. It should strengthen itself by looking to its great Talmudic resources and rebuilding itself accordingly. Only when it reappears as a dynamic living tradition, averse to all finalization and dogmatization, will it become the great passion of all Jewish people.

May Ha-Kadosh BArukh Hu grant us insight.

A Letter to My Brother in the Maghreb

By Meir Buzaglo

            Many years have passed since we were last in touch, but I have nevertheless never forgotten you. How could I? Seeing as my mother and father, my brothers and my sisters always remind me of you—in the way they talk and dress, in their generosity.

            One cannot simply just erase hundreds of years.

            I’m writing to you because I’m worried.

            The world about us is rapidly changing. There are many cases of people taking decisions for others, not always with a humane approach, and rarely out of love for Man or God. Even as I write, the image rises before my eyes—boarding the boat in Casablanca, dressed in my best clothes, six years old—my family and I returning to what we then called Palestine. A very dramatic event that defies description, the realization of a dream, coming home after hundreds of years. Not because this home was in any way luxurious, and not because Morocco was foreign to us. Our parents decided to go to Jerusalem, not to Canada and not to France. We returned to the home we had left thousands of years ago, yet somehow it was here that our Moroccan identity stood out. At first it was hard. Mother wanted to return immediately, to get back to her Arab friends, but with time she got used to it; she learned Hebrew and was adored by all the residents of the housing project where we lived, Jews from all ends of the world.

            And, to be sure, the songs, the music, the accent—they’ve all remained with us. Years later, I returned to Morocco for a visit with my wife, a Lithuanian immigrant, to Casablanca, where my family’s roots are. I was stunned by the depth of my emotions. We will never forget the goodness; we will always recall the life we shared. It wasn’t always idyllic, but then again, is there any place that is always idyllic?! And nevertheless, I am a zealous defender of the Maghreb; I listen to stories of the great rabbis of Morocco, about the life we shared in the Atlas Mountains.

            Not only I, but my children as well, have a deep affection for Morocco—despite their having been born in Jerusalem and not knowing a word of Arabic.

            Why haven’t I written before? I’m not sure, but I do know why I’m writing you now. The world about us is going crazy. The Middle East, Iraq, Syria, Libya—but it doesn’t stop there. Egypt is in an upheaval, and stormy clouds cover France and England. Racism and cruelty are rearing their ugly heads. And I ask, haven’t we, Jews and Arabs, originating in the Maghreb, a role to play? I mean those among us who are friends, those of us who know about living a shared life? There are problems, to be sure. Who can remain apathetic, faced with the depths of suffering of Gaza’s residents? And who can remain apathetic to the thousands of missiles fired on Sderot’s residents? The suffering of Jews and Arabs cries out.

            Let’s leave it to God to find who is to blame; our concern is about healing and about prevention.

            Today, it seems, we are far from any solution. There were periods of progress in the Israel-Palestine arena, yet these were stopped short with the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin and bitter intifadas. Iranian Shi’ite fanaticism is now penetrating a conflict that initially was about land; Hezbollah is taking advantage of Palestinian suffering to promote Iranian expansion; and Islamic State is charging onward in a rampage of destruction. Not only are we not making any progress but the conditions necessary to overcome these problems drift farther out of reach with every passing moment. The name of Lord is being invoked in vain by those seeking destruction rather than prayer.

            This is when I remember Morocco.

            Despite the fact that my home is in Israel, it seems inconceivable that life in Morocco was just a coincidence. And I ask the Muslim Moroccans, was it just a coincidence that you hosted us for hundreds of years? Were not the lives of my fathers and forefathers in Morocco God’s will? A history that can be linked to the present? A ray of light in this period when darkness is closing in on us? Only God knows. And nevertheless, we are obliged to try to begin thinking in exceptional ways. As I sit here and write, I hear of similar interest in the Maghreb, in France and in Israel as well. And I do not speak in Israel as a private individual.

            There is a cultural ferment about Moroccan Jews in Israel the likes of which we have never seen before. It is apparent in piyyut and music, certainly, as well as in film, theater, and literature. This is not about people who, as I was, were born in Morocco but about Israeli-born young people who seek to give Morocco and Arab culture a place in their lives. This is a significant resource in a region that speaks only in the language of destruction.

