National Scholar Updates

The following articles, spanning over 30 years, offer reflections on aspects of
the theme, “Bridges, Not Walls.” They relate to issues of intellectual openness;
interpersonal relationships; and human dignity.

Orthodoxy and Isolation

(This article was originally published in Moment Magazine,
September 1980)

Gershom Scholem has described a mystic as one who struggles
with all his might against a world with which he very much
wants to be at peace. The tense inner dialectic, I think, is true
not only of a mystic, but of every truly religious person.

A religious person devotes his life to ideals, values, and observances which generally are
at odds with the society in which he lives. He fights with all his power to
resist succumbing to the overwhelming non-religious forces around him.
Yet, he does not want to live his life as a struggle. He wants to be at peace.
He wants to be able to relax his guard, not always to feel under siege.

There are “religious” communities where the tensions of this dialectic
are suppressed successfully. Within a tightly knit Hassidic community or
in a “right-wing” Orthodox enclave, the positive forces of the community
strongly repel the external pressures of the non-religious world. It is easier
to create what Henry Feingold has called a “Pavlovian Jewish response”
within a vibrant and deeply committed religious colony. Religious observance
is the norm; children learn from the earliest age what they should
and should not do; outside influences are sealed out as much as possible.
In such communities, the individual need not feel the incredible loneli-
ness and pain of struggling by himself against society. His own society
reinforces him. His own community—as a community—is relatively selfsufficient
spiritually, and it is this entire community which withstands the
outside world.

But the Modern Orthodox Jew feels the intensity of the dialectic struggle
to the core of his existence. He is as Orthodox and as Jewishly committed
as the Hassidim or as the “right-wing” Orthodox. He does not feel
he is less religious because he does not have a beard, does not wear a black
hat. No. The Orthodox Jew who is a college graduate, an intellectual, a
professional, an open-minded person, can pray to God with a deep spirituality
and can dedicate his life to fulfilling the words of God as revealed
in the Torah.

Yet, because his eyes are open and because he is receptive to the intellectual
and social life of the society around him, the enlightened Orthodox
Jew finds it difficult to be at peace. He generally does not live in a community
which helps him shut off external influences. He does not have a large
reservoir of friends who share the depth of his religious commitment
while at the same time sharing his openness to literature, philosophy, or
science. He is at war with society, but wants to be at peace with society.
Really, he is alone.

In “The Castle,” Kafka describes the predicament of Mr. K, a land surveyor.
K comes to a place which is composed of two distinct entities: the
Castle and the Village. K spends a good deal of time trying to make his way
from the Village to the Castle but—in typical Kafkaesque style—he
becomes lost in labyrinthine confusion. At one point, someone tells K; You
are not of the Castle, you are not of the Village, you are nobody. K’s
predicament is especially meaningful to an enlightened Orthodox Jew. He
is neither a part of the Village nor the Castle. And often, he wonders if he,
too, is nobody.

This is not metaphysics, not philosophy; it is the pragmatic reality for
many thousands of devoted Jews in this country.

And in the most confusing situation of all we have the enlightened
Orthodox rabbi. Not only is he busy with his own personal struggles,
fighting his own wars, but he also is responsible for the struggles and battles
of his community. Sometimes, his congregation may not even realize
there is a war. Sometimes, he may appear to be a contemporary version of
Don Quixote. Sometimes, he is perceived as being too religious and idealistic,
and sometimes he is perceived as being crass, materialistic, secular-
ist. For some people he is not modern enough, while for others he is a traitor
to tradition.

Imagine for a moment the dilemma of an enlightened Orthodox rabbi.
He is religiously educated and committed. He is trained in the humanities
and the sciences. The Orthodox community on the “right,” which scorns
university education, looks upon this rabbi as a fake and imposter. The
non-Orthodox community looks upon him as a religious reactionary who
is trying to maintain ancient standards of kashruth, Shabbat, mikvah, and
so many other laws in a society where these commandments seem almost
meaningless. The right-wing Orthodox community condemns him for
associating with non-Orthodox rabbis and with non-Orthodox Jews. And
the non-Orthodox rabbis and non-Orthodox Jews may “respect” him from
a distance, but they innately recognize that his is “not one of us.”

When Moshe came down from Mount Sinai the second time, the
Torah tells us that his face emitted strong beams of light. It was necessary
for him to wear a mask to that people could look at him. One can imagine
the terror of little children when they looked at the masked Moshe.
One also can imagine the profound impact such a mask must have had on
all the people of Israel. But we must also stop to think about how Moshe
must have felt wearing such a mask, knowing that there was a strong, visible
barrier separating him from his people. Who can know? Perhaps
Moshe cried in misery and loneliness behind that mask.

While people to the right and people to the left will judge, condemn,
patronize, “respect” the enlightened Orthodox rabbi, few people take the
time to wonder what is going on behind his “mask.” He also has ears, eyes,
and senses. He knows what people are saying and thinking. He knows that
his authenticity as a religious figure is challenged from the right and from
the left. He knows that his ideals and visions for his community are far
from realization, perhaps impossibly far. He knows that his best talents are
not enough to bring his people to a promised land.

Imagine the quandary of an Orthodox rabbi who works with non-
Orthodox rabbis in Jewish Federations or Boards of Rabbis. On the one
hand, his open-mindedness compels him to be involved in communal
Jewish affairs and to work for the good of the community with all interested
people. Yet, it is possible that the Reform rabbi sitting next to him
has eaten a ham sandwich for lunch, drives to the synagogue on Saturday,
and has performed marriages that should not have been performed
according to halakha. Is this Reform rabbi—whom he likes and respects
as a human being—his friend and colleague? Or is this rabbi his archenemy,
a person dedicated to teaching Judaism in a way that the
Orthodox rabbi considers mistaken and even dangerous? And as this
conflict nags at him, what is he to do with the voices of the right-wing
who condemn him as a traitor for recognizing or legitimizing nonhalakhic
clergy? And what is he to do with the voices of the non-
Orthodox who condemn him for not being flexible and open enough on
religious questions?

Or imagine another case. An enlightened Orthodox rabbi may recognize
a variety of ways which could ameliorate the position of women in
halakhic Judaism. His liberal education has made him receptive to a host
of ideas, many of which can be implemented within the guidelines of tradition
Jewish law. Yet, the “right-wing” Orthodox would condemn such
ideas as basic violations of Jewish law and tradition. And at the same time,
the non-Orthodox are fast to condemn the enlightened Orthodox rabbi for
being too conservative and rigid.

He has the right ideas, but no medium of communication. He can
speak, but he has few who will listen.

And yet another example. An enlightened Orthodox rabbi may recognize
the need for compassion and understanding when dealing with the
issue of conversion to Judaism. He may want to work within the halakha
to encourage would-be converts to accept halakhic Judaism. He may reject
the narrow and unnecessary stringencies advocated by colleagues on the
right wing. And he will be roundly criticized and condemned by them. On
the other hand, because he absolutely believes in Torah and halakha, he
will require converts to undergo a rigorous program of study as well as circumcision
and mikvah. Because of his standards, the non-Orthodox community
views him as old-fashioned, unenlightened and even insensitive.

With all these tensions and conflicts, with all the voices to the right and
to the left, the enlightened Orthodox rabbi tries to serve his God and his people
in an honest and authentic way. It is very tempting to give up the battle.
The internal pressures are sometimes too much to bear. But he cannot succumb
to the temptation; he is the prisoner of his commitments and beliefs.
Moshe, behind his mask, may indeed have been lonely and sad. But he
never forgot who he was. In fact, he probably spent more time thinking
about his condition when he wore the mask than when he did not. It is difficult
to have a barrier between yourself and others. But perhaps a mask
helps you to develop the courage and strength to stand alone in the battle
against a world with which you want—with all your being—to be at peace.

Teaching the Wholeness of the Jewish People
(edited version)

(This article originally appeared in the magazine Ten Da’at,
Heshvan 5749, Fall 1988.)

Our heritage is rich and vast, and we claim that we teach it. But
do we truly understand the wholeness of the Jewish people,
or is our knowledge really limited and fragmented? Do we—
indeed can we—inculcate the concept of Jewish unity in our students? If
we as educators are unaware of or disinterested in Jews who have had different
historic experiences than we have had, how can we convey the richness
of Judaism?

How can we, in fact, demonstrate the sheer wonder of
halakhic Jewry without a sense of awe at the halakhic contributions of all
our diverse communities throughout the world, throughout the ages?
We may study the Talmud of Babylonia and Israel; the codes of sages
in Spain; the commentaries of scholars of France, Germany, and Italy; the
responsa of rabbis of Turkey, the Middle East, and North Africa; the novellae
of sages of Eastern Europe; the traditions and customs of Jewish communities
throughout the world. We study this diverse and rich literature
and confront the phenomenon that all these Jewish sages and their communities
operated with the identical assumptions—that God gave the
Torah to the people of Israel, that halakha is our way of following God’s
ways.

As we contemplate the vast scope of the halakhic enterprise—and
its essential unity—we begin to sense the wholeness of the Jewish people.
If, for example, we were to study only the contributions and history
of the Jews of America, we would have a narrow view of Judaism. If we
limited our Jewish sources only to a particular century or to a particular
geographic location, we would be parochial. We would be experts in a segment
of Jewish experience; but we would be ignorant of everything outside
our narrow focus.

In order to teach the wholeness of the Jewish people, we need to have
a broad knowledge and vision of the Jewish people. We cannot limit ourselves
to sources only from Europe, just as we cannot limit ourselves to
sources only from Asia or Africa. Often enough, however, Jewish education
today fails to include in a serious way the Jewish experiences in Asia
and Africa. How many educators can name ten great Jewish personalities
who lived in Turkey, Morocco, or Syria during the seventeenth, eighteenth,
and nineteenth centuries? How many Jewish Studies teachers have
studied any works of authors who lived in Muslim lands over the past four
to five centuries? And how many have taught this information to their students?

And have they learned?

There is a vital need to teach “whole-istic” Judaism, drawing on the
great teachings of our people in all the lands and periods of their dispersion.
To do this, we ourselves need to study, to think very seriously, to feel
genuine excitement in gathering the exiles of our people into our minds
and consciousnesses. When we are engaged in this process, we can help
our students share the excitement with us. Jews who are “not like us,”
whose families came from countries other than “ours,” should not be
viewed as being exotic or quaint. There is more to a Jewish community
than a set of interesting customs or folkways. We need to be able to speak
of the Jews of Vilna and of Istanbul and of Berlin and of Tangiers with the
same degree of naturalness, with no change in the inflection of our voices.
We need to see Jews of all these—and all the other—communities as
though they are part of “our” community.

Consider the standard Mikra’ot Gedolot, a common edition of the
Bible. There are commenaries by Rashi (France); Ibn Ezra and Ramban
(Spain); R. Hayyim ben Attar, the Ohr haHayyim (Morocco); R. Ovadia
Seforno (Italy), and many others. The commentaries of the Talmud, the
Rambam, and Shulhan Arukh are also a diverse group, stemming from different
places and times. It is important for teachers to make their students
aware of the backgrounds of the various commentators. In this relatively
simple way, students are introduced to the vastness of the Torah enterprise—
and of the value of all communities that have engaged in maintaining
the Torah. To quote Sephardic sages together with Ashkenazic sages,
naturally and easily, is to achieve an important goal in the teaching of
wholeness of the Jewish people.

Most teachers teach what they themselves have learned. They tend to
draw heavily on the sources which their teachers valued. It is difficult and
challenging to try to reach out into new sources, to gain knowledge and
inspiration from Jewish communities which one originally had not considered
to be one’s own.

The majority of Jews living in Israel are of African and Asian backgrounds.
Students who gain no knowledge of the history and culture of
the Jews of Africa and Asia are being seriously deprived. They will be
unable to grasp the cultural context of the majority of Jews in Israel, or
they will trivialize it or think it exotic.

But if Jews are to be a whole people,
then all Jews need to understand, in a deep and serious way, about
other Jews. This is not for “enrichment” programs or for special
“Sephardic days;” this is basic Jewish teaching, basic Jewish learning.

I am saddened by the general narrowness I have seen in some schools.
There is a reluctance to grasp the need for wholeness on a serious level.
Time is too short. Teachers don’t want more responsibilities. But Judaism
goes far beyond the sources of Europe and America. Giving lip service to
the beauty of Sephardic culture; or singing a Yemenite tune with the
school choir; or explaining a custom now and then—these “token lessons”
don’t represent a genuine openness, a positive education.

Standard textbooks don’t teach much about the Jews of Africa and
Asia, their vast cultural and spiritual achievements, their contributions to
Jewish life and to Torah scholarship. Schools often do not make the effort
to incorporate serious study of these topics, so our children grow up with
a fragmented Jewish education.

To raise awareness and sensitivity, teachers should utilize the
resources within the community—including students, community members,
and synagogues representing diverse backgrounds, customs, and history
that can enlighten students. Spending Shabbat with diverse
communities, within the United States as well as when visiting Israel, can
be a moving way of sharing cultures and customs.

Attaining wholeness in Jewish education entails considerable work on
the part of administrators, teachers, and students. It may cost time and
money. But can we really afford to continue to deprive our children and
our people of wholeness?

Eulogy at Wounded Knee

(Originally delivered in May 1992 at the Wounded Knee Memorial
in South Dakota.)

W e stand at the mass grave of men, women and children—
Indians who were massacred at Wounded Knee in the
bitter winter of 1890. Pondering the tragedy which
occurred at Wounded Knee fills the heart with crying and with silence.

The great Sioux holy man, Black Elk, was still a child when he saw the
dead bodies of his people strewn throughout this area. As an old man, he
reflected on what he had seen: “I did not know then how much was
ended. When I look back now from this high hill of my old age, I can still
see the butchered women and children lying heaped and scattered all
along the crooked gulch as plain as when I saw them with eyes still young.
And I can see that something else died there in the bloody mud and was
buried in the blizzard. A people’s dream died there. It was a beautiful
dream. For the nation’s hoop is broken and scattered. There is no center
any longer, and the sacred tree is dead.”

Indeed, the massacre at Wounded Knee was the culmination of
decades of destruction and transformation for the American Indian. The
decades of suffering somehow are encapsulated and symbolized by the
tragedy at Wounded Knee. Well-armed American soldiers slaughtered
freezing, almost defenseless, Indians—including women and children.
Many of the soldiers were awarded medals of honor for their heroism, as
if there could be any heroism in wiping out helpless people.

How did this tragedy happen? How was it possible for the soldiers—
who no doubt thought of themselves as good men—to participate in a
deed of such savagery? How was it possible that the United States government
awarded medals of honor to so many of the soldiers?

The answer is found in one word: dehumanization. For the
Americans, the Indians were not people at all, only wild savages. It was no
different killing Indians than killing buffaloes or wild dogs. If an American
general taught that “the only good Indian is a dead Indian,” it means that
he did not view Indians as human beings.

When you look a person in the eye and see him as a person, you simply
can’t kill him or hurt him. Human sympathy and compassion will be
aroused. Doesn’t he have feelings like you? Doesn’t he love, fear, cry,
laugh? Doesn’t he want to protect his loved ones?

The tragedy of Wounded Knee is a tragedy of the American Indians.
But it is also more than that. It is a profound tragedy of humanity. It is the
tragedy of dehumanization. It is the tragedy that recurs again and again,
and that is still with us today. Isn’t our society still riddled with hatred,
where groups are hated because of their religion, race, national origin?
Don’t we still experience the pervasive depersonalization process where
people are made into objects, robbed of their essential human dignity?
When Black Elk spoke, he lamented the broken hoop of his nation.

The hoop was the symbol of wholeness, togetherness, harmony. Black Elk
cried that the hoop of his nation had been broken at Wounded Knee.
But we might also add that the hoop of American life was also broken
by the hatred and prejudice exemplified by Wounded Knee. And the hoop
of our nation continues to be torn apart by the hatred that festers in our
society.

Our task, the task of every American, is to do our share to mend the
hoop, to repair the breaches.

The poet Stephen Vincent Benet, in his profound empathy, wrote:
“Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.” This phrase reflects the pathos of this
place and the tragedy of this place.

But if we are to be faithful to Black Elk’s vision, we must add:
Revitalize our hearts at Wounded Knee. Awaken our hearts to the depths
of this human tragedy. Let us devote our revitalized hearts toward mending
the hoop of America, the hoop of all humanity That hoop is made of
love; that hoop depends on respect for each other, for human dignity.
We cry at this mass grave at Wounded Knee. We cry for the victims.
We cry for the recurrent pattern of hatred and dehumanization that
continues to separate people, that continues to foster hatred and violence
and murder.

Let us put the hoop of our nation back in order. For the sake of those
who have suffered and for the sake of those who are suffering, let us put
the hoop of our nation back in order.

Orthodoxy and Diversity

(This article originally appeared in Liber Amicurum, in honor of
Rabbi Dr. Nathan T. Lopes Cardozo, Jerusalem, 2006.)

The Talmud (Berakhot 58a) teaches that one is required to
recite a special blessing when witnessing a vast throng of
Jews, praising the Almighty who is hakham haRazim, the One
who understands the root and inner thoughts of each individual. “Their
thoughts are not alike and their appearance is not alike.” The Creator
made each person as a unique being. God expected and wanted diversity
of thought, and we bless God for having created this diversity among us.

The antithesis of this ideal is represented by the evil city of Sodom.
Rabbinic teaching has it that the Sodomites placed visitors in a bed. If the
person was too short, he was stretched until he fit the bed. If he was too
tall, his legs were cut off so that he fit the bed. This parable is not, I think,
merely referring to the desire for physical uniformity; the people of Sodom
wanted everyone to fit the same pattern, to think alike, to conform to the
mores of the Sodomites. They fostered and enforced conformity in an
extreme way.

Respect for individuality and diversity is a sine qua non of healthy
human life. We each have unique talents and insights, and we need the
spiritual climate that allows us to grow, to be creative, to contribute to
humanity’s treasury of ideas and knowledge.

Societies struggle to find a balance between individual freedom and
communal standards of conduct. The Torah, while granting much freedom,
also provides boundaries beyond which the individual may not trespass.
When freedom becomes license, it can unsettle society. On the other
hand, when authoritarianism quashes individual freedom, the dignity and
sanctity of the individual are violated. I wish to focus on this latter tendency
as it relates to contemporary Orthodox Jewish life.

Some years ago, I visited a great Torah luminary in Israel, Rabbi Haim
David Halevy. He had given a shiur (Torah lecture) for rabbis and rabbinical
judges in which he suggested introducing civil marriage in the State of
Israel. He offered cogent arguments in support of this view, and many of
those present actually thanked him for having the courage to put this issue
on the rabbinic agenda. His suggestion, though, was vehemently opposed
by the rabbinic establishment, and he was sharply criticized in the media.
Efforts were made to isolate him and limit his influence as much as possible.
Students of the rabbi were told not to attend his classes any longer.
This rabbi lamented to me: “Have you heard of the mafia? Well, we have
a rabbinic mafia here.” This, of course, is an indictment of the greatest
seriousness. It is not an issue of whether or not one favors civil marriage.
The issue is whether a rabbinic scholar has the right and responsibility to
explore and discuss unpopular ideas. If his suggestions are valid, they
should be accepted. If they are incorrect, they should be refuted. But to
apply crude pressure to silence open discussion is dangerous, and inimical
to the best interests of the Torah community.

