National Scholar Updates

“Wisdom has built her house on seven hewn pillars.” (Mishlei 9:1)

My first inclination was to decline to respond to this symposium on the grounds that I am not a school leader—or even a practitioner for that matter—and therefore unable to answer such situational questions as you have posed. My next inclination was to formulate alternative, theoretical, questions that are better suited for a broad-based conversation. In the end, I followed neither inclination; my remarks hover intentionally in the ether that separates theory from practice—but, on the other hand, also connects them to one another.

         *         *         *

Is there a coherent and cohesive philosophical preference or prejudice that ought to animate Modern Orthodox Jewish education? Some of our educational policies (notably, those that pertain to limmudei kodesh) resemble the “perennialist” approach associated with traditional education, while others (notably, those of General Studies) tend to look more like the “pragmatic” approach identified with progressive education. Are we philosophically hermaphroditic (possessing the distinctive characteristics of both philosophies), androgynous (having neither philosophy’s idiosyncratic characteristics), or, perhaps, are we agnostics, content to conduct educational business as usual without admitting to any particular philosophy? In an unintended parody of Descartes, do we appear to proclaim: “I think not, therefore I can do whatever I please!”?

         *         *         *

The absence of a clearly articulated educational philosophy does not serve us well. The road of curriculum design, development, and implementation is notable for its many obstacles (insufficient time, inadequate resources, and so forth) that frequently compel detours from the derekh haMelekh of nineteenth-century Eastern Europe, twelfth-century Muslim Spain, fifth-century Sura and Pumbedita, first-century Alexandria, or whatever historical precedent we cite in affirmation of our received educational practice. At these critical junctures, a philosophy is a lodestar whose sighting keeps us securely on our chosen path and acts as surety for our eventual arrival at our proposed destination. Without a clear philosophy, we are only star-gazing—and as inspirational as that may occasionally be, it only thwarts our purpose and obscures our objective.

Schools—not their current (and, regrettably, all too transitory) leaders—should have educational visions that “drive” their missions. A school that is “mission-driven” without the mission itself being motivated by a coherent philosophy is a will-o’-the-wisp. It gives the external appearance of direction and purpose while actually lacking both. A school’s approach to “gender equality,” like its views on “integration,” should similarly be determined by its philosophical predisposition.

How do schools acquire philosophies? Unless a school community is blessed with an informed philosopher, the best way I know is via committee. The “dromedary principle” admonishes us that in its desire to fashion a horse, the committee may produce a camel; still, a camel is superior to no transportation at all. We are not looking for philosophical purity but for contemplative introspection, and a synthetic philosophy is patently acceptable.

         *         *         *

In this light, I should like to offer for your consideration a platform comprising seven philosophical-ideological positions that I would advocate for a school that wishes to be recognized as Modern Orthodox. (These principles are the products of a consultation undertaken several years ago. I am grateful to Dr. Joel Wolowelsky of the Yeshiva of Flatbush for his input, the responsibility for their formulation rests entirely with me.)

Modern Orthodox Day Schools and yeshiva high schools should recognize:

  The preeminence of Torah and the fulfillment of mitzvoth according to halakha

A Modern Orthodox school will give priority in funding, staffing, and scheduling to those classes and activities that promote the study of Torah and the fulfillment of mitzvoth. It will concern itself with students' religious behavior and attitudes both in school and outside. It will, if necessary, engage in parent education (in conjunction with synagogues, if possible) to ensure proper modeling of religious behavior.

  The need for excellence in both General and Jewish Studies

Modern Orthodoxy sees the accomplishments of modern science and culture as expressions of the biblical imperatives to conquer the earth and preserve it. A Modern Orthodox school will provide all its students with an acquaintance with the basic principles of science, disciplines in the behavioral and social sciences, and in the humanities. It will likewise ensure that the pursuit of these disciplines does not become a goal unto itself, divorced from their Jewish identities and responsibilities.

 The primacy of moral virtue and ethical integrity in personal, business, and professional life

A Modern Orthodox school will implement curricula that provide instruction in both mitzvot bein adam laMakom (laws that govern our relationship to God) and mitzvot bein adam leHaveiro (laws that govern interpersonal relationships) and nurture a school culture that values and promotes the ideal of hessed (such as community service or social action). It will not condone unethical behavior on the part of its staff and students and will condemn such behavior on the part of any member of the Jewish community.

 The need to set common educational goals for boys and girls, young men and young women

In a Modern Orthodox school, boys and girls will be given equal opportunities to study Torah and halakha. The equality of opportunity does not necessarily mean identical curricula, but no subject in Jewish studies should be officially declared "off limits" to any student. Modern Orthodoxy neither promotes nor prohibits coeducation; it supports individual schools in the educational decisions that are best for them.

 The centrality of the State of Israel to the religious and national existence of the Jewish people

A Modern Orthodox school will advise all its students to personally experience life in Israel, to be cognizant of its needs and goals, and to have a working knowledge of Modern Hebrew. It may also call upon them to plan for aliyah to Israel, and to become actively involved in promoting Religious Zionist values in both Israel and the Diaspora. A Modern Orthodox school will say Hallel on Yom Ha'Atzma'ut and Yom Yerushalayim.

 The value of all segments of the Jewish community

A Modern Orthodox school will emphasize to its students that the major events of Jewish history, which have shaped our national identity, have involved and affected all Jews. It will admonish its graduates to love all Jews, maintain contact with them, and work with them on communal issues without regard to their denominational affiliation. It will not decline to participate in Jewish communal events due to the participation of non-Orthodox Jews.

  The Torah as the possession of all Jews

A Modern Orthodox Day School will enroll children of non-Orthodox, non-observant homes as students in the belief that the opportunity to study Torah should not be denied to anyone of the Jewish faith.

            More than forty years ago, one of the stirring voices of Jewish conscience was Professor Abraham Joshua Heschel. Although remembered primarily for his calls to activism in the realms of social and racial justice, Heschel was first and foremost a teacher to rabbis and educators. His words were a charge to me, then a neophyte to the field of Jewish education. He said,

One of our errors has been the trivialization of education. The superficial kind of religious education acquired in childhood fades away when exposed to the challenge and splendor of other intellectual powers           in an age of scientific triumphs. What young people need is not religious tranquilizers, religion as diversion, religious entertainment, but spiritual audacity. ¹

            The proliferation of Day Schools and yeshivot can be seen as a response to this view of the needs of students and communities. When Jewish education began to be the subject of research studies in the post-World War II period, only 5 to 7 percent of the population of students in any form of Jewish school attended Day Schools or yeshivot. Haym Soloveitchik observes that sixty year ago, it was generally held that "Jewishness was something almost innate, and no school was needed to inculcate it." But, he continues,

            in contemporary society…Jewish identity is not inevitable. It is not a

            matter of course, but of choice: A concious preference of the enclave

            over the host society. For such a choice to be made, a sense of                                     particularity and belonging must be instilled by the intentional enterprise                           of instruction…identity maintenance and consciousness raising are                                   ideological exigencies, needs that can be met only by education.²

    Thus it is not surprising that today, by various estimates, some 30 percent of Jewish school-age children in the United States—205,000 young people—attend Day Schools or yeshivot. Eighty percent of these students are enrolled in Orthodox schools.³ Further analysis tells us that 47,416 students (23 percent) attend 165 institutions described as "Centrist" or "Modern Orthodox." ⁴ The territory has expanded.

   Despite qualitative and quantitative growth, the educational landscape is littered with doubt among educators, parents, and students. Yaakov Bieler states the challenge as follows:

Questions are increasingly raised about whether these educational institutions really provide a Modern Orthodox education and produce Modern Orthodox young people. To find the reasons for this malaise we must gauge the effectiveness of the Modern Orthodox Day Schools that go beyond such obvious facts as the manner in which the school day is organized, what extracurricular activities are available, and where the graduates continue their education.⁵

            Urgency notwithstanding, most of the meetings, discussions, plenaries, and public documents do not go deeply into the core issues of schooling. The most well-meaning of presentations by policymakers or researchers that do not bring education professionals into the dialogue may result in half-baked ideas, at best. It is, after all, these professionals who are the "first responders" to the students. It is they who articulate, develop, and implement with teachers the curricula, programs, and strategies that drive their schools. It is they who are uniquely poised to be the agents of change and the conservators of tradition in the lives of students and their families.

            And so we hold this conversation. Through this issue of Conversations and follow-up exchanges using the electronic media, we hope to engage educators and others interested in the role of schooling in Modern Orthodoxy in an open and clarifying presentation and discussion of ideas. There are many good things happening in our schools that are not shared with colleagues. There are difficult experiences that we all encounter and these, likewise, remain dark secrets. This is an opportunity to teach and learn from our colleagues.

            We have selected four questions in areas that are commonplace for our schools:

1. How should a school leader express his or her vision of Jewish education? Can there be a clear line from the school’s mission to what happens in the classrooms? Is there a substantive difference between schools that are “mission-driven” and those that are not?
2. How does an educator experience the personnel shortage in our schools? Does this find expression in General and Judaic Studies? What impact, if any, does this shortage have on a school’s ability to meet its mission and goals?
3. How should Modern Orthodox schools address women’s education and gender equality in terms of content, mastery, and Jewish practice? To what extent is this a divisive issue in the community, and how can a school deal with this?
4. How should Modern Orthodox schools address issues in contemporary culture that conflict with traditional norms? What is the impact on a school’s reach for integration of Judaic and General Studies?

We arranged the conversation as follows:

• An essay by Dr. Moshe Sokolow, which frames the issues
• An article by Rabbi Mark Gottlieb, which addresses hashkafa in our schools
• The four questions above and responses by a panel of education professionals

Since it is neither responsible nor useful to ignore the present fiscal realities, we have included a proposal by Mrs. Zippora Schorr and Rabbi Aaron Frank, which may be instructive for other schools and communities.

            We hope that these essays, questions, and replies will initiate further conversation in the Member’s Forum at www.jewishideas.org.

________________

¹Abraham Joshua Heschel, "The Values of Jewish Education,” in Proceedings of the Rabbinical Assembly (New York, 1962): 83.

²Haym Soloveitchik, "Rupture and Reconstruction: The Transformation of Contemporary Orthodoxy," in Tradition (Summer, 1994): 90, 93.

³ Jack Wertheimer, “The Current Moment in Jewish Education: An Historian’s View,” in R. L. Goodman, et al., What We Now Know About Jewish Education (Los Angeles: Torah Aura, 2009): 15.

⁴ Marvin Schick, "A Census of Jewish Day Schools in the United States, 2003–2004" (New York: Avi Chai Foundation, 2005).

⁵ Jack Bieler, "Preserving Modern Orthodoxy in Our Day Schools,” Edah Monograph Series 2: 1.

Orthodox Singles: Breaking Myths (or: The "Shiddukh Crisis" Revisited) [i]

I'm smart, successful at my career, and fun to be with. I've worked out many of my "issues" in therapy. Here I am, eminently eligible and ready for a relationship, but somehow all of the guys I meet just aren't there yet. I feel like prescribing them a course of therapy, life-skills, and relationship-skills, and telling them to return in a few years, though hopefully I'll have found someone by then…

Sarah, age 27

I really want to get married and build a "bayit ne'eman b'yisrael" and all that other good stuff, but sometimes life gets in the way. I'm struggling really deeply with my conflicting sexual and religious needs, while trying to move forward in my career, and still make it to minyan—all this under the watchful and critical eye of my parents and community. Spending Shabbat with my parents is the opposite of relaxing. I wonder whether they would have gotten married as young and as happily as they did had they had the same challenges to contend with when single as I do.

Avi, age 31  

I hesitate to take up my pen and write about the broad topic of Orthodox singles. It's a topic on which much ink has been spilt and to little effect. I generally confine myself to the topic of singles and sexuality/religious conflict, which has been much less explored and where there are perhaps more constructive things to be written. However, I want to write briefly about some of the broader challenges faced by singles and by the Orthodox community. The issues are manifold and complex—spanning the religious, psychological, phenomenological, existential, physiological, and halakhic realms, among others—and my goals are limited. If I can succeed in making you question your assumptions about singles, or in breaking some of the myths that you hold dear, and shaking your sense of certainty about anything relating to singles and their place in the community, then I will have done enough. Deconstruction is easy compared to reconstruction, but it often needs to come first—I leave the rebuilding to the future.

We often hear mention of the "Shiddukh Crisis" or "Singles Problem" that currently plagues the Orthodox Jewish community. Various groups, organizations, synagogues, and individuals have given much thought to finding the "solution" or a range of "solutions" to this "problem." I don't want to enter into the fray of searching for solutions, partly because some of the "solutions" I've seen have been worse than the problem itself and have augmented the problem rather than solving it, and partly because I disagree with the entire construct of problem-solving that has been set up around Orthodox singles.

Let's start with some definitions: Many today would define the "Shiddukh Crisis" as the fact that today, more than ever before, large numbers of Jews are remaining single for longer, marrying later, or not marrying at all. This definition assumes that the mere status of married or unmarried is how we define success, and the quality of a person's married or single life doesn't matter to us. For many people, the "Singles Problem" is something that needs to be solved simply by getting everyone married as quickly as possible.

I want to suggest a different definition of the "Singles Problem": the crux of the crisis is, on the one hand, deeply personal, surrounding the individual issues that prevent people from either desiring or achieving a meaningful and committed relationship. And on the other hand, there is a wider communal dynamic in which the Orthodox community simply doesn't know how to include the unmarried individuals in its midst and often alienates singles, forcing them to either form their own singles communities or to leave Orthodoxy.

In this article, I want to focus on the intersection between the single and the community and on some of the myths that prevent mutual understanding.

Beginning the Myth-Breaking

The line between straining at truths that prove to be imbecilically self-evident, on the one hand, and on the other hand tossing off commonplaces that turn out to retain their power to galvanize and divide, is weirdly unpredictable. In dealing with an open-secret structure, it's only by being shameless about risking the obvious that we happen into the vicinity of the transformative….

Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet, p. 22

Before we can move toward a productive conversation about singles and their place in the community, I need to clear the ground from some of the many and often contradictory myths that currently prevail regarding singles. The very act of generalizing—of making statements that are relevant to "all singles" or "everyone"—does violence to the individual and his or her experience. Individuals come in different shapes and sizes; physically, emotionally, intellectually—and they relate differently to this period in their lives. We simply can't make any general assumptions about people.

