Chronicles: Perspectives in Prophetic History[1]

By Rabbi Hayyim Angel

Introduction

Jewish tradition has understood the idea of multiple aspects of truth from its very beginnings. Drawing on analogies from ancient Near Eastern texts, Joshua Berman demonstrates that Tanakh exhibits signs of juxtaposed contradictory texts and updated histories. Prophetic writers often updated history for the needs of the moment, but did not erase earlier versions. The prophetic writers, and their ancient readers, understood that the meaning of the update is found by contrasting the new version with the earlier versions.[2]

One of the great illustrations of this principle emerges from a sustained comparison and contrast of the biblical Book of Chronicles with the earlier parallel texts in the Books of Samuel and Kings. Long neglected in study, Chronicles provides the opportunity to gain insight into the prophetic writers’ religious purposes. In this essay, we will outline an approach to the purposes of Chronicles, and also into Samuel and Kings.

In his introduction to the Book of Samuel, Abarbanel presents himself as the first to inquire about the fundamental nature of Chronicles. Why do Samuel and Kings omit significant episodes that are later included in Chronicles? Why does Chronicles omit major episodes that are included in Samuel–Kings? Furthermore, why does Chronicles repeat entire passages already recorded in Samuel–Kings? One ultimately may ask why Chronicles was canonized in Tanakh. Presumably, those stories omitted by Samuel and Kings were omitted deliberately, and those included already were told. Therefore, Chronicles appears superfluous:

These are the doubts pertaining to this formidable question, but in searching for its solution, I remain alone and nobody joins me in this endeavor. I have not found any discussion—great nor small—in the words of our Sages of blessed memory; not the Sages of the Talmud, nor the later commentators.… God has added to my grief, in that there is no commentary on Chronicles in this land with the exception of the few glosses of Radak of blessed memory. And those comments are negligible in their brevity, and he did not address this issue at all. Additionally, the Jews do not study Chronicles in their academies. I confess my own sins today: I have not studied it nor explored its issues until now.[3]

Until fairly recently, Abarbanel’s lamentation from 500 years ago remained as accurate as when he wrote it—precious little attention was given to the Book of Chronicles. In the past generation, however, there has been a surge of scholarly interest in the nature and theology of Chronicles and in its relationship with earlier biblical books.

Almost half of Chronicles has parallels in earlier biblical books, while the rest of the material likely was drawn from other written sources and oral traditions extant at that time.[4] It is a retelling of history, which stands independently as a coherent narrative. There are times where Chronicles depends on our knowledge of Samuel–Kings, but there also are times where Chronicles repeats narratives almost verbatim.

It is erroneous to read Chronicles as a commentary on Samuel–Kings, even though it does often supplement history and clarify ambiguities from those earlier books. Treating Chronicles as secondary to Samuel–Kings leaves us with the glaring problems raised by Abarbanel. Similarly, shuffling all of the episodes recorded in the three books in order to create a composite history tends to eliminate the independent significance and purpose of each prophetic narrative.

What Questions Are We Asking?

When one is interested in ascertaining exact historical data based on the accounts in Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles, one first must reconcile the accounts and then combine the material into a composite picture. Far more important than attaining a historical portrait of the period, though, is addressing the question of how each biblical book uses history to teach its prophetic messages as an exhortation to its readers.

One example of a seemingly minor discrepancy in the texts that teaches an important theme is the account of an artisan that Solomon hires to build the Temple. In Kings, Solomon employs a Tyrian artisan named Hiram (not to be confused with the king of Tyre who had the same name) whose mother is from the tribe of Naphtali:

King Solomon sent for Hiram and brought him down from Tyre. He was the son of a widow of the tribe of Naphtali, and his father had been a Tyrian, a coppersmith. (I Kings 7:13–14)

When retelling this narrative, however, Chronicles reports that this artisan’s mother was from Dan, not Naphtali:

Now I am sending you a skillful and intelligent man, my master Huram, the son of a Danite woman, his father a Tyrian. (II Chron. 2:12–13)

In attempting to explain the discrepancy, several traditional commentators follow midrashic leads that suggest that Hiram’s maternal grandfather was from one tribe and his maternal grandmother from the other tribe. Unconvinced by that answer, Malbim posits that there actually were two artisans named Hiram. One began working on the Temple project but died in the middle of the construction, so another took over. These commentators attempt to explain what happened.

It is difficult to ascertain the historical reality behind these parallel texts given the factual discrepancy and insufficient information to support either reading. It is possible, however, to detect important thematic contrasts between Kings and Chronicles reflected in this disparity. Chronicles’ account of Solomon’s deriving from Judah and Hiram from Dan parallels the two leading artisans of the Tabernacle in the wilderness. Bezalel and Oholiab were from Judah and Dan, respectively (see Exod. 31:1–6). In contrast, the Kings narrative does not create that association since it relates that Hiram descended from the Tribe of Naphtali. Without addressing the historical question of Hiram’s tribe, one midrash highlights this connection between Chronicles’ account of the Temple and the Tabernacle:

When the Tabernacle was built, two tribes joined in the work. Rabbi Levi in the name of Rabbi Hama son of Rabbi Hanina says that they were from the tribes of Judah (Bezalel) and Dan (Oholiab). So it was with the building of the Temple, that these two tribes partnered, as it is written… Huram, the son of a Danite woman…and Solomon son of David was from the Tribe of Judah. (Pesikta Rabbati 6)

Chronicles is far more interested than Kings in demonstrating connections between the Tabernacle and the First Temple. Chronicles teaches that like the Tabernacle (Exod. 25:9, 40; 26:30; 27:8), there was a divinely revealed plan for the First Temple (I Chron. 28:11, 19). That suggestion is absent from Kings. Additionally, Chronicles reports fire from heaven at the dedication of the Temple (II Chron 7:1–2), a detail missing from Kings, where only the cloud of God is reported (I Kings 8:10–11). The Tabernacle dedication had both elements (Exod. 40:34–38; Lev. 9:24). Chronicles further mentions that Solomon went to Gibeon because the Tabernacle was there, whereas Kings does not report this detail. It may be argued that the author of Chronicles had a similar interest in presenting Solomon’s chief artisan as deriving from Dan to draw another parallel between the Tabernacle and the First Temple.

Below is a brief summary chart of the relevant verses:

            Asking only “what happened historically” often leads to forced answers. Even when the factual resolutions are convincing, these explanations do little to explain the prophetic purpose of Chronicles. By noticing instead which details each book chooses to highlight and asking what each book is attempting to teach, we are encouraged to seek broader themes and patterns in the two books that shed light on the prophetic messages of each.

David and Solomon

The David–Solomon narrative in Chronicles is longer than the narratives of all other kings combined. The genealogies at the beginning of Chronicles highlight David, spanning from Adam all the way to David by chapter 2.

Curiously, David is listed as the seventh of Jesse’s sons, whereas he was Jesse’s eighth son in the Book of Samuel:

Thus Jesse presented seven of his sons before Samuel, and Samuel said to Jesse, “The Lord has not chosen any of these.” Then Samuel asked Jesse, “Are these all the boys you have?” He replied, “There is still the youngest; he is tending the flock.” And Samuel said to Jesse, “Send someone to bring him, for we will not sit down to eat until he gets here.” (I Sam. 16:10–11)

Boaz of Obed, Obed of Jesse. Jesse begot Eliab his first-born, Abinadab the second, Shimea the third, Nethanel the fourth, Raddai the fifth, Ozem the sixth, David the seventh. (I Chron. 2:12–15)

In attempting to ascertain the historical truth behind this discrepancy, Radak suggests that Chronicles lists the seven sons who were born of the same mother. Jesse’s other son must have been from a different mother. Similar to our discussion about the tribal origins of Hiram’s mother, this response is not particularly satisfying, even as it is plausible.

            Once again, a midrash addresses the conceptual meaning of Chronicles’ deviation from Samuel:

All sevenths are favorites in the world…The seventh is a favorite among the generations. Thus: Adam, Seth, Enosh, Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared, Enoch, and of him it is written, And Enoch walked with God (Gen. 5:22). Among the children the seventh was the favorite, as it says, David the seventh (I Chron. 2:15). (Lev. Rabbah 29:11)

Without addressing the question of “what happened,” this midrash is sensitive to a major purpose of Chronicles: It highlights the greatness of King David. Since seven is a favorite biblical number, Chronicles listed David seventh in the genealogies even at the expense of Jesse’s having eight sons.

This recasting of David as the seventh son is symptomatic of the idea that Chronicles attempts to cleanse the negative perception of David. Most conspicuously, Chronicles omits reference to the Bathsheba affair and its aftermath, even though the Book of Samuel devotes ten chapters to that story. Similarly, Chronicles also omits Solomon’s idolatry, which caps the narrative in I Kings 11. Additionally, Chronicles describes the beginnings of David’s and Solomon’s reigns as stable from their outset. All tribes immediately accept David as king after Saul’s death (I Chron. 11:1–3), and Chronicles omits the stories of rebellions and instabilities associated with Solomon’s ascension to the throne recorded in I Kings 1–2.

Kings mentions Pharaoh’s daughter five times, highlighting her central role in Solomon’s rise and fall particularly in leading his heart astray to idolatry (I Kings 3:1; 7:8; 9:16, 24; 11:1). In contrast, she is mentioned only once in Chronicles. It is noteworthy that even this one parallel casts Solomon in a more positive light than he is portrayed in Kings. In Kings, Solomon moves Pharaoh’s daughter to her new palace. In Chronicles, he moves her there so that the Temple precincts would be kept more sacred.

This cleansing of the images of David and Solomon begins to sound like whitewashing. The commentary attributed to Rashi[5] already suggested this line of interpretation and many since have followed suit:

[When the author of Chronicles] comes to recount the David stories he does not recount his flaws but rather only his heroism and greatness. [This is] because this book is [David’s] and that of the kings of Judah. (commentary attributed to Rashi on I Chron. 10:1)

Yehudah Kiel rejects this line of interpretation, insisting that the author of Chronicles expects the reader to know the earlier Books of Samuel–Kings, so he does not need to repeat every story. Since Samuel and Kings still are included in Tanakh, people would know the stains on those kings’ records.[6]

If the commentary attributed to Rashi really means that Chronicles records no flaws of the Judean kings, this assertion is incorrect. Many sins of southern kings are recorded in Chronicles, including several that are unattested in Kings. But it certainly is true that the mistakes of David and Solomon are significantly diminished or absent, and Kiel admits this point elsewhere in his commentary.

However, Kiel’s assertion also is insufficient. A number of events recorded in Samuel–Kings are repeated in Chronicles, sometimes nearly verbatim. It is clear that each book includes information that it needs in order to teach its own messages. Chronicles is not merely a supplement to Samuel–Kings that fills in historical gaps.

A more fruitful approach emerges from trying to understand each book in its context. Traditionally, Jeremiah composed Kings in the era of the destruction of the First Temple. Ezra composed Chronicles at the beginning of the Second Temple period (Bava Batra 15a). One of the main purposes of Kings is to vindicate God for the destruction—it was Israel’s fault rather than God’s abandonment or injustice. Chronicles, on the other hand, wanted to inspire faith and hope in the Returnees to Zion, to be discussed below.

In Samuel–Kings, David plays only a minor role in the building of the Temple and Solomon is the Temple builder. In contrast, Chronicles contains eight chapters that describe David’s doing many actions to help lay the framework for the Temple. In Chronicles, David and Solomon are partners in building the Temple.

Chronicles repeatedly emphasizes the divine election of Solomon, a detail conspicuously absent from Kings (see I Chron. 28:5, 6, 10; 29:1). This is not how Solomon claimed the throne in Kings, where he needed to eliminate opposition before securing his throne. David goes through a similar process in the Book of Samuel, having to contend with opposition from Saul’s family before finally consolidating the kingdom. In contrast, Chronicles portrays David’s assumption of the throne as unanimous and uncontested from the start.

The Davidic throne is referred to as “God’s throne” in Chronicles (I Chron. 28:5; 29:23; II Chron. 9:8; cf. II Chron. 13:8). This appellation demonstrates an intimate link between God’s kingdom and the human throne. There is no tension with the institution of monarchy expressed in Chronicles as there had been in Samuel–Kings. In Samuel–Kings, in contrast, David is the permanent founder of the Davidic dynasty and viewed as the model king. Solomon fell short of David’s ideal standard after turning to idolatry. In Chronicles, the roles of David and Solomon are equated on all three counts. Solomon’s son Rehoboam even is equated to David and Solomon in righteousness before he turned to sin and folly:

They strengthened the kingdom of Judah, and supported Rehoboam son of Solomon for three years, for they followed the ways of David and Solomon for three years. (II Chron. 11:17)

Kings would not have set Solomon as a religious standard, since Solomon himself fell short of David’s standard.

Similarly, David and Solomon are founders of the dynasty and builders of the Temple in Chronicles, as Chronicles adds Solomon’s name to the verse where Kings had mentioned only David:

The combination of the two periods of David and Solomon, coupled with a near-elimination of their sins and political instabilities, forms one ideal period in Israel’s history.

Manasseh

The Book of Kings casts Manasseh as the worst Judean king in history. His unparalleled levels of idolatry and murder led to the decree of the destruction of the Temple and exile (II Kings 21). In contrast, Chronicles reports Manasseh’s sins but then states that he repented (II Chron. 33:11–16). In contrast with Kings, Chronicles blames the destruction squarely on Zedekiah’s generation (II Chron. 36:11–19).

Overall Purposes of the Books

Using the aforementioned contrasts, we now are in a position to discuss some of the primary purposes of Samuel–Kings and Chronicles.

Samuel–Kings

The three great disasters—the splitting of the kingdom, the exile of the Northern Kingdom, and the destruction of the Temple—all came as a result of idolatry. All three punishments were intergenerational decrees. Several Northern dynasties likewise followed this pattern of idolatry, leading to intergenerational punishment.

At the time of the destruction of the Temple, many complained that God unfairly punished them for the sins of their ancestors: “Our fathers sinned and are no more; and we must bear their guilt” (Lam. 5:7; cf. Jer. 31:29; Ezek. 18:2). Kings addresses their concern by agreeing that they were in fact suffering primarily for the sins of their ancestors. However, this was fair and part of a broader pattern in God’s judgment. The generation of the destruction did not have to be the worst generation in order to experience the nation’s worst disaster. Kings teaches that God was fair, and therefore did not permanently abandon Israel.

Samuel and Kings form the completion of the first nine biblical books comprising the Torah and “Early Prophets.” The pattern of David and Solomon’s reigns follows a pattern set out in the Torah. The world began with instability (tohu va-bohu); people were placed in the Garden of Eden conditional on their faithfulness to God’s command; sin undermined the fabric of creation by leading to exile from Eden and ultimately the Flood. Similarly, the reigns of David and Solomon also started with instability. Through faithfulness to God, David was accepted by all and Solomon built a stable empire and a Temple that symbolizes the Garden of Eden;[7] then sin undermined the stability leading to destruction and exile. Anticipating these disasters, Jeremiah poignantly laments the reversal of creation to its primeval state of desolation:

I look at the earth, it is unformed and void (tohu va-bohu); at the skies, and their light is gone. (Jer. 4:23)

Chronicles

Adam, Seth, Enosh; Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared; Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech; Noah, Shem, Ham, and Japheth. (I Chron. 1:1–4)

By opening from the beginnings of humanity, Chronicles casts itself as a “new version” of the first nine biblical books, culminating with the building of the Second Temple. The Returnees to Zion were led by Zerubbabel, a Davidic descendant; and Jeshua, the High Priest from the Zadokite line.

            The nine chapters of genealogies connect the Returnees to the beginnings of humanity, and also to the idealized Golden Age of David and Solomon. David, Zadok, and the Levitical choir families have their pedigrees traced back to Adam. I Chronicles 9 parallels the roster of returnees to Israel in Nehemiah 11, stressing that all of human history from Adam until the Second Temple period is linked.

Sara Japhet extends this idea to the overall purpose of Chronicles:

By reformulating Israel’s history in its formative period, the Chronicler gives new significance to the two components of Israelite life: The past is explained so that its institutions and religious principles become relevant to the present, and the ways of the present are legitimized anew by being connected to the prime source of authority—the formative period in the people’s past. Thus, Chronicles … strengthens the bond between past and present and proclaims the continuity of Israel’s faith and history.[8]

There is a consistent effort in Chronicles to demonstrate continuity throughout the generations. This premise also explains Chronicles’ efforts to connect the building of the First Temple with the Tabernacle discussed earlier.

In a similar vein, Chronicles demonstrates the ongoing stability of Israel and the Davidic dynasty. Its narrative therefore characterizes the reigns of David and Solomon as stable from their outset and it omits reference to rebellions, divisions, or the major sins of these individuals.

In order to further portray a nation that is secure and enduring despite the monumental rupture at the time of the destruction of the Temple, Chronicles downplays the idea of intergenerational punishment (and merit). It teaches instead that the people are unburdened by their bleak past. Manasseh is not explicitly blamed for the destruction in Chronicles (though Huldah alludes to the decree in II Chron. 34:23–28). Chronicles focuses on individual responsibility, so it can include Manasseh’s repentance. Kings, which depends on Manasseh’s unprecedented sinfulness and intergenerational punishment to justify the destruction, could not include any sign of his repentance.[9] By highlighting Manasseh’s repentance and God’s acceptance of his prayer, Chronicles teaches that anyone can repent, and God never shuts the door to penitents (cf. Sanhedrin 103a).