Similar cases abound where pressure has been brought to bear on rabbis
and scholars who espouse views not in conformity with the prevailing
opinions of an inner circle of Orthodox rabbinic leaders. As one example
of this phenomenon, a certain rabbi permitted women to study Talmud in
his class at his synagogue. One of the women in his congregation consulted
a Rosh Yeshiva who promptly branded the synagogue rabbi as a heretic
(apikores) for having allowed women to study Talmud. The Rosh Yeshiva
told the woman she was not permitted to pray in the synagogue as long as
that rabbi was there. When the synagogue rabbi was informed of this, he
wrote a respectful letter to the Rosh Yeshiva and explained the halakhic
basis for women studying Talmud. The Rosh Yeshiva refused to answer,
and told the woman congregant that he would not enter into a correspondence
with a heretic. The woman stopped attending the rabbi’s synagogue.

Is this the way of Torah, whose ways are the ways of pleasantness?
Does this kind of behavior shed honor on Orthodoxy? Shouldn’t learned
people be able to speak with each other, argue a point of halakha, disagree
with each other? Shouldn’t the Torah world be able to deal with controversy
without engaging in name-calling and delegitimation?

Over the years, I have been involved in the planning of a number of
rabbinic conferences and conventions. Invariably questions are raised
concerning who will be invited to speak. Some say: If Rabbi so-and-so is
put on the program, then certain other rabbis and speakers will refuse to
participate. Some say: If such-and-such a group is among the sponsors of
the conference, the other groups will boycott the event. What is happening
in such instances is a subtle—and not so subtle—process of coercion.
Decisions are being made as to which Orthodox individuals and groups
are “acceptable” and which are not.

This process is insidious and is unhealthy for Orthodoxy. It deprives
us of meaningful discussion and debate. It intimidates people from taking
independent or original positions for fear of being ostracized or isolated.
Many times I have heard intelligent people say: I believe thus-and-so
but I can’t say so openly for fear of being attacked by the “right.” I support
such-and-such proposal, but can’t put my name in public support for fear
of being reviled or discredited by this group or that group.

We must face this problem squarely and candidly: The narrowing of
horizons is a reality within contemporary Orthodoxy. The fear to dissent
from “acceptable” positions is palpable. But if individuals are not allowed
to think independently, if they may not ask questions and raise alternatives—
then we as a community suffer a loss of vitality and dynamism.
Fear and timidity become our hallmark.

This situation contrasts with the way a vibrant Torah community
should function. Rabbi Yehiel Mikhel Epstein, in the introduction to
Hoshen Misphat of his Arukh haShulhan, notes that difference of opinion
among our sages constitutes the glory of Torah. “The entire Torah is called
a song (shira), and the glory of a song is when the voices differ one from
the other. This is the essence of its pleasantness.”

Debates and disagreements have long been an accepted and valued part
of the Jewish tradition. The Rama (see Shulhan Arukh, Y.D. 242:2,3) notes
that it is even permissible for a student to dissent from his rabbi’s ruling if
he has proofs and arguments to uphold his opinion. Rabbi Hayyim Palachi,
the great halakhic authority of nineteenth-century Izmir, wrote that
the Torah gave permission to each person to express his opinion according
to his understanding. . . . It is not good for a sage to withhold his words out
of deference to the sages who preceded him if he finds in their words a clear
contradiction. . . . A sage who wishes to write his proofs against the kings
and giants of Torah should not withhold his words nor suppress his prophecy,
but should give his analysis as he has been guided by Heaven. (Hikekei
Lev, O.H. 6; and Y.D. 42)

The great twentieth-century sage, Rabbi Haim David Halevi, ruled:
Not only does a judge have the right to rule against his rabbis; he also has
an obligation to do so [if he believes their decision to be incorrect and he
has strong proofs to support his own position]. If the decision of those
greater than he does not seem right to him, and he is not comfortable fol-
lowing it, and yet he follows that decision [in deference to their authority],
then it is almost certain that he has rendered a false judgment. (Aseh Lekha
Rav, 2:61)

Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, in rejecting an opinion of Rabbi Shelomo
Kluger, wrote that “one must love truth more than anything” (Iggrot
Moshe, Y. D., 3:88).

Orthodoxy needs to foster the love of truth. It must be alive to different
intellectual currents and receptive to open discussion. How do we, as
a Modern Orthodox community, combat the tendency toward blind
authoritarianism and obscurantism?

First, we must stand up and be counted on the side of freedom of
expression. We, as a community, must give encouragement to all who
have legitimate opinions to share. We must not tolerate intolerance. We
must not yield to the tactics of coercion and intimidation.

Our schools and institutions must foster legitimate diversity within
Orthodoxy. We must insist on intellectual openness, and resist efforts to
impose conformity. We will not be fitted into the bed of Sodom. We must
give communal support to diversity within the halakhic framework, so
that people will not feel intimidated to say things publicly or sign their
names to public documents.

Let me add another dimension to the topic of diversity within
Orthodoxy. Too often, Orthodox schools and books ignore the teachings
and traditions of Jews of non-Ashkenazic backgrounds. Information is
presented as though Jews of Turkey, the Balkans, North Africa, and the
Middle East simply did not exist. Little or no effort is made to draw from
the vast wellsprings of knowledge and inspiration maintained by these
communities for many centuries. Yet, these communities—deeply
steeped in tradition—produced many rabbis and many books, rich
folklore, and religious customs; and these spiritual treasures belong to
all Jews. To ignore the experience and teachings of these communities is
to deprive ourselves and our children of a valuable part of the Jewish
heritage.

Why, then, isn’t there a concerted effort to be inclusive in the teaching
of Jewish tradition? Among the reasons are: narrowness of scope, a tendency
toward conformity, lack of interest in reaching beyond the familiar.
However, unless we overcome these handicaps, we rob Orthodoxy of vitality
and strength, creativity and breadth.

Orthodoxy is large enough and great enough to include the Rambam
and the Ari; the Baal Shem Tov and the Gaon of Vilna; Rabbi Eliyau
Benamozegh and Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch; Rabbi Abraham Isaac
Kook and Rabbi Benzion Uziel; Dona Gracia Nasi and Sarah Schnirer. We
draw on the wisdom and inspiration of men and women spanning the
generations, from communities throughout the world. The wide variety of
Orthodox models deepens our own religiosity and understanding, thereby
giving us a living, dynamic, intellectually alive way of life.

If the Modern Orthodox community does not have the will or courage
to foster diversity, then who will? And if we do not do it now, we are missing
a unique challenge of our generation.

Retaining Our Humanity

(Originally published as an Angel for Shabbat column on
Parashat Shemot, January 9, 2010.)

“And he turned this way and that way,
and saw that there was no man.”

When Moses saw an Egyptian taskmaster beating an
Israelite slave, he looked around before striking the
Egyptian down. This passage is usually understood to
mean that he wanted to be sure that he would not be seen when he slew
the Egyptian.

The passage might be understood in a different way. Moses was outraged
by the entire system of slavery. He saw one group of people oppressing
another group of people, treating the slaves as chattel rather than as
fellow human beings. By dehumanizing the Israelites, the Egyptians felt
no remorse in beating them, forcing them to do backbreaking work, condemning
their children to death. The taskmasters had lost their humanity.

The abusive treatment of slaves exacted a psychological as well as
physical price; the slaves came to see themselves as inferiors to their masters;
they lost self-respect along with their freedom.

When Moses was confronted with a specific instance of an Egyptian
beating a Hebrew slave, he realized that “there was no man”—the oppressor
had become a savage beast, the oppressed had become a work animal.
The human element had vanished; there was no mercy, no mutual respect,
no sympathy for each other. It was this recognition that was more than
Moses could bear. He rashly killed the Egyptian—which did not solve the
problem at all. He was then compelled to flee for his own life. He stayed
for many years in the tranquility of Midian, working as a lonely shepherd.
He could not deal with the injustices taking place in Egypt—a land where
“there was no man,” a land where people had been reduced to animal status,
to objects rather than subjects.

The Torah’s story of the redemption of the Israelite slaves is ultimately
a profound lesson teaching that each human being has a right to be free,
to be a dignified human being, to be treated (and to treat others) as a fellow
human being. Slavery is an evil both for the oppressor and the
oppressed. It is a violation of the sanctity of human life.

Dehumanization of others leads not just to disdain, or even to slavery;
it leads to violence and murder. Dehumanization is how terrorists justify
murder: They see their victims as inferior beings, as infidels—not as fellow
human beings created in the image of God. Dehumanization results
in discrimination against those who are perceived to be “the other”—people
of different ethnicity, religion, race, beliefs.

We know our society is in trouble when members of one group feel
themselves innately superior to people of another group, and engage in
stereotyping and dehumanizing them. We know that there is moral decay
within the Jewish people, when Jews of one background feel themselves
superior to Jews of another background, when they exhibit discriminatory
behavior and language, when they dehumanize their fellow Jews and
fellow human beings.

When human beings treat each other as objects, humanity suffers.
When human beings see their kinship with other human beings and treat
each other with respect, humanity begins its process of redemption. We
can retain our own humanity only when we recognize the humanity of
each of our fellow human beings

I and Thou

(Originally published as an Angel for Shabbat column for
Parashat Bemidbar, May 11, 2013.)

When the Israelites were liberated from their slavery in
Egypt, they did not—and could not—immediately
become free people. Although the physical servitude
had come to an end, psychological/emotional slavery continued to imbue
their perception of life.

For generations, they had been viewed as objects, as lowly slaves
whose existence was controlled by Egyptian taskmasters. Not only did the
Egyptians see the Israelites as beasts of burden, but it was inevitable for
the slaves to internalize this evaluation of their own lives. They were
dehumanized . . . and it was very difficult to retain their humanity, selfrespect,
and dignity.

In this week’s Torah portion, we read about the census of the Israelites
in the wilderness. The Torah specifies that those who were to be counted
in the census were to be identified by their names and by their families.
This was a dramatic way of telling them: you have names, you have families,
you are dignified human beings; you are not chattel, you are not
nameless slaves, you are not objects. Until the Israelites came to internalize
their freedom and self-worth, they would continue to see themselves
as inferior and unworthy beings.

In his famous book, I and Thou, Martin Buber pointed out that human
relationships, at their best, involve mutual knowledge and respect, treating
self and others as valuable human beings. An I-Thou relationship is
based on understanding, sympathy, love. Its goal is to experience the
“other” as a meaningful and valuable person. In contrast, an I-It relationship
treats the “other” as an object to be manipulated, controlled, or
exploited. If I-Thou relationships are based on mutuality, I-It relationships
are based on the desire to gain functional benefit from the other.

Buber wrote: “When a culture is no longer centered in a living and
continually renewed relational process, it freezes into the It-world, which
is broken only intermittently by the eruptive, glowing deeds of solitary
spirits.” As we dehumanize others, we also engage in the process of dehumanizing
ourselves. We make our peace with living in an It-world, using
others as things, and in turn being used by them for their purposes.

In critiquing modern life, Erich Fromm has noted that “We have
become things and our neighbors have become things. The result is that
we feel powerless and despise ourselves for our impotence.”

The line between I-Thou and I-It relationships is not always clear.
Sometimes, people appear to be our friends, solicitous of our well-being;
yet, their real goal is to manipulate us into buying their product, accepting
their viewpoint, controlling us in various ways. Their goal isn’t mutual
friendship and understanding; rather, they want to exert power and
control, and they feign friendship as a tactic to achieve their goals.

Dehumanization is poisonous to proper human interactions and relationships.
It is not only destructive to the victim, but equally or even more
destructive to the one who does the dehumanizing. The dehumanizer ultimately
dehumanizes himself/herself, and becomes blinded by egotism and
power-grabbing at any cost. Such a person may appear “successful” based
on superficial standards; but at root, such a person is an immense failure
who has demeaned his or her humanity along with the humanity of his or
her victims.

The Israelites, after their long and painful experience as slaves, needed
to learn to value themselves and to value others; to engage in I-Thou
relationships based on their own human dignity and the dignity of others.
One of the messages of the census in the wilderness was this: You are a
dignified individual and your life matters—not just for what you can do
as an “It” but for who you are as a “Thou."

I-It relationships are based on functionality. Once the function no
longer yields results, the relationship breaks. I-Thou relationships are
based on human understanding, loyalty and love. These relationships are
the great joy of life.

I recently received an email with the following message: “Friendship
isn’t about who you have known longest . . . it’s about who came and never
left your side.”
 

To limit Sephardic tradition to those of Sephardic ancestry is like limiting Shakespeare to Englishmen. While persons born in the British Isles may rightfully take pride in their illustrious countryman, his genius is relevant to all people, and is not contingent upon his place of birth. So too, with regard to central values and religious orientations found in the writings of Sephardic rabbis of recent centuries: their import extends beyond Sephardim by birth, to all Jews attempting to chart a course for a personal and communal life in which authentic Judaism and humanity go hand in hand.

In the following pages, I briefly set out examples of such Sephardic ideas and values, gleaned from over three decades of involvement in research of this field, that may be of interest to the readers of “Conversations”. The translations are mine, as are the caption of each source text.

Tradition as Responsive to Change

Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uzziel (1880-1953), born in the Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem’s Old City, was chief rabbi of Jaffa-Tel-Aviv from 1912 to 1939, and chief rabbi of Israel from 1939 until his death in 1953. In the introduction to the first volume of his halakhic responsa Mishpetei Uzziel, he writes:

In every generation, conditions of life, changes in values,
and technical and scientific discoveries -- create new questions and problems that require solution. We may not avert our eyes from these issues and say 'Torah prohibits the New', i.e., anything not expressly mentioned by earlier sages is ipso facto forbidden. A-fortiori, we may not simply declare such matters permissible. Nor, may we let them remain vague and unclear, each person acting with regard to them as he wishes. Rather, it is our duty to search halakhic sources, and to derive, from what they explicate, responses to currently moot issues.

Several significant points are contained in this brief passage. While Torah is eternal, it’s goal is not to create an existential bubble in which Jews conduct their lives detached from, and impervious to, the vicissitudes of contemporary human life. Rather: Jews must be sensitive to such changes, not only in science and technology but also in general conditions of life (e.g. social and ecological conditions) and in values held by human beings in their time. The attitude Jews should cultivate towards such changes should be neither one of passivity – simply swaying with the current of human affairs – nor of overall resistance. The phrase rabbi Uzziel uses to signify such resistance is noteworthy: ‘Torah prohibits the New’. This phrase, coined by rabbi Moshe Sofer (1761-1839) was the catchword of 19th century European Orthodoxy, and is a core value of contemporary right-wing Orthodoxy around the world. It identifies true commitment to Torah with powerful resistance to change. Rabbi Uzziel knew this full well – and deeply disagreed: responsiveness always was, and must remain, a hallmark of Judaism. But such response should not be arbitrary nor Jewishly uninformed: tradition in general, and the richness of halakhic texts in particular, should and can serve as a vast trove of resources for creative Jewish response to change.

Integration of Torah and General Learning

A necessary condition for a personal and communal life in which authentic Judaism and humanity go hand in hand is, for a Jew to be intellectually at home in both Jewish and general knowledge. This is not a concession to the need to make a living, but an a priori religious and cultural ideal. Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan (1877-1964) was born in Aleppo, and later moved to Israel; he was considered the leading Aleppan-born rabbi of the 20th century. In his essay The Torah of Israel and the People of Israel (Aleppo, 1923), he writes:

The first intellectuals [maskilim] in the period of the wise men of Spain realized and knew well the depth of the spirit of Judaism and its glorious power. The Torah and rational knowledge walked among them like twin sisters. And there was a true peace among their spiritual tendencies. And therefore in their wisdom and their intelligence they strengthened and validated the Torah and the tradition, and made them intellectually accessible.

Later in his essay, rabbi Dayyan criticizes modern European maskilim, who felt that one must choose between modern culture and Judaism – and therefore severed their commitment to, and involvement with, traditional Jewish life and learning. In the paragraph cited above, rabbi Dayyan presents two central characteristics of classic Jewish culture at its height in medieval times. One is more obvious: not a division of labor in which some Jews would be involved in Torah and others in human knowledge, but a situation in which (ideally) all Jews would be simultaneously involved in both. The other is less obvious: some versions of Torah ‘im Derekh Eretz (Torah with General Knowledge) idealized a bifurcated Jew who was acquainted with both general and Jewish material, but whose Judaism remained ‘unsullied’ by his exposure to non-Jewish sources. This is not the ideal outlined by rabbi Dayyan; rather, the ideal Jew is a person who successfully integrates these two realms, as was done by the great rabbis of Spain’s golden age: The Torah and rational knowledge walked among them like twin sisters. And there was a true peace among their spiritual tendencies.

Rabbi Joseph Hayyim of Baghdad (1835-1909), halakhist, kabbalist, poet and (moderate) maskil, was the greatest scholar and religious leader of Iraqi Jewry in modern times. In 1903 he was invited to present the keynote address at the inauguration of a new building for an Alliance Israelite Universelle school in Baghdad. The central theme of his address was the ideal of a program of Jewish education in which children would be exposed simultaneously to both Jewish and general studies. Here are some excerpts:

[…] It is known that the good and appropriate time for a person to study is only when he is still of a young age, when the burden of his physical sustenance is not upon him, nor is he responsible for bearing the burden of sustaining a wife and children. And by nature, his mind is clear and what he learns will be inscribed upon the tablet of his heart and will not budge. And therefore it is appropriate to deal with youth in their early years in both of these realms of learning: one, that of our Holy Torah, and one of Derekh Eretz, i.e., languages, writing and the like. And they should deal with them in both of these realms of study simultaneously, during their youth, when their mind is clear.

And it is with regard to this that the Tanna says in The Ethics of the Fathers (2:2): “Beautiful is the study of Torah with the way of the world, for the toil of them both causes sin to be forgotten,” i.e., it is right and proper to be involved in both the study of Torah and of Derekh Eretz at the same time, for the toil of both of them together causes sin to be forgotten – that is, the evil inclination found in the heart of humans because of our murky substance. Since his toil will be in the realms of the intellect, and therefore the evil that is within him will not move from potential to actual, to perform sinful acts.

And this is what the Bible alludes to “His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me” (Shir haShirim 2:6) […] The realm of Torah is called “right” for it is strong and adept, while the realm of Derekh Eretz that relates to this world is called “left” for it is the less dexterous. And thus he says “His left hand is under my head” i.e., the matters of Derekh Eretz are under my head and I engage in them, and also “His right hand” – that is the realm of Torah – “doth embrace me”, i.e., I engage in it at the same time that I engage in derekh eretz, taking hold of both this and that simultaneously, for in such a manner a person sees blessing in his studies.

According to some views, the proper order of study for a Jew should be, first Torah and then – only after achieving mastery of Torah – mundane studies. This of course relegates acquirement of general knowledge to a later period in one’s life, with the formative years being devoted to Torah alone – thereby ensuring that one’s character, values and outlook will not be influenced by ‘alien’ sources. Only when one is older and presumably irrevocably a “Torah true” Jew, may one be exposed to other sources of knowledge which (hopefully) will by then be unable to do any harm.

The educational guidelines sketched by rabbi Joseph
Hayyim are quite different. On his view, it is specifically when the student is youngest and most impressionable that s/he participate in a program of study that includes both Torah and general studies (derekh eretz), for we are interested that both of these ‘will be inscribed upon the tablet of his heart’. In addition, it is not only Torah but also general studies – together and in tandem – that have a formative and corrective influence upon the child’s character: ‘it is right and proper to be involved in both the study of Torah and of Derekh Eretz at the same time, for the toil of both of them together causes sin to be forgotten’. The notion that the ideal Jewish person should be influenced by Torah alone is, therefore, mistaken.

