National Scholar Updates

Modern/Open Orthodoxy has emerged as the new, bold, and dynamic trend in the United States and Israel. It synthesizes Orthodoxy’s commitment to Jewish law, memory, and tradition with the social reality it happens to inhabit.

R. Mordecai Kaplan once observed that the Conservative Movement in American Judaism is no more than a convenient coalition of “traditional” Reformers and “liberal” Orthodox practitioners. Ironically, Reconstructionism's founder, who himself did not believe in prophecy, was here prophetic. The center of the American Jewish continuum could, would, and did not hold. Conservative Judaism’s signature slogan, “Tradition and Change” describes its living tensions, but it is not a first principle. By its nature, “Tradition” negotiates the creative tension between the unchanging sacred Book and the pushes, pulls, and pains of an irresistible, secular present. By substituting a vague, undefined “Tradition,” which changes slowly, for the eternal religious anchor called “Torah,” Conservative Judaism’s Jewish law was, for Kaplan, reduced to folkways, becoming “sancta,” and the Torah was no longer “from Heaven,” the historical expression of God’s contract with Israel. The Conservative rabbinic community is now reconsidering its ban on intermarriage. The demographic market for this indefinable, and for many, indefensible social/religious communal product seems to be shrinking rapidly.

Orthodoxy, by contrast, is growing demographically and divisively. Orthodox Jews marry at a younger age, creating more stable—and larger—families than do less-observant Jews. In Israel, 25 percent of Modern or Open Orthodox and 10 percent of Hareidi Orthodox do leave the communities into which they were born. But Orthodoxy’s retention rates are relatively high when compared to non-Orthodox Jewry or non-affiliating Jews. Neither the Conservative and Reform laity nor clergy enjoy Orthodoxy’s retention rates among their offspring. Yet Orthodoxy’s two contending streams remain rather impatient, if not unhappy, with each other. While Orthodoxy’s extremes are easy to identify, Orthodoxy’s center interacts with both Hareidi and Modernist Orthodox streams, albeit with an uneasy ambivalence.

Hareidi Orthodoxy proudly proclaims that it alone is Torah compliant; it points to its growing demographic numbers as well as the validating attraction of newly Hareidi “penitents,” who have undergone an ideological, “conversionary” experience. This Orthodoxy regards the Torah to be divine, but is readable and understandable only by its own elite, called the “gedolim,” i.e. the “great ones." Their human words reflect God’s will in and for our time. Hareidi policy proclaims that Jewry requires taller and stouter walls in order to keep troubling ideas from intruding into its sacred precincts. Forbidding owning televisions, discouraging computers for anything but professional use, listening to and being influenced by non-Hareidi media, and limiting secular studies are accepted if not required communal norms. Compliance to these social policies is a condition of Hareidi identity. Mandatory modesty codes, “accepted” social/religious expectations, and the ever-present threat of expulsion for non-compliance all contribute to Hareidi communal cohesiveness. This cohesion demands serious commitment and comes with a heavy social cost. Without a good secular education, supporting its larger families is a daunting task.

Hareidi full-time Torah study is a spiritual and social activity but is not permitted to become a creative intellectual enterprise. Torah’s true content may not be found in the plain, common sense, grammatical understanding of the Torah’s sacred library; it may be found only in the narrative that Hareidi rabbinic leaders read into the Torah canon. Unless one is a “godol,” a Hareidi-approved great rabbi, one does not even have the right to express a reasoned opinion or reaction to what one learns. Sinai's “Tradition” is not limited to the documented Oral Law library; it must be proclaimed by the “godol,” whose word is Torah incarnate. This Orthodoxy is programmatically hyper-strict because its approach to Jewish law is loose-constructionist. Ever new stringencies emerge in order to enable an individual to express one’s piety, validate virtuosity, and to demonstrate exactly how religiously and socially worthy one really is.

Modern, Open, or cosmopolitan Orthodoxy also claims to follow Jewish law, albeit far less rigorously than Hareidi Orthodoxy. For this “Modern” Orthodoxy, strictness beyond the letter of the law is neither commanded nor valorized by the Law, but only serves to render Jewry more distinctly and counter-culturally “other.” Jewish law’s norms only require, forbid, and when silent on a given issue, actually authorize individual autonomy. 

Like its Hareidi counterpart, Modern Orthodoxy’s commitment to Shabbat observance, including acquiring a residence near a synagogue, fosters a sense of belonging that is reinforced by Orthodox educational and social institutions. These institutions foster Jewish behaving, belonging, and generally—but not always—believing. However, Modern, Open, or cosmopolitan Orthodoxy does not erect extra stout walls and fences to keep troublesome modernity out—or to lock insiders in.

In both Israel and in the Diaspora, Modern Orthodox Jewry works for a living and its offspring are expected to master a dual—a Jewishly religious and utilitarian secular—education. In Hareidi Orthodoxy, piety is measured by culture compliance, and social status depends upon wealth, communal standing, perceived erudition, and pedigree; raw talent or work product assessment are secondary considerations. Furthermore, the Modern Orthodox educational work product is assessed quantitatively; though socially valued, piety alone is socially insufficient. 

Some find the dual, i.e., secular modern and religiously Orthodox lifestyle too onerous to endure, the $25,000 tuition per child per year is often beyond parental means, and the high housing cost of Modern Orthodox neighborhoods is problematic. Israeli Modern Orthodoxy also tends to be middle class, ritually observant but not obsessively so, fretting about providing housing for to-be-married children, and worrying that military service will not erode their children's religious identity or render them war casualties.

Hareidi education consciously and constantly reinforces its ideology and social construction of reality. Its approach to Jewish law is oracular, not textual. The Great Sage is self-proclaimed to be everybody's teacher—and as such religiously superior to those who are not Great Rabbis. He alone is the guardian of masorah, the undefined, not codified culture of the Hareidi Jewish street. Hareidi society penalizes and marginalizes those who question “God’s word” as mediated by the Great Sage.

In point of fact, Jewish law’s actual and identifiable prescriptions and Hareidi culture norms are not the same. Talmudic law considers a woman’s shame to be sufficient grounds for allowing an abortion (Arakhin 7b), it requires drafting both men and women in defensive Israeli wars (Sota 44b), yet forbids clapping, dancing (Betsa 31a), and women's wigs on the Shabbat (Shabbat 64b). Latter-day saintly rabbis interpret these rules into disuse while inventing new rules unimagined by the talmudic sages, like not cutting a toddler's hair until age three, discouraging “important” women from their obligatory reclining at the Passover Seder, forbidding women to learn Oral Torah (see, however Tosefta Berakhot 2:12), and disallowing the required pre-Shabbat bathing on the Shabbat eve before the 9^th of Av fast. Calling these inconvenient facts to the public’s attention is correctly seen as being subversive or controversial; these facts show that Hareidi Orthodoxy is a Judaism of ritually rigorous, modernity-denying, social control. The learner may not dare to understand or apply sacred texts. Any and every social act must be filtered, processed, and approved by the Hareidi rabbinic elite.

When I was serving as Rabbi of Congregation Israel in Springfield, New Jersey, I raised a question to the head of a Hareidi yeshiva that had bought a church building for use by the yeshiva. "How do you justify entering the church facility’s sanctuary, as the congregation prays to the Christian hero as if to a 'god'?" I was informed that since the particular Protestant denomination does not use statues, i.e., idols, in its rites, the premises are not considered to be idolatrous. I was also told that an Israeli Hareidi godol said that it was on these grounds that it is permitted to enter the church sanctuary. I suggested, somewhat subversively, that 'Avoda Zara is not only idolatry, it is any artificial, invented religion. After all, making offerings to the “spirit” of the archangel Michael (bHullin 40b), like praying to the Christian hero, are equally forbidden acts. My naïveté led me to "correct" a Great Sage by calling attention to an inadvertent—and embarrassing—error. One does not dare to contradict the Great Sage, because his ruling is canonical, his charismatic right to innovate unquestionable, and his leadership authority not subject to peer review because, to Hareidi ideology, the gadol is without review.

The same R. Moses Sofer who proclaimed that "innovation is forbidden according to Torah law" also claimed, rather inconsistently, that a popular custom may overrule a rabbinic law, like the popular Orthodox usage permitting clapping on the Shabbat (see bBetsa 30a). But according to Jewish law, innovation is permitted. Being Hareidi is not really about being more Orthodox, it is about being counter-culturally “other.” Hareidi Orthodoxy has the right to advocate for its agenda in the free market of ideas. But those who adopt alternative Orthodox narratives, ideologies, or agendas have a right to their positions as well. The Modern Orthodoxy advocated in this article is based upon a plain, common sense reading of the Oral Law canon, which is to be applied in a socially appropriate contemporary fashion.

