National Scholar Updates

Connections in a Modern World

On the eve of Rosh HaShana 1948 (5706), the first Reform rabbi to be officially appointed in Germany since 1936 arrived in Berlin to cater to the needs of the local community. Rabbi Steven Schwarzschild, a young HUC-ordained rabbi who fled to the United States with his parents at the beginning of WWII, returned to Germany despite huge opposition by the Orthodox establishment both within Germany and within the relief organizations that were heavily influenced by the American and British Orthodox circles.

This opposition was not based only on theological divisions or the question of denominational differences. The demographic conditions within the Jewish community in Berlin at the time were such that a large part of the community survived the war only due to the fact they were in interfaith marriages. At that time, almost all liberal rabbis before and after the Holocaust did not acknowledge interfaith couples. When members of the Jewish community received food parcels from relief organization in post-war-shattered Berlin, conversion was a central issue. Both the Orthodox circles and the relief organizations feared that the arrival of a Reform rabbi would create an influx of “New Jews” who survived the war as Aryan Germans. The political faction of the Zionists and Orthodox Jews within the Berlin Geminde (community) board repeatedly warned that the Jewish community would become divided and might even disappear as "a Reform approach to conversion will alter our Jewish identity."

However, none of this actually took place. Upon arrival, Rabbi Schwarzschild did not know how to solve the flood of conversion requests. After consulting with several rabbis, he decided to adopt in full the conversion criteria issued by Rabbi Munk, the Berlin Orthodox Rabbi who preceded Schwarzschild. Those criteria were written with the support of the Belsen (Hareidi) rabbinical board, Chief Rabbi Herzog, and the Reform Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver. He was then criticized by the Liberal faction of the Geminde but was appointed an honorary president of Mizrachi-Germany (the Zionist-Orthodox party).

Today this seems, however, to be a somewhat naive approach. The gap between the Liberal denominations and Orthodoxy is not only theologically and halakhically huge, but it is also based on different philosophical, religious, and social foundations. It is very hard to imagine a situation such as the one that took place in Berlin or the one in Bombay taking place today. How could Orthodox institutions and rabbis work with Liberal denominations in a reality where the possibility of finding a common ground on the difficult questions (for example, kiddushin and gittin, LGTBQ matters, patrilineal decent, egalitarian synagogues, etc.) does not seem to exist? In this reality, cooperation limits itself to political matters (Israel, federation issues, anti-Semitism) and acting “civil” within the large community.

The Paradigm Is Different

A few months ago Rabbi Tzfania Drori was interviewed about Minister Naftali Benet's visit to a Solomon Shechter school. The visit created a stir within Israeli politics as it was perceived as a de-facto recognition of the validity of Conservative Judaism. Within that context Rabbi Drori, said

The first thing I did when I came to NYC in the 1960s was to go to a Reform synagogue and see what it's about… .Later in Los Angeles I went to see their schools…. I can't say I wasn't interested. I've seen the positive as well as the negative within them….We must not excommunicate or boycott anybody.

This statement, which in the past might have caused another round of statements about Liberal denominations, went almost unnoticed. This was not because nobody heard about it; it reached the front page of leading news websites. It also was not because Rabbi Drori is an unimportant figure. On the contrary, at 79, Drori, Rosh Yeshivat Kiryat Shmona and a student of Rabbi Tzvi Yehuda Kook, is one of the leaders of National-Orthodoxy in Israel. The message was quietly received because his statement didn't call for a change in politics nor for a change in halakha. He simply reiterated the need to know what “they” are about and to get to know “them.”

The frame of the conversation about Liberal denominations is changing. The postmodern reality we live in negates the need to always find solutions. In the past we would aspire to find a solution because the very existence of Liberal denominations jeopardized one of the foundations of Orthodoxy – securing the truth with regard to God's revelation. Today the reality allows us to live within our own individual narrative.

Rav Shagar z"l writes

Meeting different types of believers and non-believers will not weaken my faith but strengthen it. As Hasidic Jews tend to do, I will be able to recognize the divine in everything. The theological question of "which faith is better?" becomes meaningless in a postmodern world, but this does not harm my attachment to my tradition.

(Broken Vessels, 2003)

The postmodern reality, as Rav Shagar illustrated in his writings, changes the foundation of the way we act religiously. In today's world we can create a different landscape when interacting on a denominational level with Liberal Jews. Meetings are not about a need to seek solutions to halakhic questions and matters of politics. People can simply enjoy a conversation or just appreciate meeting other Jews and try to bridge over decades of mutual suspicion.

Orthodoxy itself is a modern being. While maintaining the traditional approach to halakha and minhag, Orthodoxy functions in a way that was constructed in a modern setting and dealt with a Jewish community that believed and thought in modern terms. Although Orthodoxy will probably continue to thrive, as recent surveys show both in Israel and in North America, the way Orthodoxy is dealing with new and old phenomena is changing. New approaches that allow observing a traditional way of life in a postmodern reality are popping up across the spectrum. When dealing with Liberal denominations, here too, new ways are arriving and we must listen to the voices that are fighting to preserve a traditional halakha while living in a narrative-based reality.

Unlike Rav Kook, due to multiculturalism that is a characteristic of the postmodern reality, I am no longer in need to justify myself in front of the other or to identify him within myself—not the Jewish “other” nor the non-Jewish “other”…

(Rav Shager, To Illuminate the Openings, 2013)

Orthodox Jews no longer live in a reality where the existence of “other” Jewish denominations is a threat. This does not mean that Orthodoxy became pluralistic and believe all denominations are a reflection of truth. In a world where Truth is no longer a goal, we all know we live within different narratives. Orthodoxy is not threatened by the existence of other narratives. In fact, one can argue that the postmodern reality allows more room for a “simple” traditional way of life that does not attempt to bridge between the reality and tradition (by modernizing Jewish values and converting modern values). As Rav Shagar writes, no one needs to justify anything anymore nor does he need to convince anyone. Communities can simply live side by side and try to meet without solving the gaps between them but rather accept the gaps.

Working in a Different Reality

In the past two years I have been fortunate to lead the Mechadshey Kedem initiative, which seeks to create conversations between Israeli Zionist-Orthodoxy and North American Liberal denominations. This initiative is founded on the spiritual and existential value that all Jews have a shared destiny and that we are all part of the Jewish people. Those thoughts, while obvious to many, are not always reflected in the way Orthodox and non-Orthodox denominations relate to each other.

As part of this initiative we go to yeshivot and midrashot (in Israel) and ask them to open the door to Liberal rabbinic students from HUC, JTS, or other rabbinic schools. Last year alone we had more than 100 participants in this new initiative. In almost every place we visit, from Haredi-Leumi yeshivot to the Kibbutz HaDati midrashot, there is never an apparent expectation that the Liberal Jews who are guests will “see the light” or “repent in Teshuva” as a result of the meetings. Instead, it seems most rabbis and students are interested in knowing more about other Jews who think and observe differently. The fact that we don't know each other is becoming a real threat to the very nature of the Jewish people.

The willingness to sit and share Talmud Torah with a rabbinical student who is representing, more or less, the opposite of the yeshiva concept of its graduate, is not merely a kiruv moment or a political gesture. In a postmodern reality, one can be a zealot for halakha and at the same time learn with a fellow Jew who thinks differently. One does not need to accept the core value of pluralism and to view the Other as a legitimate reflection of truth. One can hold firmly to the halakhic world view, while agreeing to be in touch with Jews who think, believe, and operate differently. We must not see this as pragmatism or as a new-age style of Ahavat Yisrael. There is something much more profound that is possible in the relationship of Orthodoxy and Liberal denominations.

Some Final Thoughts

The postmodern reality allows us to bring back the notion of a joint-family to the discussion table of the Jewish people. Family members argue with each other all the time. However, even when they strongly disagree, they will still sit around the same Shabbat table and share the same worries and laughs.

I can vouch that in all sessions we held, I have never seen anyone try to raise a solution to the big questions thinking he will convince a member of the other side. Instead, people were sharing life experiences, insights on verses, on Gemara and prayer. People were getting to know each other. They felt connected, they argued for hours, sometimes shouting over this question or the other, but they didn't try to convince. They tried to interact.

In the past few decades, Orthodox Jews preferred not to interact at the peer-to-peer level with other denominations. The discussion was left to the rabbinic elite and the connection between denominations was limited to non-religious issues and social gatherings. I do not believe the Kahal should take the place of the rabbis, leaders, and posekim. However, the postmodern reality allows us to interact without trying to solve everything. It allows the Kahal to redeem the relationship within the Jewish people and it also allows the rabbis and leaders to be in touch without constantly seeking solutions but rather connect amongst each other.

We all have experienced a Seder, a holiday meal, or Shabbat with family members with whom we do not agree. We argued… but then shared the last piece of cake. I truly believe that if we will learn how to establish a real relationship, the cake will follow—and by then we might even know how to share it.

“Linda, please take my advice. Travel abroad when you are young and strong. Don’t wait until you are old because it might become too difficult to get around. Save America for last—when you are retired.”       

—Mae Axelrod

My passion in life was first ignited by listening to the wisdom of my paternal grandmother. Her name was Mae, an immigrant from Kiev, and she was the one who instilled in me the idea to start traveling as soon as I could. Mae was a cultured and very curious woman who always yearned to visit Europe. She constantly dreamed and talked about walking the winding streets of Italy to see some of the greatest works of art and architecture.

            So finally, she and my grandfather made a trip to Europe. But when she finally fulfilled her lifelong dream of a voyage to Italy by boat in 1954, my grandfather had trouble walking, and it was difficult for him to move around. The trip was tiresome; he had no stamina, and the broken old streets were a challenge for both of them. They had waited too long, she told me, to go on a sightseeing trip. Needless to say, it was very disappointing. They finally took that trip and could hardly see what they set sail to experience.

And so it was—upon graduating from college with an art degree and wanting to see all the great works of art—traveling became my greatest desire and passion. And following the advice of my grandmother, whom I greatly loved and adored, I listened to her wise words and was ready to hit the road as soon as I could. Never once did I consider a trip to the Caribbean. I wanted to see the exotic and culturally rich places first. After all, at 22 years of age, youth and strength were on my side, and although I had a small budget as a teacher, it made it all that much better, as I loved staying in tiny hostels and taking public transportation wherever possible. I did have the summertime free to explore, so I was not going to waste any time.

Then when I met my husband Josef, who seemed to share my passion. He agreed to close his business a few weeks in the summer so that we could take a trip. It all worked after a bit of maneuvering, and together we have spent our life visiting and exploring places that offered us the most interesting glimpse into other worlds. We loved meeting a variety of people, and we did it without organized tours, with only a carry-on suitcase, one pair of hiking boots, a copy of the Lonely Planet Guidebook, and a great deal of enthusiasm, curiosity, and guts.

We spent each year researching countries of interest and what was accessible to us for a visit. And this was even before computers, internet, and hotels.com. Little did we know that traveling would soon become an addiction, and I can say without question, it has been the most enriching thing we could do for ourselves. You find your real self while traveling, and the world is a true classroom for those who are interested in learning through experiences.

And then when we had our son Zohar, he also learned to share our passion and came with us on all our summer trips. We started him at five years old, and we knew that he would get much more out of traveling the world than going to camp or playing basketball. We equipped him with his own carry-on suitcase, taught him how to do his own laundry in the shower, and gave him a small allowance for purchasing souvenirs of his choice. It was because of him that we were actually able to get an invitation to visit Bhutan from the Royal Government. But that story is for later in this article. So from the age of five until he was 16, Zohar was part of our travel expeditions.

Of course, you can’t get to remote places, especially on a limited budget, without putting up with some discomforts. That is a given. Zohar was a real trooper, and I have to admit, so were we. But if the sights are worth it, then who cares about the lack of running water, no electricity, snakes in the room, filthy streets, and frightening modes of transportation, not to mention having to take a slew of inoculations before going. It all goes with the territory, as they say.

But there was another added plus to our adventures that we had never anticipated. Traveling can take you on a spiritual journey into yourself. It can change how you interact with every aspect of the world, both as a person, and also surprisingly as a Jew. You get to know yourself better in so many different ways and on so many different levels. So, with nothing more than being lucky enough to have been raised in America where air travel is a possibility, I have been blessed with the opportunity and time to see the world and have reaped so many benefits. My adventures have given me the richest experiences to call upon to help me navigate through life’s challenges. Whether it was that visit to Mother Teresa’s hospital, or peering through the bushes as the African women sang together while doing their laundry along the river banks, those experiences and faces of the people are embedded in my very being. They continually define me as a person and I call upon those memories to help keep me grounded.

The following travel vignettes are just a few of my stories where I felt stronger as a Jew spiritually and humbled as a human being. I have been traveling for 45 years and have never missed a summer trip. I still haven’t seen America. That will come last, as my grandmother advised. I invite you through this article to come on a journey with me through some of my most wonderful, notable, and spiritual travel experiences.

“Mom, Dad, why can’t we go to Disneyworld like the rest of my friends? Where is Haran?”

                         —Zohar Kastner, age 12

Trip to Haran, Eastern Turkey

In keeping with our desire to see the world and all that it has to offer, it was my husband Josef’s idea to find out where Haran is located, since Zohar’s bar mitzvah parasha was Lekh Lekha, and what a unique bar mitzvah experience it would be for our son to be in the actual place where God told Abraham to leave Ur and travel the road to Israel. After doing some research, we located Haran, which is in Eastern Turkey. We planned a summer trip there, and as soon as school was out, off we went. After landing in Erzurum, Turkey, we rented a car and drove miles to this remote place called Haran. It is situated near the headwaters of the Euphrates River, and nearly all the traffic between Mesopotamia and Canaan, Egypt, and the Hittite Empire had to pass through Haran. What a place it was and still is.

Standing there was standing in ancient Jewish history. There was nothing modern about Haran. The city itself was full of ruins, and the locals even showed us where Abraham’s father was buried. But it was the beehive structures where the people and animals lived that really put us in a time machine back thousands of years. We were invited into one of them, and we actually felt like we had returned to archaic times. I guess we actually did. It was thrilling. The road that took us to Haran through the plains of Turkey were traveled by Abraham as he was looking for a homeland. He slept in one of these conical houses. This place was truly a treasure of our faith and how great it was to stand in such a place with my son Zohar, before reading Lekh Lekha. The three of us were overwhelmed by the experience, and if anything, this made his bar mitzvah parasha authentic and jump out of the pages of the Torah when he read 10 weeks later at the Kotel in Jerusalem.

“When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them.”

—Isaiah 41:17

Trip to Mali, Africa

Josef and I, loving architecture and art, decided to visit Mali, Africa. We chose Mali for three reasons: First, it is known for the greatest African art, in particular, the famous Chiwara antelope wood carving. Second, we wanted to see the famous Sudanese mud architecture, specifically, the Djenne Mosque complex in the desert. Mud architecture is a skill passed down through generations, and the buildings are entirely molded by human hands. Third, we wanted to visit Timbuktu, an entire sand city in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

Most people who visit Mali are with organizations such as Save the Children or Doctors without Borders. It is an extremely poor place. But then there was us—off to see some Unesco-protected works of human achievement with only our copy of the Lonely Planet guidebook. Never did I think that I would encounter situations and make decisions that were totally out of my consciousness. After all, I was raised in New York City and lived here my entire life and had no problem navigating the subway system and protecting myself against local robbers and scam artists.