Of special interest is the final paragraph cited from rabbi Joseph Hayyim’s address, in which he alludes to the Song of Songs. As is well known, there was opposition on the part of some ancient rabbis to include this deeply erotic text in the Bible; however, the view that finally prevailed was that of rabbi Akiva and his peers, who identified the Song of Songs as expressing the intense relationship between God and the People of Israel. Thus, when rabbi Joseph Hayyim quotes here from the Song of Songs, he is expressing a deep idea concerning a Jew’s experience of the Divine: just as our acquaintance with God and our feelings of closeness and involvement with Him are cultivated by study of Torah, so too should they cultivated by, and experienced through, our study of worldly knowledge. God is manifest both in Torah and in Creation, and only our experience of both of these simultaneously is an experience of His full embrace: ‘“His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me”.

Response to Secularization and its Consequences

According to the sources we have seen above, the ideal is for a Jew to successfully integrate Jewish and general human influences upon his personal life and development. In all generations there were many who were unsuccessful at achieving this ideal. However, this has become increasingly so in recent centuries, as secularization has led to the divorce of religion from daily life. A major challenge facing Jews, and rabbinical leaders in particular, is: how to relate to Jews who are alienated from traditional Jewish praxis and commitment? One mode of response, advocated by a leading faction in German Orthodoxy and followed (either in principle or in fact) by many committed European Orthodox Jews, is: to form congregations exclusively composed of fully
observant individuals, thereby assuring that synagogue life will not be corrupted by the presence of secularized Jews. While continuing to assert that “a Jewish sinner is still a Jew” (af ‘al pi she-hatta, Yisrael hu), the creation of such communities entailed a disassociation from the mass of non-observant Jews, and a de facto non involvement in ensuring a Jewish future for them and their children.

This mode of response was not the one taken by leading Sephardic rabbis. Rabbi Ya’akov Mizrahi (1888-1948) was born in Beirut and educated in Damascus. In 1909 he emigrated to Argentina and served as a rabbi and educator affiliated with the Damascene Jewish émigré community in Buenos Aires until his death in 1948. The following quotation (from his collected oeuvre veZarah Ya’akov, Lydda 1994, derush 22) succinctly expresses a Sephardic rabbinic critique of the European Orthodox approach described above:

Even in a generation of Ba’al worship, in a time when “They do not know Me, says the Lord” and when “all are whores, a convention of traitors”, even in such a generation, the prophet only says “might I leave my people and go from them, to be in a desert inn” (cf. Jeremiah ch. 9). But in fact, he does not leave his people, has ve-halila, and does not walk away from them. He does not split off from the public, does not collect around him persons who are God-fearing and wise in their own eyes, halila. He does not establish for himself a separate congregation, saying “Peace will be mine”(cf. Deuteronomy 29:18). That is not the way of sincere, straight, devoted Judaism. Rather, that is a tactic of Galut, that pollutes Israel (‘okher Yisrael) and lengthens the Galut. Furthermore, we believe with a perfect belief, that the repair (tikkun) of our souls and of our spiritual level that has declined to the lowest rung, will not be achieved by splitting off, but rather by unity. The new generation, whom we see sinking into 49 gates of impurity while our eyes look on and long for them, will not be saved by (anyone) splitting off. They will not be brought under the wings of the Shekhina except by unity and drawing close: “I taught Ephraim to walk; I took them on My arms” (cf. Hosea 11:3).

In this remarkable passage, Rabbi Mizrahi relates to the topic at hand by referring to several Biblical sources. Jeremiah was faced by a situation even more discouraging than that of rabbis in modern times: not only were Jews abandoning God, they were actively betraying Him by choosing alternate religions and other gods. But, however much Jeremiah was repelled and disgusted by the actions of these Jews, and however much he yearned to find solace in seclusion, he resisted that temptation. The phrase that rabbi Mizrahi employs to describe those who succumb to such temptation is striking. He refers to them as saying “Peace will be mine”, thus pointing the reader to Torah’s description of a person who splits off from the Jewish people to do what he considers to be advantageous for himself as an individual, declaring “Peace will be mine, though I follow the hardness of my heart” (Deuteronomy 29:18 ). According to Torah, such willful selfishness will not be overlooked by God:
(19) the Lord will not be willing to pardon him, but then the anger of the Lord and His jealousy shall be kindled against that man, and all the curse that is written in this book shall lie upon him, and the Lord shall blot out his name from under heaven; (20) and the Lord shall separate him unto evil out of all the tribes of Israel, according to all the curses of the covenant that is written in this book of the law.

In the case at hand, the selfishness of these persons is a religious one: they are out to enjoy a frum communal milieu, unencumbered by the irritating presence of sinners or slackers. Rabbi Mizrahi does not see this as qualitatively different from other manifestations of selfishness. If the ideal path for a human being is, as Maimonides taught us, imitatio Dei, then we must seek to act in the manner He is described as acting. The prophet Hosea states that the Israelites “sacrificed unto the Baalim, and offered to graven images” (Hosea 11:2). God’s response (as quoted by rabbi Mizrahi, above) was: “I taught Ephraim to walk; I took them on My arms”, i.e., God sought to guide those who strayed into sin by taking them upon His arms and providing close, personal guidance for them. Indeed, in the next verse (Hosea 11:4) God goes on to say: “I shall draw them with cords of a man, with bands of love”. The conclusion drawn by rabbi Mizrahi is, that true care for the future of Judaism should be expressed by inclusiveness and care for all Jews:

“The new generation … will not be saved by (anyone) splitting off. They will not be brought under the wings of the Shekhina except by unity and drawing close”. In the following sections we will see how this ideal was manifested in halakhic decisions by two leading Sephardic rabbis of the 20th century.

“Great is Peace”: Rabbi Joseph Mesas responds to widespread secularization in North Africa

Rabbi Joseph Mesas (1892-1974) was one of the greatest and most creative halakhic decisors of the 20th century. In 1939, the following question was addressed to him by the rabbi of Port Lyautey, Morocco
(Otzar Ha-Mikhtavim, vol. II, #1302):

Many of the amei-ha-aretz publicly desecrate the Sabbath, some in order to make a living. But there are also rich people who have been accustomed to this from their youth. However, they all believe in God, and perform philanthropic mitzvot. Does their touch render wine prohibited?

This question reveals the inaccuracy of the view that North African Jewry was religiously observant until the mass migration to Israel and to Europe. Even before WW2, a significant sector of Moroccan Jewry was working on Shabbat or otherwise publically performing acts absolutely forbidden by halakha. Some justified this by the need to make a living; others had been accustomed to such behavior from their childhood and thus saw no need to justify it. According to classic halakha, Jews who publically desecrate the Shabbat are considered as-if they are Gentiles. Also according to classic halakha, wine touched by a Gentile is considered non-kosher. If so, wine touched by a Jew who is ‘as-if’ a Gentile – is unkosher. However, in the case at hand, these same Jews declare their belief in God, identify as Jews, and are supportive of fellow Jews who are in need. How, then, should we relate to them—qua ‘as-if’ Gentiles or qua fellow Jews?

Rabbi Mesas surveyed the halakhic literature and concluded that it clearly determines what status should be accorded to public desecrators of the Shabbat: they are as-if Gentiles, and therefore “according to the law as it stands, there is no permission for wine they touch”. One would expect that these words would be the ‘bottom line’ of his ruling; but they are not. Rabbi Mesas proceeds to write:

But, we can mend their situation on the basis of another consideration, namely: Because of our many sins that prolong our exile, the amei-ha-aretz who desecrate God’s Sabbath and Holidays are numerous. Most of our give and take is with them, and they are in continuous social contact with us: they enter our homes, and we enter theirs. And there is not one banquet, whether mandatory or optional, in which we do not sit with them, in their own homes, such as Zeved ha-Bat, circumcision, redemption of the first born, marriages etc.

So, if we came to forbid wine they have touched, by even the slightest gesture or hint, we would rapidly become involved in conflict and would fan the flames of controversy to the heart of the heavens. By doing so we would be causing ourselves great injury, through their enmity and hatred; and it is possible that as a result they would spurn even the few commandments that they do fulfill, and totally reject everything, God forbid.

Despite the (mis)behavior of these persons with regard to the norms of Shabbat, they and the observers of Shabbat constitute one, interactive community. This is evident in the ongoing joint participation of Jews, whose level of observance varies radically, in all manner of joint social events, many of which are of a religious or quasi-religious character. Such mutuality is of course contingent upon the recognition that all participants are equally Jewish. Following the halakha that defines many of the participants as ‘as-if’ Jews would, of course, bring the ongoing conviviality to an abrupt end. Both ‘sides’ would suffer: the Sabbath-observers would be regarded with hate and enmity by those they had stigmatized, and the desecrators of Shabbat would now distance themselves from tradition, and cease observance even of those few mitzvoth that they had until then been observing. One might say: “Well, if that is what halakha requires, then – that is what religious Jews must do, whatever the consequences!”. But rabbi Mesas holds otherwise:

Therefore, it is right to be lenient in this matter, even for the sake of Peace alone, whose power is great. For, for the sake of Peace they [=the rabbis, Hazal] permitted the performance of acts that are rabbinic prohibitions, and the non-performance of acts mandated by positive commandments of the Torah [see: S’deh Hemed, Pe’at HaSadeh, section Gimmel, paragraph 36]. This is all the more so with respect to this prohibition which is quite light, for even the Christians and Muslims of our time are not worshippers of other gods, and therefore if they accidentally touch our wine it is permitted even for drinking [as Maran – rabbi Joseph Caro – wrote in Yoreh De’ah section 124 clause 7].

For these reasons, we are lenient, and permit them to be called up to the Torah, and to read the Haftarah, and we count them for a minyan and for all other ritual matters.

According to Rabbi Mesas (and a good many other rabbis), when halakha instructs us to follow a certain norm, this should always be understood as saying: “Do X – barring other weighty constraints”. Thus, while there is a rule instructing us to regard those who publically desecrate the Shabbat ‘as-if’ they are Gentiles – in the case at hand there is another VERY weighty counter-indication: the disruption and uprooting of intra-Jewish peace. The preservation and cultivation of peace is a major and high-ranking value, in the eyes of Torah. So much so, that when observance of other halakhic norms might conflict with the preservation of peace, the observance of those other norms should, in most instances, be suspended. So it is with regard to all norms of rabbinic origin (de-rabbanan): if I am commanded by rabbinic law to perform a certain act, or if I am forbidden by the rabbis to perform some act, and compliance with that rabbinic law will entail a disruption of the public peace – I must (in this instance) disregard the rabbinic norm. Thus, if there is, e.g., some food that is non-kosher de-rabbanan but my refusal to eat it will impair the communal peace – I must eat that food. Similarly, if Torah law itself commands me to perform a certain act (mitzvat ‘aseh), but performing that mitzvah will disrupt the peace – I must (in this instance) refrain from performing that commandment. Only with regard to an act that is prohibited by Torah (mitzvat lo-ta’aseh de-Oraita) is this not so: even at the cost of disrupting the peace, I may not perform an act forbidden by Torah.

To ostracize a Jew for publicly desecrating the Shabbat is not a Torah prohibition, and therefore, it is trumped by the mitzvah of preserving and cultivating peace between all Jews, whatever their degree of observance. This, rabbi Mesas concludes, applies not only to their wine, but to their participation in all other realms of religious life from which they would have been excluded by an “as-if-Gentile” status: “For these reasons, we are lenient, and permit them to be called up to the Torah, and to read the Haftarah, and we count them for a minyan and for all other ritual matters.”
This inclusive attitude is manifest – and even broadened -- in the following case, dealt with by rabbi Moshe haCohen Dreihem.

The Broader Bounds of Inclusivity:

Accepting a convert who will be non-observant, for the sake of a Jew and his non-Jewish descendents

Rabbi Moshe HaCohen (1906-1966) was born into the Jewish community on the island of Djerba in Tunisia and there received his religious education; to differentiate between him and other contemporaries of a similar name, he received the additional surname ‘Dreihem’. He became the chief rabbi of the "small quarter" of the island and head of its yeshiva, and was considered one of the leading scholars of this special community. In 1958 he immigrated to Israel and was appointed a member of the rabbinical court in Tiberius, and in that capacity became aware of a major historical and social issue requiring rabbinical attention:
Many Jews married Gentile women after the Second World War and have fathered sons and daughters with them. According to the law, the children’s status follows that of their Gentile mother [i.e. they are not Jewish]. When they come to Israel, the husband brings the children [to the court] for giyyur, sometimes with their mother and sometimes on their own. The trouble is that they reside in places in which the people do not observe the tradition: they eat forbidden foods and desecrate the Sabbath and the holidays. It is clear that after giyyur they will behave similarly to the Jews among whom they live, since it is almost impossible for them to be observant (responsa Veheshiv Moshe, Tiberias, 1968, #51)

According to the Shulhan Arukh, one of the stages of giyyur is "acceptance of the commandments" (kabbalat ha-mitzvot), and a widely held halakhic opinion with which R. HaCohen was familiar held that there is a clear contradiction between ‘acceptance of the commandments’ and intention to violate them. In fact, a baraita cited in the Talmud indicates that a gentile should not be accepted for giyyur if he specifically rejects even one halakhic norm. How, then, could rabbis accept a candidate for giyyur whom they knew would almost certainly lead a secular life? Researching this halakhic issue, rabbi HaCohen reached what he considered to be a better overall interpretation of the primary sources, concerning the core requirements of a halakhic giyyur.

One such requirement is, that a proselyte “accept the commandments”. Based upon painstaking analysis of the sources, R. HaCohen wrote:

The requirement of kabbalat mitzvot does not mean that he commits himself to observe all the mitzvoth; rather, that he accepts the commandments of the Torah with the awareness that if he violates some of them, he will be punished accordingly. Thus, although subsequently [after the giyyur] he violates some of the commandments of the Torah, this does not impugn his acceptance of the yoke of mitzvot [kabbalat ‘ol mitzvot], for “even though he sinned, he is a Jew.” Indeed, even if at the moment that he accepts the mitzvot he intends to violate some of them, he did accept them – on the knowledge that if he transgresses, he may be punished. Therefore, he is a good, fine ger.

The halakhic requirement that a convert "accept the burden of the commandments" means, that the candidate is required to recognize that as a Jew he will be subject to the system of halakha, and is prepared to accept the consequences of non-compliance. The halakhic duty of the court is to ascertain the Gentile's awareness of the system of halakha, rather than his intent to follow its rules. That having been determined, the following question arose: if halakha does not make giyyur conditional upon the convert’s intention to fulfill all the commandments, is there some other intention that halakha poses as a condition for accepting a Gentile into the process of giyyur?

Rabbi HaCohen's answer was positive: accepting a person for giyyur is conditional upon the existence of a real intention to become part of the Jewish people. Such intention becomes apparent if, after the giyyur, the proselyte follows a lifestyle that – in the context of his time and place – marks him/her as a Jew. Rabbi HaCohen’s assessment of the lifestyle normally led by secular Jews in the Israel was that they indeed behaved in ways that were markedly Jewish. He therefore ruled that according to halakha, the children and spouses of secular Jews in Israel may unhesitatingly be accepted for giyyur – even if afterwards the family will continue to live in a secular neighborhood, to send its children to secular schools and to lead a Jewish-Israeli-secular lifestyle.

But, one might well ask: what good would be achieved by transforming Gentiles into secular Jews? Rabbi HaCohen sets forth the relevant considerations clearly and unequivocally:
They [the Gentile woman and her children by the Jew] should be accepted for giyyur to save the man from a more grievous offence [i.e. intermarriage] that according to ancient tradition is punishable by karet, and that makes one liable to attack by zealots. And also, to save the children who will be born to them as well as to accept for giyyur the children they already have, to bring the whole family under the wings of the Shekhinah [Divine Presence], ‘that none of us be banished’. (2 Sam. 14:14).

In the case of intermarriage, the values of communal solidarity should lead rabbis to follow the path of inclusivity with regard to the Jewish spouse: by accepting his wife (or her husband) for giyyur, the Jewish partner is being rescued from a serious state of sin.

Furthermore, this inclusive imperative extends not only towards the couple, but also towards their children. This is clearly the case with regard to the children of a Gentile father and a Jewish mother, who are halakhically Jewish. However, rabbi HaCohen extends this imperative also towards the children of a Jewish father and a Gentile mother, who from a formal halakhic point of view are not Jews. Rabbi HaCohen justifies concern for their future by referring to the biblical phrase ‘that none of us be banished’. In post-Talmudic sources, this phrase is employed to convey several meanings. With regard to the Jewish community, it expresses the duty of rabbis and leaders not to treat sinners and social deviants in a manner that will cause them and their descendants to be severed from the community, but rather to mend a breach in the correct order of reality by an act of inclusion. With regard to giyyur its implication is, that according to the underlying principles of Torah, it is right and proper to to utilize giyyur in order to include persons of Jewish descent into the community, even though they are not halakhically Jewish. Rabbi HaCohen’s position thus reflects an over-arching perspective regarding the extension of the group towards whom rabbis bear responsibility. This group includes not only those who are halakhically Jewish but also other descendents of Jews.

Conclusion

At the outset of this article, I set out to provide examples of Sephardic ideas and values that could be of benefit to all Jews attempting to chart a course for a personal and communal life in which authentic Judaism and humanity go hand in hand. The examples I focused on included the ideal of Tradition as responsive to change; the view that integration of Torah and general learning is a major religious ideal; and the value of response to secularization not by separatism but rather by maintenance of communal unity.

The ideal of communal inclusiveness and its halakhic implications for rabbis and leaders was illustrated by two examples: inclusiveness towards public desecrators of Shabbat in order to preserve peaceful interaction and relations within one, diverse Jewish community; and inclusiveness towards intermarried secular Jews and their children by accepting their spouses and children for giyyur. It is hard to overstate the implications for the entire fabric of contemporary Jewish life, if these values and policies upheld by great Sephardic rabbis were to be actually accepted and applied within Orthodox and halakhic Judaism.

A commercial house has collapsed; a savings fund has sunk; a me­chanics' bank has burst, a life insurance company has become in­solvent.... Men noted for their self possession appear bewildered. You asked for the reason of so painful a change, and the invariable answer was: "The stringency of the money market, brought about by unforeseen failures among us and abroad. That is enough to upset people's minds."

But for the Victorian language, this might have been written in 2008. In fact, it was declaimed in the Fall of 1893, and is the beginning of a sermon by Sabato Morais, minister of the Por­tuguese Jewish congregation Mikveh Israel in the city of Philadelphia. Morais is mainly remembered today as the Founder and first President of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, but his place in American life has been somewhat neglected. The reason for this may be the fact that he cannot quite fit the role of hero of any of the major branches of American Jewish life today, Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform. Orthodox as he was in practice, he does not fulfill the role model of the talmudic sage, and has about him a somewhat assimilated air at which the strictly Orthodox might well look askance. For the Conservative, he is insufficiently innovative, too unwilling to take religious risks. And of Reform he was a lifelong opponent. Max Nussenbaum justly called him a “champion of Orthodox Judaism” in his 1964 doctoral dissertation at Yeshiva University.

