National Scholar Updates

Rabbi Hayyim AngeI recently published a book review in the Fall, 2019 issue of Tradition (the journal of the Rabbinical Council of America) on Rabbi Yonatan Grossman's new book on Genesis chapters 1-11. He combines classical commentary with modern literary analysis. 

Review Essay

Where Literary Analysis Leads to the Fear of God[1]

Jonathan Grossman, Creation: The Story of Beginnings, trans. Sara Daniel (Maggid, 2019), 439 pages.

It always is a welcome moment when Rabbi Dr. Yonatan (Jonathan) Grossman publishes a new book. As one of the exceptional young scholars of our generation, his prolific output bridges the best of traditional Tanakh learning with contemporary literary methodology. A faculty member at both Herzog College of Yeshivat Har Etzion and Bar-Ilan University, Grossman moves seamlessly between traditional and academic scholarship, demonstrating how both modern literary analysis and our classical commentators contribute to our understanding of the Torah. Most importantly, he remains focused on deriving the religious messages from the text.

Grossman analyzes texts carefully and methodically, interpreting individual words, the flow of passages, and the overall structure and meaning of broader sections. He frequently cites possible options, and offers transparent and oftentimes compelling reasoning why he adopts the readings he prefers. Like his 2014 volume on Abraham, Grossman’s new book on Genesis chapters 1-11 reads as a systematic commentary. In this essay, we will consider several of Grossman’s critical methodological positions, and then explore his central thesis regarding the content of Genesis chapters 1-11.[2]

Methodology

In his introduction (1-10), Grossman addresses the fact that life in chapters 1-11 is markedly different from our reality, and even different from the reality of the rest of Tanakh beginning with Abraham and Sarah in chapter 12. The snake in Eden speaks without the Torah noting that its speaking was a miracle, unlike God’s “opening the mouth” of Balaam’s donkey (Num. 22:28). Other extraordinary elements include the longevity of the first ten generations (chapter 5), and the “sons of God” who marry the “daughters of men” (6:1-4, see discussion below).

Grossman quotes Sforno (on 3:1), who interprets the talking snake as a metaphorical embodiment of Eve’s evil inclination. Although that allegorical interpretation is conceptually appealing, Ibn Ezra (on 3:1) rejects it since God’s curse on the snake (3:14-15) refers to real snakes that slither on the ground.

Grossman maintains that we should read the Eden story and the rest of chapters 1-11 as a symbol, not an allegory. With a symbolic reading, the literal reading is meaningful, but the symbolic message is paramount. With an allegory, the true meaning lies exclusively in the inner meaning. The literal meaning of the Eden narrative is relevant, as noted by Ibn Ezra. At the same time, the inner meaning is the primary intended purpose of the story, so we should understand the snake as also symbolizing Eve’s evil inclination. At the literal level, the story of Eden is a one-time event. On a symbolic level, it is lived out in each generation and by every individual. These chapters are a pre-history that present eternal lessons for the world we live in. Grossman thus remains focused on the Torah’s eternal religious lessons, and does not get bogged down in the rationalist questions that inevitably arise when reading these chapters.[3]

            Grossman (24-29) addresses the potential parallels between the Torah and ancient Near Eastern texts. There are very few compelling literary parallels between Genesis 1-11 and such texts, with the notable exception of the Babylonian flood narrative.[4] There also is relevance in comparing and contrasting the broader ideas found in ancient Near Eastern texts with those of the Torah. That said, our primary goal is to understand the Torah on its own terms to derive its eternal messages.

Even in the case of the flood, Grossman briefly mentions the primary ideological contrasts and then devotes the overwhelming majority of his analysis to understanding the Torah’s account of the flood and its nuanced messages. Overall, Grossman strikes an excellent balance of considering potential Near Eastern parallels as ancillary learning aids, while never allowing them to replace the careful analysis of the biblical text and its messages.

            A recurring assumption Grossman makes is that when there are two textually compelling sides of an argument, the text must intend a dual meaning. He uses this approach both for local interpretations of individual verses and for entire passages. Sometimes Grossman makes a convincing case for the dual meaning. On other occasions his analysis is less compelling, both because it is unclear that the text intends a dual meaning and, even if it does, it is unclear how one should interpret that dual meaning.

For example, Grossman advances a convincing dual reading of the Garden of Eden narrative (102-111). On the one hand, the narrative is about sin and punishment. Had Adam and Eve not eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, they would have remained in Eden. On the other hand, the story opens by stating that the earth needed people to work the land:

When the Lord God made earth and heaven—when no shrub of the field was yet on earth and no grasses of the field had yet sprouted, because the Lord God had not sent rain upon the earth and there was no man to till the soil (2:4-5).

This opening generates the expectation that God will create human beings who will then work the entire earth. From this perspective, Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden resolves the problem of an otherwise barren earth. The final two verses of the narrative capture these two aspects:

So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden, to till the soil from which he was taken. He drove the man out, and stationed east of the Garden of Eden the cherubim and the fiery ever-turning sword, to guard the way to the Tree of Life (3:23-24).

In 3:23, Adam leaves Eden with a mission to work the land, thereby resolving the problem of the earth’s barrenness from 2:5. In 3:24, Adam’s banishment from Eden is a punishment for his sin, and there is no positive dimension. Although Adam and Eve sinned and lost Eden, humanity was intended to fill the earth and work the land.

            Grossman further extends this dual thesis to the effects of the Tree of Knowledge (111-137). The process of maturation into adulthood brings work, sexuality, children, and awareness of death. God punishes Adam and Eve for their sin, but their punishment also contains all the elements of human adulthood. The text thereby presents a story of sin-punishment, while it simultaneously sets the stage for adult human life and the development of the earth. This point derives further support from the fact that both childbearing (1:28) and marriage (2:18-24) are ideal components of creation prior to the sin of Adam and Eve. Both dimensions are well-attested in the text.

