National Scholar Updates

            We are in our second year of studying women in Tanakh every Thursday afternoon for an hour. The class takes place in one of the participant’s homes in memory of her late mother. The oldest woman in the class is in her 80s, the youngest in her 30s. There is a range of educational backgrounds around the table, from Day School graduates to women whose own observance is evolving. We study everything in Hebrew and English with a smattering of traditional commentaries and modern scholarship. Mostly, our focus is on a primary reading of Tanakh; we slowly dissect the words, paying careful attention to repetition, alliteration, and odd words or unexpected phrases. We spend a lot of time on biblical cross-referencing, moving to other passages or verses that present parallel stories or language. The class is no different, in certain ways, from any other in Bible through a thematic and literary lens. Yet, as the teacher, I find myself stepping back in observation at critical junctures to watch modern women judge ancient matriarchs. Do they see themselves refracted in the behind-the-scenes female manipulation of a narrative? How objective are they in removing themselves when doing a character analysis? Can they study a swath of text about women in compromising sexual situations and remain neutral? After all, gender is not an insignificant aspect of personal identity.

Yet I would not ask any of these questions during class. It is a safe space to express opinions, but such questions would be a digression we cannot afford given our limited time together. Then from a pedagogic standpoint, I wonder if I have made the right choice in ignoring the bridge from text to life. We certainly engage in what I call life/text dichotomies and entertain spiritual lessons so that the words can jump off the page and into our lives, but we do this more in the style of Aesop’s fables than a direct confrontation with an underlying gender bias. It would not dawn on me to pause, look up and ask: “Does this offend you?”

This is not a group of people who revel in feminist readings, although some of them struggle with a woman’s place in Judaism; they are mostly women steeped in tradition, and who have largely accepted gender limitations in their faith commitments or at least made some peace with ritual exclusion. They may not be content with every gender-based prohibition thrown their way, but they have accepted the total package of meaning and lifestyle that comes with Orthodoxy. Would this resignation manifest itself in their reading of the Tamar story, I wondered? Tamar was a risk-taker embroiled in a serious and morally trying tale. Sexual taboos were broken for the sake of succession. One value was pitted against another in an ethical and emotional tug-of-war that almost cost Tamar her life. It is hard to retain objectivity and not personalize texts in some way when faced with such turmoil. Life seeps in between the lines as we read the words together.

***

Tamar is the protagonist of Genesis 38. Judah picked her as a wife for his first-born son Er. God did not like Er; for some unstated reason, he was “displeasing to the Lord,” and God, subsequently took his life, leaving Tamar bound by the levirate laws of remarriage. Judah then adjured his next son Onan to “do his duty by her” to “provide offspring for your brother.” The obligation is presented with a paradox. The duty is described as a relief for her when, in actuality, it benefits a dead man by keeping his name and property intact in the family. The ambiguity of who this act of marriage is for may contribute to the puzzling way Judah proceeded. Onan was troubled that the seed would not technically count as his so instead of normal cohabitation, he spilled his seed outside of her.  He was willing to undergo intercourse as an act of pleasure but not as an act of responsibility, “so as not to provide offspring for his brother” (Gen. 38:9). He did exactly the opposite of his father’s wishes.

Tamar’s own feelings, loss, and future desires were not vocalized by Judah.  After Onan died—because the Lord also found him displeasing—Judah told his daughter-in-law to stay a widow in her father’s house until his third son, Shelah, grew up and could fulfill his commitment: “Stay as a widow in your father’s house until my son Shelah grows up…” (Gen. 38:11). Judah’s suggestion that Tamar return to her father’s house shows that he felt little responsibility for her welfare in the intervening years and yet expected her to stay faithful all the while. The continuation of Judah’s line through Er depended on Tamar’s commitment to a family that had little regard for her. This disregard is cemented by the side-thought communicated in the passage; even as he told Tamar to wait, Judah knew that he would never actualize the duty because he feared for his last son: “He might die like his brothers” (Gen. 38:11). God found Judah’s sons displeasing, but Judah conveniently blamed Tamar.

Scholars who struggle to understand the odd placement of this chapter between Joseph being thrown into a pit and Joseph being seduced by his Egyptian master’s wife, should note that this is another story about fatherhood and brotherhood that takes many wrong turns because filial and fraternal bonds were weak or severed. The displacement of seed is not unlike the displacement of an actual brother, another act that stops the family line from natural continuity. The private ruminations of a brother who is not willing to give provide children for a dead sibling is paralleled by a father who would dispose of a brother with nary a concern and force a daughter-in-law into prolonged widowhood with no escape.

Over time, Judah’s wife died and after mourning for her, he went up to Timnah to his sheepshearers with his friend Hirah, a minor character who surprisingly appears many times in the chapter. Tamar was told that her father-in-law was coming to the area. She was not informed directly. We are unsure how much time had elapsed but enough for her to understand that Shelah was never to be hers and that her garments of widowhood would be worn as a life sentence. Taking destiny into her own hands instead of waiting any longer, she exchanged her widow’s garb for the clothing of a prostitute to seduce Judah and make him give her the child that she deserved. Rather than seduce Shelah, the brother who should have been rightfully her husband, she tricked her father-in-law, perhaps literally coupling obligation with revenge. To add to the curiosity, the garments she donned as prostitute were not revealing, as we might expect, but concealing:

So he took off her widow’s garb, covered her face with a veil, and wrapping herself up, sat down at the entrance to Enaim, which is on the road to Timnah; for she saw that Shelah was grown up, yet she had not been given to him as a wife. When Judah saw her, he took her for a harlot; for she had covered her face.  (Gen. 38:14–15)

In three different ways we are told that Tamar was covered, ostensibly to conceal her identity from Judah but also a subtler signal to the reader that she was far from a prostitute in her manner. This identity was not one she wore comfortably. The ironic location of the encounter makes the reader smirk. Enaim in Hebrew means eyes. Tamar saw the future ahead as a spouse-less widow and saw an opportunity precisely because her father-in-law did not see what was coming.

            The use of a veil in conjunction with the name of the place, presents many opportunities for playful readings. One feminist commentary on the story speaks in the words of Tamar herself:

I exposed Judah’s shallow grief by subtly playing upon the irony of veils. When I dressed as his son’s widow, I was invisible to Judah. He sent me away; he ignored my legitimate claim on Shelah. But when I voluntarily hid myself behind a veil, then he noticed me and unwittingly fulfilled his duty as his son’s redeemer.^[1]

Veils reveal and conceal; it is no coincidence that the word for clothing in Hebrew “beged” is related to the word for traitor: “boged.” Clothing creates identities but can also disguise identities.

***

I spoke with several of my students between classes about studying the Tamar story together. Does it make them angry? It does not. One woman finds Tamar inspiring:

I perceive Tamar to be brave. She must have been in a lot of pain. As a woman, I could imagine her feeling unfulfilled and experiencing the loss. I imagine the loss was different. She must have been in a very emotional place, feeling blame on top of loss. I don’t think I felt anger when we were studying this; it was more admiration for her than anger against the situation. There wasn’t much time to get angry because the action took place very quickly in the text. It’s very powerful that she figured out something to move her life along.

This class participant did not feel angry about what happened to Tamar because she saw her as a woman who fought back and was able to “achieve her purpose without hurting someone else.” To her, Tamar was a symbol of empowerment since she admires those who struggle with a character deficit or adversity and find ways to overcome challenges. In this instance, Tamar, like other matriarchs and female characters in the Bible, plays a supporting role to the larger story, helping us forge a nation but not as an overt, public leader. “The woman is not the leader in a religious or tribal sense, but what she does or does not do becomes a defining moment that changes the course of history. It’s important not only to pay attention to the headlines but the sub-text.”

***

            The text confirms that Judah did not know that this woman was his daughter-in-law when he invited her to sleep with him. Tamar knew that to corner her father-in-law she needed to exact an identifying object. Judah did not pay in advance for this prostitute’s services but suggested that he would send an anonymous kid from his flock later. Tamar, shrewder than Judah, told him that she needed to secure a pledge from him, another ironic statement since Judah was not one to keep his promises. The “eravon” or collateral she seeks has the same Hebrew root as the word for responsibility, a subtle way to suggest that Judah betrayed his responsibility to her.

Judah did not know what to give her but she knew exactly what she wanted: “Your seal and cord and the staff which you carry” (Gen. 38:18)—all signature items of the one who holds them. Rashi explains that the seal was the ring by which Judah signed documents and the cord was a garment that he covered himself with; she could not have asked for identifiers stronger than these.  The Hizkuni mentions that these were items of regular use; the cord for him was an object used to weave wool. Taking away that which was basic and used often would remind Judah of the absence and perhaps bring Tamar’s dilemma to a more expedited solution. Nahum Sarna believes that the seal and cord were a unit:

The reference is to the widely used cylinder seal, a small object made of hard material, engraved with distinctive ornamentation. The center was hollowed out and a cord passed through so that the seal could be worn around the neck. When the cylinder was rolled over soft clay, the resultant impression served as a means of identifying personal possessions and of sealing and legitimating clay documents.[2] 

This explanation helps us understand why Tamar suggested these items. In Sarna’s words it was “a kind of extension of the personality” since it was had the function of a signature. It uniqueness was unmistakable.

            The staff is regarded as a symbol of power and makes its first appearance in the Bible in this chapter, fitting in with the blessing that Jacob gave Judah on his deathbed, namely that Judah would assume the mantle of leadership and that the scepter would not depart from his legacy. In taking it, was Tamar also suggesting that his leadership might rise and fall depending on his capacity to act with both compassion and justice? Taking these objects together was symbolically divesting Judah of authority by which he presented himself to the outside world. In essence, although Tamar played the prostitute, it was Judah who stripped himself bare of that which is most essential as a leader, all for momentary gratification.

            Tamar asked for three items, not one. Tamar wanted the paternity of the child to be certain, with no taint of ambiguity. Even though Tamar suffered years without pregnancy on the horizon, she was absolutely sure that this one sexual liaison would end with conception, and she was right. She then “took off her veil and again put on her widow’s garb” (Gen. 38:19). She quickly left the identity she temporarily donned for the long-suffering identity of the widow. But this time, something was growing under her widow’s robes: a child and a delicious secret.

            The Adullamite appears again and is the one sent to pay the pledge. Clearly Judah’s act was known to at least one person besides Tamar. When Hirah could not find her, he made inquiries about town, connecting himself and his cohorts with prostitutes publically. The text belabors this point. Hirah is seen asking about the prostitute. The townspeople replied in the negative, and then Hirah reported this all to Judah. Judah then made an ironic observation: “Let her keep them, lest we become a laughingstock. I did send her this kid, but you did not find her” (Gen. 38:23). The fear of being ridiculed did not occur to him beforehand. Judah was self-satisfied that he did his best by her since he tried to deliver on his pledge, without understanding that she had what was truly valuable: the damning evidence.

            Next Judah was told that his daughter-in-law was pregnant with another dose of irony: “Your daughter-in-law has played the harlot; in fact, she is with child by harlotry” (Gen. 38:24). All of the chatter that embodies the chapter tells the reader that this seemingly private encounter was the subject of gossip. Where news of Judah’s visit allowed Tamar to seek justice, news of Tamar’s pregnancy presaged an act of injustice. Judah was prepared to have Tamar brought out into the public square and burned. Burning is a very specific type of punishment. Its destructive powers are total. If Judah had paid Tamar little mind before, now he would have her literally obliterated without the residue of personal guilt that he should have carried. He could project his guilt onto her shame and feel blameless.

            “As she was being brought out, she sent this message to her father-in-law, ‘I am with child by the man to whom these belong.’ And she was dragged out to her public execution she added, ‘Examine these: whose seal and cord and staff are these?’” (Gen. 38:25). The moment of drama is acute; her walk of public shame is the physical approximation of the secret that was about to become public knowledge. Instead of the badge of shame brought on by pregnancy, we imagine Tamar’s head held high as she grabbed the objects that would save her and condemn Judah. Tamar immediately referenced the man who fathered the child so as not to bear the shame alone. It was as if she had said directly to the audience of voyeurs, “It takes two to have a child. Let me tell you who else should be punished with me.” To his credit, Judah recognized the objects and took the blame: “She is more in the right than I, inasmuch as I did not give her to my son Shelah” (Gen. 38:26).

            The chapter then turns from this scene of revelation to the birthing moment. The drama of the breech birth also involves the danger of twins, taking the reader from Tamar’s perilous risk in masking her identity to a sudden, breath-holding birth of two children. Since nothing takes place in an ordinary way in the chapter, the birth is no exception. One child placed his hand outside Tamar, and the midwife quickly encircled it with a crimson thread, a color associated elsewhere in the Bible with sin. The midwife assumed that this brother would come out first. Since the first-born is entitled to certain fiscal privileges and burdened with certain responsibilities, determining the first-born is not insignificant. The red bracelet would have been a sign of early victory. But, because nothing turned out as expected, the hand of this child went back into the womb, and his brother came out first instead. Just like the rest of the narrative, the one who is expected to triumph is vanquished to be eclipsed by another. Judah who thought he had the hand of power ended up bested by a powerless woman. The hand that grabbed life first went back into the womb to emerge second.

***

“I consider myself a pretty spiritual person and I know that she wants to continue the line, but I had a problem with this,” remarked another woman from the class.  “Obviously she is a very holy woman willing to sleep with her father-in-law to continue the line, to produce a future king but personally, that couldn’t have been me. Maybe it’s because I’m thinking of my own father-in-law.” She laughs.

I guess I admire her for it because it’s not something I think I could have done. I am in awe of her. She had a mission. She did it. I can feel the text very personally. I think studying texts about women is different than studying other texts. I can identify with the women we study. I love hearing a woman’s point of view. It’s different than sitting in a room with men and talking about what Tamar was willing to do. I don’t know how men would react to this story. I think studying this with women creates more openness with other women.  I don’t think women would have talked the same way if men were in the room.