Morais was born in Leghorn, Italy in 1823 to a family of Sephardic Port­uguese-Jewish descent, the third of nine children and the oldest son. His native language was Italian, and he acquired also a good knowledge of Spanish and French early in life; a great many of the two thousand extant letters addressed to him are in Italian. He was a favorite pupil of Abraham Baruch Piperno, one of the Jewish sages of Leghorn, and at the age of twenty-two was an applicant for the post of Hazzan, or cantor to the Sephardic congregation of London. The Hazzan among the Portuguese Jews was not required to have the quasi-operatic voice favored by the Ashkenazic German and Polish Jews. A sweet voice sufficed, but he was expected to have an intimate knowledge of the complex Jewish liturgy of which every word was individually chanted, and in particular to learn the tradition of his congregation so that he did not deviate from it in the slightest degree. He also had to have a high degree of expertise in the reading of the sacred scrolls. Such memorization normally took years of devoted effort, and few individuals had the skill and patience demanded. The young Morais was unsuccessful, since his lack of English told against him, but he made a great impression even so. The following is an excerpt from a letter sent by the authorities of the English congregation under date of November 18, 1845 to his Italian mentors, couched in the typical Victorian epistolary style:

The departure of Mr. S. Morais demands from us our best acknowl­edgment to you for having recommended to our notice so worthy, deserving an individual, for although he has not been the suc­cessful candidate for the office to which he aspired Justice claims of us that we should bear testimony to the very great satisfaction he af­forded the congregation on the occasion of his public trial, and that he has from his general conduct and unassuming manners whilst here entitled himself not only to the regard of those who were interested in his favor but of all without exception.... he would do credit to any appointment which could be conferred upon him.

The London community did not forget him. A year later, a position opened for a teacher in their orphan school and they invited the young Italian to fill the post. He did so. In London he got to know and admire the Italian patriot Giuseppe Mazzini, and when the latter wished to travel to Europe in 1847, Morais lent him his passport so that Mazzini might avoid detection by the continental police. Of course, there were no photographs in those days. He soon developed a full command of the English language, and was prepared when a call came from the Philadelphia congregation in 1850. The following year, Morais went to Philadelphia, where he served congregation Mikveh Israel for forty-seven years until his death in 1898. He became a much loved figure, and was in the habit of instructing young people without charge in Hebrew language and literature, as he had been instructed himself. Three of his pupils, Solomon Solis-Cohen, Cyrus Sulzberger and Cyrus Adler became prominent community leaders. All wrote to him and of him with warm affection.

Adler, who was a founder of the Jewish Publication Society, the American Jewish Historical Society, and the American Jewish Committee, and who served simultaneously as President of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York and Dropsie College in Philadelphia, wrote to him in 1887:

The more the boys [of JTS] know you, the better for them ... I will receive a Ph.D. degree next Tuesday, an end impossible but for the help which you have given me from boyhood and which I never think of but with gratitude.

Solis-Cohen addressed him: "Dear friend and teacher" and signs: "affection­ately your pupil." A San Francisco admirer sent his "respect and affection" to "my earliest friend in this country."

In everything he writes and does, Morais comes across as a warm, loving, emi­nently humane individual with self respect, yet remarkably free of egotism for a man in public life who was the recipient of much honor, including an honorary degree from the University of Pennsylvania. At no time does he bask in his Sephardic ancestry, as some of his brethren were wont to do, nor does he lay stress on Sephardic tradition in his addresses. Morais looked upon him­self as a Jew without qualifiers, one who revered and loved the Jewish tradition and desired greatly to perpetuate it.

Clearly he came from a close, loving family, and its impress stayed with him all his life. Among a vast family correspondence, an extant letter from his father in Italian, written shortly before his death reads: "If I do not write to you it is not of my volition, but I suffer from irregularity of the pulse ... I send you all my paternal benediction."

Morais’ considerateness is attested to by his finding time to send some stamps for the collection of a little great-niece, who responds with a charming letter in French. All sorts of unfortunates direct their appeals to him: a tu­bercular youth in the state penitentiary, a Corfiot woman seeking the vanished son of a friend, an Italian transient in the Pennsylvania hospital suffering from "a small mental aberration." Morais threw nothing away. Referring to this epistolary flood he writes in 1894:

To acknowledge numerous letters is also a task not infrequently irksome. Still, in order not to appear rude, I have imposed upon myself the obligation of invariably answering them all, either verbally or in writing.

Morais was conscious of walking a tightrope vis-a-vis the public.

If he [the minister] is modest and reserved, he is styled unsociable; if he is accessible and easy, he is charged with too great a familiarity. If he is sincere and open, he is taxed with imprudence. If he denounces public transgressions he is too austere; if he deems it expedient to barely hint at them he is pusillanimous ... however elevated may be the character of the minister of religion, it is shapen in a human mould.

On a number of his addresses he writes self-deprecatory notes, for example, "Like all my early lectures it is faulty in diction and ideas." On another address he writes in Hebrew "I regret having composed it." Not infrequently he recycles old material; thus one is marked "altered, abridged, and corrected from an old lec­ture delivered twenty years before." Morais was also aware that his lectures, eloquent though they were, did not give universal satisfaction.

During nine months of the year, I give weekly instruction from this pulpit ... When the summer season begins, I generally cease speak­ing in the vernacular, and confine myself to the reading of the estab­lished ritual. That some would prefer my following the last named course at all times, I have reason to believe.

Despite Morais' polish and discretion, not too many years passed before he got into hot water in Philadelphia. In 1858 the Jewish world was shocked by the news that an Italian Jewish child, surreptitiously baptized by his nurse, had been kidnapped and taken off to be raised as a Christian. Appeals to the Pope met with the response: Non possumus, We can do nothing. The baptismal waters could not be wiped away, and Edoardo Mortara must be raised as a Christian despite his parents' pleas. Appeals were then made to the President of the United States to intervene and use his influence. The President refused, on the ground that this was an internal matter of a foreign power, involving foreign nationals. On the next Sabbath, when the point in the service was reached when the traditional prayer was recited for the President and the U.S. government, Morais pointedly omitted it. Apparently he felt that a President who would not stand up for civil rights was not worth praying for. The congregation was scandalized. The adjunta, as the governing body of the synagogue is still called, met the very next day and demanded that he restore the prayer for the government, whether he agreed with their actions or not. On December 2, 1858, A. Finzi wrote him a letter marked "strictly private" alluding to "your refusal to recite the prayer for the members of the Government as you have hitherto done." He demonstrates rather tediously that the U.S. government is not dependent for its welfare on Morais' prayers and having exhausted that argument, turns nasty:

You are aware that the Adjunta can suspend you from office, which would only be a step to discharge ... You know that the Board can command a majority to any measure their wisdom may induce them to think correct ... are you prepared to be hurled from a position of pecuniary independence ... to one of unrequited labor in which you might find it difficult to earn a pittance?

After this affair blew over, and the President again got his prayerful due, Morais' penchant for expressing himself on civil rights again got him into trou­ble. On Thanksgiving, 1864, he gave an address in which he referred critically to the institution of slavery. I was unable to find his precise wording, but it seems that he expressed satisfaction at the absence of threats of sedition and secession in the North. Morais was clearly amazed at the violence of the reaction. The synagogue adjunta would brook no reference to this issue which had the country bitterly divided, and decreed that "henceforth all English lectures or discourses be dispensed with, except by particular agreement of the Parnas [President] made in writing." Despite Morais' protests, the gag rule held for about two months. Then some members petitioned the board, and on February 5, 1865, the board voted that the Revd. S. Morais deliver a religious discourse (the word religious is underlined!) on one Sabbath of each month, and any holiday. Immedi­ately before the Passover that year Morais wrote: "I would now respectfully ask that you allow me to address the Congregation whenever I deem it fit." Morais never again indulged in grand gestures as in the Mortara case, but he did estab­lish his freedom to speak on social justice in the pulpit, and he did so frequently. Morais was addressing the most influential Jews in a major American city, and he extended that forum through reports of his addresses which were frequently published, and, as we shall see, he involved himself directly in other ways too. Morais' stand on slavery was rewarded by an honorary membership in the Union League of Philadelphia.

Two major areas of social justice concerned him deeply. One was the issue of religious and racial prejudice and its natural follower, oppression. This included both crass discrimination, and the subtler pressures involved in the movement to make America a Christian country not only notionally, but as a matter of law. Paradoxically, Morais sometimes took a stronger stand on discrimination against non-Jewish groups than Jewish. Why this was may be seen in the notorious Hilton-Seligman affair of 1877. On May 31, 1877, the wealthy Jewish banker, Joseph Seligman went to the Grand Union Hotel at Saratoga for the tenth consecutive year. On requesting his room he was told: "Mr. Seligman, I am required to inform you that Mr. Hilton has given instructions that no Israelites shall be permitted to stop at this hotel." Seligman wrote a stinging letter to Hilton advising him to get out of the hotel business, since he was losing money, not because Jews were staying in his hotels, but because he did not know how to run them. A loud clamor broke out in the press. Morais was asked to speak up, but in this instance he was ambivalent. Yes, discrimination was bad. But the eastern watering places were full of ostentation and display, not to mention the infraction of the Jewish Sabbath and dietary laws that accompanied these unbecoming qualities. Moreover, Seligman had had associations with the Ethical Culture movement which made his Jewish affiliation questionable. Morais was not alone in his feelings. I. M. Wise's mouthpiece in Cincinnati, the American Israelite declared:

If he wants no Jews, let him have none ... keep away from Saratoga, keep away from Long Beach ... they cannot imagine in Europe that the watering places here are the elysium of empty heads and shattered brains, and hearing of the intolerance and stupidity they must be led to think we are a nation of fools and madmen. Stay away from those places, save with your honor also the honor of the American republic.

For once, the arch-reformer Wise and the traditionalist Morais saw eye-to-eye. Quite different and unequivocal was Morais' reaction to the Chinese ques­tion. Morais, gentle soul, observed that the Mosaic law prohibited muzzling an ox while it worked to avoid causing it pain. How then, he wondered, can human beings inflict deliberate suffering on one another? The address that Morais gave on this subject is extant among his papers, but it has some pages missing and it is best to quote it as it was reported in the press. The report conveys well the passion of this remarkable statement:

He animadverted upon the conduct of the lawless towards the un­fortunate aliens of the Mongolian race on the Pacific coast. He termed that demeanor atrocious and the conniving of local offi­cials infamous. He saw in every drop of blood of the Chinese spilt by ruffians a blot of the escutcheon of Liberty. In his mind a racial persecution in this country was a deep humiliation and an insult to the great of old who labored and fought to establish a government broad enough to cover every human being that seeks its protection. Mr. Morais alluded to the Restrictive act limiting the admission of Chinese. He considered it an outrage against a nation of three hun­dred millions with whom we are at peace, and the bill now said to be in course of preparation to forbid the Unites States to Chinese altogether he stigmatized as an indignity revolting to every right thinking man. He held that if even all the inhabitants of Central Asia who come to our shores ... were as depraved as their enemies describe them, no justification could be found for the barbarities to which they are subjected ... he knew that the writings of [China's] philosophers and moralists do not suffer in comparison with those of nations which claim to be the sole representatives of civilization.

In the original sermon Morais censures by name President Chester Arthur for sanc­tioning prejudice in yielding to pressure from unscrupulous politicians. The newspaper report doubtless deemed it discreet to omit this. There is no doubt that Morais had established his right to speak out. It is clear moreover that Reform Judaism did not have a corner on the issue of social justice, despite the grandiloquence of the "Pittsburgh Platform," which laid great stress on this matter and was promulgated at this time. Morais spoke too on the sufferings of the Armenians. After pointing out that there were conflicting reports as to what had happened, he continues:

We cannot too strongly condemn a barbarity that pushes a people into the Mosque at the point of the bayonet. I have read protests from Christendom. I have noticed likewise that in Chicago Rabbis have made their voices swell the sound of these protests against the ruthlessness of the Turks. Nothing new. Jews will always side with the persecuted, and not only side with them, but try speedily to come to their deliverance.

He goes on to cite Moses Montefiore's help for the Maronites in 1860, and Baron de Hirsch's help for both sides in the Russo-Turkish war of 1878. He then protests reports that President Cleveland's intervention was because America is a Christian country. America should support all the oppressed. He continues:

Much as I wish to wipe off from memory words that pierced like a pointed steel, I cannot forget that on a day when by invitation, I pleaded before the members of the Episcopal brotherhood the cause of my oppressed brethren in Russia, I received a most cutting rebuff. I was relating how a Jewish lad had his face and hands burnt with hot irons for having stolen an apple, when the Reverend Dr. McConnel ... most uncharitably remarked that in a Christian country, a minority that keeps aloof from the majority must expect perse­cution. What a companionable guest at the table of Ximenes and Torquemada that Episcopal clergyman would make! How palatable the repast seasoned with invectives against those stiffnecked Jews who need the thumb screw and the hot iron to bring them to the foot of the cross!

Ah, my brethren, I say it again. Take care of your own. For prejudice is stalking abroad and would tread on us ... Still be on the alert by reason of ineradicable prejudice. Take care of your own, my brethren!

The attitude of the Reverend Dr. McConnel was not at all uncommon. As the author of Black Like Me declared: "The first rule of racism is to blame the victim."

Morais concerned himself actively with the weal of Jews in foreign lands. A letter to Charles Emory Smith, minister to Russia from 1890 to 1892, elicited a courteous reply assuring him that the imperial government intended no new repressive measures against the Jews. He declared that Morais' representations were on "a subject in which no representative of the United States could fail to feel a deep interest." He concludes: "I recall our personal meetings with great pleasure and well remember your high standing among your people."

Morais was also in touch with Benjamin Franklin Peixotto, a New York Sephardic Jew, who was appointed U.S. consul in Bucharest in 1870 and at­tempted to further the emancipation which had been promised to Rumanian Jews by the 1856 Treaty of Paris. On January 27, 1874, he wrote to Morais:

I am happy to tell you that my heavy task appears to be in a more promising prospect than ever, and that I cherish the firm belief before very long of accomplishing the emancipation of our long suffering brethren.

Peixotto left Bucharest two years later, his firm belief still unfulfilled.

Another aspect of religious problems was the desire on the part of many believing Christians to emphasize the Christian character of the United States, despite the efforts of the founding fathers to separate Church and State. Jacob Ezekiel, a friend of Morais who later moved to Cincinnati and served as secretary of the Hebrew Union College, took President John Tyler to task in 1841 for using the phrase "Christian people" in a proclamation on the death of President Harrison. Tyler sent him a courteous reply in which he disavowed any intention to offend, and told Ezekiel that "your voice and the voices of all your brethren will ascend to our common father."

Morais was seriously disturbed by efforts to have Sunday recognized in the Constitution as a day of rest, as well he might be, since the provisions of the proposed amendment, which he quotes, were very severe. This decreed that "no person or corporation shall perform any secular labor, nor ... engage in any play, game, amusement or recreation on that day." All assemblies, except for religious worship, were to be forbidden. Penalties were to range up to one thousand dollars, and if one allows for a century of inflation, it appears that the penalty was stiff indeed. Morais condemned the attempt to "chain the State to the clogging wheels of the Church." He declared that the Constitution "will cover beneath her ample folds all that seek protection from the abuse of power, but never will she dictate tyrannical terms to those whom she has promised shelter ... Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."

The republican sentiments that were his in his youth came flooding back when he heard statements such as: "official positions and public trusts should be restricted by constitutional enactment to persons in sympathy with the high moral aims of the government." Such thinking, in his view could make "America a scourge in the hands of the crafty to tear the lives of the powerless, whether they be Jews or Christians."

Morais was greatly incensed also by attempts to convert Jewish children to Christianity by deception. This became a particular problem when large numbers of Russian and Polish Jews arrived in Philadelphia in the 1880s and subsequently, in the wake of deteriorating conditions in Eastern Europe, settling in the southern part of the city. Missionaries saw the possibility of evangelizing among these poor, Yiddish-speaking Jews, sometimes using means that were less than totally honest. In one instance, a school was set up which purported to be a Jewish school in which Hebrew was taught, and the children were offered rewards for attendance. While there, unknown to their parents who did not speak English, the children were indoctrinated in the tenets of Christianity. Morais decided to investigate. Accompanied by a friend who knew his way around, Morais slipped into the school and observed what was occurring. The principal of the school became aware of his presence and was furious. She termed it an intolerable intrusion, and threatened to call the police. Morais withdrew. "I did not put her to the test," he comments. "In that instance I considered discretion the better part of valor." Morais then took to waiting outside the school, asking the children their names, and alerting the parents to the fact that the school was not what they thought it was. This avoidance of confrontation was typical of Morais, and stood in the mainstream of a long tradition of Jewish quietism. He was ready to persuade and to cajole, but always wanted to avoid violence, or what he termed "scandal."

The Russian immigrants brought other problems in their train. Although Philadelphia prided itself on being the "city of homes" and did not have the tenements typical of New York City, sweated labor became commonplace in Philadelphia too. Morais declared:

Iniquity alone could have conceived the sweating system, so prolific of evils—a system stunting the growth of children employed under it, bending with premature old age men and women in the prime of life, tainting the atmosphere with foul vapors ... Families vegetating in holes, poisoned with pestilential air, stitching and stitching and stitching, twelve or fourteen hours a day to receive what does not suffice to procure a scanty meal.

Morais' solution for these severe social problems was, it must be confessed, simplistic. The worker should give a fair day's labor and the employer should pay a reasonable wage. Morais was convinced of the ennobling character of labor, and horrified at the thought of the socialist and anarchist tendencies, all too patently linked to atheism, which were unseen riders on the immigrant ships. "Communism!" he cries out at one point. "Horror of horrors! Communism!" Morais' attitude to work was demonstrated by his strong support of the Alliance Israelite Universelle, founded by French Jews in 1860, one of the main aims of which was to give useful work training to young Jews in backward countries. In an unusual outburst, Morais condemns bitterly the action of the Rebbe of the Belz sect of the Hasidim ("miscalled" according to Morais) for making a special trip to Vienna to ask the authorities to keep out these secular schools:

Such is the profanation of the name of God brought about by a pretentious sect that assumes the appellation of "pious" and gives their chief the title of "righteous." A piety which hugs the chains of ignorance, a righteousness which invites persecution.

From our standpoint we can see that the Rebbe of Belz knew very well what he was about. Schools of this type brought with them the French language and secular culture. In North Africa they brought about a rapid destruction of the traditional religious orientation of the community, and this was precisely what the Rebbe wanted to avoid. It is interesting to observe too, that in his fervor Morais slipped into a kind of thinking not unlike the Episcopalian reverend gentleman he condemned. "A righteousness which invites persecution" comes perilously close to condemning the victim who wanted above all to preserve his culture intact.

Arguments over the merits of secular and trade schools were purely academic for the immigrant workers of South Philadelphia. Ankle deep in half-sewn pan­taloons they wanted only to improve their miserable lot. In 1886 there was a strike widespread in the United States in an attempt to secure an eight-hour workday. Two years later a Jewish Tailors' and Operators' Association was organized in Philadelphia and painful events followed. Their first strike was a fiasco, col­lapsing in two days. Before the strikers were permitted to return to work, they were required to take an oath on the Bible that they would never again strike. Morais became deeply involved in efforts to act as an honest broker in subse­quent strike action. Morais' son, Henry S. Morais, asserts that his father settled the 1890 strike with the help of George Randorf, a young man who had useful language skills. Henry Morais hints darkly at the doctrinaire background of the strike:

The cause of the unfortunate workers has, invariably, been injured by the domination of labor agitators, some of whom are rabid An­archists, and would instil poisonous views into the minds of the un­tutored.

