National Scholar Updates

INTRODUCTION

Émile was a popular name for Jewish boys in the Twentieth Century because of the important role that the French writer, Emile Zola,  played in the Dreyfus Affair during the 1890’s. To commemorate  the 108^th anniversary of Zola’s death (September 29, 1902) I would like to tell how Emile Zola was the quintessential whistle-blower of his day and use this case as a model for a discussion of Jewish thinking on the subject, which is  the exposure of  ethical wrong-doing  in public or private life.

The whistle-blowing  I will discuss is a series of articles in newspapers and published pamphlets in which Zola exposed the criminal  wrong-doing committed by the military courts against the  Jewish Army Captain, Alfred Dreyfus,  falsely accused of treason. At this point I would point out that Zola also exposed himself to scorn and personal danger  despite his not having known Dreyfus or his family.  In short he risked   reputation, fame, and safety  to do something that was the right thing to do.  This paper will concentrate on some of Zola’s writing and then discuss their content with respect to Jewish ideas..

Emile Zola was not Jewish but his heroic support of Captain Alfred Dreyfus is a very courageous example of  ethical engagement.  I will show how the points made in each paper was a part of the overall act of whistle blowing.  I will develop this structure in the following outline in which each ethical point of the overall argument is listed next to the title (in italics)  of the respective writing in which it is expressed:

1. Defending the innocent (M. Scheurer-Kestner)
2. Accusing the general culprit and the root of all evil (The Proceedings)
3. Proving his point (The Syndicate)
4. Calling to the conscience and ethics of France while warning of the danger of racism, hypocrisy and intolerance  (Letter to France)
5. Addressing the future (Letter to the Young)
6. An unrestrained offensive: the facts of the case in detail for each malefactor, a summary of all the other papers. (J’Accuse)

The progressive  nature of the argument serves to indicate  the evil in the case and  its danger for  France. He calls on the entire country to do the same.  Let us now focus in on each of these writings.

It seems that most Jews know something about   Emile Zola’s 1898 newspaper article,  “J’accuse”.(1) That legalistic,  but very literary, document  exposed one by one each of  the judicial crimes of  the military Court Martial involved in the 1894 Dreyfus trial and conviction by court martial.   However, few know of Zola’s articles and pamphlets that just preceded “J’accuse” at the end of 1897.  They were the first outbursts of his  moral outrage at the injustice rendered to this French officer simply because he was Jewish.   

These works are Zola’s exhortation  to the conscience of France.  Although not written in the form of a dialogue, because there is no riposte, they are written to that large, almost abstract, body called “France”.  Prophetic exhortations to the Jewish people who have strayed from God are similar to this style of writing.  Without invoking  God, but reason alone, Zola implores his readers to return to an ethical way of thinking and acting, all in the name of truth, benevolence, and justice. His whistle-blowing  is an accusation of the powers that be – in this case,  the military Court Martial.  I will show how Jewish thinking about ethics would encourage this  kind of moral outrage to and overt exposure of  criminal behavior, even on the part of the highest court of the land.

BACKGROUND HISTORY TO ZOLA’S 1897 WHISTLE-BLOWING

In 1897 Zola joined other notables (like Senator Scheurer-Kestner)  who supported Dreyfus’ defense. Their efforts had already stimulated a vicious  reaction among pro-clerical, pro-military  newspapers that  labeled “the traitor Jew” Dreyfus a  Judas Iscariot who had sold his loyalty to country and  deserved to be rotting in solitary confinement on Devil’s Island. An ongoing investigation of the judicial aspects of the case had disclosed errors in the form of misidentification of the handwriting on the critical piece of  evidence –  a memorandum sent to the German Embassy.  Another French officer, Commandant Marie Charles Ferdinand Walsin- Esterhazy, was implicated and was to be tried by a military court on January 10, 1898.

At this point in time, the end of 1897, Zola was relying on Esterhazy’s conviction to free Dreyfus.  With this in mind, he began to blow his whistle by publishing the series of letters and brochures (M. Sheurer-Kastner, The Syndicate, The Proceedingsl Letter to France, Letter to the Young,). (2)  For Zola each was  a  strategic, low intensity  shot over the bow of the enemy forces, making one ethical point very strongly.  The victory was  considered imminent after the forseen  outcome of the Esterhazy trial.   Each shot was directed to a particular target and the whole produced a very effective volley of exposure and incrimination.