But what do you do when you encounter 30 people, dehydrated from lack of water, running toward your vehicle in the middle of the desert, wanting to take the water that you filled in your jerrican, which was sitting on the roof our jeep? It was terrifying. Would they kill us for the water? Would they kidnap us? Would they leave us to die in the desert of dehydration? And if we gave them our water, then we would have none to continue our desert journey or worse yet, to return from where we started. I turned to Josef, who was not as panic stricken as I was, and he responded by quoting a line from the bible about giving water. He turned to the bible for answers to this serious dilemma. I was stunned at first, but where on earth could I come up with an answer to such a vexing dilemma. I went completely numb from fear of dying in the desert and becoming one of those bleached skeletons in the sand that artist Georgia O’Keeffe painted so strikingly. Should I put on my red t-shirt at this point, so my dried up bones would be visible from the air when they hopefully came looking for us, if they came looking for us? What do we do?

Josef on the other hand had faith in the people that they would not harm us and just needed to drink water badly. He also looked at the map and said we would probably find water in a few hours at the Niger River. What kind of river? I thought. The kind with parasites and diseases? But we stopped the jeep regardless of my panic. The thirsty group all came charging at us, and we poured them water, hoping for the best. Much to my surprise, they even thanked us in in Bambara. Somehow we were guided by our faith in Judaism, although this situation was beyond anything I ever thought I could encounter in my lifetime. But following Josef’s lead, relying on the wisdom from Isaiah, we helped them. We did find water later on and I was sure to say thank you to God as well!

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

 —Isaiah 41:10

Timbuktu, Mali

But the story did not end here. The following week we decided to drive to Timbuktu, which is a sand city in the middle of the Sahara Desert. Josef, now a bit more experienced after the water experience, now decided to check out the road to Timbuktu with the Minister of Roads. Could you imagine walking into the office of the Minister of Roads unannounced? We did and had a lovely chat with the man in charge. After getting the logistics, we left with a land rover, which was an animal of a vehicle, a driver speaking only Bambara, and ourselves. This time, being smarter, we took a case of water and a few sandwiches. One small detail that was left out by the Minister of Roads, was that roads in the Sahara were only tracks from the jeep that traveled before you. Asphalt, which I earned a new respect for in Africa, ended one hour into our journey and we were only following faint tracks in the sand. It was nerve-racking, and I was asking myself all the way how I allowed myself to get into this situation. It was like my travel passion had run away with my brain power.

But we made it after 13 hours of travel to this magnificent sand city with a glorious skyline as we approached. The Tuareg tribe people, clothed in indigo blue robes, riding camels, were in the entrance of the city to greet us, as if they knew we were coming. We found the one hotel to stay in, while our driver Ollie insisted on sleeping on the roof of the jeep. I was not particularly excited about returning the same way back to Bamako, the capital, so when four stranded young people from the Peace Corp asked if they could hitchhike back with us, I said “yes” and was thrilled to have some youth and muscle along for the scary ride. We walked around Timbuktu for two days in sheer amazement that a city could be built from sand. It was really one giant sand castle. Of course it needed constant repair, which you could see happening on every building. And while they were repairing, the sandstorms were constantly blowing, making it even more of a challenge to keep the city from being swallowed up by the forces of nature. It was fascinating, and we even got to meet the mayor of the sand town and his two wives.

But getting back to the hitchhikers, it was a good thing that they came with us, because on the way back, our jeep sank into quicksand, like in one of those horror movies, sinking half-way down until it hit solid sand. We could not even open the door of the car and had to climb out the window. Apparently it had rained and it was our hard luck that not only did the sand turn to mud, but the tracks in the sand from the car before us (the so-called road) had disappeared. The car went down, there was no road and now we had no direction. We only had the compass to rely on that Josef to this day wears on his watchband. So, with only our bare hands and steel plates that our driver had luckily brought along, we all took turns digging the car out with our bare hands. It was hours of tiresome work, and did I mention—we had no water left. We formed a dam to help stop the mud from flowing but as the sun was setting, the desert started to cool off and the mud started to crack and dry up.

After an intense powwow, it was decided that we were not going to attempt moving the car until morning. So we all decided to go to sleep at this point to conserve our energy. We slept either in the jeep, under it, on top of it, on the side of it, or near it until morning. I never closed my eyes, as a hoot here and there kept my panic attack going and with eyes wide open, I became a terrified night watchman. We considered at one point walking 50 kilometers at night which was the estimation of the nearest town, but everyone was too exhausted for that. And who knew how long our flashlight batteries would last.

And so it was—we waited until morning to push the car out of the sand. We did manage to get the jeep going eventually, and with long broken-off petrified tree branches, Josef and the Peace Corp boys surveyed the terrain looking for safe places to drive the car. The girls and I were filtering mud through a handkerchief and added a few drops of emergency iodine drops to the bit of water that we managed to salvage. We would of course only drink it if we were at death’s door as it was a watery mud cocktail. Yuck!

We did finally make it back to a town, starving and thirsty, and the two boys were dropped at the hospital as they were suffering from malaria. The luggage rack of the car was kaput at this point and fell off. The jeep literally plowed through trees and anything in the way and we even had to cross a river with the vehicle. Stones were put in the water to keep us afloat.

Now you might ask at this point what this experience did for me spiritually, except for the fact that I had to turn to God at many moments to pray that we come out of this adventure alive. Josef quite honestly was worried about making it back to the hotel before Shabbat. But I will attempt to answer this question on a different level. I have come to realize through this harrowing experience that the circumstances of our life are not always in control. Humankind likes to think in straight lines. We leave from a departure point and arrive at our destination. But the dessert terrain throws you completely off. Maybe I experienced something like the Israelites felt when they left Egypt and took all the riches with them. What good did the riches do in the desert? I actually thought of them while undergoing this experience. Can I ever again take water for granted, or solitude, or a road, or food, or a compass or a comfortable bed to sleep in? The desert tests you, and I managed to pass the test, perhaps with a very low grade, but I passed. And the Israelites wandered the desert for 40 years? What a remarkable people!

“The opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference.”

—Elie Wiesel

Trip to Crete, Greece

Just this past summer, Josef and I took a trip to Crete, Greece. Oh, those gorgeous Greek islands where people come from all over the world to just swim, sun, and rejoice in one of God’s paradises. It is stunning in scenery and just a place to enjoy nature at its finest. We try to go each summer, and this year, we met a delightful couple who were staying in our 10-room hotel. They were about our age, and they both recently retired and chose Crete as their first stop to celebrate their newfound freedom. They were from Germany.

Since we were the only two couples staying in this small hotel, we ended up eating our meals together on the lovely tavern overlooking the Libyan Sea. We told them about our life, children, and work and shared experiences about traveling. They did the same. It was only during Shabbat while sitting on the taverna that they asked which town we would be driving to today. They knew we liked to explore the towns and really didn’t take a swim until very late in the day. We told them that it was Saturday and we don’t drive on Saturdays. They asked why. We told them that we were Jewish and Saturday is our Sabbath. She froze. Had she never met a Jew before? She looked at us with piercing eyes. Now I know why you have never visited Germany she said. We responded, “yes.” Then her eyes filled with tears and she came over to me and put her arms around me with a tight hug. She said, “What can I say about such an ugly part of history that is so difficult to understand. I apologize for my country,” she said, “I apologize for Germany for what we did to your people. I apologize, I am so sorry.” She continued to weep. I had never encountered any German person who apologized to me personally for their country and the atrocities that they committed. We were both silent and I honored the silence. She did too.

“In school, my friends called me ‘Fish.’ As a child, my grandmother used to prepare gefilte fish, using the bathtub as an aquarium until it was time for the slaughter. The fish and its scales have been a recurring image in my architecture, probably because the scent of the fish has clung to me all these years.”                          

—Frank Gehry

Trip to Bilbao, Spain

Frank Gehry, whose Hebrew name is Ephraim, is acclaimed as being the greatest architect of the twenty-first century. He just recently received a Medal of Freedom award from President Obama. He is most well-known for his exquisite masterpiece—The Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain, which is a magnificent example of the most groundbreaking architecture done in titanium with undulating curves that were all conceived and designed on a computer. It is innovative, highly unique, and world-famous.

 Wanting to see it, Josef and I traveled to Bilbao, Spain for a long weekend, just to see this architectural wonder. We rented the audio tour to take around the museum with us. As I was listening to the recording about the inspiration for the design of the museum, I was shocked to hear about Gehry’s description of his childhood experience of fish-watching. What I mean by fish-watching is that when he was a child, his parents, who were the children of Russian and Polish immigrants used to keep fish swimming in the bathtub before the Jewish Holidays. As a youngster, this vision must have been a bit disturbing, but right before the holiday, his mom would scoop the fish from the tub, club the fish to death, and then take it to the kitchen to prepare a special fish concoction for the holiday meal. Of course I thought, as I remembered hearing those stories from my grandmother! This was all in preparation for the making of the gefilte fish. Fresh fish, swimming around in the bathtub until it was time to grind it into that molded lump of sweet boneless cold fish stewed with carrots and onions and covered with horseradish.

But it was this sight of the fish wiggling and slithering around in the tub that became the influence for one of the world’s greatest innovative pieces of architecture. The image of the shiny scales of the fish were turned into titanium rectangles strategically placed in an undulating pattern with curves that captured the movement of the fish squirming in the limited space of a bathtub. Who would ever imagine that one of the most sophisticated works of architecture in the world would all be credited to the Jewish Holidays and the start of a holiday meal with that delicious piece of gefilte fish? Go figure that the power of building in a new and different way with the use of a computer could come from a traditional Ashkenazic food. That piece of sweet fish to commence a holiday meal has now risen to the heights of sophistication and actually does taste better after seeing the influence that it has had on the modern world.

 Then you will go safely on your way, and you will not hurt your foot. When you lie down, you will not be afraid.               

—Proverbs 3:23–24

Trip to Bali, Indonesia

One of the most beautiful places in the world is Bali, Indonesia. Bali is the only island in Indonesia that is Hindu. It is an artist’s paradise filled with beautiful wood and stone carvings of Hindu deities, and the Balinese people are often taught from a young age how to make these beautiful sculptures. Their artistry is part of a tradition that is passed down from generation to generation. And when we do get the opportunity to visit Bali, we even like to stay in a wood-carving village called Mas, where we can watch the artisans at work enjoy their traditional craft.

Josef and I went twice in our life to this exotic paradise, and both times we were blown away by the natural beauty and by the peacefulness of the island. Bali has an aura of being truly blessed and the people seem to appreciate all that they have. One beautiful sight you see everywhere is the people bringing offerings to the gods at the temples. These offerings are shallow baskets made out of leaves with incense sticks protruding out, along with and an assortment of oils and other beautiful things. For example, if you just had rice and meat for lunch, a little bit of it goes into the offering, which eventually will be left at a chosen religious statue or in front of a home. It is the here and the now that is representational of the Hindu culture, and it is in those offerings to the gods that they express their appreciation for what they have. It is another way of giving thanks.

One morning, when Josef and I were ready to embark on a journey around the island and we checked out of our hotel, there was a surprise waiting for us outside. Our rented car was surrounded by garlands of jasmine flowers and incense. Local people were gathered around our vehicle and they were praying for our safe journey. They thanked both Josef and me and their gods for bringing us to their beautiful island. It reminded me of the prayer that we say before a journey for a safe trip, Tefilat haDerekh. Of course the color, the smell of the flowers, and the incense added to the prayers, but the wish was the same. Halfway around the world, strangers wish each other safe travels. Every time I say the Tefilat haDerekh prayer before a trip, I think of the Balinese people who so elaborately demonstrated their wish for us.

“A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin, and culture is like a tree without roots.”

—Marcus Garvey

Trip to Sfax, Tunisia

One of our most interesting trips was to Tunisia. Sfax, which is the second largest city in Tunisia, is not a particularly touristy place, but after doing much research, we decided to make our way to Sfax, which has two old beautiful synagogues, a medina, and some old ruins. We had a picture and an address of the old synagogue, so that was going to be our first stop. The streets were difficult to navigate so we had to keep asking for help along the way.

Finally, we were led to a synagogue, the Azria synagogue, but it looked nothing at all like the picture that we had. We asked a man on the street if there was another synagogue and he said to follow him. He took us into a shop and we looked for a person who spoke English. The woman in the shop said, wait here. In a few minutes, a man of about 65 came to the store and told us his name was Azriel. We told him we were looking for an old synagogue and showed him the picture. He told us to follow him. The event made me a bit nervous as I was now following a stranger through the streets of a foreign country looking for a synagogue. But along the way he was greeted with friendly hellos by young people who he said were his students. He was a math professor at the University. I felt a bit relieved. He also quietly told us that he was Jewish and there were only six Jews left in the town of Sfax, which was once a thriving community.

And then suddenly we spotted the synagogue—the same one that was in the photograph. It was called The Beth El synagogue, and it was large and had a place of prominence on the street. There was broken glass and garbage littering the porch and barricades around it with a security guard stationed in a small booth. We asked our new friend Azriel if we could see the inside and he looked at us puzzled. Do you want to really go inside? We said yes, very much so. So he said to wait and he will return shortly. So we waited patiently next to the security guard, trying to make conversation, and after about an hour, a taxi pulled up with Azriel and a very old hunched over man. The man carried a large keychain with rusty castle like keys dangling from the ring. He spoke no English, so Azriel was our translator. Azriel, the old man, two detectives and the security guard were now all trying to open the front door to the synagogue with those rusty old keys. It took a while until they found the right one.

And so we entered this once beautiful building where bird droppings and broken glass littered the floor. The old man still had very little to say and Josef tried to talk to him but it went nowhere. He asked if he was Jewish and he didn’t respond. Perhaps he was fearful with the two detectives. Then Josef thought how nice it would be to chant the popular psalm “Asherei yoshevei veitekha.” The old man lit up and continued to chant out loud with “Od yehalelukha selah.” And so they continued. He knew it all by heart and was glowing as he recited the words. They were singing to God in an old deserted synagogue, and it was glorious. It was probably many years since the walls of that synagogue heard Jewish prayers. I was watching in amazement and as I looked at the two detectives, the security guard, and Azriel, all of us with tears streaming down our faces. What an emotional experience!

Azriel then took the castle keys out again and attempted to open the lock attached to a long bar that opened the cabinet to the Sifrei Torah. I felt like Indiana Jones who just raided the lost ark. They were very elaborate and we offered to arrange to have them brought to Israel where they would be preserved, since this synagogue had obviously seen better days. They declined. We imagined that the Torahs are believed to protect the entire town and it was out of the question to remove them. But how precious a moment for us, that we got the rare opportunity to be with the last few Jews in Sfax, in an old synagogue, with two Muslim detectives. Who would believe the treasures we found were these two elderly Jewish men, singing to God in an abandoned synagogue!

“If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one.”

—Mother Teresa

Trip to Kolkata, India

One of the creepiest places that we visited was Calcutta, India in the 1980s. It was not only poor, but many of the inhabitants lived on the streets in shabby dwellings with no sewage or basic amenities. There was disease and malnutrition all around us, and it was shockingly sad to see. And all of this was amidst some exquisite colonial architecture. But it was a part of the world too, so we decided to go. I am glad that we did.