I have chosen five common myths that I want to break systematically, though there are many more. I begin with the sexual realm because I think that it is the proverbial  elephant in the room, which often hovers in people's consciousnesses but is not mentioned in polite conversation. Since halakha does not permit pre-marital sex or any physical contact with the opposite sex (“negiah”), singles either are not sexually active, or their sexual activity is illegitimate. Therefore, they are either grappling with sexual denial or repression, or they are violating the halakha. Either way, their situation is one that the wider community cannot easily identify with. The prevalence of assumptions and dearth of real information about people's sexual beliefs and practices—the confusion between myth and fact—may contribute to suspicion mixed with awkwardness in interactions between singles and members of the wider community. In this vein the myths can be especially damaging.

Myth #1: Everyone is "shomer negiah" /No one is "shomer negiah."

These myths, though they contradict each other, are both quite prevalent within the Orthodox community. Each comes from a totalizing perspective that seeks to reduce all singles to the same experience so that we don't need to give the matter further thought. If all singles are shomer negiah, then the system works—everything is fine, there is no conflict to be reckoned with, and we need not concern ourselves with the personal toll that this halakhic observance may be having upon the individual. On the other hand, if no singles are shomer negiah, then there is also no conflict—singles simply don't care about the halakha and thus they aren't part of the community. Each of these totalizing perspectives is detrimental and each ignores the uniqueness of the individual and the fact that people are different and that they cope with singlehood in different ways.

Although sex and sexuality are universal phenomena, they are experienced differently by different individuals and even by the same individual in different stages of life. For some, sexuality is a major challenge during the single years. For others, sexuality is a non-issue, or a minor issue. Some observe negiah with ease, others with difficulty, others not at all. Some are shomer negiah in some relationships and not in others or with some people and not with others. For others, the status changes with time. The endless permutations make stereotypes worthless. There are people who don't look the part who are completely shomer negiah, and people learning in yeshiva who visit prostitutes. A friend of mine recently asked two male friends of hers, of similar age and profession, what they were looking for in a wife in terms of her sexual experience—the answers they gave were diametrically opposed. One would only date women who had never touched men, because "If I waited, why couldn't she?" and the other would only date women who had had some physical contact with men, because, "I don't want someone who's not having sex just so that her ketubah [marriage contract] can say betulah [virgin] (which it can either way)." Leave the stereotypes behind and look at the person who is facing you.

Myth #2: Anyone who engages in premarital sexual activity is totally fine with it.

This myth is particularly damaging because it allows us to ignore the pain and conflict that many Orthodox singles are experiencing. Although there are certainly singles who are not conflicted about their premarital sexual activity, all of the singles with whom I have spoken have struggled very deeply with these issues—either overtly or beneath the surface—and while some eventually made their peace with the choices they made, others continue to struggle.

An extension of this myth is that those who engage in premarital sexual activity simply don't care about the halakha. Most of the singles that I have spoken with cared deeply about the halakha, and it was precisely because they cared so much about the halakha that they were thrown into such a deep existential conflict in its violation. However, the guilt surrounding premarital sexual activity is not purely due to halakhic violation. For many people feelings of guilt are a complex combination of many factors, the halakha being one, and communal or familial expectations and social pressures being another. For women especially, society’s double standard of sexual behavior adds onto the halakhic layer the feelings of being “damaged goods” once one engages in premarital sexual activity, and raises questions about one’s larger identity as a good girl, a good person, and a good Jew. Even those singles I spoke with who chose to leave the halakhic lifestyle retained a lingering sense of guilt and discomfort about their decisions in the sexual realm.

Myth #3: Singles are happy the way they are—they don't want to be part of the "broader Orthodox community."

“Community” means different things to different people. Here I am using this term in an intentionally ambiguous way, though on a basic level I am referring to the community that forms around a synagogue or a neighborhood. In either case, families are generally the building block of the community. Depending on the specific community, singles may have formed their own minyan, or in places with fewer singles, singles may be either invisible within the communal framework or may be full members of the community.

If we take this myth in the specific context of the community that forms around a synagogue, then the exact opposite is often true as well: Many singles feel so alone and isolated that they are often thirsting to be a part of the larger community, if only the community would let them. Especially in the absence of a spouse—who, among other things, provides a regular companion for Shabbat meals—singles often appreciate the sense of belonging or of being part of something larger than oneself.

However, not all singles want to be involved in the community to the same extent, and the community should be sensitive to the range of needs that individuals might have. Some singles might appreciate an invitation to a Shabbat meal, others might appreciate being set up, others might just want a smile and greeting after prayer services, and others might want a more active role on the synagogue board or on various committees. And beyond these concrete actions, there is the ineffable; the sense you get when the person in front of you is being perfunctory in conversation, scanning the room for someone else to talk to, the sense you get when "How are you" is a statement rather than a question. Married people: Be open to singles the same way you would be open to a new family that joins your community, and allow the situation and the person standing in front of you to guide your actions.

Myth #4: Any attempt on the part of the Orthodox community to grapple openly and deal seriously with the challenges and conflicts that singles face will help to legitimize perpetual singlehood and make singles even less likely to marry.

In 2009, when the numbers of unmarried Orthodox Jews in their twenties, thirties and forties have reached an unprecedented high, and when the percentage of Jews who end up never marrying is increasing, failure to confront the issue constitutes an act of burying our heads in the sand, and further alienating those singles who remain part of the Orthodox community. At this point, the question of legitimization of singlehood is almost moot, as the numbers speak for themselves, with the message that people are remaining single, with or without such legitimization. We as a community need to get over the fear of raising questions, and singles are just the tip of the iceberg here.

Several years ago, when single, I was part of a committee of both married and single individuals (which included rabbis and communal leaders) that was dedicated to thinking through the "singles problem" and trying to offer "solutions." Even after a couple of years of conversations, and countless suggestions, this committee was not able to take any definitive steps. We had finally realized the complexity of the issues involved and realized that the proposed “solutions” were merely band-aids that didn’t get to the heart of the problem. At one point this myth surfaced and the committee began to question its existence—was the very fact of our open conversation going to somehow legitimize singlehood? Aside from the fact that none of this committee's deliberations were public, I felt impelled to point out in an email that, "To assume that communal pressure [for marriage] will help the matter is misguided…. Please trust me when I say that no amount of communal acceptance and welcome will ever make any of us forget that we are not your ideal and never will be until we are married with children" (1/2/05).[ii]

Sylvia Barack Fishman puts the issue in more extreme terms, which are perhaps reflective (or perhaps not) of the threat that the community construes in its singles:

The question facing Orthodox communities today has some similarities to Jewish communal questions about how to treat intermarried families: Outreach activists urge inclusiveness—"why not accept the singles community as it is"—while others counter that total inclusiveness would be tantamount to legitimating singleness as an alternative lifestyle for Orthodox Jews. Thinking about the treatment of Orthodox singles thus demands coming to terms with deep philosophical, sociological, and communitarian issues. (Gender Relationships In Marriage and Out, p. 111)

Perhaps the extremity of the comparison is illustrative of how deeply threatened the community feels by the existence of singles.

Myth #5: The sexual restrictions of yihud and negiah have the teleological purpose of ensuring that people have only one sexual partner in life (namely, their spouse); these halakhot are rooted in an awareness of the psychological and spiritual damage that even casual premarital physical contact can cause.

This myth is perhaps the most detrimental myth of all, in that it breaks out of the communal sphere and speaks to each and every single who has ever had even accidental physical contact with a member of the opposite sex, and tells them that they will suffer for this act and it will impact their ability to form a happy marriage; how much more so the individual who has had intentional sexual contact. This idea comes from those popular Jewish authors who, in their quest to convince teenagers to become shomer negiah have—without any use of Jewish texts and sources—read their own pop-psychology into this law.

Although I cannot fully break this myth in the context of the present article, suffice it to say now that the existence of biblical polygamy, concubines, and prostitutes— categories that are all difficult to reconcile with Judaism as we currently live it—and, on a more normative plane, the encouraging of remarriage for those who have been widowed or divorced, serve to dispel the notion that lifelong monogamy is the root of these prohibitions. There is no authoritative source that I am aware of that discusses the psychological or spiritual damage that will ensue upon violating these restrictions, any more than the spiritual damage that results from any sin, and that can be healed through repentance. In fact, a cursory reading of Maimonides (Hilkhot Issurei Bi'ah, chapter 21) and the Shulhan Arukh (Even haEzer 25, Orakh Hayim 240) reveals a very different root to these prohibitions, which is perhaps more disturbing to our modern sensibilities; namely, a striving for asceticism, even within marriage![iii]

To promulgate myths of this nature under the banner of "Judaism," "Torah," and "halakha" has a detrimental effect because it compounds the guilt and anxiety of many singles who are committed to Judaism but for psychological, emotional, or physiological reasons are not observing all of the sexual restrictions mandated by halakha. Although there is certainly value in encouraging abstinence among teenagers, we cannot achieve this at the price of being dishonest about Judaism and halakha.

A corollary of this myth is the assumption that there is no difference between teenagers, and those in their twenties, thirties, and forties who are single. Not distinguishing between adolescent sexuality and adult sexuality reflects a failure to see singles as adults who, among other characteristics, are also fully developed sexual beings, with needs and desires that are substantively similar to those of their married counterparts. There is nothing natural about being a “40-year-old-virgin”—and the halakha itself recognized this and therefore encouraged early marriage. Even if halakha today constrains us from endorsing premarital sexual activity, we as a community need to adopt a more empathetic and understanding stance to those who engage in it; the thirty-year-old woman who is physical with her serious boyfriend is different from the adolescent whose hormones have overtaken him. It is time we stop infantilizing singles under the banner of halakha.

***

   The topic of singles in the Orthodox community is complex and is comprised of many different issues and questions, which are often lumped together into the same category. There are the personal crises that individuals are forced to navigate, the interpersonal issues involved in the process of seeking out and building intimate relationships, the family dynamics that arise during singlehood and the wider communal issues, as well as the religious and sexual issues, to name but a few. We are still a long way from fully understanding any of these issues, let alone knowing how to address them. However, I hope that this exercise in myth-breaking will have helped clear the way toward increasing understanding between singles and the broader community and toward opening the conversation.

In recent months, I have been involved in two divorce matters in which rabbis played a prominent role. In each case, a party informed me how a lack of disclosure of a personality flaw ultimately led to a failed marriage. Unfortunately, in both cases the party who failed to disclose the relevant information was a rabbi. This article will examine whether non-disclosure is a viable option in dating situations.

The Rambam in Shemona Perakim equated “illness of the soul” (that is, mental illness) with physical illness. There have been estimates that 25 percent of Americans have endured some type of mental illness. The spectrum of mental illness can range from chronic illness such as bipolar disorder to mild cases of depression. This article will deal with the issue of disclosure of mental illness or addiction, as the failure to disclose these conditions tends to have the most dramatic impact when they subsequently come to light. However, a failure to disclose any material fact would be subject to the same analysis.

A cursory search of the Internet shows a healthy number of articles on the halakhic question of whether mental illness needs to be disclosed before marriage. A number of these articles seem to hedge on the question of when disclosure is required. Some authors justify non-disclosure by arguing that if it is not likely that the mental illness will recur, there is no reason to disclose such conditions. Other authors opt for the safer conclusion that one is required to discuss such a condition only where so directed by a recognized posek.

I will state my conclusion without equivocation. Marriage is based on trust and respect. It is unfathomable to imagine that a person can contemplate marriage to an individual—and at the same time choose to keep vitally important information from that party. It is instructive to note that Dr. Abraham Twerski, in his book Getting Up When You’re Down, states in clear language (p. 108) that disclosure of conditions such as depression is obligatory. Dr. Twerski mentions no reference to asking a posek as to whether or not disclosure is required. The need to know such information, and the harm in non-disclosure, seems self-evident to this eminent author and thinker.

What of the argument that if the depression is not likely to recur, disclosure has no value? As stated above, trust underlies the marital foundation. (The Maharal emphasizes this ethical point in his work Netivot Olam). Relevant past history needs to be shared and explained. Why should one act as “judge and jury” in deciding that past history, arguably material and relevant, need not be shared? Practically speaking, what happens if the suppressed information later comes to light from another source? Or, what if the “cured” condition reasserts itself? How do we deal with the disappointment and suspicion that might naturally arise? A party who is suddenly presented with such news might rightly wonder what other information has been withheld. A failure to disclose relevant information robs a party of their right to choose their mate freely and fully.

How does one determine what information is to be deemed relevant, and in need of disclosure? I propose a simple test. What would a person reasonably want to know about the background of a prospective spouse? It is appropriate to wait for the right moment to disclose such information. But although timing of such disclosure is discretionary, the need for such disclosure should not be subject to debate.

Full disclosure not only helps the other party, it helps the disclosing party as well. Keeping personal matters secret and subject to implicit denial is a high-risk decision. One who opts for silence on such a matter might find they are living with the fear and uncertainty of what will happen if disclosure ever occurs in an unanticipated manner.  In light of the above, it seems fair to state that the advantages of non-disclosure are negligible in contrast to the considerations that militate in favor of open and candid discussion.

The previous discussion relates to the party who must decide about disclosure. I would like to relate my remaining comments to the rabbi who is consulted about the question of disclosure. In Issue 2 of Conversations, I wrote an article (“Mediation, Marriage, Divorce, Agunah”) in which I attempted to show how the role of a rabbi in a divorce scenario must go beyond simply pointing out where a “kosher” get may be obtained. The rabbi must engender communication and care while attempting to ensure that Torah values govern all proceedings.

A rabbi who is asked about disclosure of relevant medical/psychological information must do more than decide what must be disclosed. An illustration of what may be required of the rabbi is found in an anecdote related about the Brisker Rav, Rav Chaim Soloveitchik. Rav Soloveitchik, described often as a paragon of hessed, was asked by a congregant whether it might be permissible to use milk for the mitzvah of arbah kosot (drinking four cups [of wine] at the Passover seder). Rav Soloveitchik answered in the negative and then proceeded to give the man a generous donation. The Rebbitzen asked why this gift was made, when in fact it had not been solicited. Rav Chaim explained that a Jew who is prepared to drink milk in lieu of wine is clearly destitute. Rav Chaim reasoned that a man who had no money for wine likely lacked all means of providing for a proper Passover celebration. A generous donation was provided so that this man could properly enjoy the holiday with his family.