Notwithstanding these publications, Esterhazy’s  court martial trial ended in his disquieting acquittal,  a crushing blow to the  Dreyfus-Zola forces.  Zola’s immediate response   was to compose and publish within two days,  for a public still shaken by the aftermath of this new, unexpected shock wave, his devastating accusation, fully blasting each of the members of the collusive military court for their lies, misrepresentations, dismissal of evidence, and other calumnies. (“J’accuse” 13 January, 1898) 

This beautiful, political work of art is an open letter to the President of the French Republic.  It  forced the government to try Zola himself for libel.  This would  bring the Dreyfus case out of military jurisdiction and  place it squarely in the civil arena with Zola himself,  the new target.  At last the Affair became a matter of open, transparent, civil proceeding before a civilian jury.  The beginning of the final victory was in sight!  As Zola said, “Truth was finally on the march; nothing could stop it now”.

THE ARTICLES AND BROCHURES

In this essay I will  discuss only  the three articles and the two brochures that preceded “J’accuse”.    I selected and translated certain sections  to show  how Zola artfully focused his  attacks on the various evils and injustices that he had uncovered.

What is in these five papers?  They  tell the story of  a judicial error in the Dreyfus trial, which must be corrected.  They call for  public outrage to save the nation. 

“M. Scheurer-Kestner”

« M.  Scheurer-Kestner »   tells the reader about this popular, elderly, politically untarnished Senator who was being slandered by the anti-semitic press because he had expressed concern about a judicial error in the Dreyfus trial.  Zola points out the blatant stupidity of these accusations which described Scheurer-Kestner as a mercenary sell out to the Jewish-Protestant-Masonic cabal, despite his being  an independently wealthy businessman, and a great supporter of the French Army which was reorganized  after the humiliating defeat by Prussian forces in 1870.  In fact, Zola emphasizes that his decision to express public doubt was based on his independent review of the facts and not by solicitation by the Dreyfus forces.  

Zola  points his finger at “brainless anti-Semitism” as the cause  of public blindness to the foolishness  of  slandering Scheurer-Kestner’s good name.  “Here we are in this terrible mess where all emotions are false and where one cannot seek justice without being treated like a senile person or one who has sold out for money…(…)….The stupidest stories are written by the serious newspapers, the entire nation is stricken with madness, when only a small amount of common sense would put things back in place. ….(…)….When Scheurer-Kestner spoke of his duty…. he had only this to say,  ‘I could not live with myself knowing he was innocent’  All of us, mixed up in this Affair, must say the same thing to ourselves.  That we too would not be able to live if we did not seek justice.”

“The Proceedings”

“The Proceedings”” ridicules the accusation of Dreyfus’ selling out France for money, noting that he is independently wealthy and has no mercenary motive.  Zola points the finger of accusation at anti-Semitism itself.  It is the root of the evil.  It is the evil culprit in this case.

“The guilty party is anti-Semitism itself.  This  is a  barbarous campaign, which I have said throws progress back 1000 years,   revulses me and insults my basic need for fraternité, my passion for tolerance, and for human emancipation.  The return to religious wars, of one race killing off another, is such nonsense in our age of liberation that such movements seem imbecilic to me.”  Zola concludes that after the judicial error had been revealed and published by others, the court should have been doing his work for him – that is, convicting Esterhazy. 

«The Syndicate »

In “The Syndicate”  Zola simply makes his point again using the technique of ridicule.   He ridicules the popular opinion that there is a very rich Jewish conspiracy  that will pay off all concerned to  protect Dreyfus.  He describes to the reader what this syndicate, this conspiracy, would look like, who would be part of it, and how they might be coerced to falsify truth.  This is a  satirical reductio ad absurdum. 

Speaking as if her were  in favor of the alleged syndicate, Zola says,  “The traitor was judged by a military court.   He is responsible not just for the present treachery but for all past historical examples that have brought defeat on the French nation (this assumes that our army  could only be defeated by internal treachery).  So, Dreyfus is also responsible for the defeat of France in 1870.  Dreyfus is an abominable shame for the Army because he is of the race that sold his God.  By this token, his family, being Jewish, is also guilty. All Jews are guilty in this Affair.  The proof is that his family is spending money to save his name and to expose the French army to slander.  Since they have brought witnesses with good character and reputation, they must have spent large sums of money because there is limitless money in the Jewish cabal.”

Here, Zola, emphasizes his own objective, ethically impeccable, position in the Affair.  He states that he has no close Jewish friends, wants to let the reader know that he is treating Dreyfus with a calm, objective reasonableness -- e.g., “I, Zola, talk about the Jews calmly because I neither hate nor love them.  Indeed I have no intimate friends among them.  For me they are only men, but that is enough to protect them from injustice.   So, if there is a syndicate that is organized to save an innocent prisoner and expose a judicial error on the part of the military High Command, then I too, Emile Zola, want to be part of it.”  