There were many volunteers from many foreign countries who came to help. Mother Teresa spent much time in Kolkata, and her famous hospital called “Mother Teresa’s Hospital for the Dead and Dying” was a landmark where we got the opportunity to meet some extraordinary young people who came even on their honeymoon through their churches to help out in her hospital. This was a far cry from the usual honeymoon vacation that we know about in the states. One such couple that we met at breakfast invited us to join them in their morning assignment in the hospital. We decided to do it, so we went with them. I was surprised seeing the name on the front of the hospital—Hospital for the Dead and Dying—as it really struck me as strange to put such a name on a hospital. Don’t we go to the hospital to try to get better?

We stepped through the door and both Josef and I stopped in our tracks. There were wall-to-wall cots with a skeleton human being in each bed. It was horrifying. Terrified, we entered and asked this young couple what they were dying of. The purpose of the volunteers they told us was to make their existence easier and more comfortable before their death. They told me that they were dying of malnutrition and infections, things that we conquered a long time ago with antibiotics, vitamins, and nutritious food. I asked if I could run back to my hotel and bring antibiotics from my suitcase, or a bag of peanuts, or some juice. Perhaps I could save just one life? Was there any reason why these poor souls had to die when the cures were so in reach? I am still soul-searching to come up with answers to this question. To keep them just comfortable with a cool washcloth or a smile seemed useless to me, when I had the cure with me in my hotel room. But I was discouraged to do so and was told it would not help. That picture never leaves me. It certainly makes you realize how important it is to give charity to food banks, hospitals, and research to help people where solutions can be made available. The intelligence behind the concept of relieving the plight of the poor and underprivileged in Judaism certainly took on a more pronounced meaning for me in Kolkata. Nobody in the world should enter a hospital for the dead and dying from malnutrition and ailments we have cures for. Nobody.

  “Look at situations from all angles and you will become more open.”

—Dalai Lama

Trip to Bhutan and Tibet

Two of our most amazing trips were to Bhutan and Tibet. Bhutan is a small kingdom sandwiched between India and China, and it has only recently put itself on the tourist map, allowing the west to penetrate into this very secluded Tibetan Buddhist culture. It is also a very expensive country to visit because of its remoteness and limited number of visas that are allotted each year. Unfortunately, the standard of living in Bhutan is quite low, although there is a good educational system and plenty of food and medical facilities. Strangely, there is still a national dress which is mandatory for residents and a national style of architecture.

At the time of our trip about 23 years ago, television and movies were banned there, and you could not even find Coca-Cola. The king, who was in full command, was happily married to four sisters, each with her own house, situated on a mountain slope in close proximity to each other. It certainly makes it easier on the king to have only one set of in-laws! And people in Bhutan are known to be very happy, living in their Himalayan Shangri-La amidst the highest mountains in the world dotted with ancient temples and monastic life.

I had my eyes set on Bhutan for years as I wanted to see this extraordinary place. But it was very difficult to get a visa, as they only allowed a small amount of tourists in each year, and the government was very selective about granting visas. So, year after year, I tried to get a visa through the consulate with no luck. Eventually, only by taking a stroll on Shabbat with Zohar and Josef and striking up a conversation with the salesman in a carpet shop, did we get three visas to enter Bhutan as guests of the Royal Government. Zohar was the one who noticed the sign on the store—Tibetan carpets. Apparently, the Tibetan rug salesman was a relative of the governor of Thimpu, the capital of Bhutan, and through his contacts the three of us got two-week visas to visit any part of Bhutan we chose along with a private guide and driver. We also got permits to enter many of the Buddhist Dzongs, which are temple complexes, many of them over 1,000 years old. And all of this for the grand total of $200.00 for the three of us.

In addition, part of the visa requirement was for me to visit the art school to see traditional Bhutanese painting and to tell them about American art education. And so it was. We flew to Bhutan with Zohar sitting in the cockpit next to the pilot. Flying over the Himalayas was jaw-dropping. Once arriving, our first stop had to be the art school, and I was indeed shocked to see that students were human Xerox machines, having to draw complicated and detailed dragons over and over again until the image was etched into their memories. It had to be a perfect replica and after they mastered one, they were then given another Xerox to copy. If art was their chosen field, which their parents decided at an early age, they were put into the art school, where they only learned English and art. There was not an ounce of creativity to be found anywhere in the art school, and I was shocked to see that a school like this existed.

            One of the students asked me to look at his own personal art and offer some constructive criticism. For that, we had to drive to his home. He did a beautiful painting, an exact rendering of a temple as he saw it. I told him it would be fun to add some mountain flowers in the foreground to give it more life and interest, but he was puzzled by my suggestion as there were no flowers in front of the temple. He could not comprehend that you could add something into a work of art from your imagination. I wish I could have painted the expression on his face. He was shocked and actually threatened by such an idea. Even Zohar was shocked by his response. I told him to just think about it for a few days, hoping he would get used to the idea. He never did.

But the most intriguing of our experiences in Bhutan were the long discussions we would have with our young guide named Timlay. And here is where Judaism came into play. While sipping Tibetan tea on a mountain slope, taking in the stunning scenery, Timlay was describing his belief in Buddhism. Josef then asked Timlay, “If you found $200 (which is equivalent in the United States to $200,000) on the ground, what would you do with it?” Timlay did not even stop to contemplate an answer. He immediately said he would give half to a poor person and half to the Buddhist temple. Then he asked Josef what he would do with the money. Josef said he would use the money to invest and participate in a local business where he could make much more money, and then perhaps he could feed everybody in the monastery from the business. Timlay found it very hard to understand such a concept and it troubled him for days. The question is, of course, how does a nation flourish and progress? Josef repeated to Timlay that the two of them could work in the local business and provide food every day and give goods to the poor and give charity as well to the temple. This is perhaps a more constructive solution for the $200 found money. Timlay’s mentality was that there could only be one solution. He was never allowed to contemplate finding various solutions to a problem. In Judaism, we encourage creative thinking to find solutions. This is a concept that we take for granted. It was shocking for Josef and me and even Zohar that this young man from another culture could not understand this.

“You cannot create experience. You must undergo it.”

—Albert Camus

Trip to Istanbul, Turkey

On one of our trips to Istanbul, we got the rare opportunity through a Muslim friend of ours to attend a mosque service that included the Sufi Whirling Dervishes, a mystical branch of Islam, with fascinating rituals. The Sufis are an old sect who believe that closeness with God is achieved by elaborate whirling that slowly and methodically leads you into a trance. Our friend Omer drove us to this elaborate mosque complex, and I was instructed to go upstairs, where the women were seated on the floor. I also had to cover my hair completely with the traditional scarf. This was not a tourist show, but the real thing, and Josef and I were very excited to have the rare opportunity to not only witness it, but to participate in it. Josef was seated downstairs next to our friend Omer. They were kind enough to bring him a chair.

Once it started, I realized that I was totally sandwiched in between rows of women and there would be no way to leave if I wanted to get out. There wasn’t an ounce of empty space and no passage for a quick escape if it got too intense for me. And so it was, the men below were chanting and twirling in a frightening rhythm, starting slowly and getting more intense as he continued. The women were swaying and undulating while sitting shoulder to shoulder to a much defined rhythmic pattern. It kept getting louder and fiercer and it actually was quite frightening. And as the twirling leader gained momentum with his whirling and spinning, so did his voice and so did we. I didn’t have to move. The women moved me, while one of them was constantly pushing any stray hair that had fallen out from under my head scarf back in. It was forbidden to show any hair in this mosque. I could very well see how people could fall into a hypnotic trance or an altered state of consciousness by the repetition, swaying, and voice of the leader. It was strong and unnerving, like a sort of run-away train getting louder and louder and more intense. I was very much relieved when it was all over and was anxious to meet Josef and Omer outside to hear of their experience. I definitely entered a surreal place both mentally and physically and was happy to be out of there. I couldn’t help but think of the Zohar, not my son Zohar, but the mystical Kabbalists in Judaism. Being unfamiliar with both the Sufis and the Kabbalists, I did realize one thing. Both seek to unlock some inner world or offer some spiritual advancement. Is it really possible to transcend time and space by performing spinning rituals or studying the Zohar? Is it all to seek an escape from the chaotic world around us? All I know is that I will take that night at the mosque to the grave with me. But until then, I will continue to ponder that night of mysticism that I was so fortunate to participate in. When Omer comes to visit New York next time, I must find an equal enlightening experience in Judaism to share with him. Any ideas?

 “Blessed are YOU, Lord our God, King of the Universe,

Who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us about removing the hametz.”

Las Fallas Festival in Valencia, Spain

On the 15^th through the 19^th of March every year, a crazy festival takes place in Valencia, Spain. One year we were lucky enough to stumble upon it by accident, and it was so insane but so fantastic, that we have been returning ever since. It is called Las Fallas, and it is a festival of loud noise, fire, fireworks, pageantry, and incredible artistry. Enormous cardboard, wooden, plastic, cork, plaster, and papier mâché figures of enormous size, sometimes reaching over 60 feet high, are constructed during the year by chosen artists. These are placed in various plazas in Valencia. Some of the figures are well-known local personalities, and some are made especially for children. But most are satirical versions of international politicians and celebrities.

All day long, as tourists look at these sculptures, there are processions taking place and pyrotechnical explosions all over the city. You feel the earth shake, and it sounds like you are in a war zone—smoke and all. At the end of this festival there is a fire parade at night through the city, and all of these sculptures are stuffed with fireworks and are blown up. Yes, the fire department is there and surrounds each sculpture to put out the fires while the crowd watches in excitement, cheering as these fantastic works of art meet their demise. It is one big bizarre street festival and is great fun to see.

The origin of this festival, as explained to us, is a celebration of Saint Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters. It was a Middle Age custom to burn candle holders that held their candles during the dark winter months. When spring comes, they don’t need the candle holders anymore, so they set them on fire. That has been the standard explanation of Las Fallas. But recently, while traveling in Madrid and visiting the Sofia Reina museum to see Picasso’s most famous painting, Guernica, we stumbled upon the real explanation of the Las Fallas Festival, or at least an explanation that made more sense. We were lucky enough to take an English tour with an expert of Picasso and Guernica. He was so knowledgeable about the details in the painting and so intelligent, that I could not resist asking him at the end of the tour, if he knew anything about Las Fallas festival in Valencia and its origin.

He responded with an affirmative yes, and he then asked us if we ever heard of the Jews. Not wanting to blow our cover, we responded that yes, we have heard of the Jews. He then told us that each spring the Jews who lived in Spain had a strange custom of doing a sort of spring cleaning and then they would burn food in bonfires outside their homes. He told us that this was the real origin of Las Fallas Festival. Josef and I looked at each other and we said to him with a big smile, I think that it had something to do with a holiday called Passover. He responded, “Yes!”

Now I always have said that “You don’t come to Spain to be Jewish.” Spain has other things to offer, but Jewish history was wiped out with the stroke of a pen by Isabella and Ferdinand in 1492. That is, unless of course you come to Las Fallas festival in Valencia. Here, through fire and caricature, the Jews and their culture left their influence in a grandiose, fiery, and cunningly creative way.

“How numerous are thy works, O Lord! You made them all in wisdom;

 The earth is full of your creations.”

—Psalms 104:24

Of course an article such as this would not be complete without mentioning Mother Nature and all of the wonders of the world. If one ever doubted the existence of God, just take a safari in South Africa to see the animals in their natural habitat. Can you imagine what the Ark must have looked like with all of those magnificent creatures? Don’t miss the Taj Mahal in Agra, India, which in my opinion is the most beautiful piece of architecture ever created in memory of a beloved departed wife. Mt. Everest in Tibet is a powerful sight along with the Karakorum Highway in Pakistan, and Annapurna mountain range in Nepal. They are a constant reminder that nature can be challenged but inevitably is in control. Try traveling the silk route across China on public transportation and marvel at the variety of people and places along the way. Sleep in the sand under the stars of Sinai, visit the Zen Gardens of Japan, feast your eyes on the sunflower fields in Spain, and watch the people worship the Ganges as they cremate their dead along the river banks. Machu Picchu, the pyramids of Giza, the 2,000 pagodas in Pagan, Burma, along with the Angor Wat in Cambodia are all well worth a trip. They will never cease to amaze and whether they were God-created or the gift of creativity given by God to humanity, the world has some astonishing things to see and are well worth going beyond our daled amot, to take a look. All of these wonders are an affirmation of God’s handiwork and are among my favorites. But let’s not forget what tops the list of the awesome and powerful. The airplane. We are blessed to live in the jet age that includes kosher food, movies, and even wi-fi on board. I am forever grateful to Orville and Wilbur Wright for sticking with their idea against all odds. Without them, all of this would be impossible.

“The purpose of life is to perfect ones character.”

—The Vilna Gaon

My Final Thoughts

So here ends just a few of my experiences with Josef and Zohar that not only influenced my life, but in the process, confirmed to me the genius of the Jewish people. Travel is and will always remain a wonderful way to invest in yourself, and the world is a great classroom. That is why I will continue to travel as long as I can. I still hear my grandmother’s wise words, and I know that she is sitting on my shoulder for every trip. By exploring, growing, making new friends, witnessing other cultures, and walking the streets of history, I have far more to think about and reflect upon as I grow older. I have been truly blessed with not only rich memories of colorful places and people, but through my personal lens of travel, I have also developed a much deeper appreciation of the gift of Judaism.  

Encounters outside the daled amot can be challenging. And the more religious one is, the higher the stakes. Still, the higher the stakes, the greater the potential returns, so for the most observant, interfaith encounters can be greatly enriching and enlightening. What happens when Orthodox Jews take part in serious conversation with religious leaders from other faiths? The following discussion will draw on years of experience in the world of interfaith encounters and, in particular, a program of the Center on Religion, Culture and Conflict at Drew University, where we invited young emerging leaders from religious communities around the world for an interfaith seminar. We will discuss some of the challenges faced, as well as benefits and lessons learned by our Jewish participants during these interfaith interactions, as outlined by the participants themselves, and in their own words.

During the summers of 2013 and 2016, more than 50 young leaders—Jews, Christians and Muslims from around the world—visited Drew University and the Center on Religion, Culture and Conflict (CRCC) to take part in a three-to-four-week program on interfaith engagement and peacebuilding.[1] Our goal with this ongoing program, the Drew Institute on Religion and Conflict Transformation, is to facilitate greater understanding among people of different faiths, namely, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, through dialogue, social interaction, and shared living. Our long-term goal is to build a generation of strong interfaith leaders and peacebuilders around the globe.

Our participants over the first two years have included Indonesians, Pakistanis, Nigerians, Egyptians, Israelis, Palestinians, and Ukrainians who lived on campus for three to four weeks. Much of our time was spent in formal sessions where we discussed a wide array of subjects. We walked back and forth across campus together each day and shared virtually every meal. We visited each other’s houses of worship: prominent cathedrals, mosques, and synagogues in New York City, including a visit with Rabbi Marc Angel at Shearith Israel, the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue. We even prayed together on a few occasions; or, at least, we prayed in each other’s presence. Blessings over food, a virtually universal practice, were common at the Institute. We mourned together at each other’s houses of worship just days after the terrorist attack on July 14, 2016 in Nice, France.

Jewish delegations to the institute have included Jews from Israel, Indonesia, and Ukraine. The Israelis were all Orthodox Jews from towns throughout Israel and the West Bank. One participant from the latter commented on the irony of coming from a situation where Jews and Muslims live as neighbors, yet are hostile toward one another. She explained that the relationships that do occur are usually of an employer-employee nature, and even when personal connections are created, opportunities to engage in religious matters are virtually non-existent. For this young woman, the Drew Institute presented her first serious exposure to people of different religions, and by the end, she described her experience as “three weeks of fascinating religious dialogue that were deep and fruitful.”