For this student, studying with women creates a sensitive space for exploration. “The comfort level is different, and maybe even the thought level is different. Maybe the conversation is going to go in a slightly different direction with a group of women.” Safety is one feature of gender-based learning as is topic selection and discussion, but this woman was making a more radical suggestion: “the thought level is different.”

***

The context of Genesis 38 is critical.  Sandwiched between the throwing of a brother into a pit and the seduction of that brother by a woman in power, we have the story of a brother’s abdication of responsibility and a seduction by a relatively powerless woman. Genesis 38 begins with Judah’s lone descent. “About that time, Judah left his brothers and camped near a certain Adullamite whose name was Hirah” (Gen. 38:1). Grouped together as a unit, Judah and his brothers made poor decisions with long-term consequences; their brutality fed off each other.  Suddenly, the text singles out Judah, perhaps, as some commentaries believe, to understand the kind of brother who would allow his own flesh-and-blood to squander in a pit. He was not the first brother to be singled out from the group. Reuben took his own walk back to the pit and discovered that Joseph was missing, ripped his clothes and reported it to the others. When he painfully cried, “The boy is gone! Now what am I to do?” may indicate that Reuben thought this a mere prank driven by rivalry until it turned into something more sinister, and he, as eldest, would be held accountable. In an anxious huddle, the men contemplated their next move and took Joseph’s coat to their father. Once the deed had been done and its consequences unraveled, the linear movement of the story pauses and turns to Judah alone and a drama that involves him to the exclusion of any brothers.

Judah’s only close company in this chapter is his friend Hirah. Judah took a wife, had children, then lost a wife, had sons who died and a daughter-in-law who was banished to her father’s house. Hirah is the only character who stays at his side throughout the entire narrative. If Genesis 37 warned us about evil in company and the rabble-rousing that complicity can create, Genesis 38 continues the lesson. It is Hirah who Judah camps near, Hirah who Judah goes sheep-shearing with and Hirah who went to pay the prostitute. Judah’s decisions and actions throughout are self-absorbed. Even his friend is only regarded in service of him, and an ignoble service at that. This is the kind of man, the chapter suggests, who might just throw his brother in a pit, who is groomed for leadership himself and blessed with it by his father but he failed to initiate moral leadership, both with his brother Joseph and with his daughter-in-law Tamar.

***

Women studying about women with other women naturally precipitates conversations about women. One woman who prefers learning in a mixed-setting said that she does not necessarily view the texts from a woman’s perspective, making a study of women in Genesis undifferentiated from, say, an exploration of major themes in Numbers. “I’ve always liked talking with males about things, and in some of the mixed groups I’ve been in—without stereotyping men or women—I’ve liked the rigor and the logic that I don’t always find in learning with women.” Even as she says this, she hesitates. She does not want to stereotype the way that women learn and struggles to find the language to explain her preferences. She was aware as a child that when men studied separately she felt left out and didn’t want to feel left out. But then she pauses because there are times when the women-only learning setting and the cast of female characters does impact her more:

When we’re learning about a woman who is in a difficult position, either she doesn’t have the freedoms to do what she wants with her life or she doesn’t have children, I think that there’s an identification with what she might be experiencing which is more personal than with other characters. I think it’s easier to imagine oneself in the inside of a female character. It’s not seeing myself in her position currently as much as like when you’re little and you play imagination games. You play another character, and I could envision myself that way. But sometimes I do identify more with a male than a female depending on the circumstance.

Infertility, rape, nursing, birth, marriage, and mothering have come up as themes in the class. Could these be explored in the same way with men? “I think there might be a level of discomfort with the topics if we were studying with men. It’s not really about modesty but about privacy.” It allows for a comfort level for sensitive topics that surface in discussion.

***

The interpolation of this chapter in the Joseph narratives has led many scholars to view this story as an imposition or digression on what would otherwise have been a linear tale about the rise of Joseph’s power. The scholars who arbitrarily dismiss the placement as a result of multiple authors miss many of the more profound linguistics and thematic connections in the chapters before and after the story of Judah and Tamar. Robert Alter draws attention to a Midrash that regards Judah as the deceiver deceived (Bereshit Rabba 84:11,12) and comments on the way that the assumption of interconnectedness makes us more careful readers:

The difference between the two is ultimately the difference between assuming that the text is an intricately interconnected unity, as the midrashic exegetes did, and assuming it is a patchwork of frequently disparate documents, as most modern scholars have assumed. With their assumption of interconnectedness, the makers of the Midrash were often exquisitely attuned to small verbal signs of continuity and to significant levels of nuance as any “close reader” of our own age.^[3]

Specifically in reading this narrative, Alter places great weight on the repetition of the infinitive le-hakir—to recognize or to identify— in its various forms. Jacob was asked to identify Joseph’s coat dipped in blood in Genesis 37 and then Judah was asked to identify his seal, cord and staff in 38. Although Alter does not point this out, identifying objects surface again in Genesis 39 when Joseph runs away from the wife of Potiphar’s nefarious clutches and leaves his garment as evidence.

One critical emphasis in each of these chapters is the way in which an object tells a story. Although Alter stresses the verb “to recognize” that runs throughout these narratives, he does not note an inherent difference which the juxtaposed texts force upon the reader. The brothers, when handing Jacob the bloody garment did not lie. They let the coat lie for them in the visual shock it presented to their father: “They had the ornamented tunic taken to their father, and they said, ‘We found this. Please examine it; is it your son’s tunic or not’ He recognized it and said, ‘My son’s tunic! A savage beast devoured him! Joseph was torn by a beast!’” (Gen. 37:33).

In one chapter, an object lied. In the next, an object told the truth. There are many ways to tell a story and many props that lend themselves to non-verbal reporting. All Potiphar’s wife had to do to incriminate Joseph was hold up what he once wore. In her case, the object both lied and told the truth. It was indeed Joseph’s garment, but it was not left there as the remains of a sordid tryst. It was in this nameless woman’s hands because she took it forcibly, exerting her considerable power over a vulnerable servant who rejected her.

***

 “In our class, when you learn with women there’s a lot of discussion about the psychology of what’s going on, and I doubt we’d get that in a mixed class.” She was sure studying as a man would not be the same. “It might be on a different level; it might not look much to the interpersonal. The comments and questions people make inform our learning.”

As an instructor, I struggled and still struggle with this question. Does learning in a uni-gender classroom change the learning and possibly even change the thinking? I am familiar with the psychological research presented in Women’s Ways of Knowing:

Women pose questions more than men, they listen to others, and they refrain from speaking out—these have long been considered signs of powerlessness, subjugation, and inadequacy of women. When women’s talk is assessed against standards established by men’s behavior, it is seen as tentative, vacillating, and diminutive.[4]

Perhaps women in the company of men invalidate their own intellectual confidence, stunting their own exploration of an idea. I am aware that many women experience this, but generally I never have. Through high school, all of my own learning took place in a mixed-gender setting. My study partners were usually male by preference because, like the learner in the class who unwillingly made assumptions about the way men and women learn, I fell into the same trap. I felt comfortable with the confidence of boys and was anxious to be in their intellectual company. I shied away from what I regarded as “girly” topics and even studied and taught Talmud at the expense of my love of Bible, feeling it to be the intellectually superior discipline, not because it is but because I bought wholesale into that stereotype.

I appreciate the diversity of discussion that comes from different life-experience, different points of religious observance and non-observance, different ages, and, of course, different genders. I rarely teach women-only classes and have often turned down opportunities to privilege mixed-gender learning. But I did not turn down the invitation to teach this class in my neighborhood and soon found it growing into a highlight of my week. Try as I might to minimize the act of a woman teaching other women about women I could not resist its attractions. This is a community of learners in the best sense of the word. They care for each other and use the class as platform to honor a deceased parent on a yartzheit or to think about a member of the class who is ill. They know about each other’s families and have been through bat mitzvah celebrations, the birth of grandchildren, and even the passing of class members. They remind each other to pray for others and discuss communal issues before and after our learning. They learn in the most powerful way that ideas have staying power, when they are studied among friends.

***

“She is more in the right than I…” Tamar does not get the last word in her narrative. Judah does, speaking about Tamar and validating the risk she took, understanding that she did it with the most noble of intentions. Trapped in limitation, Tamar modeled responsibility, justice and compassion for Judah, a man blessed with future leadership. Those who wear the seal and cord and carry the staff must use power judiciously and righteously. And those who follow Tamar and study her story see in her the ultimate female empowerment, leadership not for the sake of authority alone but for the sake of continuity.

Notes

Growing up in suburban New York City, I never heard the phrase “secular humanism,” or if I did, I did not find it meaningful enough to remember because I had no concept of religion as a life-encompassing endeavor against which to compare it. Certainly, life offered choices. I could choose to become a doctor or a lawyer, and I might even be so bold as to move to Africa to work for UNICEF, but the mentality of my secular Jewish upbringing would remain underneath any career or geographical choices. In the end, I would be “learning” the New York Times wherever I went. One of the hardest tasks in life is breaking out of one’s Weltanschauung. Few do it, and it is a bona fide miracle that people find their way to Torah observance, which can be a whopper of a life-change in our era.

 A quarter of a century ago when I became frum, the yeshivot for ba’alei teshuvah essentially were Hareidi, or they tried to appear so. My limited experience in the Torah world left me unable to categorize them as such just as my prior life as a secular Jewish middle-class American did not seem to me at age 18 a life choice but rather life itself. I lacked the words to encapsulate it and to contrast it from anything else.

Even though I did not become observant via a kiruv organization, but rather through thinking and reading, I made my way to yeshiva when enough of the people I encountered recommended it. I had expected yeshiva to be a place for further exploration of the religion and of my own thoughts and feelings about it, in part because it was advertised as such, but that’s not what it was at all. Rather, it was a kind of factory for producing Hareidi Jewish men.

I do not say that with outrage. Many of my old classmates function fairly well as Hareidi Jewish men, better than they were functioning as secular Jewish men. They took to yeshiva and found a productive place in life through the lifestyle it promoted. Most importantly, of course, they are Shomer Shabbat.

The problem was for the people who did not precisely fit the mold. If this matter of single-sizing is causing trouble in the schools for the frum-from-birth (FFB), the trouble is magnified for ba’alei teshuvah. Consider, for example, what happens to the academically inclined person who had spent his entire life immersed in secular studies. Whether this happens in public school, which serves largely as preparation for college, or college itself, or graduate school, or a PhD program, or Sunday afternoons with the New York Times, it comprises a life’s work for many people. Suddenly, one hears that it is all narishkite, emptiness, and lies. Try it on yourself; say “My life’s work was a waste of time.” That is a bitter pill to swallow, and it has nasty side effects.

This would not be such a problem if indeed it were all emptiness and lies. Emet serves as an excellent replacement for sheker. Normally, one is happy to unload rocks from his backpack. But what if they are not really rocks?

Consider my coming to Yiddishkite. As I said, I found my way on my own, not through a kiruv group. Ironically, I did it largely through “secular” studies. Despite the claim that the non-Torah observant thinkers and writers of the world are all heathens and enemies of God, there are in fact many who write about morality, monotheism, and spirituality. For example, it was none other than conservative political and social commentator William F. Buckley, whose writings taught me about the concepts of faith, self-restraint, and morality as pursuits to encompass every facet of life. He talked about eschatology, that is, the idea that life on a personal and global level takes place in stages with heaven and hell coming last. He introduced me to the catchphrase “Don’t immanentize the eschaton,” which is an exhortation against utopian secular philosophies such as communism that try to make heaven (the eschaton) on earth. The phrase stems from the writings of Eric Voegelin, a German-born political philosopher who taught at University of Notre Dame and University of Munich.[1]

I am not suggesting that either Buckley or Voeglin were b’nei Torah or that seminary students in Lakewood should read their writings. I am saying merely that the bifurcation of humanity into camps of pure truth or complete lies is not the complete truth. Wonderfully, I have learned after years in the frum world that many great figures from our history would concur with my statement. Take for example what Rabbeinu Bachya wrote in his introduction to Duties of the Heart:

I also quote the pious and wise men of other nations whose words have reached us—such as the words of the philosophers, the discipline of the ascetics, and their admirable codes of conduct—for it is my hope that my readers will incline their hearts to them and listen to their wisdom. Our Masters of blessed memory have already said [in this regard]: One verse says, “But you have acted in accordance with the laws of the nations around you” (Yechezkel 11:12), and another verse says, “Nor have you acted [in accordance with the laws of the nations around you]” (ibid. 5:7). What is the resolution [of the two verses]? You have not acted like the refined among them, but you have acted like the corrupt among them. (Sanhedrin 39b).[2]

Here we learn that not only did Rabbeinu Bachya study the works of gentile thinkers but he incorporated some of their ideas into his masterpiece. Let us remember where Duties of the Heart stands in the cannon of Jewish thought as the Rambam, the Vilna Gaon, and the Hatam Sofer, each one a seminal figure in the Hareidi world, studied and praised it.[3] The grandson of the Hatam Sofer said that “Almost all of his ethical teachings and practices were from the words of this holy book.”[4] In our times, the Steipler Gaon wrote, “Whoever has not seen the lights of the holy words of the Duties of the Heart will be missing very much, he will be wanting inside, in the purity of all that is holy.”[5]

So what do we do with secular studies, much of which obviously is not fit for Jewish eyes or human eyes for that matter? I do not have a simple answer. But I can tell you this, pressuring a person to surrender truths only because of their source or to force them into different terminology that does not feel as true can yield destructive results. As I said, it is a miracle that many people become frum.