“Letter to France”

This is Zola’s call to the conscience of France to do something to oppose evil and injustice.  He tells them not to believe the lies about a conspiracy.  He says, “How have the good and humble people of the provinces been swayed by the righteous lies of the reactionary press?  They are simply not capable of weighing the questions we put before them and they believe what they read.  Why do they get sucked into the fear, intolerance and hate so they will refuse to listen to the argument that a condemned innocent man might be suffering his agony for a crime he did not commit?

I am trying to warn you of the gravity of the error, of the power of the tempest that will follow.   What is happening is outright duplicity and stupidity, enough to make an honest reader very angry.   Any child can see that the memorandum and Esterhazy’s handwriting sample are one and the same.    If the conviction of Dreyfus was made on the basis of showing that his handwriting was  on the memorandum, and if now, it has been shown that it is not, does his release not follow immediately?  Why is the court sitting again if not to decide on this question alone?  Is it only sitting to make another point of fact – that it, the court, is and was correct, even though this conclusion is based on more lies?  Is this why we are seeing so many lies piled up over the issue of the memorandum which is, when all is said and done, the whole Affair itself?.......(…..)………But the facts are worse, there are a collection of serious symptoms for those who know, see, and can judge what is happening to you.  The Dreyfus Affair is not just a deplorable incident…..(…)… it has affected your behavior and your health.  You know how someone goes about looking healthy, but suddenly, little eruptions are seen on his skin: one can see death in the process. The  political and social  poisoning is seen on your face.” 

He is aware of  a deep love of dictatorship in the French soul.    “I see here an unconscious return to  military dictatorship.  This is not republican behavior; you seem ready to fall in love with the first king who presents himself before you.  No, it is not the army you care about; it is the general you want in your bed, again.” 

He admonishes the return to medieval intolerance.  “Where are you headed, France?  Back to the Church, back to the medieval past, one of theocracy and intolerance that your children fought to vanquish with their blood.  Today the tactic of anti-Semitism is very simple. The Church tried in vain to bring people together as working-man societies, pilgrimages,  but could not lead them back to the altar. It was a fact. The Churches were empty; people would no longer go and no longer believed.  So, circumstances permitted  the kindling in the people of anti-Semitic rage, and poisoned them with this fanaticism, pushing them into the streets, crying ‘Down with the Jews.  Kill the Jews’.”

“Letter to the Young”

This is an emotional exhortation to the future, to the passionate twenty year olds who bring out Zola’s memory of his own youthful energies and his fantasies of righting all wrongs in an unjust world.  Again he makes an explosive, violent attack against Church anti-Semitism as a “..cynical, brutal plan to bring  the disenchanted Catholic French public back to the Mass.”  He then repeats the simple facts of the case. “Look   at the Dreyfus Affair and the simple facts.  A man is condemned on the basis of handwriting on a memorandum. He is now rotting on a desert island subjected to the world’s worst tortures.  He would be there for good if a man of integrity, reexamining the facts of the matter, did not have grave doubts that afflicted his conscience.  So a judicial error was claimed and now the process of working that out is ongoing, slowly, systematically, and a new trial is in process,  concerning another person whose handwriting seems so identical  that a two year old child could see the similarity without having to call in experts.  If he is convicted, the matter will be put to rest and Dreyfus will be freed and the other will take his place.”

He closes by raising again the danger of anti-semitism, when he says, “But look at the harmful quality of anti-Semitism.  Look at the  Affair.  Can there be young antisemites? Can such poison obscure the clear reason of the young mind?  Can the poison of the press control them? ”  He is asking the youth if they will accept anti-Semitism in the new Century and if they will poison themselves and their nation with it.

 He closes on a very prophetic tone.  “Oh young people, our youth, I beg you to think of the task ahead.  You are the future working class, you are those who will govern the future assemblies of people, we have deep faith in you, you will resolve the problems of truth and justice we have left for you…..(…)….. We only ask that you open your minds and be more generous than even we were  toward the lives that will be lived,  by your efforts entirely placed in work, fecundity and working the earth,   from which shall bloom forth the overflowing harvest of joy under the shining sun.” (3)

THE ETHICAL DILEMMA

What can we learn from these examples of Zola’s  moral outrage and whistle blowing?

On a political level media exposure  can be effective in calling attention to an abuse, a wrongdoing, a criminal act, or a judicial error.  There are examples in recent American history.  There is  the  courageous journalism  of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein in the Watergate Affair that led to the resignation of a President.  There were many who wrote and spoke out    about abuses in the South during early school integration.  They stimulated others to sacrifice personal  comfort and safety to participate in bus rides and marches into the land of Jim Crow.   There are many other examples.

On an ethical level Zola’s  whistle-blowing relies on reason for its moral authority.   Zola, like Enlightenment thinkers, does not invoke God but only the forces of reason – that is, the ideals of   truth and justice.  He is saying we must do what is right because it is right.  The reward for doing right will be its own reward.  He also says, in his way,  that the reward for a sin will be a sin.  In his words, the prosperity or the degradation of the French nation is at stake.