On a broader level, Manasseh’s sin, exile to Babylonia, repentance, and return to Israel symbolizes the trajectory of the nation of Israel. This parallel is strengthened by the fact that the Assyrians exiled Manasseh to Babylonia (II Chron. 33:11) instead of to their capital, Nineveh. Thus, Manasseh serves as a microcosm for the returnees. The Jewish people had endured the destruction of the Temple and exile to Babylonia for their sins, but God accepted their prayers and repentance and returned them to Israel.

When Chronicles was written, it must have stunned the Jews who already knew the bleak Kings narrative and who may have still felt rejected by God. Instead of being a secondary book to Samuel and Kings, Chronicles functions as a prophecy and conveys religious messages to people of its time. Through insertions, omissions, and other changes to the Samuel–Kings narratives, Chronicles teaches God’s relationship with Israel and the House of David is stable and eternal, and that there is full continuity with the past.

The most important point of any biblical historical narrative is the prophetic message that underlies it. Because we have alternate versions of prophetic history in Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles, we have the ability to see how each prophet could have written the story. This gift enables us to hone in on the overall purposes of each book, gaining multiple perspectives on prophetic truth.

Notes

A distinctive feature of modern life is that it brings various groups of people into contact with each other. Each day we encounter religions, cultures, and ideologies different from our own.

The exposure to so much diversity is not without its consequences, and it can radically challenge our most basic assumptions. We may conclude that there are no absolute truths, or instead be provoked to make an even deeper commitment to our beliefs as the exclusive source of truth. In the words of noted sociologist of religion Peter Berger,

Contemporary culture (and by no means only in America) appears to be in the grip of two contradictory forces. One pushes the culture toward relativism, the view that there are no absolutes whatever, that moral or philosophical truth is inaccessible if not illusory. The other pushes toward a militant and uncompromising affirmation of this or that alleged truth.

Both tendencies can have a corrosive effect on society. Berger explains that relativism “precludes the moral condemnation of virtually anything” and fundamentalism “produces irresolvable conflict with those who do not share its beliefs.”[1]

Judaism is far from immune to these tensions, and Modern Orthodoxy often feels the pull between them in dramatic ways. Little-known Israeli thinker, Rav Shimon Gershon Rosenberg, known as Rav Shagar, offers a serious attempt to navigate a middle path between the relativism and fundamentalism so common to contemporary society. He argues for a passionate faith that is rooted in the idea of covenant along with a deep commitment to halakha. Only then will the religious believer not be threatened by different ideologies or alternative ways of life. His writings are made unique by his direct engagement with postmodern thought and creative use of kabbalah and Hassidic texts.[2]

Passion and Covenant

The idea of tolerance is promoted as the antidote to fundamentalism. However, we would deceive ourselves in thinking that tolerance is an easily attained virtue. Unfortunately, it is often purchased at the price of passionate commitment to one’s beliefs, and therefore it is a tolerance built upon relativism. To better understand this point, it is helpful to turn to the postmodern philosopher Slavoj Zizek, a frequent reference for Rav Shagar.

Zizek explains that religious beliefs and practices are encouraged in modern multicultural societies, but only when the believer is willing to view their truths as purely subjective. He writes,

Religion is permitted—not as a substantial way of life, but as a particular “culture” or, rather, life-style phenomenon: What legitimizes it is not its immanent truth-claim but the way it allows us to express our innermost feelings and attitudes. We no longer “really believe;” we just follow (some of the) religious rituals and mores as part of the respect for the “life-style” of the community to which we belong.[3]

Rav Shagar would agree with Zizek and argues that most of what passes for tolerance in today’s world is nothing more than a relativistic permissiveness. He explains that such an attitude “is the result of weak identity. Because I am not truly connected to anything or anyone, ‘Anything goes’; there is nothing that will outrage and arouse within me opposition and passion.”[4]

A consequence of this, Zizek argues, is that modern society views any expression of passion as dangerous and therefore must be eliminated in order to prevent violence. He explains that this tendency has spread throughout our culture and sarcastically notes that even consumer products must be “deprived of their malignant property.” One can buy “coffee without caffeine, cream without fat, beer without alcohol.”[5] The result is “a decaffeinated belief: a belief which does not hurt anyone and does not fully commit even ourselves.” Rav Shagar’s own understanding mirrors that of Zizek. In an essay titled “Passion and Tolerance,” he writes that “Passion is today considered to be a negative trait, an expression of narrow mindedness, and related to violence and negating the other…. However in my opinion, passion is an essential and necessary component of human life.”[6] He cites a fascinating piece from the Zohar to demonstrate that religiously inspired passion can never be dismissed so easily:

“Passion is as mighty as Sheol” (Song of Songs 8:6). If one loves but without passion, the love is not real love. Only if one has been passionate can the love be complete. From here we learn that a man must be passionate for his wife in order that he can connect to her with complete love, and because of this he will not place his eyes on another woman.[7]

According to the Zohar, love is only granted legitimacy if it is accompanied by passion. A detached or intellectualized love without deep emotion is judged as feeble, unable to endure for any great length of time. Implied within the Zohar is the understanding that human beings make choices primarily for emotional reasons and not intellectual ones. Only a passionate love full of desire and perhaps even jealousy can ensure long-term commitment.

The key to authentic religious passion, Rav Shagar explains, is the concept of covenant. A covenant binds two parties together in an exclusive relationship in which each side makes commitments to the other. While covenants can be purely political and based on self-interest, in their highest form they are an expression of passionate and mutual love. The best example of this can be seen in the covenant made between David and Jonathan. The Bible describes that “Jonathan’s soul became bound up with the soul of David…. Jonathan and David made a covenant because [Jonathan] loved him as himself.”[8] In this case, it is Jonathan’s love for David that enables the covenantal relationship between them.

The idea of covenant can be further understood through a citation from the Alter Rebbe of Lubavitch, whom Rav Shagar quotes in a slightly different context.

Two individuals who are in love make a covenant between them so their love will not cease. If it was the case that their love was unconditional, it would not be necessary for a covenant to be made between them. Rather, it is because they are afraid that their love will cease… through the making of a covenant their love will be eternal and will never fail. Nothing from the outside or the inside will cause a separation between them, and it will be because they created a mighty and strong connection. They have become unified through their love in a supernal connection that transcends reason…. Why is this? Because they have made a covenant; it is as if they are one flesh, and just as one cannot stop loving themselves, so too they cannot stop loving their covenantal partner….[9]

Covenants create exclusivity and therefore they must be protected. The Hebrew root for passion, kuf nun alef, also has the alternative meaning of jealousy. Once we have committed ourselves to a covenant, we must be willing to act passionately in order to safeguard the sanctity of the relationship. When individuals in the Bible are inspired to religious passion it is always associated with the idea of preserving the Jewish people’s covenantal relationship with God.[10] In the end, it is our commitment to covenant that defines our identity in relation to others and our very sense of self.

Fundamentalism versus Covenantal Faith

For Rav Shagar, religious passion only becomes problematic when it is not grounded in covenant and instead draws its strength from fundamentalism. Peter Berger’s writings on the topic can help illuminate Rav Shagar’s own position. In a world full of difference where religious certainty can no longer be assumed, Berger explains that fundamentalism is “the attempt to restore or create anew a taken-for-granted body of beliefs and values.” However, fundamentalism is an inherently fragile project and therefore, “Fundamentalists of whatever stripe must suppress doubt.”[11] Rav Shagar employs a similar understanding and explains that “The fundamentalist zealot is the one who is afraid that his faith will be taken away from him. His passion is not derived from the excess of faith rather specifically from the doubts that percolate within his heart, and the deeper his doubts, the greater his fanaticism.” Fundamentalism creates a further problem by damaging the religious believer’s sense of self. In the words of Rav Shagar, “it is violence directed toward the zealot himself, since it is fed by his need to forget his doubts…. Its roots are in the damaged covenant that is lacking the ability for deep connection and responsibility.”[12] Therefore, fundamentalist passion can easily turn into violence.

In contrast to fundamentalism, authentic faith is derived from what Rav Shagar calls “preserving the covenant” (shomer haBerit). Covenantal faith “is derived from the fact that existence is not conditioned on a specific proof or individual of one kind or another, because its roots are a lot deeper than the consciousness of the one who bears it.”[13] It has no need for absolute certainty grounded in proof, for as the Alter Rebbe explained, covenantal love requires no justification.

For Rav Shagar, covenantal faith it brought about through self-acceptance (kabbalah atzmit), a recurring idea is his writings rooted in both Kabbalah and Existentialist thought.[14] Self-acceptance is the positive affirmation that faith does not need proofs. It means accepting oneself and the world as it is. He explains that “When I accept myself, I cease to rely on some external framework that is necessary for my existence; I am I, myself. Anywhere I go, I will be, and the divine will be with me—‘the entire world is filled with His glory.’”[15] Self-acceptance comes to define the individual’s identity and their relationship with God. By its very nature, it prevents the slide into relativism, for it requires passionate commitment. Even still, covenantal faith is not an easy path, for it can become self-centered. The love at the heart of covenant must always be other directed. Rav Shagar cautions that “Self-acceptance is faith only when it is not infected with hubris, when it arises out of hitbatlut: unity with God.”[16]

The covenantal faith described by Rav Shagar has important consequences for the way in which the religious believer relates to those who are different. Instead of feeling the need to create barriers between the self and other, Rav Shagar explains that

A consciousness moored in the intimacy of a certain existence needs no walls, definitions, or separations…. This mooring manifests an unpretentious existence, one that does not endeavor to prove itself or surpass itself, but rather is what it is, justified in itself without carrying any banner.[17]

Covenantal faith makes true tolerance possible and enables one to make the important distinction between permissiveness, a form of relativism, and openness. Permissiveness is based on “weak identity” and the notion that “anything goes.” Openness

is the result of deep roots. It is rootedness that opens me up to the other. More than once I have been surprised to discover that one who preserves the covenant, the type who is rooted in his land, and in his faith or his culture; it is he who is able to demonstrate open-heartedness toward the other, and he is attentive to the other more than one who is lacking roots; more than one who has damaged the covenant. The reason for this is simple: He is not intimidated. His identity is seen as self-evident from his perspective. His identity is not threatened and it does not need justification. His openness to the other is a result of his confidence in himself and his faith. The paradox is that fundamentalism is an expression of lacking faith and damaging the covenant.[18]

Rav Shagar’s words about fundamentalism also echo those of Berger who writes that

In a truly traditional community, those who do not share the prevailing worldview are not necessarily a threat—they are an interesting oddity, perhaps even amusing. In the fundamentalist worldview the unbeliever is a threat; he or she must be converted (the most satisfying option), shunned or eliminated, be it by expulsion or physical liquidation.[19]

For Rav Shagar, it is the passionate religious believer with a strong identity who stands the best chance of building genuine relationships with those who are different, and therefore, they have an important role to play in helping bridge the gaps of multicultural societies.[20]

The Role of Halakhic Commitment

The somewhat abstract notion of “self-acceptance” is not the only way in which Jewish religious life enables one to be open to difference. Rav Shagar also perceives that a deep commitment to halakha can bring about the same result. He quotes Rebbe Nahman of Breslov’s description of halakha as the orderly flow of blood pouring through our veins. Just as blood is the essence of life for a human being, so, too, does halakha provide a living framework for our very existence. Halakha, as a comprehensive way of life, defines proper behavior in every situation and at every moment. In doing so, Rav Shagar argues it “constructs a world through which one can come to know God—faith becomes a concrete fact of one’s life. … It is halakha that provides the world with a framework of life, stability, and meaning and, one might add, an acknowledgement of truth: of the existence of God and the religious way of life.”[21] In this sense, a commitment to halakha parallels the idea of covenantal faith as self-acceptance. The power of halakha lies in the way it concretizes the experience of God throughout all aspects of one’s life without constant need for justification.

Furthermore, the order and meaning created by halakhic observance becomes critical in a world full of difference. The fundamentalist is always concerned that he or she might become corrupted by contact with those who are different. However, an authentic commitment to halakha creates a clear separation between right and wrong, good and evil. Where appropriate, it enables the religious believer to maintain clear distinctions and protective boundaries that are so important for preserving a healthy self-identity. Rav Shagar likens this to Rebbe Nachman’s idea that when the tzadik must confront evil, he or she is protected by the commitment to halakha. One must keep in mind that in these circumstances the tzadik’s intention is not to eliminate evil but rather to descend to its level in order to uplift it. This is an inherently risky enterprise lest the tzadik become corrupted by engagement with evil. The only way to preserve self-identity is through a deep knowledge and commitment to halakha. In the words of Rebbe Nachman,

One must use Torah and tefillah in order to separate and nullify the bad from the good. The study of Torah means dwelling in the depths of halakha and learning the rulings of the halachic authorities. Torah grasps good and evil according to the aspects of forbidden and permitted, impure and pure, kosher and pasul. As long as one has not clarified the halakha, one is mixed up with both good and evil.[22]

For Rav Shagar, the rootedness brought about by a life lived in accordance with halakha allows one to maintain a strong identity without feeling threatened by difference. He explains that he has often experienced this in his own life, and writes,

The world of halakha grants me a clear perspective that has a powerful influence—it brings about a sense of inner peace and along with it the ability to confront the other who is different from me without feeling threatened. This is because there exists a specific way of life to which I am connected with any doubt or hesitation.”[23]

Treating Difference with the Dignity It Deserves

Rav Shagar makes another point that is worth noting. He cites Rav Kook, who explains that, “When there is fighting between various forces, individuals, nations, and worlds, it is the result of the differences and contradictions at that exist at the heart of life.”[24] These differences, however, cannot and must not be erased, for they are part of the divine plan. The temptation to do so, Rav Shagar writes, comes from “the one who violates the covenant [i.e. lives with a fundamentalist faith] who is also the first to violate the other in the name of universal values.” Rather, “Only one who is loyal to one’s particular covenant is able at some point to truly honor the unique covenant of another.” [25] Rav Shagar’s complex writings show that the path between relativism and fundamentalism is not an easy one. It requires a passionate religious faith that is not afraid of the real and profound differences that exist in this world.  It may live on a razor’s edge, but it is the only place where true tolerance is possible.

                                                       Keys to the Palace

                              Exploring the religious Value of reading Tanakh[1]

Rabbi Hayyim Angel is one of my favorite authors who write on the Bible. He is very popular with other readers and scholars as well. This book contains twenty essays and virtually all were accepted by and published previously by well-respected magazines. I always look forward to reading each of his new books and articles. I like the way that he focuses upon what the Bible is actually saying, what is called in Hebrew, the peshat.

What is peshat?

Many commentators and scholars who interpret the Bible seek to discover a message in the biblical verse, which they frequently find in ingenious ways through such things as missing letters in words, redundancies, interpretations of events that are only imaginative, called derash and midrash, but not explicit in the passage itself. This is good. It has an important teaching, even moral purpose, but it does not tell us what the Torah itself is saying. This is the method used by most pulpit rabbis in their sermons, with the result that the congregants do not learn what the Torah really says.

The ancient rabbis, in my opinion, recognized this problem and addressed it with a strong recommendation. Although they were the authors of midrash, wrote books containing it, and used it to teach Jews proper behavior, they wanted Jews to know what the Bible actually states, not just the lessons they ingeniously derived from passages and words. They created the law that Jews should read the weekly Torah portion twice in its original Hebrew and once in the Aramaic translation of Targum Onkelos. They did not require fellow Jews to read their Midrash. They did so not only because Onkelos was written in Aramaic, the language the people spoke at the time, but because Onkelos contained the peshat, the plain non-midrashic meaning of the Five Books of Moses.[2]

Rabbi Angel’s contribution

Rabbi Angel concentrates on the words of the Torah and the context in which the words appear. He uses midrash when the midrash examines what the Torah explicitly states, when it helps clarify the passage. He recognizes that the Bible means what it says, not what people imagine or want to teach. He should be commended and thanked for his approach to Torah.

Rabbi Angel devotes seven of the twenty essays in this book to discussing the more mature and sophisticated manner in which the Torah is studied today. The seven are followed by thirteen that focus on specific interesting texts. In the seven, he tells readers about the growing circle of religious scholars, with Israel’s Yeshivat Har Etzion at the vanguard of the enterprise. Their method is to understand that oral law and traditional commentary are central to the way we understand the revealed word of God and that it is vital to study biblical passages in their literary and historical context.

In the past, religious schools did not teach Tanakh because there are inconsistencies in the books, biblical figures performing acts contrary to the dictates of the Torah, and other problems. Modern religious Bible scholars address these problems. For example, many critical scholars propose that different sections of the Five Books of Moses were composed by close to a half dozen different authors and editors, each with a different agenda and each using his own writing style. Rabbi Angel tells readers in the first seven chapters how these problems are addressed by religious scholars today. The problems are not dismissed or somehow covered over. Angel surveys the approaches offered by religious scholars, which thoughtfully engage in the interaction between tradition and contemporary scholarship.

Many issues are addressed in the seven chapters, such as the authorship of the Torah and other biblical books, the reliability of the Masoretic Text, archaeology and the historicity of the Torah narratives, comparisons between the Torah and ancient Near Eastern texts, the preponderance of contradictions in both narrative and legal sections of the Torah, the different wordings in the Masoretic Text and the quotes by the sages in the Talmud and Midrashim. Was the world created in six days some 6,000 years ago, is Maimonides correct that all angelic encounters mentioned in the Torah were visions and not actual reality, how are we to understand the wrongs committed by biblical heroes?... And much more.

Among Rabbi Angel’s discussions in the remaining thirteen chapters, is a thorough analysis of the binding of Isaac story in Genesis 22. His analysis includes the views of Maimonides, Immanuel Kant, Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Moshe Halbertal, Soren Kierkegaard, David Shatz, and others. Among the questions he addresses is why did Abraham try to save the inhabitants of Sodom, but remained silent and acquiescent when he understood that God told him to kill his son? 