Like Maimondes, Modern Orthodoxy views halakha as Law. Law is based on norms, or "ought" rules, arranged hierarchically. When Rav Ashi died (428 c.e.), the age of “Hora'ah," apodictic rabbinic legislation, lapsed. There are in Torah law positive, i.e., "to do," and negative, i.e., "not to do" rules. Torah laws have greater valence and may not (generally) be overridden by rabbinic laws, and customary practice, while binding locally, may not override biblical (like popular if anomalous forbidding the intoning of Birkat Kohanim in the Ashkenazi Diaspora) or rabbinic laws (mayim aharonim in our time). The medieval Ashkenazic claim, “The customs of Israel are Torah,” is not consistent with Oral Torah Judaism. After all, Torah is the word of the Lord (Isaiah 2:3), not mere customary convention. When a legitimate custom, a custom that does not contradict higher grade rabbinic or Torah law, is accepted by all Israel (e.g., the daily evening prayers, the man’s kippa for prayer or Torah study, the fast of Esther), these customs then become binding upon all Israel, just like the Talmud of Rav Ashi, which was the last Oral Law document to be accepted by all Israel.

Modern Orthodoxy has been compared to the Conservative Movement by its Hareidi detractors. However superficially similar Modern Orthodoxy and Conservative Judaism may appear to the untrained eye, there are critical differences. Although professing a commitment to “pluralism,” Conservative Judaism is openly hostile to what it takes to be an arcane, sexist, Orthodoxy. Its Melton approach to adult Judaic studies is intellectually critical but ironically like Hareidi Orthodoxy, it does not allow the religion of the living community to be shaped by the official religious Jewish benchmarks memorialized in the sacred library. Non-Orthodox Judaism’s social content is not determined by the canon’s content, but by the demands of its dues-paying client population.

For Conservative Judaism, the tradition’s mandating a practice is insufficient to render that practice mandatory for either its laity or clergy. Ultimate values are determined democratically and by communal consensus. Modern Orthodoxy submits to the claims of the law recorded in the law. In 1934, R. Mordecai Kaplan wrote that the Jewish past gets “a voice, not a veto.”

Simply put, Modern Orthodoxy is prepared to permit what Jewish law does not forbid. As long as the Oral Torah law is not violated, changes in usage, policy, and ritual may be considered. Other Orthodox voices identify and conflate popular usage with Sinai’s law. For Modern Orthodoxy, changes in usage that do not violate Jewish law are legitimate and permitted. Statutory Oral Torah law, not the tradition of nostalgic taste, is the bar of Jewish propriety. Its married Orthodox female clergy usually cover their hair, by hat and not with a wig (see bShabbat 64b), affirm family purity, reject unisex minyanim, or improperly serving on a rabbinical court. In Orthodoxy, rabbinic “ordination” testifies that its holder has been vetted to be halakhically knowledgeable, professionally competent, and religiously committed. In Liberal Judaism, ordination is a professional credential that has market value, but does not necessarily attest to deep Jewish erudition.

The contrasting approaches to the ordination of women illustrate how Conservatism and Modern Orthodoxy differ. Modern Orthodoxy is prepared to change usage, but not to reform, reject, or overturn Torah law. But Conservative Judaism ignores Jewish law when halakha’s norms conflict with the secular, modern, ethos because the pull of secular America’s values is irresistible. Conservative Judaism consciously ignored the Law regarding women counting in minyan, while the women in the rabbinate are all well informed Orthodox leaders who observe Jewish Law seriously, sincerely, and smartly.

Modern/Open Orthodoxy would, however, be wise to take its detractors’ criticism to heart, if only to insure responsible decision making and to avoid agenda driven policies. When secular values conflict with Jewish values, which ethos will Modern/Open Orthodoxy adopt? The secular European/American ethos has accepted homosexuality to be morally acceptable. Every non-Orthodox Jewish stream has accepted homosexuality to be morally normative, as have liberal Protestant denominations. Gezeirat haKatuv, the unambiguous Torah line in the sand, does not condone male homosexual activity (Leviticus 18:22, 20:13). Modern Orthodoxy will rightly relate to homosexuals with respect, welcoming them in their congregations, protest secular anti-LGBTQ legislation, but will not and may not contradict or deny the Torah’s clear mandate. It will live with this tension, as life is often untidy, inconsistent, and conflicted. But being Orthodox, the Open wing of Modern Orthodoxy accepts the “other” along with the “Torah,” and leaves God to be the ultimate judge Avot 2:4).

“Tradition” is understood very differently by Orthodoxy’s contending streams. Hareidi Orthodoxy’s sociology prevents women from being “actors” in the synagogue; its benchmarks are created by inherited culture usage. But the Talmud explicitly permits women to perform acts, like leaning on the sacrificial animal, that are addressed to men (’Eruvin 96a, Hagiga 16b). “Tradition,” what one Hareidi leaning Orthodox rabbi called the “non-codified” Judaism adopted by Hareidi Orthodoxy, invests legislative power in the subjective, non-reviewable hands of the Hareidi elite. Talmudic precedent is now subject to Hareidi veto.

Maimonides maintains that the local rabbi has the jurisdictional right to rule for the community he serves, limited only by talmudic legislation. One renowned Yeshiva University rabbi has coined legal concepts called middas haTseinius, the modesty trait, middas haHistasterus, the interiority trait, and ziyyuf haTorah, falsifying Torah, which may be invoked by him to forbid in communal practice what is not forbidden by formal Oral Torah statute. Because these newly minted legal rules are proclaimed by the Great Sage, who claims to be guided by divine providence (Sotah 4b), they must be accepted as legally binding without question or review. The authority to legislate Jewish law for all Israel by apodictic decree is affirmed by Yeshiva Orthodoxy to be operative in modern times, even though this legislative power (hora’ah) has long since lapsed. In other words, Modern Orthodoxy’s Hareidi detractors change Jewish law so that their culture of the old time religion does not appear to change. If a practice was good enough for our ancestors, it ought to be good enough for us.

These two Orthodox Judaisms offer conflicting sources of religious authority. Hareidi Orthodoxy maintains that the Oral Law library may be reviewed and revered, but it may not be read, understood, or applied by anyone but their elite. This Orthodoxy’s Great Rabbis articulate narratives that empower them to be Orthodoxy’s singular, spiritual anchor. These rabbis own, in their view, the Torah franchise.

By contrast, Modern Orthodoxy’s rabbis openly ask what the law permits, requires, and authorizes. Like their medieval forbearers, these scholars teach, suggest, and persuade; they do not intimidate, bully, or deride. These rabbis are educational resources, not apodictic tyrants. If Orthodoxy postulates that the Torah text reflects God’s word, its advocates take pains not to misstate what the Law really requires. Holy hyperbole is no virtue and being extra strict is not a statement of personal piety or propriety.

Open/Modern Orthodoxy’s rabbis formulate an alternative narrative of Jewish life. But their benchmark is Jewish Law, not Western secularity. Respect for human dignity (kavod haBeriyyot), good feelings (nahat ru’ah), social cohesion (darkei shalom), and doing what is right and good (ve‘Asita haYashar ve-haTov), are all legal factors when considering how halakha ought to be applied when confronting the contemporary Jewish reality. Each Orthodoxy challenges its competitor; may “the zealousness of scribes increase wisdom” (Bava Batra 21a).