            On other occasions, the dual analysis appears less convincing. For example, Grossman surveys the arguments for reading the flood story as one continuous harmonious narrative, and the arguments for reading it with multiple aspects, given the contradictions and redundancies in the narrative.[5] He finds both arguments sufficiently convincing, and therefore concludes the Torah intends both layers of meaning, suggesting that the Torah presents this dual reading in order to raise the question of how the post-flood world will be different. The story is not just about the destruction of the world, but rather its destruction and renewal (233-252).

It is fair to maintain that the flood narrative contains elements of both destruction and renewal. However, it may be facile to assume that the text is intended to be read as a continuous narrative as well as a complex account. Moreover, even if Grossman’s assumption were correct, why specifically would an intertwined complex and harmonious narrative suggest the conclusion that the flood narrative contains elements of both destruction and renewal? We should pursue the question of how God will build a better world, regardless. Sometimes, Grossman appears to want to have it both ways without having to decide or to remain unsure.

            Needless to say what one reader finds compelling, another may not. Regardless of where one may draw the line between peshat and derash in each instance, Grossman does an admirable job of summarizing and evaluating each argument, and offers a reasonable interpretation of the evidence.

The Book’s Central Thesis

Perhaps the most valuable and impressive feature of the book is how Grossman offers a sustained verse-by-verse analysis, and then combines all of his local analyses into a global thesis. However, there is one modification that should be made to his central thesis; namely that God’s commanding laws to Noah is a vital element of God’s project to build a better world after the flood. Adding this point to Grossman’s analysis enables him to emerge with a compelling explanation of Genesis chapters 1-11.

            From the beginning, the Torah sets out its ideal vision for humanity and its role in the world:

And God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. They shall rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, the cattle, the whole earth, and all the creeping things that creep on earth.” And God created man in His image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them. God blessed them and God said to them, “Be fertile and increase, fill the earth and master it; and rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and all the living things that creep on earth” (1:26-28).

The verb b-r-’ (created)—used uniquely with divine acts of creation—appears three times in 1:27 (italicized above). God creates humanity in His image and gives humanity rulership over the animal kingdom. People rule the animals, but do not eat them (1:28-30). The Garden of Eden furthers the Torah’s ideal picture by presenting absolute harmony in creation.

Coupled with the exalted position of humanity, there are also allusions to the potential hazards of human free will. Addressing the plural form in “let us make man,” (1:26), Grossman cites two related verses that also employ this plural form: God’s reaction to Adam and Eve’s sin in Eden, and to the builders of the Tower of Babel:

And the Lord God said, “Now that the man has become like one of us, knowing good and bad, what if he should stretch out his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat, and live forever!” (3:22).

 Let us, then, go down and confound their speech there, so that they shall not understand one another’s speech” (11:7).

The common element of these three verses is a central theme in chapters 1-11: God exalts humanity as rulers of the world, but remains concerned that people should not overstep their boundaries in the God-human relationship. When human beings attempt to be all-powerful, God restricts their powers to restore the proper equilibrium (91-93). Grossman views the primary problem of the builders of the Tower of Babel as overconfidence in their technological prowess, attempting to make for themselves a name and eliminating God from their lives (365-400). Alternatively, many scholars suggest that the Tower was a ziggurat, specifically the Temple of Marduk, the protector god of Babylon. The story would then represent a lapse of humanity to idolatry.[6] Either way, the builders of the Tower are not rebelling actively against God, but their actions display a lack of fear of God and therefore require divine action to restrict them.

            Additionally, human beings are not said to be “good” as opposed to the description of nearly every other creation. Grossman interprets this conspicuous omission as an emphasis on human free will. Since people can make good or bad choices, they cannot definitively be called “good”.[7] Immediately preceding the flood, God saw the opposite outcome of what He had hoped: “The Lord saw how great was man’s wickedness on earth, and how every plan devised by his mind was nothing but evil (rak ra) all the time” (6:5).

            There are three interrelated ways for people to overstep their bounds. They might disobey God in an attempt to be godlike, as Adam and Eve did (3:5, 22). They might act immorally, against God’s expectation of all humanity, as Cain did by murdering Abel. A subtler but critical hazard is when people do not yet sin, but they eschew a relationship with God. This lack of fear of God inevitably leads to immorality. After his punishment, Cain leaves God’s presence (4:16), and his family subsequently produces Lamekh whose murderous tendency suggests a culture of murder within Cain’s line (4:23-24) (187-196). As noted above, the builders of the Tower of Babel likewise severed their relationship with God as a result of their arrogance (and likely also idolatry).

One of the most productive discussions in this volume is Grossman’s analysis of 6:1-4 (211-231):

When men began to increase on earth and daughters were born to them, the divine beings (benei ha-Elohim) saw how beautiful the daughters of men (benot ha-adam) were and took wives from among those that pleased them. The Lord said, “My breath shall not abide in man forever, since he too is flesh; let the days allowed him be one hundred and twenty years.” It was then, and later too, that the Nephilim appeared on earth—when the divine beings cohabited with the daughters of men, who bore them offspring. They were the heroes of old, the men of renown (6:1-4).

Grossman surveys various explanations of these unions, ranging from interbreeding of angels and humans, to nobles exploiting the poorer classes, to intermarriages between the families of Seth and Cain. Grossman maintains that benei ha-Elohim and benot ha-adam sound like two types of beings, rather than different social classes or families. It also is unlikely that the Torah is describing sexual unions between angels and humans, given that there is no other such reference to angels behaving this way in the rest of Tanakh.

Grossman observes that despite the widespread assumption that the Nephilim were the offspring of these relationships, the text does not say this. The Nephilim were already (hayu) on earth at that time (6:4), suggesting that this closing verse provides the backdrop for the story. The Nephilim are the benei ha-Elohim, who were there at that time. The “heroes of old, the men of renown” were the offspring of the unions between these giants and regular human beings. Grossman observes that the word elohim sometimes means exceptionally large, like Nineveh being an ir gedolah le-elohim, an enormously large city (Jon. 3:3, see Radak ad loc.). Thus, the benei ha-elohim were incredibly large people, namely the giants (cf. Ralbag).