An individual asking a rabbi about disclosure of a chronic condition is really asking for much more. He or she is asking for support, acceptance, insight, and a dose of emunah (faith). The person wants to be reassured that the rabbi will share their burden, while simultaneously offering them hope and solace.

If an individual asks a rabbi whether or not to disclose a chronic condition, a short answer does not suffice. It behooves the rabbi to research the condition, confer with professionals, and help the individual map out his or her future goals and plans. The rabbi needs to look at the person qua person, not simply as the initiator of a halakhic question. The rabbi needs to project the image of a potential advocate and confidant.

One of the touching stories about the great teacher and communal leader, Rav Shlomo Freifeld, described how he “won over” an alienated young man who left his family to live on an Indian reservation. This young man was brought back to his roots by an accidental discovery. While waiting for Rabbi Freifeld in the yeshiva study, the man chanced upon a number of books that described Indian culture and mores. It was clear why the books were there; Rabbi Freifeld wanted to understand what made this man “tick.” Rabbi Freifeld had seen the human being who stood before him and tried to find ways to identify with him. This gesture led the man to a newfound belief and commitment. In like fashion, congregants may come to their rabbis with disclosure questions. They deserve rabbinic attention and empathy.

As a religious figure, the rabbi can offer needed support. A rabbi can guide the individual to increased communal involvement. A rabbi can exhort the individual to be open and proactive about his condition. Finally the rabbi can help the individual map out future goals and ambitions. In one phrase, the rabbi can reassure the individual described herein in the same fashion as was Moshe at the burning bush:”I will be with you.”

The concern for the individuals addressed in this article can, and should, manifest itself in ongoing relationships. Long after the question of disclosure has been answered, the rabbi needs to be a presence. The pulpit may be used for discussions on mental and physical disability. Pre-marital counseling for those with physical or psychological challenges should be carefully planned by the rabbi. Articles and shiurim on the issues that arise from meeting special challenges likewise merit serious consideration. The Jewish community has done wonderful things for children with special learning needs. Perhaps the next vista to tackle is the removal of barriers confronting those who face physical or psychological challenges.

***

In recent months, we have seen the results of the attenuation of honesty and integrity in the marketplace and society. Our tradition fortunately provides the antidote. We are in the image of God and we are responsible to act God-like. The “seal” of God is truth. A relevant bon mot on this topic was taught by the Maharal. He teaches that the letter with the lowest numerical value is the letter aleph. Yet if we remove that “small” letter from the word emet (truth) we form the shorter word of met (dead). This thought reminds us of the slippery slope that awaits us if we take liberties with truth and integrity. A slight shift from a commitment to truth can have devastating effects. It is time to place renewed emphasis on moral and ethical behavior. Encouraging fuller disclosure and candor in our interpersonal relationships is a proper place to begin.

Rabbi Yosef Dov Soloveitchik, late mentor to thousands of rabbis, once described the rabbi’s primary duty as being an exemplar of hessed. Rabbis can do much good by guiding their flock on the need to disclose disabilities and personal limitations in courtship situations. But that will not be sufficient. Rabbis must also guide these individuals through these challenges. Even when such support is not solicited, rabbis need to internalize the lesson of the Brisker Rav and the query about milk at the Seder. There is a need to go beyond the immediate question and discover the person behind the question. Discover what they need and try to help them in seeking solutions and inner strength.

Disclosure of certain conditions is painful and unsettling. There are however no alternatives to openness and candor. Rabbis who are concerned will not stop at offering this exhortation. “I will be with you” is a potent message to convey. We will be judged as a society by the manner in which we succeed in transmitting this message.

The primary source for the requirements of a mehitsa is a Mishna in Middot, the tractate that deals with matters relating to the Temple parts, structure, and measurements. Middot literally means “specifications.” The fifth Mishna in the second chapter of Middot tells us that the women’s chamber in the Temple, the ezrat nashim, was quite large: 135 cubits in length and 135 cubits in breadth. The Mishna goes on to say that the chamber had originally been bare, but then a balcony was added so that women could look out on the proceedings from above while the men were below. The purpose of the balcony was to prevent the mixing of the sexes.

In the context of the Mishna’s discussion of Simhat Bet haShoeiva—the great evening rejoicing that began on the second night of the Sukkoth festival—Rabbi Elazar elaborates on the decision to make what was a major structural change to the Temple, and one that could have been the source of controversy (Sukkah 51b). The Temple’s measurements had been divinely ordained, and the original “spec’s” did not provide for a balcony. How then could its incorporation be justified?

The Talmud tells us that initially the women’s chamber had been inside that of the men’s area, but there was too much frivolity taking place. It was therefore decided to place the men in the interior chamber, and the women in the exterior area. Unfortunately, the frivolity continued.

So the structural alteration was made, women were placed in the balcony, and the frivolity ceased. Nevertheless, how could the change have been sanctioned? As was their wont, the rabbis found a scriptural source. Zekhariah 12:12 speaks of the mourning in Jerusalem, mourning that is interpreted to be for the death of the Messiah son of Joseph (who precedes the Davidic Messiah). Zekhariah states that in each family the men and women would mourn separately. And so, the Rabbis concluded, if the prophet decreed that men and women mourn separately at a time when there would be no yetzer hara/evil inclination—which will not exist in the days of the Messiah—certainly while the evil inclination continued to thrive, men and women should be separated in the Temple precincts.

The Rambam, in his great work, the Yad haHazakah, provides an additional sense of context in the eighth chapter of the laws of Lulav (halakha 12). He states that “on the festival of Sukkoth there was a surfeit of joy, as it is written, ‘you shall be joyous before God your Lord seven days.’” He then points out that on Erev Sukkoth a balcony was erected to prevent the mixing of the sexes, and then they began to rejoice.

It was therefore in the very special context of extreme rejoicing—and we know that in such circumstances many people can lose their self-control-- that the mehitsa was called for. In other words, even as people rejoiced, dignity had to be maintained.

Why? Because the passage tells us u’smahtem lifnei hashem Eloheikhem. This was no ordinary party. This was a rejoicing before God. And before Hashem, yirat shamayim, fear of Heaven, is paramount, and extreme behavior of any kind is discouraged.

A mehitsa is not meant to wall off women. It is not a sign that men and women cannot mix, any more than discouraging drinking in a Bet Midrash is a sign that people cannot drink. It is, however, a reminder that there are places where the sexes can mix, outside the Bet Midrash, in a Synagogue lobby for example, and other places where such mixing is inappropriate.

But a mehitsa is still more than that. We learn in Tehillim, Psalms, “ivdu et Hashem beyirah, vegilu b’re’ada,” “serve the Lord with fear, and rejoice with trembling” (2:11). That was what was behind the Temple balcony. The mehitsa is in fact the embodiment of the concept veYareita meElohekha, “and you shall fear your Lord.”

The Torah uses the phrase veYareita meElohekha in five passages, all in Leviticus. In every case the phrase relates to man’s behavior toward his fellow man, and warns man not to dissemble or dissimulate, because God is watching, and one must fear God.

Perhaps the most widely known example is that of “lo tekalel heireish v’lifnei iver lo titein mikhshol,” “do not curse the deaf and do not place a stumbling block before a blind man” (Lev. 19:14), the latter part of the verse meaning that one should not trick the guileless or the innocent. But the other verses involve the same principle: do not pretend not to see an older man standing or to ignore the presence of an elder (“mipenei seivah takum”); do not charge any form of interest, including that which is not clearly identified (“al tikah me’ito neshekh v’tarbit”); do not hurt one’s sensibilities and pretend not to realize what has been done (“lo tonu ish et amito”); do not overwork a slave and pretend your action was inadvertent (“al tirdeh bo b’farekh”).

When my parents, zikhronam livrakha, would praise someone, they would call him a yerei shamayim, one who fears Heaven. Not “frum,” not one who buys the biggest etrog, lights the most elaborate hannukiya, has the fanciest seder plate—but one who fears God. A yerei shamayim is one who is sincere, and respectful of time, of place, and of people.

                        In the spring of 2003, a handful of young people in Cambridge, Massachusetts, who regularly attended the only Orthodox minyan in town, were looking for a change. I was among them, and like the others  who had attended Darkhei Noam in New York or Shira Hadasha in Jerusalem, I was inspired by the possibility of praying in a minyan that was grounded in a commitment to halakha, but that created a prayer space that  belonged to men and women alike.

Prior to our first prayer together, it was unclear how many people would show up, or how long the minyan might continue to function. Today, six years later, Minyan Tehillah is still around, and has continued to go strong ever since. As testimony to its feeling of permanence, the board conducted its first survey in the spring of 2008 in an effort to gain insight into who Tehillah’s members are, what they like about the minyan, and in what areas they would like to see the minyan grow. The first part of this article draws on the survey results to provide a demographic description of the minyan, while the second part of the article discusses a number of challenges Tehillah faces as a minyan that works to negotiate a delicate line between Orthodoxy and feminism.

Tehilla’s adult members number approximately 100, with slightly more marrieds than singles. Our minyan is relatively young, with the bulk of our members—some 70 percent— being between the ages of 26 and 34. Among the married people, about two-thirds have children, the overwhelming majority of whom are ages three and under. Tehillah holds services two Shabbat mornings a month and one Friday evening a month. We meet in a variety of spaces, which we rent from established Jewish institutions in Cambridge. Our decision not to meet every Shabbat is a pragmatic one as well as an ideological one. On the pragmatic side, it takes tremendous energy to organize a service each time we meet. This is in part due to the fact that we are a lay-led, relatively transient community, and in part due to the fact that we are thinly spread across Cambridge, with very few people living close to the synagogue where we generally meet on Shabbat mornings. In fact, the majority of our members live over a mile-walk away from this locale. Because we do not begin the Shaharit service without the presence of both ten men and ten women, each time we meet we work to get a commitment from twenty people to arrive on time—a difficult task, given the distance combined with the fact that a large portion of our minyan is composed of young families.

But there are also social and ideological reasons for not meeting each week. The Tehillah community overlaps very strongly with several other prayer communities in town. Indeed, almost all of our members regularly attend other minyanim in Cambridge on the weeks that Tehillah does not meet. The strongest overlap is with the Harvard Hillel Orthodox Minyan, and the next strongest overlap is with Cambridge Minyan, which is traditional-egalitarian. One of the reasons people are satisfied with Tehillah meeting only every other week, is because they are loathe to give up their connections with the other prayer communities to which belong.

Although Tehillah was started by a group of people who all identified as Orthodox and were all committed to a feminist mission, it has filled other sorts of religious and social needs as well. First, the spirited and intentional tefilla is one of the attractions of Tehillah. From the minyan’s inception, great effort has been placed on creating a spiritually uplifting service; led by hazzanim who are well-prepared, who engage the kahal with lively tunes, and who lead the service with seriousness of purpose. Secondly, the minyan fills an important demographic niche in Cambridge for people who are no longer students or for those who want to be part a prayer community that is not affiliated with the university, but is their own. More than that, Tehillah is a creative project, run by people with tremendous energy, commitment, and imagination. In this sense, it offers a place for religious expression that is fresh, relevant, and meaningful—an aspect of tefilla that often feels absent in well-established and structured institutional life.

In short, Tehillah fills a number of complex needs for the variety of people who attend. It is a warm, open social space, which provides an environment that bridges the long-standing traditional American religious divide between Orthodox and Conservative. Yet, despite this innovation, Tehillah is also quite conservative (with a lowercase c). We have developed our own set of customs, and are relatively resistant to change. As a community, we are focused primarily on the prayer service itself, with almost no emphasis on social justice programs, or social events not linked to prayer.

With this background, I will turn now to discuss three of the pressing issues and challenges that the minyan currently faces. Perhaps the most complicated issue among them are questions surrounding halakhic authority and religious decision-making. Like other minyanim that are working to negotiate the difficult relationship between halakha and feminism (and which have been classified by the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance as “Partnership Minyanim”), Minyan Tehillah has not been sanctioned by widely recognized religious authorities. There are, of course, rabbis with Orthodox semikha who do support minyanim like ours, but they are on the margins of what is widely considered to be the Orthodox establishment. For this reason, some argue that it is illegitimate for us to call ourselves—or even think of ourselves—as Orthodox. “And why bother?” they may press, “Just join the Conservative movement; women can lead davening there.”

I propose a two-part answer to this challenge. First, it is not un-Orthodox to address the spiritual needs of women—needs that are inherently defined by the cultural and social contingencies of time and place; that is to say—needs that are very different today than they were in the past. Secondly, what we have consciously done at Tehillah is to separate between contemporary Orthodox institutional life—on the one hand—and the Orthodox halakhic process on the other. While we may be marginalized from the first, we understand ourselves to be squarely within the parameters of the second.

This approach helps to resolve the angst—at least for some of us—surrounding questions about the legitimacy of our work. But it still leaves us with a very practical set of problems. How should ritual decisions be made, and who should be invested with the power to make such decisions?

Classically, a community brings its religious questions to its rabbi. In our effort to address the spiritual needs of women, however, we are acutely aware of the fact that we are living in a time when women are able to receive the same level of religious education and knowledge as men, in institutions that are sanctioned by the Orthodox establishment. Yet the title Rabbi comes from passing an exam that women are simply not allowed to take.

There is a logical inconsistency here, which I believe has led to some loss of credibility for the office. We cannot help but ask: What does it really mean to be a halakhic authority and a community’s religious leader? And if it need not necessarily be a Rabbi whom we turn to, then who, and based on what criteria? These are serious questions that we face at Tehillah and for which we have not yet come up with a definitive answer.

Along these lines, there is another more subtle and vexing problem: One of the reasons that Tehillah is such a success is because it offers a prayer service that people refer to as meaningful. This is in contrast to a sense that can pervade established religious institutions, where the service may feel stale and impersonal. I think it is not a coincidence that at Tehillah the quest for personal relevance in tefilla is accompanied by a desire to be involved in the process of religious decision-making. Rather than handing over this responsibility to a religious authority who does the work and then provides an answer that must be passively accepted, there is an interest in being actively involved in the process: in the learning, understanding, and questioning that goes on when a halakhic decision is made. This approach calls for a new model or new way of thinking about religious authority.