            Haven’t we, as children of the Maghreb and Andalusia (who once raised the world to the lofty heights of philosophy, literature, science, and art, to a shared life of tolerance and shared faith) a human mission of the first order? Do we dare turn our backs on this mission and let others who have less understanding than we decree our fates here? Should this be the case, a covenant is called for. Let’s leave agreements to states, and contracts, too. We are talking about an oath; an oath of lovers of the Lord and His children against those who sell their souls to suffering, destruction and ruin. Let us take this oath as we see before our eyes the lives shared by our mothers and fathers, the simple values of beauty and kindness that so characterize us of the Maghreb.

            I have a modest contribution to make, together with my friends in the Tikun Movement, which I lead.

            We plan to hold meetings in Jerusalem with artists, academics, and young people who can teach us about this friendship. This involves only an incubator, for now. And I thank our Muslim friends who have consented to join us. We need all the blessings we can get in order to succeed. I need your blessing.

Should a frum Jew care if an animal species is endangered or goes extinct?

All human beings, including (and even especially) religious Jews should be concerned about the extinction of animals.  Scientists have indicated that extinction is a natural phenomenon, with a normal rate of one to five species per year. They now estimate that the extinction rate is up to 1,000 times higher, with as many as 30 to 50 percent of all species heading for extinction by mid-century.

The vast majority of threatened species are at risk due to human activities…destruction of natural habitats, pollution of the seas, unsustainable use of natural resources etc. If species are disappearing at an alarming rate, this indicates that earth’s ecosystem is increasingly unbalanced. This is not merely a threat to endangered species: it is a threat to human life!

The Almighty, in His infinite wisdom created nature to function as a balanced system. All the myriad plants and animals play a role in the overall health of our world. Mah rabbu maasekha Hashem. “How great are Your works, Hashem, You created all of them with wisdom, the earth is filled with Your possessions.”

For purely practical reasons, all people should be concerned about the health of the world’s eco-system. From a religious point of view, we should be concerned not to destroy the natural balance that Hashem created. It is taught in Bereishith Rabba (10:7): “Even things you may regard as superfluous to the creation of the world such as fleas, gnats and flies, even they are part of creation; the Holy One carries out the Divine purpose through everything—even a snake, scorpion, gnat or frog.”

Out of respect for Hashem’s creation, and out of concern for the future of our children and grandchildren, we must care about the earth’s eco-system and the ongoing threat of extinction of so many species.

Should a frum Jew take special pride in famous people who were Jewish but not frum and whose achievements have no evident connection to Judaism (e.g., Walter Rathenau, Richard Feynman, Danny Kaye, Bobby Fischer, Milton Friedman, Jascha Heifetz...)?

The Torah refers to us as children of Israel. We are part of one family, going back to Abraham and Sarah. When a person converts to Judaism, he/she joins the Jewish family and is now identified as a child of Abraham our father.

Our family of Israel has a religious covenant going back to the Revelation at Mount Sinai. We have a mission to follow and teach Hashem’s word. Ideally, all family members should not only feel kinship with each other, but should also adhere to the lofty ideals and commandments of the Torah. But whether all Jews act ideally or not, they are still family—unless they actually repudiate both their Jewishness and their Judaism.

When a Jew—whether religiously observant or not—commits a crime, we instinctively feel upset. When one member of the family acts shamefully, it reflects badly on our entire family.

So when a Jew—whether religiously observant or not—distinguishes him/herself for positive deeds, we also naturally take pride in the achievements of a family member. When we contemplate the incredible contributions of Jews to the arts, sciences, government, literature etc., we are indeed proud that our tiny family has contributed so vastly to humanity.

We look forward to the fulfillment of the Torah’s teaching that the nations of the world will say about us that “surely this great nation is a wise and understanding people” (Devarim 4:6).

Is taking a selfie proper?

It is proper to let individuals make their own choices on this kind of personal matter. For some (including me), selfies are irrelevant and not part of one’s life. For others, selfies are a way to memorialize a special moment. And for yet others, sharing selfies is a way to maintain contact with loved ones and friends. Let each person decide for him/herself what is most suitable.

A problem arises when people find themselves taking selfies very frequently, rather than on rare special occasions.