If this interpretation is correct, why are these marriages problematic, and how do they set the stage for the rampant human immorality and flood which immediately follow (6:5-8)? Grossman offers the following speculative interpretation: the offspring of these unions are anshei shem, men of renown (6:4). There is no inherent sin in the marriages of “giants among men” and “regular” human beings, but excessive human power often contributes to an absence of the fear of God, creating the environment for the sin that overtook humanity. The fear of God is required to build a moral society, and lack of that fear inevitably leads to moral disaster.

Abraham later recognized this correlation and told Abimelech that he assumed Philistine immorality was a given, since it was not a God-fearing society:

“What, then,” Abimelech demanded of Abraham, “was your purpose in doing this thing?” “I thought,” said Abraham, “surely there is no fear of God in this place, and they will kill me because of my wife” (20:10-11).[8]

            Despite the sins of Adam-Eve and Cain, the Torah never loses sight of its ideals. Seth’s genealogy picks up right where God’s pristine creation left off (209-210):

And God created man in His image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them (1:27).

This is the record of Adam’s line. When God created man, He made him in the likeness of God; male and female He created them. And when they were created, He blessed them and called them Man (5:1-2).

The Seth line also prays to God (4:26, see Ibn Ezra, Sforno), and sets the stage for exceptional figures to arise, most notably Enoch and Noah. The goodness of Seth’s line carries beyond the flood primarily through Shem. Abraham then continues on this ideal path, invoking God by name (197-198):

And to Seth, in turn, a son was born, and he named him Enosh. It was then that men began to invoke the Lord by name (4:26).

From there he moved on to the hill country east of Bethel and pitched his tent, with Bethel on the west and Ai on the east; and he built there an altar to the Lord and invoked the Lord by name (12:8).

            The pre-flood attempt to create an ideal humanity failed. God destroyed the old world and began a process of renewal with Noah and his family. However, God did not simply attempt to rebuild a new world that would be identical to the pre-flood world. A careful comparison and contrast of the two halves of chapters 1-11 suggests several fundamental differences that serve as concessions to human weakness, but that simultaneously keep the doors to Eden open for the ideal future.

            Post-flood, God permits humanity to eat meat (9:2-4). This change represents a lowering of the standing of humanity. People no longer rule over the animals after the flood, but rather are predators at the top of the food chain (253-270).[9]

God’s concession that human beings have great weaknesses also helps ensure that God will never flood the world again:

The Lord smelled the pleasing odor, and the Lord said to Himself: “Never again will I doom the earth because of man, since the devisings of man’s mind are evil from his youth; nor will I ever again destroy every living being, as I have done” (8:21).

Human nature has not changed, but the lowered standing of humanity prompts God to judge them with greater mercy (266-268).

Grossman also understands God’s choosing of Abraham as a necessary element of this post-flood project. The division of nations sets the stage for God’s choosing Abraham’s nation that can provide the religious vision to lead humanity back to Eden (268-269). Grossman derives support from the fact that Noah curses Canaan and blesses Shem who will lord over Canaan. Additionally, only Canaan’s borders are delineated in the chapter pertaining to the division of humanity into 70 nations:

He said, “Cursed be Canaan; the lowest of slaves shall he be to his brothers.” And he said, “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Shem; let Canaan be a slave to them” (9:25-26).

The [original] Canaanite territory extended from Sidon as far as Gerar, near Gaza, and as far as Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, and Zeboiim, near Lasha (10:19).

These references foreshadow Abraham’s nation, descending from Shem, who will displace the Canaanites (325-336).

Moreover, Ham’s sexual depravity foreshadows that of his Canaanite (and Egyptian) descendants, and the Canaanites were dispossessed from their land because of this depravity. If Israel wants to retain its land, it must live a God-fearing, modest lifestyle, like their ancestors Shem and Abraham:

You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws… So let not the land spew you out for defiling it, as it spewed out the nation that came before you (Lev. 18:3, 28).

Although this thesis is cogent, there is one gaping hole: Grossman does not include God’s revelation of the Noahide laws to all humanity as an essential ingredient of the post-flood world. To Grossman, the responsibility of post-flood humanity is simply to procreate, whereas God charges Abraham’s family with the religious-ethical mission to guide the rest of humanity.

Additionally, while the division of humanity into nations does foreshadow the displacement of the Canaanites with the Abrahamic descendants of Shem, God does not choose one family immediately after the flood. It seems as if God’s command of religious-ethical laws to Noah and his descendants gives another chance for all humanity to succeed, but then the Tower of Babel ruins this project. At that point, God scatters humanity into nations and chooses Abraham. Grossman’s downplaying of the Noahide laws affects several aspects of his analysis of chapters 9-11, which we will consider presently.

God speaks to Noah and his sons after the flood, blessing humanity and commanding several rules:

God blessed Noah and his sons, and said to them, “Be fertile and increase, and fill the earth. The fear and the dread of you shall be upon all the beasts of the earth and upon all the birds of the sky—everything with which the earth is astir—and upon all the fish of the sea; they are given into your hand. Every creature that lives shall be yours to eat; as with the green grasses, I give you all these. You must not, however, eat flesh with its life-blood in it. But for your own life-blood I will require a reckoning: I will require it of every beast; of man, too, will I require a reckoning for human life, of every man for that of his fellow man! Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for in His image did God make man. Be fertile, then, and increase; abound on the earth and increase on it” (9:1-7).

Following this statement, God uses the rainbow to symbolize that He never again will destroy the world (9:8-17). Grossman observes that God calls the rainbow a sign of a covenant, berit, even though it sounds more like a unilateral promise not to destroy humanity. Assuming that this covenant suggests mutuality, he maintains that people have a responsibility to procreate (9:1, 7), creating a direct parallel with God’s oath to preserve humanity. He quotes some contemporary scholars who also include the moral imperative to not eat the life-blood of animals and not to murder (9:4-6), but he rejects this reading since the obligations of the rainbow covenant are primarily on God (285-288).