There is the problem.  How can ethical responses be expected from those who have opposing beliefs and feelings?  What Zola calls truth and justice is not what his opponents see as truth and justice.

Even if you, the reader, find that  Zola’s arguments are valid and see that Dreyfus has been convicted mistakenly, that Esterhazy is guilty, and that anti-Semitism is the evil force, why would you expect a change on the part of the those who believe differently? Equally passionately, the anti-Dreyfusard coalition believed that  Dreyfus had sold France to the enemy and that the pride and security of the nation was at stake?  Is Zola’s expression of moral outrage not just another  example of preaching to the converted?  Does man not need the authority of  some force, other than reason alone, to convince others of the righteousness of his own ethical position?

Is a religious ethic necessary?    Do we  have to follow  God’s commandments to accomplish our daily ethical goals and to be sure that we are  following the higher (Divine) Law?  Must we seek a reward from God  when we pray that evil and injustice be overcome?    If  the court in question were the  highest religious court, the bet din, representing the Law of God on earth, would we be able to encourage a Jewish Emile Zola, an individual in the Jewish community, to rebuke an unjust, perhaps criminal, decision?  Could that individual Jew blow his whistle to expose it? What does halakhah

 say about     it?  Does        it      extend the principle of rebuke (tochacha) of man by God to the rebuke of  any, one man of the learned, respected scholars who make up the bet din?  Does my using Zola and the French high military court serve as a valid model in the discussion of tochacha and similar Jewish ideas?

These are all difficult questions that are worthy of an answer.

My brief personal discussion of the question with a respected rosh yeshivah taught me that an individual outside the court is commanded to expose injustice, even when committed by highly learned scholars.   If the court were to commit a misjudgement leading to an injustice, the individual would be obliged to  expose and to rebuke it  He must not accept wrong-doing in any form without a reaction.  He must not do business with someone who is fraudulent, lying, and hypocritical. (4)

This lesson can be extended to  individual  American Jewish citizens faced with injustice in daily personal and communal life.    They should feel that the reward of doing a good act, of which appropriate whistle-blowing is an example, will be the reward of doing the right thing itself.

Our children should also be taught this mitzvah at home and in the classroom.  But the problem is to know how to teach them to  speak up bravely to expose injustice, lying, and hypocrisy?     The individual, child or adult, who does this will run the risk of mockery, humiliation and ostracism by his peers.

I would suggest that the classroom might take suitable models from secular life as well as from Tanach.  I would propose that this combined approach can be an effective way to teach  ethical principles.  One can examine the relative importance of  religious belief to the reasonableness of daily thinking and action.  Zola’s relying on the authority of reason alone is one such example. 

More intense classroom instruction about the Dreyfus Affair itself might be useful to students in the 21^st Century.   In this context one could have lessons from the life of the Jewish communal leader, Rabbi Zadoc Khan, during the Dreyfus Affair.  In that way one could examine critically the leadership roles in the Parisian Jewish community during that particular crisis. ( 5  )  French anti-Semitism around the Dreyfus Affair could be integrated into the unfolding historical background of the Shoah, the most extreme example of evil and injustice in Jewish (and human) history.  Using that approach one could demonstrate convincingly perhaps that the principle of  early exposure of  evil is preferable to accepting and suffering its ultimate consequences.

By studying and discussing the Shoah scientifically we could determine if religious Jews could and would accept a demystification of the nature of catastrophic evil, and particularly, of  the Shoah. We might be able to learn something more by examining the Shoah from socio-psychological standpoints, human perspectives, without  demeaning its Jewish significance or necessitating  God’s presence (or absence) in it. (6) I would propose this approach in order to  shift the focus of fate and destiny from God to man?   Would it be effective and acceptable to teach children that prayer does not consist wholly of  man’s beseeching God for favors but also of man’s  beseeching himself to make the choices that will enable his prayers to come true?   Such an approach would include the principle of whistle-blowing.  In this way  Zola’s  example  would teach our children  that a society perverting justice,  not actively helping  the plight of the poor and downtrodden, and losing its focus of national purpose, cannot endure.  This was Zola’s message in his 1897 writings but also the message transmitted in his masterful fiction.   

Whistle-blowing in our daily professional life is a real issue.  Examples of purposeful misrepresentation, hypocrisy, and malfeasance can be found.   These are problems for individual conscience to solve when confronting injustice and evil.  Can we rely on our own conscience to choose correctly and to  regulate the personal impulses that might drive ourselves or others to commit  unfair, unjust, and even,  criminal actions?

