National Scholar Updates

Nehama Leibowitz and the Paradox of Parshanut:

Are Our Eyes on the Text, or on the Commentators?[1]

By Hayyim Angel

Introduction: The Commentators as Our Eyes to the Text

In Elementary and High Schools, we do not study parshanut or exegetical methodology for their own sake; rather, we study Torah with the assistance of its interpreters. And if, God forbid, the Torah should be pushed to the side—whether its stories and laws, its teachings and ideas, its guidance and beauty—because of overemphasis on parshanim, then any small gain my book achieves will be lost at a greater expense (Nehama Leibowitz).[2]

In line with all traditional exegesis, Professor Nehama Leibowitz, zt”l (henceforth, Nehama, as she preferred to be called) emphasized that we must scrutinize the meaning and significance of each word and passage in the Torah, and perceive its messages as communicated directly to us. We accomplish these daunting tasks by consulting the teachings of the Sages and later commentators (mefarshim). In effect, they serve as our eyes through which we understand the biblical text in its multifaceted and ever-applicable glory.

Of course, the opinions of the mefarshim must be painstakingly evaluated against the biblical text. Sometimes, one position is preferable to another because it captures the language or the spirit of a passage more fully.[3] On many occasions, the text simultaneously sustains multiple interpretations on different levels.[4] But it is always the text that commands our attention.

            To those studying parshanut as a discipline, whether for methodological approaches or in historical context, Midrashim and commentators are no longer secondary to the biblical text. They are three-dimensional people living in specific times and places. Parshanut investigates how a given exegete approached the text, and what influenced him, such as Midrashim and earlier commentaries, intellectual currents of his time, and other historical considerations beyond purely textual motivations. The student of Tanakh views commentary as secondary literature, while the student of parshanut or history treats exegetes as primary sources. These contrasting perspectives almost necessarily will yield different understandings of the comments of mefarshim.

            For the most part, Nehama avoided studying Tanakh in its historical context, and likewise was reluctant to consider Midrashim and the works of later commentators in their respective settings. In particular, she devoted an entire study in an attempt to demonstrate that Rashi on the Torah always was motivated by textual considerations, and never exclusively by educational or other religious agendas such as polemics. Because of her emphatically text-centered methodology, Nehama also did not focus on individual contributions of mefarshim. She brought all mefarshim to her studies simultaneously, utilizing those comments that she believed elucidated the text of the Torah.

In theory, the disciplines of Tanakh and parshanut should be complementary. A heightened understanding of parshanut certainly offers one a more finely tuned ability to study Tanakh through the eyes of the mefarshim. But, as Nehama warned, it is all too easy to become sidetracked from the biblical text by overemphasizing parshanut. In light of this tension, we will consider those essays in Pirkei Nehama: Nehama Leibowitz Memorial Volume that explore the strengths and limitations of Nehama’s methodology.[5]

Close Text Reading and Nehama’s Evaluation of Peshat

Moshe Ahrend (pp. 42–49) and Elazar Touitou (pp. 221–227) observe that Nehama espoused a broad definition of peshat that places the overall spirit of a passage (ruah ha-ketuvim) at the forefront of inquiry. In contrast, exegetes such as Rashbam were more concerned with local meanings of what is found explicitly in the text (cf. Cohn, pp. 106–107).[6]

David Zafrany notes that Nehama accentuated the finest semantic nuances and redundancies (pp. 75–77). Predictably, this exegetical position led to Nehama’s particular fondness for the commentaries of Rashi and Ramban.[7] In contrast, exegetes such as Rashbam and Ibn Ezra believed in kefel ha-inyan be-milim shonot (poetic repetition) and other idiomatic conventions in the Torah. Nehama often referred to the latter group as “rodfei ha-peshat” (those who pursue the plain sense of the text) as a means of criticizing their viewpoint (cf. Ahrend, p. 38).

This discussion also underlies Nehama’s favorable outlook toward Benno Jacob and the Buber-Rosenzweig translation of the Torah. Although Nehama was acutely aware that these authors were not Orthodox Jews, they were attentive to the finer literary qualities of the biblical text, attributing significance to each word of the Torah.[8] Rivka Horowitz discusses the impact of these twentieth-century German-Jewish writers on Nehama (pp. 207–220).[9]

Moshe Sokolow (pp. 298–300) and Amos Frisch (pp. 313–323) both illustrate Nehama’s love of comparing and contrasting parallel biblical texts. Nehama followed the path of Rashi, Ramban, Malbim, and Netziv, against the approach of Ibn Ezra, Radak, and Ibn Caspi. The latter generally treated such repetitions as stylistic variations, without meaningful significance.

            These discussions illustrate vital aspects of Nehama’s learning methodology, and explain how she related to different commentators as a result. However, the majority of essays in Pirkei Nehama make parshanut the primary source of inquiry, exploring the methodology of various exegetes and/or Nehama as a parshanit and educator in her own right. One theme conspicuously (and unfortunately) absent from this volume is an essay devoted to Nehama’s own original interpretations on the Torah.

Between Dogmatism and Historicism

Dogmatism aspires toward absolute, supertemporal authority, but for this it pays the heavy price of blurring the distinctiveness of periods and perspectives. Historicism strives for greater differentiation and for explaining causal connection and circumstantial conditioning; but with its gain comes the loss it incurs with its complete relativization (Uriel Simon).[10]

Gavriel H. Cohn likens Nehama’s educational technique to Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik’s memorable portrayal of his learning dialogue with the great talmudists (p. 26).[11] Her iyyunim guide the reader to the text, surrounded by mefarshim spanning many generations (cf. Cohn, p. 97).

            Several writers observe that Nehama’s synchronic and text-centered approach often comes at the expense of other aspects of parshanut study. In an analysis of Nehama’s methodology, Yisrael Rozenson remarks that Nehama treated Rashi and many other commentators as standing above historical circumstance and influence, exclusively interpreting the biblical text.[12] Gavriel H. Cohn notes that Nehama did place Abarbanel and Hirsch in their historical settings on occasion, and in rare instances she did so for others as well (p. 97, n. 18; cf. Ahrend, p. 39; Touitou, p. 232). With Rashi, however, there could be no exceptions. Nehama tried valiantly to demonstrate that Rashi on the Torah always was motivated by textual nuances and difficulties, and never exclusively by religious or polemical considerations. Her extreme position on this issue generated the greatest amount of critical discussion in Pirkei Nehama.

It is specifically through the defense of Nehama’s outlook by Shemuel P. Gelbard that one readily can identify its shortcomings (pp. 177–185). Gelbard asserts (p. 178) that Nehama did not prove her point conclusively in her article, “Rashi’s Criteria for Citing Midrashim.”[13] While allowing for rare exceptions for educational or polemical concerns, Gelbard maintains that Rashi almost always was motivated by something in the biblical text (p. 179). To substantiate his thesis, Gelbard adduces an impressive array of midreshei aggadah cited by Rashi that all address some difficulty in the text even as they also teach important religious lessons.

Enlightening in their own right, Gelbard’s examples do not prove his or Nehama’s claim, for two reasons: (1) To verify Nehama’s argument, one must take into account not only the Midrashim that Rashi cites, but also those he does not cite. Why does Rashi quote one Midrash instead of another, when the latter also may have been responding to a similar text anomaly?[14] (2) There could be, and in fact are, other examples in Rashi’s commentary that do not fit into this general analysis, a point Gelbard himself concedes. At the end of her article on Rashi’s criteria for selecting Midrashim, Nehama left the first issue for another study. The articles of Yitzhak Gottlieb and Avraham Grossman in Pirkei Nehama should be considered, respectively, as attempts at such further studies. They convincingly identify motivations in Rashi’s commentary beyond pure adherence to the biblical text.

Yitzhak Gottlieb quotes Nehama’s assertion that Rashi quoted Midrashim pertaining to semikhut (juxtaposition of passages) only when the juxtaposition presents some textual difficulty (pp. 149–175).[15] Gottlieb notes that although we always can find some text motivator for semikhut, it is more relevant to ask if there is a fundamental difference between those Midrashim that Rashi quoted and those he did not (p. 170; cf. p. 150, n. 4).[16] After a comprehensive examination of the midrashic discussions of semikhut, Gottlieb cannot ascertain any distinct pattern for those Midrashim that Rashi quoted versus those he did not, leading him away from Nehama’s conclusion. Gottlieb concedes that Rashi may not have had these omitted Midrashim available to him. But if Rashi did have them, it is reasonable to conclude that although Rashi generally was motivated by text concerns, he also cited certain Midrashim instead of others for other reasons, including his desire to disseminate his religious ideals: for example, to provide comfort for persecuted Jews, to affirm God’s love of Israel, and to defend Judaism against Christian polemical accusations (p. 174, esp. n. 99).