            It is difficult to see why Grossman distinguishes between the blessing to procreate and the obligation to live morally in 9:1-7. One could view God’s covenant as unilateral, with no obligations on humanity directly connected to the covenant of the rainbow. Grossman himself (293-298) observes that in 6:18-19 and 9:8-17, the term le-hakim berit (to uphold a covenant) is used, rather than li-khrot berit (to strike a covenant). Le-hakim berit suggests that God is upholding a preexisting covenant to preserve the world from the time of creation. From this point of view, God’s blessings and commands to procreate, not to eat an animal’s life blood, and not to murder in 9:1-7 are not obligations in a mutual treaty, but rather blessings and obligations for humanity in a post-flood world. Alternatively, if these are mutual covenantal obligations, then all humanity must procreate and live moral lives.

            At any rate, God expects human beings to be moral from the time of creation, and holds them accountable when they are not. God’s revelation of the Noahide laws following the flood is an essential component of building a better post-flood world. To say that Noah’s descendants must only procreate overlooks a central feature of the post-flood narrative.

            Grossman (341-356) argues further that the creation of nations is a direct result of the flood. Noah was part of the old-world order that featured one united humanity. Once humanity failed pre-flood, God divided people into nations so that He could choose Abraham’s family to correct the world. Once again, Grossman overlooks the fact that the post-flood generation of the Tower of Babel still had a united humanity; “Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words” (11:1). God’s dispersion of humanity into nations and the subsequent choosing of Abraham occurs only at that moment, and was not an immediate consequence of the flood. Hypothetically, had Noah’s descendants not failed with the Tower of Babel, and remained God fearing, there still would not have been a need to select one family from among the family of nations. Sforno makes this point in his introduction to Genesis:

It then teaches that when hope for the return of all humanity was removed, as it had successfully destroyed God’s constructive intent three times already, God selected the most pious of the species, and chose Abraham and his descendants to achieve His desired purpose for all humanity…[10]

To summarize and modify Grossman’s overall position: God made several critical modifications in the post-flood world. God lowered the status of humanity and permitted them to eat meat. God also acknowledged the weaknesses in the human condition as cause for mercy, and He charged all of humanity to procreate and live a religious-moral life. When human beings failed again at the Tower of Babel (whether through idolatry, arrogance, or both), God divided them into nations and chose one righteous family—that of Abraham—to provide the necessary guidance to humanity to return ultimately to Eden. Abraham’s adhering to the human ideals channeled through Seth, Noah, and Shem, coupled with his commitment to teaching righteousness and justice to his family and household (18:19), made him the ideal choice.

The overall structure of Genesis chapters 1-11 presents the absence of the fear of God at the heart of rebellion and immorality. Those who arrogantly make for themselves a name (the offspring of the giants and regular human beings in 6:4; the builders of the Tower of Babel in 11:4) create the wherewithal for an immoral society. Those who call in God’s name (Seth’s descendants in 4:26; Abraham in 12:8) live up to God’s ideal mission for humanity.

When Abraham’s descendants fulfil their mission, all nations of the world will serve God as good Noahides, and religious morality will prevail (Isa. 2:2-4). There will be harmony between humanity and the animal kingdom (Isa. 11:6-9; 65:25). The scattering of the nations will be replaced by a unified humanity speaking the language of serving God (Zeph. 3:9).

The events of Genesis chapters 1-11 occurred thousands of years ago, but they also set out the Torah’s ideal vision that will yet be experienced in the future. Most importantly, this vision challenges us to live up to the mission for Abraham and his descendants: to live God-fearing lives, teach our children and society about righteousness and justice, and lead all humanity back to Eden.

R. Yonatan Grossman’s exceptional literary analysis of each passage, coupled with careful attention to his global thesis, brings the fear of God to the very heart of the purpose and mission of every person created in God’s image, and places that yirat Shamayim where it properly belongs—at the forefront of our reading of Genesis.

How tolerant should a person be of a son-in-law's desire to keep his own minhagim at his (the father-in-law's) Yom Tov table.

It is always desirable for a person to behave with good manners. It is especially important for a religiously observant person to be a model of excellent behavior, thoughtfulness, and respect for others.  Derekh eretz kadmah leTorah.

Among the Jewish people, many minhagim have developed over the centuries. When people with different minhagim sit at the same table for a Shabbat or Yom Tov meal, it is important for all to conduct themselves in a spirit of harmony.

>As a general rule, it is proper for guests to follow the custom of the host. “Wherever you are, follow the local customs” (Shemot Rabba 47:5).  Rabbi Eliezer Papo, in his classic Pele Yoetz, advises: “Do not sit when everyone else is standing or stand while everyone is sitting. The main principle is to do what others are doing as long as this does not transgress a prohibition.”

A son-in-law at his father-in-law’s table should follow the father-in-law’s minhagim, unless there is a strong halakhic reason that prevents this. For example, an Ashkenazic son-in-law should not eat kitniyot on Pessah at his Sephardic father-in-law’s table. But neither should a Sephardic father-in-law serve kitniyot to an Ashkenazic son-in-law. Mutual respect is vital.

If father-in-law and son-in-law foresee possible conflicts in minhagim, they should speak well before Shabbat or Yom Tov and come to a satisfactory accommodation so that there is no ill-will at the Shabbat or Yom Tov table. Gadol HaShalom.

Do young children belong in shul?

There is an extensive halakhic literature on this topic. Many have ruled that small children should not be brought to synagogue because they are likely to disrupt the prayers of the congregation. Others have pointed to the example of the Talmudic Sage, Rav Yehoshua, who was thought to have become so great because his mother brought him to the Study Hall even as an infant (and even when she was still pregnant with him!) It was believed that an infant absorbs holiness and wisdom by being in the proper surroundings. This would apply to places of prayer as well as places of Torah study. There is something beautiful about babies and toddlers absorbing the tefilot as a natural part of their upbringing.

   As a synagogue rabbi for many years, I had to deal with this issue first hand. Before I came to our congregation, children under age five were not permitted to be in the sanctuary during services. This policy may have been good for maintaining decorum, but it discouraged parents of young children from coming to services. We addressed the issue by setting up child care and youth group programs. We also told parents that they could bring their young children into the synagogue during services, as long as the children did not disrupt the prayers of others. Once children become restless or noisy, it is up to the parents to quickly take the children out of the sanctuary.