This Modern halakhic Orthodox Manifesto maintains that

1. Orthodox Judaism is grounded in the doctrine that God’s will is encoded in the Torah sacred library, idiomatically rendered “Torah from Heaven.”
2. This doctrine, “Torah from Heaven,” is Judaism’s legal “Basic Norm” that affirms that God is the King, Who commands that the Torah laws be obeyed. And because these Laws are no longer in Heaven (Deut. 30:11–14), they are understandable, livable, and doable in everyday life.
3. These Torah laws are subject to review and application on the basis of the hermeneutical rules which determine whether an act, a doctrine, or a policy is in fact a legitimate rule of the halakhic order.
4. “Modernity” is not stigmatized by Jewish law, which does not explicitly endorse or condemn either the political Right (which stresses law and order and the value of Tradition) or Left (as evidenced by the prophetic call for social justice and King Solomon’s higher taxes, which paid for enhanced social services). Modern Orthodoxy is itself neither politically Right or Left, but is based on and biased by Torah values. Israeli Modern Orthodoxy boasts both Naftali Bennett, a religiously tolerant Orthodox political hawk, and Elazar Stern, an Orthodox advocate for Land for Peace negotiations with the Palestinian Authority. Both are Zionists and patriots.
5. Modernity’s scientific method, widened intellectual openness, and technological advances are welcomed; its sexual libertarianism, the dimming of spiritual insight, and the secularity of the public square, are to be bemoaned.
6. Modern Orthodoxy affirms Zionism, the nineteenth-century nationalist movement of the Jewish people.
7. Modern Orthodoxy adopts the mindset, mood, and method of the secular academy. Jewish law does not forbid secular studies. Some very great rabbis have imbibed worldly wisdom, and the spiritual thrill of discovery outweighs the “danger” that non-sacred study might undermine religious faith. An academic reading of the Jewish literary and historical tradition provides the student with the tools for discovery; while this empowerment does undermine the Hareidi narrative, this sensibility and mindset enable Orthodox academic Torah learners to read, understand, and suggest alternative options for Orthodoxy.
8. Modern Orthodoxy enhances the status, standing, and respect for Jewish women in community life. The tradition encoded in the sacred canon trumps the “Tradition” of the popular, remembered past.
9. Hareidi and Modern Orthodox Judaism have different hidden curricula and visions of the ideal Jew. The Hareidi Jew is expected to comply with the apodictic decrees of his or her gedolim, and these reviewers are not subject to review. The Modern Orthodox Jew is expected to comply with the Judaism encoded in classic texts of halakha, to engage in critical thinking, and to draw on the studies of the academic world.

The Modern Orthodox rabbi is a resource, not a ruler. Since the rabbinic mission is to teach Torah, the Modern Orthodox must be steeped in the Classical Tradition while remaining aware of the challenges posed by secular reality. The rabbinic mission is not to reconstruct a replica of a remembered, nostalgic past; it is to apply Torah law appropriately in the contemporary present. In order to be a rabbinic model for the community, the rabbinic person needs to have the courage to negotiate halakhic literature without being intimidated. People who fear people have little energy left to have fear of Heaven.

In responding to Rabbi Cardozo’s provocative and thoughtful piece, I keep coming back to an old joke: Yankel moves to a new neighborhood. He starts going to the largest and richest synagogue in town and soon wants to join. However every time he tries to become a member, he is told he hasn’t been in town long enough; he won’t fit in; he won’t feel comfortable. Finally in desperation he cries out to God. Dear God, I have been trying for so long to join that synagogue and they won’t let me in. To which God replies, don’t feel bad, they don’t let me in either!

That joke must be at least 60 years old and goes back to a time when in American Jewish history everyone was banging down the door to become synagogue members. Whether because Jews in newly formed suburbs saw their Christian neighbors going to church and felt synagogue going would make them fit into the American milieu; whether they were returning veterans reconnecting with their “pintele yid” after seeing the devastation of the Holocaust; or the pride of being Jewish in the aftermath of the establishment of a Jewish state—joining synagogues (in particular Reform and Conservative) was the “in” thing to do. From Alabama to Washington State, Jewish belonging was on the upswing, and it looked like a revival of Jewish life would prove those who called America the “treifa medina” so wrong.

So here we are, three generations later in America, and the sense of hubris is gone. Reform and Conservative Synagogues across the country are closing or merging. Recent graduates of rabbinical schools tell tales of lower salaries and layoffs. Day schools are shutting their doors, and Jewish nonprofits are downplaying their Jewish connections and trying to universalize their mission. The Pew survey of October 2013 shows a more-than70 percent intermarriage rate among non-Orthodox Jews.

In the 1950s, sociologists predicted the demise of Orthodoxy in America, and within the past 50 years, the opposite has occurred. The highest birthrate and negligible amount of intermarriage is among the Orthodox. But even with that good news comes sobering reality.

Some question the future of Modern Orthodoxy if the cost of yeshiva education keeps going up. All the gains of Jewish education will be lost if large numbers of families are forced to return to public schools. A large percentage of Orthodox singles cannot find their bashert, and if they end up not marrying, what impact will that have on Orthodox Judaism? In addition, given the high cost of Jewish living in the United States, even Yeshivish and Hassidic Jews might start to limit the number of children they have. (Unlike in Israel, many of the American Hareidi Orthodox work but often in jobs that don’t yield high salaries). Furthermore, with a secular society that even objective observers will agree has become more coarsened and less modest, more and more Orthodox Jews seek to wall themselves off because of actual and perceived lack of secular moral standards. But there has always been one strength of Orthodoxy in comparison to much of the non-Orthodox world: We show up. Whether you are Yeshivish, Hassidic, Modern Orthodox, Open Orthodox, daven in a synagogue with a high mehitsa or a low mehitza, or attend a partnership minyan (which some argue is outside the pale of Orthodoxy), we have always shown up. Whether out of a sense of hiyyuv, obligation, or a desire to catch up on the latest news, enjoy the Kiddush, or show off a new outfit, for the Orthodox world, we seemed to embrace what Woody Allen once said: that 95 percent of life is showing up. We have shown up.

 But of late several things have been happening that raise the concern about whether people are actually present when they show up! Do they have mindfulness when they are in shul? And, as Rabbi Cardozo explains, in essence most people have deposited their bodies but left their souls at home. Those who really care, he says, have left the building, now with God in tow. Thus, those who still cling to religious institutions (i.e., synagogues) are suffering from a spiritual malaise. It is to this point I would like to respond in particular. And here I think the dynamics in America are different from what he sees in Israel. In the United States, so many Jews have left the building both physically and metaphysically, yet I don’t see synagogues going silently away.

 A series of attempts to re-infuse energy and spirituality in the synagogue have been attempted in order to wake everyone out of their lethargy. Multiple services are geared to different ages, constituencies, and backgrounds: Jewish renewal services, learners’ services, beginner services, hashkama services. In the non-Orthodox world, one can find a “synaplex” approach with Shabbat morning Torah Yoga and nature walks. Musical services, once only found primarily in Reform synagogues, have become more common now in Conservative synagogues. In many Orthodox synagogues, Carlebach-style davening has been introduced as a means of attracting people to a more user-friendly and emotionally moving service. The rise of independent minyanim across the country calls to mind the rise of the Havurah movement in the 1960s, which many saw as an attempt to build internal Jewish identity as a response to the external Jewish building of synagogues with the suburban sprawl and a perception of sterile religious institutions. The secular “free to be you and me movement,” the rise of do-it-yourself Judaism a la The Jewish Catalogue, saw separate havurot being established. Many young Reform and Conservative teenagers and twenty-somethings who experienced the joy of davening with guitars at camp and outdoors in small settings with likeminded people led by the late Debbie Friedman and others led them to lament to their rabbis why their shul couldn’t be more like camp. Fast forward to today where in the non-Orthodox world, havurot have been incorporated into shuls or have become shuls, organs have been replaced with guitars and keyboards, and frontal-oriented services with cantorial numbers have been replaced with more accessible music as well as cantors and rabbis getting down on their hands and knees at Tot Shabbat services. This is a big difference from the synagogue experiences of decades ago. The landscape had changed, and synagogues have adapted. So does that mean that in the non-Orthodox world synagogues are bulging with people? No! Although so many synagogues within all the movements have worked to make synagogues more user-friendly and emotionally fulfilling, it appears that it is not enough. In the United States, there may be pockets of dynamic energy at some synagogues that regularly attract large numbers of worshippers on Shabbat. (On the High Holidays there still is an across-the-board demand.) There may be exciting programs at JCCs (for example, Tikkun Leil Shavuot programming that attracts so many who normally would not be caught dead in a synagogue), but tragically the majority of the people who have left the building are not later davening in an independent minyan or experimental minyan or a Jewish renewal minyan or ba’al teshuva minyan. Instead they are shukkeling Shabbos morning over to the appetizing counter at Zabar’s or are deeply absorbed in the “shakla v’tarya” of a menu at the hottest brunch spot in the East Village or Williamsburg. The sad truth is that in the non-Orthodox world vast numbers of people, in particular “millennials,” who have left the building, have done so, not because they were alienated or turned off. They have primarily left because they were never in the building in the first place. With one-third of Jews identifying as “nones” (latest Pew survey), God is crying because so many have yet to be reached. Vast numbers never even stepped into a shul, had a bar or bat mitzvah, or even fasted on Yom Kippur.