Avraham Grossman bolsters Gottlieb’s conclusions by identifying likely polemical and educational examples from within Rashi’s commentary on the Torah (pp. 187–205). Grossman surveys opinions of scholars ranging from Nehama’s extreme efforts to deny all historical impact on Rashi, to Yitzhak Baer and Elazar Touitou’s equally far-reaching assertions about the impact of historical circumstances on Rashi’s commentary.[17] Grossman adopts a middle position and maintains that many instances of Rashi’s selection of Midrashim do address textual difficulties, but others emerged primarily from polemical, or other religious concerns.

Rashi saw assimilation and persecution among French Jews, and therefore used his commentary to inspire them during the grim period surrounding the First Crusade. Grossman asserts that on occasion, Rashi may have selected Midrashim he knew were far from peshat in order to convince his community that they are loved by God and should remain faithful to the Torah and mitzvoth (p. 189).

Grossman then cites examples where Rashi explicitly stated that he preferred an interpretation le-teshuvat ha-minim (to answer the heretics) to explanations of the Sages, since Christians were taking the midrashic messianic interpretations of biblical texts and applying them to the Christian savior (p. 190).[18] However, these instances occur exclusively in Rashi’s commentaries on Nakh. In Rashi’s commentary on the Torah, there are no explicit examples, making the enterprise of pinpointing polemical exegesis speculative.[19] Grossman rises to this challenge by adducing ten instances of polemic and five of other religious-educational matters, where Rashi on the Torah clearly deviated from peshat or consistently selected certain types of Midrashim from among many others to support his educational agendas.

            For example, Rashi’s famous rereading of Jacob’s statement to Isaac—anokhi. Esav bekhorekha, “It is I. Esau is your firstborn” (Gen. 27:19)—is against the plain meaning of the text. In the generation following Rashi, Rabbi Menahem ben Shelomo (Sekhel Tov) wrote that were one to accept Rashi’s reading here, a dualist would be able to support the existence of two deities from the Ten Commandments by reading its first verse, “Anokhi. Hashem Elokekha”! Grossman maintains that Rashi knew he was deviating from peshat in this instance (pp. 192–193). He did so, in all likelihood, because Christians regularly accused Jews of being deceitful in business, emulating their ancestor Jacob.[20] By writing that Jacob did not use deceit (even translating “mirmah” as “wisdom” on 27:35), Rashi deflated the Christian indictment at its roots.

            Grossman also demonstrates that Rashi consistently quoted Midrashim that defended the character of Jacob and those that lambasted Esau. Such consistent patterns plausibly can be understood against the background of Jewish-Christian tensions in medieval Europe. Rashi used Jacob as a symbol for the Jews, and Esau represented a combination of Edom, Rome, and Christianity.[21] Although several of Rashi’s comments also may address textual anomalies, the consistent pattern of midrashic selections can be understood more fully against the polemical backdrop.

At the end of his article, Grossman reaffirms that many of Rashi’s comments were in fact textually motivated (pp. 204–205). However, the primary, overarching goal of his commentary was to provide religious guidance to Jews. If his educational goals coincided with peshat—which they usually did—then Rashi could teach biblical text and Judaism simultaneously. If not, Rashi favored religious teaching over a sterile, “scientific” response to the biblical text. Although one may debate individual examples cited by Grossman, blatant deviations from peshat such as “Anokhi. Esav bekhorekha” and consistent patterns of Rashi’s citation of certain Midrashim over others confirm his general thesis.[22] In a separate article published in the same year as Pirkei Nehama, Shemuel P. Gelbard also reached the conclusion that Rashi had several “meta-issues” behind his commentary.[23]

In his essay on Nehama’s treatment of Rashbam, Elazar Touitou (p. 232) marvels at Nehama’s reluctance to acknowledge Rashbam’s operating in polemical context even when Rashbam explicitly stated that he was responding to minim (Christians).[24] Touitou’s most convincing example of polemic relates to the Golden Calf episode. Although Nehama credited Rabbi Judah Halevi (Kuzari 1:97) for defending the honor of Israel in his interpretation of the Golden Calf episode,[25] she did not envision a similar possibility for Rashbam when he wrote (on Exod. 32:19) that Moses dropped the tablets because he was physically exhausted. As a result, Nehama rejected Rashbam’s unusual interpretation outright:

It appears to us that Rashbam, considered one of the greatest pashtanim, has distanced himself significantly from the peshat of the text. Does the text want to teach us about Moses’ physical weakness? It appears that the description of the shattering of the tablets in Deuteronomy completely refutes his comments.[26]

To justify Rashbam, Touitou notes that medieval Christians viewed the Golden Calf episode as proof of Israel’s failure to accept God (p. 229). They claimed further that Moses’ shattering of tablets represented the abrogation of God’s covenant with Israel. Well aware of these assertions, Rashbam feared that French Jews, suffering from persecution and discrimination in Christian society, might have their resolve further weakened by these arguments. Therefore, Rashbam eliminated the sting from the Christian position by maintaining that Moses was physically exhausted. But there is little doubt that he understood peshat in the verse.[27]

By demonstrating how certain interpretations of Rashi and Rashbam can be explained in historical context, Grossman and Touitou are able to justify why these commentators veered from peshat on occasion. Nehama’s insistence on viewing Rashi and Rashbam exclusively as eyes to the text led her to rebuke Rashbam’s interpretation of Moses’ dropping the tablets and simply to ignore Rashi’s comments on “Anokhi. Esav bekhorekha.” Moreover, she neglected opportunities to highlight the heroism and greatness of Rashi and Rashbam as religious leaders in medieval France.

However, the historical approach to parshanut, when taken too far, can undermine peshat learning. For example, Touitou (pp. 230–231) observes that Rashbam deviated from the midrashic reading of the sale of Joseph, maintaining that the Midianites (and not Joseph’s brothers) sold Joseph to the Ishmaelites (Gen. 37:28). Touitou questions whether the text alone really would have motivated Rashbam to offer a new interpretation. Touitou further observes that Rashbam waited until Parashat Vayyeshev (Gen. 37:2) to introduce his discussion with his grandfather Rashi pertaining to the importance of peshat, and the ability to formulate perushim ha-mehaddeshim be-khol yom (new interpretations that develop each day).

Touitou proposes that Rashbam was responding to Christian paralleling of the Joseph narratives to the stories relating to the betrayal of their savior. Therefore, Rashbam wrote that the brothers did not sell Joseph in order to upset the parallels Christians were trying to create. Touitou further suggests that Rashbam waited until Vayyeshev to discuss his peshat methodology precisely because of the importance of anti-Christian polemics behind his emphasis on peshat.

Though stimulating, Touitou’s hypothesis is unconvincing. Why did Rashbam fail to introduce the importance of peshat during so many earlier stories in Genesis also associated with polemics? More significantly, Touitou attempts to bolster his thesis by asking, “Is it reasonable that Rashbam would deviate from such an established interpretation,” and by wondering whether the text alone really would have motivated Rashbam (p. 230). These questions essentially eliminate peshat study, and reduce all novel interpretations to polemical responses.

Nehama may have been unnecessarily harsh on Rashbam for his explanation of Moses’ dropping the tablets out of exhaustion. However, that overly critical viewpoint appears to be a small price to pay for what otherwise might lead to the overlooking of a genuine text issue by relativizing an interpretation to historical circumstances. Nehama devoted an entire iyyun to the sale of Joseph, demonstrating how Rashbam derived his opinion from the text, and also how many later commentators adopted his approach.[28] While Rashbam’s original reading subsequently could have been useful to counter Christian arguments, there is no reason to believe that polemics are what motivated Rashbam in this instance. His interpretation is reasonable, if not likely, in peshat.

For that matter, Nehama’s ascribing Rabbi Judah Halevi’s interpretation of the Golden Calf episode to his love of Israel also leads to this problem. Many later commentators, from Ibn Ezra until Amos Hakham (Da’at Mikra), adopted the Kuzari’s general explanation as peshat in the narrative. By suggesting that Rabbi Judah Halevi was motivated by his love of Israel, Nehama sidestepped an important peshat debate that continues until today.