    I definitely feel that young children belong in the synagogue. But I also definitely feel that it is an obligation of parents to see to it that their children do not disturb the prayers of others.

Should the music of any composer be banned because of his/her private moral failings? Or should the music stand on its own merits, regardless of the personal life of the musician?

Throughout history, and including our own time, great musicians have composed music that has provided inspiration, elevation and joy. When we listen to or perform their music, we are engrossed in the music itself; we are not concerned with the personal lives of the composers.  If we could only listen to or perform music composed by sinless individuals, our musical experience would be vastly impoverished.

But music does not exist in a vacuum. If we despise the composer/musician, it is difficult to separate our emotions from the music itself. Whatever the merits or deficiencies in the compositions of Richard Wagner, his reputation as a racist, anti-Semite hovers over him. His music was glorified by the Nazi regime so that it is difficult, especially for Jews, to listen to Wagner without also feeling his malevolent presence in his music. 

Those who have strong repulsion to anything connected with Wagner should not listen to his music. For them, his music causes distress and pain. Those who know nothing or care nothing about Wagner should judge his music on its own merits. If they like his music, they are free to listen to it.

How important is it to be informed about political and world affairs?  Or is it important?  Should the average frum Jew read the newspaper (or a news website) every day

The real question is: how connected are we to the society in which we live? Do we feel that news is  about “us” and not just about “them”? And if it is about us, don’t we have a need and a responsibility to be informed citizens?  However, if we feel disconnected from general society, living in our own self-enclosed world, then we may see little point in devoting time to news about “them.”

Why do readers of the Jewish Press subscribe to the newspaper? On one level, it is to access the news, gain information, inspiration, guidance, etc. But on a more fundamental level, it is a way of connecting to a larger community that we see as “ours.” Each subscriber, knowingly or unknowingly, is indicating a connection to the larger readership of the newspaper.

The same holds true when it comes to reading general newspapers or news websites. If we subscribe or click on to the news, we are not merely learning about current events that affect others. We are indicating, knowingly or unknowingly, that we consider ourselves part of the community of readers of the news…part of general society. What affects “them” also impacts on “us”. We want to know what’s going on so that we can be responsible citizens, vote intelligently, engage in activism when relevant etc.

If the “average frum Jew” sees him/herself as a full member of society, he/she will want to be an informed and responsible member of society.

Teaching Torah Today

            In his comments on the importance of incorporating a literary approach into our study of Tanakh, R. Aharon Lichtenstein notes,

We should learn to recognize archetypal forms and techniques of thematic development; to discern patterns of imagery and principles of structure; to be sensitive to narrative flow and dramatic interaction; to observe rhythmic movement and verbal texture. In short, I propose, first, that we discover—or rather, rediscover—kitvei ha-kodesh as literature; and, second, that, in order to deepen our appreciation of them as such, we seek to approach them critically….

What we readily acknowledge with respect to language generally is certainly true of kitvei ha-kodesh: form and substance, manner and matter, are directly interwoven. To understand, to experience a pasuk fully, we best approach it both cognitively and aesthetically. Words are not numbers nor verses equations. The structure of a perek and the response induced by it are part of what it presumably is intended to communicate to us. The symbolic import of a phrase or a pasuk—what we call its “meaning” —is a function of the sum total of associations elicited in its specific context; and that context is a matter of form as well as of substance, of form insinuated in substance.[1]

            Not surprisingly, this attitude is reflected in R. Ezra Bick’s Preface to the new collection of Bible studies from Yeshivat Har Etzion’s Herzog College. R. Bick outlines its contemporary approach to the study of Tanakh:

            First and foremost is the belief that Tanach is meant to be read and understood by the reader, without the absolute necessity of outside interlocutors.… If we are reading the text directly, then we are reading it as a text meant to be read, and this introduces the need to read using the tools of literary analysis. Of course, if the Torah is not a book, but a code or a mystery, it would be illegitimate to read it with the same eyes and mind that one reads literature. For this we have the oft-repeated principle, dibra Torah belashon benei adam. The Torah is literature, divine literature, written not in a special divine language but in the language and style of man…. Another result of the above is that the field of interest is not focused on the single verse, but on the story, the entire narrative, and in some cases the whole Tanach.[2]

The Torah is a book of teachings, and teachings assume many forms and employ a variety of strategies. For example, to teach children to be ethical we might tell them to tell the truth or not to lie. Or we might tell a story about someone who always told the truth and someone who lied—and let them draw the appropriate conclusions. Alternately, we might tell children a story about someone who grew in self-understanding and personal integrity and let them absorb the lesson as a role model. Each strategy has its own advantages and disadvantages, and in the book of Genesis the Torah makes almost exclusive use of storytelling as its mode of teaching.

In reading these narratives as a whole, it is worth noting what R. Mosheh Lichtenstein wrote regarding his own analysis of Moses’ life:

The interpretive approach adopted throughout this work is under­girded by the basic presumption that human nature in the Torah is basically similar to the human nature we are familiar with. Our view of the biblical drama, and our suggestions for analyzing the narratives, are based on an understanding that emotions like love, hate, envy, compassion and the whole gamut of human emotions with which we are familiar, are identical to their counterparts in the inner world of our forefathers... .