This question reminds of a Shabbat morning drush in our shul on the subject of regulation presented by a congregant who works in banking and finance.  He explained that regulation was unjustified because “only Hashem should regulate our moral decisions”, including those made in business.    If Hashem were the only regulator of all mens’ affairs,  I would ask  how it would be possible for human beings to expose and make transparent future  Madoff-type scandals,  prime mortgage crises, abuse in some yeshivas, and  other tragic examples of wrong-doing.  What kind of external human regulation is justified to help the function of individual conscience?  When is  whistle-blowing to be encouraged, when not? 

As a physician I am concerned with the ethics of  colleagues and  students.  I would like to teach  professionalism that places the patient’s interest above one’s own.  This would include rebuke by peers and superiors for  behaviors that deviate from accepted professional standards.  

The current dilemma in health care practice and reform is an example of an ethical conflict between professional interests of physicians and those of the insurance industry that has become the medical paymaster-gatekeeper.  This agency function has evolved to contain costs, and guarantee profits, for the paymaster-gatekeeper.

The conflict arises from the fact that professionalism for physicians places  patients’ interests above all else.   The complete care of  sick human being is a responsibility that often goes beyond reasonable demands on time.   The professional interest of the insurance industry is to control risk and to maintain profit. 

For the caring physician this conflict produces an injustice to the patient and a misrepresentation of fact, all to the detriment of an effective system of medical care.  The ethical physician is obliged to rebuke both, to blow the whistle, to become engaged outside the confines of his office.  It is unfortunate that cost-containment and other aspects of caring for patients are not discussed in the arena of ethics, but in political and economic ones, where the ethical parameters of the issue are never brought to light.  In the ongoing health reform debate, the ethical issues cannot be dissociated from the bottom line issues relating to cost, profit and control of the medical profession.

We are left with the gnawing question of how and when we, as ethical business,  medical, or other professionals,  and  everyday members of a community,   should engage ourselves in exposing these things in daily life without being vengeful, excessively morally righteous, or simply ineffectual.    This kind of  behavior will always be difficult, soul-searching, and ultimately, unpopular and possibly, harmful to one’s self-interest.    Zola himself was the butt of  unseemly jokes,  posters, and newspaper attacks.  His  ultimate death by asphyxiation in his own house was most likely  a premeditated act by his political enemies.

How do we teach these moral lessons to our children and how should the schools that we support teach them to our community’s children?   Perhaps Zola’s  100 year old exhortation to France can  be understood by  today’s yeshiva children vis-à-vis  current problems in their own lives.    I might close by suggesting that Zola’s  engagement in the search for truth and justice might be incorporated into their school curriculum.    The reading of normative literature can be an excellent model for the discussion of the kinds of questions I have raised.  By using a set of secular, ethical writings as models, I have attempted to  link  a  religious discussion of  ethical and moral problems to a true historical event.

With all of this in mind, I would close by recalling the resonance of Zola’s voice in our ears:  “Truth is on the march, nothing can stop it now”.  His exhortation is similar to   Jeremiah’s exhortation to the Jewish people (9:22-3)  to emulate  the  attributes of the

“…….Eternal, who exercises mercy,

Justice and righteousness on earth;

 For in these things I delight,

 Says the Eternal”.

NOTES

1. « Lettre à M. Felix Faure, Président de la République » was the signed newspaper article published on January 13, 1898, in L’Aurore, with the block letter headline « J’ACCUSE” – that is, “I ACCUSE” each of the malefactors in the Dreyfus case.   Subsequently, it has become known by its two word title.
2. The three newspaper articles were published in Le Figaro on November 25, December 1, December 5, 1897. The brochures were published as independent documents on December 14, 1897, and January 6, 1898.

3. These ideas recur in Emile Zola’s fiction, especially in his utopian novels that            follow the Rougon-Macquart volumes after 1880

  4)  This halakhic principle was explained to me in a personal conversation with Rabbi Hershel Schachter at Yeshiva University in April, 2010.  Rabbi Shachter explained that even though the scholarly level of the rabbis in the Bet Din is authoritative, wrongdoing by them must be rebuked, even by an outsider.  This would not be a violation of the din of respect for the scholar.  He cited the principle of not doing business with “crooks”.  I would like to thank my son, Daniel Lauchheimer, for his introducing me to his respected teacher, Rabbi Schachter.