Our formal sessions varied in length, format, and structure. In some cases, we were grouped by faith, in others by country, and many sessions were in plenary. Topics of the sessions ranged from how to do effective community organizing to tools for facilitating interfaith dialogue. We began by providing a basic introduction to Christianity, Judaism, and Islam and continued to move into increasingly complex exchanges about deeper theological and social/political questions.

Before we could do any of this, however, it was critical to build trust among the participants. With participants coming from regions where people of different faiths are often highly suspicious of one another, cultivating such an environment took time. The formal sessions pushed people to be honest and open, allowing them to build confidence in one another. There were the many interactions outside the classroom—over meals, in the dorms, on field trips, and in social events—that contributed to the building of trust. We quickly learned that even in places such as Nigeria and Israel-Palestine, where religious groups are generally segregated, it is rare that communities are completely homogenous. Hence, in theory, inter-religious interactions could happen any time. Typically, however, they do not.

The rustic feel of Drew’s campus (aka “the Forest”) in the summer offered respite from the frequently tense and sometimes violent environments in which many of our participants normally live. There is no doubt that this setting contributed to an atmosphere more conducive to honest dialogue and fresher, clearer thinking. We had selected our invitees based on their open-minded attitudes and eagerness to meet “others.” All signed statements pledging to come with an open mind and to be respectful at all times. We also took into account the importance of building trust gradually when designing the institute’s curriculum. We took time to build rapport and relationships prior to moving into some of the deeper, richer, and riskier conversations.

In doing interfaith work, one should strive to maintain balance between what is often called a “safe space” and what leading conflict resolution expert Dan Shapiro, in his book Negotiating the Nonnegotiable,[2] calls “brave space.” The latter term can be used to describe an environment where there is a level of trust, respect, and courage sufficient to allow exploration of areas that involve greater sensitivities. In truth, many interfaith interactions remain within the boundaries of the safe space, while the touchier, taboo subjects are generally avoided. In some cases, this may be for the best; if adequate precautions are not taken and without someone with at least some skills and experience in facilitating difficult conversations, bold can quickly turn to reckless. The brave space is where people feel more than safe; they feel protected and emboldened enough to venture into more sensitive areas. It means treating with dignity people with whom you disagree, often on the most fundamental questions about how the world works and the nature of God. It means feeling comfortable enough to be candid, yet without being confrontational. The brave space is riskier than the safe space, but it can yield much higher dividends. After all, what is the point of assembling such a fascinating group of people from around the world across the faith divide, just to play it safe. And thus we pushed on, venturing into uncharted territory.  

What were some of those riskier conversations? And what was the benefit of having those conversations? In one session, a world-renowned Modern Orthodox rabbi associated with the settler movement addressed the group, asking the Muslim leaders why, if they abhor the violence and hatred of groups such as Daesh (aka, ISIS) and Al Qaeda, do they not do more to condemn and challenge the extremists that are claiming to act in the name of their faith. This led to a rather lively discussion, with participants responding that they, indeed, do regularly respond and condemn Islamic extremism as un-Islamic. They also turned the question back to the rabbi about violence perpetrated by aggressive Jewish groups. Muslims and Christians posed complex theological questions directly to each other; for example, the question of Jesus’s divinity. Some of these conversations were difficult, but the participants expressed their immense gratitude in having an opportunity to ask tough questions and share their honest views.

Over the three-to-four-week period, we engaged in different forms of interfaith dialogue. For the more formal dialogue sessions, we employed two closely related methods known as Textual Reasoning (TR) and Scriptural Reasoning (SR). Scriptural Reasoning is where religious people of different faiths meet to read and reflect on their scriptures together. Textual Reasoning is similar in technique, but in TR the conversation is between people of the same faith tradition; in other words, intra-faith dialogue. The idea is that participants engage in substantive exchanges about the texts without surrendering the particularity of their own tradition. Cambridge University’s SR.org emphasizes this point, stating, “It is not about seeking agreement but rather exploring the texts and their possible interpretations across faith boundaries, and learning to ‘disagree better’. The result is often a deeper understanding of others' and one’s own scriptures, as well as the development of strong bonds across faith communities.”[3]

One experience common to all of the Orthodox Jewish participants was that their sustained interactions with people of other faiths, whether in the formal sessions or informal conversations, moved them to reflect even more deeply on their own faith. In fact, it is often the case with people of all religions that encounters with the “other” push them to take a fresh look at their own faith. One of our participants, for example, said that seeing similarities between Judaism and Islam caused her to imagine “Jewish laws through a more universal lens.” One Orthodox rabbi also emphasized the reflexive aspect of his inter-religious encounters, concluding that this is not “an outside issue, but rather, is a core Jewish issue” because it triggered thinking about his own conception of what religion is, what Judaism is, and what, ultimately, is truly unique about Judaism. This sentiment was echoed by another Orthodox rabbi who suggested that the greatest benefit of interacting with a broader religious world, outside of our daled amot, is the opportunity to view Judaism within a broader context. More specifically, he told me, “my understanding of various religious aspects—halakhot, mitzvot, beliefs, social-religious aspects, and religious motifs—were profoundly influenced by the inter-religious conversations. Thanks to the dialogue, what was always obvious became special, and amazing. This experience is both very intellectually interesting and religiously strengthening.” One young woman said that she came to the institute with an “open heart to learn and understand.” Though apprehensive at first, she quickly arrived at a place where she actually felt much safer in her own faith. This would ultimately translate into a feeling of becoming wiser. In the end, interacting and exchanging ideas with people of other faiths actually strengthened her conviction in her own religious beliefs and practices. 

At the same time that Orthodox Jews discovered a renewed love for their own unique beliefs and practices, they also came to see the many places where there are great similarities between religions. This was especially true with regard to affinities felt between Jewish and Muslim women. Several Orthodox Jewish women said that some of the most exciting and memorable conversations they had during the institute were with Muslim women on issues related to the status of women in their respective faith traditions. While the Jewish women had certainly heard about sexism in Muslim countries, direct and personal exchanges with women from some of those countries offered them a much better understanding of how the women themselves experience and perceive the religious restrictions on them. Even more eye-opening was their discovery that Muslim and Jewish women often deal with many of the same issues, discovering parallels in religious laws and practices that are restrictive of women. Questions regarding hair covering, modesty, marriage and divorce, and women's religious leadership were discussed at length. Our visits to each other’s houses of worship stimulated fascinating conversations about women’s participation in religious ceremonies. Attending Friday jumma prayer in a large Islamic center in New York, one Orthodox Jewish woman noted feeling the same sense of marginalization she often experienced in her own synagogue. Women were seated far from the center of activity, where they could neither see nor hear. Inspired by this common bond, they began to explore the complex ways in which observant women in both faiths struggle to negotiate between a deep love for their religion and frustration with sexism within the tradition. This raises questions about intersectionality, where various identities—religious, ethnic, national, gender—come into play at once.  For while this dialogue between women challenged certain conventions and thus exposed points of tension within the faith, it also fostered a feeling of kinship between women, specifically the Muslim and Jewish women. “In this way,” asserted one Jewish woman, “maybe inter-faith work can be dangerous to one's own faith.”

The Drew Institute participants found SR and TR valuable for several reasons. To begin, these sessions helped them to expand their understanding of the other religions with which they had very little contact prior to the institute, even in situations where they were living virtually side-by-side. One participant felt that the SR/TR sessions elevated the overall intellectual atmosphere of the institute, stimulating scholarly discussions. Another found the SR/TR sessions inspiring, shifting the conversation from what he described as “stagnant interpretations of sacred scripture toward reinterpretation, with contextual wisdom and contemporary minds.” As it turns out, SR is one of the tools employed at the institute that many participants are now implementing as they build interfaith dialogue programs back in their home countries. In truth, TR is what many of the Jews do every day: discuss, dissect, and debate the meaning of Jewish scripture together with other Jews. It is the experience of discussing their scripture with non-Jews, as well as the reading and discussion of non-Jewish texts, that makes SR so novel, and thus requires a great deal of courage and, well, chutzpa.

            Along with all the wonderful parallels, many substantial differences were revealed, but our participants did not shy away from this difference. It is a common misconception with regard to interfaith dialogue that the goal is to simply identify and celebrate points of similarity. While there can certainly be great joy in the eureka moments of "we do virtually the same thing," this is ultimately not the point. Rather, finding these affinities can serve as a point of departure toward much deeper levels of engagement and exchange of ideas. For one young rabbi, the encounter not only strengthened his own conviction in Judaism, but it convinced him that certain differences were so significant that they rendered these three faiths incompatible, at least theologically. This young man built many meaningful relationships with people of different backgrounds and understood that virtually any differences could be bridged through friendship. Yet, during the deep immersion into the theological dimensions of the seminar, he discovered core differences between himself and his Christian and Muslim friends, differences that reflect entirely different ways of viewing the world. 

In truth, the acknowledgement and articulation of differences can be much more interesting and inspiring. Take, for instance, the joy of learning a new language. The richness is not in the identification of cognates, but rather, in discovering the ways that differences in language reflect varying patterns of thought between different peoples and cultures. “What we can do together,” suggested one rabbi after attending the institute, “is listen to the perspective of the other, and that the very difference and strangeness may offer me something that I am lacking.”

Another valuable feature of inter-religious interchange is that in speaking face-to-face with practitioners of other faiths, we have the occasion to present our religion directly to the other. This often provides an opportunity to dispel basic misconceptions about one’s faith. During the sustained dialogue and intimate environment of the institute, Jewish participants took advantage of new openings to explicate and elaborate on some of the more complex and controversial ideas in Judaism. In a deep conversation with an Anglican bishop, for example, one rabbi took time to articulate the dream of rebuilding the Temple in Jerusalem, what it means to many Jews and what it means to him personally. According to the rabbi, his Anglican counterpart, “for the first time in his life, began to understand and even to empathize with our dream.” In another candid conversation, this time with an Egyptian Coptic Christian leader, he disclosed that many Jews do not appreciate the term “Old Testament.” He explained that this term implies the scriptures are outdated and irrelevant today, or worse, that “Old” reflects the attitudes of the people who hold those scriptures. It is important to note that this principle worked both ways; for example, one Muslim from Pakistan said, “During the three weeks, my interactions with Jews, Christians, and Muslims who had come from diverse backgrounds, cultures, faiths, and traditions have enlightened me [and] enabled me to understand the different perspectives of these communities with greater insight and also prepared me to counter the mutual stereotypes against each other’s religions.” Another Islamic scholar from Pakistan wanted to dispel misconceptions about Islam as a violent faith. In grappling with verses from the Koran that talk about war and killing, he turned to the rabbi to ask about tools the Oral Torah has for dealing with problematic passages.

Indeed, this last point leads to one of the most compelling reasons for Orthodox Jews to engage in interfaith dialogue: Jews have an obligation to contribute to collective world wisdom. In the words of one rabbi, “[the interfaith encounters] helped me back to one of our main roles as Jews —to be light to all nations, to be Or l’Goyim.” He explained that as an Israeli Modern Orthodox rabbi and leader facing the challenges associated with the rebuilding of Israeli society after thousands of years, he often feels pressure to focus solely on the inner Jewish-Israeli challenges, inside the daled amot. “You have neither time nor 'free-space' in your mind to deal with 'outside' issues.” During the institute the rabbi came to the sudden realization that this mitzvah, to be a light to all nations, is not about some abstract, Utopian dream, but rather, it is all about the here and now, in our reality today. “I started to think in my prayers about other nations, and to pray for many problems around the world with which I had suddenly become familiar. This is exactly what I consider going beyond the daled amot.”

As one participant put it, the modern and postmodern world present challenges for traditional orthodox societies. As such, it would seem paradoxical that interaction and exchange with highly religious people of other faiths could contribute to a strengthening of contemporary Judaism. However, we need only consider a few historical examples to see that this apparent paradox is not new. Great sages throughout Jewish history, most notably, Maimonides, were integrated to varying degrees into the surrounding non-Jewish world. They influenced and were influenced by their surrounding world, producing vital contributions to Jewish thought.

There are many benefits, both secular and spiritual, to engaging in interfaith interactions. Inter-religious dialogue can serve to reduce hostilities among people of different backgrounds. As SR pioneer Prof. Peter Ochs[4] told the institute in 2013, the reading of scripture tends to warm people, because it brings us close to our spiritual hearth. One participant found that “interfaith work can foster cooperation toward common goals, and even cooperation to resolve common problems for all of us as human beings.” Christianity and Islam share Judaism’s concern with looking after the ill and impoverished, and activity around these values can provide powerful opportunities for interfaith service. The many productive conversations between our Israeli and Palestinian participants are a testament to this, and in fact, groups from every nation that joined the institute have already begun to incorporate their learning into constructive interfaith projects back home.

Of course, there are great spiritual rewards that result from encounters outside the daled amot. For one Orthodox rabbi, he found that this is a way to deepen one’s own faith commitment while simultaneously deepening engagement with members of other faiths. The interface with different religious leaders had a significant impact on his worldview not just as a person but also as an Orthodox rabbi.

“There is much that we share, and much that divides us,” declared one of our participants. The question is how do we learn from both our similarities and our differences.

To our members and friends,

Here are some upcoming classes I will be giving that are open to the public:

On Mondays May 15 and 22, 1:00-2:15pm, I will give a two-part mini-series about Shavuot:

Torah holidays in peshat and in our religious observance

‘The Righteous Shall Live by His Faith’: The Message of Habakkuk and Shavuot.

It is with Lamdeinu Teaneck, located at Congregation Beth Aaron, 950 Queen Anne Road, Teaneck, NJ. To register, go to lamdeinu.org.

Over Shavuot, I will give two shiurim at Congregation Ohr Saadya, 554 Queen Anne Road, Teaneck, NJ.

On Erev Shavuot (May 30) between Minhah-Arvit: The Ten Commandments: Classical Commentary and Contemporary Scholarship

On the First Day (May 31) pre-Minhah: The Celestial Chariot: Principles of Prophecy

For more information, go to Congregation Ohr Saadya’s website, https://www.ohrsaadya.org.

On Sunday-Monday, June 25-26, I will present four talks at the Yeshivat Chovevei Torah annual Yemei Iyyun. It is located at SAR High School, 503 W 259th St, Riverdale, NY. For complete schedule and registration information, go to  http://www.yctorah.org/giving/yemeiiyun/

I look forward to learning together with you!

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

What could be a better place to work for a traditionally observant Jew than a Jewish organization? Jewish holidays are not considered vacation days, and there is little resistance, if any, to the need to leave early on a Friday to reach home and prepare before the start of Shabbat. So when I moved from the for-profit world to a Jewish non-profit 20 years ago, I never anticipated any Jewish dilemmas. In retrospect, that was a deliciously naïve perspective.

In reality, a professional who is an Orthodox Jew faces both challenges and opportunities in a secular Jewish organization. The challenges are considerable, because this world is a 24/7 place, with people expecting instant response and constant connection. Unplugging and being off the grid for the 25 hours of Shabbat was tolerated. But when I became unreachable for three days because of Shabbat followed by a two-day holiday, being unavailable became an obstacle. On one such occasion, my boss asked if I could take her calls, “just this once” because “we had an event coming up.” Unexpectedly, I confronted a world in which many of my Jewish practices were considered “other,” even though I worked exclusively with Jews. I had simply assumed working in the Jewish world that observing the holidays would have been a given.