            After all this discussion, it seems that one must modify Nehama’s earlier comments only slightly: In her study of Rashi’s selection of Midrashim, she should have written that Rashi generally cited Midrashim to address textual concerns, but occasionally allowed his overarching role as Jewish educator to supersede technical peshat considerations (as argued by Gelbard, Gottlieb, and Grossman). In her iyyun on Moses’ shattering the tablets, Nehama might have extolled Rashbam as a religious leader[29] or omitted his comments, rather than sharply rejecting them.

However, Nehama’s general approach still holds true: one always must begin by searching for text motivations for mefarshim. Only in cases where a pashtan does violence to the text, or when consistent exegetical patterns can be demonstrated, should one look elsewhere for possible motivations—and these must be evaluated on a case-by-case basis. It is preferable to adopt Nehama’s original position as a starting point, rather than to lose any dimension of the Torah itself.

Nehama’s Avoidance of Diachronic Surveys of Parshanut

Uriel Simon’s essay surveys mefarshim in chronological sequence, paying close attention to who had which commentaries before him (pp. 241–261). At the same time, he remains focused on text-based questions.

In her iyyun addressing why Joseph never contacted his family during his 22-year stay in Egypt, and Joseph’s ostensibly vengeful behavior toward his brothers, Nehama wrote that all commentators addressed these issues.[30] Simon criticizes Nehama for saying that “all commentators” dealt with her questions—this simply is not true (p. 244). Simon then surveys Jewish interpretation from the Second Temple period through Abarbanel, demonstrating the impact of earlier writers on later writers, particularly with respect to the initial questions they asked when addressing the text. Simon demonstrates that without a diachronic study, one cannot appreciate the unique contributions of each commentator on a given issue.

Simon’s essay is valuable, but it still leaves Nehama’s iyyun intact—as an ahistorical study. Simon’s discussion of the development of the ideas complements Nehama’s exclusive text study and the relevance of the text to Jews today. Nehama did not stress the contributions of individual commentators, because she focused on the text itself.

Nehama’s Reluctance to View Tanakh in Historical Context[31]

Moshe Ahrend observes that Nehama drew on a wide variety of sources, but generally avoided ancient Near Eastern sources (p. 47). Nehama appears to have been concerned that whatever benefits might be derived from such inquiry could be neutralized by the religious dangers inherent in considering a divine text in light of human-authored parallels.[32]

In addition to this motivation for Nehama’s reluctance, her avoidance of ancient Near Eastern texts fits into her overall approach of eschewing the placing of Tanakh and mefarshim into historical frameworks. Yisrael Rozenson observes that even in those few instances when Nehama did refer to the historical setting of the Torah, she generally mined the parallels for psychological insight.[33] For example, Nehama cited the debate between Rashi and Ibn Ezra on Pharaoh’s “readying his chariot” (Exod. 14:6): Rashi wrote that Pharaoh did so himself, whereas Ibn Ezra assumed that Pharaoh ordered his attendants to perform that labor. In support of Rashi’s interpretation, Nehama cited James B. Pritchard’s Ancient Near Eastern Texts, which mentions that Thutmose III of Egypt personally went to the forefront of his battalion.[34] However, Nehama was not trying to bring a precedent to support Rashi’s interpretation from a parallel context. She was bolstering the timeless, psychological interpretation of royal initiative as illustrated by Rashi. In her iyyun, Nehama then quoted a second “proof” for Rashi—King Abdullah’s personally firing the first shot during Israel’s War of Independence!

Nehama in Her Context[35]

Nehama, of course, also reacted to the realities of her own time. She saw a troubling rate of assimilation among Jews. This may have factored into her emphasis on mitzvah observance, personal responsibility, psychological issues, and repentance, rather than abstract theological issues (see Cohn, p. 103; Horowitz, p. 207). Nehama accentuated these matters to the extent that they rightfully merit entire articles in Pirkei Nehama. Menahem Ben-Yashar addresses psychological-educational issues in Nehama’s writings, Menahem Ben-Sasson analyzes Nehama’s stress on repentance, and Erella Yedgar surveys Nehama’s teachings of personal and interpersonal responsibility.[36]

Gavriel H. Cohn contrasts Nehama’s approach with the one prevalent among secular Zionists, who studied Tanakh as ancient history and who placed archaeology at the forefront of their study (p. 27). Nehama’s blanket avoidance of those dimensions is better understood in this context. Nehama emphasized the eternal relevance of the Torah, not its setting in the ancient world.

            As Rivka Horowitz points out, Nehama realized that secular biblical scholarship often was inimical to traditional values and did not always value the meaning of each and every word in Tanakh. Could it be that Nehama’s unusually sharp attacks against the “rodfei ha-peshat” (where Rashbam, Ibn Ezra, and Radak bear the brunt of her criticism) were also a veiled polemic against these secular scholars?

Like all traditionalists, Nehama believed that Jewish values emerge from the text of the Torah. She also considered any deviations from peshat a compromise to one’s interpretation. Rashi was her ideal commentator, because he noticed the finest text nuances and tried to capture their religious messages. Perhaps her extreme assertion that Rashi cited Midrashim exclusively motivated by the text emerged from her confidence that Rashi shared her own approach (cf. Ahrend, pp. 44–45; Cohn, p. 97). As several writers in Pirkei Nehama have demonstrated, however, many earlier mefarshim—even Rashi—balanced textual and religious agendas in their commentaries.

Conclusion

The writers in Pirkei Nehama convincingly demonstrate that Nehama’s principles of interpretation are limiting on several fronts. By downplaying the role of historical context, one loses dimensions of the Sages and later commentators as teachers and spiritual guides in history (Gottlieb, Grossman, Touitou). By treating all commentators synchronically, one does not appreciate the development of ideas over time, or the contributions of individual exegetes (Simon). By ignoring the historical setting of Tanakh, one forfeits the gains that parallel Near Eastern sources offer (Ahrend, G. Cohn). In a majority of these instances, however, Nehama appears to have consciously sacrificed those dimensions of Tanakh study in favor of the living discussions and evaluations made possible by her synchronic, non-historical focus.

Returning to the premise of Simon’s article, much of our discussion revolves around the formulation of one’s questions. Nehama asks: What does the Torah, as a divinely revealed, living document, teach us? How can Midrashim and mefarshim highlight these lessons? Simon asks: How has a given text been interpreted historically? When did different questions and ideas first appear in Jewish exegesis? What influence did earlier commentators have on later commentators? Grossman and Touitou ask: How did Rashi, Rashbam and others use their commentaries to promote their religious ideals in medieval Christian Europe?

Let us return to Rashi’s treatment of “Anokhi. Esav bekhorekha.” In a study parallel to his own on the Joseph narratives, Uriel Simon would quote Rashi’s comment with its midrashic antecedents, and then show how later commentators generally rejected this interpretation as being distant from peshat. Avraham Grossman and Elazar Touitou would cite this comment of Rashi as proof that he was addressing polemical issues. Alternatively, or as a complementary suggestion, they could maintain that Rashi was offering an educational lesson in the greatness of biblical heroes.[37]

For Nehama, though, these discussions may be important for understanding Rashi, but they are not relevant to a peshat understanding of the Jacob narratives. According to Nehama, the Torah teaches that Jacob erred in his deception, and paid a heavy price for it.[38] So naturally, she omitted Rashi’s comments, which do not fit the peshat of the text.[39] A comment by Rashi such as this one undermines Nehama’s sweeping assertion in her study of Rashi’s methodology, where Rashi is the primary source. But her iyyun, where the Torah is the primary source, should not be, and is not, affected at all.

Ultimately, the tension between viewing mefarshim as secondary or primary sources always will remain. At the same time, however, the related disciplines ideally will grow together, shedding light on each other’s insights. Our task is to remain fully conscious of these different perspectives, what each can contribute, and the strengths and limitations of each viewpoint. The essays in this volume successfully bring many of these issues into sharp focus.

            Pirkei Nehama is a meaningful tribute to Nehama, exploring and evaluating her contributions to Tanakh and parshanut, her methodology, and her educational techniques. We may now better appreciate her work in its historical context and her learning and educational methods. We can appreciate the areas of inquiry generally missing from her approach. Most importantly, Nehama’s legacy will not be found primarily in her contributions to our understanding of the mefarshim; it is in her peerless ability to use the teachings of our Sages and commentators to guide us lovingly through every nuance of the eternally relevant Torah.