Max Whiteman, the historian of Philadelphia Jewry, gives a very positive assessment of Morais' beneficent influence on the strike. Able to bridge the gap between manufacturer and worker, he

disarmed the anarchists with compassion and thereby gained so much support among the Jewish workers that the anarchists were re­luctant to outrage Jewish sensibilities further by irreligious activities such as a projected pork feast at a Yom Kippur Ball.

Morais saw little help for the oppression of Jews in the incipient Zionist movement. He does indeed defend Theodor Herzl, the father of Political Zion­ism, who, he says, is neither a Utopian nor a fanatic. One can see the struggles he had with Herzl's plan to obtain land in Palestine by the changes he made in his text. First he wrote as follows:

to go in search of means to facilitate the acquisition of a spot where the systematically degraded of Abraham's progeny may breathe free­ly is a philanthropic design.

Apparently he was unhappy with the choice of the word "acquisition" because, I suggest, it might militate against his idea, firmly rooted in tradition, that Israel was to wait for the Messiah, and not hasten the end. So he toned down "acquisition" to "securing." But this was still too strong, implying perhaps (God forbid!) some kind of violent action, and so he substituted "recognized purchase." But then, he must have asked himself, can Jews be safe with a recog­nized purchase? And so he settled on "guaranteed purchase," which apparently fulfilled his criteria of security and non-violence. Morais normally did not make fair copies of his addresses, and when he gets into sensitive areas, it is possible to see him painfully arriving at a position in his erasures and alterations. Whether one regards this as an honest striving for a consistent viewpoint, or a difficulty in making up his mind, is a question. It seems that Morais' ultimate conclusion was that Zionism was a pipe dream. In response to a Zionist lecture delivered by Dr. Friedenwald of Baltimore to the Mikveh Israel Association in Philadelphia he declares: "We still believe that the renationalization of our people is still in the remote future."

In contrast to his modern viewpoint on racial discrimination, Morais is very traditional in his attitude to women. He explains the Orthodox separation of men and women in the synagogue as "solely and simply an endeavor to allow the mind to be centered on the worship, and prevent, as far as possible, its being directed to human objects mutually attractive." It is interesting that Morais stresses the mutual nature of the attraction, since it raises the question why women should not officiate and men be the onlookers, but perhaps it is too much to expect him even to entertain such a radical idea. In another address he comments that

Woman occupies a station, which, unless she forfeits it by urging it to extremes, will ever, as at present, enable her to carry into practice the distinguishing traits of her character, scattering around the path she treads the seeds of knowledge and charity.

He here utters a clear warning that woman should not exceed the bounds that nature has laid down.

Morais tried throughout his life to follow his principles of adherence to hu­manity, justice, and true religion as he saw it. Yet, as he felt death draw near, he was not happy. Just ten months before he died, he declares in a letter, "Life has never been to me a delightful gift from my parents, and that for reasons which it were idle and foolish to relate." On the face of it Morais' unhappiness may appear strange. One might say his life had been rather successful. He was widely respected, honored, and loved. He had children who looked up to him, the fruit of a seemingly happy marriage. He retained his mental faculties unimpaired until he had a stroke which took him with merciful speed. I should like to offer some tentative reasons for his depression, recognizing that there can be no guarantee of their accuracy.

I must preface my suggestions by outlining what seems to me to have been the Jewish recipe for survival during the long night of the Diaspora. Jewish militarism died in Masada, destroyed by the superior might of Rome. It was replaced, it seems to me, by a threefold strategy. The first was a devotion to a literary legacy including especially, but not exclusively, the Talmud, which buoyed the spirits of the Jew under next to impossible circumstances, and which assured him of his special relationship with God, interrupted, but not ended, and ensured him a glorious restoration at some imminent date. This was the theoretical underpinning of Jewish survival. The Jew might be spat upon in the street, but he had a secret which kept his ego intact and his will unbent, and which he daily mulled over in his books. Despite all appearances to the contrary he could declare with the Bible of Israel:

Who is like unto thee?

A people saved of the Lord

Who is thy helpful shield

And glorious sword.

Though thine enemies are deceitful to thee,

Thou shalt tread on their high places. (Deuteronomy 33:29)

Second, the Jew maintained a low profile. The stooping gait which is charac­teristic of the Jewish stereotype was not because of a burden of care or worn out observances, but rather to avoid any missiles that might be whizzing over­head. Third, the Jew learned to make himself useful, if not indispensable, by honing skills in language, communications and commerce which permitted his oppressor to hate him as much as he pleased, but tolerate him because he had to. As we well know, this threefold strategy did not always work—the long list of massacres of Jews is testimony to that—but it was the best that could be done under the circumstances.

Now Morais was no innovator; he hewed faithfully to these principles. He evinced and tried to inculcate in others a deep love of Jewish sacred literature and espoused the life style which it displayed as a model. He avoided scandal and confrontation and tried, like Moses Montefiore, whom he greatly admired, to improve the lot of his fellows by persuasion and cajoling. He believed firmly that the Jew should be a useful, productive citizen and supported efforts to train young Jews in appropriate skills.

During his life in Philadelphia, Morais witnessed the total breakdown of this millennial strategy for Jewish survival. He saw the loved Talmud burned, not literally by non-Jews as had so often happened in the past ineffectually, but metaphorically by Jews. The Reform movement in Judaism which he had always opposed, without scandal of course, was riding high, destroying the first pillar of the survival strategy I have delineated. He cries out:

Forty-one years I have labored to raise a generation of consistent Israelites, but now that I have seen the departure from earth of nearly all whom I first met in March of 1851, I hear their succes­sors call Moses antiquated, and the rabbis besotted ... Alas for the ears doomed to listen to profanity ... Oh for a reaction, oh for a reawakening of the Jewish spirit.

It pained him deeply that a Jewish convention held in Milwaukee flouted di­etary laws, and he expressed satisfaction that such things did not happen in Philadelphia.

Moreover the pillars of low profile and usefulness were not functioning any more either. With the sharp decline in religious clout under the onslaught of Darwinism and new scientific discoveries, which seemed to attack the very foundations of religion, the charter of anti-Jewish feelings was rewritten. The writings of such racist theoreticians as Wilhelm Marr and Houston Stewart Chamberlain diverted these feelings from their religious context, and took away from the Jew the escape route through conversion that he had previously had. Judaism could no longer be shaken off. It was as undeniable as the color of one's skin. It was a racial characteristic. The Dreyfus trial, which was an active issue in the last years of Morais' life, symbolized the crumbling of these two pillars of Jewish survival. Here was a Jew of modest attainments and even more modest ambitions, who wanted nothing more than to be a useful, docile servant of the French Republic. Despite that, he was broken simply because he was a Jew, and all who rose in his defense, including Emile Zola, were mercilessly disposed of. One must, I think, read some of the anti-Semitic French writing of that period to comprehend the degree to which human beings are capable of detesting other human beings whom they do not even know. Only in this context can we understand the logical outcomes of these events, the Nazi Holocaust of the 1940s on the one hand, and the new kind of Jewish activism and intransigence which have so shocked a world still used to the type of Jewish quietism that Morais symbolizes.

I would speculate, then, that Morais' bitterness of soul was due to his re­alization that the traditional paths to which he had devoted his life could be trodden no longer. The social justice for which he longed was not to be achieved by passionate but always gentlemanly admonitions, and waiting patiently for the Messiah. It was to be done through strikes and boycotts and flaming headlines screaming "J'accuse!" and through the "renationalization of our people," as he called it. These measures were to be coupled with grim confrontations with others who had their own claims to the Jewish patrimony.

Whether the patient, moderate voice of a Morais has any place in our own time is perhaps one of the major questions we face. Let me conclude with his comment on the biblical injunction to "let thy brother live with thee." He declares:

The common adage "Live and let live" ... may seem liberal enough to some, perhaps too liberal in this age of unscrupulous competi­tion, but it falls far below the mark when measured by the Jewish standard of righteousness ... When I am asked to "let my brother live with me" I understand that I may not push him aside, so that I may walk more at large, but that I must make room for him ... "

Morais understood that the bedrock of social justice is the brotherhood of mankind, and that this recognition carries with it the positive duty to make room actively for our fellow human beings. It is a message that has lost none of its freshness, and it speaks as much to our generation as to his.

END OF YEAR CAMPAIGN

THE INSTITUTE FOR JEWISH IDEAS AND IDEALS NEEDS YOU!  Thank you for your support and encouragement. You have helped the Institute in its work to foster an intellectually vibrant, compassionate and inclusive Orthodox Judaism. PLEASE KEEP THE INSTITUTE IN MIND WHEN YOU MAKE YOUR END-OF-YEAR CHARITABLE CONTRIBUTIONS.

***Our active and informative website, jewishideas.org, reaches many thousands of readers throughout the world; thousands follow us on Facebook and view us on youtube.com/jewishideasorg

***Our National Scholar, Rabbi Hayyim Angel, has been giving classes and lectures in many communities and on college campuses; our online learning at jewishideas.org features many of his shiurim

***We have published 32 issues of our journal, Conversations, read by many thousands

***We have a University Network, through which we provide publications and guidance to students free of charge, and with Campus Fellows on campuses throughout North America

***Our weekly Angel for Shabbat column reaches thousands of readers worldwide

***We have distributed thousands of publications promoting a sensible and diverse Orthodoxy

***We have launched programming and publication projects in Israel together with like-minded groups

***We arrange and staff Teachers’ Conferences for Day School educators, in which we promote the values of diversity, inclusivity and intellectual vitality

***We have launched a “Sephardic Initiative”, offering publications, teachers’ conferences and other resources to expand awareness of the Sephardic/pan-Sephardic experience. This initiative is in cooperation with the Sephardic Educational Center.

***We are an important resource for thousands of people seeking guidance on questions of halakha, religious worldview, communal policies, conversion to Judaism… and so much more!!!

AS WE CELEBRATE OUR ELEVENTH ANNIVERSARY, YOUR PARTNERSHIP IS VITAL TO OUR WORK.

If you are already a member of the Institute, please consider making an additional gift at this time. If you are not yet a member, please join our growing community. Each contribution is a vote for a revitalized, intelligent, active and diverse Orthodoxy.

TO CONTRIBUTE:  You may contribute online at our website:  jewishideas.org   Or you may send your check to Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, 2 West 70^th Street, New York, NY  10023.

THANK YOU FOR CARING AND SHARING.

RESPOND TODAY TO CREATE A BETTER TOMORROW.

To our members and friends

We are off to an extremely productive year of learning and programming at the Institute.

On Sunday, October 21, we held a communal symposium in New York on Conversion to Judaism. The panel featured our Founder and Director, Rabbi Marc Angel, Rabbi Yona Reiss (Head of the Chicago Beth Din and the Director of the Rabbinical Council of America’s conversion courts), and myself. The event was exceptional, and you can watch the presentations on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GG17aaahdPQ. This panel discussion is part of our broader effort at conducting genuine conversations in the community on topics of vital importance.

On Sunday, November 4, I ran a teacher training through our Sephardic Initiative for Elementary and Middle School teachers to provide guidance and materials to Jewish Studies teachers to bring the best of the Sephardic and Ashkenazic world into the Jewish classroom. The event was held at Ben Porat Yosef Yeshiva Day School in Paramus, New Jersey, and featured Rabbi Saul Zucker, Rabbi Ilan Acoca, Rabbi Ariel Cohen, as well as myself. Twenty educators participated, and two others from outside the New York-New Jersey area have entered our orbit for the conference. Our teacher trainings promote our core values by bringing them into schools.

On Mondays, November 5, 12, 19, 26, 1:00-2:15 pm, I will teach a four-part series on the Books of Ezra and Nehemiah at Lamdeinu Teaneck. We will take an in-depth look at the Bible’s last two leaders. We will consider the primary texts in Ezra-Nehemiah, and see how Ezra and Nehemiah each helped shape the future of Judaism after prophecy stopped. Classes are held at Congregation Beth Aaron, 950 Queen Anne Road, Teaneck, NJ. For registration, go to https://www.lamdeinu.org/ezra-nechemiah-a-very-different-kind-of-leadership/.

On Shabbat, November 30-December 1, I will be the scholar-in-residence at the Young Israel of Teaneck. The synagogue is located at 868 Perry Lane, Teaneck, NJ. For more information, see the synagogue website, https://www.yiot.org/.

In October, I taught a new four-part mini series on the religious significance of the Land of Israel in the Bible. These lectures, done in partnership with the Sephardic Community Alliance, are now available on our website https://www.jewishideas.org/online-learning/classes-lectures.

As always, thank you for all of your support, and we will continue to spread our vision to educators, university students, and the broader Jewish community.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

To our members and friends,

Our Campus Fellows continue to do terrific work on their college campuses. Each runs two programs per semester sponsored by our Institute, with the goal of promoting our core values on campus and recruiting new members to our University Network. Please read about our latest campus programs!

Thank you, 

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Yona Benjamin, Columbia University

Our first program was a great success. we had very high turnout for the shiur discussing how readings of halachic sources about Shabbat engender a sense of communal and personal balance and propriety.

Our second program will be a lunch and learn attended by a number of Day School graduates and recent baalei teshuva in which we will discuss what Halachic life means to us /how campus community as well as college studies inform our understanding of what Jewish life should be like. 

Corey Gold, Harvard

Rabbi Menachem Leibtag came to Harvard Hillel and gave a shiur for a dinner and learn on October 11th. About 30 people were in attendance for his shiur titled “The Flood: A Story About Noah or a Story About Moses?”

Rabbi Saul Berman will join us as our Scholar-in-Residence on the Shabbat of November 9-10. He’ll be speaking in the evening, giving the drasha, and also teaching a lunch and learn. His topics are: Petitional Prayer in the Amidah; Reflections on Pittsburgh and Q and A; Holiness in Productivity: The Contemporary Challenge; The Abortion of a “Defective” Fetus: The Debate between Rabbis Waldenberg and Feinstein; Open Q and A.

Mikey Pollack and Aryeh Roberts, University of Maryland

On September 13, we had about 30 people come to the teshuva learning event, with seven different Jewish educators giving 10 minutes presentations each. The educators ranged from an JTS ordained rabbi, to OU-JLIC educators, to the Chabad Rabbi, to the director of Maryland Hillel. We had fresh fruit and cookies served. Students took copies of Conversations and inquired about the University Network.

Our second event was a Scholar-in-Residence shabbat with Ms. Laura Shaw Frank and Rabbi Aaron Frank, two weeks ago. We learned about how to bring the spirit of the holidays into the month of cheshvan, the history of the Jews' fight for religious freedom in America, the nature of friendship in the Rambam (and how we can improve our own relationships!), and the importance of social justice (as shown in Parshat Noach). It was an inspiring and fascinating shabbat! 

Zachary Tankel, McGill University

The first program we would like to run this semester is a discussion-group based on one of the chapters of Conversations. The event will be held on October 25th. 

For the second event, our JLIC rabbi from last year has offered to drive to Montreal from Ottawa to give a shiur. I am hoping to hold this event on the fifteenth of November.

Devora Chait, Queens College

Our first event of the semester was part of a series called “Apartment Parsha”, where students lead an exploration of the week’s Torah reading, hosted in a student apartment. The aim of Apartment Parsha is for students to be actively involved in shaping their own Torah learning, and for engaging in an honest and inquisitive examination of the parsha. We hope to run a few more Apartment Parsha events this semester.

Our second event is called “Beit Midrash Opportunity Launch.” The goal is to introduce students to the Beit Midrash on campus, help them find learning partners, create learning groups, and feel comfortable and excited about Torah learning on campus. We will begin the event with learning partner study, we will join together for a group discussion of the sources, and we will assist students in finding and building regular Torah learning opportunities on campus.

Raffi Levi and Benjamin Nechmad, Rutgers

First, we will be doing a workshop with Rabbi Hart Levine on Jewish Leadership and Intentional Jewish Community building in December. Secondly, we will hopefully be hosting Rabbi Mike Moskowitz to speak on Trans Inclusivity and the Orthodox Community. In addition to this, we have been working with OU-JLIC to host Rav Dov Zinger who may be speaking on Chasidut in the Religious Zionist community.

Ora Friedman, Stern College for Women, Yeshiva University

On Tuesday, November 27 we will be having our Opening Event Kumsitz on the theme of “Spirituality and Our Relationship with Hashem.”  I will begin the event by showing Rabbi Marc Angel’s YouTube video titled “Welcome to the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.” Rabbi Gamliel Shmalo, a Jewish philosophy professor at Stern, will be leading a short discussion. After Rabbi Shmalo speaks, we will have a kumsitz.

I am hoping that the second event will be based on the theme of the Institute’s journal “Conversion to Judaism.” I am hoping that this second event will take place the week of December 10.

Asher Naghi, UCLA

We intend on having weekly or biweekly discussion groups on questions of Jewish ethics. If he’s willing, we hope to bring in Rabbi Yitzchak Etshalom to lead a discussion at least once, if not more. 

Kalila Courban, UMass

We have had two events. The first was a lecture followed by hevruta with a local rabbi surrounding the halakha of sleep. The second event was following Pittsburgh in which we hosted an open discussion about the importance of being steadfast in faith and observance not only in the wake of tragedy and the Jewish implications of how tragedy impacts us as a people throughout history. This was followed with some text study and hevruta as well.

Ari Barbalat, University of Toronto

 I plan to do two Hanukkah-related topics and themes:

A) Is Religious Pacifism a Viable Option?: The Teachings of Philo of Alexandria 

B) Are Human Beings Innately Good? Jewish Philosophy and the Yemenite Children Affair.

As a young boy growing up in Queens, NY, I always knew that my family’s traditions were slightly different from those of my classmates. Halakhot and practices taught in school, generally speaking, reflected what I experienced at home, but very often my customs were different. You see, my father was born in Afghanistan and my mother in Morocco, and as such, I was raised following Sephardic/Middle Eastern customs. Our fundamental ideologies and overall spiritual goals were the same as that of my Ashkenazic classmates, but our religious experience manifested itself in a different way.

There were some observable differences, like the songs we sang during tefilla as well as during various holidays and celebrations. We had certain festive clothes that were unique and colorful. And of course, probably the most notable difference, our cuisine was quite distinctive.

There were also some more subtle cultural differences. An overall stress was placed on warmth in the home, specifically when guests were present (hakhnasat orehim). The utmost respect was shown to authoritative figures, including family members (parents, grandparents, etc.) and rabbanim. And finally, there were differences in our performance of certain halakhot. Very often it seemed that my customs in mitzvah observance followed a more lenient path, while my Ashkenazic counterparts held a stricter inclination.

These differences never bothered me. We took tremendous pride in our Sephardic identity, and I felt comfortable in my Sephardic skin. What I found challenging and troubling however, was when my presumptions about mitzvah performance were questioned by some of my teachers or when details surrounding a mitzvah or halakha were questioned or worse, disregarded. If a Sephardic practice was a more famous one (e.g. kitniyot and rice on Pessah), it may have been noted, but it was often marginalized.

The education I received during my youth was very comprehensive. I went to a co-ed, Modern Orthodox elementary school whose students were predominantly Ashkenazim. This school was a typical Modern Orthodox school, with a warm environment that stressed Torah values. It was a school that had strong Judaic and General studies programs. And of course, it instilled an appreciation for the Hebrew language and the land of Israel.