5)   Thanks to my friends, Emeritus Professor Henri Mitterand of Columbia University and the Sorbonne, and Rabbi Stephen Berkowitz of the Liberal Jewish Synagogue of Paris, for their directing me to published studies about  Rabbi Zadoc Kahn

6)       I helped to organize a colloquium about a particular new Holocaust novel by a young French-American, Jewish author, Jonathan Littell.  This took place at Hebrew University, Jerusalem, in June, 2009.  Please see my comments at the web site of the colloquium under “Afterview” (http://bienveillantes.huji.ac.il/)

Sunday, February 10 | 10:00am - 12:30pm

at Lincoln Square Synagogue

Despite the rhetoric emanating from certain camps of Orthodox Judaism, studying secular knowledge lishmah—knowledge for knowledge's sake—is a widely accepted notion among Jewish thinkers. In fact, virtually none of the great Jewish personalities who discuss the value of secular knowledge—from Rav Saadiah Gaon and Rambam to Rav Kook and Rav Soloveitchik—speak of its utilitarian value. Rambam does not praise Aristotle's philosophy for its salary-increasing powers, nor does Rav Kook laud university studies for their utility in getting into a good law school.

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch is a classic example of this knowledge-lishmah school of thought. Not only does he extol the spiritual value of secular studies, he explicitly derides those who see knowledge as a tool to advance one's career. Two quotations (many more can be adduced) from his essays should suffice to establish this point. In "The Relevance of Secular Studies," Rav Hirsch writes:

[A]ny supporter of education and culture should deplore the fact that when these secular studies are evaluated in terms of their usefulness to the young, too much stress is often placed on so-called practical utility and necessity. Under such circumstances, the young are in danger of losing the pure joy of acquiring knowledge for its own sake, so that they will no longer take pleasure in the moral and spiritual benefits to be obtained by study.

And in "The Joy of Learning," Rav Hirsch has this to say:

[W]e forget that by hurrying to impose the yoke of the materialistic, or, as we like to put it euphemistically, the practical aims of life upon the dawn and springtime of childhood and early youth, we only deprive our children prematurely of the bloom of flowering youth and nip our children's spiritual yearnings in the bud. Instead of encouraging our children to get wisdom for its own sake, we raise them to become only clever and shrewd, judging everything in the light of self-interest and respecting only those intellectual and spiritual pursuits that are likely to yield the highest dividends in terms of material gain. A generation raised on such a philosophy of life will never be able to experience that true joy of learning, which regards knowledge itself as the supreme reward.

Rav Hirsch also stresses that educators must not give their students the impression that their secular studies are simply a necessary concession to modern times. Such an impression is both incorrect and harmful, for "[o]nly ideas rooted in genuine conviction will be received with enthusiasm. Products of compromise can expect no more than grudging acceptance forced by considerations of expediency."

Thus far, Rav Hirsch emerges as merely another proponent—albeit an enthusiastic and vocal one—in the long line of Jewish thinkers who see inherent value in studying secular knowledge.

What distinguishes Rav Hirsch, however, and what makes him a fascinating case study is that more than once in his essays on education, he cites statements of Hazal, our Sages, regarding studying Torah lishmah to bolster his position that one should study secular knowledge lishmah.

For instance, in an essay discussing general education, "Ethical Training in the Classroom," Rav Hirsch cites Pirkei Avot 2:6, "v'lo am ha'arets hassid" and remarkably translates this aphorism as "[A]n uneducated man will not attain the moral grandeur of selfless devotion to duty." Traditionally, the term am ha'arets refers to someone lacking Torah, not general, knowledge. And yet, Rav Hirsch either ignores or pretends not to know this.

Even if Rav Hirsch understands am ha'arets in a nontraditional sense, he also applies other statements of Hazal to secular knowledge that almost certainly refer exclusively to the study of Torah. For example, he cites Kiddushin 40b, "Limud gadol she-haLimud meivi lidei ma'aseh," and translates this statement as "Knowledge has priority because only the right kind of knowledge can give rise to the right practice." Two sentences later he paraphrases Pirkei Avot 4:7 as "[I]t was considered a desecration of knowledge and the striving after knowledge to use learning as a ‘crown of self-glorification' or a ‘tool for making a living.'" Rav Hirsch applies these quotations to secular studies without even hinting that in their original context they refer specifically to the study of Torah.

Nor does Rav Hirsch limit his literary misappropriations to select quotations. In the same essay he makes this general statement about Hazal:

[O]ur Sages were enemies of ignorance. They regarded education, intellectual enlightenment, and the acquisition of knowledge as the first of all moral commandments. They viewed the dissemination of intellectual enlightenment among all classes of the population as the prime concern of the nation, and the training of a child's mind as the first and most sacred duty of fatherhood. They considered it a matter of conscience for every Jewish father to see that his child should not remain a boor and am ha'arets; no Jewish child must be allowed to grow up as an ignorant, uneducated person.

Frankly, this is staggering. Rav Hirsch talks of Hazal as enemies of ignorance, generally speaking, not enemies of Torah ignorance—even though most of Hazal's statements concerning education surely address Torah education only. Nor does Rav Hirsch apparently feel the need to explain himself (and an explanation is desperately needed, especially keeping in mind the vast difference between Torah and other fields of knowledge in the minds of most Orthodox Jews). Rav Hirsch never says something to the effect of, "Although our Sages speak of Torah education, we can apply the principle behind their statements to secular education as well."