The gaon Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky was sensitive to this idea. He advised kiruv professionals that their goal should be simply to help non-observant Jews to become observant, that is, to keep the mitzvoth. One should not try to impose personality change or to destroy the essence of what defines the person. One should not impose conformity.[6] In other words, do not fold, spindle, or mutilate, to borrow a phrase that used to be printed on machine-readable cards for computers. Rav Yaakov said that it is essential that a ba’al teshuvah feel normal in his Torah observance. He said that, for example, the typical ba’al teshuvah will not feel normal if he does not complete his college education so he should not be discouraged from doing so.[7]

For many ba’alei teshuvah, life in a contemporary Hareidi environment will not feel normal, particularly if one’s mentors are not striving to follow the advice of Rav Yaakov. I have been to more than one shiur where the speaker declared how all secular music was prohibited. Each time I thought to myself, “Bridge over Troubled Water” is osur? Seriously?” I combed through the lyrics, “When you’re weary, feeling small, when tears are in your eyes, I’ll dry them all.” What is the problem here? Is this a hok like shatnes? Am I never allowed again to hear this song that has comforted and inspired me throughout my life? In my view, most of the people who I observed entering and leaving the frum world left not because they could not handle mitzvoth observance but because they could not cope with the more extreme approaches to it. That is a tragedy. Hence, there was and is a great need for Modern Orthodox kiruv yeshivot where the answer to incorporating the good of the secular world is not met with a shochet’s knife, but rather, with discussion, with decisions, and with indecision.

Note that I use the term Modern Orthodox in the broad sense to mean not “Torah only” or not contemporary Hareidi. There are different shades of Modern Orthodox. For example, in my view, the litvaks of old Europe and even mid-twentieth-century America would not fit neatly into either camp. However, the Modern Orthodox world tends to allow more room for a person to match the complete litvish approach to Torah life which usually included the pursuit of parnassah at younger ages and often included secular studies and other matters that we associate today with the Modern Orthodox. As the Hareidi world narrows its scope, the Modern Orthodox world absorbs approaches to Torah life that are not characteristically modern.

I cannot speak for the contemporary kiruv world as I have long moved on to the daily focus of earning a living. But the English speaking kiruv world of decades ago I knew pretty well, particularly the yeshivot. There really was only one place for people who all ready had earned college degrees that I could describe as espousing “Modern” Orthodox sensibilities of any significance and the rabbi who I met after knocking on the door spent our interview testing me on the Gemara. What I did not know at the time, what he evidentially did not know either, is that I was seeking to learn more about Torah Im Derekh Erets and Torah u’Maddah. As the expression goes, you don’t know what you don’t know. I did not know these terms so I did not know to inquire about them. I only knew that the outlook I was trying to hoist upon myself was not working as promised.

You might be surprised if you came into my home today to see very little secular material lying around. One reason for this is my fear that young people in this era cannot manage both Torah and maddah successfully, particularly as the academic world and general society have drifted into some really bizarre and indecent territory. I cannot get my mind around what passes for culture and entertainment today. But also, I want to spare my family the painful choices and sacrifices that I had to endure. I often think that some ba’alei teshuvah would be wise to retain a small percentage of their old interests, as long as they are halakhically permissible. At some point, you have to make peace with your past. You can only discard so much. But as Rabbi Avigdor Miller used to say, you can like chocolate cake, but you don’t have to tell the whole world about it. Let the FFBs in my house have some peace; let them enjoy the simplicity that just was not their father’s lot in life.

SheLo Asani Isha: An Orthodox Rabbi Reflects on Integrity, Continuity, and Inclusivity

Avraham Weiss

There is a well-known anecdote about the rabbi who carefully prepared a sermon. In its margins were brief notes on how it should be delivered. On the side of one paragraph it read— “weak point, speak loud.” As the argument progressed, the rabbi, in the margins of the next paragraph, jotted down— “weaker still, speak even louder.”

Looking back over my years in the rabbinate, that is how I feel about the way I taught the three negative blessings recited every morning: “Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe….who has not made me a gentile (goy)…a slave (eved)…a woman (isha).” In countless classes, most often when I taught prayer at Yeshiva University’s Stern College for Women, I did somersaults to explain this phraseology, especially the last one—“who has not made me a woman—sheLo asani isha.”

Conceptual Analysis

The challenge was obvious. If the goal of the liturgy was to thank God for who we are, why do so by declaring who we are not? Granted, these blessings have a powerful source as they are found in the Talmud.[1] Notwithstanding this authoritative source, the language has grated on the moral conscience of many people, especially women living in contemporary times. And so, I struggled to explain these blessings, sometimes spending several full sessions on their meaning.

My teachings varied. They began with the most commonly given explanation: Men are obligated in more affirmative commandments than women—specifically some of the affirmative mitzvoth fixed by time.[2] Hence, when men bless God for “not making me a woman,” they are expressing gratitude for being obligated to perform more mitzvoth—which are, as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks notes, “not a burden but a cherished vocation.”[3]

But if this is the reasoning, why not recite the blessing in the positive and state, “Blessed are You, Lord our God… for making me a man”? For this response, I culled from the thoughts of some of my own teachers. Men, they argued, are by nature more aggressive; in contrast, women are more passive, kinder, more compassionate.[4] Hence, men establish who they are by brazenly proclaiming who they are not. This line of reasoning also explains why women, unlike men, employ a softer language, blessing God for making them “according to His will” she’asani kirtzono.[5] Although less obligated in mitzvoth, women declare their willing acceptance to perform ratzon Hashem—the will of God.[6]

Another justification for sheLo asani isha is that the primary obligation of women to be homemakers is seen as more onerous, requiring a higher level of commitment and spiritual sensitivity. Men, therefore, offer thanks that they are not women encumbered by this more difficult, taxing role. Women, however, say she’asni kirtzono—although their obligations are more difficult, they accept them willingly.

There were other interpretations I presented as well. Yaavetz argues that the blessing relates to women being more susceptible to physical danger during pregnancy and childbirth. By reciting the blessing sheLo asani isha, men offer thanksgiving that they were not placed in such danger.[7]

Other approaches are even more farfetched. One of them points out that after conception, an embryo initially develops into a female. To become a male, the embryo must receive a genetic signal to turn away from its original form. SheLo asani isha reflects this “biological process.” She’asani kirtzono, recited by women, traces their evolution. From the moment of conception they were women.

Another explanation relates to the conclusion reached by the Talmud that it would have been best for the human being not to have been born at all. Once born, however, we are asked to do the best we can to lead meaningful lives.[8] As we only recite blessings for our benefit, and it is not optimal for humans to have been created, the blessing is formulated in the negative.[9]

Still others insist that the negative blessings can be understood in their historical context. These blessings were first introduced by Greek philosophers and Zoroastrian scholars.[10] Hundreds of years later the rabbis incorporated them into the liturgy as a way of rejecting the rise of Roman culture. The blessing “Who has not made me a gentile” specifically referred to the Romans, who were loathed by the Jewish community for their glorification of slavery and treatment of women. “Who has not made me a slave” and “Who has not made me a woman” were blessings through which Jewish men expressed gratitude for not having been victimized as were slaves and women were during that period.[11]

So I taught for many years. In my courses on parshanut haTefillah, I would go over these arguments meticulously, trying to convince my students, and myself, that these ideas were sound.

Then something happened. One of my earlier students, one of my finest, suddenly left the school. Try as I did, I could not find her. Having come from a non-ritually observant background, she had become ritually observant. Then, as quickly as she became more committed, she disappeared.

Years later, walking along the streets of New York, I saw her. We engaged warmly in conversation, like two close friends who had not seen each other in years but could pick up their friendship in an instant. She shared with me that she had left ritual observance. I haltingly asked why. Was it something I said, something I taught? Over the years I’ve come to understand that teachers must be wary of every word; you never know which one could make the whole difference. She then told me it was a composite of reasons, but one that stands out were those classes I gave on sheLo asani isha. I know, she went on respectfully, that this was your understanding but, for me, it was pure rationalization. Yes, she continued, I found those classes dishonest.

I was shattered—shattered that my words, my teachings had contributed to her turning away. It was then, right then for the first time, that something hit me. My heart dropped as I, in that instant, realized that not only did she reject those teachings as poor rationalizations, but so did I. All those classes, which I had carefully crafted, carefully organized, quickly became a maze of apologetics and excuses that ran contrary to the very core of my moral sensibilities.[12] It felt like the moment in the folktale when the child calls out, “The emperor has no clothes.” Of course, sheLo asani isha is only a blessing, mere words. However, words are important, as they translate into deeds; they shape a psyche; they reflect a mission—certainly when they are words that define our attitudes toward those who, too often, are cast aside and suffer discrimination. Furthermore, these words constitute a blessing. In no small measure, words of blessing define our perspectives on life itself.

This encounter with my former student took place many years ago. Simultaneously something else occurred. As I encouraged women mourners to recite Kaddish, some began coming to daily services.[13] Arriving early for the first Kaddish, they would hear the leader of the service recite the blessing, sheLo asani isha. I could see the pain on some of their faces. Several women told me that when they hear those words, they feel violated, as if they do not count. One said, “What do you mean when you say, ‘Thank you that I am not a woman’? But that’s who I am.”

It was then that I was faced with a dilemma. How could I reconcile moral sensibilities with the serious halakhic matter of matbe’ah shel tefillah—the sacredness of the original text of the liturgy? Looking deeply into the halakhic issues, it became clear to me that there were legitimate options—options that allowed the halakha to be true to the words we sing out when returning the Torah to the Ark, derakheha darkhei no’am veKhol neti’voteha shalom—“Its ways are ways of pleasantness and all its paths are peace” (Proverbs 3:17).[14]

Halakhic Reflections

The birkhot haShahar in which the three negative blessings appear are codified as part of our obligation to recite one hundred blessings daily.[15] It can be suggested that even if one does not recite the three negative blessings, there are certainly ample opportunities during the course of the day to achieve this number.

In the end, the three negative blessings are birkot shevah veHoda’ah, blessings of praise and thanksgiving. There may be room to suggest that not all birkot shevah veHoda’ah are obligatory in the strict sense of the word. An example of this can be found in Magen Avraham's comment that women do not have a custom to recite birkat hoda’ah after going on a trip overseas or through a desert because these blessings are “reshut.”[16] One can logically extend this argument to other birkot hoda’ah as well.

Still, while these blessings may be non-obligatory, they are part and parcel of the liturgy. They take their place in the larger framework of birkhot haShahar, wherein we express gratitude for everything God has given us. It is then that we take a moment to offer thanksgiving for our identity as men and women who are free and part of the Jewish covenantal community. Thus, expression of that identity should be articulated.[17]

SheLo asani isha touches directly on the tension between fidelity to traditional formulations rooted in talmudic directives and other Torah values, such as kavod haBriyot, human dignity, not causing pain to others, and affirming the tselem Elohim in every person. For many people in the community the recitation of sheLo asani isha creates a deep and profound tsa’ar nafshi—personal, soulful hurt. One should therefore bear in mind that there are alternative texts to sheLo asani isha, specifically, she’asani Yisrael, “Who has made me a Jew.” This text is quoted in the Talmud as an alternative view.[18] No lesser giants in halakha than Rosh and Vilna Gaon prefer this language.[19]

Much has been written about the role of minority opinions in deciding Jewish Law.[20] There is ample evidence that, when a minority opinion is supported by accepted luminaries in halakha, their views can be followed beSha’at ha’dhak, in times of pressing need.[21] The tsa’ar nafshi, the soulful pain that these blessings cause is such a sha’at ha’dhak.[22] Following this approach, we can rely on those Gedolim and she’asani Yisrael can be said.[23]

Once she’asani Yisrael is said, as noted by Bah and Arukh Hashulhan, the other blessings, “Who has not made me a gentile,” and “Who has not made me a slave” should be omitted.[24] After all, if I am a Yisrael, a Jewish man, I am not a Yisraelit, a Jewish woman. Nor am I a slave or a gentile.[25]

Rabbi Nati Helfgot has tentatively suggested exploring an alternative approach. In prayer we have a concept that one should not “express falsehoods before God,” dover shekarim lifnei Hashem. In practical terms, this has ramifications during Neilah of Yom Kippur when—if the sheliah tsibbur is reciting haYom yifneh, haShemesh yavoh veYifneh: “the day is passing, the sun will soon set and be gone”—it is already after sunset. In this case, the Mishnah Berurah, citing Magen Avraham, writes that one should change the nussah to haYom panah, haShemesh bah uPanah; “the day has passed, the sun has already set and gone.”[26] Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein offers a similar approach to the Nahem blessing recited on Tisha B’Av in our day and age. He suggests that the words in the blessing hashomeimah haAveilah mi’bli baneha—“[the city] that is desolate, that grieves for the loss of its children” be left out, as it is no longer true today.[27]

Theoretically, one could make a case that if one feels deeply that this idea is untrue and not reflective of what one believes, nor reflective of society, it would make sheLo asani isha a declaration of a personal falsehood. It can thus be another snif leHakel, another factor coupled with others, that may lead one to look for other nusshaot that one can say with honesty and integrity before God. Rav Nati has suggested that although the cases are obviously not analogous in every sense, it is a framework that might be explored.

            My position relative to sheLo asani isha is part of a more general approach to halakha. Halakha is not a computer system of physics or chemistry that operates irrespective of the individual and his or her circumstances. Like Torah from which it emerges, halakha is an eitz hayyim, a tree of life, a living organism, synergizing halakhic decisions transmitted verbally and orally through the generations with the needs of the day. From this perspective, halakha functions within parameters, outside of which the answer to a question may be an emphatic “no.” But within those parameters there is significant latitude and flexibility, allowing the posek—the decisor of Jewish Law—to take into account the sentiments and feelings of the questioner.[28] Halakha is, therefore, not an unyielding system, but one in which there may be more than one answer to a question—and given the situation, both may be correct.