The challenges began to mount. After a while, donors with whom I was friendly began inviting me to semahot that took place on Shabbat, or that were not kosher. I found myself trying to repeatedly explain why I could not check email on a holiday that a majority of Jews in our community don’t celebrate, such as Shemini Atzeret, and so forth. Should I hire a qualified candidate who was interviewed off-site at her request and who ordered a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich during our breakfast meeting? The response to these quandaries has significant impact. In fact, it is the quintessential opportunity. But first, a more detailed look at the challenges.

On the same day that I began my job at a small Jewish Federation in 1996, a Chabad House opened its doors in a town where, at the time, people still felt the need to say “Shana Tova” in a whisper at the supermarket. An influential board member took me out for coffee to tell me that if I ran an article in the Federation newspaper about Chabad being in town, I would be responsible “for the collapse of the Federation and for thousands of Jews going hungry in Israel and around the world.” His position was that the Jewish community was not ready for Chabad, and that the community would want to distance itself from the Federation if we were seen as supporting their operation. This man belonged to a Conservative synagogue, and was deeply connected to Judaism—and I was new on the job.

So when the editorial meeting took place, I suggested we hold off on the announcement. After all, I did not want to be responsible for the destruction of the Jewish community! The editor, an equally influential board member, affiliated with the Reform movement and self-avowedly secular, informed me that withholding the announcement was unethical. She said she would abide by a decision to delay for one month, but if the news that a new Jewish organization—albeit one that did not have even one follower in town—was omitted from the next publication, she would resign. I was stunned. The editor had no allegiance to Chabad, but she had a strong allegiance to the local community and to doing the right thing.

My 30-something-year-old-Orthodox-self went home with more questions than answers. How could I have missed that I was being pressured into protecting a political interest? How could I, observant and committed, have been so willing to make an unethical editorial call? I was taught that my Judaism was supposed to guide me in every situation—religious or secular— but this time it eluded me. The lesson I learned here came not from my own Jewish center but from hers—and so began my experience of wisdom that comes from learning from every person. We ran the article. The irony? Chabad has become one of the most successful synagogues for young families in town, engaging them in sold-out and standing-room-only religious, educational, and social programming; day camp; and preschool. All of this in the same town that was not “ready” for Chabad 20 years ago.

A few months after I was hired, several donors suggested that we hire a kosher caterer for our annual gala. For as many years as the Federation had hosted a gala, a non-kosher caterer had always catered it—serving dairy foods and fish with the explicit instruction not to prepare or serve any meat or shellfish products. At that time not one donor had a religious problem with eating dairy or fish when eating out, and I do not know for sure what prompted the request. A special executive committee meeting was called, and the president of the Federation asked me to come to his office a few days prior to the meeting. He wanted me to prepare a few remarks and to recommend a position. “I can’t,” I told him. I tried to explain the concept of nogeiah ba’davar, that I had an interest in the outcome of the vote. “I don’t understand. Why would you care one way or the other?” he asked. “Because I keep kosher. I would have to recommend that we use a kosher caterer. I am Orthodox.” He looked at me for a minute and mused, almost to himself, “I wonder if we knew that when we hired you—if we would have hired you.”

I was more surprised than he was. How could he not know? How could being Orthodox be viewed as a negative attribute for an employee in a Jewish organization? Over the years, I came to learn that he meant no harm; he was a mensch, kind, generous, and above all, fair. I think he was just wondering aloud, but a small part of me knew he was right: had my observance been revealed in advance, it might have been an impediment in this overwhelmingly secular community in a town that didn’t warmly embrace Jews. I clearly didn’t fit the stereotype that those who interviewed me might have held, but for the first time, I was sensitized to the fact that I needed to be cautious in some way about my newly revealed Orthodoxy.

In the end, we decided not to create a policy on kashruth, despite the fact that the outcome of the vote was to hire a kosher caterer. That board meeting was very contentious, and the call for a kosher caterer was won by only one vote—not a decisive majority. Because the conversation focused essentially on the issue of inclusion and making it possible for any Jew to eat at our events, we decided that as a community organization, decisions like this would be backed by our most critical values—and one of those was the value of being welcoming and inclusive. Since then, whenever an event chairperson asked what the policy was on kosher catering, we told them we did not have a policy. We did, however, have a guiding principle of inclusivity. If event chairs wanted to make a case to the board that fancier presentation or a more sophisticated menu trumped inclusion, we would hire a non-kosher caterer and have a dairy menu. No one has ever opted for the non-kosher caterer. Today, no one even asks the question. We simply have kosher events. It required restraint on my part to distance myself from that debate and not offer my personal point of view. And I learned to try to keep strong boundaries between my personal ritual observance and beliefs and my professional decisions. The community always comes first—as long as I do not violate my standards of observance.

Several years after the kashruth vote, I went out for a drink with a divorced lay leader and her boyfriend, whom she had wanted me to meet. She was a board member and a friend. I knew three things about this man: that he was important to her, that he was separated but not divorced from his wife, and that he had a daughter. While we were in the restaurant, other members of the board saw us and came over to say hello. The next day, I got a call from a friend of one of the board members who greeted us in the restaurant, who was also a board member, “summoning” me to Starbucks. “I heard you were out with so and so and her married boyfriend for a drink. What a shock that you would stoop so low! How dare you be seen with her and a married man—if your father could see you, he would be rolling over in his grave with shame. You, who are the moral compass of this community, have lost all credibility.”

There is a lot to say about this conversation, including the fact that while she knew and respected my uncle, who was an Orthodox rabbi, she had never met my father. She could not know that my father had once instructed me never to stick my nose into other people’s significant relationships or to pass judgment on them. I wanted to say that it takes tremendous chutzpah to invoke the imagined disapproval of my recently deceased father, that it is God who judges these situations, not I, and that my moral compass was in the same place it was the day before. But I wanted to keep my job, so I stayed silent. When I got back to the office, I started calling board members who still held my trust. “Is this a violation of my position? Am I not to go out socially with board members if I, or others in the community, disapprove of their relationships?” It took only a few calls for a couple of things to become clear: first, that no one else on my board agreed with the woman who had scolded me, but that being Orthodox held me to a different standard from everyone else; second, that I could see that in a few short years, being Orthodox was no longer a negative—I was seen as the moral compass. Or was that just another assumption?

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I, too, had bought into some well-worn stereotypes. The setting was the Melton Adult Education course that I team-taught several years ago with an Orthodox rabbi. At one session, a participant in the class indicated that she thought Orthodox women were enslaved by the routine of cleaning and cooking prior to Shabbat, and then serving and cleaning up after the meals, especially when dishwasher use was forbidden. She imagined that on Friday night, all a woman could be was exhausted. I told her that in my home, although it may not be the norm, these tasks were shared equally, but that she should ask the rabbi what he thought the following week. Although I made a mental note to warn him, I forgot.

As he came out of the class, I asked him if the notion of women being enslaved on Shabbat came up. He nodded. “Oh no! I am so sorry—I meant to give you a heads up. What did you say?” I admit to having been a little panicked. “I told the truth,” he said. My spirits were dashed. “What’s the truth?” Without even breaking a smile, he said, “My wife has a full-time job and I am home on Fridays. So the entire responsibility of preparing for Shabbat falls to me.” Why did I think I needed to warn him? Because the archetypal image of the exhausted woman was in my mind, too: the wife, preparing everything and the man coming home from shul to a warm, clean house and a delicious meal that he had no part in preparing had been branded in my consciousness from childhood stories—and perhaps from a bit of childhood experience.

Another colleague also made me confront my stereotypical assumptions. When filling out forms for the annual Federation conference and the shabbaton that preceded it, she blurted out “I am so offended by this form!” I was filling out the same form and found nothing offensive in its request for standard information: name, address, credit card, and a box to check if I was Sabbath observant, presumably so I would be housed on a lower floor in the hotel. “What offends you about this?” I asked. She, clearly upset, said, “I am assuming that the boxes ‘I am Sabbath observant’ and ‘I am not Sabbath observant’ have to do with the elevator on Shabbat. How should someone like me answer this? I light candles every week. I go to shul often. I always observe the Sabbath—just not the same way you do, not by Orthodox standards. It’s offensive to me that I should have to write that I am not Sabbath observant!” I saw her point. I shrugged and said, “So, write that you are,” which seemed like a logical response to me. “But then I am potentially taking away a room on a lower floor from someone who really needs it. That’s not right, either.” Despite her being offended, she exhibited respect for others and their personal needs. There was another moral compass in the office, one who understood that language matters, that many Jews “Remember the Sabbath day,” perhaps not in the same way Orthodox Jews remember.

Yet there are times when my personal observance inevitably collides with my ethical and professional obligations to the organization in a more complicated way. Although ritual observance is important to me personally, caring for vulnerable Jewish populations is part of my personal practice as well as my professional mission. Every extra dollar spent might deprive a person in need; charity dollars are to be allocated carefully.

On the Thursday before a weekend when Yom Kippur fell on Shabbat, a Jewish colleague informed me that, after morning Yom Kippur services, she would be picking up the van we needed for an event the next day. “Why would you do that on Yom Kippur?” I wanted to know. “First of all, it’s $90 cheaper. Second of all, that bothers you, not me. There is a break in the services for a couple of hours, and it fits my schedule better to do it this way.” I was stunned. She was an affiliated Reform Jew, deeply committed to the Jewish people, Israel, and the community.

“I don’t understand. Do you think we, as an organization, should be renting a van on Yom Kippur? Doesn’t it strike you as incongruous?” I was feeling a twang of guilt both for being holier than thou and for suggesting the extra expense. “Well, if we were a synagogue, I would feel differently. But we are a secular Jewish organization. It’s not part of the mission statement. Our mission is to help people and to use the charity funds in a responsible way.” I couldn’t help but feel that, just as certain basic ethics in the Torah are not spelled out but nonetheless expected, not doing business on Yom Kippur was implicit. Her argument, however, was crystal clear. She worked for a Jewish organization but, like the people who supported us, ritual observance by Orthodox standards did not define her as an individual or a professional. I walked away. It gnawed at me all day as I tried to keep those personal and professional standards separate and clear. But I could not. I went into her office before heading home. “I don’t want you to pick up the van on Yom Kippur. And I don’t want the Federation to incur additional cost. So please, pick up the van on Friday afternoon. I will donate the $90.”

And so I did. We had no time to get an official policy from the board, and it was not clear to me if a secular Jewish organization should limit how and when employees conduct business through the lens of ritual observance. The interaction has been a springboard for many conversations about how we see the Jewish world, our obligations or responsibilities as Jews, and what being a “good Jew” looks like, if there is such a thing. Most importantly, it opened the door for us to engage in exchanges about our deepest Jewish values and priorities, to determine where we have common ground, and to accept the merit of the other’s perspective. Hours of debate and conversation have led us to adopt our own policies that seem to work for the community and for each other. We have learned to recognize in advance when colliding values will put us in a position of conflict, so we now have the luxury of time to creatively resolve it. But both of my colleagues showed me that my own lens was too narrow; that language matters, and the expression “observant Jews” is not synonymous with “Orthodox Jews.” They both helped me understand that there are other negative perceptions about Orthodox Jews: that we set the rules; that we don’t make room for people to observe differently from the way we do; that we want to impose our language and our standards on others because we judge them. In judging them, or making them feel that we do, we alienate them.

Consider the way we refer to formerly Orthodox Jews; we say they are “off the derekh” which implies that there is in fact, only one way to be Jewish and this language implies criticism and condescension. We are in a unique position to change these perceptions among colleagues and lay leaders by choosing our words more carefully and widening our embrace of the diverse ways Jews connect to Judaism and to community. We need to stop believing that we have the monopoly on truth and that our observance of rituals or Shabbat somehow makes us better Jews than non-Orthodox Jews. The greatest opportunity of being an Orthodox professional in a secular world is that you can begin to shatter the stereotypes.

            It takes a little tzimtzum, self-contracting and humility, for any Orthodox Jew—not only professionals in Jewish organizations—to be part of the secular Jewish world, and to set boundaries, when possible, between one’s personal standards and professional ones. I can attend a simha without making the baalei simha feel bad about the food or the timing or the place. It is not always necessary to say, “I need a kosher meal.” Sometimes, you just don’t eat where you can’t eat. If I can’t be there until two hours into the simha, rather than deliver an explanation about Shabbat and its restrictions, I simply ask, “Would it be okay if we arrive a couple of hours late?” Hamevin yavin. (Those who understand will understand.)  The many years in this job have reminded continually that there are two equally important aspects to being an observant Jew—the rituals and the interpersonal mitzvoth. Orthodox Day Schools provide a great deal of training about what to do and what not to do when it comes to Jewish ritual observance. But Rabbi Joseph Telushkin said “the greatest disservice we do is to equate religion only with ritual observance.” It is the stereotype of equating being Orthodox with being religious.

            We need to consider that there are secular Jews who are as scrupulous about observing the mitzvoth that govern interpersonal behavior as Orthodox Jews are about trying to observe both. Since the Torah dictates both sets of mitzvoth, we must find room to consider those Jews who are philanthropists, honest, and stringent about their ethics and commitment to social justice as Jewishly observant.

            The gold standard clearly is commitment to both the ritual and interpersonal rules. The word “observant” seems never used to describe how we treat others. But it should be. For Orthodox Jews to meet that gold standard, they would have to be both Orthodox and observant, paying the same careful attention to caring for the needs of others individually and communally, and to using language that demonstrates dignity and respect to all Jews, despite our differences. Ultimately, we need to use our commitment to Torah and mitzvoth to exhibit that traditional ritual observance is not only about accepting Torah obligations; it is a commitment that should lead us to become more compassionate and ethical, to be a moral compass, not the moral compass in our diverse Jewish communities.

This week's Torah portion includes a strange episode. A "mixed multitude" (asafsuf) riled up the Israelites so that they complained bitterly about their situation. They longed to eat meat. They reminisced about the diet they had in Egypt--fish, cucumbers, melons, leeks, onion and garlic.  The miraculous mannah from heaven, that was delivered to them daily in the wilderness, did not satisfy them.

Rabbinic commentators generally assume that the "asafsuf" was the non-Israelite group that attached itself to Israel at the time of the exodus from Egypt. Yet, this is a problematic assumption. Why would the Israelites have paid attention to complaints raised by the mixed multitude? They could have pointed out the obvious: we were slaves in Egypt! We would much rather eat mannah as free people, than whatever the Egyptians fed us when we were slaves.

The word "asafsuf" has the connotation of "adding on", or "gathering to". Instead of applying this term to the non-Israelites who attached themselves to Israel, I suggest that the term actually refers to charismatic Israelites who gathered people around them. These were demagogues who knew how to incite the public, to play on their fears and anxieties. Even though their message was easily refuted by facts, they were able to cause discontent among the masses by means of their fear-mongering and their complaining. Demagogues have that talent: they can talk nonsense and still arouse the public to panic.

When Moses was confronted by the angry masses of Israelites, he called to God in despair. He could not handle the situation. He needed help.

God replied: "Gather (esfah) unto Me seventy men of the elders of Israel whom you know to be the elders of the people and officers over them." God said He would give these men some of Moses' spirit, so that they would share in leadership with him. By using the word "esfah"--with the same root as "asafsuf"--the Torah is pointing out that demagogues can be quelled only by equally articulate and charismatic opponents who speak truth.