While Rav Hirsch's employment of Hazal in praising the acquisition of secular knowledge is most pronounced in his essay, "Ethical Training in the Classroom," he blurs the lines between Torah and secular knowledge in other essays as well. For example, in "Education in the Rabbinic Era," Rav Hirsch concludes by asking, "If the pure delight in knowledge for its own sake should, once again, become the common heritage of an entire nation, might it not contribute, in some fashion, to the uplifting, the healing, and the greater happiness of all mankind?" Again, Rav Hirsch speaks of "knowledge"—generically—even though the mishnaic and talmudic statements he summarizes in this essay only concern Torah knowledge.

In "Talmudic Judaism and Society," Rav Hirsch, citing Shabbat 31a, writes that the second question Heaven asks a person after he dies is "[D]id you set aside a fixed time each day for continuing your studies?" The actual question, as found in the Talmud, is "Kavata itim laTorah? —Did you set aside fixed times for the study of Torah?" Rav Hirsch somehow morphs "Torah" into "studies." Further blurring the lines, Rav Hirsch cites this statement of Hazal among a series of other talmudic statements, all of which concern generic knowledge, not Torah knowledge.

Finally, in "The Joy of Learning," Rav Hirsch attempts to convince parents of the need to instill a love of learning in their children in an era when “materialistic concerns are given such prominence.” He contrasts his age's attitude toward gaining knowledge with "the spirit of true scholarship, which, until very recently, was cherished by the members of the Jewish nation." Of course, this "true scholarship" cherished by Jews was Torah scholarship. Indeed, in subsequent sentences in this essay Rav Hirsch writes specifically of "Jewish scholarship." Nonetheless, Rav Hirsch is less than crystal clear in this essay when he employs, without qualification, the words "scholarship" and "knowledge."

With this fascinating discovery in hand, what now? How does one explain what appears to be an intriguing misuse of Hazal and Jewish history?

My short answer to this dilemma is "I don't know." One can write this apparent distortion off to Rav Hirsch's lifelong goal of winning hearts and minds to Orthodox Judaism. However, such an answer is less than satisfactory in that it assumes a certain dishonesty on Rav Hirsch's part. I, therefore, offer the following possible explanation.

Rav Hirsch obviously knew he was taking liberties in quoting statements from Hazal on Torah study to extol the acquisition of general knowledge. Nonetheless, he considered the step more of a logical "skip" than a logical "leap." In other words, unlike the vast chasm many contemporary Orthodox Jews see between Torah and general knowledge, Rav Hirsch viewed the two fields of study as basically similar to one another. Both concern God's wisdom; the student of Torah studies the Divine word, while the student of nature, history, and society studies the Divine design. Both are divinity students.

Moreover, in his essays on education, Rav Hirsch repeatedly argues that discovering the laws governing nature should inspire a person to uncover the laws governing his own life—i.e., the moral law. In Rav Hirsch's terminology, the laws of the Creator should lead people to the laws of the Lawgiver. And by "obeying this moral law of his own free choice, man joins the great chorus of creatures that serve God."

If, then, the proper study of Torah, nature, and history are all closely intertwined with the study of God's moral law, and if "[i]n the view of Judaism, truth is one and indivisible," Rav Hirsch's out-of-context utilization of Hazal's statements on education becomes more understandable. In his mind, secular studies represent another path in one's Divine service. If so, truly how can one misuse such knowledge as a "crown for self-glorification" or as "a tool for making a living"?

And perhaps, therefore, Hazal had these studies in mind when they argued, "lo am ha'arets hassid.” After all, Jewish learning in Rav Hirsch's opinion is "so broad and universal in character that it happily welcomes any other fields of study that aspire toward an understanding of the realities of nature and history." And even if Hazal did not have such studies in mind, Rav Hirsch likely believed that Torah and secular knowledge are similar enough that one may, in good faith, take a rabbinic statement regarding the one and apply it to the other.

To us, these ideas may sound revolutionary; to Rav Hirsch, they apparently were self-evident. 

To our members and friends

Our fall semester highlighted a communal symposium on October 21 on Conversion to Judaism, featuring our Founder and Director, Rabbi Marc Angel, Rabbi Yona Reiss (Head of the Chicago Beth Din and the Director of the Rabbinical Council of America’s conversion courts), and myself. The event was exceptional, and you can watch the presentations on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GG17aaahdPQ. As of this writing, we have had nearly 1000 views! Please watch the video and send the link to your friends so that we can reach an ever-growing audience.