Relative to the issue of sheLo asani isha, and for that matter the larger issue of women and halakha, I have been influenced by different women whom I respect and admire.[29] On the one hand, my wife Toby—a person of profound religious commitment and depth—is comfortable with the traditional role of women in synagogue and is more accepting of the sheLo asani isha text.

On the other hand, I have been impacted by my mother of blessed memory, a woman of valor, who never quite understood why she was so limited in what she could do in traditional Jewish ritual circles. To this day I see her tears as she, for the first time, came to the Torah to recite blessings at our women’s prayer group. If this group was established just for that moment alone—dayenu. And then there is my older sister, one of the great influences in my life who, as a feminist and renowned novelist, grew up attending yeshivot that taught Judaism in a manner she felt was discriminatory against women.

My personal lenses on sheLo asani isha are more in line with the spirit of my mother and sister. Within my heart and soul I find the negative blessing formulation discordant, out of sync with the message of Jewish ethics.[30] Also, as one whose rabbinate seeks to embrace all Jews, I have come to recognize that the sheLo asani isha blessing has become a barrier to the many people who otherwise might be attracted to what Judaism has to offer. The blessing sends the message that women are inferior. Even if this is not its intention, that is the perception it leaves. And the only difference between perception and reality is that it is more difficult to change perception.

And yet, I fully appreciate the posture of those who, like my wife, do not understand the blessing as denigrating women and wish to maintain the text used by their fathers and mothers and grandparents all the way back. Wanting to be sensitive to both positions, I opted early on to instruct the leader of the service in at our shul (the Bayit) to begin with the Rabbi Yishmael prayer, leaving it up to the individual to decide whether to recite these blessings or not.[31] Concomitantly, this approach does not force anyone to hear a blessing they find inwardly painful and unacceptable.

The Berakha in Context: Women in Synagogue

It is my sense that in general, Orthodox synagogues that do not audibly and publicly recite sheLo asani isha are more welcoming to women in a whole variety of other areas. The most obvious relates to the structure and placement of the mehitza. A mehitza is meant to separate women and men. This doesn’t mean that women should see or hear less. For me, the test of a fully welcoming mehitza is the following: When no one is in the sanctuary, one should be unable to know on which side the men or women sit.[32]

The term used for public tefillah also makes a difference. Although the word minyan is commonly used to refer to a prayer service, my preference is to use tefillah. Minyan, in Orthodoxy, includes men but does not count women. Tefillah transcends gender. Women are not part of the quorum of ten, but tefillah describes an experience in which both are critical participants.

A further test of welcome to women is whether they are encouraged to recite Kaddish, even if they are the sole “Kaddish-sayer.”[33] Additionally, do women carry the Torah around their section?[34] Are they welcome to give divrei Torah in synagogue?[35] Most important for an inclusive atmosphere, is to create a safe space in the synagogue where open and honest discussion on such issues as sheLo asani isha can be conducted respectfully.[36]

That is no simple challenge. When my dear colleague Rabbi Yosef Kanefsky wrote in his blog that he no longer says sheLo asani isha, the pushback was shameful—not because people disagreed, but in the way people disagreed. Some went as far as to say that Rav Yosef—a man of profound religious commitment and impeccable integrity—could no longer be considered part of the Orthodox community.[37]

In speaking to many colleagues during this controversy, some told me that they, too, no longer say sheLo asani isha, but were fearful of making this public.[38] Today there is fear, amongst even the most seasoned rabbis, to say what is on their minds. There is concern of being ostracized and cast out of the Orthodox community. This resonates personally. How I remember during the Rabba controversy, colleagues calling to express support for my decision to ordain Rabba Sara Hurwitz and designate her title Rabba, but were afraid to speak their minds and hearts on the issue.

The time has come to stop looking over our shoulders seeking authenticity from the right. We ought to recognize that there are many, many who are proudly Orthodox, but open—open to honest discussion, honest debate, honest struggle with issues of heightened ethical and moral sensibilities. We should not be looking toward others for approval, but toward ourselves and, of course, toward God, Torah, and halakha itself.

The issue of the negative blessings is no small matter. In many ways, these blessings represent three areas that distinguish Open Orthodoxy—our attitude toward the gentile (goy), the most vulnerable (eved), and women (isha). For many people, articulating them in the negative sends a wrong message—that we care less about these people.

Thus, the significance of these blessings goes far beyond their narrow formula. They reveal much about ourselves and our relationship to others. Invoking God’s name in these blessings also reveals how we believe that God wishes for us to interact with the world. The language we use in these blessings goes a long way in defining who we are as individuals and as part of a sacred community, an am kadosh.[39]

To our members and friends,

It has been a very exciting fall semester. In the past month, I have served as a scholar-in-residence in Oak Park Michigan, Monsey New York, and Teaneck New Jersey.

I will give one more public lecture in December:

Wednesday, December 20, from 1:00-2:15 pm, at Lamdeinu Teaneck:

The Books of the Maccabees and Rabbinic Thought: Getting to the Roots of Hanukkah
For more information and to register, go to http://www.lamdeinu.org/.

Since the beginning of September, I have served as the Tanakh Education Scholar at Ben Porat Yeshiva Day School, in Paramus, New Jersey. I am developing a new Tanakh curriculum for grades 1-8, that reflects our core religious values at the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals. I also have given lectures to the Ben Porat Yosef parent community in this capacity.

Our University Network, which I now coordinate, continues to do incredible work to promote our religious ideology and vision on campuses across the United States and Canada. We have added several new campuses and fellows this semester. Please see my December report on our Campus Fellows on our website: https://www.jewishideas.org/article/campus-fellows-report-december-2017

I have just published a new book, a collection of twenty essays on the Bible, with Kodesh Press. It is entitled, The Keys to the Palace: Essays Exploring the Religious Value of Reading the Bible. It is now available at amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/Keys-Palace-Exploring-Religious-Reading/dp/1947857029/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1512501423&sr=8-3&keywords=hayyim+angel

Thanks to the generosity of Yael Cohen, the Levy Family Foundation, Charles and Rochelle Moche, and the Sephardic Publication Foundation, we hope to distribute copies to members of our University Network to help them navigate the relationship between traditional and academic Bible study.

As always, I thank you for your support and encouragement, and look forward to promoting our core values through these and many more venues in the coming year.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

To our members and friends,

As National Scholar of the Institute, I now manage the University Network and Campus Fellowship as well. Since my October report, we have picked up two new Campus Fellows, so that we now have 25 Campus Fellows at 22 schools across the United States and Canada.

Campus Fellows run at least two programs per semester on their campuses, with the goal of promoting our Institute’s vision and enlisting participants in their programs in our University Network.

As you will see below, our Fellows have initiated a wide range of programs and events on their campuses. Here are some of their latest.

Thank you for your support,

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Sarah Pincus, Binghamton

I lead a shiur/discussion after davening on Shabbat about when bad people do good things and have positive contributions. The discussion was inspired by the recent accusations of sexual harassment and discussions about how that may taint other positive things that the person did. People told me that they learned a lot and had a lot to think about. It was really successful and I hope to follow up with some of the people who came. 

Rebecca Jackson, Cornell

On campus I have started a Levinas philosophy Seudah Shelishit shiur series. This is a three-part series and we are currently studying Levinas’ Damages of Fire. I am also involved in promoting female leadership on campus through women’s only learning events throughout the semester in which students give small shiurim and lead discussions. These programs’ goals are to engage students deeply in text and contemporary conversations around tradition, philosophy and modernity. 

Corey Gold, Harvard

We’ve been hosting weekly Sunday lunch and learns in which students and visiting scholars have taught classes on a variety of topics. This year, we’ve also rolled out a new weekly learning program: “Lunch with Rav Moshe.” Every Tuesday, Rabbi Dani Passow (one of the rabbis at Harvard Hillel) gives a shiur exploring one of Rav Moshe Feinstein’s responsa (over lunch, of course). Finally, this Shabbat, Rabbi Saul Berman is coming to Harvard Hillel as a scholar-in-residence. He will be hosting an after-dinner discussion, giving the sermon and a lunch and learn, and hosting a seudah shilishit with Q&A.

Ezra Newman, Harvard Law School

We had four more programs this semester, bringing our total number of classes to six for the semester, or one basically every other week. We had one on the Ten Commandments, one on ze neheneh vizeh lo chaser, one on R' Moshe Feinstein's approach to agunah situations and one on dinah d'malchuta dinah. We had between 10-15 people at every event, and hope to do another six in the next semester.

Zachary Tankel, McGill

Our “Thursday Night Torah” class has a Torah-based discussion on a unique topic every week. The program attracts a consistent group of students living in the university community downtown, as well as students living in the local Montreal Jewish communities. I led a session based on a chapter from one of Rabbi Hayyim Angel’s books. I also used that as an opportunity to put out the word on the University Network. 

Ross Beroff, Northeastern

Round robin peer led shiurim

Mishmar: Thursday night learning with Cholent

Passover Escape the Room text study

Sigal Spitzer, University of Pennsylvania

We started a lunch series called "Why We Do What We Do" about the reasons behind the commandments. It is a cohort of about 15 students who met during lunch on two Thursdays with a local Rabbi to discuss the relevant issues. It was a huge success and I am looking into other mini-series’ in this style for the future. 

Raffi Levi and Benjamin Nechmad, Rutgers

For our last Open Beit Midrash Chabura, I prepared a discussion on Chassidut and Individuality. We went through some of the concepts expressed by Rav Simcha Bunim and the Kotzker Rebbe on authenticity and read a current article on the nature of individuality. In doing so we discussed the existential meaning of individualism and the ability to integrate our modern values with our religious sensibilities.

On December 6th, we ran Thursday night Mishmar, where we hosted Rabbi Aryeh Klapper who spoke on the topic, "Why is Rabbinic Law Possible?" concerning the way in which rabbinic authority functions today. We had nearly thirty students at the event, and signed many people up for the University Network. It was highly enjoyable, and we learned a lot.

For next semester we are working on an event, to have Professor Yehoshua November - a Rutgers professor and famous Jewish Poet - come speak at Hillel and share his poetry with us, as well as speak about his experience as a Jew. Alongside this, we are considering running a Jewish Philosophy book club.

Kalila Courban, Umass

I will be having a showing of the film The Women’s Balcony. It is an Israeli film in which after a bar mitzvah mishap the women’s balcony in the synagogue collapses and the women fall into the men’s section. This movie is very relevant when in the discussion about the modern Orthodox perspective on gender roles, feminism and other relevant topics. Following the movie will be a discussion focused around several questions regarding womens’ roles in Orthodoxy.

Ari Barbalat, University of Toronto

I gave my first presentation last week. The topic was: “Stories of the Prophets: Islamic and Midrashic Perspectives in a Dialogue of Perspectives.”

Synopsis: What similarities and differences exist between the depictions of Biblical heroes in the Jewish and Islamic traditions? I selected themes that underscore both parallels and differences between the sources. What are the differences in ethical perspectives presented in the different religions’ literary sources? Where do they agree and disagree in their understandings of virtue and morality?

Devora Chait, Queens College

For our first event, we ran a “Pop-Up Mishmar”, where two students gave mini-shiurim followed by a discussion of Rabbi Marc D. Angel's article entitled, “The Problematic Practice of Kapparot.” This event is part of an initiative to increase student involvement in their own Torah learning, and “Pop-Up Mishmar” will now be occurring twice each semester.

For our second event, Rabbi Chaim Ozer Chait, Rosh Yeshiva of Migdal HaTorah in Israel, led a lecture and discussion regarding the modern Jewish obligations surrounding Har HaBayit (Temple Mount). He spoke about the history of Har HaBayit from the times of Tanach through the contemporary era, and we examined the possibilities of Jewish access to Har HaBayit today.

END OF YEAR CAMPAIGN

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

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

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

***As of December, we will have published 30 issues of our journal, Conversations, read by many thousands

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

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

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

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

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

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

AS WE CELEBRATE OUR TENTH ANNIVERSARY, YOUR PARTNERSHIP IS VITAL TO THE INSTITUTE’S WORK.

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

 TO CONTRIBUTE:  You may contribute online at our website:  jewishideas.org   Or you may send your check to Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, 2 West 70^th Street, New York, NY  10023. To contribute securities, please contact us at [email protected] for details.

 THANK YOU FOR CARING AND SHARING.

RESPOND TODAY TO CREATE A BETTER TOMORROW.

From Black Fire to White Fire: Conversations about Religious Tanakh Methodology[1]

Rabbi Pinehas says in the name of Rabbi Shimon b. Lakish: The Torah that the Holy One, blessed be He, gave to Moses was given to him from white fire inscribed by black fire. It was fire, mixed with fire, hewn from fire and given by fire, as is written, “From His right a fiery law to them.” (J.T. Shekalim 6:1, 25b, quoting Deuteronomy 33:2)

This mesmerizing Midrash, so emblematic of Jewish thought, captures the life force of Torah. It is not merely dry ink written on dead parchment. Its words live, and the silent white parchment beneath the black ink represents the non-verbal depth and sanctity underlying God’s revealed word.

            How can we mediate between the infinite word of God and our own finite understanding? How do we balance different approaches to biblical study? When teaching Tanakh to undergraduate students at Yeshiva University, I introduce several major issues in methodology early in the semester, and then my students and I continue the dialogue throughout the term and beyond. What follows is a survey of the main issues addressed in that methodology class.