Human events as well as metaphysics are woven into the text [of Be­reishit]. This is true of Noah, Avraham and Sarah, Yitzhak and Rivka, Yaakov and his family, and many others. … The characters are living people with real emotions, coping with the whole range of situations with which human existence challenges them. The Torah wants us to study these stories for a number of reasons: because these are the basic experiences that shaped our ancestors, because they help us to understand the Torah more fully and accurately, and so that we can better understand the human condition as reflected in their lives and actions.[3]

            Indeed, this was surely the approach taken by Hazal and various Rishonim and Aharonim when they pointed out the human component in the actions of the forefathers and foremothers, even highlighting our biblical ancestors’ shortcomings and the resulting consequences. As R. Samson Raphael Hirsch notes:

            The Torah never presents our great men as being perfect; it deifies no man, says of none ‘here you have the ideal, in this man the Divine becomes human’ … The Torah never hides from us the faults, errors and weaknesses of our great men. (Commentary to Genesis 12: 10–13, Levy translation)

This should not undermine our respect for these spiritual giants, but rather should humble us. We often think—alas, mistakenly—that we are above petty considerations and self-serving strategies. Beware of such hubris, we are warned. Even giants such as our biblical ancestors can fall prey to such pitfalls. Stay on guard. If they could not always live up to their great potential, surely your might fail, too.

            Of course, it is true that presenting the human side of the forefathers and foremothers might distort a sense of their greatness—but only if the presentation is made in too early a grade, when youngsters are appropriately forming a “heroic” view of these individuals. Indeed, negative numbers would confuse first-graders learning subtraction, and imaginary numbers would confuse middle-school students learning signed numbers. But woe to the high school math student whose teacher really thinks that there is no such thing as imaginary numbers! A Bible teacher must know when to introduce these human portraits of our Torah greats and how to maintain a proper sense of respect and awe toward them.

            It is also true that some of those who portray our biblical heroes in human terms do so from a perspective that simply lacks respect for the grandeur of the Tanakh and the greatness of Hazal. We must distance ourselves from them as we would from fire, says R. Aharon Lichtenstein.[4] On the other hand, he continues,

There are those ...who totally erase the human side [of the biblical heroes]. They know that Ramban spoke of this, but they partially put aside the Ramban and work with other commentators.…

This dehumanization is dangerous for two reasons. They erase the descriptions of these giants like Moshe as Hazal saw him. And what is even worse in my eyes is their reason. Why are they so opposed to seeing the emotional side of Moshe Rabeinu or Avraham Avinu? It is because they oppose feelings and emotions!... Hazal knew of emotions; the biblical text knew of emotions, but they do not… They distort the Tanakh…[5]

Distorting the teachings of Hazal is no way to develop students who are sensitive to the values of Hazal and the Torah they teach. The Torah had an educational purpose in showing us the human side of the forefathers and foremothers, and we should be open to it.

With this is mind we wish to turn to the stories the Torah chooses to tell us about Avraham Avinu. The purpose of some of these stories is clear enough: We must be told that God chose Abraham and we—his children—have a certain destiny that includes inheriting a special land. Indeed, that point is reassuringly made over and over again. But there is another series of intertwined stories whose purpose is less obvious. Our aim here is not to give a close reading of the text of each of these individual stories or expose their literary techniques. Rather we wish to understand the sequence of stories as part of a larger coherent whole that reflects an educational strategy, one that drives home the fact that Abraham—a great spiritual giant, to be sure, an individual whose attainments may be well beyond our reach—was still a human being, and we should not be intimidated from trying to emulate him.

Introducing Abraham[6]

            The first Abraham story in this latter group is the story that is not there. The Torah introduces Abraham and God’s revelation to him with little fanfare:

Terah took his son Abram, his grandson Lot the son of Haran, and his daughter-in-law Sarai, the wife of his son Abram, and they set out together from Ur of the Chaldeans for the land of Canaan; but when they had come as far as Haran, they settled there. The days of Terah came to 205 years; and Terah died in Haran. The Lord said to Abram, “Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing: I will bless you, and curse him that curses you; and all the families of the earth shall bless themselves from you. (Gen. 11:31–12:3, NJPS translation).

This short story is remarkable in the absence of the material that we would find most interesting and valuable. For example, how did Abraham become the type of person to be chosen by God? What education did he have? Maimonides (Rambam) fills in some of the gaps:

After this mighty one was weaned, he began to explore and think. Although he was a child, he began to think incessantly throughout the day and night, wondering: How is it possible for the sphere to continue to revolve without anyone controlling it? Who makes it revolve? Surely, it does not cause itself to revolve… Ultimately, he apprehended the way of truth and understood righteousness path through his accurate comprehension. He realized that there was one God who controlled the sphere, that He had created everything, and that there is no other God to be found exclusive of Him. He knew that the entire world was making a mistake…. Abraham was forty years old when he became aware of his Creator (Hilkhot Avodat Kokhavim 1:3).

            This, though, is not the only external description we have of Abraham’s training. For example, as Avivah Zornberg points out, according to the Midrash ha-Gadol, “The recognition of God is not a final conclusion reached after a long private philosophical odyssey, but …an unlocated passion which inspires him with energy for hope and disillusion that takes him through the phases of his experience.”[7] Which of these or other descriptions is true, and why would the Torah take such deliberate pain to hide the truth from us?

We suggest that the description is omitted because it is important that we not know it. Maimonides was a philosopher and he naturally saw proper training in philosophical exploration. But what of us who lack philosophical acumen, inspiring passion, or any of the other possible useful qualities that Abraham might have possessed? Should we be discouraged from aiming to be able to hear God’s call? Abraham was far from “everyman,” but he is introduced as such so that we not be discouraged from identifying with him. Any of us might be headed toward our promised land without realizing it, and many of us stop along the way without realizing that we have unwittingly abandoned our destiny. God speaks to Abraham to tell him to keep moving; He may speak to any of us, and we have to know that we too can hear His call.

The Descent to Egypt

            No sooner does Abraham enter Canaan and begin to wander through it does he hear God’s promise that this land will be given to him and his descendants. We then read the following story:

 There was a famine in the land, and Abram went down to Egypt to sojourn there, for the famine was severe in the land. As he was about to enter Egypt, he said to his wife Sarai, “I am well aware that you are a beautiful woman. When the Egyptians see you, they will say, ‘She is his wife,’ and they will kill me, but let you live. Say then that you are my sister, that it may go will with me because of you, and that I may live thanks to you.” When Abram entered Egypt, the Egyptians saw how very beautiful the woman was. Pharaoh’s courtiers saw her and praised her to Pharaoh, and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s palace. And because of her, it went well with Abram; he acquired sheep, oxen, asses, male and female slaves, she-asses, and camels. But the Lord afflicted Pharaoh and his household with mighty plagues on account of Sarai, the wife of Abram. Pharaoh sent for Abram and said, “What is this you have done to me! Why did you not tell me that she was your wife? Why did you say, ‘She is my sister,’ so that I took her as my wife? Now, here is your wife; take her and be gone!” And Pharaoh put men in charge of him, and they sent him away with his wife and all that he possessed (Gen. 12:10–20 NJPS).