Similarly, he addresses how we should understand Jacob’s deception of his father Isaac in Genesis 27 when he misled his father to give him the blessing Isaac wanted to give to Esau. Again, the views of many scholars are examined.

Among the other incisive analyses in the thirteen chapters, he compares the story of the Garden of Eden and the various Jacob narratives, the contradiction between the prophet Nathan’s prophecy of the eternal reign of the Davidic dynasty in one verse and the conditional formulation in another, and the current view that there is life after death and why there is no explicit reference to it in the Tanakh.

In short, Rabbi Hayyim Angel has made a significant contribution to Jewish thought in this volume and has done it interestingly and well.

           Diversity of opinion is a reality well recognized in Jewish tradition. The Talmud (Berakhot 58a) records the ruling that one is required to make a blessing upon seeing a huge crowd of Jews, praising God who is hakham haRazim, who understands the root and inner thoughts of each individual.  "Their thoughts are not alike, and their appearance is not alike." Just as no two faces are exactly the same, so no two people think exactly the same. God created each individual to be unique; He expected and wanted diversity of thought.[1]

The recognition that each person thinks differently leads to a respect for the right of a person to express his or her opinion. This notion is dramatically underscored in the laws relating to a zaken mamre, a rebellious elder. The elder (rabbinic scholar) is not deemed guilty for teaching opinions contrary to the rulings of the Great Court; he is only punishable if he instructs people to defy those rulings.[2] It is also reflected in the talmudic practice of recording minority opinions, even though the law follows the consensus of the majority.[3] Even rejected opinions are entitled to respect.

Yet, although Judaism respects diversity of opinion and allows considerable freedom of expression, it also sets some boundaries beyond which a person may not trespass. One may not believe in the divinity of idols. One must believe that the Torah is from Heaven. Indeed, Maimonides listed 13 principles of faith that a Jew must accept. If not, one forfeits a portion in the world to come.[4] We are not free to follow our intellect if it leads us to incorrect beliefs. Our intellectual freedom, thus, is limited by the authoritative beliefs taught by the Torah and our sages.

Within the boundaries of normative Judaism, dissent is respected and even encouraged. But beyond those boundaries, dissent is not tolerated. Intellectual freedom gives way to the authority of tradition. A problem arises: What exactly are the boundaries established by tradition? A variety of attempts have been made over the centuries to establish the principles of Judaism from which one may not dissent.[5] There are certain tenets of faith that may not be denied.

Yet, within the framework of Jewish law and thought, there is considerable room for responsible differences of opinion. When the right to express responsible opinions is negated, Judaism suffers. In a fascinating responsum, Rabbi Naftali Tsevi Yehudah Berlin—the Netsiv—reminded his readers that during the time of the Second Temple, the Jewish people was divided between the Perushim and Tsedukim. Competition between the groups was intense. The situation became so bad that Perushim branded as a Tseduki anyone who deviated even slightly from prevailing practice. To dissent from the predominant opinion led to one's being ostracized. The Netsiv applied the lesson to his own time:

It is not difficult to imagine reaching this situation in our time, Heaven forbid, that if one of the faithful thinks that a certain person does not follow his way in the service of God, then he will judge him as a heretic. He will distance himself from him. People will pursue one another with seeming justification (beHeter dimyon), Heaven forbid, and the people of God will be destroyed, Heaven forfend.[6]

The Netsiv was concerned that self-righteous individuals were attempting to suppress the opinions of others. In the name of Torah, they sought to discredit others—even branding them as heretics. Yet, Jewish tradition respects the right and responsibility of individuals to express opinions that are fully based on proper Torah authority—even when those opinions differ from those popularly held. Rabbi Yehiel Michel Epstein, author of the Arukh haShulhan, noted that differences of opinion among our sages constitute the glory of the Torah. "The entire Torah is called a song (shirah), and the glory of a song is when the voices differ one from the other. This is the essence of its pleasantness."[7]

II

The boundaries of dissent and authority are not always obvious. Let us consider several specific issues, one in the realm of halakha and one in the realm of aggada. The Shulhan Arukh rules (Yoreh Deah 242:2, 3) that one who dissents (holek) from his rabbi is as one who dissents from the Shekhinah. The holek al rabbo is defined as one who establishes his own yeshiva and sets himself up as teacher without getting his rabbi's permission. The Rama adds: "but it is permissible for him to dissent from (his rabbi's) ruling or teaching if he has proofs and arguments to uphold his opinion that the law is according to him (rather than his rabbi)."

This halakha deals with the balance between authority and dissent. On the one hand, a student must respect the authority of his teacher and not try to establish himself as an authority on his own. This would undermine the status of his teacher. On the other hand, if the student has strong proofs to support a halakhic ruling against his teacher, he may disagree with him. Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai, in his Birkei Yosef, cited the opinion of the Radhaz that a student may disagree with a ruling of his teacher but should not publicize the disagreement nor write a contrary pesak for distribution.[8] The students of each generation had disagreements with their teachers, and did present their proofs and refutations to them. To be sure, students are obligated to present their cases respectfully and reverentially. Their purpose must be to establish the truth, not to aggrandize themselves nor demean their rabbis, Moreover, we are speaking of students who have reached a very high level of Torah learning, and whose opinions deserve serious consideration.

Rabbi Hayyim David Halevy has stated:

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 following it, and yet he follows that decision (in deference to their authority), then it is almost certain that he has rendered a false judgment (din sheker).[9]

Rabbi Yaacov Emden ruled that students should question their rabbis' teachings as best as they can. In this way, truth is clarified.

In regard to legal decisions, not only is the student allowed to reveal his opinion and proofs to refute the words of his rabbi, but he is also obligated to do so. He should not remain silent in such a situation in deference to the honor due his rabbi; the honor due to the Torah is greater.[10]

The issue of dissent from one's rabbis extends back in time to dissension from the rulings of sages of previous generations. Certainly, the earlier sages are granted greater authority than the later sages. Rabbi Yehiel Yaacov Weinberg wrote that proper Torah methodology involves serious analysis of the writings of the aharonim, including evaluation and criticism of their statements. Yet, in matters of pesak we may not dissent from their rulings. In the areas of opinion and explanation, though, we do have the right to offer new insights "because each Jew whose soul was at the revelation at Sinai received his portion in Torah and in novellae of Torah. One should not quibble against this point."[11]

Rabbi Hayyim Palachi 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. . . ." Moreover, "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. [In this situation,] one does not give honor to the rabbi, for this is Torah and I must study it." Rabbi Palachi noted that even though Maimonides certainly wrote with Divine inspiration, nevertheless many great sages of his generation attacked him and criticized his work. There are numerous examples of students refuting their teachers: Rabbi Yehudah Hanasi disagreed with his father; the Rashba disagreed with the Ramban. The Tosafists disagreed often with Rashi. Respect for authority does not mean that one may not hold opposing opinions.[12]

Rabbi Moshch Feinstein, in one of his responsa, expressed disagreement with an opinion of Rabbi Shelomo Kluger. In rejecting that opinion, Rabbi Feinstein wrote: "But it is certain that I am right (ha-tsedek iti) and that the words of Rabbi Shelomo Kluger-with all due respect-are nothing (einam kelum). One must love truth more than anything."[13] In another responsum, Rabbi Feinstein replied to a rabbi in Benei Berak, who worried because he sometimes taught opinions contrary to those of the Hazon Ish, who was the rabbi of that vicinity. Rabbi Feinstein pointed out that it was not at all disrespectful for the rabbi to study and quote the words of the Hazon Ish, even if he disagreed with some of them. On the contrary, that is the honor of Torah—to have words taken seriously and evaluated seriously. It could not have occurred to the Hazon Ish that there would never arise rabbis who would disagree with his teachings. Rabbi Feinstein concluded by saying that one is certainly allowed to question and disagree with the sages of our generation, even the greatest sages, as long as one does so respectfully, and with proper halakhic justification.[14]

Rabbi Yosef Hayyim of Bagdad, in the introduction to his Rav Pe-alim, stressed the need to be exceedingly respectful of the sages of previous generations. He opposed attacking the opinions of those sages. But it is obvious that even great sages make errors. Yet, when one offers a critique or correction of the words of sages, he should not do so with any sense of personal pride or vanity. He should be humble, aware that even great sages may overlook a source or miss a particular point.[15]

From this discussion, we see that responsible and respectful disagreement is a legitimate and necessary aspect of the halakhic system. Views that can be properly substantiated, even if they conflict with views of greater and earlier authorities, deserve to be heard. One cannot properly be called an apikores simply because he holds a position which differs from others. On the contrary, his position should be carefully evaluated. If it is wrong, it should be criticized and rejected. If it is right, it should be accepted in spite of the greatness of authorities who held a different opinion.

The boundary of legitimacy is not what one individual or group defines it to be. Rather, one may offer his insights and opinions as long as they do not go beyond universally accepted principles of Jewish faith, and as long as they are properly and correctly substantiated by authoritative sources. The halakhic system depends on intellectual inquiry, receptivity to the positions of others, devotion to truth, humility, respect for authority. It is not appropriate to outlaw responsible and respectful criticism of authorities nor to discredit those who offer properly substantiated opinions, even when those opinions dissent from leading authorities.

III

The balance between authority and dissent may also be considered in the realm of aggada. One opinion is that all the words of our talmudic (and even later) sages are true and must be upheld. Another position is that the words of our sages must be treated with respect, but that we are not bound to believe that all their aggadic teachings are without error.

Does the authority of our sages preclude the possibility of legitimate disagreement with their aggadic teachings? Is someone who questions or rejects some of those teachings an apikores?

In the sixth chapter of Pirkei Avot, we are taught that the Torah is acquired in 48 ways. One of them is emunat hakhamim, trust in the sages. Rabbi Yosef Yaavets, one of the rabbis at the time of the expulsion of Jews from Spain, explained that one must not hasten to criticize the words of our sages. If he does not understand or agree with their words, he should attribute the problem to his own intellectual weakness. "He should suspect his own intelligence, not the intelligence of our sages and their words, which were spoken in truth."[16]

Following this attitude in the realm of aggada, Rabbi David Ibn Abi Zimra, a younger contemporary of Rabbi Yaavets, taught that the aggada is true and essential, "given from Heaven like the rest of the Oral Torah. And just as the Oral Torah is interpreted with 13 principles, so the aggada is interpreted with 36 principles. And these principles were transmitted to Moses our teacher at Sinai."[17]

Rabbi Moshe Hagiz wrote an important essay on emunat hakhamim, in which he argued forcefully against challenging rabbinic authority by questioning the validity of any of the words of our sages. He believed that an attack on rabbinic dicta would ultimately lead to a rejection of rabbinic authority generally. This would undermine religious observance and belief.[18]

Rabbi Hayyim Hizkiyahu Medini, in his Sedei Hemed, stated unequivocally: "We must believe in all that is stated in the aggadot of our sages."[19] Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Chajes followed this assumption when explaining that

there are several subjects in the Gemara whose meaning cannot be taken in a literal sense, because the text expounded literally would depict God as a corporeal being, and would also at times involve an act of blasphemy. We should, and we are, indeed, in duty-bound to believe that the transmitters of the true Kabbalah, who are known to us as righteous and saintly men and also as accomplished scholars, would not speak merely in an odd manner. We must therefore believe that their words were uttered with an allegorical or mystical sense and that they point to matters of the most elevated significance, far beyond our mental grasp.[20]

The demand that one must believe all the words of our sages in the aggada came into question in the famous disputation in Barcelona in 1263. Rabbi Moshe ben Nahman, the Ramban, was challenged by his Christian opponent with an aggada that stated that the Messiah was born on the day that the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed. The Ramban responded: "I do not believe in this aggada at all. . . ." He went on to explain that Jewish religious writings are divided into three traditional categories: Bible, Talmud, and Midrash. "The first we believe entirely. . . ; the second we believe when it explains laws. We have yet a third book which is called Midrash, sermons so to speak . . . ; and this book, if one wishes to believe it he may, and one who does not believe it does not have to. . . . We call it a book of aggada, which is to say discourses, that is to say that it merely consists of stories which people tell one another."[21]

This explanation of the Ramban was rejected by those who insisted on maintaining the truth of all the words of our sages. Some argued that the Ramban never meant what he said, that he only said it to deflect the challenge of his opponent. Thc Sedei Hemed wrote that it is forbidden even to think that the Ramban meant what he said. Writing over two centuries after the disputation, Rabbi Yitzhak Abravanel strongly disavowed the statement of the Ramban because "it opens the gates to undermine all rabbinic authority when we consider any of their words as errors or foolishness."[22]

The above position assumes that respect for our sages demands that we not dissent from nor find fault in their words. Should we do so, we undermine their authority. If we find some of their aggadic teachings problematic, we should not reject them, but should assume that we have not understood their true meaning.

But there is another position, also well rooted in authoritative rabbinic sources. Rabbi Hai Gaon taught that the aggada should not be considered as divinely revealed tradition. The authors of aggada were merely stating their own opinions, and "each one interpreted whatever came to his heart." Therefore, "we do not rely on them (the words of aggada)." Rabbi Hai Gaon maintained that aggadot recorded in the Talmud have more status than those not so recorded—but even these aggadot need not be relied upon.[23] Rabbi Sherira Gaon taught that aggada, Midrash, and homiletical interpretations of biblical verses were in the category of umdena, personal opinion, speculation.[24] Another of the Gaonim, Rabbi Shemuel ben Hofni, stated: "If the words of the ancients contradict reason, we are not obligated to accept them."[25]

This position was also expounded by Rabbi Shemuel HaNaggid in his introduction to the Talmud. He wrote that aggada represents the personal opinions and interpretations of our sages. Rabbi Abraham, son of Maimonides, in an important essay concerning aggada, maintained that one may not accept an opinion without first examining it carefully.[26] To accept the truth of a statement simply on the authority of the person who stated it is both against reason and against the method of Torah itself. The Torah forbids us to accept someone's statement based on his status, whether rich or poor, whether prominent or otherwise. Each case must be evaluated by our own reason. Rabbi Abraham stated that this method also applies to the statements of our sages. It is intellectually unsound to accept blindly the teachings of our rabbis in matters of medicine, natural science, astronomy. He noted: "We, and every intelligent and wise person, are obligated to evaluate each idea and each statement, to find the way in which to understand it; to prove the truth and establish that which is worthy of being established, and to annul that which is worthy of being annulled; and to refrain from deciding a law which was not established by one of the two opposing opinions, no matter who the author of the opinion was. We see that our sages themselves said: if it is a halakha (universally accepted legal tradition) we will accept it; but if it is a ruling (based on individual opinion), there is room for discussion."

This is not to say that the words of our sages should not be taken seriously. On the contrary, statements of great scholars must be carefully weighed and respected. But they may also be disputed, especially in non-halakhic areas. In his introduction to Perek Helek, Maimonides delineates three groups, each having a different approach to the words of our sages. The majority group, according to Rambam, accepts the words of our sages literally, without imagining any deeper meanings. By taking everything literally—even when the words of the sages violate our sense of reason—they actually disparage our rabbis. Intelligent people who are told that they must accept all the midrashim as being literally true will come to reject rabbinic teaching altogether, since no reasonable person could accept all these teachings in their literal sense. "This group of impoverished understanding—one must pity their foolishness. According to their understanding, they are honoring and elevating our sages; in fact they are lowering them to the end of lowliness. They do not even understand this. By Heaven! This group is dissipating the glory of the Torah and clouding its lights, placing the Torah of God opposite of its intention."

Maimonides described the second group as also taking the words of the sages literally. But since so many of the statements of the rabbis are not reasonable if taken literally, this group assumes that the rabbis must not have been so great in the first place. This group dismisses rabbinic teachings as being irrelevant, even silly. Rambam rejected this point of view outright.

The third group, which is so small that it hardly deserves to be called a group, recognizes the greatness of our sages and seeks the deeper meanings of their teachings. This group realizes that the sages hid profound wisdom in their statements, and often spoke symbolically or in riddles. When one discovers a rabbinic statement that seems irrational, one should seek its deeper meaning. While Rambam argued forcefully for a profound understanding of aggada and Midrash, he did not argue that all rabbinic statements are of divine origin. Rather, they are worthy of serious study because they represent the thinking of great sages. Presumably, his son Abraham carried his argument further. When one found rabbinic statements to be unreasonable or incorrect—even after much thought and investigation—he was not bound to uphold them.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch echoed the opinion of Maimonides and his son. He wrote that "aggadic sayings do not have Sinaitic origin . . . they reflect the independent view of an individual sage."[27] Rabbi Hirsch went on: "Nor must someone whose opinion differs from that of our sages in a matter of aggada be deemed a heretic, especially as the sages themselves frequently differ. . . ." He rejected the opinion that the authority of aggada is equal to the orally transmitted halakha. Indeed, he thought this was "a dangerous view to present to our pupils and could even lead to heresy."

Rabbinic tradition, thus, has two valid approaches to the authority/ dissent issue in the realm of aggada. Rabbi Hayyim David Halevy has written a responsum which offers a balance between the two positions.[28] He noted that there are Midrashim where sages disagree with each other. For example, the Torah records that following the death of Yosef, a new Pharaoh arose over Egypt. Rav interpreted this verse to mean that an actual new Pharaoh arose. Shemuel, though, maintained that it was the same Pharaoh who now made new decrees against the Israelites (Sotah lla). It is impossible for both of these opinions to be objectively correct. Obviously, each offered his interpretation, based on his own understanding of the text.