In his introduction to the Song of Songs, Malbim (Rabbi Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel, 1809–1879) addresses the religious imperative to begin all learning with peshat and only then to move to deeper levels:

Most interpretations [of Song of Songs] … are in the realm of allusion and derush (homiletics); distant from the settlement of peshat.… Of course we affirm that divine words have 70 facets and 1,000 dimensions. Nonetheless, the peshat interpretation is the beginning of knowledge; it is the key to open the gates, before we can enter the sacred inner chambers of the King.

If we attempt to penetrate the deeper levels of Tanakh without examining its words in their context, we will end up staring at blank parchment. Alternatively, if we focus on the words without seeing them as a means to the higher end of encountering God, we are left with ink but no fire.[2]

When studying Torah, we struggle to balance rigorous analysis and religious experience. Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein touches on this balance in a broader analysis of Modern Orthodoxy:

I believe that the sin lurking at the door of the Centrist Orthodox or Religious Zionist community, the danger which confronts us and of which we need to be fully aware, is precisely the danger of shikhecha [forgetfulness]. Unlike other communities, this is a community which is not so susceptible to avoda zara [idolatry] in its extension—attitudes the Rambam battled against, such as superstition and gross or primitive conceptions of God—because it is more sophisticated intellectually, religiously, and philosophically. Unfortunately, however, it is very, very susceptible to extended kefira [heresy] or shikhecha, lacking the immanent sense of God felt so deeply, keenly, and pervasively in other parts of the halakhically committed Jewish world.[3]

            Another ever-present struggle relates to the degree of our reliance on the talmudic Sages and post-talmudic rabbinic commentators for guidance. They were truly exceptional religious scholars who viewed the biblical text as the revealed word of God, and therefore they serve as our ultimate teachers. Simultaneously, we must consider them as our “eyes to the text” rather than as substitutes for the text.[4] We try our utmost to learn Tanakh in the manner that our mefarshim (commentators) did. We need our mefarshim to teach us how to learn and think, but we also need to distinguish between text and interpretation.

Much has been written to define the term peshat, and I prefer the working definition that peshat is the primary intent of the author.[5] Our goal is to allow the prophetic words in Tanakh to transform us, rather than imposing our logic and values onto the text. On many verses, however, there is debate about the primary intent. How should we proceed if even our greatest interpreters are uncertain? Addressing this critical issue, Ramban (Rabbi Moses ben Nahman, 1194–1270) stresses that Torah study is not an exact science and is subject to strands of interpretation that require careful evaluation:

Anyone who studies our Talmud knows that the arguments between its interpreters do not have absolute proofs.... It is not like mathematics.... Rather, we must exert all of our efforts in every debate to push aside one of the views with compelling logical arguments... and consider most likely the view that fits the smooth reading of the text and its parallels along with good logic. This is the best we can do, and the intent of every wise and God-fearing person studying the wisdom of the Talmud. (Introduction to Milhamot Hashem commentary on the Talmud)

More emphatically, Rabbi Abraham b. HaRambam (1186–1237) maintains that the blind acceptance of one view over another on the basis of authority as opposed to critical evaluation is against the Torah’s supreme value of truth:

One who wishes to uphold a known view and to elevate the one who said it, and to accept his view without analysis and evaluation whether this view is true or not—this is a bad trait. It is forbidden according to the Torah and according to logic. It is illogical, for it indicates inadequate comprehension of what needs to be believed; and it is forbidden according to the Torah for it strays from the path of truth.… The Sages do not accept or reject views except on the basis of their truth and proofs, not because the one who says them is who he is. (Mavo ha-Aggadot, chapter 2)

Note that Rabbi Abraham b. HaRambam wrote these words in his introduction to aggadah (non-legal texts), not halakhah (legal texts). In the realm of halakhah, there is a system of authority and weight of precedent. Halakhah operates primarily under the principle of issur ve-hetter (what is forbidden and what is permitted), whereas aggadah operates primarily under the principle of emet ve-sheker (truth and falsity).[6] In halakhah, talmudic passages are intended as literal and generally accepted as binding.[7] In aggadah, talmudic passages often are intended as allegorical. Even when they are understood literally, later commentators reserve the right to disagree with them.[8] This distinction is self-evident to Rabbi Yom Tov Lipmann Heller (1579–1654), author of the Tosafot Yom Tov commentary on the Mishnah, who extends the argument to the arena of theoretical halakhah, that is, when there are no practical consequences. After observing that Rambam’s reading of a halakhic Mishnah differs from that of the Gemara, Rabbi Heller explains why Rambam feels free to disagree with the Talmud even in halakhic matters (I have added several clarifying points in brackets):

Since there is no practical legal difference, permission is granted to interpret [the Mishnah in a manner different from the Gemara’s interpretation]. I see no difference between interpreting Mishnah and interpreting Scripture. Regarding Scripture, permission is granted to interpret [differently from how the Gemara interprets] as our own eyes see in the commentaries written since the time of the Gemara. However, we must not make any halakhic ruling that contradicts the Gemara. (commentary on Mishnah Nazir 5:5)

            Some within the Orthodox world adopt only half of that truth at the expense of the other. One side dogmatically adopts talmudic and midrashic teachings as literal, and insists that this position is required as part of having faith in the teachings of the Sages. Another group dismisses the talmudic traditions as being far removed from biblical text and reality. The first group accuses the second of denigration of the Sages, whereas the second group accuses the first of being fundamentalists who ignore science and scholarship.

            The truth is, this rift has been around for a long time. Rambam lamented this very imbalance in the twelfth century in his introduction to Perek Helek in Tractate Sanhedrin. He divided Jews into three categories. The first group piously accepts all rabbinic teachings as literal:

The first group is the largest one…. They understand the teachings of the sages only in their literal sense, in spite of the fact that some of their teachings when taken literally, seem so fantastic and irrational that if one were to repeat them literally, even to the uneducated, let alone sophisticated scholars, their amazement would prompt them to ask how anyone in the world could believe such things true, much less edifying. The members of this group are poor in knowledge. One can only regret their folly. Their very effort to honor and to exalt the sages in accordance with their own meager understanding actually humiliates them. As God lives, this group destroys the glory of the Torah of God and says the opposite of what it intended. For He said in His perfect Torah, “The nation is a wise and understanding people.” (Deuteronomy 4:6)

Such individuals are pious but foolish. They misunderstand the intent of the Sages and draw false conclusions in the name of religion.

Misguided as this first group is, it is preferable to the second group, which also takes the words of the Sages literally but rejects their teachings as a result:

The second group is also a numerous one. It, too, consists of persons who, having read or heard the words of the sages, understand them according to their simple literal sense and believe that the sages intended nothing else than what may be learned from their literal interpretation. Inevitably, they ultimately declare the sages to be fools, hold them up to contempt, and slander what does not deserve to be slandered…. The members of this group are so pretentiously stupid that they can never attain genuine wisdom…. This is an accursed group, because they attempt to refute men of established greatness whose wisdom has been demonstrated to competent men of science.

The first group is reverent to the Sages, whereas the second group is open to science and scholarship but rejects the Sages and their teachings. Both groups fail because of their fundamental misunderstanding of the Sages.

            Rambam then celebrates that rare ideal scholar, who combines those two half-truths into the whole truth:

There is a third group. Its members are so few in number that it is hardly appropriate to call them a group…. This group consists of men to whom the greatness of our sages is clear…. They know that the sages did not speak nonsense, and it is clear to them that the words of the sages contain both an obvious and a hidden meaning. Thus, whenever the sages spoke of things that seem impossible, they were employing the style of riddle and parable which is the method of truly great thinkers.[9]

            In addition to Rambam’s insistence on the fact that the Sages did not always mean their words literally, we must add that the greatest peshat commentators, from Rabbi Saadiah Gaon to Rashi to Ibn Ezra to Ramban to Abarbanel and so many others, venerated the Sages without being bound by their non-legal comments. These rabbinic thinkers combine reverence for the Sages with a commitment to scholarship and integrity to the text of the Torah.[10]

            This discussion leads to another balance, one between hiddush (novel interpretations) and time-honored understandings of the text. It can be difficult to reevaluate traditional interpretations even when attractive alternatives present themselves. Rashbam, citing his grandfather Rashi’s paradigmatic integrity in learning, teaches that the infinite depth of Tanakh necessarily means that we can never exhaust its meaning:

Rabbi Shelomo [i.e., Rashi], my mother’s father, the enlightener of the eyes of the Exiles, interpreted Tanakh according to its plain sense. And I, Shemuel the son of Meir, his son-in-law of blessed memory, debated with him in his presence. He admitted to me that were he to have more time, he would have had to compose different commentaries in accordance with the new interpretations that are innovated each day. (Rashbam on Genesis 37:2)

Abarbanel writes similarly:

And even though the hearts [i.e., minds] of the ancients are like the opening of the ulam [the great open area in front of the temple]… and we are nothing,[11] still we have a portion and inheritance in the house of our Father, and there are many openings [to advance fresh insights] for us and our children forever. Always, all day long, a latter-day [sage] will arise… who seeks the word of the Lord—if he seeks it like silver he will… find food for his soul that his ancestors did not envisage; for it is a spirit in man, and the Lord is in the heavens to give wisdom to fools and knowledge and discretion to the youth. (Ateret Zekenim, p. 3)[12]

Simultaneously, it is worthwhile to ask cautiously why nobody has thought of a particular novel idea. If there are fifteen proposed answers to a problem, there is room for a sixteenth; but it serves us well to consider and evaluate the earlier fifteen before reaching any conclusions.

            Perhaps the most challenging road to navigate pertains to the use of non‑Orthodox scholarship.[13] On the one hand, our tradition’s commitment to truth should lead us to accept the truth from whoever says it. Rambam lived by this axiom,[14] and many of the greatest rabbinic figures before and after him similarly espoused this principle.[15] On the other hand, it is difficult to distinguish between knowledge and theory. Theory almost always is accompanied by conscious and unconscious biases, some of which may stray from traditional Jewish thought and belief.

This tension is expressed poignantly in an anecdote cited by Rabbi Joseph ibn Aknin. After noting the works of several rabbinic predecessors who utilized Christian and Muslim writings in their commentaries, he quotes a story related by Shemuel Ha-Nagid:

Rabbi Mazliah b. Albazek the rabbinic judge of Saklia told [Shemuel Ha-Nagid] when he came from Baghdad… that one day in [Rabbi Hai Gaon’s] yeshivah they studied the verse, “let my head not refuse such choice oil” (Psalms 141:5), and those present debated its meaning. Rabbi Hai of blessed memory told Rabbi Mazliah to go to the Catholic Patriarch and ask him what he knew about this verse, and this upset [Rabbi Mazliah]. When [Rabbi Hai] saw that Rabbi Mazliah was upset, he rebuked him, “Our saintly predecessors who are our guides solicited information on language and interpretation from many religious communities—and even of shepherds, as is well known!”[16]

In a sense, true learning is unsettling, since it is difficult to maintain a view passionately when at any moment we may learn a new opinion that challenges our conviction. At the same time, precisely this energy is one of the most invigorating aspects of Torah study. When kept in balance, the tensions that confront us in traditional study afford constant opportunities to learn from the past wealth of interpretation. This enables us to forge ahead in our attempts to enter the infinite world of Tanakh, so that we may encounter God in His palace.

To our members and friends,

I have a busy fall semester in my role as National Scholar, as we continue to promote the values of our Institute in communities, schools, and beyond.

On Shabbat, November 3-4, I will be scholar-in-residence at the Young Israel of Oak Park, Michigan, 15140 W 10 Mile Rd. For more information, go to their website, https://www.yiop.org.

On Shabbat, November 17-18, I will be a shared scholar-in-residence at Congregation Bais Torah and Community Synagogue in Rockland County, New York. Congregation Bais Torah is located at 89 West Carlton Rd. Suffern, NY. Community Synagogue is located at 89 W Maple Ave, Monsey, NY. For more information, please go to their websites: http://www.baistorah.org/ http://comsyn.org/.

On five Mondays, November 20, 27, December 4, 11, 18, from 1:00-2:15 pm, I will give a series at Lamdeinu Teaneck (at Congregation Beth Aaron, 950 Queen Anne Road, Teaneck, New Jersey):

The Second Temple Biblical Books: The Transition from Prophecy to the Rabbinate, and Lessons for Today

An in-depth look at some of the least studied, but most relevant books of the Bible. By considering the books of Ezra-Nehemiah, Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi in context, we will derive some lessons that are uncanny and pertinent to us today.
 

1. Ezra Chapters 1-6: A Miracle of History?
2. Haggai: Imminent Potential for Redemption
3. Zechariah: God is Hidden, but Ready to Reveal Himself
4. Ezra and Nehemiah: Different Models of Leadership
5. Malachi: End of Prophecy and Transition to the Rabbinate

On Wednesday, December 20, from 1:00-2:15 pm, I will give an additional lecture at Lamdeinu Teaneck:

The Books of the Maccabees and Rabbinic Thought: Getting to the Roots of Hanukkah
 

For more information and to register, go to http://www.lamdeinu.org/.

Since the beginning of September, I have served as the Tanakh Education Scholar at Ben Porat Yeshiva Day School, in Paramus, New Jersey. We are developing a new Tanakh curriculum for grades 1-8, that reflects our core religious values at the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.

Our University Network, which I now coordinate, is off to a terrific start. Please see my October report on our Campus Fellows on our website: https://www.jewishideas.org/article/campus-fellows-report-fall-2017.

I am coming out with a new collection of twenty essays on the Bible, to be published by Kodesh Press. Thanks to the generosity of Yael Cohen, the Levy Family Foundation, Charles and Rochelle Moche, and the Sephardic Publication Foundation, we hope to distribute copies to members of our University Network to help them navigate the relationship between traditional and academic Bible study.

As always, I thank you for your support and encouragement, and look forward to promoting our core values through these and many more venues in the coming year.