Is this what we would expect from someone who had just heard God’s promises? Disloyalty to the land promised to him and disloyalty to his wife? When Jacob will later condemn Laban for his duplicitous actions, he will use Pharaoh’s charge to Abraham: “What is this you have done to me!” Is the Golden Calf what we would expect from those who had just heard God’s voice at Sinai? Are our own actions what we would expect from one who merits many blessings each day? In what way are we the better for knowing that Abraham failed?

Soon after this story in Egypt is told, God once again reassures Abraham that the land will be his. That, we suggest, is the real point of the story. Abraham does not forfeit God’s promise and continued loyalty by not living up to his ideals—and neither do we. This point is missed if we do not acknowledge Abraham’s failings, and that is why Nachmanides (Ramban) explicitly points it out:

Know that Abraham our father unintentionally committed a great sin by bringing his righteous wife to a stumbling-block of sin on account of his fear for his life. He should have trusted that God would save him and his wife and all his belongings, for God surely has the power to help and to save. His leaving the Land, concerning which he had been commanded from the beginning, on account of the famine, was also a sin he committed, for in famine God would redeem him from death. It was because of this deed that the exile in the land of Egypt at the hand of Pharaoh was decreed for his children (Commentary to Gen 12:10, Chavel translation).

            Had this story been left out, we might have been left with the mistaken impression that God calls only on saints. The Torah quickly tells us that even Abraham can misjudge a situation. If that could be said of him, it can be said of his descendents who, while far from his high stature and closeness to God, need not despair of meriting the promised blessings despite their faults.

Separating from Lot

            Abraham emerged from Egypt with his values intact, but Lot did not. Abraham realizes that he and Lot must part geographically, but he does not yet appreciate the significance of the move. He offers Lot to go to the right or the left. In a society facing the eastern rising sun, it is an offer to go south or north. Abraham assumes that Lot will want to stay with him in the north-south mountain range, where the need for rain accentuates one’s dependence on God’s grace. But Lot eyes the plains of the Jordan where, as in Egypt, water is plentiful. It is not relevant to him that the people of Sodom are evil and sinning to God. The Torah tells us that because it will help us understand a subsequent contrast with Abraham.

Abraham Rescues Lot

            The next episode in Abraham’s life that the Torah chooses to relate is a war story. Lot had left Abraham to go to Sodom, and he got caught up in a local war and taken captive. General Abraham rallies his troops and rescues him. An academic secular commentary such as the Anchor Bible[8] sees this story as “an intrusive section within the patriarchal framework,” one in which Abraham is depicted as “a resolute and powerful chieftain rather than an unworldly patriarch.” But the story is hardly an intrusion. On the simplest level, this story shows us that the Torah will not allow us to form a stereotype of this complex spiritual giant. The man who found God can also field an army—and the man who fields an army can also find God. We are not allowed to picture Abraham as emerging from any particular educational experience. We are not allowed to picture him as completely trusting and brave. And we are not allowed to picture him as meek and subservient. Indeed, whatever picture we form will turn out to be wrong. And whatever excuse we have for not trying to reach his heights will be undermined.

            But there is more to this story. There is a striking parallel between this story and the descent to Egypt episode. In both there is danger—there to Abraham and here to Lot. In both there is a response to the danger—there by passing off Sarah as his sister and here by gathering an army and going to war to rescue Lot. In both there is a financial award—there quickly taken and here refused in an act of Kiddush HaShem. One cannot help but see tremendous transformational growth in Abraham’s response; and one cannot help but understand that that if there is room for growth in Abraham—a spiritual giant who found God and who was found by God—then there is no excuse for our not always trying to reach higher in our own lives. Indeed, rather than being “an intrusive section,” the story fits well within the educational strategy of Abraham’s Stories.

Sarah, Hagar, and Ishmael

            The Torah tells us two stories about Sarah arranging for the banishment of Hagar and Ishmael. We understand easily the reason for the second. The Torah must inform us that despite the fact that Ishmael is Abraham’s son, he is not the promised son—and his descendents are not the promised people. But what is the purpose of the first story?

            Abraham has been promised a son and Sarah apparently cannot deliver him. So she offered her maidservant Hagar to him to be a surrogate. We cannot help but be touched by Sarah’s altruistic behavior. “Abram listened to Sarai” without any reservation or protest.

            Regretfully, Sarah could not live up to her magnanimous gesture. She soon became jealous of Hagar and mistreated her. Nehama Leibowitz acutely sums up one reason for the Torah’s telling of this story: We must have high ideals, but they must be realistic ones.

Perhaps the Torah wished to teach us that before a man undertake a mission that will tax all his moral and spiritual powers, he should ask himself first whether he can maintain those high standards to the bitter end. Otherwise man is liable to descend from the pinnacle of altruism and selflessness into much deeper depths than would ordinarily been the case… Had Sarah not wished to suppress her instincts and overcome every vestige of jealousy for her rival …there might not have been born that individual whose descendants have proved a source of trouble to Israel to this very day.[9]

            However, there is an additional reason for the telling of this story, for without it the second story would have been less poignant:

Sarah saw the son, whom Hagar the Egyptian had borne to Abraham, playing. She said to Abraham, “Cast out that slave-woman and her son, for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.” The matter distressed Abraham greatly, for it concerned a son of his. But God said to Abraham, “Do not be distressed over the boy or your slave; whatever Sarah tells you, do as she says, for it is through Isaac that offspring shall be continued for you.” (Gen. 21:9–12, NJPS)

Sarah again tells Abraham to banish Hagar, but Abraham has grown from his past experience: “The matter distressed Abraham greatly, for it concerned a son of his.” This was not only an intellectual response but an emotional one—he was being asked to send away his son. But Abraham was wrong again! This time Sarah was right and, significantly, she had learned something very valuable from her previous experiences (something we cannot fully say of Abraham, who later repeats trying to pass off Sarah as his sister).