In Israel, the zeitgeist is an altogether different matter. There is one shared language with a civil religion that reminds you that you are a part of the Jewish people and connected to the land. Eating in a restaurant on Rehov Hillel and Shammai already makes the average secular Israeli one step ahead of his or her American secular Jewish counterpart who has never even heard of Hillel and Shammai. Hearing the television announcer wish everyone Shabbat Shalom automatically reminds everyone that Shabbat is coming, whether they observe it or not. The high percentage of people who share a Friday night dinner with candles and Kiddush even if they head later to a disco or travel to a movie would make them appear deeply committed in so much of the non-Orthodox world of America. And the basic Jewish education curriculum in Israel in the mamlakhti school system, as deeply flawed or shallow as it may be, still gives a modicum of textual knowledge to those enrolled. In Israel, the Elul program to reconnect secular youth with Jewish texts is an exciting development. Knesset member Ruth Calderon defines herself as secular? In America she could be a rabbi of a major non-Orthodox synagogue! In Israel, Judaism is in the air, and there is a wonderful trend to connect to it. What the early kibbutzniks sought to discard of their eastern European yeshivot, their great-grandchildren are attempting to reclaim, albeit in a new way. The obstacles created unfortunately by so much of the rabbinic establishment in Israel has made Israelis wary of synagogues. Ironically it is many young American olim in Tel Aviv who are the ones repopulating old synagogues that were once devoid of young people.

And so what of our Orthodox world? If I had to define our current circumstance I would say we are a cholent on the verge of drying out (as opposed to the non-Orthodox world, which is on the verge of dying out). As an Orthodox woman serving in a spiritual leadership role at an Orthodox outreach minyan, I regularly encounter Jews with no background to Jews from fervent backgrounds who share a common desire to connect. Thousands of people have come through the doors of Kol HaNeshamah, and more and more I am witnessing a new phenomenon within our Orthodox community. Although many of the people are hozrim beTeshuva or just Jews reconnecting at holiday time with their heritage, many are hozrim beShe-eilah. Jews raised in fervent background but due to a heavy-handed approach, physical or sexual or emotional abuse, or being told the questions they asked were deemed too treif to answer; they responded by leaving the community; and now some seek to come back. The disparate journeys have convinced me that these are just the tip of the iceberg. Yes, ours is an independent minyan, but I have emphasized “al tifrosh min haTsibbur.” We have worked with neighboring synagogues to create a sense of unity among institutions and Jews from disparate backgrounds. By creating safe harbors in traditional settings such as synagogues, as opposed to beer halls or jazz bars, we too can meet people where they are, and seek to transform them. How? First by remembering that although Judaism needs rigor and reason, Judaism also needs ru’ah. It needs joy. We have to remind ourselves of the beauty of our shared faith or what Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach used to say—to teach people the ‘Yeses” of Judaism and not just the ‘No’s.”

            As to the rest who remain in the traditional synagogue environment? The ones who trudge in extreme heat or blinding snowstorms to help make up a daily minyan but have limited kavannah? The ones who come to shul on Shabbos but seem disconnected? I still say to them Kol haKavod. You have shown up whether out of a sense of obligation, rote, or conditioning. It is then up to us to seek to transform their experience. My late father, Rabbi William Berkowitz, used to say that sometimes people would criticize his pulpit sermons as being above the heads of his congregants. His answer? Those people need to sit up! We institutionally need to remind people that they do need to sit up. They do need to strive for more. But we have to give them the tools to do so. We need to work on encouraging our institutions to insist on more spiritually from our Orthodox community by willingly raising the soulfulness of our institutions. It can be done.

            At the same time we need to remember that what drives out so many people and leads to a feeling of malaise is not necessarily complacency. Often it is a real lack of understanding what is being said that leads to boredom. It is a lacuna of understanding that it is okay to talk about God as a spiritual connection and not just law giver. It is trying to connect people to specific meaningful ideas in our tefillot that often get caught in a blur of prayers upon prayers. Even English translations don’t work unless the context is also explained. Often in our Orthodox world, what has driven God out is not only the emptiness but anger. In Israel much of the religious establishment has done an excellent job of turning off Israelis from religion. The greater interest being shown by sabras raised in a hiloni environment to reconnect with moreshet Yisrael is heartening and needs to be supported across the ideological spectrum. But here in the United States, in our Orthodox world, rather than seeing it as God leaving the space, I see it as people having left and being reunited with Hashem where Hashem is at. And where is that? In Shemot we read the command from God to make a tabernacle and God will dwell within; meaning within us—veShakhanti betokham. There is no question that within Orthodoxy we too are in the midst of a spiritual crisis. Some institutions are grappling with trying to meet the spiritual needs of people and to help foster a sense that God can dwell within us and our traditional institutions. How can we make tefillah more invigorating? How can we deal with the kavannah crisis? But the first way of responding to a crisis is to acknowledge that we are in the middle of one and Rabbi Cardozo’s article should be that wakeup call that we need to bring God back into our spiritual lives.

We saved Soviet Jewry. We saved Syrian Jewry. We saved Ethiopian Jewry. Now we have to save our spiritual selves or else we will just be empty shells with God having left along with Am Yisrael. How to do it? Ironically, I think the first step is that each of us needs to reach out to others. We have to show care and concern when people don’t show up. We have to invite people to our homes and reach out to those who might fall through the cracks. How many people do I encounter who tell me being invited to a Shabbat dinner or our meaningful service can transform their lives? A few years ago a young woman at our post-Yom Kippur break-fast came over to me and told me that this was the first time since she left home for college that she was at High Holy Day services. She shared with me that every year on Erev Rosh Hashanah her mother would call her and tell her to go to temple. She would reply I am going to temple tomorrow—my temple is Bloomingdale’s. She recounted that a friend had dragged her to come to High Holy Day services and she was expecting the worst. But the service reached her spiritually and she came back through Yom Kippur. She related that the day after Rosh Hashanah she called her mother to tell her she was in synagogue. And her mother said: Let me guess? Bloomingdales? Her mother cried tears of joy when she heard her daughter had been in an actual synagogue. The way to combat malaise, the feeling that God has departed, is to remember that God does dwell within each of us.

            But we were not only created beTselem Elokim; we have the capacity to act at times like God with an outstretched arm. We need to reach those who are seeking spiritual resuscitation and this adds more oxygen to our lives as well. The Kotzker Rebbe commented that when Moshe was to get the luhot, God commanded him to go to the top of the mountain and veyihye sham. And be there. It wasn’t enough to show up physically. He had to be emotionally present. There is no question that we need to be present. God wants our heart.

            We have worked on our heads. We focus on texts. We observe halakha. We have seen the source sheets. We have read the music. Now we need the niggun. Now we need the neshamah. Now we need to let God not only into our institutions, not only our homes but as the Kotzker Rebbe also answered the question as to where God is: God is wherever we let God in, especially into our hearts.

Orthodox Bible-Study: The Reality on the Ground[1]

B. Barry Levy

            Much love, sanctity, and attention is lavished on the Bible in virtually all forms of Jewish religious life. Nevertheless, talmudic and midrashic considerations dominate the general picture of Judaism, particularly in the halakhic realm—and therefore in many details of Bible interpretation, application, and observance. To be sure, this dominance of the Bible by rabbinic concerns is not true of all Jews. Some early rabbis regularly kept the biblical and rabbinic corpora highly integrated. They often used the Bible as a check on the Talmud and related rabbinic thinking, noting that numerous biblical passages that putatively contained rabbinic ideas or derivations from Scripture were asmakhta be-‘alma, “merely [scriptural] support.” Furthermore, this argument was used by many of their later followers. Even so, in many late-antique, medieval, and post-medieval contexts, Talmud study outranked Bible study both quantitatively and qualitatively. Talmudic issues still determine or strongly influence many aspects of contemporary religious life, often known in scholarly circles as “Rabbinic Judaism.” This situation derives in part from the early-rabbinic teaching that Moses received two torot on Sinai—one written in the Bible (which some ancient rabbis understood to be directed at all humanity[2]) and another oral one preserved by the rabbis and incorporated into the subsequently developed rabbinic literature (intended for the Jews).

            A strong commitment to the importance of oral tradition in many ancient Near Eastern cultures—as evidenced by the preservation of very few written law codes but tens of thousands of legal documents, which of necessity bear witness to the oral transmission of numerous legal traditions in all these societies—helped determine and reinforce the importance of this oral Torah for Jews long before the rabbis came on the scene. Even so, many early rabbinic leaders memorized all or much of the Bible, and although their citation of the Bible and reliance on its teachings are extremely widespread, they are not universal. Thus, preference for the rabbinic over the biblical was, and still remains, more a prioritizing of one than an outright rejection of the other. However, this uneasy balance sometimes was carried to excess. Today, traditional Jews who seemingly give the Bible too much attention are likely to be criticized if not ostracized by their rabbinic colleagues. Should they attempt to follow its values or laws independently of the normal rabbinic channels of interpretation and application, they may be decried as heretics or, in some cases, treated like Karaites. 