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

Introduction

There is a naïve belief that traditional Jewish religious communities have preserved pristine models of uninfluenced integrity. The reality is that all Jewish communities have been and are influenced to a greater or lesser degree by the cultures and norms of the host countries they live in. One of the most obvious examples is the variation in culture and custom as between communities who have lived under Christianity and those under Islam.

For all that, the purely halakhic differences between Ashkenazic and Sephardic communities are minimal. No greater than between say, different Hassidic sects. The most well-known halakhic differences between the two worlds are kitniyot on Pesah and whether one accepts Bet Yosef rather than the Remah. But even that is no longer the case in reality.

Once it was thought (stereotypically) that superstition and simplistic Kabbalah were what distinguished the two wings of Judaism. But Orthodoxy in the Ashkenazic world has become so dominated by superstition, miracle workers, miracle rabbis, miracle spells and cures that such distinctions no longer hold true. So why are we so fixated on the differences?

I believe it is one of the tragedies of our age that, in some circles, the Jews of Muslim societies are often regarded as somehow less authentic. This essay is an attempt to bring a different perspective from someone who has worked in both worlds.

History

My first encounter with the Sephardim was in Israel in the 1950s. Arriving as a teenager, from Britain, to study in yeshiva. The Israelis I first met when I arrived in Haifa were tense, left-wing, anti-religious Ashkenazim, bent on establishing a socialist paradise, closer to Marx than Moses.

I don’t want to dwell here on the depressing issue of Ashkenazic discrimination directed at the Sephardic communities that persists particularly in Israeli Hareidi Orthodoxy. And the last thing I want is to sound condescending or patronizing. I am wary of generalizations, even my own. But I saw the disadvantages and the discrimination that so many Sephardic immigrants experienced in their early years. Some of it admittedly, simply because of a lack of resources and planning. But it disturbed me.

Those Sephardim I met in Israel (in my day we did not call them Mizrahim, for that was the name of a Religious Party then) were in general so much warmer, softer, and caring. They did not have the animus toward religion that the Left did. They were more traditional and inclusive religiously than their Ashkenazic colleagues.

In the yeshivot I attended, students from Yemen, Iraq, and Morocco were more emotional and less arrogant than their Ashkenazic colleagues. When I went to spend a Shabbat at home with my Sephardic friends, quite apart from the food, there was a welcoming atmosphere that was unforgettable. In the Bet HaMidrash, they were every bit as learned and brilliant. Yet because they were studying in Ashkenazic yeshivot with Ashkenazic Rashei Yeshiva there was a palpable sense of being on the fringe.

I began to search for the factors that made those Sephardic Jews I met so positively different. Was it the warmer Oriental, Islamic mentality? The emphasis on hospitality in contrast to the Western Christian colder tendency to withdraw into privacy? Was it the fact that in the Sephardic world there was no denominational divide, as we had, between Orthodox and Reform? Sephardim gathered not by denomination or degree of observance, so much as by city or country of origin. Perhaps it was a matter of historical evolution.

The Muslim world that most of the Sephardim lived in was still almost pre-industrial. Those Sephardim who had lived in Western societies such as the Spanish and Portuguese, had moved on and up. In Israel, old established and wealthy Sephardic families formed an elite. Most of the new immigrants, on the other hand, were poor in material goods and education and had been living under Islamic restrictions as second-class citizens. The Sephardic fear of returning to Muslim rule has always made them more proudly nationalist and more right-wing than left.

So why the discrimination? What was it I wondered that made Jews seemed infected with the almost universal disease of wanting to find others to whom we could feel superior? It wasn’t just the Sephardim of course; the early Eastern European Zionists despised the Germans, who looked down on the Sephardim, who in turn marginalized the Ethiopians and then felt superior to the Russians. Perhaps it is the same primitive human nature that feeds prejudice the world over.

I have even wondered if my sense of kinship was a reaction against my Imperialist, Colonialist British education that led me to feel sympathy for the underdog and disadvantaged, as indeed I did at a very early age for those who suffered under Apartheid. The Ashkenazic world seemed to have no notion of the grandeur and the wealth of Sephardic culture or history. They saw the great Sephardic authorities as closet Ashkenazim. Eastern European talmudic study was regarded as superior to the Sephardic methodologies. As a result, a new generation of Sephardic rabbis and leaders in Israel began to ape the dress and mentality, sometimes even the Yiddish, of the Ashkenazic rabbinical elite.

It was when I came across Rav Ovadia Yosef’s “Yabia Omer” that I realized that here was a different, approach, a broader vista, a more lenient and even more scholarly approach to those of the Lithuanian rabbis and followers of the Hazon Ish. Of course, I was under no illusion that there are almost always different opinions. But why was I taught only one and not the other? It was only my personal initiative that opened another world to me.

England

Years later, I was the Principal of Carmel College, the Jewish English residential school near Oxford that attracted a lot of students from outside the UK, particularly from Israel, Iran, Spain, and Gibraltar. The school cultivated a very English academic atmosphere and combined it with an officially Orthodox lifestyle. It was like a Yeshiva High School except that most pupils did not come from Orthodox families. There was certainly a dissonance between the demands of the school religiously and the way the pupils lived Jewishly at home. Parents tended to send their children there for the academics and the social Jewish atmosphere rather than the religious environment.

There, too, I detected a different dimension in the Sephardic pupils. They were much more attached to family life, respectful of parents and tradition. I sensed their need for validation for their Sephardic Judaism in an atmosphere where all the Jewish teachers were Ashkenazic. Years later, I heard New York Sephardim who had gone to elite Ashkenazic schools complain that they were made to feel inferior and that their traditions and rabbis were not as valid as those of the Ashkenazim. And I have noticed over the years how those of my former pupils who have become much more religious after they left the school, regardless of how uninterested they seemed to be in school, were almost all Sephardic. They seemed to have a more spiritual gene!

Yet at Carmel I encountered some parental resistance to these pupils on the spurious grounds that they would lower the academic and social standards. I reacted furiously. I was already sensitized by my experiences in Israel. And I assured anyone who asked that the Sephardic pupils raised the social and academic level of the school. This snobbery offended me to my core. All the more so, since I was brought up in a home where my parents went out of their way to excoriate any kind of racism or discrimination. Once one is inured to such feelings toward outsiders, it inevitably metastasizes into hatred of one’s own.

After the Shah of Persia fell in 1997, Chabad brought almost a thousand Iranian children to Britain, where they awaited American visas. Chabad in London had a humanitarian crisis on its hands. It is one thing to find temporary homes for a handful, quite another to do so for hundreds. Our school, with its huge campus, was able to put up hundreds of Iranian youngsters for months, and we tried our best to teach and integrate them until they were able to rejoin their families. Here, too, I had to field complaints and agitation from non-Jewish teachers as well as parents against “flooding the school with foreigners.” In the end, the process took over, and it went smoothly for everyone. Once again, the attitudes of the Iranian children were impressive on almost every level. They bore the uncertainty and pain of separation with dignity and equanimity. It was a salutary experience for everyone involved. It endeared them even more to me.

Manhattan

Many years later, I retired to New York, where I had no intention of getting involved in the rabbinate. Although most Iranian Jews on the East Coast had gravitated toward Brooklyn or Great Neck, several families of my former pupils from Iran were now living in Manhattan. They had gotten together with other Iranians to establish a small religious community that met only on Shabbat mornings and Festivals. After moving from place to place, they had finally rented space in Park East synagogue on East 68^th Street. They had employed a rabbi from Iran who had served them well for many years but had now retired; and they were looking for a replacement.

My pupils remembered my authoritarian streak and liked my English oratory as well as my open and tolerant approach. They approached me about taking on the assignment. I told them I was not interested in taking on a rabbinic position. But they assured me this was no full-time position, and the community was more like a boutique than a full-service congregation. It was not formally constituted: no board or membership fees; just an informal collection of Iranian Jews; some wealthy, some not. Naturally it is the voluntary contributions of those who can afford it that keep the community alive.

Initially there was some resistance from those who did not know me, to the appointment of an English Ashkenazi, even if several Sephardic communities in New York over the years have had Ashkenazic rabbis. They were anxious to preserve their Persian customs and traditions and feared I might try to Anglicize them. They were worried that my more liberal outlook on life might come into conflict with their more authoritarian mentality. We finally came to an informal understanding that has now lasted for almost 10 years.

There is mutual respect despite our differences. Above all, I have come to enjoy a warmer, more informal relationship than those I experienced in European Ashkenazic communities. And I can indulge my semi-retirement without feeling completely guilty about giving up rabbinical work altogether.

Customs

But what are differences? I found the transition from Ashkenazic customs to Sephardic ones to be unproblematic. The variations in traditional texts and Nushaot are really minor. I was brought up on the Havarah Sephardit, the Sephardic Israeli pronunciation. Besides, even within Sephardic communities, there are differences in the way Hebrew is vocalized between different cities and countries. There are some juxtapositions and additions of Tehilim and different Piyutim. But the core of every service, the Amidah, the Birkhot Keriat Shema, and of course Keriat HaTorah remain the same. The Priestly Blessings are not confined exclusively to Festivals.

What is most obvious is the sound, the music, which is predominantly oriental. If once it was rare to hear oriental music in Western societies, now it is a much more common and familiar choice. Even so, Yemenite and Syrian sounds are different; the influence of Israeli music has spread across almost all communities; and at least half of our Persian music now includes such favorites as Yerushalim Shel Zahav, Eytz HaRimon, Al Kol Eleh, as well as Ta’am HaMan and other popular ethnic songs. Israeli religious singers span the differences, and there is much cross-cultural influence. Our Hazzan, proudly Yemenite, integrates Persian folk songs into the service.

In our Persian services, there is a marked informality and rowdy enthusiasm, ululations of celebration. Women make much more of the Torah, passing additional decorations of the Torah around, holding hands up to kiss, pressing them to their eyes. Men kiss the Parohet and gather round the Reader’s desk for Birkhot HaHodesh. After the services, men and women approach the curtains to pray for some personal reason. Otherwise services are similar. I am too often forced to intervene to stop the chatting and redirect the congregation to the service at hand. But that was equally true of my Ashkenazic communities.

Although Persians like to be well-dressed and elegant, informality of dress is accepted. Head covering for women is what differentiates the more Orthodox from the less. Wigs are more of a rarity in Sephardic communities than in Ashkenazic ones. Very few of the women in our community are comfortable with Hebrew or the services. We try our best to help them navigate. We naturally retain a mehitza, but it splits the small sanctuary down the middle into equal sections.

In many Sephardic communities, congregants who are not themselves Orthodox show above-average knowledge and expertise in Tefilla and Keriat HaTorah. This is less true of many Persian communities. Few of them are Orthodox in the strict sense of the word, but they are proud of their Persian Jewish identities and traditions. There remains a reluctance to identify with Conservative of Reform Judaism. This is of course much truer in Israel than in the United States. But for most Sephardic communities, those who are observant sit and mix with those who are not at all and a range in the middle.

I have succeeded with a few cross-cultural innovations. Services are shorter than the norm. Those who want to say more can do so at the start or the end. We leave out certain optional prayers. I interject in English to give page numbers and during Keriat HaTorah, between sections, to explain where we are and what we are reading. Sometimes when a service goes on for too long we omit the full repetition of the Amidah.

Family life is very strong. Traditional values of hospitality mean that Friday evenings and festivals are celebrated more as social events than as religious ones. Weddings are much more rowdy and enthusiastic and less restrained. And although mourning rituals are similar, there are more public memorials that start with the end of the Shiva. At funerals, spices and perfumed water are passed around. Whereas memorials for the dead are usually confined to the anniversary and Yizkor days in Ashkenazic synagogues, many Persians like to have a Hashkaba whenever they are called to the Torah. And diets, foods, and Kiddushim reflect Persian tastes rather than Ashkenazic ones. But to reiterate, the differences are minor, and are of style, rather than content.

Culture Clash

Persian Jewry, as the only community of Jews living under the Shiites, probably suffered more than any other Sephardic community. It was unable to sustain the range of intensive Jewish institutions that many other communities in the Muslim world could. The arrival of the Alliance Israelite Universelle over 100 years ago brought secular education to Iran’s Jews, and with it a weakening of rabbinic, religious authority. Under assault from Shiite clerics, Jews had been subject to constant pressure, humiliation, and forced conversions. Only under the Pahlavis had things improved significantly. But even so many Jews converted to Islam or to the Baha’i faith to try to escape their inferior position as Jews. Secularism had already made massive inroads, and this is reflected today in the United States, where many Iranians have left the Jewish fold. Almost all the Persians of my community have arrived during the past 50 years, some having come via Israel. And in some families the ties with Judaism were already weak in Persia. In fact, some of my community were and still are more attached to their Iranian heritage than they are to their Jewish heritage.

As in all immigrant communities, there are cultural dislocations and conflicts to be resolved. In the process of acculturation, tensions often erupt between observant and less observant members of the same family. Back home, the role of women was different. Men ruled the roost. Sons and daughters obeyed their parents—very different from the mores of a predominantly secular United States. They are challenged by the issues of how to balance loyalty to tradition with the demands of modernity. Does one retreat behind the security of ghetto walls, with a close support structure? Or does one venture forth into the secular world, with all its risks, and leave tradition behind? And there are all the gradations and varieties of any human society. Some still cling to the idea that one should remain strictly within one’s own ethnic community. Different towns and cities in Iran varied in degree of Orthodoxy and loyalty. Some are still reluctant to intermarry with Iranians who came from different communities back home. There is still a difference between those who came from urban communities as opposed to rural ones.

As with all immigrant groups, there are feelings of insecurity that drive them toward economic success and stability. Persians more than most communities are split between those who see education and academic and professional success as the route to security, and those who think only in terms of making money. In both areas, they have been very successful.