The second pressing issue that Tehillah faces is that of gender, and its place in the service. Currently, gender plays a strong role in Tehillah. A mehitsa runs down the middle of our sanctuary, and we do not begin the service until both ten men and ten women are present. Women and men alike may receive aliyot and read from the Torah, however, when a woman is slotted to read from the Torah, only a woman may be called up for that aliya, and vice versa. In all of these examples we might say that male and female are separate but equal: The gender category is preserved, while still allowing both men and women to be full participants in the tefilla.

In the critical area of leading the service, however, this is not the case. Women are permitted to lead parts of the service, but not all, whereas men are permitted to lead all. For me, this difference is palpable each time I lead pesukei deZimrah for the congregation. When I get to the last paragraph, I cannot help but grapple with the fact that a man will—and must—take over from me because as a woman I may not lead Shaharit, although this same man may have led pesukei deZimrah in place of me. This transition is a difficult point in the service because it raises questions about what we are ultimately looking for. Are we looking to find a halakhic way in which women, like men,  can be full participants in all parts of the service? That is to say, are we working toward erasing gender as a category? If this is the case than the current form of our service appears to be only one step towards fully egalitarian roles in the synagogue. Or are we looking to keep gender as a salient aspect of our prayer experience. I would suggest that some of us (myself included) do want to recognize our femininity (or masculinity) as an essential aspect of the way in which we address God and come together as a community. In this case, the key question is whether we might occupy the synagogue as women (or men) and pray as women (or men), while simultaneously being fully integrated in the synagogue service, and remaining within the parameters of halakha.

The third pressing issue facing Tehillah is the question of the minyan’s sustainability and the place that it occupies within the wider Jewish world. We currently rent space from established institutions at a very low rate and we have no salaried staff. These factors allow our membership dues to remain nominal—which is critical for our relatively young, transient population.

The result of such low financial stakes is a tremendous amount of freedom and independence in making decisions and running our organization. On the other hand, this leaves us in a childlike position, where we are drawing on the larger local community’s resources without being full contributors. And as long as we remain in this position, our feminist, Orthodox project cannot be fully realized. Right now there are some ten to fifteen Partnership Minyanim across the globe, but they are mostly all in urban centers and college campuses. I ask myself every Shabbat—where is my family going to pray if and when we leave Cambridge? For our project to be taken seriously, and for it to expand beyond the centers that it now occupies, we need institutional backing, educational resources, and professional leadership. As we move forward, the challenge will be to build and maintain communal infrastructure while still remaining fresh, innovative and meaningful.

Do not say that earlier days were better than these!

—Kohelet 7:10

My late father, Rabbi Kopul Rosen died in 1962, at the age of 49. He was a remarkably charismatic personality, tall and elegant, an orator and public speaker of a type and style no longer to be found. He was arguably the most influential and certainly the most popular rabbi in the Britain of his day. But he was also the symbol of a kind of rabbi and a style of Orthodoxy that has all but disappeared.

My father was born in London in 1913 to a very modest family, and his gifts were recognized at an early age. He was invited to preach in various synagogues from the age of 13. He was taken under the wing of the great Rabbi Yechezkel Abramsky, Av Bet Din in London at the time and he was sent to learn at Mir in Lithuania, where he received his semikha from the Rav of the town and the Rosh Yeshiva. There he came under the powerful influence of the great mussar mashgiah, R. Yeruham Levovitz, and indeed he gave me his Hebrew name. Mussar became the most significant element in my father's early spiritual life.

He returned to England in 1937 and was appointed the Rav of a prominent synagogue in Manchester before being promoted as Communal Rabbi of Glasgow in 1944. Despite his responsibilities, he found time to travel once a month to Gateshead to learn with the great Rav Dessler who was staying there at that time before he moved to Israel.

In 1954, my father was called to London to become the Principal Rabbi of the Federation of Synagogues. It had been established by Lord Swaythling as a more Orthodox alternative to the dominant United Synagogue. It was a meteoric rise for a man in his early thirties. While he was in the rabbinate my father wore the “old-style” square cappel and frock coat. By contrast, my mother, although a model rebbetzin, did not normally cover her hair. My father, together with other distinguished “heimishe” rabbis, ate at the “unsupervised” vegan restaurant in Leicester Square and enjoyed the opera at Covent Garden. But this was a time when the United Synagogue itself possessed not one working kosher mikvah, and hardly any of its officers, let alone its members, were Shomer Shabbat.

After Chief Rabbi Hertz died in 1946, my father, only 32 at the time, was one of two final candidates to succeed him. Not only his youth but his independence told against him. He felt that the options open to him in the rabbinate were so limited that he increasingly focused on education, as this was a distraction from the pettiness and wrangling of communal affairs.

While still with the Federation, my father founded a Jewish boarding school, Carmel College, in the Berkshire countryside in 1948. It was modelled on the great English public schools, with their outstanding academic standards and well-rounded cultural and sporting programs. He wanted, in his own words, to offer the very best of Jerusalem and Athens. In his opinion, a Judaism that was not based on serious study would not survive. But equally, a person who could not find his way in the modern world and feel at home in Western culture would be lacking too. His vision of “authentic” Judaism was Maimonidean both in its elitism and its breadth of scholarship. His worldview had a lot in common both with R. Shimshon Raphael Hirsch on the one hand and Rav J. B. Soloveitchik on the other (with the caveat that many who purport to speak in their names nowadays do not).

In 1949, my father resigned from the rabbinate. Coincidentally, he also resigned as president of the Mizrahi Movement in the UK when it went into politics in Israel. He was adamantly opposed to religious political parties. He believed, correctly with hindsight, that religion would end up, in his words, “prostituting itself” for political gain. Yet he was always a religious Zionist and insisted on our using Havara Sepharadit when speaking Ivrit. His dream was to settle in Israel. At the time that he died, he had been negotiating to establish a school similar to Carmel College in Israel, outside Petah Tikvah.

Our family moved to the school campus of Carmel at Greenham Common outside Newbury. Three years later the school transferred to Mongewell Park some ten miles south of Oxford, and that was where we were brought up, in rural splendour—but isolated from the main London community.

Religious life at Carmel was self-sufficient, a little community of its own in which we were all encouraged to participate. When the school was in recess it became a sort of intellectual retreat for staff and visitors, rabbinic and academic, who would come down for weekends. My father particularly delighted in hosting visitors from Oxford University and from Israel. I remember their exchanges, the sparring on matters secular and religious and the constant appearance of stacks of books of all kinds that one had to read.

We were constantly being exposed to ideas of all kinds. I recall his constant reiteration of the need to understand and feel comfortable in dealing with the dominant culture and the best way of doing that was by being confident and well grounded in one's own. He was not in favour of enclavism, of hiding within a mental ghetto to protect oneself from outside challenges. Rather, he espoused confronting these challenges and learning how to either reconcile, accept, or reject. He was inclusive in his attitude toward individuals of all types of Jewish identity while holding strongly to his Orthodoxy and having no patience for Reform ideology. When he returned from a visit to America he told us how he was taken aback by the prominent rabbis and communal leaders he met who held any degree of religious practice in contempt.

Most of my father's pupils did not come from religious backgrounds, and he therefore saw his role as one of educating and encouraging, of winning over by presenting Judaism as both a vibrant experience and a great storehouse of learning and wisdom. Above all, he was lenient in his halakhic decisions, for others if not for himself.

This was the atmosphere in which I grew up—an atmosphere that was religiously and intellectually stimulating and yet on the fringes of the community, neither part of it yet neither completely detached. In 1967, my father sent me, a rebellious teenager, to Kol Torah yeshiva in Bayit veGan in Jerusalem. He believed that only an intensive “old-world” yeshiva education could give a Jew that profound respect and love for Torah that was essential for informed religious commitment, in the same way that he urged pupils to get a thorough and intense education in Western culture and science.

In Israel at this time you could count the number of “foreign” yeshiva bahurim on the fingers of your hands. Israel was still a poor, struggling, and largely socialist country. The daily diet revolved around TCP (tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers), together with coarse black bread and margarine, and the universal eggplant. Meat was almost unavailable; we might get chicken for Shabbat if we were lucky. Hardly anyone had a car, apart from government ministers, and one contemporary who was fortunate enough to have a Vespa was regarded as something of a Rothschild. But there was an amazing pioneering atmosphere that is now largely lost.

The extent of the antagonism that existed to religion after the State was founded is largely forgotten. The divide in Israel between the Old Yishuv and the left-wing, secular pioneers, goes back a very long way. I arrived in Haifa by boat from Marseilles. Haifa was the most secular of Israeli cities and so left-wing that it was nicknamed “Red Haifa.” It was the only place in Israel where public transport continued on Shabbat. I was made fun of for wearing my cappel and was even spat at by a wild woman on Nof haCarmel. I was authoritatively informed that I did not need religion any more now that I had left the ghetto and come to this socialist paradise of liberated Jews. I asked for candles on Friday night at a Tiberias youth hostel. The caretaker told me I did not need to keep Shabbat any more now that there was Jewish State, and besides he did not fight for Israeli independence for people like me to drag the State back into the Middle Ages.

Employment was almost entirely controlled by the Histadrut, Ahdut haAvodah, and left-wing parties. It was unheard of to see men or women with head coverings working in public service. The League Against Religious Coercion used to send tenders full of brawny Kibbutzniks into Mea Shearim on a Shabbat spoiling for a fight. It is true the divide today remains as bitter as ever, but then the Orthodox were written off as unwanted fossils. Now there is a political battle for supremacy between rivals that count large followings, and both sides are more nuanced.

The yeshiva world then was dominated by the mighty institutions of Hevron and Mir in Jerusalem and Ponevez and Slabodka in B’nei Brak. The only Hassidic yeshiva of note at that time was that of the Tchebiner Rov. The Brisker Rov and the legacy of the Hazon Ish were powerful influences but not yet institutionalized. There were other smaller yeshivot in Bnei Brak and Jerusalem, and some rural ones like Kfar Hassidim. The once great Merkaz haRav Kook, torchbearer of religious Zionism, was a small collection of incompatible individuals living on its glorious past, around a courtyard at the back of the old Egged terminal on Rehov Kook. There was no such thing as a “modern” or a ba’al-teshuva yeshiva, much less institutions for American kids on one-year excursions.

Kol Torah was the new institution then, unique in that its old Mir Rashei Yeshiva had determined to build a clean, modern yeshiva with running water, baths, and the sort of facilities not available elsewhere. It was impressive, but too clinical for me. I was invited to the poorer, more primitive and less institutionalized yeshiva of Be'er Yaakov, for a Shabbat, and I was hooked.

Be'er Yaakov had recently started up, amongst the orchards and jackals of the coastal plane. It was a collection of bedbug-ridden huts dominated by an unlikely pair of master teachers with their rival groups of devotees, the intellectually brilliant and jovial Moshe Shapiro and the somber mussar giant Shlomo Volbe, both graduates of Mir in Lithuania. It was intense, passionate, and totally inspirational, such a contrast to insipid Anglo Jewry. Here one could experience the passion of prayer, the introspection of serious Mussar, and the excitement of intense Torah study. Perhaps it was its smallness that enabled it to be so different, and of course as it grew it lost its initial pioneering magic.

Rav Volbe was rumored to have studied philosophy in Germany before rejecting its values and moving to Mir. Certainly his Mussar had an analytical and intellectual aspect to it. When I heard him talk about Rambam's concept of “The Perfect Unity of God” I dared to confide that I did not understand what a perfect unity was and asked if this did not conflict with Rambam's suggestion that one could only say what God was not. He smiled at me, his gray eyes fixing me through his bottle round glasses, “Don't worry, young man. Learn Torah and one day you'll understand.” In all my years in yeshiva this was the nearest I ever got to discussing philosophy.

Be'er Yaakov was where I met Brooklyn boys for the first time. They seemed to have a social scale of values that all Jews were better than all white non-Jews, all white non-Jews were automatically better than all black non-Jews, and the only exceptions to the rule were Lubavitch Hassidim who were worse than the worst black non-Jews. This was my first intimation that I was seriously out of intellectual step with a significant part of the Orthodox world!

After two different periods at Be'er Yaakov, I wanted to add other dimensions to my yeshiva curriculum and transferred to Merkaz haRav Kook, largely because of the Nazir's evening lectures on mysticism and philosophy. I was disappointed by the yeshiva itself because of its heavy involvement in Israeli politics, which I found unsavory and corrupt. (Only later did I discover that my father had resigned from Presidency of the Mizrahi organization in Britain when the Israeli branch entered the Knesset. He had never discussed it with me. He later told me he wanted me to come to my own conclusions.)

One lesson I learnt from Merkaz was that it is “The Hour that Maketh the Man.” Rav Zvi Yehuda Kook had a small coterie of faithful students around him. Most of them are now prominent in Israeli religious life. But he was largely ignored both by the rest of the yeshiva and certainly by the outside world as a man of weird and messianic views. After 1966, when the West Bank was captured and the wave of idealism swept the country, Rav Zvi Yehuda was transformed overnight into the voice of radical territorial messianism.

Thousands came to hear him repeat the same ideas that a year or two earlier had been all but ignored. This taught me, too, that tides of opinion and ideology, political and religious, go in and out according to external factors that the individual cannot hope to predict or control. I found this frustrating in one way, because it meant one's opinions mattered less than what was fashionable at the time. But it was also ultimately comforting. Even if my perception of the spiritual life was currently out of fashion, eventually the circle would turn.

I returned to the UK because my father had insisted I have, if not a career, at least qualifications that would enable me to be self-sufficient. My yeshiva contemporaries tried all sorts of devices to prevent me from leaving, moral and spiritual blackmail. And I tried. But my father, fortunately and thankfully, stood firm. When we discussed my future, I suggested I might want to go into Jewish education or the rabbinate. Even if secretly my father might have been pleased, his jaundiced view of a rabbi's life led him to insist that I have another career as a fall-back, so I applied to Cambridge University to study architecture. Tragically, he lost his battle with leukemia and died just a few months into his 50th year. Now there was no doubt in my mind I had to try my best to follow in his footsteps.