Sarah had learned that we need not be paralyzed by our mistakes. She had been wrong in first banishing Hagar, and that might have made her lose her confidence when she now realized that Hagar and Ishmael had to be sent away. At this point it was right to banish her—God confirms it—and she had the confidence to act. And what was it that gave her the insight to realize that Isaac cannot be raised in the presence of Ishmael? It was, we suggest, the intervening story of Lot. Sarah saw what happens when one lives with people who mock Abraham’s teachings.

Lot in Sodom

            We understand well the importance of major parts of the story of the three messengers visiting Abraham. Part of the story is the continued assurance that God’s promise will be fulfilled. Part of the story is to add a clarification of sorts to God’s promise to Noah (Gen. 9:11) that there will never again be a flood to destroy the whole earth. That promise was not a “free pass” for evil doers: the world may never again be destroyed, but a city of evil doers can still face devastation. Part of the story is the message is the universal concern for justice that Abraham has come to represent. He pleads not for his nephew in Sodom, but for the righteous. But why must we be told the venue and menu?

Lot is Abraham’s literary foil who serves in contrast to point out Abraham’s traits. Abraham sits alone in the desert at his tent’s door; Lot sits “in the gate of Sodom” where the judges of the city sit. He thinks he will judge them but it is they who will have distorted his judgment. Abraham is leisurely and gracious in welcoming them; Lot has them rested, washed, up early and out in a rapid staccato of verbs. Abraham offered a morsel of bread and gave them a feast; Lot offered a feast and gave them matzah. (Rashi comments, “It was Pesah”—Lot’s holiday of freedom, that is, as the messengers come to free him from the existential slavery of being in Sodom.[10]) Lot thinks he has remembered all the lessons gained from his time with Abraham, but living in Sodom has corroded them. So corrupted was his sense of hospitality, that he offers his daughters to be raped to spare his guests! Sarah, having seen what happened to Lot in Sodom, will not raise her son in anything but a fully wholesome household.

Lot’s Daughters

            While the educational value of the story of Lot’s rescue is clear, the epilogue concerning his daughters is at first puzzling. Why should we be told the sordid story of their raping him, almost mida ke-neged mida? Thinking that the three of them were the only ones left in the world, the daughters serially get their father drunk so that he would impregnate each of them. Why must we know the origins of their descendants, the Moabites and children of Ammon? Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik explains:

Lot’s daughter had something beautiful to contribute to the emerging personality of the King Messiah. What did this primitive girl possess that the Almighty, gathering virtues and noble traits from all over the world, picked up? She was uncouth and primitive, she committed incest, and yet she was the great-great-grandmother of Ruth [the Moabite]. The Messiah will be her descendant!

              She was under the impression, says Rashi (Gen. 19:31), that a cosmic cataclysm had struck and only three human beings had survived…. She acted as she did because she wanted to save humanity. This girl wanted to rebuild the world, to start from scratch and raise another race to take the place of the human race, which she believed had been destroyed simultaneously with the destruction of Sodom. This was heroism of an undreamt caliber. Instead of giving up, she had the courage to try to rebuild the world, to make a new humanity arise from the ashes of Sodom. She convinced her younger sister. Never mind that their method was primitive and crude. These two girls took upon themselves an impossible task, something staggering and awesome….

Mattan Torah is bound up with the Messiah, who will possess the heroism of his grandmothers [including Ruth] whom the Almighty found in the non-Jewish world. They represented the heroism of loneliness, the heroism of universal commitment, and the heroism of faith and waiting. The ideal of mattan Torah will be fully realized only in the time of the Messiah. This great vision of a redeemed world would have been impossible had Lot’s daughters been destroyed in Sodom.[11]

To fulfill God’s ultimate plan, the descendents of Abraham will have to draw on the strengths of descendents of Lot. We are who we are because God chose Abraham, but He did not discard the value of the rest of humanity—and neither should we.

Abraham’s Final Test

            Abraham’s final test was the Akedah, a narrative that needs its own comprehensive analysis, if only to understand why Abraham pleaded for the innocents of Sodom and not for his innocent son Isaac. But it is not this complicated matter that concerns us here; it is rather the epilogue to the story:

How shall we understand this anti-climax to the drama of the Akedah? Rabbi Soloveitchik explains:

After the Akeida, some questions began to bother Abraham. Why was I required to constantly bring sacrifices and always undergo these bitter tests? Why am I different from my bother Nahor and his wife Milcah who had so many children without suffering long-standing heart-rending yearnings, without taking his mother’s only son to the Akeida?[12]

Abraham’s whole life centered around God’s promise regarding his children. For decades he held firm, fighting his doubts, and God then tests him once more regarding his children. And then he hears that his idolatrous brother had such an easy time with having progeny, that his pagan brother Nahor will, through Rebecca, share in being the father of God’s people. To be able to continue to believe that he was nonetheless right, that his struggle was worth it, that was the real test. And the response was: “Abraham lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold behind him a ram caught in a thicket by his horns: and Abraham went and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt offering in the stead of his son” (Gen. 22:13). He realized that a Jewish life is one of sacrifice. “His fate was clear to him: Judaism has a tremendous tradition; it is not simple and easy to live a life of Torah and mitzvot. One must be willing to sacrifice on its behalf many things and to bring sacrifices, small and large.”[13]

Here then is the denouement of the Abraham Stories. One need not have a particular pedigree to become an Abraham. One need not necessarily be a weak or strong person. One need not be free of misjudgments or doubts. One need not be at a place that demands no further growth or help from others of a different community. But one must be prepared to sacrifice for a life of Torah and mitzvot.

Notes 

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.

**
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]