Like most religious communities, they are increasingly being pulled in different directions. One section is assimilating and marrying out. The other is abandoning Sephardic moderation for Hareidi attitudes. Simultaneously, one sector is moving toward rationalism and the other retreating into primitive superstition and credulity. Some are shedding their commitment to Judaism and Israel, and others are intensifying it without any moderation or criticism. Some are anxious to ensure that their children get a good Jewish education. Others prefer to send their children to non-Jewish schools, even with work and activities on Shabbat and Festivals. Some come to synagogue every Shabbat; others come only festivals (and then one day only), and still others only on High Holy Days.

Parents bring their young children to synagogue on Shabbat. But as soon as they become teenagers, the children no longer come regularly. Once the younger generation begin to study and then work, they come only for occasional social interaction. They throw themselves into the social singles whirl of Manhattan. They marry much later than they used to. But when they do, and have children of their own, that is when they begin to return. So, a community like mine sees very few millennials except for festive and social occasions, and goes through a demographic hiatus that denudes it of active young men and women until a later stage in life and circumstances. Yet for all that, there is a most definite sense of Persian and Sephardic identity and pride. Even if some are prepared to relinquish it (which actually includes some who went to Orthodox Jewish Day Schools but have now abandoned religious practice) just as many actively want to continue their specific Iranian heritage, customs, and have a much more tolerant and open-minded approach to difference and variation in degree of practice.

Almost all the members of the community are fiercely proud, positive and protective of Israel. Their views are strongly to the right. Having lived under the influence of the Mullahs, they are under no illusion as to how much better off they are in a free and open society. Together with their Persian heritage, they remain very much more in sync with Orthodox attitudes in the United States than with the more acculturated.

Although presiding over the services is the obvious role of a rabbi, one cannot be involved with a group of people without moving beyond the synagogue into their happy and sad occasions and the challenges of home and work and society that add an informal, pastoral dimension to community life. And this has inevitably brought me into contact with other Iranian communities of different dimensions and origins in Great Neck and Brooklyn, not to mention Los Angeles. The challenges everywhere are similar.

There is a degree of interconnection and intermarriage with other Sephardic communities, notably the longer established, larger, stronger, and some ways more successful Syrian communities. But even they face similar challenges. We have also attracted some Sephardim from Morocco, Egypt, and Iraq, who appreciate my more cerebral and cross-cultural sermons. But we remain small and personal. Perhaps this and the informality is precisely why I enjoy it so much! Everything I have learnt from my community has only confirmed my previous impressions of the strengths and weaknesses of Persian Jewry.

Prediction and Conclusion

The picture and the prognostications are good in parts. But it is clear, that as with American Jewry in general, only those families that stress and emphasize Jewish identity in practice as well as theory are the ones that will survive as Jews. I am often asked why we do not make life easier by lessening ritual demands. And my reply has always been that I very much doubt that would bring anyone closer to religious practice. The lower the expectation, the lower the bar, and the less the achievement. There is a difference between tolerating those who are unable or unwilling to do something, a feature of Sephardic congregations, and removing the idea and requirement of traditional halakha altogether. At least the ideal and tradition are retained de jure if not de facto.

As I listen to the opinions of my younger congregants, I am often worried and upset by the challenges. Many have gone away from home to study, and this has often weakened their ties to family traditions. Some seek partners outside the Jewish community. Others become even more appreciative of what home has to offer. Although in principle, I approve of genuine conversion out of religious conviction, my years of experience in the practical rabbinate have convinced me that those converts who end up living a committed life are very few. And there is a huge difference between someone converting out of conviction rather than for marriage. The attraction of less discipline and another part of the family seeming freer take their toll on the next generation. And that is why, although I would rather like to encourage rather than reject, I am ambivalent and disturbed by the rise in intermarriage I am encountering. At the same time, I often come across those who have drifted, coming back into the fold.

We have always gone for quality over quantity and Shear Yashuv, a remnant returns. I am optimistic about Sephardic Judaism precisely because most have still retained their more open inclusive approach to the way Jews dress, practice, and participate religiously. Religion in the west is more cerebral and theological. Islam shares with Judaism the emphasis on a way of life rather than a series of mental propositions supported by a thin veneer of ritual. The Sephardic approach to religion is more emotional, more mystical.

I believe the Sephardic world with its tolerance, inclusivity, and emphasis on the emotional, offers an important counter-narrative and paradigm for Jewish life in our times. It is better placed to deal with cynicism. It can help us get the most out of the scientific, secular society we live in, rather than fight against it.

According to psychoanalytic theory, emotional disconnection can be dangerous. When people deny their innermost negative feelings-- instead of protecting themselves from their impulses, they may be doubly in danger of acting out on them. If powerful feelings are repressed, they may burst out in a less controlled fashion at another time. Although this is a gross oversimplification, it can be understood via a simple metaphor of a boiler that has a safety valve. If the pressure builds up, it can be released in a controlled manner. However, without the safety valve, while the boiler may be able to contain the mounting pressure for an extended period of time, it will eventually blow up. [2]

An additional negative side effect that comes from repressing feelings is a general emotional antipathy and lack of empathy. Feelings are a two-way street. If a person denies his negative feelings, the mind will indiscriminately blunt all his feelings; the ability to sincerely care and respond to another person’s emotions is correspondingly stunted.

As a psychotherapist, it is my impression from the struggles that my clients experience, that certain methodologies of Orthodox Jewish chinuch and culture may inadvertently discourage the validity of emotional life. For example, I have heard people complain about “cookie cutter” biographies of Gedolim, where one gets the sense that their inner struggles and challenges have been sanitized for fear that they will be a bad influence on others. When the struggles are left out of the story it compounds feelings of inadequacy and guilt among the readers, leading some to give up on attaining anything worthwhile in comparison to the unnaturally saintly lives depicted in these stories.

This kind of approach that eschews discussion of emotional process does not help us or our children develop an accurate and realistic picture of the very human struggle that all of us have with our emotions and our character, from the simplest Jew to the greatest sage. Not only is no one born perfect, but even outstanding people who have achieved superlative levels of righteousness still must struggle with their dark sides. This is a fact of human nature, and is explicitly and repeatedly discussed in the Gemara as we shall see later in this article. Kohelet (7:20) tells us, “Among men, there is no righteous person who does only good without sinning.”

Young adults who naturally stumble and sin in ways that are even frightening to them, need to understand that this is a normal part of human development. Unfortunately, I fear some prevailing chinuch practices do not make that message clear, and in fact undermine it by eliminating discussion of the negative emotions and struggles experienced by great people. Children need real information in order to understand themselves and grow. When people feel there is no room for complex and conflicted feelings, it leads to despair. This despair leads people to give up on themselves and to abandon striving for greatness.

Double Lives

Another side effect that comes from denying the feelings and emotional process inherent in many stories, is that people can become split off from their emotions--allowing them to live double lives. When they are behaving and feeling frum they are one kind of person. But when they have negative and dangerous feelings, they disown them and perhaps disassociate from themselves. This allows them to sin in far worse ways, as they feel as if it is another person doing it.

Is it then any wonder that we sometimes hear disturbing news of a supposedly great rabbi or community pillar being caught committing horrible and reprehensible acts?

Thankfully, these situations are rare. And it is not my point to be outraged or surprised that even great people can stumble and sin. No one is perfect, and temptation is great. Hazal tell us, ein apotropos le’arayot. [3] However, how can we understand the psyche and conscience of a man who can give a moving and inspiring derasha at one moment, and in the next moment commit reprehensible acts? The answer is via this mechanism of emotional disconnect and disassociation. This kind of psychological problem can find fertile soil in a culture that denies and represses feelings.

I invite the reader to courageously study stories of sages and great people who indeed grappled with complex and conflictual inner emotions. Some succeeded in their struggles while others did not. Fortunately, our Torah is a Torah of truth and does not cover up the flaws and mistakes of its heroes. It is my hope that this study will inspire people to think about themselves in a more accepting manner, and transmit that self-respect to their children.

I do this not to inappropriately assuage the guilty conscience of the sinner, or to poke fun and demote great people from the high esteem they deserve. Instead, I am suggesting that working through and discussing the real challenges, interim failures and ultimate success of great people will help free children and adults from paralyzing shame and self-hatred that does nothing but lead to hopelessness and anguish.

Feelings are not Frum

Before we discuss any particular story, it is important to study the root of the problem. Discussions about negative feelings are often squelched because feelings are powerful and dangerous. Feelings are amoral; they are neither immoral nor moral, they just are. We do not choose our feelings initially, although how we handle them and what thoughts we have can definitely influence them. [4] Feelings are powerful and they influence our behavior often in ways we cannot control or recognize. The Torah tells us that a judge is blinded by even the smallest bribe, no matter how much he thinks he can be objective (Shemot 23:8). Therefore, it is easy to understand why recognizing and discussing the intense energy contained within human emotions is frightening to members of a culture that abide by a strict moral and behavioral code such as ours. Negative feelings such as lust, hate, and heretical rebellion are, quite possibly, in the back of many a person’s mind, but of course it is frightening and shameful to acknowledge them. Ignore them, and hopefully they will go away. No, they will not!

Of course indulging in these emotions is not a solution either, however to ignore them and act as if they do not exist puts a person in danger of disconnecting from himself and becoming emotionally stunted. The psychologically healthy approach is to accept and understand one’s inner feelings and drives while finding ways to use them positively instead of being filled with internal thoughts of condemnation or shame. This is also reflected in the words of Bereishith Rabbah (9:7):

“When God described His creation as very good, it implies that even the evil inclination is good. But how can this be? The answer is, if not for the evil inclination man would not build a home, marry a woman, have children, or engage in commerce."

The Fifth Volume of Shulhan Arukh

Another one of the chinuch dangers of disconnection from feelings is an estrangement from our gut instincts in favor of strict adherence to technical ethical principles. This is an abandonment of what is sometimes referred to as “the fifth volume of Shulhan Arukh”. No system can function without using common sense to mediate and moderate between the dictates and principles of the system and how to apply them.

Related to this point, I have noticed a strange phenomenon in regard to certain inspirational stories. Typically, the story will go something like this: So and so, a great sage, despite his high stature did an amazing kindness for someone of lower perceived social status. For example, we have the famous story about Rav Yisrael Salanter who went to hold a crying baby on Yom Kippur eve during Kol Nidre, or the story of how Rav Moshe Feinstein ran after a gentile delivery boy to make sure he received his dollar tip.

Of course these stories model acts of compassion and decency, and deserve recognition. Sadly though, I fear there is a hidden and subtle message of surprise being conveyed along with these stories, as they suggest that basic human compassion and decency is an astounding ethical feat. After all, who would not show the basic decency of giving an expected tip, or who could be cold-hearted enough to ignore the cries of a baby on Kol Nidre night -- or any night for that matter? So what is the real message here? Either we are surprised to see great people behave in a human and kindhearted manner, or we consider it to be an act that only a true tzaddik can achieve.[5] Whichever message you choose, I submit for your consideration that this kind of thinking is a product of a culture that has difficulty embracing the full passion of its emotions when seen through the lens of Torah thought. Because, in the light of stone-cold Torah analysis without being informed by a sense of compassion, one might erroneously decide that praying is more important than responding to the cries of an infant, or that being sensitive to the needs of a poor delivery boy is irrelevant. And indeed, halakha must trump emotions. However no proper conclusion can be reached without consulting with all “five” volumes of Shulhan Arukh. Our chinuch messages must take that into account.

This recalls an incident that occurred when I was a yeshiva student, around the time that the Challenger Space Shuttle tragically blew up during liftoff. The mashgiah overheard one student callously commenting about the disaster, “It’s no big deal, after all, it’s just a bunch of goyim.” This spurred the mashgiah to deliver a fire and brimstone lecture, castigating the students for having so little empathy and regard for other humans who are b’tzelem elokim, in God’s image.

Since I was already one of the older students in the yeshiva at that time, I had the temerity to share with the mashgiah something that was troubling me about his talk. I told him the following: “This mussar is compelling and I certainly intend to heed your wise words. However, I am not sure why those students should be blamed for their attitude because I cannot recall many instances in my yeshiva career that persons in authority said a kind word about goyim.” The idea of basic decency and empathy for those outside our circle was simply not stressed in any of our learning, despite the mashgiah’s outrage and assumption that “we should all know better.” Of course, he was correct, but in fact, we did not know better.

Similarly, this brings to mind a humorous and fictitious story told about two devout yeshiva boys who were walking by a lake. They both noticed a young woman drowning and quickly dove into the water to save her. After they regained their composure, one sheepishly remarked to the other, “Presumably, this was a permissible act. Though we are ordinarily forbidden to have contact with women, of course to save a life takes precedence over other Torah considerations. Then again, perhaps it should be considered abizrayhu d’arayot (related to sexual matters that require martyrdom) and therefore not subject to the normative directive to save a life…” The second boy responded, “What, it was a woman? I had no idea.”

It is not that boy number one was incorrect in his halakhic concerns per se; rather his focus was incorrect. Boy number two upon hearing cries for help reacted out of basic human decency, without even noticing the gender of the person in distress, so he did not have any halakhic questions to answer.

Sometimes, the disconnection between emotional realities and Torah study can be quite startling. One studenttold me the following true story:

When I was in yeshiva ketana I told my rebbe I wanted to be a veterinarian when I grow up. He told me, “Why would you want to do something like that? It is not a Yiddishe profession?”

As providence would have it, the next day we learned the Midrash about why Moshe was chosen to lead the Jewish people, as he showed great compassion in caring for his sheep.

“My rebbe completely missed the obvious connection between this Midrash and our conversation the day before. That was the day I lost respect for my rebbe.”