This situation has contributed to either distancing many Jews from much of their Scripture or adopting it in rabbinic form; sometimes both. As a community, contemporary Jewish readers—young and old, traditionalist and non-traditionalist—often are deprived of a sophisticated appreciation of the Bible on its own terms, preferring instead to ignore it or to see it through rabbinic eyes. And many will grasp at any creative way to link the Bible to their lives, even when this does violence to its literal meaning or totally removes it from its ancient context. In like manner, many lack strong backgrounds in the non-rabbinic and contemporary scientific literatures that deal with Scripture, and often even the classical Jewish ones. This does not mean that all individual Jews are ignorant of the Bible or unaware of its classical and modern interpreters and interpretations. The weekly Torah reading and related educational and homiletical treatments have done much to keep the Bible’s contents familiar to students and synagogue goers, and numerous people attend adult education classes that focus on parts of the Bible; indeed adult study of the books of the Torah has been a well-documented Jewish priority for more than 2,000 years. Individually and collectively, many Jews know or are familiar with much of the Torah, the Five Megillot, and many passages from the Prophets and Psalms. But partial awareness of some books appears quite positive in comparison with the almost unknown content of the Minor Prophets, Job, Proverbs, Daniel, Ezra-Nehemiah, and Chronicles. These books remain all but hidden from the Jewish public, and the knowledge of them that can be found tends to be anecdotal rather than systematic; it is oriented to late-antique or later rabbinic thinking rather than to an ancient and biblical mindset. And it rarely consists of more than isolated facts about specific verses or groups of them and random ways of looking at them.

Like the many artists who, over the past several millennia, depicted biblical characters as real or idealized images of themselves or their contemporaries rather than as authentic ancient realities, most modern readers imagine the people of the Bible thinking modern thoughts and conducting ancient life in ways that respond to modern questions and incorporate contemporary values, even if they are not dressed in fully modern garb or flying in airplanes. Some might even argue that the original texts were written in ways that intentionally accommodated endless centuries of evolving images and applications. Other readers perceive these ancient texts and people as specifically pre-modern and rabbinic. Moshe Rabbenu is a rabbinic title, not a biblical one, as is Yosef ha-tzaddik; Moses, David, and other biblical leaders often are described anachronistically in early rabbinic texts, holding rabbinic-type courts and conducting conversations more expected of rabbinic than biblical figures. Presentations of the Genesis characters (including Adam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and their families) observing later Mosaic or even rabbinic religious practices, while not biblical in origin, are at least as early as Jubilees (usually dated in the second century b.c.e.) and were developed later in the Mishnah, Talmudim, Midrashim, and subsequent essays and commentaries.

Even so, numerous important rabbis rejected both the notion that Genesis 26:5—“…because Abraham obeyed my voice, observed my demands, my commands, my laws, and my dictates”—described that patriarch observing the 613 commandments and the rabbinic preference to interpret that book’s narratives as if that is what they portrayed (see the related commentaries of Rashbam, Ibn Ezra, Radak, the Tosafists, etc., and discussions of the Genesis characters as Benei Noah, “Noahides”[3]). Images of patriarchs as rabbis are sanctified by early and repeated midrashic use and remain the way many religious educators would have students understand the passages—but that preference makes such interpretations neither more believable nor binding. They are understandable because the ancients lacked modern historical perspective, and the texts served both educational and homiletical purposes. The latter reason remains operative even today, but we cannot ignore the potential role of historical perspective in understanding this entire matter and its dominance in most modern considerations. 

Later presentations of Abraham, Moses, and Mordecai, for example, in fur hat and caftan and thinking hasidic thoughts may seem quaint and unhistorical, and they are seriously out of step with ancient realities. But perhaps more significant is their failure to acknowledge the distance they exhibit from other more realistic and no less faithful rabbinic interpretations. Even so, “realistic” is a highly subjective term that varies from one generation to another. And whatever one thinks of such presentations, methodologically they often differ little from contemporary treatments that fill the heads of scriptural heroes with equally anachronistic existential philosophy, modern science, or halakhic reasoning, or present them as Holocaust survivors or the purveyors of modern or postmodern cultural ideals such as democracy, ecology, or feminism. As far as I am concerned, an authentic reconstruction is one that is realistic to the original context of the story, and since our knowledge of that context is necessarily imperfect, varies with the interpreter, and constantly is modified in the light of new discoveries, we must understand its reconstruction as incomplete and impermanent. However, this should not give free reign to the manifold creative suggestions that have accumulated over the centuries.

The range of passages included in my generalization about Jewish knowledge of the Bible and the overall validity of its claim depend on the educational experiences afforded to various individuals, the extent to which they remember what they were taught about the Bible (usually) in high school, and whether they continued to study it after graduating, but I believe the statement does describe the Jewish reality in today’s Western world. Those who have been raised and educated outside the Jewish contexts in which these things may have been taken seriously and have foregone the opportunity to study them elsewhere usually will have at their disposal only what is available from the general non-Jewish culture, which once was substantial, at least regarding the Bible, but now is negligible. It seems that one of the last taboos in contemporary American culture is teaching the Bible without preaching it. 

Students who seek to buck this trend by developing an accurate understanding of the big picture that includes these facts, texts, and interpretations, as well as the intellectual climates that they represent now and that they reflected over the ages (of which the aforementioned details allude to only small parts), usually are left to do so through personal exploration. Both they and the adults who succeed in grasping this broad reality are a small, atypical minority. Rabbis, scholars, well-educated students, and a few highly interested laypeople may achieve a more sophisticated and historically accurate understanding of all this, but the general Jewish population has not received adequate exposure to two worlds of valuable information about the Bible, one in the rabbinic commentaries and other books and the other outside them, and usually their study is expressed in inversely proportional measures. Nor do most Jews appreciate the contextual realities of the Bible or how its books represent the historical and intellectual worlds in which they were produced; the same problem exists for their interpreters. Usually these texts are taught because of their implications for contemporary ideologies and observances, which may be responding to different post-biblical and even non-rabbinic concerns and pressures.

And yet, according to many pious Jewish understandings, contextual influences on the Torah and its interpreters never existed, indeed could not exist and cannot, even now, and such non-traditional explanations (which is not to say anti-traditional ones, though often they are equated) should be ignored. According to such thinking these interpretations are unnecessary and misleading, work counter to spiritual treatment of Scripture, and have no place in religious education of any sort. Ancient elements that were supposedly misconstrued in this way presumably did not contribute to the content or direction of any biblical passage, commentary, or edition, and therefore such thinking should be ignored, disavowed, or discredited wherever it is alleged to appear. In short, for such readers, it is preferable to de-contextualize the Bible, to see it outside and above the world at large; for most others, the more the Bible, its characters, and its events can be linked to contemporary ancient ones, the more credible it is. According to the first group, verses such as Leviticus 18:1–2, which prohibit the practices of the ancient Egyptians, whose land the Hebrews left, and those of the Canaanites, into whose land they were going, seemingly were really about the Romans, Greeks, and other post-biblical nations. Contrast the editorial statements in some rabbinic Bibles (e.g., Warsaw, 1860) to the effect that all internal references to nations were to ancient peoples and their practices, not contemporary ones, statements seemingly intended to deflect possibly negative statements about nineteenth-century European powers, not an acceptance of the relevance of ancient Canaanites and Egyptians. 

Despite the enormous differences among individual rabbinic commentators that allow for such variations in contextualizing Bible interpretations, this analysis suggests two possibilities. According to the first, either rabbinic Bible interpretation must be totally different from and remarkably superior to all other types of scriptural analysis and the very best if not the only way to understand it, or Jewish intellectual history must be nothing more than a pale shadow of whatever the rest of humanity was thinking at any given time and not worthy of the emulation many pious people imagine it to deserve. The first attitude regularly is taught or assumed by a major segment of the Orthodox Jewish community; the second is often expressed by those who know little about the history of Jewish thought. Both opinions are exaggerated and less than helpful.