Some psychiatrists and psychologists who have done research on selfie usage have suggested that “selfitis”—an obsessive compulsive desire to take photos of one’s self and post them on social media—is a mental disorder. Chronic selfie-taking may be a sign of lack of self-esteem or exhibitionism. Even people who take selfies only several times a day may be reflecting deeper emotional and psychological issues.

Those who take selfies need to reflect on why they do so, on whether selfie-taking is beneficial or detrimental to their self-esteem, on whether they are taking selfies too frequently. 

Perhaps the most powerful selfie is: looking into a mirror! See and think about who you really are. Once you come to terms with self-identity, the selfie issue will almost resolve itself.

Rabbi Marc Angel's Tuesday morning class will resume on October 29. We'll be discussing Talmudic texts that relate seemingly simple stories/lessons...but which, upon reflection, set our minds to thinking about larger issues...faith, redemption, suffering, hope, interpersonal relationships...and more.

The class meets at the Apple Bank building, 2100 Broadway, NYC, in the Institute's office in the mezzanine. The bank doors open at 8:30 am; class begins at 8:40 am and concludes at 9:30 am. Coffee/tea and danish are available.

There is no fee to register, but advanced registration is requested. If you plan to attend, please let us know by emailing [email protected]

It’s 11:45 P.M. I am standing in front of the sink, washing individual leaves of Swiss chard, holding each leaf up to the light to check for the creepy-crawlies that come attached to my farm share’s local organic produce. My alarm is set to go off in exactly seven hours; in eight hours, I will be en route to work. Behind me, yams boil away on the stove for my 9-month-old daughter, who is going to wake up every two hours between now and then as her first teeth poke through. But I am determined to get all the produce bug-free, because I’m trying to get a jump on Shabbat.

It’s Tuesday.

How did I get here? It’s a question that crosses my mind every day. How did a feminist, culturally affiliated Ashkenazic Jew from small-town Connecticut —by way of Northeastern University, Harvard Divinity School, Hebrew University, a backpacking jaunt through Europe, and a new-age kibbutz—end up meticulously checking chard in a Sephardic Modern Orthodox home?

The journey may actually be less mysterious than it seems. Distilled, it comes down to a love for Jewish texts, a sense of responsibility to history, and, perhaps, a “religion gene” that skipped two generations.

I decided to compare notes with other women in my demographic about their own Jewish journeys, to see if any themes would emerge. I recruited five women between the ages of 26 and 32 for a mini study. All the women are married, and all but one currently live in the Pacific Northwest. Three identify as Ashkenazic, two as Sephardic. One converted as an adult. I asked them the following questions:

• Please describe your journey to Modern Orthodoxy (e.g., how were you raised? What appealed to you about a more observant lifestyle?).
• What do you value most about a Modern Orthodox lifestyle?
• What do you find most challenging? (I.e., niddah, tseniut, synagogue participation, family opposition, and so forth)
• In what way(s) would you like to see Modern Orthodoxy change or grow?

The answers were more diverse than I expected, but indeed, certain commonalities emerged.

I. The Jewish Journey

I’ll start with an abridged version of my own story.

As a participant on myriad Jewish service trips and programs, I have answered the ubiquitous “Jewish journey” question more than once. Above all, my strong Jewish identification comes down to a positive relationship with Judaism growing up. Raised in a small Reform congregation, I looked to my temple friends as allies, my rabbi as a mentor, and my Jewish side of the family—my mother’s—as the Jewish holiday fun-makers. At the same time, attempts throughout high school to help me find Christ, a strong suggestion by a teacher to reconsider my priorities when I failed to turn in an assignment the day after Yom Kippur, and a number of hurtful incidents forced me to think critically about who I am. I needed to answer to this inherited identity.

As a teen, these experiences were coupled with my first trip to Israel. It was there that I experienced Shabbat fully for the first time, with an American ba’al teshuvah couple that took my group in for a weekend. Instead of finding Shabbat oppressive or backwards, as I had always imagined it to be, it was calming and liberating. Although I spurned traditional observance for years to come, those 25 hours in 1998 softened my stance toward Orthodoxy and have stayed with me to this day.