My plan was to get the most I could out of Cambridge. I switched my field of study to philosophy. They called it “moral science” in those days, although it was neither moral nor scientific. But it was a wonderful introduction to rational thought, and in particular, to linguistic analysis, which stood me in great stead in my life as a teacher. I loved Cambridge and delighted in all the cultural and sporting as well as intellectual opportunities it offered. Although there was a small vibrant community of yeshiva graduates and a little student synagogue with Shabbat meals and regular services, nevertheless my Jewish soul went into a kind of hibernation.

Eventually it was time to exchange one world for another and I wanted it to be as intense and overwhelming an experience in Torah as I had just experienced in Western culture. So I wrote to Reb Leizer Yehuda Finkel of Mir, asking if I could come to learn there. I chose Mir because I was now in my twenties and wanted older company. In those days Mir was almost entirely a Kollel. I also wanted to be in the intense atmosphere of Mea Shearim and Bet Yisrael. It was hemmed into its own little extreme Ghetto, close to the Jordanian border in a divided Jerusalem, near the Mandlebaum Gate the only crossing point east. It was as far from Cambridge as one could get. Reb Leizer Yehuda replied, accepting me. Of course it was nothing to do with my achievements, but simply his policy of accepting the sons of old Mir alumni.

By the time I arrived in Mir in 1965, Reb Leizer Yehuda had died. I was ushered into his son Reb Chaim Zev Finkel “Chazap,” who received me kindly. I told him I wanted to learn in Mir. He asked me where I had come from. I said from Cambridge.

“Oh,” he said, “this is not the right yeshiva for you, and anyway we are very full. We have no space.”

“But I was at Be'er Yaakov before that,” I replied.

“Well, that is different. But tell me what did you study at Cambridge?”

“Philosophy,” I replied.

“No, this is definitely not the place for you. Try Merkaz haRav Kook.”

“But I have a letter here from Reb Leizer Yehuda accepting me.” I produced my trump card.

He took it and read it. “Oh, so you are the son of Kopul. Well, I cannot go against my father. But I warn you, if you talk any philosophy here in the yeshiva you will be thrown out.”

What was I going to say, that the philosophy I had studied was not anti-religious? It was not at all interested in religion because God was non-empirical? As A. J. Ayer had said, any statement that could not be empirically verified was “non-sense” (not rubbish, simply a subject there was no point in discussing rationally). Or that as Wittgenstein had said, “That about which we cannot speak we must remain silent?” Besides, I had no intention of spending any time on anything other than Torah. I knew that I would have to suppress the rational side of my mind. So I was only too happy to agree and thus began my years in Mir.

The traditional yeshiva was neither designed to deal with theological issues nor with intellectual doubt. The assumption was and remains that everyone had bought into the essential principles and ideas of its world. The question of belief in God or a definition of “truth” would never arise in such an environment. Certainly there was no one there who would have known how to respond to a challenge from outside its own parameters. In many ways, it makes sense for an institution to concentrate on its core expertise. But it meant that for the person who thought independently or who had questions that required rational answers, the traditional yeshiva was unable to meet those needs.

Much later, different types of yeshiva emerged in which discussion and debate were encouraged, mainly what are called ba’al-teshuva or outreach yeshivot. But even then the debate is usually within defined parameters and from a theological rather than a philosophical point of view. That is to say, theology is committed to its conclusions even before a word is spoken; whereas philosophy tries to discover what the answer might be or might not be. Still I have my doubts as to whether it is worth diluting a specialized institution. Anyway, it did not matter to me. I had my fill of rational argument at Cambridge. Abstractions had lost much of their attraction. I really did want to leave that behind while I concentrated on a totally different sphere of religious experience.

Sadly “Chazap” himself soon died and that left Reb Chaim Shmulevitz as the Rosh Yeshiva and his son-in-law Reb Nochum “Trokker” as the power behind the throne. Reb Beinish Finkel was also a Rosh Yeshiva, but despite his impressive appearance he was not in the same caliber as Reb Chaim, and devoted most his time to fundraising.

When, in my second year, Reb Chaim began to give mussar talks as well as his talmudic tours de force he was simply extending his brilliant talmudic method to the realms of midrash instead of halakha or pilpul. Reb Chaim would occasionally launch into the political arena. He said he would not allow any of his pupils to teach in a Yeshiva Tikhonit. And during election time he said he knew that the major religious party that spoke for the Hareidi world at that stage, Agguda, was corrupt but that everyone should vote Agguda because that would benefit the Yeshiva world most. The only way I could get out of being press-ganged into working for Agguda was by declaring myself a member of Neturei Karta! Actually a significant proportion of Mir Kolleniks at that time were loyal to Neturei Karta, including the first “foreign minister” of the movement, the American Moshe Hirsch.                      

Mir was a shadow then of its present incarnation. The main building was the same on the outside then as it is today. In those days, though, you entered to the smell of the urinals on the ground floor that everyone in the area took advantage of, and the bedrooms next to them were the refuge of waifs and strays in Bet Yisrael. The main Bet Midrash upstairs was half its present size. It filled up only during the mornings, when many Yerushalmi kollel men chose to come and study in Mir. It was packed again for the shiurim given by Reb Chaim and Reb Nochum. But otherwise in the evenings it was all but empty except for the small number of single men who had no home to go back to. In winter the improvised paraffin metal stove that heated the hall emitted noxious fumes and clouds of smoke. But for the few late-night learners it was a haven, as well as a place where the local beggars could come and warm themselves against the fierce Yerushalmi winters. The north side of the building housed the rashei yeshiva and their families and the place had an air of run down familiarity. Mir then was small, intimate, and familial, with only a handful of “foreign” students.

I was given a bed in a room on the third floor with two forty-year-old bachelors. The room was a garbage dump. My roommates spent a good part of each day lying on their beds, chain smoking, making notes and comments on the Gemara. They seemed impervious to the filth, the smell, the dirty laundry, the ash, the dirt, and the bugs crawling up the wall. Initially I was in a state of shock, close to tears. I wondered if this was a last ditch attempt to stop me from coming to Mir. But I soon set to work, cleaned and disinfected. All the while, the two old bachelors continued to ignore me. I imposed my standards of cleanliness, bought them ashtrays, and within six months they had both left to get married. The only thing I could not clean or repair was the one bathroom, which served as a general dumping ground and storeroom. And so visits to Zupnick's mikvah became the only opportunities for hot water.

The contrast with university could not have been greater, especially the notion of study for study's sake, not to pass exams or to graduate. It was far more demanding than any other sort of study I had experienced. The dedication of men of all ages was tangible, completely immersed and living every moment they could in Torah. It was intoxicating. Now my soul came alive and the values of Cambridge receded into the past. It was easy to spend 16 to 18 hours a day in study, and I had so much to catch up on. It was seductive. I considered making it my life. The shidukhim I was offered all required that I devote myself entirely to the yeshiva world. But I knew my loyalty to my father's memory required me to go back out into the world of disappearing Jewry and tilt at windmills.

I stayed at Mir throughout the year, not like nowadays when flights are cheap and visits home or for vacation are considered the norm. I left only one summer to go to Southern Rhodesia, as it was then, on a mission to help the community in Bulawayo. Afterward, it was arranged that I would meet up with Rav Beinish in Johannesburg to help his fundraising campaign. I asked Reb Chaim what he thought I ought to do about Apartheid and racial discrimination. He said, to his credit, that he did not know enough about the situation to give me an opinion and I should make up my own mind. How unlike so many current rashei yeshiva who seem to have received “Daas Torah” on every possible situation. My Rhodesia experience was electrifying and confirmed my desire to preach, teach and outreach.

Another year, I returned to England for a summer break to be with my widowed mother and family. Otherwise, though I say it myself, I was a complete “matmid.” I had no time or interest in anything else—no books, newspapers, music, or other distraction.

The only external influences I allowed myself were when occasionally on a Shabbat I would emerge from the depths of Mea Shearim and venture into Rehavia. Either I would visit the former Chief Rabbi of South Africa, Louis Rabinowitz, or Yaacov and Penina Herzog. Louis was primarily concerned with my future as a community rabbi. He kept insisting that I should not lose myself in the ivory tower of yeshiva, but prepare myself for the outside world and absorb as much knowledge as I could of Bible, history, and thought. He was a great raconteur and liked to entertain with stories of his rabbinical battles, either for Zionism or against Apartheid. His emphasis on national and universal issues had a significant influence on me.

The Herzog house was altogether more ethereal. The younger son of former Chief Rabbi Herzog, Yaacov Herzog, had been the Israeli Ambassador to Canada and had argued publicly with the notoriously anti-Jewish historian Arnold Toynbee, who found no room in his history of the world for the Jews. A career diplomat, he was then the Director of the Foreign Ministry. His rabbinical credentials were impressive, but it was his combination of Jewish and Western culture in such an elegant and appealing way that really had a greater impact on me than anyone other than my father. He was actually appointed Chief Rabbi of the UK, but illness intervened, and yet another brilliant mind and magnetic personality died far too early.

Another of his regular guests was Haym Soloveitchik, brilliant, incisive, and critical of the religious distortions he saw around him. He too was a strong influence on me in emphasizing the importance of academic analysis and discipline. I was tempted to consider academia. But I could not envision myself in an ivory tower. I did however realize that one of the most important elements in a good education is to have the privilege of meeting and getting to know great minds and listening to alternative perspectives.

Eventually, I devoted myself to Yoreh Deah with a brilliant but strange Alter Mirrer, an old bachelor called Sobel who knew every word of every commentary by heart. Although he always brought his own text with him, he never seemed to need to consult it. He was also an expert in linguistics and I was always being asked to order books by the great Danish linguists for him.

I jumped through the hoops and passed the exams and interrogations of various dayanim until I came finally to ask Reb Chaim for semikha. He asked me to go and speak to Reb Nochum, because he had some things he wanted to ask me. I walked with trepidation down to his subterranean apartment. We had only had a few extended personal conversations of significance during my time in Mir. One was when he wanted suggest a shidukh. Another was one Pesah I stayed in yeshiva and we had a conversation over the divide between the secular and the religious in Israel. He told me that he did not really understand what the problem was. His children realized and understood the problem but did not know how to deal with it. Perhaps, he suggested, his grandchildren would be able to rectify matters.

I can only recall one conversation with Reb Chaim. It was some years after I had left and had come back to recharge my batteries. It was over the limits of leniency in halakha and the room for change. I talked about the pressures in the rabbinate for change, particularly on women's issues. He said that in his opinion, though he was not paskening, so long as I could find two Rishonim who agreed with what I wanted to do, I could, within my own community, permit what custom had not.

Reb Nochum was always wise, measured, and friendly. But I did not know what to expect this time. He sat me down and then, with that twinkle in his eye and half-smile, he started.

“Before I can recommend Reb Chaim to give you semikha I want to clarify a few things that I have heard that you said.”

My stomach churned. I had behaved impeccably. I had studied diligently. I had not, to my memory, ever stepped out of line in any way or raised any controversial issues. But clearly I had been spied upon relentlessly. What was going to come out?

“I heard that you said that shlogging kapporos (slaughtering chickens before Yom Kippur as a ceremonial of atonement) is barbaric.”

“Yes,” I admitted. I had, after all, been sick after my first practical shehita lesson. I could not eat meat for months after visiting an abattoir. I admitted I found the kapporos business barbaric.

“Actually, I agree with you. We never did kapporos back in Lithuania. But if you are going to be a Rav in a community you need to be very careful what language you use. Barbaric is a very harsh word and people will get the wrong impression. Do you understand me?”

“Yes. I understand what you are saying and of course you are right. Hakhamim hizaharu beDivreikhem.”

“Yes, but you also said that Rambam cannot answer our problems because he based himself on Aristotle and nowadays no one thinks the way Aristotle did.” I admitted that error too, relieved if after years of being observed this was all they had against me.

He continued, “Look, if the Jews then were on a much higher level than the Jews nowadays, which of course you will agree, so it must be that the great non-Jews then were greater than the non-Jews nowadays. So how can someone nowadays say Aristotle was wrong?”

What could I say? He looked searchingly at me. I looked down in capitulation. I was not going to dig a bigger hole for myself.

“And I heard you said that if Noah’s flood had covered all of the earth, why were there kangaroos only in Australia? What does that mean?”

I started to explain what the problem was, and that these were the sorts of issues that a rabbi going out into the secular world would have to deal with, and I was just looking for answers.”

He must have been satisfied because he told me to go upstairs again to Reb Chaim, who wrote out a semikha that I am embarrassed to read to this day, so generous is the wording. I often went back over the summer to relive the past, to see that, despite the enlargements and new building, that traces of the hole could still be seen, where a shell hit the yeshiva in the Six-Day War of 1967 as everyone huddled down in the kitchen. Illness struck yet another member of the family and Reb Nochum bravely battled it. But it was sad to see his slow deterioration. His untimely death was a terrible loss to the Torah world in more ways than one. I don't know what it was about Mir that so much talent expired before its time. Perhaps the fire burnt so powerfully it burnt itself out. Or, to borrow from another culture, “Those whom the gods love, die young.”

The world I entered when I returned to Britain to become a pulpit rabbi was a very different one. Despite my time in Cambridge, it was still a culture shock. Religion was and is so much more a matter of social convention and conformity than spiritual excitement. Adjusting to a world outwardly mine, but in fact very far removed, was a challenge. Unlike in the United States, nominal Orthodoxy is the dominant denomination in Britain. Reform and Conservative have always been minority interests. Most of the rabbis or reverends in the Anglo-Jewish world of the 1960s were graduates of Jews College, with its academic approach to Jewish Studies. Homiletics, liturgy, history, and pastoral skills vied with Talmud for a place in the curriculum. (Insofar as I had any knowledge or expertise in these areas I was completely self-taught.)

Most of those I knew were admirers of the controversial Rabbi Louis Jacobs, who ended up being effectively driven out of the Orthodox community. But given the nature of Anglo Jewry, most of them decided to remain silent and keep their jobs. I on the other hand, was the first of a trickle that turned into a tidal wave of rabbis trained in black-hat yeshivot. The only alternative to the established rabbinate at that time was the fledgling Chabad movement. The ba’al-teshuva and outreach organizations were years away.