The Torah tells us that Moses "gathered seventy men of the elders of the people". These men "prophesied but they did so no more" (va-yitnabe'u ve-lo yasafu). This verse is generally understood to mean that these men prophesied only this one time, but did not continue with this power subsequently. This would seem odd. Why would their prophecy be so short-lived?

I think "lo yasafu"--from the same root as "asafsuf" and "esfah"-- should be understood to mean: they did not gather people around them; they were not successful against the demagogues. Why were they unsuccessful? Because Moses did not follow God's instructions correctly.

God had commanded Moses to choose seventy men who were elders and who were officers over the people. But when Moses chose these men, the Torah tells us that he chose elders--not that these elders were also officers. The occasion called not just for elders who were wise and reasonable--but for officers, who had the power and courage to act, to stand up against the crowd. To combat demagoguery, a correct message often is not enough. What is needed is strong, persuasive leadership who can rally people around them.

The "asafsuf" were charismatic Israelite trouble-makers and demagogues. Moses was told to gather--"esfah"--a team that could counterbalance the demagogues. But the team he chose did not have the requisite fortitude and eloquence to draw the public to them--"lo yasafu".

The world always seems to have no shortage of demagogues who preach lies and vanities--and who nonetheless gather large crowds around themselves. To combat these demagogues, a true message does not necessarily persuade the masses. What is needed is not only a true message, but the courage and commitment to speak and lead clearly and passionately--to draw the masses to truth and away from demagoguery.

To fight the demagogues--we need real pedagogues, those who teach the truth in a powerful and convincing way.

For the past 15 years, I have toiled in the vineyards of Jewish-Christian relations, trying to carve out an ennobling Torah path toward my interactions with non-Jews. Can I see Tzelem Elokim in the face of a gentile Other? If so, how does this shared divine endowment guide our relationship? And perhaps more important, how does it shape my religious commitment to the Torah's demand that Jews play a crucial role in sacred history?

I came to Orthodoxy from the outside—from an ethnically Jewish home in a typical American pluralistic New Jersey suburb. There I learned early that non-Jews were not so different from Jews. Some were refined, others coarse; some were moral, others not. And just like Jews, they were idealistic and pragmatic, smart and intellectually dull, sensitive and unresponsive. Experience taught me that there is no essential difference between Jews and gentiles and that I can learn important life lessons from people beyond the daled amot of our Jewish community. These lessons have been repeatedly confirmed in my adult life, so that now I hold these convictions so deeply that no text, no rabbi, nor any halakhic opinion can convince me otherwise. 

I have been indelibly touched by modernity and its values of equality, autonomy, universal human rights, freedom, and pluralism. They are essential to my spiritual life and deep sense of self. For better or worse, I do not pine for pre-Emancipation times when Jews were largely insulated from broader human culture, when rabbinic authority had no competition for truth, when there was no Jewish alternative to Orthodoxy (although the term “Orthodoxy” was first coined in response to modernity), and when secular ethics were unthinkable. To the contrary, I yearn to be open to all humanity and constructive human culture.

There is much beauty in Orthodoxy and its Torah: the warmth of community and the calming guidance of a structured life in the face of the chaos of postmodern culture, routine selfless acts of hesed that nourish the better angels of our souls, dedication to living according to principles and values, striving for God and transcendence—in sum, a life committed to meaning and helping others.

Yet there is much in Orthodox life that runs counter to modern values. From the time I grew committed to Torah and its halakhic expressions, retaining my commitment to modern values has not been an easy journey. At times it led me to profound spiritual restlessness and cognitive dissonance. It has sometimes put me at odds with popular attitudes in our Orthodox community, and brought me into conflict with well accepted halakhic positions that were formulated in pre-modern times when the dominant Jewish assumptions were that "gentiles always treat us brutally," that “Jewish belief is more reasonable than Christianity,” and that "religious Christians want only to convert Jews." Rooted in Jewish historical experience, those assumptions differed radically from my personal relationships with Christians that were regularly characterized by dignity, respect, and equality. Despite the tensions, the conflict has been redemptive, forcing me to better understand the mystery of others even as I ponder our differences and sameness. In the end, this struggle has proven to be a blessing because it broadened my spiritual world and taught me to understand myself and the Torah more deeply.

My interest in interfaith relations grew out of a near instinctive dedication to ethics. How we understand and act toward others is the stuff of ethical living, and our greatest moral tests come in acting toward people different from us and who disagree with us. If the bitter history of Jewish persecution has taught us anything—both cognitively and viscerally—it is the importance of adhering to moral values when we deal with others. So how a Torah Jew living in the modern pluralistic world regards gentiles and how he or she should behave toward them are live issues today that flow naturally out of ethical concern.

II.

Of course we can always choose to hunker down in monolithic ghettos—even gilded suburban ones—and almost never come into serious contact with gentiles, thereby avoiding the practical issues relating to non-Jews and their faiths. This dynamic turns us inward spiritually so that we focus exclusively on ourselves and our own survival. We can choose to emulate the Amish—good people who simply wish for the world to leave them alone to live quietly among themselves.

I have found that this strategy is rarely ethically neutral. In such a mode, it is too easy to become indifferent, callous, and even hateful toward those outside our culture. By not engaging gentiles panim el panim, we feel no accountability toward them as real human beings. Sometimes we objectify them by understanding them merely as theological or literary categories. And being unaccountable, we can too easily say incorrect and insensitive things about them, spin false hostile stereotypes, and even demonize them to strengthen our internal solidarity. In isolation, we are spared the need to empirically test our opinions or correct our prejudices.

Unfortunately, many Orthodox leaders today have taken this turn, as if it somehow it demonstrates their Jewish bona fides. Worse, some of our centrist rabbinic leaders not only eschew goyim, they refuse to talk seriously with heterodox Jews, feminist Jews, Open Orthodox Jews, or secular authorities on social, ethical, or cultural matters.[1]

All this withdrawal comes at a terrible spiritual, moral, and intellectual cost. Theologically, it means giving up on God’s covenant with the Jewish people, which demands that Abraham’s children somehow be the agents of blessing to all humanity. This challenge was given to Abraham by God at the birth of the Jewish people: “Be a blessing…and through you all the nations of the earth will be blessed” (Gen. 12:1–3), and to Moses at Sinai: “You shall be for Me a mamlekhet kohanim”—a kingdom of priests” (Ex. 19:6). The primary functions of priests are blessing and teaching others, and if all Israel are priests, who is left for Israel to bless? It can only be the gentiles of the world. This covenantal demand was repeated to our prophets, who ask us in God’s name to “be a light unto the nations.” The Torah’s vision is for covenantal Jews to be central actors in human history—the central actors. All this is quite logical. Is it conceivable that the One Creator of Heaven and Earth, who is a “Rahaman al ha-kol,” would be concerned only with the welfare of .01% of His[2] children, the Jews? If not, should we not emulate God’s pathos and involvement with all humans? God does not wish us to be “Amish with tzitzith,” focused exclusively on our own survival. He demands greater things, nobler things of us. I sense this instinctively and ache for my Jewishness to play a larger, more meaningful role. I yearn to expand my religious consciousness to my experiences with all human beings.

Morally, withdrawal can easily induce a kind of numbness, a resolute blindness to ethical wisdom outside the bet midrash and impede developing sensitive caring for past largely ignored groups such as women, LGBT individuals, and oppressed people or disaster victims outside our community.[3] And intellectually, refusing to engage seriously with people with whom we disagree stunts us. Humans learn by wrestling seriously with people who have different opinions. As R. Ovadia Mi-Bartenura understood, “[Only] through makhloket can truth emerge.”[4] Makhloket is not a shallow verbal game played out in the halls of a yeshiva, but an arduous life commitment experienced in the living presence of those who think differently from us. True intellectual integrity entails never saying something that we would not defend in the presence of someone who disagrees with us. In the end, refusing to discuss vital spiritual and halakhic issues with knowledgeable dissenting others is a sign of tepid conviction, weak argument, and intellectual flimsiness.

Perhaps all the harsh past gentile persecutions of Jews have so badly traumatized us that we now suffer from a form of “battered wife syndrome.” Yet this reflexive all-consuming inwardness was never the Torah’s ideal, and in America where anti-Semitism is no longer a substantive phenomenon, I see no need for a strategy of spiritual withdrawal and intellectual avoidance.

III.

I feel blessed to live today, in an era of miracles. One is the miracle of the Jewish people returning to their covenantal home and gaining sovereign independence in the Jewish State. A second is Christianity’s change toward Judaism and the Jewish people. Current Christian teachings about us were unimaginable to our grandparents and rabbis only two generations ago. And they have largely filtered down to create warm attitudes toward Jews among Christian religious leaders and laity in the West.

A simple historical contrast indicates this miraculous change. In 1897, an article appeared in the Vatican periodical “Civilta Cattolica” explaining that Jews are required to live as humiliated servants in exile until the end of days, a fate to be avoided only by their conversion to Christianity. So when Theodore Herzl approached Pius X in 1904 to enlist his support for the Jewish return to Zion, the pope declined:

It is not in our power to prevent you to go to Jerusalem, but we will never give our support. As the head of the Church, I cannot give you any other answer. The Jews do not recognize our Lord, hence we cannot recognize the Jewish people. When you come to Palestine, we will be there to baptize all of you.[5]

Only 96 years later, in March 2000, Pope John Paul II made an official visit to Israel, met with the Jewish State’s President and Chief Rabbis, and prayed at Jerusalem’s Western Wall for the welfare of the Jewish people as his elder brothers and who remain the people of God’s covenant.

Christianity was deeply implicated in the infinite Jewish suffering during the Shoah. Its traditional supercessionist teachings toward Jews and Judaism were toxic and helped prepare European Christians to more easily accept the Nazi plan to exterminate Jews. After the war, many Christian thinkers from popes down through clergy and educated laypersons began a process of sincere din v’heshbon to examine Christianity’s role in this heinous event. This introspection resulted in a radical change in Christian theology regarding Jews and Judaism that began in the late 1950s and that continues unabated until today. One Christian theologian summed up present Catholic[6] teachings about Jews as “the six R’s”: 1) the repudiation of anti-Semitism, (2) the rejection of the charge of deicide, (3) repentance after the Shoah, (4) review of teaching about Jews and Judaism, (5) recognition of Israel, and (6) rethinking of proselytizing Jews.[7] This is nothing less than a Copernican revolution away from Christianity’s past hostile teachings about us.

Today many believing Christians understand that their faith emerged from Judaism, that Jews remain God’s beloved chosen, that there is still a living covenant between God and the Jewish people, and that Christians cannot fully understand themselves without knowing more about us and our faith.[8]

Because of the horrible past we experienced at the hands of Christians, many Jews were rightfully skeptical at the start of this process regarding Christianity’s ability to do teshuvah. But any serious analysis of the facts today and the experience of warm relations between Jews and high Christian officials should convince us that the present is different from the past—and most importantly, that our grandchildren’s future with Christians can be much brighter than was our grandparents’ past.

In the Middle Ages R. Shimon bar Yohai’s famous claim, “Esav Soneh le-Ya’akov” (“Esau hates Jacob”) about the Roman Empire accurately characterized the hostility of Christians toward us as well as Jewish thinking about Christians. Today, however, the wisdom of Netziv comes closer to the reality of Jewish-Church relations:

“Both of them wept”: Ya’akov also wept and felt brotherly compassion when Esav recognized the descendants and merits of Israel. When this occurs, then we, the people of Israel, will also recognize that Esav is indeed our brother too.[9]

All this has opened up the field of honest Jewish-Christian dialogue, on both universal practical and specific theological issues. Jews can approach Jewish-Christian dialogue without fear of Christians attempting to convert them. In fact, refraining from conversionary attempts is an explicit ground rule of dialogue. While most Orthodox Jews and their organizations still shun religious conversations with Christians as a matter of policy,[10] there is no halakhic problem with interreligious relations and dialogue conducted under today’s parameters.[11]

The old fear was that discussing issues of faith with Christians could lead to conversion out of Judaism, but my experience has been precisely the opposite: Nearly every Jewish participant I know who has participated in dialogue with church officials has emerged with his/her faith strengthened and his/her Jewish identity reinforced. Interreligious dialogue is no longer a zero-sum affair, like theological disputation or debate. It is more accurately an expression of religious anthropology in which each side respectfully learns from the other and provides strength to live a religious life in the face of contemporary all-consuming materialistic culture. What a great irony it is that R. Joseph Soloveitchik, the great bard of spiritual loneliness who relentlessly sought for relief from this curse, opposed interfaith religious dialogue. Most of us who engage in this dialogue find some measure of relief from our spiritual loneliness when we engage pious Christians experiencing the same modern spiritual isolation.[12] I have found this engagement spiritually liberating and edifying, broadening my horizons and sensitizing me to the divine spark in all God’s children and the wonder of how others reach for Eternity.

Because thoughtful Modern Orthodox Jews are knowledgeable, God-oriented personalities, it is no accident that they have grown to constitute a near majority of Jewish participants in religious dialogue.[13] They are questing God in every corner and in every possible experience, and religious Christians are seeking out Orthodox Jews specifically as their dialogue partners because they know them to be authentic representatives of Jewish tradition from whom they can learn both about Judaism and the dilemmas of modern spiritual life. Our struggles often mirror and illuminate theirs—and theirs, ours.

Not long ago I experienced a touching moment at a conference in Salerno, Italy, where Orthodox rabbis and Catholic clergy spoke to more than 400 people for three days. Before the Catholic priests left to return home, they asked the rabbis to bless them. These priests understood the holiness of Jewish tradition and recognized that the Jewish people is dear to God and remain His chosen people. Affirming the present teachings of the Church, these priests understood that we are indeed a mamlekhet kohanim and they wanted us to bestow God’s blessing on them.

It is a great privilege to live in an era that Netziv could only dream about more than 100 years ago. God has blessed us by bringing the Jewish people home and giving us Medinat Yisrael, as well as providing the opportunity for Christian reconciliation with Judaism and the Jewish people. Many Christians have gone from being our bitterest enemies to being our most understanding friends, and it is in both our religious and physical interests to realize that we no longer live in Rashbi’s era of Jewish-gentile warfare. The twin enemies of Christianity—radical jihadism from the right and radical secularism from the left—are also our enemies. In many ways religious Jews and Christians share the same spiritual universe and political challenges.

On a practical level we help ourselves, Am Yisrael and Torat Yisrael when Jews learn about who Christians really are today and constructively interact with them. With this knowledge religious Jews can come to understand that as friends, Christians can be our allies against both the physical and religious challenges that face our people.

Spiritually, I have learned that participating in serious Jewish-Christian engagement, has expanded my religious universe by opening up the possibility of finding my Creator in distant, unexpected corners of His universe, and providing me with the privilege of learning from and teaching all His children.

These are no small matters. In the Torah’s words, “Be a blessing.”

I confess I also like a good introduction, so I thank you, President Samuelson, for such a generous one, and for inviting me to be with you this morning. I have the greatest admiration for this university’s work in educating minds, ennobling spirits, and inspiring in your students a commitment to the words etched in stone at the entrance to this great campus: “Enter to learn, go forth to serve.” There is a warm ecumenical spirit that flows through this campus, and I feel a strong connection to BYU because of the core principles it stands for, which are at once rooted in the tradition of the Mormon faith, but also in the fundamental values that are shared by all Americans and all people of faith.