A third strand entered the picture in college. When I sat down in my first class of freshman year—“Understanding the Bible”—I began to fall in love with religious studies. This led me to graduate school, where I immersed myself in Biblical studies, Hebrew, Midrash, and folklore. Inspired by my ancestors’ words on the parchment, I found leading an otherwise non-observant life incongruous. I began attending a Modern Orthodox, partnership minyan, where the participants—all my age, mostly single— showed up (shockingly) of their own volition. They were there for tradition. They were there for God. They were not there out of guilt or obligation to another person. They were enthusiastic. They didn’t construe the Torah’s meaning to their own liking, yet the community remained progressive and engaged with the secular world. It seemed to me the way Judaism should be.

Still, only when I met my husband another few years later did I feel that I had the support and strength to make the leap into full-time observance. I appreciate the structure it gives my life, the moral behavior it commands, the thoughtfulness it requires. I feel like I make better decisions. Furthermore, I feel an obligation to history. I am a link in a long, durable, but endangered chain of tradition, and in my greatest moments of challenge with observance, my commitment comes down to this.

Of the four out of five women I surveyed who were born Jewish, all had a positive relationship to Judaism growing up. Three—all Ashkenazic, I should mention—shared the element of a “spiritual awakening” similar to my first encounter with Shabbat in Israel.

One subject shared her experience of growing up staunchly Reform and encountering observance practically by accident:

During winter break of my freshman year [of college], I went on the Hillel Birthright Israel trip. Surprisingly, this was my first true exposure to the concepts of kashruth and Shabbat. These laws actually excited me. I felt like for so long I had been looking for more and more in Judaism, and finally here it was! How could this have been kept from me for so long? Celebrating Shabbat brought me in touch with my soul like nothing ever had…

Once I made the decision that as a Jew I couldn’t get in a car with good conscience on Shabbat, there was no way I would put the action off for a later date. At that moment of realization, Shabbat became a way of life. Once I learned the beauty of tsanua, I subconsciously made the decision to put a skirt on every morning. It wasn’t until two months later that I realized I wasn’t wearing pants any more. Within a year and a half, I was externally a Torah-observant Jew.

Another woman encountered observance upon joining NCSY as a teenager. She says, “I saw peers who were leading a life that seemed more fulfilling and seemed more meaningful…The life I was leading was very shallow…[There was] so much more sense of purpose and a sense of happiness that went along with that.”

Yet another warmed to a religious lifestyle through a personal connection:

As a teenager in high school, my best friend’s family started becoming more religious and decided to send her to a religious high school. In an effort to continue our friendship and see her regularly, I started spending Shabbat with her and her family. She would teach me about what she was learning in school, and we would discuss the deeper aspects of Judaism together. The combination of being opened up to a deeper, more spiritual world of Judaism, and the beauty of Shabbat I observed in her home and in the religious community made me decide to become more religious.

Casual conversations I’ve had outside of this small study have indicated similar paths to observance. Shabbat is almost exclusively a turning point, and while we take it for granted, it is notable that the “beauty of Shabbat,” rather than one of the many other elements of Jewish observance, is so frequently cited as a gateway to observance.
Interestingly, my Sephardic subjects tended to relate to Jewish observance on a more cerebral level. One, who was raised in a “moderately observant” home, reported:

I just wanted to learn—initially I just wanted access to classical Jewish text—and from learning I gleaned what I could and started to construct a life of observance of mitzvoth…I can’t necessarily call them “steps,” because I didn’t climb them one at a time, nor all at once. I dabbled here and there over the course of five years.

Another tried out various denominations before settling on one that exemplified a satisfactory level of consistency:

I visited various Modern Orthodox communities around the city and was very drawn to the educational opportunities (classes on Shabbat) and seemingly more uniform observance level within those communities. I also became increasingly frustrated by what I felt was a “pick and choose” mentality of Jewish observance in my Conservative congregation and how tikkun olam seemed to become its sole strategy of engaging its congregants.

Neither of these women cited the beauty of Shabbat or a spiritual awakening as part of their main narrative. For them, like me, observance has to do with a pull toward the “right” kind of Jewish observance. While the Ashkenazic-Sephardic split is curious, I venture to suggest that this is due to historical, stylistic, and vocabulary differences. But that is for another study.