Notes

On December 10, 1966 Shmuel Yosef Agnon, the great Israeli Hebrew writer, delivered a speech at the Nobel banquet on the occasion of his having been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Quoting from the Bible, the Jewish Prayer book and rabbinic tradition, Agnon was as clear as possible that he was a Jew, a faithful Jew steeped in Judaism. He pointed out the dilemma of the Jewish People living centuries in Exile, and now struggling to find their way back to their ancient homeland in Israel.  “As a result of the historic catastrophe in which Titus of Rome destroyed Jerusalem, and Israel was exiled from its land, I was born in one of the cities of the Exile. But always I regarded myself as one who was born in Jerusalem.” As he concluded his remarks, he said: “If I am proud of anything, it is that I have been granted the privilege of living in the land which God promised our forefathers to give us.”

Agnon (1887-1970) was born in Buczacz, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, now Buchach, Ukraine. His original family name was Czaczkes. In 1908 he emigrated to Jaffa in the land of Israel. In 1913 he moved to Germany where he married Esther Marx; they had two children. The businessman and publisher, Salman Schocken, became Agnon’s literary patron and freed him from financial worries. In 1924, a fire broke out in Agnon’s home, destroying his manuscripts and library. Shortly thereafter he and his family moved to Jerusalem where he continued his career as a prolific Hebrew writer.

Agnon’s work is laced with biblical and Talmudic passages. His stories and novels did not always have powerful or complicated plots; rather, it was his style of writing that engages the reader. He is calm, wise, gentle. He tells his stories as though he is talking to you in his living room over a cup of tea, without pretensions or pomposity. The reader comes to see Agnon as an older, wiser friend…someone whose memories and thoughts have weight.

In his book, A City in its Fullness, he offers a nostalgic account of the town in which he was born and raised. His stories were about “former days, when the town stood in peace.” Agnon comments: “I was able to tell the things calmly and not in sorrow, and one would not have known from my voice what had happened to my town—that all the Jews in it had been killed. The Holy One, blessed be He, has been gracious to Israel: even when we remember the greatness and glory of bygone days, our soul does not leave us out of sorrow and longing. Thus a man like me can talk about the past, and his soul doesn’t pass out of him as he speaks” (p. 10).

There is irony in his words. He notes that all the Jews of the town were murdered, but then refers to the graciousness of the Holy One, blessed be He! How was the Almighty “gracious to Israel?” He lets them recount the past, including the tragedies, without dying of sorrow! Is Agnon speaking piously, in profound resignation to the will of God? Or is he mocking the notion of God’s being “gracious to Israel?”  Agnon was indeed a religious man; but he was not at peace with God’s treatment of the Jews.

 In spite of their sufferings in Buczacz, the Jews loved their birthplace. But after World War I, life became increasingly unbearable. Poverty was rampant. The government made constant decrees to the detriment of the Jews. “The old took comfort in the fact that they would soon die and not much longer have to endure their afflictions; they would be buried in the city where their ancestors were buried. The young looked toward the four corners of the earth for a place where they would be allowed to live. And the fewest of these few prepared to emigrate to the Land of Israel in order to work its land and to establish for themselves and their descendants a haven where they could be free of the yoke of Exile, which has been Israel’s burden since the day it left its land. Meanwhile, each saw himself living in the land of his birth as but a guest for the night” (pp. 560-61). This was the eternal Jewish dilemma—to be living in places of Exile for generations but always feeling as strangers. Agnon saw the return to the Jewish homeland in Israel as the key to Jews finally feeling really at home in the world.

In his book, A Guest for the Night, he describes having returned to his old town in Europe, that was now in terrible straits after the first World War. “I went to the Beit Midrash and stood before the locked door. Many thoughts passed through my mind in a short time, and this is one of them: the Beit Midrash still exists, but I am standing outside, because I have lost the key and cannot get in” (p. 83). He found a locksmith to make a new key for the Beit Midrash. He hired someone to keep the fire burning in the fireplace so that the place was warm. Slowly, men began to gather again in the Beit Midrash, if only to stay warm on cold winter days. The Jews had been living in this town for generations; the Beit Midrash was coming back to life.

And yet, this was still the Exile. The authorities had the power to oppress the Jews, even to expel them. “I was born in this town and spent most of my youth here—but an official, who was not born here and has done nothing here but enjoy the best the town can give, may come along and tell me: Go, you belong to another country and you have no permission to stay with us. I thought of my forefathers, whose bones are interred in the town’s graveyard….I thought of my other relatives who had bestowed many benefits on the townsfolk—and now the authorities, who inherited all these benefits, could come and expel me from the town” (p. 110).

When he ultimately returned to the land of Israel, he had inadvertently also brought a key to the Beit Midrash with him. He put the key in a box and locked it; he made a necklace and wore it around his neck. He recalled the Midrash that in messianic days, the synagogues and study halls of the diaspora will be miraculously transported to the holy land of Israel. But when will the messiah bring this redemption?  The key “is made of iron and brass, and it can wait, but I, who am flesh and blood, find it hard to endure” (pp. 508-9).

Agnon wonders about the sense of security felt by some Jews living outside the holy land. He tells the story of Mr. Lublin who lived in Leipzig and became a German citizen. Mr. Lublin wasn’t particularly observant religiously, and worked hard in his store to make a living and be a good citizen. Mr. Lublin believed that “Germany sees that all of us, all Germany’s Jewish citizens, sacrifice our children and our wealth for its war against the enemy, and is it possible that after all this they will still deprive us of our rights? Isn’t this so? Why are you looking at me like that?” (In Mr. Lublin’s Store, p.189). Why? Because the narrator (Agnon) thought Mr. Lublin was naïve to trust that the Germans would actually treat Jews fairly, as loyal citizens. No matter how many sacrifices Jews made on behalf of Germany, they were still always going to be victims, always strangers, always mistrusted. Exile was exile. Period.

Agnon has a particular nostalgia for authentic prayer. In his story “Hemdat the Cantor,” he describes how Hemdat ascended the prayer desk on the night of Yom Kippur. “And when he came to the pulpit he gripped it with his two hands, and cried out “’Oi!’ As if it were all-devouring fire. A sudden awe fell upon the entire congregation and all rose and stood and trembled….Hemdat raised his head, his eyes closed and compressed, groping in the air, his eyeglasses swimming in tears….He covered his face with his tallit down to his heart, and he began to give voice, every time in a melody sweeter than the last. Then I understood what Father meant when he said, He who has heard the Kol Nidrei of Hemdat, knows what Kol Nidrei is” (p. 58). The people were uplifted by Hemdat’s prayers. “For Hemdat prayed in awe and fear and feeling and with a broken heart, for Israel the holy nation, who sought to return to Him with a whole heart” (p. 59).

In reminiscing about his hometown of Buczacz, he tells of a man who recited the Musaf and gave him “a real taste of prayer.” The prayer leader had a pleasant voice, but “it wasn’t a voice we heard; it was prayer” (p. 100). The heartfelt longing and yearning of sincere prayer was what inspired Agnon. He was not impressed with external shows of praying, but with actual reaching out to God. In his book, To This Day, he quotes a woman: “’An intellectual’”, she said, ‘is someone who can recite Psalms without tears.’ I couldn’t have put it any better myself” (p. 53).

Agnon was prayerful, even as he realized that he was living in an unredeemed world, where God’s mercy was not always evident. He named one of his books To This Day “in the language of thanksgiving for the past and of prayer for the future. As it says in the Sabbath morning service: To this day have Thy mercies availed us and Thy kindness not failed us, O Lord our God. And mayst Thou never abandon us ever” (p. 175).

Agnon’s writings are sprinkled with wise insights that invite us to ponder his words. In describing a young man who rediscovered the Hebrew language and his connection with the land of Israel, Agnon writes: “he is meticulous with language and meticulous in all his actions. His hair is wild, but his thoughts are orderly. His clothes are in tatters, but his soul is intact” (Shira, p. 176). In his short story, “The Night,” he notes: “But there are guests who come no matter how tightly one’s door is shut, as they are the thoughts surrounding our actions.” And in his story “Between Two Towns” he meditates: “The good Lord created a vast world, with many people in it whom He scattered wide, giving each place its singular quality and endowing every man with singular wisdom. You leave home and meet people from another place, and your mind is expanded by what you hear.” 