During my elementary school years, it is fair to say that I was confused regarding whether my family was practicing the halakhot correctly. I would learn one thing in school, and perform something slightly different at home. When friends from an Ashkenazi background would visit my synagogue on Shabbat, they were lost and felt no connection to the tefillot. They would often tease me about the way we chanted our prayers. They were kids, and kids often enjoy ridiculing; but their jeering echoed the sentiment I often felt in school. My familial customs, specifically our manner in approaching tefilla and mitzvah observance was strange at best, and maybe even wrong.

There are a few stories that stand out from my childhood that made me feel self-conscious and embarrassed about my Sephardic customs. In the 6^th grade, I was sitting at the end of pesukei d’zimra. My rebbe kindly asked me to stand for Az yashir and for Yishtabah, and I respectfully obliged. He was (and still is) a very kind man, and I figured that I would stand up this time to respect his position, but explain to him after tefilla that the Sephardic custom is to sit for these tefillot.

After tefilla ended, I approached my rebbe and told him that in my synagogue we have a different custom, as we all sit for Az yashir and Yishtabah. I expected him to apologize or at least retract his position but instead he said, “There is no such custom.” I remember his words very clearly because it was a very upsetting experience for me. I could understand if he had told me to conform to the custom of standing practiced in our school. Instead I felt that my custom was delegitimized by an important figure in my life.

Another difficult moment occurred in the 8^th grade. We had an end-of-year exam that required us to say the three paragraphs of Shema by heart with the correct pronunciation. This I knew would be easy for me, as I often said Shema in my synagogue as one of the Hazzanim. As I began reciting Shema to my 8^th grade Rebbe, I noticed that after every couple of words, he was correcting me under his breath. When I got to the third verse and said “V’hayu Hadevarim Ha’eleh,” he corrected me aloud and said “Eyleh!” I repeated the word “Eleh” and again he corrected me by saying “Eyleh!” Apparently I was mispronouncing a word that I thought I knew. I finally acquiesced and said “Eyleh,” but was caught again when I said Anokhi instead of Ohnokhi. As you can imagine, I did not do very well on this test.

            What troubled me about these two instances was not the personal affront. By not validating my custom, I felt that these teachers were dismissing my family’s heritage, and in my mind they were belittling my father and all of his ancestors. They did not display awareness of a particular custom, and as such it was deemed incorrect and invalid. I don’t think that they were insensitive people; on the contrary, they were very conscious and caring individuals. However, because of their lack of awareness of differing customs, their actions came off as callous and insulting.

We Jewish educators must teach and model the importance of diversity and inclusion in religious observance. Our sages teach us that “Just as their faces are different, so too are their thoughts different” (Berakhot 58a). I believe this concept can be applied when teaching students from different backgrounds. We must be very sensitive to their customs, traditions, and mannerisms, and try to better understand them. This applies equally to Sephardic and Ashkenazic customs, as well as to the various differences found in intra-Sephardic and intra-Ashkenazic communities.

Many challenges face us when dealing with children of differing familial customs. We may not be knowledgeable about the numerous differences found in so many details of halakha.  Additionally, there are misconceptions about certain customs that are better known. For example, many know that Sephardim eat kitniyot on Pesah, but it is surprising to see the differing customs among Sephardim regarding which kitniyot are permitted and which are not permitted.

Another more subtle challenge stems from the natural sense of pride we all feel toward our personal customs. We have been performing mitzvot in a certain way in our family, and it is hard to see things in a different light. Some effort is required when attempting to value and appreciate the differing practices of others.

Of course the bigger the challenge, the bigger the opportunity. Imbuing our students with an understanding that we are one nation with many unique ways to connect and observe halakha; this vital insight will help them as observant Jews and as respectful individuals.

Let me share some suggestions that may help promote a more inclusive and all-embracing environment when teaching children who come from different backgrounds. The advice can be utilized by teachers of both Sephardic and Ashkenazic origin, as well as by laypeople in their daily interactions with fellow Jews.   

1. Sensitivity and understanding. When you come across a custom or practice that seems strange or odd, don’t be so quick to dismiss it. Inquiring is okay, and even questioning it in a respectful way is fine, but do not be disparaging. Never discredit a practice without proper examination of the custom. As the sages of the Great Assembly taught “Hevu Metunim b’din,” be patient when you judge (Avot 1:1). Try first to understand the custom, and then begin to advise accordingly.

I was recently told a story about a young woman who made the berakha of “al netilat yadayim” before she washed her hands for bread. Her advisors told her that she was acting improperly, as we are supposed to make the blessing after we wash our hands. Little did they know that she was a descendant of the great Yemenite Rabbi, Rav Kapach, who followed the opinion of the Rambam regarding this halakha. The Rambam states that one should make the berakha of “al netilat yadayim” before one washes hands before eating bread (Hilkhot Berakhot 6:2; see also Bet Yosef 158).

2. Never stop learning. When learning halakha, try to internalize the opinion of the Shulhan Arukh and the Rama (or any other dissenting opinions). It is quite acceptable for people to simply focus on the practical halakha that applies to their specific situation. As teachers, however, we must try to identify and be conscious of the different views that are quoted in halakha. Often, as I learn the Shulhan Arukh and Rama, I will try to visualize a Sephardic person and an Ashkenazic person practicing the distinct halakhot, in the hope of creating a lasting mental image.

3. Unity is strength. When teaching about differing customs and traditions, it is critical to reiterate that we are one nation and have one destiny. The Jewish nation has a storied past, and every one of us can personally connect to our remarkable history. It is imperative to understand that what divides us is insignificant in comparison to what we hold in common.

Encouraging unity and fellowship among classmates with differing customs will help them grow stronger and prouder of their Judaism. By respecting and appreciating one another, they can actualize this strength and form long lasting bonds.

            The benefits of creating a warm and embracing religious culture in a school are very rewarding. I have been fortunate to witness some of these returns in my current students. The sense of pride they feel when a family custom is validated and valued is wonderful. The unity found in our tefilla is admirable, as both Ashkenazic and Sephardic students feel comfortable when we pray in either nusah. Many of the students even feel fluent enough to lead as Hazzan with either the Ashkenazic or Sephardic text.  

The following story, which I heard from Rabbi Yissachar Frand, encapsulates the importance of unity. In 1980, Rabbi Yaakov Kamenetsky (z”l) visited Israel. At that particular time in his life, Rav Yaakov felt extremely weak. Because of his physical condition, he did not travel around much, nor did he give many shiurim while in Israel. However, Rav Yaakov said, “I want to go to one Yeshiva—I want to go to Yeshivat Kol Yaakov.”

Rav Yaakov was taken to this yeshiva, and he was asked to speak. Rav Yaakov was crying as he told the students, “My entire life I wanted to greet Mashiah. I now feel that I won’t have this merit; I don’t feel that I’ll live much longer. But, if I can’t greet Mashiah, at least I want to be among a group of people that I know for sure, will be among those who greet Mashiah. I know that this yeshiva will be among those that will greet him.” What was so special about this yeshiva? Rav Yaakov said that this yeshiva was special because it made peace between Ashkenazic and Sephardic students. The yeshiva made shalom between these two segments of the Jewish people and opened their doors to both groups of Jewry.

The last Mishna in Shas (Uktzin 3:12) states: “The Holy One, Blessed be He, found no vessel to hold blessing for Israel other than (the vessel of) Peace.” May we be privileged to promote peace and sensitivity to others and in turn merit the coming of Mashiah speedily in our days.

I always believed in Dizzy, that old Jew. He saw into the future.
Winston Churchill

( A review essay by Dr. Maurice Wohlgelernter, on Benjamin Disraeli, by Adam Kirsch. New York: Schocken, 2008.)

That "old Jew" actually saw into the future, as Churchill understood it, may be true. But, that for some forty years, during the first half of the nineteenth century, Benjamin Disraeli proved to be the most prominent Jew in England is beyond doubt. That no Englishman of that age could ever approach him, it was said everywhere, and was equally true, even if the Englishman was unaware that he was in the presence of a "foreigner." Perhaps, that is why the same Churchill was motivated to pronounce further, on another occasion, that Disraeli, "who never fully assimilated to the English way of life, remained a permanent ‘immigrant' in the country of his birth." Small wonder that after Disraeli became one of the leading English - indeed European -- political figures of the nineteenth century majestically involved in his country's destiny, still answered "Who are you?" with "I am an Englishman." Englishman though he may have been, he was viewed nevertheless as "both emancipated and ghettoized."

Perhaps for that reason, among others, we find that some 130 years after Disraeli's passing in 1881, historians, biographers, philosophers, academicians, and secularists have, in the last two decades or so, published fifteen or so books, monographs, and essays, all analyzing the life, times, works, and accomplishments of Disraeli, that "old Jew." The most recent among these works, one notes admiringly, is a new and fascinating brief study by Adam Kirsch, poet and senior editor of The New Republic, entitled Benjamin Disraeli, all part of a series of studies, already published by Schocken Books, devoted to the promotion of Jewish history, culture, and ideas.

The Disraeli family tradition began in England with the arrival of the first Benjamin, aged eighteen in 1748, bearing the nomenclature D'‘Israeli,' a name commonly bestowed on Jews of Arab-speaking Middle Eastern countries. On arrival young Benjamin changed the name to D_israel, with a small i, bearing a coat-of-arms with the Latin motto Forti est nihile difficile, to embellish his ancestry, a common practice of that time. So brilliantly successful did Benjamin become that he left behind a most handsome financial legacy, ensuring that neither his son Isaac, nor his grandson Benjamin, would ever have to work for a living. Isaac, therefore, devoted his luxurious life to reading and writing. At age twenty-five, that "bookworm" published a bestseller, Curiosities of Literature, as well as a volume of essays entitled Literary Forgeries. In fact, he gained a respected reputation among the literati of his time, winning especially the admiration of one of England's leading poets of the nineteenth century, Lord Byron.

Of some passing interest, also, is the fact that many Englishmen found it difficult, for example, to pronounce D'Israeli as one word, often separating them into two, as in

D-Israeli, resulting inevitably in the fact that Benjamin was often called "Dizzy," which the grandson himself eventually changed to "Disraeli," as in one word.

"Name change," we know, often results in "faith change." And so it was that Isaac, an "emancipated Jew," ultimately bequeathed to his son, the young Benjamin, an ambivalent attitude toward Judaism. Isaac admired, among others, one of the prophets of the Enlightenment, Moses Mendelsohn, as well as the "rationalism" of Voltaire, resulting, naturally, in a gradual withdrawal from the traditional faith of Judaism - its laws, customs, and traditions. Witness, for example, the vitriolic exchange between Isaac and the Elders of London's most famous Orthodox house of worship in all of England - the Bevis Marks Congregation. Elected to serve as one of its prestigious Elders, Isaac refused that eminent post. Some four years later, when again elected for that honor, Isaac once more refused, ultimately resigning from the congregation altogether. He eventually manifested ambivalence toward traditional Judaism in his life and home.
Not surprisingly, therefore, that Isaac, writing to a friend, would comment: "Religion drained Jews of their genius . . . . Ten centuries have not produced ten great men . . . . To hate the Talmud is not to hate Judaism but to hate obscurantism; it is a complete system of barbarous learning for the Jews." And then in a wild exhortation to the members of his own people, Isaac states further: "I would implore the Jews to begin to educate their youth as the youth of Europe and not Palestine; let their Talmud be removed to an elevated shelf to be consulted as a curiosity of antiquity and not as a manner of education."

ARRIVAL

Into that home, baby Benjamin arrived on December 21, 1804. On the eighth day day after his arrival, Isaac had him circumcised according to Biblical and Talmudic law and custom. Anyone aware of Isaac's decided hostility of any traditional practices must surely have wondered at this "pious" decision. After all, Isaac was certainly aware, better than many, that Jews of every age, because of their deep devotion to such practices, evoked universal mockery for their insistence on remaining a "peculiar people." Nevertheless, Isaac in this instance ruled in favor of his "past."

But not, alas, for very long. A mere thirteen years later, as Benjamin was approaching his bar mitzvah, Isaac decided - in that summer of 1817 - to have this youngster and his siblings - Sarah, an older sister, and his two younger brothers Ralph and James - converted at the altar of the Church of England. To anyone acquainted with Isaac's negative views of Judaic law and practice, the decision could not have been a shock. In later years, the irony of this conversion, forcing Benjamin to omit celebration of his "Jewish manhood," never left him.

On the contrary, as Mr. Kirsch reminds us, Disraeli, as he aged, developed his own views of his newly adopted faith. "Christianity," he argued repeatedly, "is really the fulfillment of Judaism." In other words, both faiths are really one: "Each religion," therefore, "should acknowledge its dependence on the other . . . . Christianity is completed Judaism, or it is nothing . . . just as Judaism as incomplete without Christianity." To sum up that unusual viewpoint, Disraeli invented a bewildering aphorism, repeating it often, that "he" was "really the blank page between the Old Testament and the New." All of which made it much easier for him to maintain a public image of "remaining a Jew while simultaneously enjoying the legal rights of a member of the Church of England." So that "Christianity," Disraeli argued further, "far from representing a betrayal of Judaism was actually an expression of his Jewish pride."

The year 1817 brought a number of other changes in Disraeli's life. Isaac moved the family to a larger residence in Bloomsbury, near the British Museum, the family home for the next twelve years. Young Benjamin attended Higham Hall, "an obscure school of some fifty students, run by a Unitarian minister." He received a good but not a superior education, "leaving the Hall after only three years." Needless to say, Disraeli never attended Oxford or Cambridge, perhaps because "ever since his youthful days, he always detested school." Or, as Disraeli recalls in his novel Vivian Grey (1826), Vivian's mother, much like his own, was "one of those women whom nothing in the world could persuade that the public school is anything but a place where boys were roasted alive." And in such schools, Vivian repeatedly hears the word "stranger," a euphemism, we know, for "Jew," leading constantly to fistfights. On Easter Sunday, for instance, boys would actually rush out of chapel after school, shouting: "He is risen, He is risen/All Jews must go to prison." This form of prejudice was passed down by generations of students, like nursery rhymes, evoking Disraeli's intense anger. As he aged, Disraeli learned "to lock that anger with rigid self-control, deliberately managing an air of innocent detachment." How sad that Disraeli actually heard variations of those remarks for the rest of his life, especially in politics.

To enter that world of politics and the "power" he always dreamed of attaining, Disraeli modeled his own image and lifestyle on that of Byron, the English Romantic poet, "by imitating his flamboyant dress, exquisite appearance which, combined with his precocious genius and sharp wit, helped pave his way into London's society." And like Byron, Disraeli was attractive to women, especially older ones, "having affairs with many of them, in a society where politics and adultery were overlapping pastimes." That interest in "older women," some believe, may have resulted from the greater attention Disraeli's own mother paid to his siblings than to him. In any event, Disraeli also describes some of those "escapes" in Vivian Grey, where the title character, "with his charming arrogance, vaulting ambitions without any scruples or political principles, pretended to care about people he means to exploit. One must mix with the herd: enter their feelings, humor, their weaknesses, sympathize with their sorrows, and will do anything to get ahead."

Though Disraeli eventually "got ahead," in an outstanding way, he remained an outsider, and all because of his "Jewishness," or that "irreducible otherness" which made it impossible for him to close the gap.
And yet, despite Disraeli's lingering "Jewishness," we must remember that it always remained privately operative. A fantasy, really. For we need recall that in the 1830s, already a member of Parliament, Disraeli took a trip to the Middle East, visiting Jerusalem, which he enjoyed. Yet, on his return, his description of that city was, by all accounts, "most disappointing," perhaps because that city figured in one of his "fantasies as a future metropolis of England," thus fulfilling his abiding desire for power, which more than his fiction remained central to his life. And England, not Israel, would be the Israel of his imagination, making himself his own "Messiah."

If further proof were ever necessary that his "lingering Jewishness was privately operative," one need but remember the famous "Damascus Affair," which occurred some ten years after his return from Jerusalem. A "blood libel" resurfaced in Damascus in February 1840, when the murder of a Catholic priest was blamed on a Jewish barber, resulting in a reign of terror and the torture of the city's leading Jews, some of whom were actually killed. Moses Montefiore, a prominent Jewish Englishman, organized a movement to halt those killings. As a fellow member of the House of Commons, he turned to Disraeli to join him in a protest, with the goal of forcing the Egyptian government of Muhammad Ali to put an end to this affair. Disraeli refused, proving that his "psychologically powerful Jewishness" did not include sensitivity to the existence of his fellow Jews struggling to survive. He sadly elevated the "fantasy of Jewishness over political reality."

That political reality all found its way, like all else Disraeli thought or fashioned into his fiction, which he used as character studies of some of England's national figures, as well as his own. Mr. Kirsch is not the first to recognize the literary and historical significance of Disraeli's writing. Even three years before Disraeli's death the eminent Danish critic Georg Brandes, author of the classic multivolume Main Currents of Literature in the Nineteenth Century, confirmed that truth in 1878 in his Lord Beaconsfield: A Study.
Consider, for example, Disraeli's novel Contirari Fleming, wherein the title character proclaims that it is "better to be a man of action than a man of letters." Nor would Contirari even consider "literature more than a substitute for politics." And however exceptional the wide range of Disraeli's fiction, it was still - and always - "politics that fascinated him most." And Contirari's Venetian ancestry also "becomes not only part of his ancestry" but it also, as Mr. Kirsch contends, "enables Disraeli to turn his alienation into a source of pride . . . . For it is the historical grandeur of Venice and his Venetian ancestors that emboldens Contirari to succeed in politics and poetry, to become his people's savior. It was Disraeli's "own wish that one day, he, too, would serve as England's savior and be the one to rebuild a Jewish homeland in Palestine by restoring Jews to their Promised Land."

Under somewhat similar circumstance, Alroy, the central character in Disraeli's novel of the same name, dreams that he, too, might one day rebuild Jerusalem, restoring its Jewishness and historical dignity. But then Disraeli, remembering his own life as a convert, describes Alroy's hope as follows: "the only liberation the Jew needs is a liberation from Judaism, with all its outmoded taboos and social disadvantages." For Disraeli, a baptized Christian, who made his way into gentile society, self-deliverance was far more practical than Alroy's dreams. All of which leaves Disraeli no choice, except in his fiction, to conclude that England, not Israel, as already noted, "would become the Israel of his imagination, making himself his very own Messiah."

Of this one may be reasonably certain, that in the most critical period of Disraeli's life, the private "Messiah" turned into an "historical and practical one."

POLITICS

After four attempts to gain a seat in the House of Commons, Disraeli finally won one in July 1837, the year Queen Victoria ascended the British throne. But to maintain that seat, he first needed to cleanse his disreputable past. Since he was known, heretofore, in many circles as a "dandy, an adulterer, an eccentric genius, and, of course, a Jew," change was definitely in order.

Disraeli, seeking more stability and a better reputation, fell in love with Mary Anne Lewis, widow of the wealthy Wyndham Lewis, a colleague and fellow Parliamentarian. In keeping with Disraeli's pattern, she was some twelve years older than he. She predicted, interestingly, that in a few years, Disraeli would become "one of the great men of his day," a prediction that came true. That marriage lasted thirty-four years. However strangely, Disraeli never planned to have a family, in part, because he would have been forced to decide, as Mr. Kirsch puts it, "whether he wanted them to be English with Jewish ancestors, or Jews who happened to make their own sphere of action." Before Mary Anne died in 1872, she told a friend that her life had been a "long scene of happiness owing to his love and kindness."