In fact, Jewish understanding of Scripture is a function of both the rabbinic tradition and the broad treatment of the Bible in the constantly changing contexts inhabited by its interpreters. The rabbinic interpretation of Scripture, though not equivalent to all other thinking about it, is not, for that reason, lacking in brilliance, creativity, or originality. Indeed, evidence of these qualities is present almost everywhere, while greater awareness of these external influences can be gleaned from the background noise in the many rabbinic books treated above than regularly is acknowledged. But the fact that few traditionalist religious leaders now seem engaged by it confirms that it played little if any role in their training and therefore even less in that of their students.[4] A careful comparison of various Jewish intellectual experiences with the corresponding (non-Jewish) Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Italian, German, French, Turkish, Russian, British, and American ones, for example, demonstrates that Jews neither ignored these cultures nor mimicked them and their reactions to the Bible, though they learned much from them and rejected some of their treatments. Often they made original contributions to composing or to understanding the primary documents of these cultures and to synthesizing them with extant Jewish ones, much as biblical writers did with the societies in or against which they wrote. Thus Christian and Muslim contributions to rabbinic Bible study were extensive—particularly in the areas of grammar, history, philosophy, and science—though often they were secondary and ignored by Jews. Many of Abarbanel’s commentaries, for example, are prefaced by short biographical sketches that relate directly to his professional experiences and insure links between his commentaries and late-medieval historical reality.

Even today, one finds social and educational contexts in which some secular Jews and other Orthodox ones are actively directed away from Bible study for fear of being affected negatively by its contents, its messages, and the dynamics related to its engagement. These groups intend different things by such intellectual recoiling, but the effects are largely similar. This attitude may owe a debt to the challenges inherent in modern critical scholarship and the pious responses to it, which work like a magnet, repelling some groups even as they attract others, but surely this avoidance of the Bible is not solely the result of contemporary considerations. In one form or another, it has been a part of Jewish thinking for most of the past two millennia, and that includes the teachings of some unquestionable rabbinic authorities who warned their followers to distance their sons from concentrated Bible study.[5] Presumably such individuals utilized the Babylonian Talmud as a substitute for Scripture, while modern de-biblicized secularists seemingly have none at all, at least no Jewish one. Its absence from their educational platforms likely may lead to assimilation and, if not for the presence of certain Jewish cultural affinities, their total disappearance as Jews. 

Many who take their scriptural legacy seriously feel that both these Orthodox and non-Orthodox groups, though motivated by very different considerations, should examine—nay, study—their shared scriptural legacy. Such activity could benefit from their intellectual contributions and enrich both groups of participants personally, at least in order to better understand themselves, if not the Bible and its interpretation. But for this to happen these individuals must trust others outside their immediate cultural orbits, experiment with new ideas, and explore a few that initially may be uncomfortable, including some that eventually will be rejected. Such daring is unusual today (one noted exception is the advanced Bible study in certain Israeli yeshivot), and I find it more prevalent among students than teachers and educational leaders, many of whom actively discourage it, but it is akin to what many medieval writers did, and there are signs that it may be on the cusp of a revival, especially in a few Israeli yeshivot.

* * * * *

Educators and rabbis use the Bible to teach Judaism as they understand it, usually following their convictions about how to live according to it. Often they see no reason to dwell on obscure details of cartography, agriculture, history, or even religion, and they seem equally disinterested in the analogous issues in both the commentaries and the other books that discuss them, unless they are important for teaching Judaism today. This reality is understandable but disappointing, because it does little to acknowledge that knowing the Bible and teaching it have independent value beyond what can be preached from it and that such a policy of careful selection and control of the issues that emerge from Bible study has done little and in the future will do even less to change the description with which this essay began.

Effective Jewish education needs to be constructed around inspiring religious experiences, but it also must involve extensive study of texts, in some cases their memorization. The Bible is one of the major textual subjects covered in elementary schools, where the Torah receives the lion’s share of attention. High school curricula often consider it less important, and where students are segregated by sex, males often receive far fewer Bible classes than females (Talmud usually accounts for the imbalance). Even so, high schools often include parts of the Prophets, Psalms, Megillot, and other books in their curricula. The Historical Prophets may be read seriatim (often primarily as language exercises), or studied in the light of some rabbinic comments. Books that lack strong connections to the liturgy are downplayed, but scriptural readings also are associated with holy days and, throughout the year, many occasions are linked to the passages that deal with them: Esther, Jonah, Lamentations, Psalms, and parts of the Torah and Prophets are particularly important in this way. Bible study also includes Parashat Ha-Shavua‘.

            Undoubtedly the most commonly heard response to my university classes for more than 40 years has been the comment I (and probably many other professors) receive at the beginning of every semester: “This class was interesting and made sense, but I had 10 [or more] years of day school education before I arrived here. Why didn’t anyone tell me these things before?” In fact, students often are left with immature and sometimes misinformed notions about some of what they have studied, and they rapidly fall victim to alternative, more academic and more critical-sounding, sometimes non-Jewish, anti-Semitic, or anti-Zionist ideas that circulate in the university and the adult world. How many students think that the rabbinic tradition necessitates fidelity to the notions that the ancient Israelites built the pyramids; that the text of the entire Torah was brought down by Moses from Mt. Sinai; that Abraham observed the entire Torah; that the Torah text is letter perfect; that midrashic interpretations always contain the literal meaning of the Torah; that Mordecai was Esther’s uncle; and so forth? What upsets me is not that Judaism lacks sophisticated responses to such matters, but that that many students are not adequately exposed to them, often because teachers have not been, or they are fearful of dealing with them. One way or another, Christian students outgrow their belief in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy; mutatis mutandis, Jewish ones must do likewise.

* * * * *

If today’s realities differ from those that influenced the production of these books and the commentaries they contain, often by many centuries, can they serve the interests and needs of contemporary students of the material? Or must one require the replacement of such teachings with less reasonable and less defensible ones, solely because they are old or demand more commitment? Should educators require the production of new collections of sources that both anchor today’s readers in the tradition and move them forward? Are they being created, and are teachers, much less students, regularly taught to use them? And do they actually advance the process or merely circle back through some elements of the tradition in an attempt to limit what is being excerpted for use and, above all else, to avoid exhibiting any contemporary influence? Moreover, what should we say about critical thinking, the hallmark of numerous Rishonim and Aharonim alike (which is very different from the modern concept of “biblical criticism”) and its relevance to all of the above? Should names like Joseph Soloveitchik, Nehama Leibowitz, and Jonathan Sacks fill Bible classes alongside Rashi, Ibn Ezra, and Ramban—sometimes instead of them? And are we willing to allow the discussions of the Bible to be driven by the issues and methods of Moshe Shamah and Mordechai Breuer?  

My brief response to all this is to encourage studying the Bible and the history of the interpretation of its passages, which necessitates that students understand how different answers to a question were legitimate suggestions in different contexts and, where possible, why they differed. This approach requires choosing and studying texts for the questions raised, a range of the solutions different authors offered, and how both reflected the thinking of their times. It does not necessitate studying the entire text or recapitulating all of Jewish intellectual history before exploring modern alternatives; and it does not necessitate believing in the binding nature of all the answers. Most of the time, it does not matter particularly if students study old commentaries or new ones, as long as they learn the languages in which they were written, master the texts, and are exposed to the best available interpretations. If the best are from early medieval times, teachers owe an intellectual debt to their authors to use them and to demonstrate their importance, historical priority, and longevity. If the best are later or even contemporary, teachers should use them and stress the continuity of the interpretative process and the validity of modern contributions to it. Whether this means they must study Rishonim, Aharonim or scientific writings, they must deal with additional questions that may arise. Because few writers ever define what actually is “best,” that too is an essential part of the quest for understanding.  

Misrepresentations of the classical interpreters and their methods, coupled with fear of innovation and heresy and the inability to decide how to use properly either the ancient traditional materials, the sophisticated medieval rabbinic responses, or their contemporary analogues, reinforce the postmodern obsession with the “slippery slope,” perhaps the most overly used argument in the contemporary traditionalist’s ideological arsenal. Essentially, this line of reasoning consigns to oblivion any notion that seems in potential conflict with any pious assumption, however unnecessary, inauthentic, misguided, or subject to rabbinic debate, because it might anticipate a challenge or problem. Sometimes it even leads to censoring presumptively offensive texts that express such notions, particularly during translation. Concomitantly, it prioritizes those assumptions of which it approves and interprets the Bible in accord with them. Unfortunately, educators often accept this battery of errors, as when they share, actively or passively, in a conspiracy of silence that avoids dealing with what they imagine to be potentially troubling, Bible-related issues. What I find amazing is that they sometimes respond this way, even when these ideas have been discussed openly by the rabbis for a millennium or two, have been anticipated by students’ questions, and remain compelling contemporary concerns. This leaves people with the impression that the rabbinic tradition is only a warm, fuzzy, homiletical mist that cannot cope with many of these classic if potentially challenging subjects, which it now enshrouds in a cloud of irrelevance, illegitimacy, and suspicion.