And poignantly, he writes of “two Austrians who meet outside of town and one says to the other, ‘where are you going? And the other replies, ‘I’m off to the forest to be alone.’ ‘Why, I also want to be alone,’ exclaims the first. ‘Let’s go together’” (“In the Prime of Her Life”). This might serve as Agnon’s invitation to readers: I want to be alone, but I want you to come along with me so we can be alone together.  

R. David Weiss Halivni [1927-2022] was not just a gadol ha-dor, a great sage of our generation, but he was a gadol ha-dorot, a Torah scholar whose impact will likely transcend his own time and culture horizon. Best known for his breathtakingly monumental Meqorot u-Mesorot [Sources and Traditions], his multi-volume, academic commentary on the Babylonian Talmud, R. Halivni has also written monographs on the Holocaust,^[i] the difference between the plain or originalist sense of the canonical Torah and how the Torah was subsequently understood by the Oral Torah library,^[ii] and the challenge that Bible Criticism poses for the Judaism of Tradition that is identified as “Orthodox.”^[iii]

R. Halivni most significant finding relates to the teaching that Ravina I and R.  Ashi were the last rabbis to be authorized to issue hora’ah,^[iv] or apodictic legislation. Contrary to traditional belief, R. Halivni argues that they were not the actual editors or compilers of the Babylonian Talmud.  Instead, R. Halivni maintains that the Babylonian Talmud was not formally edited,^[v]  but emerged out of the literary and exegetical work of the stamma’im, whose anonymous, Aramaic, casuistic, clarifying discourse expanded and reconstructed the historically earlier Hebrew, apodictic, Amoraic teachings they inherited.^[vi] 

My first connection with R. Halivni goes back to 1968. At R. Halivni’s son, Baruch’s, bar mitsvah at the Jewish Theological Seminary’s [henceforth, JTS] Synagogue, the 13 year old prodigy delivered a discourse on the propriety of wearing tefillin on the intermediate festival days.  As a first year student at the JTS’s Rabbinical School, I understood nothing of Baruch’s presentation, a most humbling experience.

Only JTS’s most talented, Talmudically proficient, entering rabbinical students were assigned to R. Halivni’s class, and I was not an appropriate candidate for that placement. In 1970, Hakham Prof. Jose Faur became my major Torah mentor [rav muvhaq] and at the time I was busy with Judaic studies at JTS and Ph.D. coursework in modern Hebrew literature at NYU. Although not his student, R. Halivni took a personal interest in me. At the senior Rabbinical School dinner of 1973, R. Halivni reminded the graduating students that their mission is to spread Torah observance and learning, not to preach about social action, civil rights, interfaith dialogue, or partisan party politics.  And when R. Halivni teasingly proclaimed that “rabbis ought not to waste their pulpit time and opportunities on book reviews,” his eyes were fixed on me, being trained at JTS to be a Rabbi and at NYU to be a reviewer of Hebrew books.^[vii]

When the JTS voted to accept women to its Rabbinical School by faculty vote, some Halakhically committed rabbis and laypeople then seceded from the Conservative Movement^[viii] and formed what eventually became the Union for Traditional Judaism, the American UTJ,^[ix] with R. Halivni at its helm as its spiritual guide.

The UTJ established a rabbinical ordination program under R. Halivni’s direction, named The Metivta le-Limmudei ha-Yahadut, which in English is  rendered “The  Institute   for Traditional Judaism,” or the  ITJ. The Hebrew/Aramaic name affirmed that the institution is a metivta, a traditional Yeshiva committed to advocating and advancing the Judaism encoded in the classical Halakhah, that applies academic tools to parse and decode Judaism’s sacred library.  In 1991, I was appointed to the ITJ faculty to teach Bible, Hebrew, Aramaic, and Shulhan  ‘Arukh Yoreh De’ah Issur ve-Heter, the  kashrut laws that are the subject of the Orthodox Rabbinical ordination examination.

At the time, I was planning aliyyah and was advised by Rabbi Shlomo Riskin to acquire the Yadin Yadin ordination.^[x] R. Halivni graciously agreed to supervise my Yadin Yadin studies, which was daunting, challenging, and thrilling. And as the Reish Metivta, the head of the school, R. Halivni also became my boss, who would examine and evaluate the Issur ve-Heter students whom I was assigned to prepare.

R.  Halivni’s JTS students were advanced academic Talmudists who learned how the Oral Torah literary canon came into being. And at JTS, R. Halivni was rightly honored as an academic professor; at the ITJ, he was cherished both for his immense learning and his profoundly religious character, example, and consistent moral excellence. At the UTJ/ITJ, R. Halivni provided religious as well as academic leadership.

My mission at the UTJ was also only partially academic.  Studying Halakhic compendia^[xi] like the Shulhan ‘Arukh in order to prescribe appropriate behavior is a normative enterprise with religious as well as academic significance.  In point of fact, there are actually no official, Bet Din ha-Gadol approved codices in Jewish Law.  Both Maimonides’  Yad and Maran Yosef Karo’s  Shulhan ‘Arukh  are  resource compendia and as such are neither the last nor only word in Jewish Law. R. Halivni’s logical mind forced me to appreciate the dynamic taxonomy of the Halakhah, and he expected those who earned his ordination to think logically as well. 

All but my first farher [traditional oral examination] took place at the Hebrew University Giv’at Ram campus Jewish studies reading rooms of the Israel National Library. R. Halivni’s unofficial but permanent library seat [maqom qavu’a] was at the right side end seat of the first reader’s row of tables, with a small reference library placed neatly before him. This scene recalled his JTS office, where R. Halivni formerly said his shi’ur to his small cadre of advanced students. The walls were lined with both sefarim and books, tomes of sacred as well as secular writings,^[xii] in elegant order, meticulously and logically arranged, all to aid in the search for the Torah’s meaning. R. Halivni’s JTS office was a miniature bet midrash, a statement of sacred subversion,^[xiii] an island of order and purpose in an ocean of chaotic disorder, a world where there is no apparent Judge or judgment.^[xiv] At  Hebrew University’s Giv’at Ram library, R. Halivni was not hidden behind an office door; he naturally assumed the role of informal shoeil u-meshiv, the reference resource person of the bet midrash. In the traditional bet midrash, the shoeil u-meshiv must be conversant with the Babylonian Talmud, the major early commentaries [Rishonim], Maimonides’ Yad compendium, and the Shulhan ‘Arukh with its commentaries. At the large Giv’at Ram Judaica reading room, R. Halivni not only exhibited total control of the entire Rabbinic corpus, occasionally playfully employing the “Brisk”/”analytic” approach, which he did not teach,  as  well as the academic/critical method that he adopted, because he believed that method leads to truth. R. Halivni was also well informed in all fields of academic Judaica. Simply put, undergraduate students, doctoral candidates, and tenured professors all sought out R. Halivni’s memory, expertise, guidance, wisdom, and generosity.

In addition to dispensing information to everyone who asked him for help, R. Halivni also communicated friendship, warmth and personal concern.^[xv]  Like his leadership role at the ITJ, at the National Library the professor was also a rebbe. R. Halivni loved  people  because he loved the Torah that requires that the Jew love one’s compatriot with intensity.^[xvi] R. Halivni’s ethical deportment and personal warmth generated an atmosphere where secular, academic monographs wafted the scent of sefarim, because they became volumes that make Torah more readable, understandable, and applicable.

R. Halivni also”presided” over the National Library minhah minyan at the campus library.  It would not possibly occur to R. Halivni to seek this unofficial position of honor; the Jewish Studies Library’s attendees saw in R. Halivni an individual who was at once a giant in Torah, a master of academic Judaica, and a model of ethical excellence.^[xvii] R. Halivni’s interactions with others provided both academic enlightenment as well as a spiritual thrill to everyone who sought his presence. After the daily minhah minyan and just before our scheduled farher, I asked R. Halivni “why at this minyan is the ‘amidah not repeated, as the repetition is required by an explicit Rabbinic norm?”^[xviii]  Pleased that the question was raised, R. Halivni responded, “while one should take the time to say the minhah prayers, the salaried librarians would be stealing time work from their employer, the National Library, were the ‘amidah to be repeated.”  