So when I started in the rabbinate I was coming from the right wing. It is true that my background gave me a more open and cultured approach, which helped me a great deal in reaching out to disaffected youngsters. But certainly my loyalty was more with what would later come to be known as the Hareidi world than the more flaccid Rabbinical School brand of Judaism. I found the United Synagogue a very uncomfortable, pompous and alienating place with its bureaucratic centralized authority. So I looked for independent Orthodox synagogues where I would be the Mara D'Atra rather than a cog in the wheel.

My first position was in Glasgow, where many still remembered my father with awe and affection. It had at the time some 15,000 Jews. My synagogue, Giffnock, was huge, nearly a thousand families—but only a small core of religiously committed individuals. Its ethos and origins were strongly Lithuanian. The vast majority of the community, particularly the younger generation, was uninterested and disaffected. The rabbinate in the city was riven by rivalry and its status was low. It was the perfect place for me because I could both provide for the old guard with daily Gemara and other shiurim and reach out to the youngsters, going where I knew I could find them and trying to present a different image of Judaism than the stuffy and killjoy one that they had previously seen. I wanted to show that one could be a modern citizen of the world and enjoy its many legitimate experiences while still adhering strictly to Torah. I tried to make the services more accessible. I would often interrupt the congregation's talking, not to shut them up directly, but to interest them in the relevant text with an explanation or observation. It helped relieve the boredom of those who understood little and cared less.

And I went out of my way to court controversy. Most of my congregants ate out in the city. I caused a stir by suggesting that if they ate smoked salmon or salad on cold plates instead of eating outright treif, they would avoid breaking any laws. As word spread, I was called by various scandalized colleagues asking me how I could justify salads without a proper check for bugs. I assured them I would give a lecture on the subject.

My methods succeeded. The synagogue began to fill up and my time in Glasgow was exciting and rewarding, the community warm and appreciative. It was hard work—almost 300 weddings and bar mitzvas in three years and constant sick visiting, funerals, and shiva houses to attend. But I made many friends who have stayed in touch ever since. Outside of its decaying industrial centres, Glasgow was a wonderful place to live, an hour's drive from the Highlands or the sea. It was only the accident of the premature resignation of the headmaster of Carmel College, my father's school, that enticed me away from my Scottish idyll. I was certainly not going to turn down the opportunity of trying to continue my father's work.

The next fourteen years of my life as Principal of Carmel College were an opportunity for me to teach my religious attitudes and values to some three hundred 11- to 19-year-old pupils a year, from around the world. That too was an exciting and highly rewarding experience, but education is a different field than the rabbinate.

After a sabbatical in Israel in 1984, I returned to the rabbinate in London to the only old style Orthodox independent synagogue, the Western Synagogue, which was two hundred years old. The observant Jewish community had all but abandoned central London for the northern suburbs, leaving the Western without a significant local constituency. It survived because it owned its own lucrative burial grounds and its own building. I chose it precisely because of its independence and my insistence on not putting myself in a position where authority or pressure to conform would in any way hamper my style.

The demands of the community were not excessive and this gave me a great deal of time to contribute to wider issues. The synagogue also had a community centre that attracted attendance during the week from those who lived throughout the London area. But there were too many declining and virtually empty Orthodox synagogues in the West End of London and it seemed only sensible to merge. The nearest synagogue was Marble Arch, a constituent of the mainstream United Synagogue. I encouraged the merger, hoping the new combined synagogue would be independent too. But when it transpired that a condition of the merger would be the absorption of the Western into the United Synagogue, I knew that even if it was in everyone else's interests, it was not in mine. So in 1990 I decided to leave the rabbinate again.

During my time in the Western I had encountered so many examples of religious bureaucracy and politics in the United Synagogue and its Bet Din, examples of pressure brought to bear on recalcitrant or simply independently minded rabbis, that it was clear my old antipathies towards the Establishment were justified as ever. In general, a more exclusivist and intolerant mood was prevailing on such issues as excessive and unrealistic demands on genuine converts, increasing strictness on matters of kashruth and interaction with other, less Orthodox parts of the community. With the retirement of Chief Rabbi Jakobovits, whom I admired and worked for on Interfaith issues, there was no one left who could still hold the line, the writing was on the wall. I went off on my travels.

A few years later I returned to the UK to head YAKAR, the adult education center my brother, Mickey, had founded and named after our father, Yaakov Kopul Rosen. It stood for all the values I cherished: deep commitment to halakha combined with social responsibility, tolerance, and independent thought. But the UK was not and is not a welcoming place for nonconformity. Pressure to belong and to be seen to conform, fear of being perceived as an outsider, eventually tame and silence rebels, or drive them away. Some good and creative things have indeed happened in Anglo Jewry, but they are invariably from outside of the mainstream and the establishment. This is probably why most of my talented contemporaries have left the UK for either Israel or the United States.

Much of this may sound strange to American readers used to each synagogue being independent and self-sufficient, without the European tradition of state-recognized institutional religion, where pressure can be brought on individual rabbis and communities. Sadly, the European model was imported into Israel where a government-supported rabbinate and the politicized nature of religious life have combined to make religion a business and power game rather than a spiritual inspiration and a model of ethical values. The strength of American Judaism was always the laissez faire atmosphere of individual synagogue autonomy.

But the fact is that the disease of religious pressure to conform is spreading. Perhaps not in the structural style of Napoleonic Europe, but certainly in the way pressure is being brought positively and by default. Too many rabbis are worried about being regarded suspiciously by extreme opinion. There is a natural but disappointing need to conform to the authority and influence of more fundamentalist powers and movements. If this is positive in the way it emphasizes the importance of obedience to halakhic norms, it is regrettable in that it restricts variety. In addition there is the gap that has opened up so that halakhic authority and expertise do not automatically go together with wisdom and breadth of vision. In the United States, the increasing voice of extremism used to be balanced by outstanding alternative giants. In their absence, the alternative paradigm of popular absolutism is becoming the norm.

The space for innovation within halakha and freedom of thought is shrinking. On the other hand, there are signs of a fight back through institutions such as Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, Drisha, the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, and the few still prepared to stand up for their views. Edah, although it no longer functions, still lives on in spirit. But there are mixed signals; some synagogues are prepared to take risks, others not. It is still too early and we are too close to the events to know how this will play out, but my optimism stems from the historical fact of cycles in thought and fashion. What I have noticed is that in the absence of significant religious leaders and authorities to do battle, so-called modern or moderate Orthodoxy has become a grassroots movement of significance and if anything it is growing rather than shrinking.

After over 40 years in the rabbinate, my own ideas have changed little but the Jewish world itself is transformed, I would say hijacked, by the increasing fundamentalism of the Hareidi world. Whereas once Be’er Yaakov and Mir stood for the Lithuanian alternative to Hassidic populism and anti intellectualism, now even the yeshiva world has adopted Hassidic attitudes toward authority, credulity, and conformity. The politicization of religion has worsened and the capitulation of the Israeli Chief Rabbinate to the Hareidi world must be making the bodies of such great rabbanim as Rabbis Herzog, Goren, Amiel, and Uzziel to mention only the most obvious, turn in their graves.

Yet the fact is that the Hareidi world for all its abuses, misuses, and hypocrisies does contain the fastest growing core of Torah-committed Jews, devoted to study to an extent never before seen. And I sometimes wonder why it is that now that I, so far to the left of virtually all their theological and social positions, still consider myself more loyal to that world than to any other. And I hazard the suggestion that maybe the times require it. Perhaps the pressures of a secular, self-indulgent, material world are so strong and pervasive that the only way for the mass of Jews to survive religiously is through this inward looking self protective enclavism. Maybe this is a time of Hora’at Shaah leMigdar Milta. And if God controls the ebbs and flows of history, this is His way of talking to us today. But even so, this does not mean each individual has to follow this path. The individual must remain true to himself or herself.

How did I come to be the nonconformist and independently minded Orthodox person I am? Of course I owe most of it to the example of my father. His persona and the way religious life was a delight rather than a burden certainly played their part. But I think his pendulum theory, perhaps borrowed from Rambam, is significant. Ideally one must experience the most intense examples of two different approaches to life in order to find a balance in the middle. Of course that is not easy and not everyone can tolerate the strains such bifurcation imposes. Above all one needs to have confidence in oneself to be a minority within a minority within a minority. Certainly knowledge of text, experience of the living Judaism, of the attitudes and ideas of previous generations, together with the passion of intense religious experience can give one the confidence to feel one is walking in the footsteps of giants. For all my criticisms I know that Jewish life in the Diaspora, as well as in Israel is stronger than it has been for thousands of years even if we are lacking the individual giants we once had. Perhaps this is the nature of modernity and individuality. If so, I welcome it.

The title of this article, “The Music of Chance,” comes from a novel by Paul Auster, although that is the article’s only link to the novel. I chose this title because I would like to convey the message that even though life developed on Earth as a result of chance (as well as of necessity), which is one of the major tenets of the modern evolutionary theory, this fact should not scare us, as observant and devoted Jewish people. Randomness is entirely consistent with biblical and rabbinic sources. However, we should rethink our views on creation of life and humankind.

Chance occurs in the evolution of life at different levels. On the cellular level, the sorting of paternal and maternal chromosomes is an instance of randomness. At the molecular level, mutations take place in the genetic material (DNA or RNA) either spontaneously, during its replication, or due to external causes, such as radiation or chemicals. Moreover, genes or entire parts of chromosomes may recombine. These are random events because there is no way to predict them. Only their frequency could be estimated, but not the exact place where the mutation or the fusion between different DNA segments will occur (unless artificially induced). These kinds of events are routinely observed in any laboratory of molecular biology all over the world.

On the macroscopic level, chance (or, as it is often called, historical contingency) occurs in the environment in which living organisms are found. Natural catastrophes such as earthquakes, floods, meteorite impacts, and so on are the most dramatic events. But there are other, less spectacular instances that could be random, such as the migration of a small, particular group of individuals into an isolated place (genetic drift). These contingent events could direct the evolution into one direction instead of another.

An important point should be stressed. All these changes, at a genetic level as well as at a macroscopic one, are not to be considered accidents that it would be preferable to avoid. The opposite is true. If the DNA replication machinery were extremely defective, by inserting many errors in each cycle of replication, then life could not be perpetuated; however, on the other hand, if the same mechanism were absolutely perfect, no evolution would occur. Genetic shuffling and mutations are the engine that promotes evolution. The same could be said regarding environmental changes. A fixed ecosystem would not allow the selection of new variants, and thus would prohibit evolution.

Primo Levi, the renowned Italian-Jewish writer and chemist and survivor of Auschwitz, makes a similar point, though in a different context, adding a very stimulating analogy. In The Periodic Table, he speculates on the resistance of pure zinc to chemical reactivity. Here are his words:

One could draw from this two conflicting philosophical conclusions: the praise of purity, which protects from evil like a coat of mail; the praise of impurity, which gives rise to changes, in other words to life. I discarded the first, disgustingly moralistic, and I lingered to consider the second, which I found to be more congenial. In order for the wheel to turn, for life to be lived, impurities are needed and the impurities of impurities in the soil too, as is known, if it is to be fertile. Dissension, diversity, the grain of salt and mustard are needed: Fascism does not want them, forbids them… it wants everybody to be the same […] I am Jewish…I am the impurity that makes the zinc react, I am the grain of salt or mustard. Impurity, certainly, since just during those months the publication of the magazine Defense of the Race had begun, and there was much talk about purity and I had begun to be proud of being impure. (P. Levi, The Periodic Table, “Zinc,” translated from the Italian by Raymond Rosenthal, Everyman 1995).

What was the Jewish reaction to the theory of evolution, after its appearance in the years 1858 (in a short, joint communication by Charles Darwin and Alfred Wallace) and 1859 (with the publication of Darwin’s 400-page book The Origin of Species? The first important Jewish philosopher who dealt with Darwin was probably the Italian Rabbi and kabbalist Eliyahu Benamozegh (1822–1900). He referred repeatedly to Darwin and to natural selection in a long passage in his commentary to the Torah (Em laMikra, Devarim 22:10, Livorno 1863, pp. 87a–88b). R. Benamozegh highly estimated Darwin, quoting him throughout several of his writings. Although R. Benamozegh did not consider Darwin’s theory convincing, he did not see an essential contradiction between Darwin’s view and the Torah (see Jose Faur, “The Hebrew Species Concept and the Origin of Evolution: R. Benamozegh’s Response to Darwin, La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 63, 3, 1997, pp. 42–66, where the entire passage by R. Benamozegh is quoted in its original Hebrew and in English translation).

Among the not-many Jewish thinkers and rabbis who addressed the theory of evolution, Rabbi Shimshon Rephael Hirsch (1808–1888) wrote that although at that time he did not consider it a solid hypothesis, if science ever did prove the factuality of evolution, it would not pose a problem to Judaism's beliefs [at the end of this article I will quote a remarkable passage from R. Hirsch’s writings].

In the twentieth century, Rabbi Avraham Isaac Kook (1865–1935), the first Chief [DEA2] Rabbi of Eretz Israel, treated evolution in many works and letters, pointing to a general agreement between this theory and the Torah. See, for example, the following two extracts (from “Abraham Isaac Kook on Evolution: How evolutionary theory supports a mystical worldview,” by Shai Cherry, Three Twentieth-Century Jewish Responses to Evolutionary Theory, Aleph: Historical Studies in Science and Judaism, 3, 2003 ):

The theory of evolution (hitpattehut) is increasingly conquering the world at this time, and, more so than all other philosophical theories, conforms to the kabbalistic secrets of the world. Evolution, which proceeds on a path of ascendancy, provides an optimistic foundation for the world. How is it possible to despair at a time when we see that everything evolves and ascends? When we penetrate the inner meaning of ascending evolution, we find in it the divine element shining with absolute brilliance. It is precisely the Ein Sof in actu which manages to bring to realization that which is Ein Sof in potentia. (Rav Kook, Orot Hakodesh II:537)

Even if it were clear to us that the order of creation was through the evolution of the species, there would still be no contradiction. We calculate time according to the literal sense of the biblical verses, which is far more relevant to us than is ancient history .... The Torah obviously obscures the account of creation and speaks in allusions and parables. Everyone knows that the account of creation is part of the secrets of the Torah. And if all these statements were taken literally, what secrets would there be? ... The essence [of the Genesis narrative] is the knowledge of God and the truly moral life. (Letters of Rav Kook, Letter 91.)