II. The Value of Modern Orthodoxy

When it comes to what they value most about a Modern Orthodox lifestyle, two themes emerged among my subjects: meaningfulness and authenticity. Maintaining an observant life in the midst of the world at large provides grounding and a moral compass, and it eliminates the contradictions of the more liberal denominations. “I know that there are expectations I set for myself based on mitzvos,” said one woman. “I don’t have to change my entire life plan based on society.”

One woman particularly enjoys finding deeper spiritual dimensions of the secular world, particularly in the realm of pop culture and TV. Technology, she believes, was brought down by Hashem at this point in time to better understand the world. “I really enjoy the balance of Modern Orthodoxy and the challenge of bringing out the Godliness in the seemingly mundane things of modern life,” she wrote. “Modern Orthodoxy makes you really think and evaluate what you are doing and why—for both secular and religious things.”

She continues:

I don’t believe in being shut off from society, but rather I see the role of Jews as to elevate secular society. The only way to do that is to understand secular society and then give them a deeper understanding of what is really going on based on the Torah…For example, the Internet and Facebook have proven what the Hafetz Hayyim has been saying for years, which is that lashon (tov or ra) has a real effect and cannot be taken back easily. Modern Orthodoxy allows for us to delve into the modern world and see in a real way many of the theoretical or esoteric concepts that the Torah has been teaching for years.

The two women, and myself, who worked through the denominations before finding a home in Modern Orthodoxy, focus on the authenticity of the movement. “I find that a lot of the other forms of Judaism are really created by man,” wrote one. “Men have taken the traditions they enjoy about the ‘Judaism of their ancestors’ and transformed them into whatever makes them feel good in the moment. I believe that living an observant lifestyle is living a religion created by God, rather than man.”

Another expressed her disillusionment with the Reform and Conservative approaches to Jewish continuity and the authority of halakha:

The problem is that halakha is like the Constitution of the United States. It came to us a long time ago; some of its tenets don’t make much sense now and a few of those tenets are seen as not applicable in this time. Others are studied by scholarly experts that tell us how they apply in our modern times. Without the Constitution we will crumble as a nation; by rejecting and fiddling with halakah the Jewish people’s future is similarly threatened. I don’t think expecting less of Jews while simultaneously trying to make them more “Jewish” via its institutions that promote a hollow tradition is a logical thing to do…

Similarly, she rejects a closed, ultra-Orthodox approach that “views the world as a place that is scary and bad and has the very lowest of expectations and confidence in its followers.” Modern Orthodoxy, on the other hand, neither rejects halakha nor requires its adherents to extricate themselves from society at large. “Throughout our history Jews have had to make a living (even our sages), interact with non-Jews, and learn and utilize knowledge that is beyond the scope of what is offered in our holy texts,” she wrote.
I relate to each one of these responses, and I would add that the structure of an observant lifestyle, via the calendar, the community, and the obligations, provides a foundation in a world where choice can be paralyzing and “the right thing” can be utterly ambiguous. Modern Orthodoxy preserves the essence of Judaism — Torah and halakha—and the traditions of our ancestors without requiring us to opt out of secular society. And, in my experience, Modern Orthodoxy allows for a spectrum of observance-level according to where each individual is in his or her spiritual process. This implies an awareness of certain challenges.

III. The Most Challenging Aspects of Modern Orthodoxy

I asked my study participants what they felt were the most challenging aspects of Orthodoxy. “All of it,” answered one woman. “I find Jewish life to be stifling and frustrating. I feel as though I’m sacrificing things of value—art, music, entertainment, education —by choosing to be part of the small, fairly insular community of Orthodox Jews.”
This brave woman admitted her discomfort and personal struggle with remaining in a community that doesn’t share the values that she has always held close. I sympathize with her, and while I am thankful to have built a circle of friends who share the values of secular subjects I brought over from the “old world,” nonetheless, there are times I would like to throw on a pair of skinny jeans and grab a glass of wine and a slice of pizza, to mingle with Seattle’s artsy-foodie crowd on a Friday night, and to sleep in on Saturday before heading out to brunch. Choosing an observant life means constantly pulling out my compass and veering away from these no-nos. Couldn’t the Torah have prescribed just one day off for vices, like a 24-hour Amish Rumspringa?

I admit that to this question I expected a certain set of complaints along the lines of modesty and taharat haMishpaha. Perhaps I was projecting. The answers were diverse, and each one touched on a different intersection between observance and modernity.