The quality attention that R. Halivni gave to all comers at the National Library was the same care that he provided to the American UTJ and its Metivta, and it was same care he gave to me, his Yadin Yadin student. R. Halivni provided me with a tutorial in his approach to normative, prescriptive Jewish law. At one session R. Halivni posed the question, “why do we study Torah?” I answered “because it is a mitsvah.” He responded,  
”the ‘Litvaks’ study Torah for the sake of Torah; I study Torah in order to know how to behave.   Torah study is equal to all the other commandments because Torah study shows us how to observe the other commandments.”^[xix] I understood him to be saying that proper Torah study is simultaneously a commandment in its own right and also an exercise in ‘avodah, or prayer.   R. Halivni could play at thinking like a Litvak, but his personal religious synthesis remained Hassidic.

Two-thirds of R. Halivni’s two hour farher sessions examined my control of the material assigned for that year’s test, and the last third was a  conversation in learning during which R. Halivni spoke to me as a peer, and not as a novice. He was challenging me to formulate my own Halakhic hermeneutic, and to apply an appropriate jurisprudential methodology.^[xx]

My very first farher covered the Laws of Judges and the Laws of Testimony.  Focusing on Hoshen Mishpat 34. R. Halivni opened with “what is at stake in  the Laws of Testimony?” I answered with guarded hesitation, “we  are dealing with a matter of  personal status, whether someone is a tsaddiq, a righteous Jew with  proper communal standing upon whose word in court the community may rely, or a rash’a, a wicked  person whose  behavior  does  not  conform  to Jewish Law.”^[xxi] Jewish Law here defines the parameters of Halakhic pluralism. If a person buries one’s dead on the first Festival day mistakenly believing that there is an obligation to bury one’s dead on the first Festival day,^[xxii] that person does not necessarily lose one’s bona fides.^[xxiii] Similarly, charging and collecting interest by lending capital from the orphans’ estate does not automatically disqualify the offender, who may mistakenly reason that taking interest in order to grow the orphans’ estate is a worthy act.^[xxiv]  Those who trespass rules that are not well known must be informed of their error before their bona fides are disqualified, because everyone is entitled to a generous benefit of the doubt assessment.^[xxv]  We should not jump to hasty, negative conclusions.^[xxvi] The “other” might be correct; we have the right to think for ourselves.^[xxvii]  R. Halivni was pleased, and again, I was extremely relieved.

Since part of my Metivta teaching responsibility was to prepare the   ITJ rabbinical students for R.  Halivni’s test on Issur ve-Heter, R. Halivni required that I be re-examined by him on that material as well, in order to  ascertain that I was preparing my Issur ve-Heter students adequately, that they mastered the assigned material to R. Halivni’s standards. R. Halivni was teaching me how as well as what to teach our students.  R. Halivni’s conversations in learning with me were, retrospectively, the programming of my Halakhic thinking with his particular perspective regarding the Halakhic Tradition. He was well aware of my talmid muvhaq relationship with his own close friend and professional colleague, Hakham Faur, and was also pleased that I was exposed to the Halakhic system of Rabbis Moshe Feinstein and Moshe Tendler. Rather than impose his template on me, R. Halivni encouraged me to develop my own system, and to be a Rebbe as well as a Rav, with a heart as well as a mind.

After studying and being tested on the laws of damages, R. Halivni inquired about my secular education.  I had majored as an undergraduate in Philosophy, in order to get a handle on the Western mind and thought. R. Halivni then went into personal mode, confessing that is exactly why he studied Philosophy for his B.A. at Brooklyn College and earned his M.A. at NYU, also in Philosophy, and especially to master Logic and Legal Theory, in order to learn Torah more effectively. Jurisprudence teaches how law is applied; logic reveals the Law’s coherency.  R. Halivni then asked me if I had done any reading in legal theory and, if so, who was my favorite legal theorist.  Hakham Faur also applied legal theory in his Halakhah classes at JTS and I had discovered Hans Kelsen’s “Pure Theory of Law,” whose Legal Positivism was anticipated by Maimonides’ Yad compendium.^[xxviii] According to this  approach, a legal order is a hierarchy of legislated norms, the validity of which  are conditioned by [1] being properly legislated and [2] their not contradicting  higher grade norms.^[xxix] R. Halivni then told me that had I not studied legal philosophy, he would have required me to do readings in the field.^[xxx]

The issue of legal theory arose again when R. Halivni and I were at a UTJ conference in Teaneck, N.J., and a buffet   luncheon was served.  At that moment I was speaking to a lawyer and UTJ leader, Mr. Doug Aronin.  I told him that we may not eat in the UTJ’s Orthodox synagogue sanctuary^[xxxi] because the Oral Torah regards that eating and/or drinking in a designated,   sanctified prayer room to be an act of levity, and is therefore forbidden by an explicit Halakhic norm.^[xxxii] Taking understandable offense for what he took to be a slight and insult to our teacher and spiritual guide, by being stricter than R. Halivni, Mr. Aronin went out of his way to bring our teacher to challenge me to explain why I should not eat in the UTJ’s synagogue sanctuary. After citing the source of the law, R. Halivni replied that Diaspora synagogues are built on condition, because they will be abandoned when the Messiah arrives. I countered that when Diaspora synagogues are in good repair, the qallut rosh restrictions remain in force.^[xxxiii] R. Halivni said, “nu nu, Hassidim are lenient on this issue.” While here R. Halivni revealed that he decided cases as a Legal Realist,^[xxxiv] which also explains Hassidic antinomianism,^[xxxv] he never ever hinted that I should abandon my more mechanical Legal Positivism.

After surviving R.  Halivni’s  farher on Issur  ve-Heter, R. Halivni then told me that logically, we really should first study the laws of mixtures [ta’arovot], and only after mastering the legal principles of mixtures would it be logical to apply the principles of mixtures in general to the rules of salting meat and the legal status of milk  and meat mixtures.  He then asked, “why am I assigning you to learn the Passover kosher laws for next year’s examination? Why do I make this assignment now?” My answer was “we apply the logic of the mixtures rules to the contaminating hamets.” R. Halivni’s logical mind was beginning to shape how I think.

R. Halivni’s assignment of Even ha-‘Ezer 17, the laws of the “’agunah,” the “chained woman”  who is legally married to a man who is either unable or unwilling to commission the writing of the writ of divorce, came with a research  question,  “how are we able to free the agunah?”  He then confided to me that he earned his own Yadin Yadin ordination when he was 15 years old in order to permit Holocaust agunot widows to remarry and resume their lives after World War II. We discussed the case of a woman for whom two witnesses testified that her husband had died, a bet din gave her permission to remarry, which she did,^[xxxvi] yet both Maimonides^[xxxvii] and R. Ovadiah of Bartenora^[xxxviii]  ruled according to the flow of the Bavli^[xxxix] determined that should her first husband reappear alive and well, they forbid the woman to both men, even if the bet din permitted the woman remarry on the basis of two properly vetted witnesses.^[xl]  In order to defend what my intuition deemed to be morally appropriate in the case, I suggested that we consider and apply R. Halivni’s suggested approach to Talmud to Jewish law.  Maimonides and R. Ovadiah rule, understandably, according to the conclusion of the stam, the post-Amoraic, post-hora’ah level of Talmudic text tradition.  On the other hand, R. Moses Isserles decided that if the woman acted according to the good faith direction of the bet din, even if the bet din made an honest error in permitting the woman to remarry, the horrible sanction that she be forbidden to both men ought not to apply to her.^[xli]  And the Amora Rav, whose legal opinions do carry canonical, Oral Torah valence, ruled that a woman who remarries on the basis of two witnesses has done nothing improper and should therefore not suffer any sanction or penalty. While the stam suggests that we cannot ignore the actual, factual reappearance of her first husband, mistakenly thought to be deceased, Rav implies that the Bet Din is indeed empowered to create legal facts that may contradict empirical facts, a legal strategy that might be applied in emergency situations [she’at ha-dohaq].^[xlii]

Some Orthodox voices are troubled by this approach because it calls the reliability of the Rabbis who formulated the Oral Torah documents into question.^[xliii] The Talmudic Rabbis possessed legal authority, not intellectual inerrancy. The tractate Horayyot deals with the possibility that people in authority may make mistakes. By identifying rulings which, on literary grounds may post-date Rav  Ashi, we may rely on authorities, like R. Isserles, who appears, at first glance, to be ruling against the Talmudic norm. The Talmud’s norms are “ought” statements called prescriptions and are on that basis mandatory; Talmudic descriptions are [a] acts of telling, narratives, in Hebrew, Agadah, which are as a matter of Law not legally binding because they are not commands by dint of their syntax, and [b] are subject to empirical review and revision because they are descriptions and not descriptions. I am unaware of any Orthodox rabbi who requires the application of Talmudic medicine as opposed to modern medical science in our time.