If we now examine the approach of contemporary Jewish thinkers, it could be seen that among religious physicists, not only Jewish, the theory of evolution is often considered to be unconvincing and incomplete. This viewpoint is well described in an excellent paper by Dr. Baruch Sterman:

The attitude of people who reject Darwin and his theories usually ranges from condescending dismissal to indignant derision. The tacit respect afforded physics or chemistry (often grudgingly) is conspicuously absent with regard to evolutionary biology. Evidence such statements by the Lubavitcher rebbe [ztzl] as, “If you are still troubled by the theory of evolution, I can tell you without fear of contradiction that it has not a shred of evidence to support it” [Challenge: Torah Views on Science and its Problems, A. Carmell and C. Domb, eds. (Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1976), p. 148]. Even the great advocate of harmony between Science and Torah, Prof. Leo Levi, derides the theory in his discussion of evolution: “Looking at this theory [Darwinian evolution] as an attempt at a scientific formulation, it is very unconvincing, to say the least. Despite the beautiful and convincing descriptions in popular science books and high school texts, with their persuasive pictures, not only is the theory of evolution totally unproven, it is practically disproven” [Leo Levi, Torah and Science, (Jerusalem: Feldheim 1983), p. 105].

Evolution nevertheless evokes a disposition of derision and contempt in religious thinkers, even among those who are generally favorably disposed to Torah uMadda. It is constantly adorned with pejoratives: the “so-called” or “alleged” theory is unscientific, implausible, disproven…

Professor Nathan Aviezer, a physicist at Bar-Ilan University, recently published a book, In the Beginning, … [in which he] has no problem accepting virtually all the regnant scientific theories including the Big Bang theory and the fifteen billion year age of the universe… Prof. Aviezer's tone is markedly different in his discussion of evolution than in the rest of his book. Whereas throughout his work he tries to reconcile regnant scientific thought with the Torah, here he goes out of his way to show that the theory of evolution, at least in its most popular form, is not valid scientifically. One reason for Aviezer's presentation is that evolution is seen as the scientific theory most at odds with Judaism. Many believing Jews are unwilling to accept the notion that there can be compatibility between the two. (B. Sterman, “Judaism and Darwinian Evolution,” Tradition 29,1, 1994).

Prof. Aviezer’s case is an interesting one, and he has been attacked from two opposite sides. The Hareidi community could not accept that he, as a religious and observant Jew, wrote that the universe was created billions of years ago, that dinosaurs existed in the past, and that life evolved in some manner. From the other side, he has been very sharply criticized by some evolutionary scientists, such as Prof. Raphael Falk from the Department of Genetics of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, who wrote that Prof. Aviezer is a “fundamentalist,” writing “pseudo-science,” “manipulating scientific evidence,” “committing scientific rape,” and so forth. (See both authors in Alpayim—A Multidisciplinary Publication for Contemporary Thought and Literature 9, 1994, [in Hebrew]; see also N. Aviezer, “The Anthropic Principle,” B’Or Ha’Torah 17 (5768/2007), pp. 69–84 and especially p. 78.)

The situation is quite different for observant Jewish life-scientists, who are generally much more well-disposed toward the theory of evolution. See for example the following excerpt from a valuable paper by Dr. Carl Feit, Head of Biology Department at Yeshiva University:

The theory of evolution … is not a dead theory as some have claimed, but I believe it to be central to the whole enterprise of biology today…[and] stands as the central pillar of modern biology. It provides a way of explaining and predicting scientific results as any good theory should, with thousands of facts as its empirical base. At the moment, there is no alternative or competing scientific theory to explain the phenomena with which it deals…. The theory of evolution is a firmly rooted one, on the level of the theories of quantum mechanics, relativity, electricity and other well established ways of explaining reality. Indeed, the theory of evolution is the scientific theory of contemporary biology. (C. Feit, “Darwin and Drash: The interplay of Torah and Biology,” The Torah U-Madda Journal, 1990, II, pp. 29–30)

Or, as Dr. Sterman puts it in the above-cited Tradition paper:

Anyone who has ever been instructed to take antibiotics for a full ten days in order to avoid selection of strains that are resistant to the medicine, should be aware of the basic mechanism of Darwinian evolution. That mutations occur and that organisms better suited to an environment are most likely to survive are facts that virtually no one would question or doubt. It is clear that evolution as Darwin described it is currently taking place, continually and consistently.

   This favorable attitude of biologists to the theory of evolution, however, is not always well accepted. Recently, a big scandal has arisen around Rabbi Natan (Nosson) Slifkin, the so-called “Zoo Rabbi.” This young England-born Orthodox rabbi, now living in Israel, has become known for his interests in biology and zoology, on which he wrote several books. His works were quite popular in the Orthodox and even the Hareidi world, until somebody discovered in them several concepts that were considered “heretical.” As a consequence, in 2004, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Rabbi Slifkin was requested by four important rabbis of the Hareidi camp to retract his books at once. Since Rabbi Slifkin did not agree with the charge and did not retract his books, the rabbis’ public condemnations were posted on synagogue walls a few hours before Kol Nidre. Eventually, about twenty important Hareidi rabbis in Israel and in the United States put a ban concerning all Slifkin’s books. The ban caused a strong debate, mainly on the Internet, in which rabbis and scholars with different positions participated all over the world. (The entire story and a lot of texts and documentation could be found in Rabbi Slifkin’s website, www.zootorah.com.)

After the ban, Rabbi Slifkin wrote The Challenge of Creation, Judaism’s Encounter with Science, Cosmology and Evolution (Yashar Books, New York, 2006, 2008), which is a revised and expanded edition of his previous work The Science of Torah (Targum Press, 2001—this publisher discontinued distribution of Slifkin’s books after the ban). The Challenge of Creation is an extremely and unusual lucid book on the relationship between Torah and Science in general, and on evolution in particular. It is an invaluable resource on these subjects, certainly the best work after the collective volume edited by Rabbi Aryeh Carmell and Prof. Cyril Domb, Challenge: Torah Views on Science and its Problems (Feldheim, 1976). It is worth to quote the beginning paragraph of Rabbi Slifkin’s book (in the following part of this artoc;e. I will quote several other passages):

This book was written for those who are committed to the tenets of Judaism, but also respect the modern scientific enterprise and are aware of its findings, and who are therefore disturbed by the challenges that are raised for their understanding of Torah. It addresses these challenges by following the approach of Rambam (Maimonides) and other similar Torah scholars towards these issues, which, while firmly within the framework of authentic Orthodox Judaism, is not the method of choice in many segments of the ultra-Orthodox community. But many have found that no other approach works as well in solving these difficulties. Other people may not possess as extensive a background in the sciences or may dispute the validity of the modern scientific enterprise. They may therefore simply not be bothered by the questions discussed in this book, or they may have different ways of dealing with such conflicts. Such people are not the intended audience of this book and they are advised not to read it. (N. Slifkin, The Challenge of Creation, p. 11)

That the way of thinking in some Jewish environments is not at all favorable to the theory of evolution is well illustrated by an account reported by Rabbi Marc Angel. A ten-year old boy was told by his Torah teacher that dinosaurs never existed. The boy then said to him that he had visited the Museum of Natural History in New York City and had seen dinosaurs with his own eyes. No problem, the teacher said. They were not dinosaur bones, but dog bones that became swollen during Noah’s flood (Marc D. Angel, “Reflections on Torah Education and Mis-Education,” Tradition 41:2, 2008, pp. 10–23; see also the comments in Tradition 42:1, 2009, pp. 108–110.)

            Why is there such a strong resistance to accept evolution by religious believers, even, or perhaps, especially among the educated individuals?

            In order to illustrate where the problem lies, it is useful to make a comparison with another great case of the past in which science and religion came into conflict—the “Galileo affair.” Today, there is no disagreement about the Copernican theory, which Galileo supported and because of which was consequently taken to court by the Church twice, in 1616 and in 1633, until he was condemned to house arrest. From a theological and doctrinal standpoint, it does not make any difference whether the sun revolves around the Earth or the other way. It is an issue that solely concerns historians of science and of its relation with religion. Today, nobody would ever dream of saying that the statement “the Earth revolves around itself and the sun” is incorrect and heretical. Likewise, nobody is of the opinion that the fact that we are no longer located at the center of the universe, but rather on a small planet that revolves around an average-size star in a peripheral area of one out of billions of existing galaxies, should be conceived as a serious problem from a religious point of view.

            Regarding Darwin’s theory of evolution, however, it’s a different story. The problem is still alive. We are not dealing only with the fact that science provides us with a different description from that of a literal and plain reading of the biblical text. If this were the only problem, then, just like we have read differently the (few) biblical references that talk about the mobility of the sun and the fixity of the Earth and interpreted them not literally, so too we could do the same when reading the first chapters of Bereshith that talk about the creation of the world. There are plenty of classical sources that allow a non-literal interpretation of some passages of the Torah. Rambam deals with the allegorical interpretations in several works: see for example in the Guide of the Perplexed, Introduction, and Part II, chapters 25 and 29; Letter on the resurrection of the dead. (For other classical and modern commentators, see N. Slifkin, The Challenge of Creation, chapter 7; Carmell and Domb (eds.), Challenge; Rabbi Dr. Avraham Steinberg, “Creation and the Theory of Evolution,” in Encyclopedia of Jewish Medical Ethics, translated by Dr. Fred Rosner, Feldheim, Jerusalem-New York, vol. I, pp. 151–166).

Why wouldn’t it be sufficient to explain the biblical text in a non-literal way? The problem is that at the foundation of the theory of evolution lies the notion of chance and contingency. These are not the only components; there is also a remarkable amount of “necessity,” yet the aspect of chance is certainly fundamental. To use Stephen J. Gould’s famous image, if we rewound back the film of the history of life on Earth and then play it forward again, we would not get the same film. And we, all human beings, would most likely not be part of this film. In his own words:

Let the “tape of life” play again from the identical starting point, and the chance is vanishingly small that anything like human intelligence would grace the replay.

It fills us with amazement (because of its improbability) that human beings exist at all. Replay the tape a million times from the same beginning, and I doubt that Homo sapiens would ever appear again. It is, indeed, a wonderful life.

Consciousness would not have appeared on our planet if a cosmic catastrophe had not claimed the dinosaurs as victims. In a literal sense, we owe our existence, as large reasoning mammals, to our lucky stars. (S. J. Gould, Wonderful Life, New York: W.W. Norton, 1989, p. 14, p. 289, p. 318)

On the same line of thought was Jacques Monod, one of the founders of molecular biology, Nobel prize winner in 1965, who stated in his best-seller Le Hasard et la Necessite: “The Universe was not pregnant with life, nor the biosphere with man” (Chance and Necessity, trans. A. Wainhouse, New York: Knopf, 1971, p. 145).

In truth, not everyone agrees with this idea. C. de Duve, a Belgian biochemist, Nobel prize winner in1974, maintains, on the contrary, that the appearance of life and intelligence are ineluctable phenomena, judging by the physical and chemical characteristics of the universe, and that therefore we would have eventually made our appearance on the scenery of the Earth. To Monod, de Duve responded sharply: “You are wrong.”

My reasons for seeing the universe as meaningful lie in what I perceive as its built-in necessities. Monod stressed the improbability of life and mind and the preponderant role of chance in their emergence, hence the lack of design in the universe, hence its absurdity and pointlessness. My reading of the same facts is different. It gives chance the same role, but acting within such a stringent set of constraints as to produce life and mind obligatorily, not once but many times. To Monod's famous sentence "The universe was not pregnant with life, nor the biosphere with man," I reply: "You are wrong. They were." (C. de Duve, Vital Dust: Life as a Cosmic Imperative, Basic Books, New York, 1995, p. 300)

The same divergence of opinions can be traced regarding the probability of finding life (and intelligent beings) on other planets. If we think that the appearance of life is a coincidental event, a fortunate number that came up in the lottery, then it is very likely that the appearance of life on the Earth is a unique case in the whole universe. If, on the contrary, wherever there are conditions that are similar to those of the Earth, it is probable—or rather, inevitable—that life has arisen on other planets as well (on this issue, see Amir D. Aczel, Probability 1, Little Brown, 1998).

There is no doubt that de Duve’s and others’ (like Simon Conway Morris) opinions pose less questions from a theological point of view: The Creator puts the Universe in motion, in the beginning of time, and life (and Man) will eventually appear. The concept of “eternity of God” actually means that it makes no difference, to the Creator, whether life and Man appear after 10 or 20 or 100 billion years after the Big Bang. God is eternal and is, so to speak, patient. Whenever Man comes, he comes.

On the contrary, the other opinion, shared by Gould, Monod and many other scientists, is not as easily acceptable within the religious dimension. It is no longer enough to claim that God is the primum movens. According to this opinion, giving the world “the first push” and letting it follow its course would not necessarily generate life or humanity. Thus, if we are the fruit of mere chance and contingence, what’s the point of speaking about a Creator? This is indeed a “formidable difficulty,” as B. Sterman says in a note of his Tradition paper (but without dealing with this problem and only referring to Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ article on evolution in Issues in Jewish Thought, United Synagogue Publication, 1982).

            Is it possible to accept randomness within a religious and, specifically, Jewish view? My answer is: Yes, it is.