In this vein, I am reminded of something that happened to me almost exactly three years ago, during the last presidential election. As many of you know, I made the decision back in 2008 to support my friend John McCain for president, even though he was a Republican and I am a Democrat. The most intense and stressful period in any presidential campaign is the final stretch—and I was traveling around the country, trying to rally support for John and his running mate, Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska. It was the eve of the vice presidential debate that would pit Governor Palin against Barack Obama’s running mate, Joe Biden, and the McCain team was increasingly nervous. I had been the Democratic vice presidential nominee in 2000, when Al Gore was running for President against George W. Bush, and so the McCain team asked me to go to Philadelphia, where Governor Palin was practicing for the debate, to see if I could help her prepare. When I arrived at the Westin Hotel in downtown Philadelphia for the debate prep session, Governor Palin seemed tired and frustrated, and the McCain team was fast approaching a full-blown panic.

One advisor turned to me and said: “Senator, we need your help. Please go in there and talk to her. You have something in common with Governor Palin that none of the rest of us has. You are both religious people.”

Now, this was a wonderful moment, I thought, because although Sarah Palin is Christian and I am Jewish, this advisor sensed there might be a special bond between us based on our religious beliefs and observance. And I discovered that there was. I began our conversation by asking her if she was familiar with the biblical story of Queen Esther, in which the young queen is called upon to consider her destiny and, with tremendous courage and faith, stand up to the genocidal Haman and save the Jewish people. Governor Palin was indeed very familiar with the story—and I suspect many of you may be as well—so, I reminded her that, as people of faith, we share a belief that we are not here by accident— that we are here on earth for a reason and a purpose. Like Queen Esther, Governor Palin was at a moment of personal destiny. “You have been given a big opportunity,” I said, “and you have a choice to make about whether or not you will seize it and your destiny. So be yourself and have faith, and God will see you through this.”

Governor Palin told me that my words meant a lot to her. The conversation meant a lot to me too because it reminded me that irrespective of theological or political differences, there is a common bond between people of faith. Indeed, people of faith have a shared gratitude for what we have been given—beginning first and foremost with our lives. We also believe what both the Bible and the Declaration of Independence tell us: that each and every one of us is a child of God, and that as such, every person enjoys certain basic rights, liberties, capabilities, and responsibilities. We believe that each of us has his or her own destiny, and that this great nation that we are all part of has a destiny too.

In this spirit, the subject I would like to discuss with you this morning is the relationship between religion and politics in America, a subject that is very personal to me. You see, my Jewish faith is central to my life, including my career in politics. My faith has provided me with a foundation, an order, and indeed a purpose, and has so much to do with the way I navigate through each day, both personally and professionally, in ways both large and small. It also means that, like you, I observe the Sabbath, or Shabbat, as it is called in Hebrew. This means that, for me and other observant Jews, from before sunset on Friday until after sunset on Saturday, I turn off my Blackberry. I do not drive or ride in a car. If there is a vote in the Senate, I will walk there from my home a few miles away.

My observance of the Sabbath is also the subject of the book I recently wrote. Now, I know some people may wonder why a United States Senator would write a book about a religious subject like the Sabbath. The reason is simple: I love the Sabbath and believe that it is at once and commandment we must keep, but also a gift from God that “keeps” and nurtures those of us who observe it. That has certainly been true for me, and I wrote this book because I want to share the Sabbath with everyone, in the hope that they will grow to love it as much as I do.

Before I talk about my own spiritual path and career in politics, however, I think it is important to put all of this in a broader context. Of course, we are at the start of another presidential campaign, one in which discussions and debates about the relationship between politics and religion have already played a prominent role. But in fact, these are questions that are very old—going all the way back to the Founders of our country, who wrote the Declaration of Independence and later the Constitution. The vision of our Founders is relevant because it reminds us that, from the beginning, America has been a nation that has been defined not by our borders, but by our values. One of those founding values was a belief in a higher power—a belief in God. The United States was formed, as the Declaration of Independence says, to secure for the people of this country the “inalienable rights” of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” that were endowed by our Creator. In that way, the United States of America was and is a faith-based initiative. What is equally striking and remarkable is that although our Founders were overwhelmingly men of the same Christian faith, the founding documents they bequeathed us guarantee religious freedom, including the right of every American to hold elective office regardless of his or her religion.

It is Article VI of our great Constitution that explicitly bans religious tests for elective officials, allowing Americans to hold office irrespective of their faith. And it is the First Amendment of our Constitution that prohibits the “establishment” of an official religion, ensuring for every American the right to worship—or not to worship—as he or she so chooses. Succeeding generations have been inspired by this founding vision and endeavored to make real its full promise, which I have always believed is a promise of freedom of religion, not freedom from religion. America’s religious freedom has created a unique public square in which there is no establishment of one religion but freedom for all religions. And that means there is tolerance for different religions throughout our country and in our public life. Perhaps that is why from 1776 to today, America has been a uniquely religious country.

Alexis de Tocqueville, the famous French student of America, noted the remarkable religiosity of Americans in his definitive account of the United States in the nineteenth century. He wrote that there is no country in which religion “retains greater influence over the souls of men than in America,” and added that “there can be no greater proof of its utility and its conformity to human nature than that its influence is powerfully felt over the most enlightened and free nation on earth.” This observation is still true today: Over 90 percent of Americans say they believe in God, and the majority of Americans regularly attend a house of worship. Tocqueville also observed that although Americans were divided by religious sects, “they all look upon their religion in the same light,” as he put it. He recognized that though characterized by different and diverse belief systems, there are universal values that unite all Americans, which is a second consequence of our country’s commitment to religious freedom. Indeed, religious freedom in America has given birth to the development of a set of shared religious values that constitute what President Abraham Lincoln called America’s “political religion” and Walt Whitman praised as “a sublime and serious Religious Democracy” in this nation.

In American history, the sublime and serious combination of religion and democracy has been a force for good in our public life. Some of the great movements of conscience in America emerged from the convictions of religious people and used the language and liturgy of faith to build support. It was this spirit that animated the abolitionist movement, which fought to end the evil of slavery in the mid-nineteenth century. It was this spirit that also animated the suffragist activists of the twentieth century who fought for the right of women to vote and participate in our civic life as equals. And it was this spirit that I was personally privileged to witness when I was in college at Yale in the early 1960s during the civil rights movement in America, which aimed to end racial discrimination and empower African Americans to reclaim their voting rights in southern states. I was inspired to join the civil rights movement because of the values it represented, which were deeply rooted in my faith: the values of equality, inclusiveness, tolerance, and service to others. The purpose of the movement was best expressed by the words of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in his soaring “I Have Dream” speech. This speech—which was a call for freedom, for justice, and for a return to America’s founding values—represented the culmination of the historic March on Washington, a movement I took part in, in which thousands of us, of all religions, races, and nationalities, joined together peacefully and powerfully to petition our government to right the wrong of racial bigotry.

For me, the March on Washington was America at its best. It was America as my family and faith had encouraged me to believe it could be.

During the early 1960s, I felt a boundless sense of hope and possibility about the future that lay ahead for our nation. It was also while I was at college that another important barrier was broken. It was in the fall of my freshman year that a Roman Catholic, John F. Kennedy, was elected to the presidency for the first time in American history. At the time, I felt a sense of possibility that because of President Kennedy's election, doors were going to open for me too and for others who were part of minority faiths, races, and ethnicities. President Kennedy’s historic election embodies the tolerance and respect Americans generally have for religions different from their own—religions whose adherents are a minority in our country.

In 2000, when Al Gore gave me the privilege of being the first Jewish American to be nominated for national office, I personally experienced the American people’s generosity of spirit, fairness, and acceptance of religious diversity. One African American minister said to me on the day I was nominated, “In America, when a barrier is broken for one group, the doors of opportunity open wider for every American.” I felt that warm sense of shared progress throughout the campaign. I also felt free—indeed I was encouraged—to talk about my religion and the central role observance plays in my life. I have some wonderful memories that make this clear in living anecdotes, several of which I write about in my book on the Sabbath. A veteran Secret Service agent who had worked several national campaigns told me he had never heard so many people say “God bless you” to a candidate. It was a reflection, I think, of how Americans embrace the faith that we share, even though we may be of different religions.

On another occasion, I remember once speaking to a rally of Latino Americans and seeing in the front row a woman who had created a poster which perhaps best expressed the sense of shared values and shared aspirations that I am speaking about now in two powerful words that I don't think ever appeared together before: "Viva Chutzpah!" These Americans, like so many others across the country, were moved by the fundamental American principle of equal opportunity and respect for diversity of religious belief that has been at the heart of our American story from the beginning. In the end, the Gore-Lieberman ticket received over a half-million more votes than the Bush-Cheney ticket. I do not cite these matters to relitigate the nettlesome matter of Florida’s electoral votes, but rather as unambiguous proof that our ticket was judged on our qualifications and policies, not on the basis of my religion. That’s the way our Founders wanted it to be and the way it should be.

As we begin the 2012 presidential election cycle, faith and politics have once again become a source of some interest, controversy and perhaps apprehension. For instance, some have expressed anxiety about open professions of faith by a few of the candidates in the Republican primary. I do not share these anxieties. First, a candidate does not give up his or her freedom to exercise freedom of speech during a presidential campaign. If a candidate wants to discuss his or her faith that is their right, just as it is everyone else’s right to decide how they feel about those expressions of faith. I welcome the opportunity to hear about a candidate’s faith; I find it helpful, in fact, because it tells me more about the kind of leader he or she would be. Now we also have two Mormon candidates running for president in 2012, and one of them, Governor Mitt Romney, a distinguished graduate of this university, may well end up as the Republican nominee. If that happens, a new barrier will be broken—and the door of opportunity in our country will once again be wider for all of us. I also hope that no candidate will be judged solely on the basis of his or her faith. Our national candidates should be judged in the best American way—that is, on the basis of their capabilities and policies, their experience, and their vision.

In 1960, when John F. Kennedy was running for president, it was at a time when there was still significant anti-Catholic prejudice in the country. On the eve of the vote, he spoke about this challenge, and his words remain as true today as they did then. He said, “If this election is decided on the basis that 40 million Americans lost their chance of being president on the day they were baptized then it is the whole nation that will be the loser—in the eyes of Catholics and non-Catholics around the world, in the eyes of history, and in the eyes of our own people.”

The same will be true if Americans judge Governor Romney and Governor Huntsman based on their Mormon faith alone. In America, there cannot be a religious test for serving in elective office and I hope and believe that Americans of all faiths—and of no faith—will not base their votes on the fact that Governor Romney’s Mormon faith is different from their own. Just as Americans rose above differences when John F. Kennedy’s Roman Catholic faith was “different” in 1960, and 16 years later when Jimmy Carter’s Christian evangelical faith was “different,” and again in 2000 when my Jewish faith was “different,” Governor Romney must be judged on his personal qualities, his leadership, his experience, and his ideas for America’s future. My experience in 2000 gives me great confidence that the American people will again reject any sectarian religious tests for office and show their strong character, instinctive fairness and steadfast belief in our Declaration of Independence and in our Constitution. That truly is the American way.

Let me conclude by saying that there is one more way in which I believe that the religion of the American people is profoundly important to the current time of American life: a time when millions of Americans can't find work; when millions of Americans are worried about whether they will have their jobs next year; when millions of Americans are pessimistic about America's future; and when people all over the world worry or, in the case of our opponents and enemies, hope that America has begun an irreversible decline. I don’t buy into this pessimism about America's future at all. I believe that this twenty-first century will be another great century for America. One of the big reasons for my optimism is those numbers I cited earlier—that more than 90 percent of the American people believe in God and more than half of Americans regularly attend a house of worship. Now why is that important? It is important because faith in God, love of Country, a sense of unity, and confidence in the power of every individual have carried America through crises greater than the one we face today and will, I am sure, propel us forward again.

People of faith are also strengthened by their faith in God to make clear and proper distinctions and choices. This view is antithetical to moral relativism—it is a positive, affirmative worldview that is not only deeply American, but that is a crucial ingredient to any culture that aspires to be free and prosperous. After all, the greatest source of America’s strength and hope is not in the divisive politics of Washington. It is in the broadly shared values of the American people and the unity of action so many of us derive from the strength we find in the varied houses of worship we attend. My time here with you at BYU has also made me optimistic about the future and the great American century that lies ahead. You inspire optimism in me because I am confident that when you go forth from these gates, guided by your faith, your service will help to make America the more perfect union it has always aspired to be.

COLBEH, 32W 39TH ST, NEW YORK CITY

VIP Reception – 5:30 PM

Cocktails – 6:00 PM

Dinner and Program – 7:00 PM

HONORED SPEAKER SENATOR JOE LIEBERMAN

Introduction

In what way are humans and animals distinct? Throughout history, arguments have been made on various grounds including: reason, emotional capacity, language, moral intuition, freedom of will, physical capabilities, and the ability to create sustainable social systems. If humans are created in the image of God,[i] then there must be something unique about our essence.[ii] However, with time, each of the above proposals for human uniqueness has been exposed to have flaws. For example, a human without the ability to speak or hear certainly is not lacking in his or her definitional or moral status as human, nor is one who is missing a limb or has a lower-than-average I.Q. Additionally, more and more research has shown that many other species have a sophisticated capacity for communication, reasoning, deliberation, emotional life, the moral enterprise, and perhaps even self-consciousness within limits. It is now a well-known fact that humans share 98 percent of our genetic makeup with chimpanzees.

Most convincing perhaps is the suggestion that humans have unique responsibilities. Viktor Frankl, the great Holocaust survivor and psychoanalyst, suggested that “Being human means being conscious and being responsible.” This can be read normatively rather than descriptively, that we are not inherently different but have a higher moral calling to responsibility.

What makes humans most similar to God? What makes us most distinct from animals? The answer to these questions will help us to understand our fundamental relationship to all three (the divine, our fellow humans, and the animal world).

Human Responsibility to Creation

In the Creation story, humans are commanded to rule over all creatures.[iii] This can and should be seen as both a mandate to elevate human existence as well as to care for other creatures dependent on human mercy. We are empowered to emulate God, who is “good to all, and whose mercy is upon all works” (Psalms 145:9). The Rambam explains that the human subjugation of the animal world is descriptive, rather than prescriptive. That is to say, we allow ourselves to subjugate creatures—but we are not obligated to do so.[iv] The Rambam explains further that animals have their own teleological purpose—that they are created for their own sake. 

Rav Soloveitchik taught that we are imbued with a capacity and imperative for “majesty and humility.” The Rav charges us to see our human limitations in a world that God creates and controls, while also fully embracing our unique human capacities and responsibilities that we, as humans, have been created to exercise and fulfill.

The great fourteenth-century Jewish French philosopher Ibn Caspi explains (on Deuteronomy 22:6) that animals are “ke-Ilu avoteinu,” that they are like our forefathers since they preceded us in creation and are similar to us in substance. This is a pre-Darwinian notion of evolution, which claims that humans have not only a moral but also a sacred responsibility to show compassion to God’s sentient creatures. By the nature of their sentient capacity (although animals have duties as well according to the Torah; see Genesis 1:22), humans clearly have unique obligations and responsibilities that animals do not. We can now pose the question: Are the rights of animals comparable to the rights of humans?

Philosophical Construct of “Rights”

Rights are normative principles often understood as entitlements or freedoms. By being human, one might suggest that one has the right to pursue self-interest and happiness. The origin, and even validity, of these rights has been a matter of great debate. Rights are granted to humans based upon a social contract, or, according to some, upon an inherent dignity bestowed by God. Can these philosophical foundations allow for the extension of these same rights to non-humans?