Moreover, there are topics about which the sages spoke, not relating specifically to the Torah and its interpretation-in which they expressed their own opinions. The statements of our rabbis concerning natural science, for example, were not divinely revealed traditions. In fact, our sages admitted that the wise men of the non-Jews had greater knowledge than the Torah sages in some scientific matters (Pesahim 94b). Rabbi Halevy wrote: "If it becomes clear through precise scientific methodology that a specific idea expressed by our sages is not entirely correct, this does not mar their greatness, Heaven forbid, and their greatness as sages of Torah. Their words relating to Torah were stated with the power of the holiness of Torah, with a kind of divine inspiration; but their other words on general topics were stated from the depth of their human wisdom only." In non-halakhic matters, we should recognize that the sages spoke with great wisdom, although not necessarily with divine inspiration. Therefore, there were disputes among them such as the one concerning the new Pharaoh, where it is clear that one side is wrong.

While respecting the authority and wisdom of our sages, we also must recognize the possibility that some of their non-halakhic statements and interpretations are incorrect. To say this does not make one an apikores. Great sages, as mentioned above, have themselves taught this opinion and have considered it to be correct and authoritative.

It is clear, then, that there is room for dissent and criticism within the halakhic and aggadic systems. This dissent and criticism must be based on great reverence for our sages; on properly substantiated and argued positions; on commitment to the honor and divine origin of Torah. Dissent may not go beyond the universally accepted principles of our faith. But within this boundary, freedom of inquiry, analysis and criticism must be respected-and encouraged.

Notes

Today’s conference recognizes that the presence and voice of diverse religious groups—working alone and together—potentially make immense contributions toward building a genuinely active and interactive social harmony and promote a sense of moral accountability within the social order. 

For almost a half century, The HealthCare Chaplaincy has been such a presence and voice in New York City and beyond.  The most important lesson learned in our collective ministry is that multifaith collaboration is not something to be afraid of.  It does not encourage or promote assimilation; it does not lead to syncretism; it does not settle for the least common denominator. 

The HealthCare Chaplaincy was founded in 1961 as a small Christian outreach organization.  Its original name was the East Midtown Protestant Chaplaincy.  It wasn’t until the mid 1980s that the organization strategically aspired to and subsequently embraced a commitment to religious diversity by opening itself to collaboration with Jews, Muslims, and other non-Christian religions.

Since the 1980s, The HealthCare Chaplaincy has grown much stronger, I would assert, because of this religious pluralism and diversity.  Like the history of human civilization, The HealthCare Chaplaincy is not one story, even though its historic roots are discovered in the Protestant Christian tradition, which has enjoyed status as the majority religious culture in America since its founding. 

Congregation Shearith Israel’s founding 23 members in 1654 had to struggle with this same dominant culture, which at that time was not open or ready to give those Jewish refugees in New Amsterdam either voice or recognition.  But your congregation’s ancestors persevered, and during the intervening 354 years have not only found a way into that culture, but in the process laid the foundation for American-Jewish life and have contributed immensely to the life and well-being of this city and nation.

Diversity, of its nature, requires intentional interaction.  By openly engaging and enfranchising differing religious traditions in collaborative strategic planning, policy, and decision-making, The HealthCare Chaplaincy has not only achieved a level of harmony and effectiveness, but our experience over the past 25 years is a story of continuing search and discovery.

By embracing a multifaith identity, The HealthCare Chaplaincy has been continuously stimulated to create a new and more inclusive healthcare ministry and advocacy mission.  In this process of discovery, we have not unexpectedly uncovered myriad ways in which our diverse traditions share a common heritage at various points in history.  We have discovered we hold more in common than the differences that historically have conspired to divide us.

Because I am today with a group of Jews who are exploring the rights and responsibilities of Jews living and working in a non-Jewish world, let me reflect a bit about what our outreach to Jews at The HealthCare Chaplaincy has helped to make possible during the past two decades.

In the early 1990s, there were virtually no rabbis or Jewish laypersons involved in providing professional spiritual care to people who were sick and dying in hospitals.  By this statement I do not mean to denigrate or minimize the importance of the traditional acts of visiting the sick (Bikkur Cholim)—foundational and obligatory in Jewish law and ethics.  Rather, I am referring to the number of rabbis or Jewish laypersons who had received specialized training and achieved board certification as professional chaplains.  Professional chaplaincy was not a career path that rabbinic students aspired to; it was not seen as an alternate rabbinic ministry to that of serving as pulpit rabbi to a prestigious congregation.

In 2008, the picture has changed dramatically, and The HealthCare Chaplaincy has played a pivotal role in its transformation.  Today there is a National Association of Jewish Chaplains (NAJC).  Of its eight presidents, three have been educated or are members of The HealthCare Chaplaincy staff.  Five of the current 8 executive board positions at NAJC are currently held by Chaplaincy alumni, and 8 of the 14 member-at-large positions are rabbis whom we have trained or employed.

At its most recent national meeting in February, two of our former resident students were board certified: Orthodox Rabbi Daniel Coleman, who is now employed as a chaplain at North Shore University Hospital; and Chasidic Lubovitch Rabbi Yeheskel Lebovic, who works at FEGS (Federation Employment and Guidance Service, Inc., est. 1934) as the first full-time rabbi chaplain in its 74 year history.

The picture is pretty clear.  Our outreach into the Jewish community has added significant new voices and professional leadership in the field of Jewish pastoral care, and as an organization, we have been immensely enriched by this collaboration. Today, this organization has established a credible presence and reputation in all of the major Jewish seminaries, attracts the best and the brightest rabbinic and cantorial students to its courses, and is successfully placing some of the top rabbinic graduates each year in leadership positions in the field of professional Jewish chaplaincy. 

Not only can Jews function and thrive in a non-Jewish world, but—in the case of The HealthCare Chaplaincy—Jews have played a transformative role in its leadership, growth, and development. 

            After years of learning in conventional yeshivot, I discovered several Hasidic writers. They opened my eyes to reading the Torah in a manner fundamentally different from anything I ever had learned before. Their penetrating spiritual and psychological wisdom inspired me to study their works ever since. Below are two unrelated analyses of the Revelation at Sinai and of Korah’s rebellion. I hope that these two studies offer a taste for the nuance and depth these writers have to offer the contemporary reader.

Revelation— Shame and the Law

One of the moments in history that many Jews would love to experience is the Revelation at Sinai. What really happened there? So much has been written about what Sinai was, literally or metaphorically. The idiom of every Jew having been present at Sinai implies that there was, or could be, a Sinaitic certainty. I hope to elaborate on this, and suggest what, paradoxically, this certainty is.

What interests me is the aftermath, what was born there. One may broadly and loosely define Sinai, or Revelation, as some religious peak experience, and assume that the period afterward cannot but be anticlimactic. Religious experiences are sought after worldwide, in various forms and means. There often is a disparity between the intensity of the experience and how unimpressive the person who experienced them is. Sometimes they seem to be in converse proportions.

The Talmud teaches that the aftermath of Sinai is shame: “Anyone who is shameless—it is known that his parents did not stand on Sinai” (Nedarim 20b). However uncomfortable shame is, being shameless is rarely considered worthy. In English or Hebrew we speak of being ashamed of ourselves. Our self shames us. This phenomenon reflects a belief that there’s a self inhering in us that is “better” than we are to whom we compare ourselves, and who criticizes us incessantly. If we absolutely cannot do better—then we feel no shame. Sinai was seeing, experiencing, knowing, a self. After Sinai, that remnant becomes and is the self. These laws, even though they be but a shadow of the core Revelation  “I am the Lord your God,” still shame us, for we know how much ‘more’ we can be: our potential always shames us.

Immediately after the Ten Commandments we read: “And the whole people saw the voices and the torches and the voice of the Shofar and the mountain smoking and the people saw, and moved and stood afar. And they said to Moses: speak to us and we will hear, and let not God speak to us lest we die. And Moses said to the people: Do not fear, for in order to test/raise you has God come, and in order that be His awe on your faces that you not sin. And the people stood ­­far away, and Moses approached the mist, where God was” (Exodus 20:15–18).

Sinai was a terrifying experience. The Talmud tells us that the people “died” again and again when hearing God’s voice, and needed angels to revive them (Shabbat 88a). These were moments when the world stood still, “not a bird chirped nor did a cow bellow,” moments when “God hung the mountain over them like a barrel, saying to them: If you accept my Torah—good, if not—here will be your burial.” The Israelites felt forced to accept God. The Maharal of Prague (16^th century) explains that their experience of closeness and love of God was so exquisite, and their love for God so great, that there was no way that they could ever have declined. “Everything God has spoken we will do,” they said even before hearing His commands (Exodus 19:5). This is a deep human desire to be choice-less, for there to be no-two-ways, love-given clarity. We desire to be in love. This was Sinai, and whoever has been there can recognize others who have, and know who hasn’t. That is the tone of the statement of the Talmud “Whoever is shameless—is not one of us.” This is the way the Talmud expresses this:

Said Rabbi Elazar: when Israel said “We will do” before saying “We will hear” (Exodus 19:8, 24:3,7), a heavenly voice emitted saying: “Who revealed this secret to my children, a secret used by angels… who first do God’s word, then hear God’s word” … It is like an apple tree which brings forth its fruit before its leaves, alike to this was Israel’s saying “We will do” before saying “We will hear.”

There was once a Sadducee who saw Rava deeply immersed in learning, sitting upon his thumb which, from the pressure, squirted blood. He said to him: You hasty/careless nation who placed your mouths before your ears—you still are so careless/hasty! You should have first heard and seen if you are able (to keep it) then accept, and if not—not accept it. He replied: About us, who are very whole, it is written “The innocence of the upright will guide them,” whereas about others, who are very crooked, it is written (the continuation of that verse in Proverbs) “and the distortion of traitors will rob them.” (Shabbat 88b)

The Talmud is describing, amongst various nuances of love, the concept of hineni, here I am. For that is what love is, a “Here I am.” Called by those we love, even in the middle of the night, our immediate gut response will be: Yes, I come. Other people, if they call us, will elicit a more reserved response. We respond to those we love not because we should or because it’s right. We respond because we are unable not to, for as soon as we heard their voice we already answered Yes. The Talmud describes this as a moment of “My soul went out when He spoke” (Song of Songs 5:6). Thus the Sadducee’s question as to first calculating if one is able is irrelevant. Being in love is knowing that one can, because one will stop at no less than doing one’s all. It is “innocent” as Rava says, and that innocence is a sure guide and one knows it.

The Talmud is describing the feeling that one can’t wait, like the apple tree, which cannot wait to bring forth its fruit, even though there are no shady leaves yet, even though sufficient preparations have not been made. Rather than seeing a perfect moment of Rava’s love, the Sadducee saw haste and carelessness. Rava retorts that his calculating leaves infidels and traitors like him with nothing. The feeling of “I can’t wait” is so beautiful precisely because one knows that one can wait yet feels the not-wanting-to-wait as “can’t,” as inability. It is the most delicious inability, the inability to say no when one has no desire but to say Yes.

This clarity sometimes passes. One may be in love, but then starts doubting this God-given clarity and reduces it to terms easily provided by others and ourselves. Not a long time passed after the Revelation before Israel doubted their love and did not know if it was really true, so they felt shame. They now felt that they could wait; they felt that there was no hurry. This lack of desire—is shame.

Let us imagine a concert violinist for whom the audience who heard his playing are on their feet applauding. He may yet feel frustrated and ashamed of his oh-so-professional performance for he  knows what it is like to play with passion, with inspiration, forgetting oneself and being nothing but an instrument for the music, and less than this, for he is nothing more than being an efficient machine. As the Magid of Mezeritch explained-rephrased the words of II Kings 3:15 “And when the player was like the instrument, then the hand-of-God was/is upon him.” Playing, or doing anything, without passion is lifeless especially for those who have known the divine elevation of impassioned inspiration, and what is more shameful than death?

The extreme expression of this Sinai-born shameful split from oneself is the story, maybe a metaphor, of the Golden Calf, the embodiment of decay of desire. Thus the Torah starts with the words “Then the people saw that Moses delayed (ki boshesh Moshe) descending from the mountain” (Exodus 32:1). This word boshesh, akin to bushah, shame, is used also referring to Adam and Eve: “and they were naked, man and his wife, and waited not—lo yitboshashu.” They were not ashamed, and did what was natural without any shame or shyness. The aftermath of their lacking desire is paradise lost. The Talmud narrates that at Sinai people returned to their Eden-like state and became whole. One Midrash (Yalkut Shimoni 20:300) explains that at Sinai all were healed, there were no blind, deaf, lame, or foolish people. All were healed when hearing God’s voice. Feeling passionate is healing.

            Whereas bushah means shame, boshesh means to delay. This delay in satisfaction, in fulfilment of our desires, is the deep experience of shame. There is a difference between desire and desires. The being-kept-waiting by parents, then others, let alone their sighs of frustration at our infant needs, although inevitable, all instill in us a sense of shame, that we should not be desirous of …anything, that we should be satiable (compare the last words of the guard in Kafka’s parable “In the Cathedral”). Hasidut teaches that desiring ever more is expression of man’s being created be-tzelem Elokim, in God’s image, having infinite desire. The way we satiate those desires may, as you say, shame us, for more often than not we supplant the specific objects of our desires for these desires themselves.  We all know the sense of shame in being kept waiting, or even thinking that we are being delayed. We all knew that sense of shame having to wait, being needy, of waiting for the gratification provided by parents. Our good taste shames us, and when feeling detached and uninspired and lacking desire – we may feel shame. Such is bushah—delay, the separation from a self, a soul, an ideal, a height, that was ours, that we believe still is ours in some way, still is attainable. If we don’t expect ourselves to be able to do things that we could when younger we will feel no shame at inability to do so. But distanced from things we still dream of we feel shame.

Someone whose “parents’ feet were on Sinai” is someone who, having known greatness, can recognize it and bow their heads to it, feel humbled and modest as Israel must have felt at Sinai. Having known grandeur one can recognize it, whereas someone who has never known anything better will lack this, will relate to everyone with casualness or familiarity simply because he is unable to recognize genius. One needs a certain education to be able to recognize inspiration. The closest we can come to knowing it, to wholeness and being, is our awareness of our lack. This desire is the fullness of our being.

Dreaming is the closest most of us get to prophecy and Revelation. Sinai, as an event in history and as a metaphor for our soul’s core, is the most sublime dream we ever dreamt. It is not by chance that we speak of aspirations as dreams. Hazal said “A person never dies even half fulfilled” – our dreams and aspirations can never be fulfilled (unless they are very limited ones!). And so our dreams shame us, because they express our highest aspirations, and so when we are reminded of our dreams and aspirations we cannot but be filled with shame at our inadequacy. But the alternative, having very low aspirations or not dreaming at all, is even worse, for it evidences a loss of our being made be-Tzelem Elokim, in the image of an infinite God, it evidences our having lost desire to grow infinitely. The residue of Sinai is remaining dreamers.

The Positive Dimensions of Korah

One of the qualities of good literature is complexity, and even in stories that seem to have clear “good guy—bad guy” delineations, the Bible sometimes hints that these lines are not intended to be clear-cut. The surface reading of Korah’s rebellion seems to present Korah as the bad guy, jealous of Moses’ power, wanting to usurp Moses’ leadership and even prophecy, spotlighting what seems to be evident nepotism in Moses’ choice of Aaron and his sons for priests.

The Mei HaShiloah (mid-19^th century Hasidic commentary) argues that things are not necessarily what they may seem. He assumes that all biblical heroes demand understanding, even if they were mistaken or sinners. He relinquishes the need for a clear-cut and often trite moral. To this interpreter, the story of Korah presents two sides that battled, and one side losing does not imply its being entirely mistaken nor need its protagonist be entirely in the wrong.

Against a totalitarian regime, rebellion is inevitable, even if this rule is divinely ordained, and even when the law challenged is God’s. The event was handled badly. Moses seems to have wanted a public confrontation. He initiates the contest by fire (Numbers 16:16–17), and suggests that the earth open its mouth to swallow the rebels and their families (16:29–30). The grand debacle is ineffective. Rather than being persuaded, the people afterward accuse Moses and Aaron saying, “You have killed the Lord’s people” (17:6–8).

Moses’ words to Korah’s party, “You have enough sons of Levi” (16:7), are irrelevant to the issue. No rule, not even that of Moses, is above criticism merely by virtue of its being ordained by God. In the Talmud, Moses is censured for these words to Korah: “He [Moses] used the term ‘You have enough’—and the same words were used by God when refusing him entry into the land ‘You have enough’ (Deuteronomy 3:26)” (Sotah 13b).

This rabbinic criticism of Moses is severe. It could be interpreted as saying: How can one say to someone seeking closeness to God “You have enough?” Notwithstanding his being hurt, Moses should have perceived that their yearning for closeness to God may have been authentic. Saying “You have enough” is not only saying that Korah is mistaken in his belief that all people can be greater and that they should aspire to more, but that there can be, in regard to closeness to God, “enough.” Questioning others’ motives for desiring holiness is a travesty, whereas the seeking itself is holy.

The Talmud’s suggestion that Moses’ setting boundaries to Korah is what ultimately denies his own entry to the Promised Land is portraying how, tragically, the boundaries with we protect ourselves will always limit our own expansion and growth.

The Seer of Lublin (early 19^th century Hasidic master) said, “Were I alive at the time— I would have supported Korah.” Korah’s words were not a rabble-rousing slogan nor were they empty words. If when meeting Moses people could not but be awestruck (Exodus 33:10), when meeting Korah people saw their own sanctity, realized how God inhered in them, too. Korah had that rare ability to reflect to people their own holiness.