            One way to reconcile the idea of a living world (a world that includes humanity) born by chance with a religious view and with the concept of God as Creator may be the assertion that whatever appears to our eyes as accidental, it really isn’t and is in fact “directed” by the Creator. It could be imagined that God sometimes “gives a push” to some meteorite, such as the one that hit the Earth 65 million years ago (specifically, in the Yucatan peninsula) and determined the extinction of the dinosaurs, thus allowing the mammals and, ultimately, humans to take over. We are not meant to know the way God can carry out such a thing. Almost 3,000 years ago, the prophet Isaiah said already: “For My thoughts are not as your thoughts, nor are your ways as My ways, says God” (Isaiah 55:8). Another quotation that is particularly appropriate in this context is from Darwin himself:

On the other hand I cannot anyhow be contented to view this wonderful universe and especially the nature of man, and to conclude that everything is the result of brute force…. I feel most deeply that the whole subject [the theological view of evolution] is too profound for the human intellect. A dog might as well speculate on the mind of Newton (Ch. Darwin, Letter to Asa Gray, May 22, 1860)

            The idea that what appears as random is in reality guided by a supreme being is followed by a great number of believer and devoted Jewish scientists. They accept evolution as a given, even though they confer a theological explanation to it. A biblical support for this concept is a passage in the Book of Proverbs (16:33): “[When] the lot is cast in the lap, its entire verdict has been decided by God.” On this verse, the Malbim, one of the most important commentators in the XIX century, elaborates:

There are things that appear given to chance but are actually providentially determined by God... “the lot is cast in the lap,” hidden from the eye of man, handed over to chance, but nevertheless the eye of God’s providence is displayed in it, and the verdict that the lot brings up is not chance but is from God; just as with the apportioning of the land [see Bemidbar 26:52–56; Talmud, Baba Batra 122a] and so on, where the lot was under God’s providence. (Malbim, Commentary ad loc., transl. by R. Slifkin in The Challenge of Creation, p. 292)

The story of Purim is another example of how seemingly random events are, in truth, guided by Divine Providence. The same could be said for Jonah and the terrible storm that came upon the ship he was in.

            However, the idea that God sometimes pulls some strings here and there is not easily acceptable from both a scientific-philosophic and a theological point of view. After all, this way of thinking would not be so different from the theory that asserts that there exists an Intelligent Designer who designed cellular structures and components of biochemical reactions. Scientifically speaking, the Intelligent Design (ID) theory is rejected since it implies the existence of something real that is not explicable in rational terms. Theologically speaking, it is not easily tenable since it depicts a “God of the gaps,” a Creator who is invoked whenever we don’t have a valid scientific explanation, and then becomes unnecessary when the explanation is finally found. Still, it could be argued that the intervention of the Creator is not believable on a cellular and microscopic level (in order to design the bacterial flagellum or the blood-clotting system—two favorite examples of the ID movement), yet it may be so on a macroscopic level (mass extinctions, and so forth). The latter case would be similar to the miracles that the Torah tells about, such as the crossing of the Red Sea and others. This seems to be the way many believer Jewish scientist see the matter, as Gerald Schroeder in his best-seller Genesis and the Big Bang.

            There is a second way to reconcile the idea of chance with a religious view, which seems preferable. A known Midrash by Rabbi Yehudah bar Shimon, interpreting the verse from the Torah “and it was evening, and it was morning” (Bereshith 1:5), states that before the first day there was a “succession of times” (seder zemanim). In response to the question of what God was doing during this primordial time, Rabbi Abbahu replies: “He created worlds and destroyed them, saying: I like this one (world), I disliked the previous ones.” (Bereshith Rabbah 83; see also in Torah Shelemah by Rabbi Menachem Kasher, I, 423). It is true that the Rambam, in the Guide of the Perplexed (II, 30), regards this Midrash as “incongruous” (Pines’ translation; megunne in the Hebrew translation by Ibn Tibbon), because it seems to point at the concept of an eternal universe; however, we may hypothesize that had the Rambam known, as we know today, that the Earth has indeed undertaken several mass extinctions, he would have probably taken R. Abbahu’s statement with more benevolence, as Rabbi Yehudah Halevi in fact did in the Kuzari, I, 67.

Im lo de-mistaphina, I would dare to say that R. Abbahu may be saying that not even the Creator Himself knew, as He began the creation, how it would have turned out. In other words, there wasn’t a completely pre-arranged scheme of the creation; rather, the creation was a sort of “work in progress,” with a development that was also dependent on chance and contingency. When finally, in the last created world (or, if we may, after the last mass extinction), the Homo sapiens makes his appearance, God reveals Himself to him and begins to interact with mankind. God has at last someone to talk to. After all, the history of the relationship between God and Human is that of God seeking Human, who sometimes answers back, and vice versa.

Rabbi Slifkin comments on this Midrash as follows:

The “loving deity” clearly manifests His love in more subtle ways than by simply letting everything live forever. Some may still ask how the idea of “trial and error” fits with the concept of a God Who knows the consequences of His actions. Still, it is clear from this Midrash that such was part of the Jewish understanding of God many thousands of years before extinctions were discovered by science. If such phenomena were always our understanding of how God works, then the explanation of the physical mechanisms via evolution cannot be said to challenge religion. (N. Slifkin, The Challenge of Creation, p. 315)

            Even the words, which recur several times in the beginning of Bereshith, “and God saw that what He had done was good,” point at this interpretation. This is how the Malbim interprets them:

Everywhere in the creation narrative, it concludes with, “And God saw that it was good.” This was meant to emphasize that notwithstanding the fact that each successive stage of creation was yesh mi-yesh [existing from existing], which means that it came about at the expense of the destruction of what had been before—in the pattern of God creating worlds and then destroying them—and all annihilation is evil from the perspective of that which is annihilated, nevertheless, since its purpose was to effect an improvement, a higher stage in creation, it was seen by God as good. (Malbim, Commentary to Genesis 1:4, in Rabbi Slifkin’s translation, The Challenge of Creation, pp. 315–316)

Randomness has been discussed by several contemporary observant and religious Jewish

thinkers, as David W. Weiss (see “Randomness and determinism in nature: a consideration,” in his book The Wings of the Dove, Jewish Values, Science and Halachah, B’nai B’rith Books, Washington, D.C., 1987; “Judaism and Evolutionary Hypotheses in Biology: Reflections on Judaism by a Jewish Scientist,” Tradition 19(1), 1981, pp. 3–27). [If I can add a personal note, both Prof. Weiss and the above-quoted Prof. Falk, who has been called a “militant secularist,” were my teachers at the Life Science Department of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I report this fact to emphasize how two opposite approaches can be equally reconciled with the theory of evolution.]

A discussion on the “theology of randomness” can be also found in a valuable paper by Dr. John D. Loike and Rabbi Prof. Moshe D. Tendler, together with many other relevant points and references. Specifically, these authors refer to the Ramban and the Netziv and conclude in this way:

In short, randomness is not a synonym for atheism and need not conflict with a Torah-based outlook. When evidence of randomness is used to deny the existence of a supreme being, we have a non sequitur that rests on a simplistic understanding of theology, the persistence of which may reflect an antecedent personal belief or bias. (J. D. Loike and M. D. Tendler, “Molecular Genetics, Evolution, and Torah Principles,” The Torah u-Madda Journal, 14, 2006–07, pp. 173–192)

The concept of randomness is not at all a new one in philosophy and theology. The Rambam says in his Guide:

As for my own belief with regard to this fundamental principle, I mean divine providence [hashgaha elokit, in Ibn Tibbon’s translation], [… it is] nearer than [the other opinions] to intellectual reasoning. For I for one believe that […] divine providence watches only over the individuals belonging to the human species and that in this species alone all the circumstances of the individuals and the good and the evil that befall them are consequent upon the deserts, just as it says: For all His ways are judgment [Devarim 32:4]. But regarding all the other animals and, all the more, the plants and other things, my opinion is that of Aristotle. For I do not by any means believe that this particular leaf has fallen because of a providence watching over it; nor that this spider has devoured this fly because God has now decreed and willed something concerning individuals; nor that the spittle spat by Zayd [Reuven] has moved till it came down in one particular place upon a gnat and killed it by a divine decree and judgment; nor that when this fish snatched this worm from the face of the water, this happened in virtue of a divine volition concerning individuals. For all this is in my opinion due to pure chance [mikre gamur], just as Aristotle holds. […] If, as he [Aristotle] states, the foundering of a ship and the drowning of those who were in it and the falling down of a roof upon those who were in the house, are due to pure chance, the fact that the people in the ship went on board and that the people in the house were sitting in it is, according to our opinion, not due to chance, but to divine will in accordance with the deserts of those people as determined in His judgments, the rule of which cannot be attained by our intellects. (Rambam, The Guide of the Perplexed, II, 17, transl. by Sh. Pines, The University of Chicago Press, 1963) [This passage should be read in conjunction with chapter 51 of Part III, in particular the passage beginning with: “A most extraordinary speculation has occurred to me just now through which doubts may be dispelled and divine secrets revealed.”]

Rambam’s words, where he says that there is no divine providence when a spider devours a fly or the like, are quite similar to Darwin’s words in the above-quoted letter to Asa Gray about a dog and Newton’s mind:

But I own that I cannot see, as plainly as others do, and I should wish to do, evidence of design and beneficence on all sides of us. There seems to be too much misery in the world. I cannot persuade myself that a beneficent and omnipotent God would have designedly created the Ichneumonidae (a wasp with parasitic larvae) with the express intention of their feeding within the living bodies of caterpillars, or that a cat should play with mice. (Ch. Darwin, Letter to Asa Gray, May 22, 1860)         

In conclusion, Rabbi Slifkin’s own final words are appropriate:

Each generation attains new insights into both Torah and the natural world. The revelations of science, which have challenged scientists to account for the extraordinary lawfulness of the universe, have enhanced our appreciation of the wonders of God’s creation. They have enhanced our grasp of the unity of existence. And they have also enhanced our under standing of the “creative wisdom” of God, as Rabbi Hirsch phrased it. There is grandeur in this view of Creation. (N. Slifkin, The Challenge of Creation, p. 345)    

And surely it is no coincidence that his last words refer to Darwin’s conclusive words:

There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed [by the Creator] into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved. (Ch. Darwin, On the Origin of Species, 6th edition, 1872; the words in brackets are not present in previous editions)

Two hundred years after Darwin’s birth, this idea should sound reasonable and acceptable to every open-minded person. It certainly was reasonable to Rabbi Shimshon Rephael Hirsch, who wrote the following words in the XIX century:

This will never change, not even if the latest scientific notion that the genesis of all the multitudes of organic forms on earth can be traced back to one single, most primitive, primeval form of life should ever appear to be anything more than what it is today, a vague hypothesis still unsupported by fact. Even if this notion were ever to gain complete acceptance by the scientific world, Jewish thought, unlike the reasoning of the high priest of that notion, would nonetheless never summon us to revere a still extant representative of this primal form as the supposed ancestor of us all. Rather, Judaism in that case would call upon its adherents to give even greater reverence than ever before to the one, sole God Who, in His boundless creative wisdom and eternal omnipotence, needed to bring into existence no more than one single, amorphous nucleus and one single law of "adaptation and heredity" in order to bring forth, from what seemed chaos but was in fact a very definite order, the infinite variety of species we know today, each with its unique characteristics that sets it apart from all other creatures. (R. Hirsch, Collected Writings, vol. 7 pp. 263–264)

   Rabbi Chaim Meimran, born and raised in Kiryat Gat, sees himself as an agent of social change within his community and within Israeli society. He is the founder of the Social Yeshiva High School in Kiryat Gat and after two years of study in the Merhav-Rabbinic Leadership for Social Change program at Memizrach Shemesh, he decided to introduce a Social Justice curriculum and rewrite the mission of the school to include an emphasis on the Jewish social values of solidarity and justice. These changes to the school are especially important in Rabbi Meimran's community where poverty and social inequalities are prevalent. Rabbi Meimran enjoyed his experience in the Merhav program. "Studying at Memizrach Shemesh made me look at my role as a Rabbi through a different prism; I understand now the important responsibility I have towards my community."

   Rabbi Memiran is one of many Israelis who have been inspired by Memizrach Shemesh, the Center for Jewish Social Leadership based in Jerusalem. Since 2000, Memizrach Shemesh has promoted a language of Jewish social responsibility in Israel. The Center, inspired by Mizrachi and Sephardi Jewish experience, philosophy and commentaries, trains social activists and fosters leadership that is committed to the Jewish values of social responsibility and community action. The aim of the Center is to strengthen a Jewish identity in Israel that emphasizes social values; by placing these values of communal responsibility and tikkun olam (repairing the world) at the center of Jewish identity, Memizrach Shemesh graduates will work to mitigate social gaps and at the same time reduce ideological polarization within Israeli society.

   Eli Bareket, Executive Director of Memizrach Shemesh, says that this emphasis on social values is imperative for the future of Israel. "The work we do can have a significant effect on the way Israeli society deals with social challenges like poverty and inequality; we have the opportunity to make a change using Jewish text study as our tool."

   The learning methods employed at Memizrach Shemesh are based on individual journeys and the use of personal stories in a Beit Midrash setting. Memizrach Shemesh participants meet weekly to study Jewish texts relating to social issues such as poverty, racism, inequality, education policy, community organizing and empowerment. Each session begins on a personal note, followed by Jewish text study and ending with a current event related to the social issue learned. The center initiates programming for rabbis, youth, students, educators, parents and activists.  Many Memizrach Shemesh alumnae continue on to become leaders within their communities:  on campus, in Israel's geographic or economic periphery and in the Israeli public school system.

   The Center's curriculum puts a special emphasis on Jewish texts, commentaries and responsa of Sephardic Rabbis. The philosophy and writings of these Rabbis are significant, because of their dynamic and fruitful encounter with modernity and assimilation, an encounter that was drastically different than the strict dichotomy between religious and secular that was evident in Ashkenazi Jewish communities following the Emancipation in Europe. This tolerant and inclusive Judaism has a lot to contribute to Israeli society today. The tools these rabbis used to deal with the challenges of assimilation and social conflicts within their communities can serve as a guide for Israeli society and Jewish life in the 21^st Century.

    Memizrach Shemesh recognizes the increased need for Jewish social justice learning in Israeli society today. Every year the Israeli Social Security Authority announces that there are more and more families living under the poverty line. Also, there are growing ideological gaps between religious and secular Jews. If more Israelis connect to the idea that the guiding principles of Judaism are those of solidarity and justice, Israeli society can be unified and strengthened. With the help of Rabbi Meimran, his colleagues and many other Memizrach Shemesh alumnae, we envision a future of peace, unity and strength in the State of Israel.

For more info on Memizrach Shemesh, the Center for Jewish Social Leadership in Jerusalem, visit www.mizrach.org.il