Cleansed socially and financially, Disraeli entered the world of English politics with his first speech in Parliament, on December 7, 1837, to become eventually the most brilliant orator in the House, admired by some colleagues and, simultaneously, envied by many others. He tried always to make an impression by a show of personal independence instead of blind Tory party loyalty. Thus, Sir Robert Peel, on becoming Prime Minister a few years later, would never even think, because of his dislike and envy of Disraeli, to appoint him to the cabinet. All of which moved Disraeli to become a member of a group of elected officials known as "Young England," thus giving the party a newly "romanticized sense of itself; which allowed more Englishmen to see the need for reform." And all sorts of reform became necessary because of the Industrial Revolution, during which "countless thousands of English laborers moved from their farms to the burgeoning manufacturing cities."

So that Disraeli began to question, "What shall we now conserve as Tories?" He argued that "it was necessary to maintain strong links between the past and future." Besides, he argued further, reform was needed, lest the growth of the urban labor force would lead to a revolution as occurred in France. "Any lack of involvement in social reform would lead the public to believe that the Tory party was unimaginative and ruthless."

Disraeli's conservatism was "neither unimaginative nor heartless," but based rather on the principle that "power has only one duty: to secure the social welfare of the public." Suffering dare not be ignored. In other words, "the haves and have nots must be bridged." To improve England's political future, therefore, would not be the "dispossessing of the rich or enfranchising the poor; instead, it would mean the empowering the rich and teaching the poor to trust their betters." The reconciliation of the nobility and the working class, Disraeli believed, "was the core of what should become politically operative in England."

Subsequently, Disraeli and Peel found themselves in conflict over the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1845. Peel wanted to cancel them; Disraeli to keep them. Briefly, these laws regulated the import of all sorts of grains: "wheat, barley, rye, and corn," which were originally enacted to protected English farmers from cheap foreign grains flooding their markets, forcing them to lower prices they charged for their own crops. Favoring free trade, business opposed the Corn Laws, while workers also opposed them in the name of free trade. Disraeli favored them. Peel, meanwhile, disavowed the principles of his own party, eventually consorting with the Whigs, who also favored their repeal. As a result, Disraeli demanded on March 17, 1846, that Peel call a new election. By the middle of that year, Peel's credibility had been destroyed mainly by Disraeli, forcing the Prime Minister to leave the party. Disraeli and his associate Lord George Bentink now commanded the House.

The weakness of Peel and his predecessors resulted in the strange political reality that in the three decades from 1846 to 1876 there was only one conservative administration in England - and that for only eighteen months. This meant, among other things, that Disraeli spent more time in opposition than any other British political figure. How interesting, therefore, that Disraeli's attacks on Peel during the debate on the Corn Laws forced Peel to connive with the Whigs to repeal them. Disraeli was moved to argue forcefully: "Above all, maintain the law of demarcation between parties, for it is only by maintaining the independence of the party that you can maintain the integrity of public men and the power and influence of Parliament itself." Peel, embarrassed, left the party with most of his Peelites following him. The party fell while Disraeli ascended, together with his associates.

In February 1867, at the age of sixty-three, Disraeli finally became leader of his party, moving him to declare: "Yes, I have climbed to the top of the greasy pole." While in power, however briefly at first, Disraeli was able to introduce the famous Reform Bill, of August 1867, which enabled almost a million Englishmen to gain the right to vote. That classic bill moved Professor Gertrude Himmelfarb, the City University of New York historian, to comment: "The Reform Act of 1867 was one of the decisive events - perhaps the decisive event in modern English history. For it was this act that transformed England into a democracy." Disraeli, of course, deserved most of the credit: "Here's to the man who rode the race, who took the time, who kept the time, who did the trick."

In response to this Herculean accomplishment, the Marquis of Salisbury, in common with others who resented Disraeli's political success, offered only the following bitterly prejudiced remark: "Disraeli is an adventurer without principles and honesty. A political feat that might have been applauded in a natural-born Tory, but deeply suspect in a Jew, who, by definition, could be nothing more than an adventurer." The sensitive reader will conclude that any attack on Disraeli turned, in the hands of his enemies, and at times even friends, into an attack mainly on his Jewishness as though his "objectionable actions were always traceable to his race."

Soon after Disraeli's Reform triumph, Lord Derby, the Prime Minister, was forced, because of his declining health, to resign his office; Disraeli, as leader of his party, went to Queen Victoria to be appointed formally to succeed him. Though the Queen, at first, found Disraeli somewhat reviling, he eventually became the leading defender of the crown or monarchy. That devotion to the monarch, as Mr. Kirsch emphasizes, rested on two basic sources: first, "his political philosophy which glorified the crown as the tribune of the people;" and, second, his "poetic imagination" which allowed him to see prosaic Queen Victoria as a monarch out of chivalric romance; and whose proud destiny will, in his eyes, "bear relief to suffering millions." Besides, Disraeli never lost a sense of awe that a middle class Jew should be the close associate of an English monarch, ‘sending her letters constantly filled with political news and social gossip to amuse her, something on her own she never received in her life." It so happens that the death of Prince Albert, her husband, in 1861, allowed Disraeli to gain her fullest confidence and her particular praise that he "always spoke from the heart."

Evidence of the close relationship between Disraeli and the Queen may be further confirmed by the following brief but touching exchange between them, on his retirement after six years in office: "His relation with Your Majesty were the chief, he might almost say, his only happiness and interest in this world." To which she replied with equal sincerity by taking the extraordinary step of writing to him in the first person: "When we correspond - which I hope we shall on many a private subject and with anyone living astonished or offended . . . I hope it will be in this more easy form." To which Mr. Kirsch, probably smiling, adds: "They almost sound like parting lovers."

And all despite the fact that Disraeli once confided to Matthew Arnold, the English critic and luminary: "Everyone likes flattery, and when you come to royalty, you should lay it on with a trowel." Yet, his fervent relationship with Her Majesty was, as he records, his only happiness and interest in this world; acting always as her champion had been one of the most gratifying of Disraeli's experiences. So gratifying, in fact, that because of her admiration of his loyalty and devotion, he was the only Prime Minister ever allowed to sit when he visited her royal residence. Hence, on August 11, 1878, after Disraeli delivered his last speech in the House of Commons as Prime Minister, the Queen, a day later, crowned him with the title "Earl of Beaconsfield," a name of a village not far from his residence in Hughenden. She even visited the new lord for dinner, evoking, sadly, another egregious comment from another bitter critic: "The Queen was going ostentatiously to eat with Disraeli in his ghetto." It was the type of remark that Disraeli, from experience, would generally expect and take in stride, as he often did with similar remarks from other friends and enemies, throughout his career. He would, nevertheless, carry on with his life and work, and "continue to embrace reform while simultaneously making conservatism a constructive political force." And of the future of conservatism, he argued constantly, "depended on improving the living standard of the poor, and to remedy the evils of the Industrial Revolution."

However powerful Disraeli may have become while assuming the leadership of his victorious party and Parliament, he was not immune to personal tragedy. As mentioned previously, Mary Anne, his wife of thirty-four years, died of cancer in 1872, at age eighty. But as Mr. Kirsch reminds us, "with no children and no truly intimate friends, her death left him profoundly alone, and his future political triumphs would be shadowed by that loneliness." But not for long, however. For, after corresponding with Selina, the Countess of Bradford, and Anne, the Countess of Chesterfield, to both of whom he wrote some 1600 letters, he chose the former to be his new wife.

Since Disraeli's real passion was foreign policy and playing a role on the international stage, he pursued that interest vigorously. Hence, when Russia declared war on, and defeated, Turkey, Disraeli warned her as Prime Minister not to move on Constantinople, ordering British troops from India to the Mediterranean to enforce his wishes. That brinkmanship stopped Russia from crossing the Dardanelles, thus avoiding war. Not surprisingly, at the famous Congress of Berlin in June 1878, attended by all the leading statesmen of Europe, Disraeli was the star of that gathering. No other statesman deserved greater credit for stopping the Russians. That, among other things, also resulted in Turkey's acceding to Disraeli's desire that England secure ownership of the island of Cyprus as a base for resisting any future Russian aggression. By stopping Russia Disraeli expanded the borders of the British Empire single-handedly. Small wonder that Bismarck would be moved to comment in Berlin, admiringly: "Der alter Jude, das ist der Mann [That old Jew, he is the man]." And he was.

Disraeli also loved the East. When informed that Khedive's Egypt was bankrupt, Disraeli was able to secure a financial interest in the Suez Canal Company, by purchasing, with the help of a four billion pound loan from Edmond Rothschild, a minority share in the company, with the rest remaining in French hands. Though his coup was mostly symbolic, Disraeli wanted it "as part of his grand design to increase English power in the East."

One is moved, therefore, to sum up Disraeli's political career, as does Mr. Kirsch, moving from being a Prime Minister, which is a political reality, to that of a "statesman," eventually becoming the greatest Parliamentarian of his, and perhaps of all, time, while mostly in opposition, as well as becoming an incredibly powerful debater.

Disraeli, like Churchill, and earlier, the Duke of Marlborough, who as writers "understood their country poetically as well as politically," made England become for Disraeli the "Israel of his imagination."

DEPARTURE

Reviewing Disraeli's rise from a "back bencher" in the House of Commons to England's Prime Minister, a confidant of Queen Victoria, and an international statesman, one dare never forget that he was, throughout his life, very conscious of being a Jew. That he was well aware of his roots, more often than all the reminders hurled his way by both his political and social opponents, is no less true. Consider, for example, one of the less heralded events of his life: the publication of Darwin's Origin of Species in 1859, with which he disagreed publicly, arguing that "man is born to believe. Depriving him of his basic beliefs would leave him dangerously demoralized." The question, as Disraeli formulated it, ran simply thus: "Is man an ape or an angel? My Lord, I am on the side of the angels." And even in politics, Disraeli often appeared on the side of the angels. For in his novel Tancred, he writes: "There can be no political freedom which is not founded on Divine Authority; otherwise, it can be at best but a specious fathom of license, inevitably terminating in anarchy."

Furthermore, there occurred an incident in his life which, for this reader at least, seemed to establish permanently that inner confirmation of his Jewishness. In 1849, desperately in need of cash, Disraeli decided to sell his father's 25,000-volume library to London's Sotheby's. But not before choosing for himself the various Jewish works, which he transferred to his own estate in Hughenden. A mere glance at these titles could easily evoke wonder and awe, if that were ever really needed, that he could not divest himself of his "Jewishness" as he understood it. The titles of these works alone are both surprising and convincing: History of the Jews in Spain, France, Italy, and England; various works on the Inquisition; editions of the Song of Songs and the Book of Joel; Protection of the Jews of Palestine; Travels of R. Benjamin Metudela; Defense of the Old Testament; Memoirs of Moses Mendelsohn; The Traditions of Jews; A Succinct Account of the Rules and Covenants of the Jews. The decision to hold these volumes back helps prove his abiding interest in the knowledge, if not necessarily his personal practice, of Judaism. So that when in his own works we find Disraeli announcing that "Christianity was only a completed Judaism . . . was more a political than a theological stance." That "theological stance" might very well have motivated Disraeli to include almost an entire chapter six, in his novel Trancred, a rather lengthy exposition of the Jewish festival Feast of Tabernacles, known everywhere by its Hebrew name of Succoth. There Disraeli describes the arrival of the Emir and his family to visit the Tancred household during that eight-day holiday. The Emir recognizes, at once, that Tancred is "civilized and fashionable," and his "household is of a race that persists in celebrating their Hebrew homage; and of a race whose graceful rites that are, at least, homage to a benignant nature." And that every child in Israel, in a "dingy suburb of some bleak northern town, happily celebrates the vintage of purple Palestine . . . and that he must dwell for seven days in a bower, and must build it in the boughs of his thick trees; and those trees are the myrtle and the weeping willows . . . . His mercantile connections will enable him, at considerable cost, to procure some palm leaves from Canaan, which he may wave in his synagogue, while he proclaims Hosannah, the highest . . . .
"After services at his synagogue, he sups late with his wife and his children in the open air, as if he were in the peasant villages of Galilees, beneath its sweet starry sky . . . . Perhaps, as he is giving the Keedush, the Hebrew blessing to the Hebrew meal, breaking and distributing the bread, sanctifying it with a preliminary prayer the goblet of wine he holds . . . offering a peculiar thanksgiving to the Feast of Tabernacles."
The reader begins to wonder: having paid homage to the faith his father denied him, was Disraeli really still the intellectual mercenary and hypocrite his enemies depicted him? Or was he permanently "disoriented" from the lack of a genuine bar mitzvah celebration and upbringing? Or was it all the result of the most tragic element of his career, that, at the height of his powers, and even among his closest allies, he remained an "outsider?" Or, was it simply his native Jewishness, that "irreducible otherness" that made it impossible for him to close the gap? There came a moment, however, during the very final minutes of his life, when Disraeli ultimately acknowledged his "irreducible otherness."

Suffering critically from a bronchial condition, Disraeli was hospitalized. After being confined for some time, Disraeli was uncomfortable and unhappy in those particular medical surroundings. Lord Kidd and some other friends succeeded in sneaking him out of the hospital during the night and brought him home. Soon after Disraeli's return home, Lord Cairns, another friend, suggested that Kidd summon Canon Fleming, of the local church, to visit their sick friend, for possible last rites. Disraeli objected, arguing that he wanted no clergyman present, nor, for that matter, any discussion of Christianity and Redemption. Instead, holding Kidd's hand, Disraeli whispered the following with his last breath: "There is one God . . . . of Israel," his English equivalent of the major verse in all of Judaism, "Shema Yisroel: Hear O Israel, God is our God, God is One." According to Jewish Law as recorded by Maimonides, at the beginning of the second chapter of The Laws of Repentance, that verse made Disraeli an immediate penitent: "Even after spending a lifetime of sin, if one repents on the very last day of his life, all his sins are forgiven." As he breathed his last, Disraeli, that "old Jew," went to meet his Maker, as the "new Jew."

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power." -Abraham Lincoln

Differentiating between legitimate and abusive uses of power and authority by rabbis and (other Jewish leaders) has been a concern for the Jewish community ever since the advent of Rabbinic Judaism following the destruction of the second temple. The great rabbinic authorities of the Mishna and Talmud were aware of the potential for abuse of power, and even while establishing their authority, they established ways of limiting this authority, for example, the traditions of debate and of the (respectful) acknowledgement and careful setting down of minority opinions. Even those whose views or behavior were considered heretical were not written out of our tradition. Despite, or perhaps because of, the need to govern the Jewish people without the usual political and military tools, discourse was privileged over dictatorship. Despite, or perhaps because the Jewish people lived as a minority among powerful others, Jewish tradition emphasized restraint in the exercise of power, and developed narrow legal rulings that were sensitive to local and even individual conditions.

Today, however, most rabbinic institutions actually oppose presenting or examining the merits of points of view other than their own. In place of careful consideration of the merits of different opinions before offering a halakhic ruling, these points of view are ignored, ridiculed, or besmirched, and their owners are vilified as evil enemies of Torah. Instead of seeking to understand the social, religious, and economic realities of specific communities, they presume to know what is best for everyone without bothering to consult them. Our knowledge and experience as psychologists (one clinical, one organizational) leads us to assert that the growth of rabbinical authoritarianism, the abuse of rabbinic power, and other pressures for conformity-not the voices they are attempting to censor-are the biggest threats to the future of Judaism and to the nature of the Jewish State.

As psychologists and as halakhic Jews, we believe that the legitimate exercise of authority is a positive force in both individual and communal spheres. We point out that the root of the word authority comes from the Latin augere-to create, to enlarge, and to make grow. Authority shares its root with the words "augment" and "author," words that speak of growth and creativity. In a relationship of authority there is a source of creative energy, a recipient of that energy, and finally, what is created or achieved. Fundamentally, authority is generative. You can see its dynamic at work in a variety of positive human relationships-with a parent, a teacher, a doctor, a community leader-in which someone outside of ourselves helped us to achieve some good outside of ourselves. Authority is distinguished by the fact that the energy that flows from it-which specifies the rights and responsibilities in relationship to it-is not for itself. The energy that flows from authority is transformed through the process of its transmission into growth in others.

Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, a second-century C.E. talmudic leader, is a Jewish example of leadership by authority. When he took over from Rabban Gamliel, he cancelled the latter's policy that restricted attendance at the Bet Midrash to only the most elite students. Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah opened up the Bet Midrash, added hundreds of benches, a policy that won talmudic approval. The Talmud notes that on the day that the Bet Midrash was opened to the masses, the most difficult problems were solved.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, perhaps the quintessential Modern Orthodox rabbinic authority, was opposed to authoritarianism and its use of coercion to enforce adherence to mitzvoth. (See Thinking Aloud by Rabbi David Holzer, for specific examples.) How much more strongly would he have opposed the use of coercive measures to produce the extra-halakhic conformity that has now become the norm for acceptance as a "truly" Orthodox Jew?

Authoritarianism is entirely different from authority: Authoritarianism is about power. Authoritarianism serves the few who want to dominate the many. In contrast to the growth-enhancing dynamic of authority, authoritarianism is aimed at reducing freedom by imposing conformity and restricting individual development. Authoritarianism is a repressive force whose tactics include coercion, force, manipulation, exclusion, and humiliation. The energy that flows from authoritarianism is designed to amass and maintain power and domination, to control people's lives.

Judaism's concern about the perils of authoritarianism goes back at least as far as the prophet Samuel who preached against the institution of monarchy (Samuel I 8:8-11). Samuel warned that unchecked centralized power would seek to accumulate and increase, that kings will take and not give. Finally, he predicted that the abuse of power would become unbearable. And Samuel was right; the Israelites were not well served by their kings, despite the existence of a counterbalancing institution, the Prophets, who were charged with speaking truth to power.

Much later in Jewish history the Hasmoneans assumed the monarchy. As priests, they combined religious and political leadership roles-to the detriment of both. Hasmoneans were authoritarian, ruthless rulers who corrupted the institution of the priesthood.

Power and influence are heady stuff. In a series of recent role-playing experiments, researchers simulated experiences of power, and found that "powerful" participants condemned the cheating of others while cheating more themselves. Moral hypocrisy comes easily to the powerful.

We see that social science studies concur with what the Torah and history both demonstrate: that is, when power becomes centralized and authoritarian, it inevitably leads to a disconnect between the leaders and their followers, between the leaders' public judgment of what is just and right and their own private behavior, between the public interest and the leader's personal and political benefit.

The Authoritarian Worldview

According to scholars who have studied the phenomenon, an authoritarian worldview is characterized by the following ideas (each is illustrated with a position popular in at least some quarters of the Orthodox community.)

The world is made up of "Us" and "Them."

The fractionalization of Orthodox groups creates smaller and more particularistic in-groups that place all other Jews in the out-group category. Freud referred to this type of phenomenon as "the narcissism of small differences."

Although the existence of multiple groups may superficially appear to represent diversity, in fact each group is authoritarian, requiring more and more conformity in order to fit in and carry its particular label. For example, Frumster, a dating website, asks its members to self-describe by choosing one of seven categories for Orthodox, four for the Orthodox-Conservative continuum, and one for everyone else.

"We" are good, and "They" are bad.

Many Orthodox people argue that we are a holy people-but non-Jews and their culture are at the root of most of the evil in the world; the rest is attributed to the rebellion of Conservative and Reform Jews.

We need to get them before they get us!

This is a defensive posture that perceives threats everywhere and leads to intolerance, hatred, and even violence. Furthermore, this stance leads to the interpretation of any action that we don't like as anti-Semitism.

The ends justify the means.

Since "our" values are right and true, we are justified in doing whatever we need to maintain our power and position. Financial fraud is accepted among some Ultra-Orthodox Rabbis, if they believe it is to the advantage of a worthy cause of theirs.