In many ancient societies, animals were perceived through a purely anthropocentric lens as mere tools to human fulfillment, a means to our ends. According to this mindset, non-human beings do not have their own telos, but are merely instrumental. Even by the time of the Enlightenment, some still argued for the strongest bifurcation between humans and animals. In the seventeenth century, during the Enlightenment, Descartes argued that animals lack souls, minds, and reason, based on his suppositions of animal consciousness and epistemic capacity.[v]

The first piece of legislation prohibiting animal cruelty did not emerge in an English-speaking society until 1635 in Ireland. Introduced by Richard Ryder, it forbade the ripping of wool off of sheep and tails off of horses.[vi] In 1641, the first legal code was passed in North America to protect domesticated animals from cruel treatment. Many cultures at this time still engaged in forms of animal torture for entertainment such as cock fighting and throwing, bull baiting and running, and dog fighting.

            Centuries later, sports consisting of animal cruelty have unfortunately not gone extinct. In fact, with the advent of new production technologies, the disregard for the welfare of the animal kingdom, many have argued, is greater than ever before. At the same time, the animal rights movement has emerged in the past few decades to view animals as sentient beings that not only deserve human compassion but that have a right to exist and thrive. Martha Nussbaum has called this the “neo-Aristotelian capabilities approach.”[vii] She suggests that all beings that have a capacity (to exist, to learn, to be free, etc.) have the right to fulfill that capacity as long as its fulfillment does not harm another.

There are two primary approaches to the issue of animal rights—the utilitarian approach and the rights approach. Peter Singer, a bioethicist at Princeton, a utilitarian philosopher, and the author of Animal Liberation, has argued for decades that vegetarianism is a moral imperative due to our knowledge of animal suffering. Singer has called modern meat production to be cruel and damaging to the ecosystem. A human desire for light pleasure does not allow for gross afflictions and death of animals. The pleasure does not match the pain.

Tom Regan and Gary Francione represent the rights based approach. Regan suggests that animals are “subjects-of-life” and thus have a right to life and the same moral rights as humans. Francione argues for the rights of animals to be free from ownership. The Torah takes a different approach from both of these two philosophical schools of thought.

Jewish Animal Rights and Concomitant Human Virtues

The Torah articulates a myriad of animal rights and ties them together with mitzvoth (opportunities for the cultivation of Jewish virtues). The Torah grants the right of rest on the Sabbath not only to humans, but to animals as well (see Exodus 20:10). To put the Torah’s incredible command of rest for animals into perspective, until the end of the nineteenth century, employees in the United States were still expected to work seven-day work weeks. Additionally, the Torah teaches that, during the week, an owner must be conscious of how his or her animals are being employed. One may not plow with an ox and mule harnessed together since both animals, being of unequal size and strength, will suffer (Deuteronomy 22:10). Perhaps most famously, the case of shiluakh haKan (the mitzvah to send away the mother bird before taking the chick) creates the imperative to concern oneself with the emotional state of animals as well as their physical state.[viii] Also out of concern for an animal’s emotional well-being, one may not slaughter an animal along with its young (see Leviticus 22:28).

The Rambam argues that there is no difference between the pain that humans feel and that which animals feel in this regard; between the love that a human mother feels for her child and the love that an animal mother feels for her young.[ix] When one encounters two animals and one is crouching under its burden and the other is unburdened because the owner needs someone to help him load it, he is obligated to first unload the burdened animal because of the commandment to prevent suffering to animals. The Gemara in Baba Metsia 32 teaches us that avoiding the suffering of animals is a biblical law that pushes off rabbinic law.[x] The Rambam teaches us here of the importance of animal welfare via a radical suggestion that the suffering of the animal takes precedence, at times, over the burden of a fellow human being!

            In one teshuva, Rav Moshe Feinstein rules that for “those who produce veal, there is definitely the prohibition of tsa’ar ba’alei hayyim.” In the same teshuva, he argues that “It is forbidden to cause pain to an animal to feed it food from which it derives no benefit, and that causes it pain in the process of eating, and that also brings about diseases, and they suffer from the diseases.  Because it was for the sake of this benefit, that they can deceive people and it is forbidden from the perspective of tsa’ar ba’alei hayyim, on a biblical level, because for the sake of such purposes it is not permitted for people to cause suffering to animals.”[xi]

After all, we learn from the Shulhan Arukh that “if an animal has been fattened with forbidden foods, it is permitted. However, if it has been fattened exclusively for its entire life with forbidden foods, it is forbidden.”[xii]

The Talmud (Berakhot 40a) teaches us that one must indeed make personal sacrifices for the welfare of animals. One of the best known instances of animal protection is that one may not eat until having fed one’s animals. This is not only Jewish law but it is also interpreted as the epitome of Jewish virtue. In fact, the Midrash states that Moshe was chosen as the leader and prophet for the Israelite people because of his consideration for animals. It is not only the prophets who are so often portrayed as compassionate shepherds; this is also a popular way of personifying God: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” (Psalms 23:1). One may not treat one’s animal merely as property to be sold as one wishes. Rather, we are told that one may not sell one’s animal to a non-virtuous person out of fear for how they will treat that animal.[xiii] The Gemara (Baba Metsia 85a) explains that the great Rabbi Yehuda HaNassi, the redactor of the Mishnah, experienced years of suffering because of one act of cruelty shown to an animal when he ruled that it should be killed because that was the purpose of its creation. It was not until he showed significant mercy to animals that he was cured of his painful ailments.

The rabbis (in Eruvin 100b) even went so far as to suggest that animals themselves have moral attributes that we can directly learn from. “If the Torah had not been given, we could have learned modesty from the cat, honesty from the ant, chastity from the dove, and good manners from the rooster, who first coaxes then mates.” Natural law, and animals, can be great teachers of virtue.

The halakhot of kosher slaughtering can help to ensure that animals are treated more humanely. Those laws concerning the separation of milk and meat, Rav Ephraim Lunchitz suggests, are designed to limit meat intake and cultivate a spiritual awareness of how one consumes animal products. [xiv] Interestingly, while there are special blessings designated for bread, wine, fruit, and vegetables, there is no special blessing reserved for the consumption of meat. Could a blessing be made if we were truly spiritually conscious of what we were consuming: “haMotzi basar min haHai?”

How far must we take these sensitivities? Some choose not to hunt, others to limit meat intake, while others refrain completely. How can the Torah guide us?

Vegetarianism and Halakha

Vegetarianism has been a growing trend in the American Jewish community for the past few decades as the Jewish community has become more educated about the detrimental effects meat production has upon human health, animal suffering, the environment, and global hunger. Well-known statistics demonstrate how much food in developing countries, later shipped to the United States, has gone to feeding cattle, rather than impoverished humans. This reality is due to the fact that cattle around the world consume an amount of food equal what 8.7 billion people need. Even further, cattle in the United States consume ten times the grain that Americans themselves eat.[xv]

Over 200 million Americans are eating enough food, much of which is grain-fed livestock that could feed over one billion people in developing countries.[xvi] Jean Mayer, a Harvard nutritionist, claims that 60 million hungry individuals could be fed if people reduced their meat intake by just 10 percent.[xvii] Exploring the details of these serious harms to human health, poverty, animal treatment and the planet are beyond the scope of this article. Our question here is: How do halakha and Jewish ethics look upon vegetarianism for those who feel a moral obligation to limit or cease their meat intake?

A Gemara (Sanhedrin 59b) frames the biblical history of vegetarianism quite succinctly: “Rav Yehudah stated in the name of Rav, ‘Adam was not permitted meat for purposes of eating as it is written, ‘for you it shall be for food and to all animals of the earth,’ [Genesis 1:29] but not animals of the earth for you. But when the sons of Noah came (God) permitted them (the animals of the earth) as it is said, ‘as the green grass I have given to you everything,’ [Genesis 9:3]” We can suggest that the biblical history of meat consumption experienced three distinct eras. In the Garden of Eden, humans did not consume animals (era 1). After the flood, God saw the violent and sinful nature of humans and permitted meat consumption as a concession (era 2). We then learn that meat was only permitted as a sacrifice to God and then ultimately it became permitted outside of sacrificial worship as well (era 3). These three eras mark an evolution from an ideal to a religious pragmatism. I would argue that with the advent of mass production and corporate factory farms that we have entered a fourth era, one that requires a new religious perspective on the consumption of meat (to be explored below). We now must ask whether shehita (ritual slaughter) in an age of mass production has lost its sanctity. Rabbi David Rosen, the former Chief Rabbi of Ireland, wrote[xviii] that “The current treatment of animals in the livestock trade definitely renders the consumption of meat halakhically unacceptable as the product of illegitimate means.” Rabbi Rosen argues that in theory kosher meat is perfectly kosher and acceptable to consume—but that in today’s system of mass abuse, it is no longer kosher, that is, no longer fit for consumption. He goes on to suggest that “In contemporary society, more than ever before, vegetarianism should be an imperative for Jews who seek to live in accordance with Judaism’s most sublime teachings.”

The Gemara (Pesahim 49b) declares that an ignoramus may not eat meat. The Maharsha explains that if one is not extremely knowledgeable and pious, too many mistakes can be made. The Rama (Teshuvot Rama 65) argued that an ignoramus is not well-versed in the laws of shehita (ritual slaughter). In addition to scrupulousness in kashruth, it seems that one would need to be a very ethically conscious person to truly appreciate what goes into meat production today. The Talmud (Kiddushin 56b) taught that a consumer is more culpable than producers in a certain sense. The demander of a certain product that harms (i.e., the consumer) is really the one responsible for the pain caused.

At least two Rishonim also view vegetarianism as a moral ideal. R. Yitzchak Abarbanel[xix] and R. Yosef Albo[xx] both suggest that it is a moral ideal since the slaughtering process can lead one to cultivate cruel character traits. In the early twentieth century, Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaCohen Kook argued for the eschatological ideal of vegetarianism.[xxi] Even though certain ideals won’t be fully actualized until the messianic era, Jewish theology instructs that the Jewish people must act in spiritual and moral ways that attempt to bring the messianic ideals to reality. The book of Isaiah in its prophesy for the messianic age (11:6, 8) famously teaches that even animals will be vegetarian: “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid. And the lion, like the ox, shall eat straw.” The S’dei Hemed suggested, in a different vein, that refraining from wine and meat consumption can be a positive practice to expiate sin.[xxii]

It is important to note that with the Torah’s full permission to allow the consumption of kosher meat, it did not become an obligation to consume meat. Rather it grants permission for those who desire it. The Torah says “you say: ‘I will eat meat’ because your soul desires to eat meat; with all the desire of your soul may you eat meat” (Deuteronomy 12:20). Meat may be consumed when there is real desire—but there is not a need to consume it if there is not desire, and certainly one need not eat meat if one finds it repugnant (physically, morally, or spiritually). The Gemara (Hullin 84a) goes even further in explaining this Torah verse and states “A person should not eat meat unless he has a special craving for it.” Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, the Chief Rabbi of Efrat, has written that “The dietary laws are intended to teach us compassion and lead us gently to vegetarianism.”[xxiii] The sources show that one need not eat meat. The three valid positions are that it is: 1. Permissible to eat meat, 2. Permissible not to eat meat, 3. Ideal not to eat meat.[xxiv]

Stranger today still, within a very anthropocentric worldview, some have also argued that it is ideal to eat meat since animals were merely created for human purpose. This seems to be a very narrow view, and flies in the face of the interpreters of the Torah’s values and the bediavad (un-ideal) evolution to finally allow meat consumption. When animals were created in the beginning of the book of Genesis, it is clear from the text and commentaries that they were not created for human consumption.

A very peculiar Orthodox culture has evolved in certain segments of the Jewish community that sees the consumption of meat almost as a marker of frumkeit, and that any religiously observant individual should feel obliged to engage in a hedonistic consumption of meat and that any truly religious celebration must have meat, especially on Jewish holidays. This desire has taken priority in many communities over religious virtues and the spirituality of the joyous occasion.

Simhat Yom Tov?

Some have claimed that even if one chooses to be a vegetarian during the week, it is not permissible to refrain from meat on Jewish festivals since we are obligated in simha (joy) and “ein simha ela basar veYayyin” (there is no joy without meat and wine).

To treat this approach as conclusive is incorrect. Halakha takes the notion of simha (joy) very seriously and does not enforce practices that individuals do not find joyous. Furthermore, for many posekim, the consumption of meat as a fulfillment of the mitzvah to be joyous on holidays existed only in a historical context. The Gemara (Pesahim 109a) reads: “R. Judah ben Beteira declared, ‘During the time that the Temple existed there was no ‘rejoicing’ other than with meat as it is said, ‘and you shall slaughter peace-offerings and you shall eat there; and you shall rejoice before the Lord your God.’” R. Judah ben Beteira goes on to conclude “but now that the temple does not exist there is no rejoicing other than wine.” Another Gemara (Pesahim 71a; Baba Batra 60b) explains that the obligation to be joyous on festivals was not fulfilled through the consumption of meat but through the wearing of clean clothes and drinking of wine. Medieval Jewish legal authorities held that there is no longer any obligation to consume meat on festivals.[xxv] Some Rishonim go even further to argue that eating meat was not even an obligation in the times when the temple stood! [xxvi] Based upon these sources, the Bet Yosef questions those who suggested that one must eat meat on festivals.[xxvii] The Magen Avraham[xxviii] explains explicitly that there is no obligation to eat meat on festivals since the temple was destroyed. [xxix] Although there are posekim who require the eating of meat on festivals, there ample basis to refrain if one will not get enjoyment and spiritual satisfaction.

It is now time that those committed to halakha and living an ethically conscious life stand and courageously articulate their vegetarian convictions. At the Shabbat table, one may ask: “How can you forbid something that the Ribbono Shel Olam permitted?” or “How can you cast aspersions on our ancestors?, or “How can you possibly experience oneg and simhah on Shabbat and Yom Tov without cholent and brisket?” Halakhic vegetarians can and should proudly quote the Torah sources without feeling any shame for their ethical convictions.

Conclusion

After fleeing from Poland during Nazi persecutions, Nobel laureate Isaac Bashevis Singer argued that animal rights were the purest form of social justice, since animals are the most vulnerable of beings. Our moral response to factory farming is a test of how we respond to the cries of the voiceless and powerless in our world.

According to Jewish tradition, humans were imbued with a level of dignity that is not granted to animals. However, elevating humans to a unique existence with special rights and obligations does not preclude the possibility for some level of rights and obligations to exist for animals nor does it call into question humans as the pinnacle of existence. In the twenty-first-century nation-state, we must consider seeing sentient beings as holders of rights imbued by divine laws and confirmed by human law. It has become apparent that the new age of mass production in factory farms immensely violates tsa’ar ba’alei hayyim (the Torah prohibition against inflicting pain upon animals). One may no longer plead ignorance—only indifference. In addition to the cruelty of how these animals are caged, fed, tortured, and slaughtered, new findings have shown the detrimental effect that meat consumption has upon human health. Additionally, in a major recession where our charity is needed more than ever and as meat prices increase, this luxury of meat products may need to be the first thing to go from the shelves of a truly pious home. However, this is not an ascetic ideal. Alternative meat options are now more similar in taste to meat, accessible, and affordable than ever. In an age where vegetarianism must be viewed as a halakhic and Jewish ethical ideal, it must be considered as part of our pursuits in striving for truth, justice, peace, and holiness.