The eleven Psalms that are attributed to “The Sons of Korah” demonstrate that “Korah’s son” was not a shameful name, but rather was a name used with pride by Temple singers. This was a judgment of history that the rebellion against Moses was not a simple power struggle. Even their end implies a non-ending: “And the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them…they and all they had descended to Sheol alive” (Numbers 16:32–33). In language of myth their descent to Sheol is a continuation of living, but in another place.

Many legends narrate how Korah and his children continued their existence in Sheol and were not totally annihilated, even as the Torah tells us later, “Then the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them and Korah in the death of his community when the fire ate the 250 men, miraculously. The sons of Korah did not die” (Numbers 26:9–10).

A Midrash gives the Korah story an additional dimension that connects it to the preceding passage that commands wearing fringes with a blue thread on garments (Numbers 15:40). Korah brought his 250 men wearing entirely blue garments challenging Moses, “Do these need a blue thread?” and then ridiculed Moses’ affirmative response. The Midrash may be portraying Korah not as someone ridiculing ritual per se, but only the idea that ritual is not equally relevant in all cases and not fitting all people equally.

Thus Mei HaShiloah explains: Mitzvot are reminders and, as such, are perhaps needed by the masses, but why should individuals who really are not in need of them observe them? Korah, he says, would say: “Awe of God, awareness of His presence, is perpetual for me. What do I need reminders for?” Mitzvot are reminders of God’s presence, and this can be bliss, or oppressive when awareness of God’s omnipresence and omniscience is inescapable. Korah is saying, in pain, if only I could forget. Mei HaShiloah is portraying Korah not as one who wants to escape God but as one whose aspirations and awareness are so intense as to be unbearable. He imagines that fixed forms of worship, such as high priesthood, could create a limitation and contain his burning. Living forever is the most tragic of punishments, and Korah descends to the Sheol of his unquenchable passion for the divine.

Religions and laws act as equalizers, for better and for worse. Like the ashes of the Red Cow in the parashah that follows Korah, which “Purify the impure and defile the pure”—so rules and regulations refine those who otherwise would be degenerate, while lowering those whom they limit. Korah cannot accept this paradox of ritual. The Torah does seem to nod in Korah’s direction after his demise when God says to Moses: “Say to Elazar son of Aaron to lift the pans from amongst the fire for they have become sanctified. The pans of these sinners in their souls—make them a covering for the altar, for they were brought close to God and have become sanctified, let them be a sign for the Children of Israel” (Numbers 17:1–3). Even though the 250 people had rebelled, their pans become a memento to serve as a reminder of the immortality of their bearers’ claim, recognition that their aspirations were true. These pans would contain the Temple fire, and teach the need for containment of religious passion, too.

Rabbi Yitzhak Luria Ashkenazi, the Ar”i (16^th century Safed) writes that, “In the future Korah will be shown to have been correct.” That Korah who insisted in his opening words, “All the whole community is holy and God amongst them”——every person is unique and divine—will be vindicated.

Moses’ handling of the conflict seems faulty, allowing things to get out of hand, fearing that God may not back him, and initiating violence. Perhaps no one is free of the misuse of speech when attacked, and when being reactive. Moses who so faithfully and repeatedly protects his people from God’s wrath, and even does so again when God wants to destroy his people, has difficulty protecting them from his own wrath. Although no one can speak to God as Moses does, dialogue with the people is not Moses’ forte. Growing up an outsider without family or society, he remained an outsider vis-à-vis the people themselves, remaining “heavy of mouth and heavy of tongue” (Exodus 4:10) and his original fears of being unable to converse with them (Exodus 4:1) and that they would not believe him came true.

There is no one path for everyone. More than seeing Korah as one who wanted to rule, we can see him as suggesting alternatives. Rebels are often as rigidly insistent on having the truth as those against whom they fight, as if admitting many options would weaken rather than strengthen any claim. So often justice becomes a single thing, as if there were but one justice rather than many, we forget that justice can be challenged in name of various other values— wisdom, charity, compassion—to name but a few. Fighting in the name of justice we make the conflicts into zero-sum games. When the Ar”i writes that in the future we will be following Korah’s way this does not read as a contrast and a victory over Moses. Rather, it suggests that the structure of dispute and there being various options, as the Torah passes down this story— is the promise of the future.

I'd like to acknowledge the presence of Rabba Sara Hurwitz. Throughout this whole ordeal, she has carried herself with grace and humility and wanted little more than to continue her work as a spiritual leader in the Bayit. Rabba Sara supports this open discussion and has been involved in shaping the direction of this process at every step of the way.

The change of title from maharat to rabba has precipitated controversy in our community that was unintended and unexpected—controversy that I deeply regret. The fallout has most powerfully affected Rabba Sara.

What I’d like to do this Shabbat is outline in general terms some of the issues that are at play, as a starting point to engage in meaningful conversation on the matter.

What Does Rabba Mean?

It is most important to know what rabba means. Functionally, rabba is no different from maharat. Maharat Sara Hurwitz’s role did not change one iota when she became Rabba Sara Hurwitz. Let me explain:

Our Orthodox model for women in general and women in leadership differs dramatically from the Conservative and Reform model. Unlike Conservative and Reform Judaism, Orthodoxy is not egalitarian. In Conservative and Reform Judaism, a woman’s role is identical to a man’s role. In Orthodoxy, the roles of men and women in spiritual leadership overlap in 90 percent of areas, but there are distinctions.

How and where do the spiritual leadership of men and women overlap? If someone were to ask me what the rabbinate is about, I’d respond quite simply that the most essential element of the rabbinate is being there, being there for people especially in their times of need. The rabbinate is not about being served, but about serving others. Women like men are, of course, perfectly capable and halakhically able to do this. For centuries, women have fulfilled pastoral roles in their communities.

In addition, being a rabbi means being knowledgeable and able to teach. Like men, women from time immemorial have done this. From the Matriarchs, to Miriam, to Hannah, to Beruriah, to Marat Hava Bachrach granddaughter of the Maharal—who were versed in the principles of Judaism and Talmud and Midrash and Responsa—women were teachers par excellence.

In more contemporary times, the statement of the Chafetz Chaim in the early part of the twentieth century, encouraging women to learn Torah, was fundamental in establishing women's communal institutions of learning of the highest level. Most recently Drisha, Stern College, Nishmat, and Midreshet Lindenbaum’s schools for women have taken the next steps in excellence in educating women in Torah.

Women’s learning has naturally evolved into women’s teaching. Nehama Leibowitz was my rebbe in Tanakh—my rebbe and the rebbe of so many of my colleagues. Today, Dr. Aviva Zornberg, Dr. Bryna Levy, Rosh Kehillah Dena Najman Licht of KOE,[1] and Lisa Schlaff, who heads the Talmud Department at SAR high school, are all examples of outstanding Torah teachers in this generation.

Additionally, women who are properly trained can advise and instruct and answer questions of halakha to those who seek them out. This right has been recognized and well established in both classical and contemporary halakhic sources.

Sefer haHinukh concludes: “A wise woman can be a decisor of Jewish Law.”[2] Birkei Yosef (Hida, Chaim Yosef David Azulai, eighteenth century) concurs.[3] Most recently Rabbi Bakshi Doron, the former Sephardi Chief Rabbi wrote: “Women can be of the gedolim of the generation and serve as halakhic decisors.”[4]

Finally, a woman can be a religious leader on campuses, in schools, in camps and the synagogue. They can oversee services in synagogues and officiate at lifecycle events, such as weddings and funerals, within the framework of halakha. They can also represent their congregations and communities as spiritual leaders in the larger public arena. While some argue that the principle of serara (formal communal authority) prevents women from serving as clergy, Rabbi Benzion Uziel (early twentieth century) held that serara does not apply when a community is willing to accept a woman as its leader.[5]

In simple terms, when I think of the roles of a rabbi as a pastoral counselor, as a teacher of Torah, as a responder to questions of halakha or functioning as a religious leader—women can play significant roles in all of these areas. That’s what I mean when I say that 90 percent of what male rabbis can do, women can do as well.

But there are distinctions. The distinctions cut in opposite ways. There are things a woman can do that a man cannot. A woman spiritual leader can take a female convert into the mikvah, something that, of course, a man cannot do. Women may be more comfortable seeking out a woman’s spiritual leadership on matters of niddah, or advice on motherhood and much more. Men, too, could also gain immeasurably from a female clergy’s halakhic pesak and pastoral counsel.

In the same breath, there are things a woman cannot do. Although a woman can lead a wedding ceremony—oversee the signing of documents as well as read the ketubah (marital contract) and give a talk beneath the huppah—she cannot be a witness for kiddushin or sign the ketubah. Although a woman can be the primary spiritual leader preparing one for conversion, she cannot serve on the conversion Bet Din. Although women can oversee religious services in synagogues as halakha permits and give sermons, they are not counted into a minyan, and cannot lead devarim she-beKedusha. That’s what I mean when I say that in Orthodoxy, the roles are not identical; there are distinctions.

For this reason, a woman in spiritual leadership is rabba and not rabbi. In medicine a doctor is a doctor whether male or female. In law, one is a lawyer regardless of gender. A rabbi in Orthodoxy is a male figure who religiously leads. A rabba is a female religious leader. The role of rabba and rabbi significantly overlap. But there are important distinctions.

And that’s what I mean when I say that maharat and rabba are identical. Maharat is an acronym for Manhiga Hilkhatit, Ruhanit, and Toranit, a woman who is a halakhic, religious, and Torah leader. These words are terms much like rabba, which describes the fundamental roles of a woman spiritual leader: a halakhic leader who has the ability to answer questions of halakha; a religious leader who is a pastoral caregiver and who may guide and lead religious services within the framework of halakha, and a Torah leader who knows and can teach.

The change from maharat to rabba was not functional—that remained the same. It was rather an attempt to give more dignity and respect to Sara. It was also an attempt to clarify her role as truly one of religious leadership. I also felt that Maharat was a clumsy title that had no meaning outside of the bayit, in places like hospitals and funeral homes. Indeed, Maharat as a title was used disrespectfully like people emphasizing the last syllable—Maha-RAT. Rabba was simple, more elegant, and more easily conveyed the message that Sara Hurwitz is a spiritual leader.

Public Policy

The reality is there is little “religio-legal” controversy in the mainstream Modern Orthodox community, or what I call the Open Orthodox community, on how women can function as religious leaders. The issue is not halakhic as much as it is one of public policy. And here there has been serious discussion on what Modern Orthodox policy should be.

Rabbi Norman Lamm, Chancellor of Yeshiva University says it this way in a Jerusalem Post article. Asked about the ordination of female rabbis, Rabbi Lamm responded that his opposition was “social not religious.”[6]

Here, Rabbi Lamm was alluding to the halakhic reality that women today can receive semikha. Semikha today is not the same as when it was transmitted from Moses to Joshua and onward. That line was broken before the conclusion of the fifth century C.E. Today, semikha is primarily a vote of confidence given by learned rabbis, authorizing the person being ordained as able to advise and instruct and interpret and answer questions of Jewish law. In the words of Rema: ענין הסמיכות שנהגו בזמן הזה כדי שידעו כל העם שהגיע להוראה ומה שמורה הוא ברשות רבו הסומכו. “Ordination today allows people to know that one reached [the ability to] rule—make halakhic decisions—and that what one rules is with the permission of one’s teacher.”[7] Thus, as we’ve pointed out, qualified women like men can rule.[8] It is in this vein, I believe, that Rabbi Lamm concludes that ordaining women is a “social not religious” issue.

Rabbi Lamm goes on to say:

Change has to come to religion when feasible, but it should not be rushed; women have just come into their own from an educational perspective. I would prefer not to have this innovation right now. It is simply too early. What will remain later…I am not a prophet.

Rabbi Professor Daniel Sperber disagrees. He suggests the time has come. In a March 18, 2009 letter to me, Rabbi Sperber, who heads the Ludwig and Erica Jesselson Institute for Advanced Torah Studies at Bar Ilan University, wrote:

I was delighted to hear that you will be celebrating an ordination ceremony for Ms. Sara Hurwitz, as a spiritual and halakhic congregational leader. This is indeed an innovation and as such will undoubtedly be criticized by some, but the times demand it and the hour is right…this initiative has clear halakhic legitimacy. I strongly feel that it is high time that we accept the rightful status for women in positions of community leadership, both organizational, spiritual and halakhic, and actively encourage such initiative. I also feel that Ms. Hurwitz is uniquely qualified to fulfill such an aspiration having acquired the necessary knowledge and skills to satisfy these needs.

For Rabbi Sperber, the time has come.

Who Defines Orthodoxy?

Which brings me back to our situation here at the Bayit. Where do we stand? What is our public policy? Our first concern is that perhaps, in some people's eyes, we are no longer seen as an Orthodox synagogue. This may have come from the Agudah’s Council of Sages which declared that: “any congregation with a woman in a rabbinical position of any sort cannot be considered Orthodox.”[9]

Although the statement singles me out, its scope includes other Modern Orthodox congregations that have women performing rabbinical roles of some sort—like the Spanish Portuguese Synagogue and those that have Yo’atzot Halakha.

On a very personal level, the Agudah statement condemned me without contacting me. From my perspective, judging without the defendant in front of you makes a mockery of halakha.

Let it be said clearly, as Rabbi Marc Angel pointed out, the Agudah statement is “aimed at the Modern Orthodox community.” Rabbi Angel concludes his essay just published by his Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals with the words:

One of my concerns is: does the Modern Orthodox community have the inner strength to deal with the issue of women’s religious leadership, or will we simply cave in to the pressure “from the right”? The “Council of Torah Sages” believes it can prevail in defining Orthodoxy, and in casting out those who disagree with them. Does the Modern Orthodox community have the confidence and integrity to demur, and to insist on its own right to discuss and debate and make its own decisions?[10]

In the end, the definition of what constitutes Orthodoxy is not for the Haredi world to determine. It begins from within; with what we know and feel about ourselves. It has everything to do with having confidence in our commitment to halakha, and holding true to the values of Torah and tradition.

Out Front

It’s not easy being out front. I remember when we brought Women’s Prayer Groups into the Bayit. Eminent Roshei Yeshiva wrote a teshuva that was highly critical. I remember when we began passing the Torah to women. It created significant turmoil. Yet, today, this practice has spread.

And I remember the night when Natan Sharansky spoke at the Bayit, soon after his release from the Soviet gulag. It was his first public talk in America. I felt that it was critical that we, an Orthodox synagogue, be joined by Conservative and Reform rabbis who played major roles in the movement to free Natan and the Soviet Jewry Movement. I invited them to join us that evening, and to recite prayers from the Psalms. This, too, was highly criticized, but today is commonplace. In recent years, our commemoration for Dr. Martin Luther King has been raked over the coals. Here again, what we did is being emulated in more and more communities.

That’s the way it is with firsts. You move forward, take a hit, precipitate discussion and keep at it. And that’s what may be unfolding now, once again, here at the Bayit.

***

These few weeks have been most difficult for Rabba Sara. I’ve often seen her ashen and despondent. And yet, she has endured with unusual humility and concern, not only for herself but for our larger bayit. She is a rare gift.

This has also been an excruciatingly painful few weeks for me and my family. It became most painful when our daughter Elana called from Israel, deeply upset. Toby has been at my side and I know she is deeply hurting when she hears and reads all this terrible stuff about her husband.

I’m deeply grateful for the calls I’ve received from many of you, even from those who disagreed with me. My most basic teaching is we’re a bayit—a home, and families remain together even when there is disagreement.

We’re at a glorious but vulnerable stage as our building is completed. So much is happening here in learning, in programming, and in reaching the broader community. What is crucial, absolutely crucial, is that we remain together in the spirit of ahavat Yisrael and in the spirit of family.

I pray that from this challenge we be able to emerge stronger as a bayit, stronger as a family, stronger in our mission to be an Open Orthodox synagogue, deeply committed to halakha and open and welcoming to all.

***

Postscript

Seven years after Rabba Sara’s ordination, the Bayit, led by its magnificent new senior rabbi, Steven Exler, has attracted many, many scores of families. Yeshivat Maharat has also reached new heights. It grants semikha (toreh toreh) allowing each graduate—in consultation with the community they serve—to decide on title. To date, 20 students have been ordained, serving as spiritual leaders in North America (i.e., Baltimore, Berkeley, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, Montreal, New Jersey, New York, St. Louis, Washington) and Israel. Beginning in the summer of 2015, several graduates assumed the title rabba. And with the help of thousands of supporters, the school has now grown to an enrollment of 25 students.

Abstract

A preliminary examination of the suppleness inherent in the Jewish tradition’s concept of ba’al dat—“one possessed of religion”[1]—offers several promising possibilities in view of the present-day challenge ensuing from impending mergers of religious zealousness with unprecedented technological capabilities. In this paper I examine how the possibilities available to the bearers of monotheistic traditions can serve them in taking action through increased cooperation to face global threats. I expand upon one such possibility, one that maintains loyalty to tradition yet nonetheless lays the foundations for joint political action, a possibility made available by a reworking of the ba’al dat idea and supported by a convention more rigorous than precepts such as “because of the ways of peace” [mipnei darkei shalom].