Curiously, R. Halivni's application to the JTS’s Rabbinical School was almost rejected by its Admissions Committee because R. Halivni did not project the “image” of the “successful” Conservative rabbi.  This Conservative rabbinic ideal must be sufficiently “traditional” to register as “authentic” to the minimally informed, non-observant laity who are that Movement’s target  client population, but not so obsessively observant that one’s Judaism appears to be more intense than one’s Americanism, rendering that rabbi too parochial, “too ‘Orthodox,’” and thus alienating to their communities.  R. Halivni was thought to be so hopelessly provincial that he would be neither appreciated nor appropriate in a mid 20^th Century Conservative synagogue setting.  R. Saul Lieberman intervened, insisting that R. Halivni was to be groomed for Talmud scholarship, the enterprise for which he proved to singularly appropriate and universally appreciated, and R. Halivni was then accepted into the JTS’s Rabbinical School.  In hindsight, the JTS’s Rabbinical School’s Admissions Committee’s initial reservations regarding R. Halivni’s ability to “fit in” to the Conservative Movement as it was developing were not entirely misplaced. American Conservative Jewry was led by Rabbis  who were appropriately and unambiguously American in dress and deportment. They are also invariably well-spoken, politically and theologically liberal, and are passionately committed to accommodating Judaism to the ethnic Jewish taste culture of its client community.  R. Halivni could not meet that benchmark, as he was from and lived in other worlds.

R. Halivni’s “problem” was that he was programmed to be a “Rov,”  not a “Rabbi.” His Judaism defined his core commitments, his Torah provided the benchmarks and guidelines for  the challenges that was his to confront. This  tension, between the Jewish religious  Tradition and the militantly secular Ivy League Columbia University campus was noted by R.  Channa Lockshin Bob, who  described R. Halivni as

“a person whose sensibilities and demeanor were that of a rosh yeshiva, yet who found himself in the Department of Religion of an Ivy League university, and the implications of that setting for himself and for his students.”^[xliv] 

During one of our  farher/conversation sessions, R. Halivni confided to me that many of early Reform Judaism’s changes could be Halakhically justified. And he always stressed that Torah has to be doable and that it is not more pious to be gratuitously strict.^[xlv]

R. Halivni was also an amazing religious model.  He never spoke with the implied apodictic certainty of prophetic voice, as do some rabbis in all of the ideological streams. While well aware of his own greatness, R. Halivni remained a model of refined, ethical excellence. He always made his interlocutor feel like she or he was the center of the world by listening so very attentively to whomever his interlocutor happened to be at the moment.  While always generous with his time, R. Halivni rarely if ever said mussar/words of moral reproof and betterment.   He was a master of teaching by example. R. Halivni loved God by showing love to people, God’s creatures.   When asked by one of my ITJ students, “how really great is R. Halivni,” I suggested that

“Most if not all of us will ever be able to make that assessment, but when you hear R. Halivni speak, you observe how he respects God’s image in the other person, and when he speaks to each of you, you also become the most important person in his world at that moment. While we are unable to measure the Torah that he went through, we are able to assess the effect of the immense amount Torah went through him.”^[xlvi] 

R. Halivni’s mussar message was not “how inadequate are you now,” but “how holy are you able to become? All of us are works in progress.  Let’s be better together.”

A Rabbinical Council of America colleague recalled a sermon delivered by R. Halivni that called attention to the difference between a tashmish mitsva, an object that generates holiness by its being used in a halakhically prescribed way, like a lulav, shofar, and matsa, and tashmishei qedushah, objects that are themselves inherently holy, like a mezuzah, a Talmudic tome, or a Torah scroll.  R. Halivni explained that in this life we are objects that generate holiness by observing the commandments.^[xlvii] For R. Halivni, our mission as mortals is to become persons who become inherently holy, who touch, and inherit, eternity. ^[xlviii]

^[i] Breaking the Tablets: Jewish Theology After the Shoah (Lanham, Md.:  Rowman & Littlefield, 2007).

^[ii] Peshat and Derash: Plain and Applied Meaning in Rabbinic Exegesis (New  York:  Oxford, 1991).

^[iii] Revelation Restored: Divine Writ and Critical Responses  (Boulder, Colorado: WestviewPress, 1997).

^[iv] bBava Metsi’a 86a.

^[v] David Halivni, Introduction to Sources and Traditions: Studies in the Formation of the Talmud (Jerusalem:  Magnes, 2009), pp. 63-64 and 75-76.

^[vi] Ibid., pp. 128-136.

^[vii] When R. Halivni teased a student, it was always an expression of playful affection. When attending his Hebrew University Talmud class after aliyyah, in my rush get settled, I inadvertently placed my copy of R. Halivni’s Meqorot u-Mesorot on top  of  my Talmud. He chided me, “while I’m proud  of my work, it must  be placed under, and not over,  the Talmud.”  R. Halivni was also  reminding me as well as all who were present, that we all should be more precise  in our halakhic observance.

^[viii] Mordecai M. Kaplan, Judaism as a Civilization (Philadelphia and New York: Jewish Publication Society, 1981), maintains that the “modern ideology,” which is essentially dogmatic secularism [pp. 36-46], can neither be resisted nor denied. For Kaplan, the Conservative Movement is a coalition of style consisting of the
“Right” wing of Reform [pp.126-132] and the “Left” wing of Neo-Orthodoxy [pp. 160-169.  Kaplan argued that maintaining Orthodox theological and/or ritual commitments is hopelessly arcane and morally deficient.

^[ix] Not to be confused with the Israeli Haredi political party, United Torah Judaism, in Hebrew, “Yahadut ha-Torah,” literally “The Judaism of the Torah,” implying it alone is  Torah faithful.  The party is currently on the  brink of schism because its Degel ha-Torah faction forbids any non-Torah studies, like mathematics and English, to be taught in its yeshivot. See https://www.theyeshivaworld.com/news/headlines-breaking-stories/2108588/is-degel-hatorah-on-the-way-to-a-split-with-agudas-yisrael.html.  In contrast, the

American UTJ embraces  secular learning.    

^[x]  During these happenings, I had resigned from the Conservative Rabbinical Assembly, received Orthodox ordinations from R. Oscar Fasman of Chicago’s [actually, Skokie] Hebrew Theological College, R. Moshe D. Tendler of Yeshiva University’s Rabbinical program [RIETS] and R. Mordecai Eliahu, at the time the Sefardic  Chief Rabbi of the State of Israel, and then joined the Rabbinical Council of America, served as the Rabbi of Congregation Israel of Springfield, N.J. and B’nai Israel Congregation, the recently revived Orthodox Synagogue of downtown Baltimore, Maryland. 

^[xi] Menachem Elon. Jewish Law: History, Sources, Principles (Jerusalem:  Magnes, 1973), pp. 1210-1212, is impatient with the major Jewish codes because, to his view, codes radically and artificially freeze Jewish Law   in place and time.  For a similar  view  from a source critical rather than jurisprudential perspective,  see  David Halivni, Midrash, Mishnah, and Gemara: The Jewish Predilection for Justified Law (Cambridge and London:  Harvard, 1986), where R. Halivni shows that the Mishnah’s apodictic diction, which is similar to the syntax of Codes, is the exception to the Rabbis’ preference for Midrash Halakhah and the Babylonian Talmud’s stammaitic, justificatory discourse [p.  115].

^[xii] This is the major  difference between the Israeli and American UTJ’s. The  Israeli  UTJ rejects non-sacred learning, while the American  UTJ embraces it. 

^[xiii] My thanks  go to R. Daniel Landes,  who  introduced me to this idiom.

^[xv] According to  mAvot  1:15 and 3:12, this deportment is mandatory.