Nothing could be farther from the actual way the rabbinic tradition worked or works, in at least some yeshivot even today, but often teachers postpone such considerations to some advanced level of education that many who need them immediately will never experience. Even when both classic and modern treatments of a text or notion share the same data and approaches, often the teachers never let them get close enough to each other to appear in lockstep, because they themselves may not recognize these links, or because they prefer to ignore them for fear of validating “modern” study and thereby purportedly leading students astray. But if admitting the existence of a problem can cause massive defection by students or teachers—and I neither deny that possibility nor minimize its significance—something must be radically wrong, not only with the way it and similar problems have been handled but with much of the educational process that has been employed up to that point. Commitments properly instilled cannot be that shallow or that easily overturned; and, despite a widespread consensus to the contrary, admitting the existence of real challenges to accepted truths or assumptions often strengthens commitment more than it undermines it. 

When students finally do learn about these links, and some eventually will (unless they are actively isolated from Western society and its institutions of advanced learning, or at least from the study of the Humanities, or from most good yeshivot), this lack of prior exposure, preparation, and legitimization can be devastating to their spiritual health, either because it forces them to ignore the thinking world around them—indeed, to disengage from it—or it allows that world to absorb them, as it forces itself upon them and its appeals become irresistible. Instead of educating students satisfactorily by teaching them the full range of traditional responses and how to negotiate these sometimes thorny issues, religious leaders often encourage their systematic avoidance and shelter students indefinitely. But just as isolation from various stimuli often interferes with the development of the body’s immune system, too much distance from these issues—even though they often have well-developed roots in the rabbinic tradition itself and important places in the thinking and writing of well-known sages—can leave students vulnerable to doubts and religious crises when they do learn about them.

For students who are willing to take on some or all of this academic work in conjunction with a spiritual quest, I would add one more point.

            In the final analysis, and preferably ab initio, every student who sees the Bible as part of a personal spiritual quest—who seeks to determine what the text means, not merely what it says—must enter the lists as an individual combatant in its ongoing, indeed, never‑ending study. The ultimate question of any engaged reader is “What does this text mean to me?” and finding the answer is a complicated process. Whether as shield‑bearer for a talmudic rabbi, squire to a medieval interpretative knight, computer operator for a space age textual scientist, or all three, the spiritually motivated Jewish student of Scripture cannot avoid the need to make discriminating, learned decisions about how to understand and apply to his or her personal life the many differing approaches to the Bible that have been enriched by both traditional and modern writers. The task is arduous, and, despite the intellectual and spiritual pleasures that accrue to the participant, uncertainty discourages many from enlisting. 

            Before ancient Israelite warriors went to battle, a priest addressed them (cf. Deut. 20:2–10). He released some, including the fearful, from participating, encouraged others in pursuit of the objective, and ensured adherence to religious standards during the operations. Dreams of success, honor, and riches may have added additional personal incentives, but the Bible did not prioritize them.

Encouragement, directions, and warnings, obviously are valuable to modern combatants in the struggle to understand the Bible, but few spoils are available to attract them, while many challenges and distractions, not to mention financial benefits for those who decline this opportunity, often loom large. Despite all the supposed support for the Bible and its study, global Jewish failure to prioritize this aspect of religious and cultural learning makes conscription of the talented and the worthy a national priority.

Were a summons to this intellectual and spiritual battle possible, and were one to offer the participants an exhortatory address in the spirit of the ancient priest who did likewise in anticipation of military engagements, one could not provide a better model than that expressed in the Bible’s beautiful tribute to the Torah associated with ancient Israel’s greatest warrior, David:

            The teachings of Your mouth are dearer to me        

            than thousands of gold and silver pieces...

            I rejoice over Your words

            like one who has found much booty (Ps. 119:72, 162).

But perhaps this can be realized most fully through application of the initiatory message God reportedly gave another great military leader, Joshua:

Do not allow this book of the Torah to be absent from your mouth; study it day and night in order that you be able to conduct yourself according to all that is written in it; for then you will make your path successful and be wise (Josh. 1:8).

Notes

“Shirts! Shirts!”

The boy was standing in front of the mosque just down the street from his family’s house. Would you call it a street? It was dirt, it was never paved or stone, but as the men came out of the mosque, the boy sang out in a clear, soft voice, “Buy a shirt!”

He had said to his mother, “Zip, zip, you make them so fast, why not make them to sell? One seam here, one seam there, I’ll sell them for you. I’ll go in front of the mosque, and when the men come out I’ll make some money, and bring it home to you.”

It was the Ottoman Empire in 1911, in a port across from Europe—on the Asian side of the Strait of Dardanelles. They were living in a magnificent nowhere-land, with melons in the attic, beehives for honey on the windowsill, his grandfather’s vineyards full of grapes, but with nothing much a man could do. Study the Torah—the Bible—it was the most important thing. The men studied with the boy’s father on Shabbat. But it was not enough. His father had the shop, with kerosene lamps and the dishes and glasses that came in huge wooden crates from Austria, but how many dishes could you sell in Canakkale? His father sat in the shop and read the newspaper. He knew how to read, so he relayed the news to everyone. What was the news? What did it have to do with them? Slowly week by week the newspapers came from Istanbul and raised the same questions day after day. The lid was coming down, you could watch it move slowly, or you could think about it.

The boy’s mother was up at five every morning, sitting at the sewing machine. She sang as she worked, a steady breathing of thought and cloth strategy, her right hand on the wheel. She was like his father standing to pray, but she was seated with a firm hold on the earth, her foot on the treadle. Praying was breathing between here and God, and sewing was breathing between cloth and God, with a voice in Spanish words. The boy sat by her side, the cloth moved into creation while she sang. “Ken me va kerer a mi, ken me va kerer a mi?, Who is going to love me? Knowing that I love you, my love for you is the death of me.” But if cloth could become shirts, sung and sewn into creation, that you could wear on your back, then nowhere could become somewhere and a man could grow up through life like the turning of the events in the Joseph story, until the powerful man wept to see his brothers, and they all wept finally and knew even a boy thrown into a pit could grow up to be a vizier.

A boy could grow to be a man, might grow tall.

First the men took off their shoes, lining them up in pairs. Then with their clay libriks they poured water on their faces and their uplifted forearms, the sky overhead bright as a blue pillow of light, the breezes cool. Inside they prayed on the tiled floors. They did want the shirts, the men as they came out of the mosque. How could you say no, they were cheap. Everyone needed a shirt at this price. Anyone would buy them, and it was the boy’s idea. He had been proven right. Once as a boy you’ve been proven right, thinking for the family, you can keep going, jumping up in the favor of your mother’s eyes, and your own eyes.

***

He was the oldest now. His oldest brother had been sent off to Jaffa to study the new science—agriculture. It was a scholarship from the Alliance Israelite Universelle. The very name of the school was like the bright wild shake of a tambourine to the mother and father, and to the five hundred Jewish families of the town. The boy himself went to the Alliance school in Canakkale. It was different from the ancient Talmud Torah with the children huddled around tables, taught by poor old shrunken men in raggedy beards. At the Alliance, Monsieur Toledano, the director who had studied in Paris, stood up tall and wore a top hat. The boy’s mother had insisted the next brother go along with the eldest to Jaffa, although it tore her heart out to let the two of them go. But the Alliance was right that they had to save themselves from being ground into the earth and had to find the sea of emancipation. The sea was big, the world was wide, although the town was tiny, clustered, and safe like a breeze-blessed paradise at the center of the world. The town was at the Narrows of the Dardanelles, the same straits that were a birth canal for Europe, with the snow cold waters rushing down from the Black Sea through the Bosphorus through the Sea of Marmara to here where the ships of the world went by. His mother’s rich brothers sometimes sat at the tables by the water (she didn’t have the money or, with six children, the time to sit there), drinking tea, watching the ships of the world pass by with their colorful flags. You could see Europe right across the Straits, it was right there.