A. Introduction

Political Science scholars today tend to express a need for a review of conventional approaches to world security.[2] Concurrently, we are witness to initiatives to create dialogs between religious persons and to break past taboos on such ventures.[3] What I will present below, I believe, joins these trends yet is different in that the attempt being made here is toward forging a link at the level of believers, in the hope of finding support and encouraging change among the representatives of religions. From this aspect, there is a “privatization” of the interfaith dialog, not only at the level of understanding but as the appropriation of a shared basis for taking action. Second, in view of narratives by important Secularists (such as Habermas) that are able to part with anti-religious fervor, the intention here is to hold such dialog in a way that will reinforce current initiatives for collaboration with Secularists. In this sense, the idea of a ba’al dat presents itself as a natural and promising candidate.[4]

The concept of ba’al dat that, as a rule, indicates how one who is not an idolater is perceived by Jewish tradition, acquires new meaning with the emergence of every new religion on the living fabric of humanity. I do not intend to analyze the multiple meanings of this concept or to seek out any one of its definitive meanings. The potential of this concept’s contribution to discourse lies in its positioning. While concepts that refer to the Other such as “heretic,” “idolater,” “non-believer,” or “a desecrator of the Sabbath in public” vilify the Other, this concept, by its very nature, defines difference while seeking a lenient approach, expressing a certain readiness for relating to the Other, in spite of separateness. This term has an additional advantage, in that it avoids the patronization associated with terms such as tinok shenishba—“a child who has been held captive” and who is not to be held responsible for his decisions.  

Dealing with the term ba’al dat, in a deep sense, leads us inward into Judaism. The evolution and logic of the concept of the Other affects religion from within. The appearance of Christianity and Islam opened a new chapter in the history of Judaism. The distinction to be made—despite the ambivalence that arose around the complexities of the Trinity in the case of Christianity and that increased following the appearance of Islam—was no longer between those uniquely believing in one God and idol worshippers; the state of affairs has been that a belief in the One, transcendent God no longer fully determines the believer’s identity. For once having defined that an individual’s faith is in the one God who created the world by an act of will, the fact of whether the individual is a Jew or a Muslim or a Christian remains to be established, as does the kind of Jew or Muslim. This means that although monotheism demands absolute faithfulness to the belief and worship of God, it does not nullify the context in which the belief in one God developed.

One can say, in general, that Judaism underwent a historic change in its attitude toward the Other, concurrently to an evolution of its clarifications of the very idea of God’s unity. Biblical violence against idol worshippers is handled by the facilitation of the halakha (Jewish law), in all its complexity, which gradually begins to involve pragmatic and theological considerations. This is where we encounter terms such as “because of the ways of peace” and “because of [their] hatred,” as well as the talmudic phrase “Gentiles outside the Land [of Israel] are not idol worshippers; they continue their fathers’ customs.” Applications of these terms and their subsequent elimination, just as the sources on which they are based, are the subjects of discussions and differences that shift and change[5]. The concept of ba’al dat in the Jewish world—“a possessor of religion”—and certainly in the case of a possessor of a monotheistic religion, is an expression of the relationship between Jewish monotheists and other monotheists, and the search for its history supplies us with a first criterion of its suppleness. Today we can understand that a renewed definition of idolatry is in order, one sufficiently relevant to bear actual political meanings.

Halbertal[6] continues and deepens the research tradition of seeking out the meaning of ba’al dat, and the twelfth-century context of Rabbi Menachem Hameiri's writings provides him with the opportunity to study the affinity between this term and the Maimonidean world view. Life among Christians had its effects, and it generated important halakhic changes in reference to Gentiles. Hameiri’s discussion is as methodical and loyal as it is daring: The understanding that the world’s nations among whom the Jews dwell are not idolaters, and the concept of “nations secured by the ways of religion” [umot haGedurot baDat], serve to reduce prejudice between Jews and non-Jews, ensuring, all the while, their separateness.

Scholarly and pragmatic changes thus generated sensitivities that were inconceivable during biblical times, not to mention the effects of significant historic changes – such as the rise of Christianity and Islam—that were entirely absent from the biblical world’s horizons. Similarly, the challenges unique to the present may present a need for change, and the merger of religious fanaticism and modern-day global threats—such as non-conventional weapons and new technologies—beg for an examination of avenues for collaboration between monotheists of different traditions, and present theological questions as to the conditions such collaborations must meet so as to be soundly based and evoke the mutual trust required. The emphasis on trustworthiness is clear: one can make the leap with the help of humanistic commitments by blurring differences between religions, yet it is doubtful that such blurring would be welcome or useful. Hermann Cohen’s attempt to “transfer” the Jewish Sabbath to Sunday so as to build a bridge to the German Protestants will forever remain a tragic-comic exercise.

In today’s globalized setting, the challenge of maintaining security is no longer limited to the traditional foreign-policy and military tools of the nation-state, and security and insecurity are no longer considered as dependent exclusively upon geopolitics and military strength, but rather are seen to depend also upon social, economic, environmental and ethical models of analysis and tools for taking action. For purposes of the proposition to be raised here, I will open with a preliminary description of some of the transmutations through which the ba’al dat concept has evolved and continue, in the following section, with the rich potential it holds in facing the modern day challenge here described.

B. The Theological-Halakhic Context

The biblical vision of “all [beings] uniting in a singular alliance to do Thy will,” or “And the Lord will be King of all the earth on that day will God be one and His name one,” or “My house will be called the house of prayer for all peoples” informs the cumulative connotations of the concept ba’al dat, and is also associated with our father Abraham’s world mission. It is worth noting, furthermore, that the grand vision seemingly ignores differences, as might follow from terms such as “a singular alliance” or “King of all the earth.” No one in biblical times, however, had yet considered that the nations who would wish to bow before the Lord’s sovereignty would not only be nations from distant places but such that they all linked themselves to Abraham.

B.1 The One Does Not Abolish Difference

The basic insight is that the commitment to God, for all that it is total, does not negate difference. Despite the fact that the notion of ba’al dat came of age during the Middle Ages, we should note the biblical source relating to the particular situation in which being a monotheist does not determine an individual’s identity. The concept of ba’al dat is not utopic, and some of its applications were a result of constraints endured by Jews in their exile. But there was, in fact, no need to await the development of the other religions to reach this conclusion. The bible tells of Egyptians who will worship the one God, as well as of the Assyrians, where Israel is one of the three nations that worship God:

19 In that day shall there be an altar to the LORD in the midst of the land of Egypt, and a pillar at the border thereof to the LORD. 20 And it shall be for a sign and for a witness unto the LORD of hosts in the land of Egypt; for they shall cry unto the LORD because of the oppressors, and He will send them a savior, and a defender, who will deliver them. 21 And the LORD shall make Himself known to Egypt, and the Egyptians shall know the LORD in that day; yea, they shall worship with sacrifice and offering, and shall vow a vow unto the LORD, and shall perform it. 22 And the LORD will smite Egypt, smiting and healing; and they shall return unto the LORD, and He will be entreated of them, and will heal them. 23 In that day shall there be a highway out of Egypt to Assyria, and the Assyrian shall come into Egypt, and the Egyptian into Assyria; and the Egyptians shall worship with the Assyrians. 24 In that day shall Israel be the third with Egypt and with Assyria, a blessing in the midst of the earth; 25 for that the LORD of hosts hath blessed him, saying: 'Blessed be Egypt My people and Assyria the work of My hands, and Israel Mine inheritance (Isaiah, 19).

In this vision, the differences between nations are maintained despite their sharing in the worship of God, and Israel is but one of three nations that worship Him. A deeper inquiry shows that this pronouncement differs from the one declaring that all nations will join in worship at the temple in Jerusalem. The particularity of the Egyptian and of Assyrian traditions is maintained, despite the fact that they sacrifice to the Lord.

B.2 Peering into the Middle Ages

Jewish philosophical awareness during the Middle Ages was familiar with friendship and closeness between “possessors of religion.” Before we attempt to understand this, however, it important that we recall an observation of Rabbi Yehuda Halevy’s that has not, to date, or to the best of my knowledge, been accorded its due significance. According to Halevy, the fact that battles between religions exist rules out the philosophical view that what is essential is to worship God and that the manner of worship is insignificant. Were this to be the case, human behavior would be meaningless, because the battles would be superfluous:

Said to him the Khazari: Thy words are convincing, yet they do not correspond to what I wish to find. I know already that my soul is pure and that my actions are calculated to gain the favour of God. To all this I received the answer that this way of action does not find favour, though the intention does. There must no doubt be a way of acting, pleasing by its very nature, but not through the medium of intentions. If this be not so, why then do Christian and Moslem, who divide the inhabited world between them, fight with one another, each of them serving his God with pure intention, living as either monks or hermits, fasting and praying? For all that they vie with each other in committing murders, believing that this is a most pious work and brings them nearer to God. They fight in the belief that paradise and eternal bliss will be their reward. It is, however, impossible to agree with both.[7]

This position of Halevy’s clarifies that he does not attempt to leap into a vision of messianic or utopian peace before first having established the steadfastness of his loyalty and having “contained” the zealous warrior. History is the history of divine intention, and Halevi’s words that follow are therefore particularly reliable, even in the eyes of the zealous believer who will not reduce his faith to humanism.

Subsequently, however, we hear from Halevy that the ba’al dat is closer to the believer than is the philosopher, even though he errs:

12) Said to him the Khazari: But the followers of other religions [ba’alei dat] approach you more nearly than the philosophers?

13) Said to him the Rabbi: They are as far removed from us as the followers of a religion from a philosopher. The former seek God not only for the sake of knowing Him, but also for other great benefits which they derive therefrom. The philosopher, however, only seeks Him that he may be able to describe Him accurately in detail….[8]

Although he does not explicitly say so, the context of the exchange includes as “possessors of religion” those who set their intentions toward God. What is in fact written is, those who “seek the God”—and not the idol or any similar expression. And, in truth, Halevi takes this much further, and his vision, as made familiar in the Khuzari, is that world history, including the Jewish history of exile, is not incidental to the divine will; indeed, the philosopher is generally indifferent to particularistic notions such as “exile” or “Israel.” This vision is the pinnacle of the affinity between the religions, and it refers to the End of Days not as the triumph of Judaism alone and not as the elimination of all other religions; it is illustrated in the form of a tree with sprouting branches:

In the same manner the Law of Moses transforms each one who honestly follows it, though it may externally repel him. The nations merely serve to introduce and pave the way for the expected Messiah, who is the fruition, and they will all become His fruit. Then, if they acknowledge Him, they will again become one tree. Then they will revere the origin which they formerly dispersed, as we have observed concerning the words: "Behold My servant prospers."[9]

This sort of position could not have appeared in the Talmud, which was unfamiliar with the unique challenges facing the Jews as presented by Christianity and Islam or by philosophy. Traces of this position can, of course, be found in clues scattered in the Talmud and Scripture, but the messianic hope for harmony between the “possessors of religion” appeared in its full and rich meaning only with subsequent historical developments.

A similar change can be found in Maimonides’ position concerning Torah study. The Talmud is unequivocal in that Torah is not to be taught to a foreigner or idolater, while Maimonides considers the dissemination of Torah and its promotion to Christians to be an authentic Jewish objective. On the question in Tractate Sanhedrin (59, 71) concerning whether the halakha follows Rabbi Yohanan in that “a foreigner [or idolater] who deals in Torah deserves death,” Maimonides replies: “This is indubitably the halakha. So that when Israel has the upper hand, he [the non-Jew] is prevented from Torah study until he converts.” A tempering step follows, however, similar to the one we observed by Halevi when he says that it is permissible to teach the Bible to Christians. [10] The messianic vision according to Maimonides, in which the truth shall be made known to all humanity and to all possessors of religion, can be found in his Laws Concerning Kings in the Mishne Torah. My reading of this vision is of victory of the Truth and as the insight that it is indeed to be found in the nation of Israel’s custody.

Rabbi Joseph Albo of the fifteenth century took things a step further and established the shared principles of all followers of divine law: the existence of God, revelation, and reward and punishment. [11] In listing the principles of faith, one should note that Rabbi Albo accepts the different monotheistic religions as an open possibility and enumerates the principles for all religions. According to Rabbi Albo, Judaism ultimately is vindicated, but in his inquiry he nevertheless suspends judgment and remain open to the theoretical possibility of numerous other Godly religions.

The scholarly definition of ba’al dat, albeit from a single religion’s representatives’ point of view, is also echoed in the definitions of the idea of all religion in Islam and Christianity; the New Testament includes an awareness of the Old Testament, and Islam refers to the People of the Book. Subsequent changes in the perception of the Other by Christianity were indeed to inform the attitude toward Judaism so that, for example, Rabbi Riskin’s update of Rabbi Soloveitchik’s position[12] could be supported by those made by Pope John Paul in 1965.[13]

B.4 The Appearance of Secularization

The relationships between the monotheistic traditions and the phenomenon of secularism leave much to be clarified and established. A large gap exists between the discussion on secularism in academic spheres and its discussion among believers. It is important for us to relate to this issue to the extent that it bears upon interfaith partnership, if only to consider the possibility of an analogy between the appearance of the idea of secularism and the appearance of the Christian and Muslim religions. We must first say that one cannot consider secularism to be a neutral position; it carries a world of challenging and competing values. Secondly, just as in the ideas of Judaism and of Islam, there is not one sole concept of secularism; there are multiple possibilities and manifestations of secular identity. Marxism and capitalism, one division amongst several within domains that are likely to be considered secular, maintain interesting affinities to the monotheistic traditions. For this reason, it would be simplistic to reject secular people from the ba’al dat category, just as it would be imprudent to include secularism in the category of “possessors of religion.” We therefore note secularism as a question (even if we leave it unanswered) in order to explain that in its case the concept of ba’al dat changes entirely. It would be as simplistic to consider secularism idol worship if only because the concept of idol worship itself has undergone transmutations. Secularism, as a domain, holds the promise of facilitating religion and interfaith collaboration.

To the extent that it concerns Judaism, the expression “nations secured by the ways of religion” makes the distinction between nations that “possess a religion” and those that do not. Halbertal expanded on this concept and relates to it as referring to nations possessing a civilization, as opposed to those that have none; between nations governed by state laws, and nations that are not. It is interesting to read this interpretation against the background of Rabbi Albo’s words, in which he proposes several basic distinctions:

There are three kinds of law (dat): natural, positive or conventional (nimusit), and Divine. Natural law is the same among all peoples, at all times and in all places. Positive or conventional is a law ordered by a wise man or men to suit the place and the time, and the nature of the persons who are to be controlled by it, like the laws and the statutes enacted in certain countries among the ancients idolaters, or those who worship God as human reason dictates without any divine revelation. Divine law is one that is ordered by God through a prophet, like Adam or Noah, or like the custom or laws which Abraham taught men, instructing them to worship God and circumcising them by the command of God, or one that is ordered by God through a messenger whom He sends and through whom He gives a law, like the law of Moses. (Volume 1, Chapter 7).

The intent of natural religion is to do away with injustice and bring veracity closer, so that people may refrain from robbery, theft, and murder, in such a manner that human society may continue and exist, and every one protected from the hand of injustice and wickedness. The intent of the conventional religion is to do away with indecency and bring closer that which is proper, so that people will distance themselves from what is reprehensible, as is widely known. And in this it is to be preferred to the natural one, for the conventional also corrects people’s behavior respects the concept of family and organizes the governance of their affairs. The Jewish world faced the challenges of Christianity and Islam, in part, with the concept ba'al dat, and Albo's distinctions bear an interesting contribution. It is particularly enlightening to compare the distinction between "nations secured by religion" and nations that are not thus secured attributed to Hameiri and Rabbi Joseph Albo's list of principles.

Yet although these approaches may have the potential of proposing interesting ways of relating to the question of law in secular states, they appear to lack the capacity to decisively determine these fateful issues. The course implied by Barth and Levinas' position is to extend the concept of idolatry. We note here only the great potential this course indicates and outline our context for the issue we face. Idol worshipping has historically been identified with paganism, as worship of the celestial spheres, trees, or mountains. With time, this concept has been extended to include the self-anointed and the "god of money,” and even materialism has been suspected as idolatry. Indeed, the political-spiritual challenge is less likely to be found in a remote tribe throwing flower petals to a river goddess than in bullying regimes. The proposition that arises naturally is to view tyrannical regimes and personality cults, the likes of which we have encountered during the twentieth century, as idolatry. Stalin and Mao's regimes each merit the crown of idolatry, not for having been materialistic or worshipped money, nor for having been atheistic, but rather because they sought to take on the role of gods for their respective peoples. Non-democratic regimes are the prime suspects likely to fall under the category of the updated concept of idolatry. In lieu of Hameiri's position that linked the lack of faith to lawless behavior [14] we may set political tyranny as today's relevant challenge to faith and consider it as dangerous idolatry.

C. An Age of Great Dangers

Just as the appearance of additional religions and the changes they undergo affect the attitudes of other religions, the appearance of secularism challenges the different religions to a similar extent, in ways that have yet to be resolved. Nevertheless, the development of ideas is not alone in imposing change; events and cultural changes do so as well. Important historic developments have changed relationships between the religions, and the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel generated promising changes in Christianity’s attitude to Judaism. There is, nevertheless, no a priori mechanism that can ensure that these great changes will be followed by the desired change in its system of norms. One should note the enormity of the oversight, of the failed opportunity for change, in the helplessness exhibited by the trustees of the religions by their not apprehending the situation and failing to save the world from the great tragedy of the twentieth century. Emmanuel Levinas and Karl Barth were able, from the start, to identify the rise of Nazism led by Hitler as idolatry. Their reading was clear and, in the case of Levinas and Levinas’ nation, fateful. The huge deficiency of Judaism and Christianity was in finding neither the tools nor the language, or perhaps not the strength, to face these developments. The context is secularism, communism and fascism, and the forces of faith lacked the required armies. It was actually Hitler and the fascist countries that were quick to harness religious tendencies to the great madness that transpired over humanity.