It is fine to have punitive attitudes toward the weak.

Authoritarians disdain those who are weak or of lesser status. Choosing conversion as an arena in which to exert power reflects this attitude-prospective converts are very low status; they are weak and vulnerable. Sexual exploitation of prospective converts and of children are crimes that demonstrate this attitude-they are two of the most vulnerable and powerless groups. Additionally, failure to resolve the institutional oppression of agunot reflects institutional indifference to these most powerless women.

Subservience toward authority is vital.

Authoritarians disdain those they view as below themselves and are very submissive toward those they see as being strong and above themselves. Rabbis in the Hareidi or Hassidic hierarchy defer to those with more (perceived) power-even if it means backtracking from a position that they had taken-even a public one-and they often claim that they had been "deceived" into taking the original position.

The Rabbinical Council of America's capitulation to the Israeli Rabbanut regarding conversion procedure and personnel credentialing is another sorry example. Despite widespread acknowledgment of the Rabbanut's deficiencies of integrity, competence, and reliability, the perceived power of the Rabbanut was sufficient reason for the RCA to overturn centuries of the Diaspora tradition of local rabbinical autonomy and leadership.

Groupthink

Authoritarianism and the abuse of power by rabbinic leaders are not the only sources of behavior and thought control in the Orthodox community. Groupthink exerts an additional set of pressures to conform to an increasingly narrow, exclusionist view of what it means to be a Torah committed Jew, and is perhaps even more nefarious since it arises from within the community membership. For those who are unfamiliar with the term, groupthink is a type of thinking that occurs in cohesive groups, where the desire to remain a member of the group and to maintain consensus, overrides critical thinking and leads to faulty group decisions. Irving Janis, who researched historical fiascos created by groupthink, defined it as "A mode of thinking that people engage in when they are deeply involved in a cohesive in-group, when the members' strivings for unanimity override their motivation to realistically appraise alternative courses of action." While group cohesion provides the foundation needed for groupthink to develop, Janis has suggested that insular, homogeneous groups that have directive leaders and that experience stress from external threats are particularly vulnerable to groupthink. We suggest that these are attributes of current Orthodox Judaism, and that our community displays all of the symptoms of groupthink described by Janis and his colleagues. The symptoms are listed below, followed by real-life examples from within the Orthodox community.

Symptoms of groupthink

1. Illusions of invulnerability create excessive optimism and encourage risk-taking.

Example:
There is a widespread belief that social problems such as substance abuse, spousal or child abuse, and addictive gambling are less prevalent in the Orthodox community than elsewhere, even when there are no reliable statistics, or that the statistics indicate otherwise. When a scientific study by Rachel Yehuda, Ph.D., Michelle Friedman, M.D., Talli Y. Rosenbaum, P.T., Ellen Labinsky, Ph.D., and James Schmeidler, Ph.D., published in the American Journal of Psychiatry, found that the Orthodox women in their sample were sexually abused at about the same rates as other women, Avi Shafran, representative of Agudath Israel, sprang into action, claiming not only that the survey was biased, but also that "the Torah-observant population is greatly underrepresented in the realms of societal ills like rape, AIDS, prostitution and marital infidelity that affect their less repressed neighbors," while simultaneously admitting that he has no statistics to back up his claim. He just knows.

Other leaders within the Orthodox community dismissed the results of the survey by saying that "approximately 40 percent of the respondents were ba'alei teshuva, and therefore, their experiences are irrelevant to those raised in Orthodox homes."

2. The group rationalizes warnings that might challenge the group's assumptions.

Example:
Consider the following explanation of the outrage over Rav Eliezer Melamed's endorsement of soldiers' refusal to obey orders to attack Jews: "Secular zionists, who by and large built Israel are accused of trying to dismantle Israel, because their motives for creating the State was not based in Torah. Only Torah Jews imbued with a nationalist impulse stand in their way. Those who built it-right and left-have been trying to dismantle it for well over a decade and a half-and only Torah Jews imbued with a nationalist impulse stand in their way."

Another example: Yitzhak Kakun, editor-in-chief of the Shas weekly Yom Le'Yom claimed that the arrests of members of the Syrian Jewish community of New Jersey and Brooklyn, on suspicion of money laundering was an anti-Semitic plot cooked up by the FBI.

3. There is unquestioned belief in the morality of the group, causing members to ignore the consequences of their actions.

Example:
In offering an explanation of why leading Hareidi religious figures (and others) allowed Leib Tropper and EJF to control conversions, Rabbi Steven Pruzansky wrote that "Gedolei Torah-and most rabbis-are incapable of recognizing true evil and hypocrisy. Call it the ‘Yitzchak Avinu and Esav Syndrome.' I have been in the presence of Gedolim, and they live on a plane of purity and saintliness where such incidents-while theoretically possible; after all, the Tanakh is filled with stories of the foibles of great people-are not considered practical possibilities. Most never encounter salaciousness, degradation, and the dark side of man." (Pruzansky blog, Dec 23, 2009)

Another example of this willfully amoral mindlessness is the increasingly frequent reference to "Daas Torah is hefekh daas Baalei Batim," (Lay understanding is the opposite of Torah wisdom), a phrase that insulates rabbis ("Gedolim") from criticism and replaces serious, respectful dialogue with contempt for anyone else's perspective. (For a sensitive treatment of this issue, see Rabbi Yossi Ginzberg's December 29, 2009 post on the blog, "Emes Ve-Emunah.")

4. The group promotes stereotyping of those who are opposed to the group as weak, evil, biased, spiteful, disfigured, impotent, or stupid.

Examples:
Consider the following quotations:
"The Conservatives begin the process with a desired result in mind (abolishing the mehitza, permitting cohanim to marry divorcees, counting women in the minyan, etc.) They are quite adept at manipulating the halakha to achieve that result, twisting and turning the words of our sages until they are "saying" what the Conservatives want them to say." (Pruzansky blog, Dec 4, 2009)

"The feminist movement ravaged the American family." (Pruzansky blog, Nov 29, 2009)

As another example, When Nofrat Frankel and the "women of the wall" attempted to read from a Sefer Torah in the women's section at the Western Wall, they were accused of doing it solely for political purposes, and of "inverting every relevant fact in order to make [their] argument" (Yaakov Menken, "The right to disrupt your prayers" Cross currents, November 30, 2009). Commented one of the readers of this column: "Getting arrested for wearing a tallit makes this woman a martyr for egalitarian rights and for civil rights. This gives the small group of non-Orthodox Jews in Israel a way to be noticed. Otherwise, they are totally ignored."

A common theme is to accuse others of nefarious motives, even when they have stated benign or benevolent ones. How exactly is it that the in-group members know the motives of others so much better than the others know their own motives? Or are they accusing them of deception and trickery?

5. Direct pressure (aka peer pressure) is used to conform placed on any member who questions the group, couched in terms of "disloyalty."

Example:
Rabbi Norman Eisenstein announced that no judge on a conversion court would be accepted if he believed the universe was more than 5,770 years old.

6. The group self-censors ideas that deviate from the apparent group consensus.

Example:
For a clear and compelling example of this, think of the number of people who you know who have altered their publicly expressed opinions or behavior (or asked family members to change theirs) in order to not threaten the matchmaking options of their children. In cases we know personally, a young man was denied permission to go to college because of the danger it posed to his sisters' marriage opportunities, while middle-aged couples have stopped going to the movies (although they will watch the same films at home, in private) for the sake of their children's potential "shiddukhim."

7. Illusions of unanimity among group members is promoted; silence is viewed as agreement.

Example:
Everyone might disagree, but everyone thinks that everyone else agrees:
You conform to a certain dress code in order to fit into the group-"I don't think there is anything wrong with wearing pants...but..."

8. The group has self-appointed mind guards, who shield the group from dissenting information. These can be group leaders who guide the flock and weed out dissenters, and who cultivate a negative attitude about talking to outsiders. These are often Hareidi journalists and columnists.

Example:
Forbidding Hareidim to use the internet, Rav Yisrael Hager, the son of the Vishnitzer Rebbe, called on the community to refrain from buying tefilin and mezuzoth from anyone connected to Hareidi websites. The Rav's comments came at the start of the Shovavim period (the period that begins with the reading of Parashat Shemot and ends with Parashat Mishpatim), a time that the Kabbalists teach is auspicious for repentance. The Rav added that children from families with internet connections should not be accepted to schools, and that rabbis and teachers who do not conform to this policy should not be employed as teachers.

Overall, groupthink encourages overestimation of the group's power and morality, closed-mindedness, and pressures toward uniformity, and leads to defective decision-making. Although some of these examples are from the Hareidi rather than the Centrist/Modern Orthodox community, not all are. The symptoms of groupthink are increasingly observable in C/MO groups as well. If we don't want critical decisions facing the Jewish community to be defective, we need to be more vigilant about preventing, or disrupting groupthink.

Preventing Groupthink

The best way to prevent or disrupt groupthink is to eliminate or avoid the conditions under which it occurs. Although it is not likely that we can remove the external threats to the continued existence of the Jewish people, we can address the three others:

1. Directive leadership
2. Isolation of the group from outside sources of information and analysis
3. Homogeneity of members ideology and social background

1. Directive leadership is a "command-and-tell," military-style leadership, which is helpful in critical situations of imminent threat, but has been identified as a chief cause of defective group process and poor outcome for decision-making in groups. A good leader is capable of a variety of leadership styles, adjusting the style to suit the situation.

2. & 3. That openness to outside sources of information and analysis helps counteract the groupthink tendency is self-evident, but the advantages of diverse groups may need some explanation. The advantages of diversity are not just our ideological bent-there is a good deal of research on the advantages (and disadvantages, to be honest) of diverse groups in terms of organizational functioning:

Diverse groups tend to be more creative and are better at problem-solving than are homogenous groups. When groups include people with different types of education and experience, they have a richer deliberation about the best course of action. Diversity helps an organization become more adaptable and flexible in responding to a rapidly changing world, while attracting and retaining its best members. Diversity, though, does increase turnover within the group, making it less socially integrated than groups of people who are all alike. Nevertheless, suspicion and hostility toward diverse opinion and demographics cause long-term harm to the group.

Conclusion and Recommendations

Recently, a number of young, educated, sincerely religious Israeli couples decided to reject the Rabbanut system entirely and make independent wedding plans. They arranged their own halakhically correct marriages and were willing to be officially considered common-law husband and wife rather than participate with that disreputable institution. Will this become a trend? Let us hope there is still time for it to serve as an illustrative warning. This is what happens when leadership fails: the best and most capable will not stand for it.

Religious authority in Judaism is meant to be a force for affirmative growth, to help us on our way toward becoming a "nation of priests" and a "light unto the nations." Authoritarianism won't get us there.
Just as we accept that we are subject to invisible physical influences, such as gravity or bacteria, we need to understand at a deep level-both individual and communal, lay and clergy-the workings of psychological forces on our reasoning and judgment, opinions and behavior. We need to foster the humility to recognize our vulnerability to the easy temptations of authoritarianism and the pitfalls of groupthink. Since these forces operate outside our awareness, we recommend the following changes in organizational structure and process to help keep them at bay:

1. Intentional organizational self-reflection. Self-reflection, or heshbon hanefesh, is a religious obligation for individuals and is a recommendation whenever national calamity strikes. The Orthodox, religious Zionist community undertook such self-reflection following the assassination of Yitzchak Rabin and, at least for a while, the community made changes. Today, the parade of scandals in the religious community is a calamity that calls for self-reflection, particularly for religious and lay leadership. As a first step, independent professional consultation should be engaged on a regular basis to meet with leadership for the express purpose of examining their thinking process and power relationships.

2. Transparency and lay oversight. Since any individual or group with power, left unchecked, will tend to tip, however unintentionally, toward policies of self-interest, it is essential to be able to examine rabbinical decisions against standards of logic, fairness, and consequences for community concerns. This in no way threatens their halakhic expertise and authority. Rather, it refines and extends it.

3. Make a conscious, declared decision to incorporate diversity as a hedge against the inroads of fundamentalism. For too long now, the Modern Orthodox/Centrist rabbinical leadership has been busy looking over its right shoulder, defensive about its authenticity in the face of attacks from the religious right. Nevertheless, we continue to affirm the value of secular study, while acknowledging that at times it may present a religious challenge; we accept the risk, based on our beliefs. Similarly, while it is true that diversity in organizations entails some risk, it is a better choice than paranoia, black-and-white thinking, and hypocrisy, which are characteristic of authoritarian organizations.

For Further Reading:

Altemeyer, Bob. The Authoritarian Specter. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996.
Holzer, Rabbi David. The Rav: Thinking Aloud. New York: Holzer Publishing, 2009.
Janis, Irving Lester. Groupthink. Psychological Studies of Policy Decisions and Fiascoes. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1982.
Lammers, Joris, Stapel, Diederik A. and Galinsky, Adam. "Power Increases Hypocrisy: Moralizing in Reasoning, Immunity and Behavior." Psychological Science (in press).

The Odyssey and Kibbud Av va-Em

By Martin Lockshin

The Jewish content of Daniel Mendelsohn’s acclaimed 2006 memoir, The Lost: A Search for Six of the Six Million, was obvious.  But his latest memoir, An Odyssey: A Father, A Son, An Epic, appears to have no direct relevance to Judaism.  Still, the issues he raises about relationships between parents and children are relevant for Jews who take seriously the mitzvah of honoring parents.

Mendelsohn is a professor of classics at Bard College.  His book describes the year or so beginning when his 81‑year‑old father, Jay Mendelsohn, a retiree who had had a successful career in Mathematics and Computer Science, sat in on Daniel Mendelsohn’s seminar on Homer’s Odyssey.

Jay had promised to just listen as an auditor, but instead, he participated actively in the classroom discussion, often advocating interpretations that conflicted with his son’s.  After the course, father and son went together on a Mediterranean cruise that visited the locations described in Homer’s Odyssey.  Shortly after the cruise, Jay had a stroke and soon thereafter died.

Mendelsohn is a great writer, and I had trouble putting the book down. As someone who taught Homer’s Odyssey in a “great literature of the Western world” course at York University, I felt a personal connection.  Also, when I turned sixty, my son, Noam Lockshin, took me on a trip to the areas of France and Germany where the Bible commentators whose works I study, Rashi and Rashbam, lived and were educated.

Mendelsohn explores the tension between the worldview of the humanist and that of the mathematician.  Jay is constantly saying things like: “A crime is a crime.  If you’ve done wrong, you’ve done wrong.  There’s no gradations in breaking the law.  It’s either not broken or it’s broken. That’s what justice is.”  Or “You can’t argue with numbers.”  Or “Only science is science.” He considers Daniel’s work, the interpretations of texts, to be “subjective, impressionistic, a matter of opinion.” Daniel, on the other hand, who had always excelled in the Humanities, did poorly in Mathematics and never understood, or even bothered to try to understand, his father’s work.

Mendelsohn shares the insights that he, his father, and his students had into Homer’s Odyssey.  He walks us through all 24 “books” (as the chapters of the Odyssey are called) excerpting the classroom give‑and‑take.  Like many excellent teachers, Mendelsohn is self-critical, always trying to improve his teaching.  He reflects on how little we understand about how teaching works.  “One of the strangest things about teaching,” he writes, “is that you can never know what your effect will be on others; can never know, if you have something to teach, who your real students will be, the ones who will take what you have to give and make it their own . . . can never really know which of the young people clustered around the seminar table is someone whom the teacher or the text has touched so deeply, for whatever reason, that the lesson will live beyond the classroom, beyond you.”

Homer’s Odyssey’s plot line is so simple that, as Mendelsohn points out, Aristotle summed it up in three sentences:

A man [the Greek hero, Odysseus] has been away from home for many years; Poseidon [the god of the Sea who dislikes Odysseus] is always on the watch for him; he is all alone.  As for the situation at home, his goods are being laid waste by the Suitors [who wish to marry his wife whom they incorrectly presume to be a widow], who plot against his son.  After a storm-tossed journey, he returns home, where he reveals himself, destroys his enemies and is saved. (Aristotle’s Poetics)

Just like Mendelsohn’s An Odyssey, much of the complexity of Homer’s Odyssey arises out of the relationships between fathers and sons.  (Readers who are interested in the relationship between the son in Homer’s Odyssey and his mother, on the other hand, might enjoy reading Margaret Atwood’s The Penelopiad.)

In Book 2 of Homer’s Odyssey, the goddess Athena says that “Few sons are equals of their fathers; most fall short, all too few surpass them.”  A central issue is whether Odysseus’s son, Telemachus, will be worthy of his noble lineage.  In fact, everyone wonders about this, including Telemachus himself and, of course, generations of readers. While most readers see Odysseus as the main focus of the epic that is named for him, some have read it as a Bildungsroman, a coming‑of‑age story focusing on the moral growth and development of Telemachus.  His father had left home and gone to battle when he was still a baby.  When we meet him, he is a powerless twenty-year-old, unable to deal with the disarray caused by the rowdy suitors in his parents’ home.  He has grown up without a father and is about to meet him for the first time. 

Homer’s Odyssey includes another father-son relationship, too.  When Odysseus went off to the war in Troy, his father, Laertes, stayed behind.  As the action picks up in the Odyssey, Laertes is, as Mendelsohn describes him, “a decrepit old man, alone in his orchard, tired of life.”  Homer says that Laertes “no longer comes down into town but toils alone in the countryside, far from men; an old servant-woman is there to serve him food and drink when his arms and legs are gripped by weariness.”

Mendelsohn’s book is not a Bildungsroman focused on the parent’s relationship with a maturing child. It is the story of what happens when the child is at the peak of a career while the parent has retreated from public life. While their relationship is complicated, Jay and Daniel still show tenderness to each other from time to time. Homer has little to say about this type of relationship, perhaps because so few people lived into their eighties, or even into their sixties, in his world.  The one passage in his Odyssey that relates directly to this theme is disturbing.  When Telemachus meets his father after being away for twenty years, he disguises his identity and provokes his father before revealing himself.  Surprisingly, for a book that focuses on exactly this relationship, Mendelsohn calls this a curious decision and has nothing more to say about it.

In our world, we will more and more have to face this new parent-child pattern, either as parents or as children (and some of us as both).  What happens when the roles of the child’s youth are reversed, when the child is the one who lives the public life and the aged parent “no longer comes down into town”?  What happens when the child is at the peak of physical, intellectual and professional accomplishment and the parent is starting to slip, physically and/or mentally?   What happens when parents are no longer making decisions for the best interests of the children but become children trying to safeguard the best interests of their parents? 

While Mendelsohn does not address these questions, Jewish readers naturally ask: what happens to the mitzvah of honoring a parent when, in a sense, the child slowly evolves into the parent’s decision-maker?  Imposing our will on a parent seems inappropriate, especially fooling a parent into doing what we think is best for him or her, as we may have tried to do with our small children.  But when sons and daughters sense that they are now the responsible adults, what is the compassionate thing for them to do?  Does kibbud av va-em mean always deferring to the decision of a deteriorating parent, even when we sense that their stated decision is not in their best interest?  And the all-too-common ultimate question that comes up in the closing pages of Mendelsohn’s book: do children have the right (or perhaps even the duty?) to pull the plug on a failing parent?

An Odyssey offers no simple answers, and, to the best of my knowledge, our traditional texts lack an unambiguous message about this topic, too.  But Mendelsohn’s book is a fascinating read and a useful way to focus on these crucial questions.