How indeed could the rebbe have missed the clear connection and similarity between the young man’s desire to heal animals and Moshe Rabbeinu’s kindness as a shepherd? The answer is, the rebbe was teaching with his head -- but not with his heart. This underscores the danger of telling over even midrashic stories without paying attention to emotional process.

Even Great People Have Feelings

Passionate emotions can only be felt in the heart of a person who is honest with himself and feels all of his emotions, negative and positive. If we do not share this message with our youth, they may feel that they are expected to be perfect and then give up on themselves. In the words of one young man: “Sometimes I would like to go off the derekh, and then go back on again. This way, people will really accept me for who I am instead of over reacting whenever I don’t do the frummest things.” Dear readers, this is a chilling insight into how at least one young man experiences our chinuch and we must consider his words and think about what messages we give our children, despite our best intentions. Are we focused on adherence to the laws and forgetting about our children’s developmental and emotional needs?

Discussing the emotional lives of our Forefathers in a cavalier fashion would be inappropriate and, of course, we must tread carefully out of respect for their great characters that in many ways are beyond our comprehension. Nevertheless, some reflection on this topic is in order. No amount of tortured pilpul and darshanut can completely eliminate the reality of Yaakov’s emotions. When Yaakov sees Rachel for the first time, he kisses her and cries (Bereishith 29:11). True, it was a chaste kiss, perhaps the kind one gives to a young relative [6] but it was still an emotional embrace. Yaakov’s love for Rachel makes the seven years of labor feel as if it were a mere few days (ibid 29:20). You can call it any kind of love you want, love of her virtue or love out of gratitude that she will be one of the matriarchs-- but it was a strong and powerful emotion. Seforno (ibid) comments on this verse that “Love makes people think in a less than logical manner.”

Of course the point of this is not to suggest that we all become enslaved to our passions and be led around by them. However, we also should be a realistic in accepting our emotions. Love is powerful and real.

Rachel and Rabbi Akiva

One of the greatest stories of love in the history of the Jewish people occurs with another Rachel, the daughter of Calba Savua. Though the yet-to-be-Rabbi-Akiva was a mere lowly shepherd, Rachel recognizes his potential for greatness and offers to marry him on the condition that he study Torah. Rachel’s father was very wealthy but disowned them as he did not approve of the marriage. They endured great poverty and the Gemara Nedarim (50a) tells of how Rabbi Akiva expressed a wish that he could buy her a “City of Gold”, which was a fashionable item of jewelry at the time. When Rabbi Akiva finally returns after 24 years of study with an entourage of thousands of students, the Gemara Ketuvot (63a) tells of how she ran to kiss his feet in what must have been an emotional reunion. The Gemara Nedarim tells us that the rabbis wanted to push her back, perhaps scandalized by this display of affection. Rabbi Akiva told them, “Leave her be, for my Torah and your Torah all belong to her.” And by the way, Rabbi Akiva kept his word, as the Gemara Shabbat (59b) tells us that he indeed bought for her the “City of Gold.” Rachel managed for 24 years in crushing poverty, and she did not “need” this item of jewelry any more than any woman does, probably far less. Rabbi Akiva performed an act of gratitude and love.

No doubt, this love felt by our sages and Avot is not the same kind of lust glorified by popular notions of romance; however it still was love and it was passionate -- because that is good and right between a husband and wife. There is so much focus on the negative aspects and dangers of passion, such as the need to be modest and to guard one’s thoughts and one’s eyes, that it is easy to forget that we need to teach our children about proper forms of love and passion, such as occurs in a loving Jewish home.

Difficult Emotions and Mental Illness

Not every sage was successful in managing his emotions. Learning about this can be a great source of strength and comfort to young people and adults who struggle with this as well. The Gemara Bava Metzia (84a) discusses the great despondency felt by Rabbi Yohanan subsequent to the death of his star student and study partner, Resh Lakish. Rabbi Yohanan felt that he had a hand in causing Resh Lakish’s death as there was a disagreement between them involving decorum and respect, which may have incurred a Divine wrath. Rabbi Yohanan lost his sanity as a result of his intense unresolved grief for Resh Lakish. Despite all the efforts of his colleagues to soothe and comfort him, Rabbi Yohanan would tear his clothes crying, “Where are you, son of Lakish, where are you son of Lakish?” Ultimately, the rabbis prayed that Rabbi Yohanan die, possibly so he no longer suffer or perhaps to limit the disgrace of a talmid hakham. Whatever the reason, this was quite a scene.

Bava Metzia is a staple for any aspiring Torah scholar; so this illuminating aggada is not some obscure medrash pelia hiding in a rarely studied tome. Why is it then that this story is so rarely discussed? Is it threatening that a great sage could suffer from mental illness? Perhaps it is even more threatening to consider that this was not an illness brought on by some hidden disease or a “chemical imbalance”. Rather, it was due to no more and no less than the passionate longing and powerful emotions that beat within Rabbi Yohanan’s heart.

Of course, as Rabbi Yohanan was a great man, his passion and longing for his study partner came from a love of Torah. The Gemara tells of how no one could replace Resh Lakish in his ability to challenge Rabbi Yohanan with piercing questions and analysis. But whatever you want to call it, it was passion. And this passion was beyond reason and Rabbi Yohanan’s ability to manage, which eventually made Rabbi Yohanan insane with grief.

A frum person suffering from depression and mental illness could find much comfort in knowing that even the greatest of sages struggled with his emotions, and dare we say it, ultimately failed.

The Greater you are, the Greater Your Temptation

Abaye [7] warns that the temptation to sin is strongest among the talmidei hakhamim. This statement was not a mere intellectual abstraction, but came from personal knowledge as a result of a disturbing event in Abaye’s life. One time, Abaye surreptitiously followed a man and woman into an unpopulated area, thinking that they were up to no good. Abaye’s plan was that if they were to begin any immoral behavior, he would intervene and stop them. At a point when they believed themselves to be completely alone, they parted company in a chaste manner with a verbal farewell that was heartfelt and loving. Abaye marveled to himself, “Had I been in their place, I would not have been able to restrain myself!”

Abaye became depressed, and slumped gloomily against a doorpost, apparently feeling hopeless about his own spiritual state of affairs. The Gemara then tells of a “Certain Wise Old Man” (possibly Eliyahu HaNavi) who helped Abaye recover by offering the encouraging perspective of “The Greater you are, the Greater Your Temptation.” In Tzidkat HaTzaddik, Rav Tzadok develops this theme in great detail, tying the creative and powerful force of a great person’s character and mind directly to his heightened capacity for sin.

This story is instructive both in its recognition of the very real temptations that Abaye acknowledged, as well as his inability to cope with his feelings of despair. What would have happened to Abaye if he had not been comforted by the “Certain Wise Old Man”? Would he have given up hope on himself? We cannot know for sure, but this story unequivocally suggests that even a great sage is quite vulnerable to temptation as well as to feelings of hopelessness. [8]

This is information that people need to know in order to understand in a real way what our sages’ temptations and struggles were and how they coped with them. The chinuch message should be uplifting and inspiring: If they faced their struggles successfully, so can we! [9]

Concluding Thoughts

The purpose of this essay is to sensitize and encourage readers to treat their emotions and their children’s emotions with due respect and acceptance. Certainly, we must cultivate in ourselves and our children positive feelings such as empathy and kindness, while discouraging hate, greed and a whole host of other thoughts that can lead to sin. Yet, the chinuch process must also help our children internalize the character traits of love and patience and help them avoid loathing themselves for their human errors. This is done by walking the tightrope of providing instruction and guidance, while still conveying love and care for the person as he or she is “right now b’asher hu sham”. [10] Talking about feelings, and showing that everyone has them, is part of this process. When a person is alone with his thoughts, he is vulnerable to feeling shame. Humans have all kinds of negative and unseemly feelings, but many people feel they are depraved monsters for having these feelings and are filled with self-loathing and disgust. The Gemara Yoma (75a) tells us, “If one has worry in his heart, he should speak of it to others.” Not feeling alone is an important strategy in managing troubling emotions.

When we learn about the struggles of those who are far greater than we are, this lessens our shame and despair, for we realize that we are not alone. Our tradition has an enormous storehouse of collected wisdom about emotions and the very human nature of our struggles with them. There is temptation to either run away in fear when we encounter these frank and disturbing aggadot, or explain them away quickly and forget about them. However, we also can study them and share them with our children, helping them to become more confident and accepting of their own turbulent emotions as they grow into mature human beings.

[1] The author gratefully acknowledges the many people who were helpful in providing insight and feedback for this article. First and foremost, I thank my father Rabbi Chaim Feuerman, Ed.D, for providing me with caring and loving chinuch in all “five” volumes of Shulhan Arukh; my wife Chaya Feuerman, LCSW-R who taught me the wisdom of feelings; my brother and writing mentor Yisrael Feuerman, Psy.D.; and Dr. Michael Shmidman (Dean of the Touro College Graduate School of Jewish Studies) and many others who contributed their thoughts and ideas.

[2] While psychoanalysis has been largely discredited as a cost-effective effective form of treatment, conceptually, psychodynamic related theories are still often used to explain behavior. For example, many therapists would find it plausible to explain that a person who behaves in a passive-aggressive manner is acting out unconscious repressed impulses, although the treatment may take forms other than interpreting the underlying psychodynamic conflict. Furthermore, there are similar ideas in Hazal which also suggest that excessive repression is harmful. For example, Rashi (Gittin 90a “Papus”) warns that a husband who is too controlling will lead his wife to rebel. While this is not unconscious repression, it is nonetheless a warning about the dangers of repression. Perhaps more clearly stated, we find the Gemara Shabbat (156a) that advises persons who were born with various tendencies to channel them toward constructive purposes instead of repressing them (such as a bloodthirsty person becoming a mohel instead of murderer). In psychoanalytic terms, when an instinct or drive is diverted for positive use, it is known as sublimation. Another possible source comes from the Gemara Yoma (78b) which tells us Rabbah bought cheap vessels for his children to break, apparently to allow them to vent off steam in a healthy way. This suggests that it would be unhealthy to try to repress a child’s natural exuberance and force him to “sit still and behave.”

[3] Ketuvot 13b. Also see Rambam Mishne Torah, at the end of Hilkhot Isurei Biah, where he stresses that when it comes to sexual matters, there will always be some in every community who succumb to temptation.

[4] See Ezer Mikodesh, Even Haezer 23:3 where he discusses at length the difference between a random thought which cannot be controlled, and purposefully dwelling on a fantasy.

[5] Echoes of this sentiment can be found in R. Kook’s words in Shemonah Kevatzim 1:463, (translation mine):

“The folk who live according to their instincts, and are not learned, are actually superior in many respects to the learned folk. In particular, their instinctive common sense decency and morality was not corrupted by the intricate, wearying and too-clever burdens of scholarship.” (I thank Marc B. Shapiro and the Seforim Blog for this reference.)

[6] Ramban on Bereishith 29:9. Related to seeing Biblical figures as human, I personally heard an interesting piece of Torah Sheb’al Peh from Rabbi Avigdor Miller, ZT’L, who was my wife’s great uncle, affording me the privilege of an occasional meeting. According to my memory, here is what Rav Miller said: “Without being disrespectful, I would like you to understand that when Moshe Rabbeinu ate a sandwich, he experienced hunger, desire to eat, and enjoyment of eating. It is a scientific impossibility to eat a sandwich unless you enjoy it because the food goes down the throat and is digested as a result of the salivary glands. A person does not produce saliva unless he feels desire for the food. If Moshe Rabbeinu tried to eat a sandwich without desiring it, the food would go down into his stomach like a bunch of rocks.”

[7] Succah 52a

[8]Not limiting ourselves to Amoraim who are susceptible to feelings of despair, in more recent times there is a historical account of the Fifth Lubavitcher Rebbe seeking a consultation from Dr. Sigmund Freud for a bout of depression:

In the winter of 1902-1903, Rabbi Shalom Dov-Ber Schneersohn, the 5th Lubavitcher Rebbe1 (known by the acronym RaSHaB), from a scion of Chassidic Rabbis, travelled from Russia to Vienna to consult with 'the famous Professor Sigmund Freud.' He was accompanied by his son, Rabbi Josef Yitzchak Schneersohn (known by the acronym RaYaTZ). At that time the Rebbe RaSHaB was forty two years old his son was twenty two years old.

While various details of this visit to Vienna had been known in Lubavitch circles for some years, the name of the famous doctor was not revealed in print until 1997 when the private Diaries (R'Shimos) of the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson were published. The diary for the period spring 1932 relates a conversation that Rabbi Menachem Mendel (the 7th Rabbi in the dynasty known as Lubavitch Chassidim) had with his predecessor in Riga, Latvia, about the three month visit (6 January - 5 April 1903) that he had made with his father (the RaSHaB, the 5th Lubavitcher Rabbi) to Vienna. In this conversation the name of the famous professor is specifically identified. 2After a further unspecified exchange between Freud and the Rebbe, his son recalls that Freud made the following 'diagnosis:' "The head grasps what the heart is unable to contain, and the heart cannot tolerate." (SIGMUND FREUD AND THE LUBAVITCHER REBBE, STANLEY SCHNEIDER, Jerusalem & JOSEPH H. BERKE, London.

Published in Psychoanalytic Review, 87(1), 2000.)

[9] Rav Yitzchak Hutner, ZT’L, in a letter to a talmid who was depressed from his failures, was highly critical of gedolim stories that only spoke of their great stature, without relating any of their personal struggles and missteps on their way to greatness. See Pahad Yitzhak, Igrot U'khtavim, #128.

[10] Treating our children as Hashem treats his, see Bereishith 21:17 and Bereishith Rabbah 53 quoted by Rashi, Op. Cit.