Today we would add an instructive value to every change, beyond the norm of “because of the ways of peace,” although it, too, is linked to this idea. I refer to a concern for the world’s continued existence and to humanity's progress, and to the prevention of global disasters. The concept of war has undergone a dramatic change, no serious politician can assure us that war is "the continuation of policy by other means" as promised by Carl von Clausewitz. Furthermore, one should add here that it is impossible to leave the responsibility to “secular” atheistic positions, seeing as in this case it is the rise of religion and religious fanaticism that have created this harsh situation. The combination of  religious fanaticism and weapons of mass destruction creates a threat to human life. Levinas and Barthes’ “missed opportunity” led to the greatest destruction of the twentieth century. What is at stake in the current situation is different: It is more dangerous, and religious believers play a significant role in the threats that face our societies.

C. 1 Three Possible Avenues

What possibilities lie before us in facing these existential threats? The first is to blur the differences between the religions to which we each respectively belong and to accept that blind loyalty is too high a price to pay. The beauty and truth in this alternative are difficult to resist. It aligns us to what is paramount: love, compassion, and a peace served by us all, yet this avenue is problematic precisely from a most essential aspect. It cannot include the zealot's perception of truth, namely, that God's claims transcend the claims of humanity. For the zealot, faithfulness entails an unequivocal loyalty to faith, even when that leads to harming others.

To be willing to destroy humanity cannot be the goal of human redemption! Neither is it clear how differences between the faiths may be both bridged and yet glossed over. A Jew observes the Torah as ones’ only doctrine, at least in terms of worship, while another Jew may end up rejecting these teachings; or one claims that the Torah was forged by Ezra the Scribe while another recognizes the validity of prophecy or does not feel at all bound by the Messiah of other religions. How can differences in basic principles between the faiths be blurred? There are those who have opted for martyrdom when asked to agree to some such violations of their beliefs—are they now expected to convert their loyalties, those of their fathers and their forefathers?

A second approach to bridging the gap between the faiths is to maintain our hold on our loyalty as it has been interpreted to date. This second approach will appeal to those just people who do not seek excuses for themselves or for their nation. This, I believe, is a valid, worthy and laudable way. Divine mercy is promised to those who do not alter their faith and remain on their path—even when it seems to lead to the most terrifying conclusions imaginable.

Believers have thus far been torn by these two options, while many Secularists who were, in any case, uncomfortable with religion, generally preferred to denounce religious fanaticism rather than take responsibility for the situation, and few chose to take any decisive steps (see the quotation from Habermas below).

There remains a basis for yet an additional position. As Rabbi Yehuda Halevi established, wars are not random events. It may be naïve to say, “Why be at war?” when we share the same Father, but this position is disrespectful to warriors and to the memory of their devotion. In the Mahabharata of India the warrior who excels is he who fulfills his duty. At the end of the day, it is possible that God will embrace all those who fought for Him, even if they fought against each other, and it is likely that the naïve person will appear to be disingenuous, and as one who did not follow his conscience. It is indeed superfluous to tell a shahid or martyr that he is unaware that we share the same Father. Humanism, on its own, will not suffice to show us the path, particularly when the fanatic has developed positions resistant to humanism, pluralism, and the like. Nevertheless, we may follow this logic, namely, that war is not a random occurrence, and consider the war against wars as divine will.

C. 2 The Third Possibility

Loyalty to our tradition does not prevent us from observing the deep transformations that took place in this same tradition and that were put into effect by the greatest of believers; this is the issue that now confronts us. The idea of “because of the ways of peace” generated important innovations, yet there are no guarantees that it can meet contemporary challenges. It is in this context that I wish to propose a reading of the known adage, “Therefore love ye truth and peace.” Simply understood, this text states that these two demands lie in contrast to each other; the pursuit of peace can be at the expense of truth (for example, Aaron lied in order to bring peace); we may propose a second reading stating that pursuing truth will not bring peace. The following reading is, however, also conceivable: Sustainable peace cannot be based on a lie, and a truth pursued that does not result in peace cannot be true.

Motivation for collaboration between the monotheistic traditions is likely to be of several sorts: democracy and faith, technological questions that cause discomfiture to faith, loss of the value of humanity, the defection of many from religious life. We may add to these Rabbi Riskin’s laudable initiative, coming from the Orthodox camp, which sought to rethink Jewish-Christian dialog so as to make a stand in face of Islamic fanaticism and terror, and to deal with the world’s relative apathy.[15] There is much to learn from Rabbi Riskin’s position, yet what is here proposed is different. First, we include all those who consider themselves party to these principles, including Muslims, Christians, and Secularists who believe in the existence of God and take responsibility for the value of Man. A Muslim who considers the proposed cooperation to be essential and important is as welcome as is a Christian or Jew. There is, in any case, significant room for those values to be found in the diverse Secularist camps— even for those who do not believe in God[16] may win a religionist’s favor. The issue we face, on the one hand, is the understanding that the merger between fanaticism and weapons of mass destruction threatens the planet’s existence, just as—in a thought-provoking way—the combination between idolatry and atomic weaponry, which may be discerned in North Korea, for example, create a similar menace. On the other hand, we understand that the liberal camp cannot be left on its own. What about the sons and daughters of the traditions who consider such “combinations” to be a distortion of their very tradition? This threat, in conjunction with the awareness that the powers on hand are desperately in need of help, lie at the basis of our proposal.

In his discussion, Rabbi Riskin raises the idea of  tikkun olam, “rescuing the world” as a concept  that can be understood at the same level as the category indicated by “because of the ways of peace.” It can be termed “the peace of the world,” and this would hardly be an overstatement. This category is intended to instruct us—the faithful, in our dealing with the impending dangers of our time, dangers that were unimaginable in previous generations. I will attempt below to develop what lies behind this idea in a certain direction, without entering the world of Jewish Law, in the hope that the latter will find the way to make beneficent use in the creation of a halakhic category of the type I recommend here.

Loyalty to tradition is a good thing in itself but for the fact that, in a non-relativistic world, a structural aspect of belonging to a tradition is its limiting of the validity of the Other’s tradition. My friend Omar Salem claimed that one of the values to which he is committed is the protection of the right to adhere to one’s tradition. This idea is a lofty one, and yet peace lovers cannot afford such lofty ideas, for my loyalty to my tradition imposes your criticism upon me. Does this mean the end of partnership? There remains, however, a meaningful set of shared values to be proposed to every monotheistic position and that has instructional potential on the matter at hand. Thus, even if we are in a bitter disagreement that, in itself, is the divine will, and there is nevertheless a meaningful set of values to which we are all committed, which, for purposes of this discussion, I will call "Enlightened Monotheism." This can be defined through tenets shared by most, if not all, monotheistic traditions. I am not aiming here at a rigorous definition; rather, I hope that the following remarks will help us place the concept within the domain of ideas.

1. 1. 1. The world has a foundation-Creator-Source; Nature is the result of the will of God.
      2. Moral laws and the domain of values in general are objective; they are not accidental results of natural processes.
      3. God and the domain of values intimately related.

The metaphysical dimension of Enlightened Monotheism can be reduced to one sentence: The source of reality is related to the Good.

1. 1. 4. Men and women derive their absolute value from their relation to the domain of norms that surpasses nature.
      5. Moral action brings humanity close to God.  
      6. Since God is one, and there is no other god who might surpass Him, observing the imperative to follow God is the highest achievement.
      7.  Humans can always aspire to a closer relationship with God. As long they are alive they can strengthen this relationship.
      8. An individual’s freedom of choice is a condition for a life of faith.

And a most important principle that must be emphasized in contemporary conflicts:

i. Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.

What concerns us are our meaningful shared values; I did not attempt to enumerate all the shared values and symbols. One could easily add the value of study, the fact that God hears the prayers of every one of us, the Old Testament, the significance of Jerusalem, values of modesty and family values – which are not reducible to moral values, identifying with those who suffer and so on. Faced with these, one might think that the similarities are so numerous that they threaten differences. Nevertheless, in order to clarify that which I here propose, it is worthwhile making the comparison to other shared systems, if only in one or two sentences. The seven Noahide commandments to which, according to Judaism, all human beings, whatever their origins, are obligated. They do not include belief in God yet they do include the prohibition of idolatry. Most of the principles I outlined above do not apply to them. Of Rabbi Albo’s principles only the first is included here, while I do not mention the other two—reward and punishment, and the origin of Torah as Divine revelation—despite the fact that some of the principles I enumerated above (a – i) are to be found in the Jewish tradition. The differences between monotheistic religions cannot conceal the huge expanse of their common ground.

C. 2.1 Expansion  

Karl Barth made the attempt to create a platform from which to withstand the ill winds he identified that were raging in his country at the time, and as a good Christian, he tried to take action to abolish the idolatry that arose within the rise of Nazism. Our parallel proposal is that the alliance between those working to promote the broad expanse of common ground shared by all monotheistic camps must be constructed in face of the dangerous developments within monotheism. This movement of activists from the world over will go beyond interfaith dialog and not be limited to clerics from all creeds, despite the fact that it may well receive their support; it will advance toward establishing a shared political and social agenda. This will not be an encounter for the making of mutual acquaintance, nor even for a clarification of principles of faith, but will deal with taking action whose central justification will be – without exaggeration – the prevention of great disasters or, put in a positive way, the rescue of world peace.

Thus, along with the great ideologies that traverse traditions, such as Liberalism, Marxism or Feminism, this will be a broad ideology that will include members of different traditions who are, on the one hand, committed to their own traditions yet perceive the obligation of acting together with members of other traditions for the benefit of shared values, on the other.

Several questions naturally present themselves that deserve immediate comment. See the relationship to democracy (the interview between Habermas and the previous Pope). It seems to me that the answer here is rather simple. Tyranny is the modern day idolatry and the battle with every tyrannical regime is certainly an important task for the partnership under discussion. From the point of view of Judaism, it is not surprising that tyranny, as an expression of idolatry, and a disregard for the value of human life go hand in hand. A deeper question concerns the tendency to control that is found in certain interpretations of some traditions—the ideal that Islam, Judaism or the Catholic Church will rule over everything. Here too, it seems that democracy is the condition for the integration of interfaith joint forces. The suspicion that adherents to freedom harbor toward clerics who claim to be His representatives on earth is well-founded in human history. Our expectation is that here, too, the principles of the separation of powers, freedom of religion etc. are most likely to be well secured in a democratic regime. What is important here is that these activists acting from their traditions know how to differentiate between the secular regimes that secure freedom of religion and those that do not.

We know in advance that in the struggle between religions over truth God is the sole victor. And yet we must examine how it is possible to maintain the demands of a particular tradition for this or that hegemony. Here we require scholarly investigation of the principles of faith. In the Jewish camp, the most important page on the position concerning messianic days is to be found in Maimonides’ writings. According to him, the End of Days is not to be a battle between nations that will determine who is right but a debate between faiths on Truth. An important objective follows for this same covenant: to allow exploration of the truth, perpetual study. Thus, rather than pursuing heretics, we will strive for to establish the conditions required for profound study and for clarification of the truth, whatever it may be. We say to the zealot, “Promote peace and prayer.” Even if God commanded us to battle, He may yet be merciful when He sees that we seek His victory and not our own, and be content with our love and with our will to know the truth itself. Never did He seek our love so that we should be at war with each other, and when he demanded that we enter battle – it was to ensure that we love and worship Him.

Summary

The differences between “possessors of religion” in no way diminish the deep affinity between them. Monotheism, despite its absolute demands from its believers, affords them with sufficient leeway for major differences. This forms the basis of the term ba’al dat. Life between “possessors of religion” gave rise to concepts such as “because of the ways of peace,” which also underwent transformations over time. The challenges we face in the 21^st century were unconceivable by our forefathers and present us with issues of partnership that preclude blurring differences or endangering loyalties to the basic principles of ba’alei dat. My position on imminent and massive disasters outlined here proposes an expansion of the norms that inform us. The merger between weapons of mass destruction and fanaticism – which is not only hypothetical – is one such challenge, but there are others. What I present above, while not an entirely consolidated position, is intended principally to facilitate this important—and possibly fateful – discussion, and may be summed up in the five statements:

1. While the concepts ba'al dat or "nations secured by religion" were intended to enable Jewish life among Christians, the concept of Enlightened Monotheism here proposed as an update of ba'al dat is intended to define the domain of a system of norms to enable the common battle shared by all those who consider themselves faithful to the monotheistic tradition.

2. While trends in Jewish Law sought to limit manifestations of idolatry and found support in expressions such as "nations secured by the ways of religion,” what is suggested here is to extend the concept of idolatry to include political tyranny.

3. The expression "because of the ways of peace" falls short of the task at hand and should be replaced by the expression shlom 'olam—"world peace.” I do not necessarily refer to utopia but rather propose a positive term for the idea of preventing mass disasters.

4. When placing the emphasis on the common ground between the diverse traditions one should also point out relevant components found in the monotheistic religions, the most important being "Thou shalt not take the Lord's Name in vain,” which we tend to forget in times of conflict.

5. The schema proposed does not avoid the deep identification one maintains with one's own tradition and, while embracing openness to other traditions , considers it a vitally important condition to avoid blurring differences.

Misha  Edel concentrated his gaze one last time on the black ,contorted mask that had made him famous.  The snout, or some would say the curved trunk ,would have to be shortened, he decided,   the jaw cover tightened to produce the sound he wanted.  

He looked at himself briefly in the mirror.  The mask made him appear like a hideous cross between a monkey, a pig and an elephant.   He broke into an almost-smile as he recalled the fright he had caused at his first children’s concert.  He had started by imitating the voice of the Wicked Witch of the West – in the Wizard of Oz – but he had so startled the young audience, some of whom began to wail, that he had to calm them by twisting the snout and becoming Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.”

Tonight, at his final concert, he decided that  he would run through several of his most famous roles – Placido Domingo, Jussi  Bjorling ( sophisticated audiences loved his subtle imitation of the great Swedish singer’s Italian) and more daringly the mezzo-soprano Marilyn Horne.   Then, pivoting rather wildly, he would become the tempestuous Celine and belt out“True Love.”

At the end, with what he hoped would be the show stopper, he would imitate  Jackie Evancho – not the established cross-over  singer of sixteen  - but the little  Jackie, who, at only nine, first stunned the TV world with the voice of a young adult.

Ending with Evancho was a concession.  Deep down, he wanted so much to finish where he himself had begun,  as the ten year old child prodigy auditioning at the famed Barbilo Music Academy  -- his voice so tremulous but so pure. It was that voice he wanted to recover in his finale, the unalloyed, limpid sound of little Misha-le.    But, try as he might, he could not manage it.   When he tried to produce it, what emerged was vaguely recognizable to him but it sounded so distant, without sweetness or character, as if coming forth from a tin box.

How could it be – he asked himself -- that he could not find that voice?  After all it was his own. Just a slight adjustment to the snout, a shorter intake of breath - would that not do it?   

 The high pitch could definitely not be the problem. For so many years, he had handled   even female voices quite easily.  He remembered well his first try at Anna Nebreko.   The audience had gasped, even though he could privately recall several flawed phrases.  

And the Maria Callas recital of five years ago, so much more difficult , had been so successful that several in the audience refused to believe it.  

“Give me the mask” a man in the front row of the orchestra had demanded, his cry rising above the tumultuous applause.   “This is a hoax; I want the mask.”

Several in the audience had tried to quiet the man, but he would not be stopped.   Edel  had broken  into a thin smile  and beckoned him to the stage, but his challenger had hesitated, shrinking , perhaps, at Edel’s willing compliance.

Challenges like this had happened several times before – particularly before skeptical audiences in Tel Aviv and in Berlin.  He had had acoustical engineer, sculptors, specialists of many kinds  examine the mask, as they searched for hidden amplifiers, sound modifiers, digital devices of all kinds – to no avail, of course. 

In Berlin, he had even consented, ten minutes before his imitation of the famous countertenor Andreas Schol, to have an otolaryngologist thrust a tube down his throat to investigate for possible mechanical “aids.”  

Edel’s imitations had gained him enormous acclaim, and until a year ago, he had reveled in the adulation.   But now, as he reached 63, uncomfortable questions had  started to nag at him.   Exactly what were his audiences applauding?  His astounding mimicry?  Surely.   Indeed, he had  been told that several “experts” would rush home after his concerts to play audios of the singers he imitated  and , then , triumphantly   claim that “the great   Edel” had distorted a phrase, struck the wrong pitch, or bellowed instead of crooned.

Nevertheless, his consternation mounted.  If he had imitated the voices of ordinary folk, of someone in the audience --- would the appeal have been as great?  Was it only his resurrection of great singers that was so stirring?   Was he appealing, really, to his listeners’ nostalgia?   

As these disturbing reflections deepened, he yearned more and more to recover   his own voice.  If he could not regain the voice of little Misha -le, could he not, at least,  find the voice of the seasoned, sophisticated  Misha? 

He first thought it would be easy . He would simply discard the mask, take a breath and sing.  He tried one of his favorites, Bach’s “Bleibst Du Bei Mir.”  He had performed it countless times, imitating great male and female lieder singers.  But when he tried to find his own voice, his anguish only grew.  He sang with ease, to be sure, but the voice,  although young and pleasant, sounded strange, foreign.   It was like no other, surely, but it did not sound like him at all.     

He tried again and failed again. His hands grew sweaty, and his throat tightened.  He tried to calm himself. “You haven’t heard yourself in such a long time . .  try to take it easy.”  He tried another song, Mozart’s “Das Kinderspiel ( the children’s game) and found himself almost terrified.   He couldn’t recognize the voice at all..  It was coming out of him.  It surely wasn’t someone else’s but it wasn’t his.  He grabbed the mask.   He tried again.  The voice remained soothing and steady, with a slight vibrato, but, again,  he could not recollect it.