Two women reflected on the difficulty of acclimating to a more modest dress code, but, as one cheerily concludes, “When I find a halakha challenging, I can usually find a more spiritual understanding of why it should be that way. While there are many spiritual arguments for tseniut, there are not many (or any) for the specifics of the elbows-collar bones-knees points. The only way I have been able to resolve these for myself is based purely on faith and love for Hashem (which is hard to justify on 110 degree days!).”

Another participant struggled with the obligations of Judaism while juggling all the tasks of a typical, twenty-first-century day: Aside from child rearing, there’s a 40-hour workweek, the commute, the “bewildered colleagues” who don’t understand your hard-to-explain religious needs, chores, meal prep, and exercise/self-care. Where do study and tefillah even fit in?

The same respondent added:

The thing I find most challenging and frustrating about being Modern Orthodox is the double standard women face and the static state of mainstream rabbinical discourse as it applies to women and families…There are a number of practices that, while they are not viewed as ideal, are viewed as permitted by the Modern Orthodox community, such as for a man to not wear a kippa at work if he fears that it would negatively impact him in the workplace and his parnassa…Wearing tseniut clothing and hair coverings can negatively impact women at work, yet I do not know of any Orthodox rabbi in my community that would give me a thumbs up if I said that covering my hair was negatively impacting my parnassa, and I found it to be physically uncomfortable, that it would be OK for me to go bareheaded at work…My “modern” sensibilities are disgusted by the inconsistency of how women are treated and held to a different standard (although I am not advocating for anything beyond halakha) especially as it is becoming increasingly necessary for both parents to work outside the home to keep up with the costs of Day School, summer camp, kosher food, and synagogue dues.

Raising children to inherit the “right” set of values also presented some of my subjects as a challenge. The same woman as just above is troubled by certain intolerant, xenophobic attitudes that are both tolerated and endorsed, and fears her community’s growing isolationism: “These things give me serious reservation about sending my children to Day School as I want to limit my kids’ exposure to these things, and I want them to have some friends that are from different backgrounds than they are.”

For another, “it’s wanting to make sure I can pass on to my children ideals I’ve struggled to attain, at the same time knowing they have to figure things out for themselves.”

IV. How Modern Orthodoxy Can Change or Grow

Up to now, my subjects responded according to their own conceptions of “Modern” Orthodoxy. At this point, I received pushback about the definition of the movement itself. The term “Modern Orthodoxy” turned into its own challenge. One woman replied:

I don’t know if I would necessarily consider myself “Modern Orthodox,” for the sole reason that I am not a fan of labels. I think of Judaism in terms of “Torah observant” or “not Torah observant”…Why all these labels? They only serve to further divide the body of Torah observant Jews. Honestly, I would like to see modern Orthodoxy stop trying to create its own identity independent from the Orthodox. If those who consider themselves “Modern Orthodox” observe the laws of Torah, then what exactly makes them different from the other groups?

Another answered in a similar manner, but from a different point of view:

I wish we would stop calling it “Orthodoxy” as if it were some kind of closed room. There is a continuum of Jewish observance; I wish people on all parts of the spectrum could be more tolerant of those who aren’t “like them” in their manner or style of observance.

Two of the women took the question head-on. One argued that rabbis are afraid or unwilling to find creative solutions to community problems, defaulting to “outdated” rulings on issues like agunah and kol isha. Similarly, she complained of congregants’ tendency to avoid particular behaviors, despite their legality. “For example,” she wrote, “women choosing not singing at shul even though there are three or more women present, or dancing in shul even when there is a mehitzah.”

Along this line of extra fences, another woman shared that her “greatest fear is that Modern Orthodoxy will become paralyzed at the crossroads where we now find ourselves, and will eventually become the road kill of denominations that are not stalled by navel gazing. Modern Orthodoxy must not be deferential or defensive to the ultra-Orthodox who seek to transform communities into fifes and only recognize the existence and apparent triumph of the yetzer hara.”

She added: “Our leaders need to expect more of us than the lowest common denominator; if we have a community that can provide us a place for reflection, spiritual grounding and inspiration to be better Jews and better community members, then we can successfully operate in both the Jewish and secular worlds.”