We also held a teacher training through our Sephardic Initiative on November 4. Twenty educators participated, and we look forward to posting their reports on how they are implementing our materials and methodology in their classrooms.

Our next major symposium will be on Sunday, February 10, from 10:00am-12:30pm. We will discuss the need for our schools and communities to do more to promote ethical behavior as a basic Torah teaching. Our program will feature Rabbi David Jaffe, a National Jewish Book Award Winner for his book, Changing the World from the Inside Out; Dr. Shira Weiss, author of several books on ethics and Director of Admissions at the Frisch School; Rabbi Daniel Feldman, a Rosh Yeshiva at Yeshiva University who has authored several books on ethics in halakhah; and myself. The symposium will be held at Lincoln Square Synagogue, 180 Amsterdam Avenue (@68^th Street) in Manhattan.

On Shabbat, February 22-23, I will be the scholar-in-residence at the University of Pennsylvania. This is part of our initiative to spread our core vision to university students across the country. For our latest reports from our Campus Fellows of our University Network, please see https://www.jewishideas.org/article/campus-fellows-report-november-2018.

On Mondays, March 4, 11, 18, 25, April 1, and April 15, 1:00-2:15pm I will teach a six-part series on the Book of Psalms, integrating classical commentary and contemporary scholarship as we learn more about prayer and religious experience. It will be held at Lamdeinu Teaneck, at Congregation Beth Aaron, 950 Queen Anne Road, Teaneck. To register, go to lamdeinu.org.

On Shabbat March 22-23, I will be the scholar-in-residence at the Boca Raton Synagogue. Our impact on communities across the country has been remarkable, and we have built up a beautiful network of participants in our work as a result.

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

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

Shemot 6:26. That is Aaron and Moses, to whom the Lord said, "Take the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt with their legions."

Shemot 6:27. They are the ones who spoke to Pharaoh, the king of Egypt, to let the children of Israel out of Egypt; they are Moses and Aaron.

 In Parashat Va’eira, Hashem refers to Moshe and Aharon in two consecutive verses. In verse 26, He puts Aharon's name first and in verse 27, Moshe’s . Why is that?

According to Rashi, the reason is to show that one is not greater than the other. They are equals. The Kedushat Levi (the Berditchever Rebbe) expands on the matter. He explains that in verse 26, Aharon is mentioned first because when Hashem speaks, it is to Moshe (as seen just before in 6:2), so one might think that Moshe is greater; and therefore the Torah puts Aharon first to show they are comparable. When they speak to Pharaoh, Aharon is the primary speaker, and one might think he is the superior. The Torah this time puts Moshe first to again show they are on the same level.

The Berditchever further explains that we need the aspects of both Moshe and Aharon in our service of Hashem. Moshe represents awe and fear of Hashem, while Aharon represents pleasure and enjoyment. The Berdichiver shows by explaining their names and tying together their attributes, that the only way for the Israelites to leave Egypt was for Moshe and Aharon, both as leaders of their people and due to their divine aspects, to be working together.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe explained that Moshe represents the study of Torah, while Aharon represents Tefillah, prayer. The reason that sometimes one of them is mentioned before the other is to show that we need both of these fundamental principles of Judaism in our lives at all times; but sometimes we need to relate to Hashem with prayer, and sometimes through learning.

Our relationship with Hashem must be two ways, just as our relationship with others must be mutual. One can’t talk to a friend and only listen, nor only talk. Real conversation is achieved when one listens to what the other has to say and not just be waiting impatiently to get one’s own point across. The same is the case if one is too timid to speak and only listens and nods the head like a robot. We all must do both to be productive.

When it comes to our relationship with Hashem, it is certainly difficult to keep this balance. One day it might be easy to learn for many hours but have an immensely difficult time flipping through the siddur, or maybe even waking up for morning prayers in the first place. Another day, one may be super passionate in prayer, but learning a page of Talmud will seem as appealing as a root canal.

It is important that we engage in both praying and learning, and incorporate them both into our lives each day. As the Rebbe explained, it is fine to favor one over the other sometimes, but we still need both for spiritual success.

            May we all merit to take the aspects of both Moshe and Aharon, as well as incorporating every positive quality and deed in our lives, and always keep them balanced.  Even though sometimes our prayer, study, or performance of mitzvot may seem annoying or tedious, we should always strive to do what is right… with enjoyment, satisfaction, and awe.

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

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

Tradition as Responsive to Change

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

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

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

Integration of Torah and General Learning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Response to Secularization and its Consequences

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Broader Bounds of Inclusivity:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusion

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

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

END OF YEAR CAMPAIGN

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RESPOND TODAY TO CREATE A BETTER TOMORROW.

To our members and friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ARRIVAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

POLITICS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEPARTURE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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