“It has become contaminated by the others; I will purify it,” he reasoned.  He dipped his hand into the small bottle of the special coagulant he had often used to thicken the inside of the snout, so that he would exhale less air.  .  

He felt momentarily relieved as he donned the mask, and, indeed, he easily produced a young male sound  -- frail, slight, pristine , but it was yet another imitation, of whom he could not tell – but it was not his.

A kind of panic gripped him.   He tried again and again, tinkering with the mask, adjusting his breathing, at times stretching or bending, contorting his frame, squeezing his midriff – but to no avail.

Exhausted  --  at last, he gave up.

One the afternoon of the final performance, he stared one last time at the mask and then inserted a small razor blade into the lower part of the instrument. A quick touch of his finger and it would be over.   He would do it immediately after finishing Jackie Evancho’s aria.

Rarely apprehensive before performances, he could barely hold down the honey and fruit mixture he customarily drank a half an hour before coming on stage.   As he entered, he had to grip the mask to hide his quivering fingers. 

 The familiar, rising applause calmed him.    He  lifted the mask, pulled it over his face, and , in a moment,  Bjorling’s confident, powerful “Nessum Dorma “ poured forth, then Placido’s Non Puerde Ser.”  It wasn’t Edel’s best, but the audience barely noticed.  He took the mask off, wiped his brow, and, in front of the rapt, silent crowd, began his customary on-stage rapid gluing and his fiddling with the snout.  The mask was back on , and  Marilyn Horne’s  mezzo soprano filled the concert hall.   The applause was appreciative, adoring, but he knew that he had missed more than one phrase and lost more than one of the high notes.  Worse, he noticed that, toward the end,  the voice was not quite accurate.   It was as if Horne had become an alto.

He wished desperately that there would have been no intermission.   It only increased   his anxiety.  He found himself actually chewing on his mask as he waited to return to the stage.  It was not the final moment with the razor that left his heart pounding.   No --   In his super-meticulous manner, he had tested the razor’s sharpness, worked on the mechanism, located the precise point on his throat.   He would feel a fleeting moment of pain, then he would be gone. Rather -- what drove him to near panic was the fear that he was faltering.   He had been acutely aware of the subtle but noticeable errors in his Horne imitation.  . . . and what was to come later , toward the end of the performance,   Celine’s smooth but torrid “ True Love,”  would be far more difficult.

His foreboding was justified.  He hit all the notes correctly, the phrasing was perfect, Celine’s smooth , saucy voice rang out , but the truly  powerful  , sultriness was absent.  The applause came,  but it was milder, more hesitant,, somewhat subdued.   This was Celine, to be sure, but a Celine without strength, without the sly, sexy confidence.

By the time, he reached the finale, he was sweating visibly.  He reached for some water.  Then pulling the mask to his face as tightly as he could, he thrust his trembling hands into his pockets, shut his eyes and began little Jackie’s “ O Mia Bambino Caro.”  The beginning was astoundingly accurate, and as in the original Evancho moment,  the audience, so swept away by the tiny girl’s amazingly mature, adult  voice, burst into applause.  Then came the final phrases “ Babo, pieta, pieta”  and he stumbled badly.  Suddenly, the audience heard neither the adult voice that so characterized Jackie Evancho’s singing nor the  child’s ultra soprano. 
 

What emerged was not  the sweet  voice of Jackie at all.    As he tried to sing on, the voice was quickly changing,  supplanting entirely the song of little Jackie.  It was a boy’s voice, still very young,  a bit tremulous, yet lovely, quiet  –  It could hardly be heard beyond the orchestra seats.

The audience, so excited and adoring a moment ago, was stunned; there was murmuring, shocked whispering, “ What was wrong?  Where was Evancho?” He started to shake noticeably --   then, pulling his hands from his pockets, he completed  the aria with as much strength as a young boy could muster.   Then,  Misha-le  Edel  sobbed with joy.

Much of my life has been a search for meaning and truth. The Great Mystery often hovers over my search as I move from experience to experience, and often I am left with a remnant of faith in my journey toward truth, and this faith sustains me. I often find that it is the journey itself that is most meaningful and that absolute “Truth” may come in hazy, sudden flashes, but is not always sustainable; for the hester panim (eclipse of God) in our contemporary situation is a formidable energy that can implant doubt in me.

This is the devastating curse of the energy of Amalek—radical evil—that truly dims the “Throne of the Lord,” and attacks our faith. For how can evil flourish in the face of the reality of God; the prevalence of evil hampers our lofty faith. As our mystical sages explain, in gematria (numerology) the word Amalek totals 240; the word for doubt (safek) also totals 240; thus, Amalek symbolizes the insertion of doubt into our psyches. This is the radical evil that must be fought against with increased faith in every generation so that God’s Throne can be manifest in clear Light. It is the movement forward even with this doubt, that I will call faith; “faith rather than truth” is the actual legitimate quest in the thought of some of our most traditional sages.

As a prelude to this path, one might ask: What are some of the prevalent suggestions as to how one finds truth in this world? One way is to move broadly to a recognition of all the myriad energies that flow through us, an integration of these “opposites,” the conscious and unconscious, the kabbalistic sephirot that need to be felt and balanced, the middot that we encounter on the path of mussar. This broad perspective keeps us from seeing life through a narrow lens and perceiving things from that narrow space. This way of expanding consciousness and accessing truth is through an inward journey.

Another way is to trust Scripture, and the transmission of ancient knowledge that we believe is divinely revealed through an event, (Sinai). What happens when there is a clash between the outer dictum, and inner experience, (what happens when we encounter biblical criticism)? Whom do we trust then? Can God be experienced from within, or is there a tension of opposites at that point that leads to a deeper perception and integration that we call Truth or getting closer to truth as it is refined as we live through life’s stages?

            Some of our Sages suggest that we should accept that this is actually a world of faith and not of Truth, and it is the “striving” for truth that is essential. A part of life will always be mysterious, and our reasoning minds can only reach doubt when encountering so many variables. One constant challenge is how we distinguish objective facts from our constant projections. We bring ourselves to everything we encounter, so we have to rely upon a myriad of sources, such as feeling, intuition, imagination, experience, senses, reason, and revelation.

And, yes, there are those who are blessed with the absolute belief in our sages and transmission. It is certainly easier if we live in a community of faith where we are influenced by this energy. Hence, na’aseh v’nishma; our experience influences our perception. But much of our community does not live with this certainty and relies on “faith” rather than Absolute Truth. So let us now explain this specific point of view from the parables and teachings of the Sages.

There is a story told about the Rambam that one day he was visiting a beloved student who was on his deathbed. The Rambam asked that when he reaches the True World to please inquire why bad things happen to good people, why justice is not always achieved in this world. He asked his student to visit him in a dream and reveal to him the answer. The pious student promised to do so. Sure enough, a month after he died he appeared to the Rambam in a dream. The Rambam asked him, “Can you now share with me the answer?” The student replied sadly: “When I was in the upper world, everything was clear to me; truth was crystal clear. But when I crossed over—retuning back to the earthly realm, everything became unclear, questionable, filled with limited perception, so I cannot communicate what I learned up there!”

The Sefat Emet at the end of Bereishith, in Parashat Vayehi, shares a similar idea and gives another reason why this is a world of faith, Emuna and not a world of truth, Emet. When Jacob intended to give blessings to his sons at the end of his life, he gathered them together to reveal to them details relating to the secret of the End of the Days. Rashi points out that he was prevented to do so by an angel. The Sefat Emet explains that the reason for this is that the next world is the world of Emet, but this is a world of Emuna. If indeed, the Truth would be revealed in this world there would be no striving for truth, no growth or depth would occur. Absolute clarity and objective truth are withheld so that human beings would strenuously strive for truth, actualize their potential and contribute to the world. It is the journey toward truth in this world that is even more valuable than the actual truth.

The development of faith contains within it some element of doubt, risk taking, and the virtue of courage, but when one lives a life of faith blessings are achieved. Joseph Campbell suggests this idea when he quotes the philosopher who said, “When you are on a journey, and the goal seems further and further away, the journey itself is the goal.”

The Hassidim present a similar idea inherent in the Hebrew letters. The Torah begins with a letter Bet rather than Aleph. This may seem strange, since Aleph is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet and Bet is the second letter. The Hassidim point out that Aleph connotes unity and oneness; however, this is a world of duality, opposites constantly emerging. This is actually a blessing. The letter Aleph begins the word Arur (a curse), for it leads to a naïve unity, imagining that unity can be achieved without striving. The return to the reality of the Garden of Eden, an imagined place of unity, is actually a desire to be free of stress of the dualities of this world, a desire to sleep, a death wish (Thanatos). The letter Bet (two, duality) is the first letter of the word Berakha (a blessing). It is through engaging with duality, striving to move toward greater unity consciously that creates blessing. The shape of the letter Bet also connotes this; it is closed on three sides and open on the fourth side, incomplete. It is up to us in this world of Emuna to fill in the fourth side, through our striving, through our mitzvoth. Truth in this world is not achieved easily, nor is it supposed to be; hence it is only the next world that is called Olam ha-Emet (the world of Truth).

So how do we come closer to Truth in this world? There are two basic traditional historical approaches. One can be found in the view of the Rambam and the other in the view of Yehuda Halevi. The Rambam’s view is the more rational approach. Because of the beauty and logic of the Torah, one can apprehend the Truth of God’s creation and Presence through study and action. The comprehension of the absolutely wise directives of the Torah trains us “To do the right and the good in the eyes of the Lord” (Deut. 6), thus leading us to the truth. To observe the glory of creation, its infinite biological and physical beauty and complexity leads us to the awe and Truth of the Creator as well. It is not just a contemplative path that leads us there, but the doing of the commandments (na’aseh v’nishmah) that leads to a spiritual path that becomes our truth. When done in fellowship in a community of faith, we also find the support and reaffirmation of this Truth.

Yehuda Halevi approaches our imbibing of truth through historical transmission and witnessing, not just individually but as a whole people. It is because a whole nation witnessed at Mount Sinai the revelation and the transmission of the commandments, and passed it generation after generation. For if the Prophets, the greatest truth tellers were to lie, whom can we trust? And if a whole people witnessed the event of revelation, rather than one person, it attains a reliability that cannot be denied. So it is from the faith of the righteous leaders of all earlier generations, their students and the community of Israel through the generations that we imbibe the truth that we must follow.

In our present day, when Torah study is not always the norm, and when there is not always a connection to a community of believers, the search for truth and meaning is challenging. One is faced with the possibility of many truths rather than one Absolute Truth. Some individuals are able to feel the truth, the still small voice from an inner calling, when one is touched by kindness and intuits that as a spark of God; some from the actions of the righteous, the pious, the courageous in the face of darkness; some from the gentle, resilient response in the face of rational incredulity, where the Mystery of something deeper appears. Some as they walk the inner cities and glance at the hundreds of faces and wonder how incredible that each has a unique story, each is a whole world. How can there not be a Creator, a purpose to this magnificent cosmos! Some obtain moments of a sudden flash of insight, perhaps a dream, perhaps the small still voice in the forest of the redwood trees; perhaps in the restfulness of the Shabbat; some through meditation, or sinking the winning basket in front of a large crowd. It is not only in the supernatural miracles, but in the miracle of the everyday when we are open to the glory of the natural creation that works every day. Perhaps from a kabbalistic perspective we may call it the integration of intuition and wonder (hokhma) into the realm of the rational (binah), which transforms it into a deeper knowledge (da’at), a contact with the Infinite.

The elevated behavior of human beings, especially of the genuinely pious, also point to the spark of Truth that alludes to something beyond our limited perceptions. As an example, Gandhi was asked: “Is God Love?” He responded: “I am not sure if God is Love, this Great Mystery is beyond my comprehension, but I know that to love is Godly.”  In other words, even if God seems to be distant, we can feel the spirit and reality of God by the qualities in human beings that we define as God-like.

Other people can feel God by observing God in nature; the magnificent, awesome beauty and grandeur that transcend all our doubts, through beauty, creativity, music, poetry, song.  And yet we are faced by moments of doubt; and that doubt is a concomitant of faith because it indicates the beyond rational Mystery of Mysteries. If God were a simple rational entity that we could control, doubt would not be present; but would we really be thinking of the Mystery of Mysteries? The doubt, of course, is also engendered by perceiving the world through our limited ego, and the radical evil that we face (Amalek).

The Hassidim suggest that we can learn from the word truth (Emet) itself an important path toward moving toward truth. They explain that the word Emet is made of the first letter of the alphabet, the last letter of the alphabet, and the middle letter—a broad perception. The word for falsehood, (Sheker) is made up of one letter after the other, a narrow perception. So how do we achieve this broad perspective?

One way is to acknowledge that this is a world of continuing complexity (Bet), or as R. Yisrael Salanter states, “Man is a drop of reason in a sea of irrationality,” and one must accept the change that constantly flows, allow it to be a constant learning experience and not cling to a simple truth that leads to disappointment. Truth is not achieved by repressing something that contradicts our initial perception, it is to be welcomed as an additional element to add to our perception, an attempt at balancing competing truths.

We look at the many dimensions of self, discovering how we are ego driven. Until we gain greater consciousness and clarity of the many dimensions of the self, we only live from a constricted perception. We first have to become aware of how we avoid facing the anxiety of the unknown, and remove the blockage in order to grow toward a broader perception. How we erect defenses to avoid vulnerability, potential pain and anxiety must be faced, and ultimately overcome. We must work to create the ability to accept life as it is, with all its changes rather than follow our proclivity to control everything, which is impossible and thus creates pain, anger and distance from God. The path of “control” is living from the realm of the ego and not from faith. When we reach the state of depression and guilt that results from living an ego based life, we move even further from God until we open again to the process of teshuvah and are gathered back through love, living from the realm of faith and meaning.

The attribute of faith implies our ability to at times rest in anxiety rather than trying to escape our discomfort immediately. The enduring of the pain of uncertainty is challenging but it leads to depth and appreciation. It suggests that this is not a world of absolute Emet but a world that contains Mystery as well, and thus necessitates faith. This way of encountering the world moves us from the realm of dogmatic certainty and promotes creativity, depth and sublime learning. As the Kotzker Rebbe taught: “The assertion that one knows the full truth is the demise of religion, the journey toward truth is the flowering of religion.”

Let us conclude by finding within the Torah several indications that the path of faith—of searching for truth in this world rather than owning the absolute truth—is an authentic path to be considered. We find in the Torah a potential example of the necessity to “search” for truth in the story of the eviction from the Garden of Eden. One might interpret that the exile (eviction) of Adam and Eve from the Garden was actually an act providentially built into our universe; that we must go out into the world to discover consciousness and return to the Garden only as developed human beings as opposed to the naïve unity that the Aleph, implies in the origins of the Garden. We must encounter the Bet (opposites in this world), in order to move to the Gimmel (the integration of the opposites), and find wholeness in the Dalet (the attenuation of the ego—Dal=impoverishment—and thus contact with soul). For ultimately, the naïve desire to return to the Garden is an attempt to escape stress, to avoid the discomfort of this world.

This interpretation teaches that we must go out into this world, actualize our God given talents and achieve our destiny through living and giving. The desire to grow (Eros) is the counterforce to our desire to escape stress (Thanatos). It is a very powerful, redemptive trait.

A second example is found in the story of Abraham, when he is visited by three angels after circumcision. Although in great physical pain, his natural inclination to do hessed overcame his physical pain. He proceeded to feed the angels finding spiritual meaning in moving onward rather than choosing to rest and de-stress. The story teaches that the primary way to spiritual fulfillment is to keep moving forward on the path, moving with faith, doing the mitzvoth, even while enduring physical pain. With meaning that stems from giving and following a soul journey, we actualize our spirituality and discover the truth of the soul through faith, even without Absolute Truth.

Moshe Rabeinu, too, is an example of one who achieves faith through the “heroic journey.” He is abandoned as a child but then lives in the palace of the king, the secure place. But something is missing; the material comfort that surrounds him does not satisfy his soul. Life remains a mystery; so he risks leaving his secure place and takes a journey toward the unknown, open to discovery. He has the courage to “turn aside,” and he is blessed to discover the “burning bush” and God’s Presence, and he knows he must share this knowledge with his people and with the world. Faith emanates from his journey, and truth is discovered as a blessing in his search. But then he must return to the reality of people who challenge his faith, through all the changes of life; yet his faith remains strong, and God dwells with him.

In our world, when God does not speak to us as directly as to Moses, Abraham, and the Prophets, we are challenged. The more the darkness of evil reigns the more our faith is impacted (Amalek); the more we as human beings do not act with faith, the more elusive faith becomes. And we turn to other gods—materialism, hedonism, and secular culture—which ultimately fail to give us the awesome, sustaining faith that we yearn for.

So if life is ever changing, and we are always changing, what can we rely upon? Can we accept that the nature of life is change, and discover God within that change?

Maybe we may never find the Truth, but we can, through our actions create faith, a movement toward truth that connects us to something larger. The word mitzvah comes from the root tzavta, to join; through the deed we join with God. Living in a community of faith helps support and strengthen our soul proclivity.   

May each of our unique journeys lead to meaning (faith). And may we discover truth at the end of our lives when we may we look back and see that the journey itself held all the clues to the meaning of our lives. The acceptance of the journey toward truth, leading a life of faith without expecting absolute truth along the journey will lead to Truth itself at the end. The acceptance, the journey itself will become the Truth. We will do and we will understand.