One of the women took issue with Modern Orthodoxy’s spiritual level:

There is a huge lack of spirituality (Hassidus, basic kabbalistic concepts) taught in Modern Orthodox schools that leaves students missing many of the inspirational and deep concepts of Judaism. I have seen many people my age who have gone through the modern orthodox education system, and while as adults they are keeping some sort of Shabbat and kosher, they are completely uninspired and see Judaism as something inherited rather than for the beauty it has to offer.

Personally, with time, I am hopeful that some of the obstinacy to women’s concerns will start to be worked out. Halakhah wasn’t written in a day, after all, and tradition changes slowly. I hope that the attitude of “the woman’s place is in the Ladies’ Auxiliary” will evolve, and that women will further empower themselves and their daughters to engage with Torah, and to carve out a space for themselves. Just because we are not obligated to many commandments does not mean that we are barred from participating.

I further hope that we can attract more modern, secularly minded Jews by building a strong presence in their world, in their language. Creating user-friendly websites, maintaining a social media presence, writing literature, and marketing programs to this demographic would be useful; still, for many this is an enormous step out of the comfort zone. At a meeting of the mikvah committee, I had to remind the attendees that if they want to bring women to this mitzvah, they might benefit from understanding the lifestyle of women outside the Orthodox world, and their probable (strong) opposition to taharat haMishpaha. Advertising a bowling night would surely be of little use.

Finally, I value Judaism’s call for introspection and self-improvement, and I am disheartened when I see our base, animalistic natures emerge to fight our own friends. When it comes to community conflicts, fear for our own survival as a community translates to sinat hinam and lashon haRa. I cannot shake certain concepts I internalized over the course of my Jewish journey, namely, ohr l’goyim and tsedakah. A quotation I heard attributed to Tolstoy goes: “Everyone thinks about changing the world, but no one thinks about changing himself.” Most of us have had to change in some way to become, or stay, observant. Becoming better humans should be no harder.
As one of my participants wisely stated, “The internal process of Torah observance takes a lifetime.”

These experiences and opinions are but a miniscule fraction of the observant world, and by no means point to some grand conclusion. However, they do provide insight into the realities of Modern Orthodox women, and could well be another starting point for the ongoing study of women’s roles in Judaism.

I would like to thank the women who took the time to participate. They were all brave to share their personal experiences and trials. Each one inspired me to continue developing my own spirituality, and to keep asking questions.

We have many exciting educational offerings in September!

Sunday, September 15: Special Symposium on Rabbi Marc Angel’s Thought

We are about to embark on a historic year for our Institute, as we celebrate Rabbi Marc D. Angel’s fifty years in the rabbinate. On Sunday, September 15, from 10:00-12:00, we will hold a symposium on Rabbi Angel’s teachings, featuring Rabbi Angel, who will offer personal reflections on his fifty years in the rabbinate, and I will give a lecture on the core teachings of Rabbi Angel. The program is free and open to the public, and will be held at Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in Manhattan (125 East 85^th Street between Park-Lexington Avenues). The symposium also will be posted on YouTube. At the event, we will distribute complimentary copies of Conversations 34, a newly-published collection of essays by Rabbi Angel.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel September Classes

On Mondays and Wednesdays, September 4, 9, 11, 16, 18, 23, from 12:00-12:45 pm, I will give a six-part series on the Book of Jonah and other Haftarot of the Holiday Season for the Beit Midrash of Teaneck, at the Teaneck Jewish Center (70 Sterling Place, Teaneck, NJ).

On Sunday, September 8, 10:30-11:15 am, I will give a lecture on “The Binding of Isaac: Extremely Religious without Religious Extremism.” It will be held at CareOne Teaneck (544 Teaneck Road, Teaneck, NJ). Free and open to the public.

On Mondays September 9 and 16, 1:00-2:15 pm, I will give a two-part series on “Insights into Kohelet.” They will be at Lamdeinu Teaneck, at Congregation Beth Aaron (950 Queen Anne Road, Teaneck, NJ). For registration, go to https://www.lamdeinu.org/.

As always, thank you for your ongoing support of our programming and efforts to disseminate our ideas and ideals throughout North America and beyond.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Celebrating Rabbi Marc D. Angel's 50 Years in the Rabbinate