^[xvi] Leviticus 19:18 very  subtly commands  intense love,  as the Hebrew  verb “to love” is a transitive verb.  Deuteronomy 6:5 employs the Hebrew particle “et,” which marks  direct objects, when commanding the loving of the Lord. The ”lamed” prefix, when preceding a noun and following a verb, also marks  the direct object of  a transitive verb. This ”lamed” accusative marker is standard in Aramaic, as in the Passover poem, Had Gadya.

^[xvii] As described at Maimonides, De’ot   5:1  and 5.

^[xviii] bRosh ha-Shanah   34b. See also comprehensive summary at https://www.etzion.org.il/he/halakha/orach-chaim/prayer-and-blessings/repetition-shemoneh-esrei-1 and https://www.yeshiva.org.il/midrash/2789.

^[xix] mPe’ah 1:1. It was reported a family member that  R. Halivni, who resided in Jerusalem’s high rise Wolfson Towers, would not avail himself of the building’s Shabbat elevator, even though rabbinic decrees do not apply to the infirmed [see bKetubbot 60a and Shulhan ‘Aruch 328:14]. This “stricture” testifies to the degree R. Halivni took Torah to heart.        

^[xx] My preparation for Chief Rabbi Mordechai Eliahu’s ordination included  Bet Yosef and Kaf ha-Hayyim and my learning under R. Tendler’s supervision was a personal tutorial in R. Moshe Feinstein’s method, mind, and approach to religious leadership. R. Halivni pushed me to formulate my own approach to resolving Halakhic conflict, being both fair to my questioners and honest to God.

^[xxi] Shulhan ‘Aruch Hoshen Mishpat 34:1-3.

^[xxii] Deuteronomy 21:23.

^[xxiii] Shulhan ‘Aruch Hoshen Mishpat 34:4.

^[xxiv] Ibid. 34:11.

^[xxv] mAvot 1:5

^[xxvi]  mAvot 1:1.

^[xxvii]  mAvot   4:8.

^[xxviii] See my "Legal Positivism and Contemporary Legal Discourse," The Jewish Law Annual  6 (1987), republished in ed., Martin P. Golding,  Jewish Law and Legal Theory, (New York: l Press, 1993).

^[xxix] Hans Kelsen, Pure Theory of Law, trans. Max Knight (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London, University of California, 1967), p. 5 and pp. 198-214, and https://plato.stanford.edu,/entries/lawphil-theory/. For Legal Positivists, the judge applies the legal norm, but does not create or legislate norms.

^[xxx] This was the teaching culture at JTS 50 years  ago.  In my JTS classes in Hebrew literature, the literary texts   were read along with relevant literary theory, providing the student with a logical, methodological toolbox.

^[xxxi] The synagogue of the UTJ had a partition between the  women’s and men’s section, which followed Ashkenazi Orthodox practice.

^[xxxii]bMegillah 28a.

^[xxxiii] Ibid., 28b.

^[xxxiv] Legal Realism maintains that judges apply their policy intuitions to generate Law. See https://intranet.mruni.ot 10”/upload/iblock/b15/008_tumonis.pdf. Orthodox  Legal Realists  often invoke Da’as Torah to justify their dismissing or ignoring problematic Oral Torah norms. My Legal Positivism moved me to don tefillin on the intermediate festival day, because the permission to write  tefillin the intermediate festival day indicates that tefillin are to be worn at that time occasion [bMo’ed Qatan 19a]. At Laws of Tefillin, Mezuza and Torah scroll, 4:10, the Sefardi  Maimonides observes that tefillin are not worn on Shabbat or Yamim Tovim, that is full holidays, clearly implying what bMo’ed Qatan 19a is requiring, that . The  Ashkenazi school of Rashi [Mahzor Vitry, n. 513], R. Asher, Laws of Tefillin n. 15, and R. Isserles’ gloss to Shulhan ‘Aruch Orah Hayyim 31:2 articulate the old Ashkenazi tradition, which conforms  and confirms the canonical record at bMo’ed Qatan 19a. At Bet Yosef Orah Hayyim 31 Maran concedes that the original Sefardi practice was that tefillin be worn on the intermediate festival day, but just like the Greek classics were being discovered during the Renaissance, Maran mistook Zohar Hadash 2:8, Canticles, which disallows tefillin donning on the intermediate festival day, to be composed by the Tanna R. Shim’on bar Yohai, and consequently assigned Oral Torah canonicity to the work.  Simply put, the forbidding of tefillin on the intermediate festival is based, or biased, not upon a “’holy’ Zohar” vetted and approved by the Bet Din ha-Gadol, but on a forgery. At stake in this debate is whether ”tradition” is an integrity driven spiritual ethos or an inertia driven nostalgic preference.

Hear Rabbi J. J. Schacter at  http://www.yutorah.org/lectures/lecture.cfm/728404#, who demonstrates  that the Zohar often overrode Halakhic principle, and see Israel M. Ta Shma, Haa-Nigleh she-ba-Nistar:  le-Heqer Sheqi’ei Halakhah be-Sefer ha-Zohar (Tel Aviv: Kibbutz ha-Meuchad, 2001). This very debate is an example of Orthodox religious pluralism. Each side believes that the other side errs, but as we discovered in the Laws of Testimony, a generally observant Jew who, perhaps in error, sincerely believing that she or he is behaving in accord with the Halakhah does not forfeit one’s bona fides. Therefore, while my understanding leads me to the position that tefillin are mandatory on intermediate festival days, I may not condemn another Jew who on principle will rule according to the Zohar or Maran. One has a right to be wrong in the eyes of the “other."

^[xxxvi]mYevamot 10:1.

^[xxxvii]  Commentary to the Mishnah, ad. loc.

^[xxxviii] Commentary to the Mishnah, ad. loc.

^[xxxix] bYevamot 88a.  Another stammaitic  voice here formulates the policy “because of the ‘chained’ woman[’s plight] the rabbis ruled   leniently.” loc. cit.

^[xl] Deuteronomy 19:15.

^[xli] Shulhan ‘Aruch ‘Even ha-‘Ezer 17:58.

^[xlii] In an oral communication, R. Moshe D. Tendler explained that   a whole non-kosher animal is called a beriyya [a “creation”], whose  very being constitutes a quantity the consumption of which is a Torah violation, even if its bulk is less than the “olive” standard benchmark [bMakkot 13a]. However, the animal must be visible to the naked human eye. One-celled animals do not meet this benchmark, and are therefore not legally present as a point of Jewish Law.  Similarly, a mixture that  possesses one unidentifiable, undetectable part non-kosher contaminant to fifty-nine parts of kosher edibles is both an empirical reality and a legal nullity.

^[xliii] See R. Ahron Soloveitchik, Logic of the Heart, Logic of the Mind: Wisdom and Reflections on Topics of our Times (Genesis Jerusalem Press, 5751/1991), 45-57, which to his view “undermine(s) k’dushas haTorah [the sanctity/authority of Torah].” p. 46.  R. Soloveitchik, who also graduated from NYU, either opposes the exposure of rabbinic fallibility in the transmission of the Oral Tradition or he  disputes the “humanizing” of the Oral Torah, which would deny the “great rabbi” the right, power, and privilege of intuiting rather than demonstrating his position,.

^[xliv] https://thelehrhaus.com/timely-thoughts/the-maculate-conception-introducing-a-symposium-on-rabbi-prof-david-weiss-halivni/. See also Dr. Elana Stein Hain, “a student of Prof. Halivni over the course of twenty years, addressing his pathbreaking theory about the formation of the Babylonian Talmud, the intuitions and methods that he developed around his historical theory, and the abiding love of Torah study that animated his entire project.” Ibid.  This perspective is not  compatible with John Dewey’s militant secularism that came into neighboring JTS via Mordecai Kaplan’s naturalistic “modern ideology.”

^[xlv] bBerachot 6oa and elsewhere.  See https://www.hamichlol.org.il/%D7%9B%D7%95%D7%97_%D7%93%D7%94%D7%99%D7%AA%D7%A8%D7%90_%D7%A2%D7%93%D7%99%D7%A3. 

^[xlvi] This recalled rendering is the gist but not my exact words at the time which I no longer remember because  I failed  to record the comment at that time.

^[xlvii] This doctrine, that holiness is generated by obeying God’s commandments, first appears  at Numbers 15:40, and occurs in the Rabbinic commandment blessing formula, “who has sanctified us by means of  the commandments.” 

^[xlviii] See Isaiah 60:21 and Maimonides, Teshuva 8:4.