***

            The boy knew the smell of kashkaval because when he worked at the grocery that year, the owner asked him to carry a whole half wheel of it across town. It was heavy for him, so to brace himself he carried it high on his chest, but his nose could not move away and the cheese was so pungent it stank. That smell he knew well (and eventually he would eat kashkaval years later). What the boy never knew was about Ovid’s Leander, thousands of years before, swimming across the same straits in the terrible rushing current every night from Abydos on the Asian shore, a short walk from Canakkale, to his goddess Hero across the water holding a light up in her tower. And he never knew about a limping rich English poet jokingly trying the same swim in the dark of night about a hundred years before the boy set up his gymnasium of branches and rope in a little garden. The boy did not know either about the nearby city of Troy being attacked by the Achaeans across this same water—the Dardanelles, the Hellespont— and all the tales sung and then written down about those wars, jealousies, wrenching deaths and armor. What the boy knew was that among the Jews of Canakkale, the men sang the Hebrew prayers every day praising the same Ashem the Jews had sung to after Ur, in Egypt, in the desert, in Jerusalem, on the Iberian peninsula, and here where they were welcomed and sent ships for to settle in the Ottoman Empire.

In the opening paragraphs of his thought provoking essay, Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo assails the smug complacency that has come to define our synagogue worship. Sadly, he does not devote much attention to the sorry state of public prayer, despite his central thesis that God has left the synagogue, seeking out those who seek Him elsewhere. And he is correct. Synagogue services lack feeling. They lack aesthetics. They lack a sense of encountering the divine via the mechanism of prayer. R. Lopes Cardozo aptly describes the symptom; we enter our prayer houses, put on the “auto-pilot,” as he terms it, and mindlessly mouth the time-worn prayers, giving them no thought and then head home to our Sabbath or holiday repast. He does not, however, describe how the ideal service, one that both uplifts the worshipper and challenges him or her spiritually, might appear.

            Why do Jews come to the synagogue to pray? Is it merely a need to fulfill the technical halakhic requirement that one pray with a minyan, a quorum of 10 men, that directs one to the synagogue? Assuming that were the only reason people came to synagogue, our liturgy describes the recipient of our prayers as “. . .haBoher beShirei zimra. . .,” the One who prefers hymns and songs. We would be duty-bound to beautify our prayers as part and parcel of the requirement to pray. But for most people, it is not the technical requirement of a minyan that draws them to the synagogue; it is to interact with the deepest recesses of their souls and in some small way, to encounter the divine.

            The Talmud records the dramatic aftermath to man’s creation, that fateful Friday afternoon. Adam, upon his creation, enjoyed the Garden of Eden. He thirstily drank from the two rivers that formed its boundaries, and ate of its produce. But he was totally unprepared for the advent of sunset and nighttime. As the world plunged into darkness, Adam, we are told, fell into mortal dread of a cold world bereft of sunlight. Fear of the darkness, and existential angst over how he might survive so cold and unforgiving a place, tormented him that night. But the next day, when the sun shone again, and Adam felt its warmth, the Midrash continues, he sang out the Sabbath Psalm: “It is good to praise God and to sing to His lofty name.” Humankind’s first creative expression was music—his first approach of the divine in song. The lesson to be derived from this Midrash is that creativity in prayer is to be found not only in the “matbeah haTefillah,” the core text, but in its exposition as well.

            If, as Rabbi Lopes Cardozo posits, people are leaving the synagogue in favor of alternate venues that offer up greater profundity, it is due to the poor presentation of the liturgy that pervades our synagogues. Where there was once a noble and grand tradition of synagogue music, designed to both interpret the text and inspire the worshiper, we now have pithy little ditties worthy of a Romper Room sing-along. Gone is any attempt to infuse our services with meaning derived from aesthetics and artistry. Rather, our prayer leaders are merely pace-setters. Each is expected to sound like all the others. Creativity at the amud has been rejected in favor of homogenous and bland rote. It didn’t used to be that way.

            In his book about the hazzanim of yesteryear, Legendary Cantors, Samuel Vigoda, describes the approach of Nisi Belzer, (the cantor of the Great Synagogue in Odessa in the mid-nineteenth century) and says that his pieces on Rosh Hashanah usually began with the basses and worked through the baritones, then the second tenors, then the tenors and finally the boy singers. They were designed, according to Vigoda, to be legal briefs on behalf of Kelal Yisrael, before God. They began with the basses, putting forth simple straightforward notes (i.e., basic arguments) and the complexity of the "arguments" (i.e., the music) rising through the vocal systems until the altos, the young boys, echoed the basses, but with their innocent sounding pure tones. How could God not respond to such a structured presentation? How could the worshipper not have been moved to greater concentration and fervent prayer? The late great Cantor David Bagley, when teaching a student a particular piece, once exclaimed: ". . .YOU'RE TALKING TO GOD!" How many people who ascend a synagogue reader’s desk do so with the sense that they are encountering the divine and representing the congregation before Him, the King of Kings? How can congregants be expected to find inspiration in the tefillah, if their representative before God lacks any sense of purpose? It is the aspect of representing a congregation before God and the awareness of the awesomeness of the task that is missing. There is neither the trepidation that accompanies advocating for the unworthy, nor the confidence that goes with defending the side of right. In most synagogues, one encounters only tepid emotionless utterances and puerile tunes that reflect nothing of the meaning of the words intoned; nothing to honor God’s presence in what should be His sanctuary.

            Like so many problems that confront us today, a possible resolution to the stilted, boring, and vapid synagogue services can be found in our not-so-distant past cultural history. In November, 2006, an Israeli website featured a video of a very nice memorial gathering at the grave of great cantor Moshe Koussevitzky, z"l. Mordechai Sobol, a preeminent spokesperson for cantorial music, and an expert in the field, spoke about the profound and everlasting impact Koussevitzky had on hazzanut. One of his points was that although Moshe Koussevitzky did not compose any of his “signature pieces,” no one identifies those pieces with their true composers. They are all known as “Moishe’s Hatei,” or “the Koussevitzky Esa Einai.” No one speaks about the "sheYibane Beis haMikdosh" of Israel Schorr, or of Schorr's "Hatei," or about Yardeni's "Esa Einai" or of Kotlowiz's "Aneinu." Still, Koussevitzky deserves to lay claim to these melodies and call them his own. He internalized them and modified them to fit his unique voice and distinct persona. When he sang those pieces, he was not simply singing music by Yardeni or by Schorr. Those compositions simply supplied the backdrop for the artist to present his own music. Shlomo Carlebach once said that he didn't like to sing other people's compositions since they were not the products of his soul. He and the great cantors of old preferred to toil in the fields of tefillah, to continually perform a comprehensive “heshbon haNefesh” and discern what in the siddur rang significant to them and then transmit that awesome emotion to the congregation. Our tradition assures us that “devarim haYots’im min haLev, nikhnasim laLev,” that sincerity, honestly expressed, makes an impression on the listener. Our prayer leaders, laypeople, and professional cantors alike, have to follow the example of the greats of old. They must look at the liturgy, personalize it, and set about transmitting that meaning to the congregation. “Aseh Toratkha kevah, ve’al ta’aseh tefilatkha kevah.” Uniformity and predictability in prayer, especially in the way one presents it when leading a service, is impossible and contrary to prayer’s own intrinsic ethic. No two people are ever entirely alike, and no two people can daven the same way—and no one person should daven the same way all the time. Moods change, and thus the experiences and vicissitudes of life should shape the way we address God, understand prayer, and convey it to the masses. Hazzanim today deny themselves the zekhut of being unique individuals. It pervades Jewish society. Yeshivot have become (to paraphrase R. Yitzchak Hutner, z”l) "wurst fabriken." The yeshivish uniforms of apparel and doctrine have come to dominate even that which should be special and unique. Our approach of the divine has been co-opted, and it shows in contemporary synagogue services.

            Sadly, so very few people understand this basic concept. But imagine what it must be like to experience real meaning-packed prayer presented by a leader who labors intensely to both show the worshiper the meaning of the liturgy as he understands it and in doing so veritably puts his own soul on display. What must it have been like to sit in shul as a congregant on that Rosh Hashanah morning in Rovno in the 1880s when Zeidel Rovner premiered his Melokh, or on the Shabbat in Odessa when Rozumni first intoned his Av haRahamim, or the Yom Kippur afternoon in the 1920s when Israel Alter first presented his BeRrosh Hashanah Yikateivun with the immediate reference to the Viddui. Can anyone fathom what that must have been like; to hear these hiddushim in prayer for the first time? Imagine that day in Rovno when Rovner sang “veYeida kol pa’ul ki atoh pealto” as a soft contemplative phrase and then moved into the duet with the bass at “veYomar kol asher neshama beApo,” and he sang it again and again and again; four times altogether. I promise, no one looked at his or her watch. But I'm sure people gave very serious thought to what it means to have a soul implanted within one's body and how that soul enables us to perceive the majesty of the divine. Perhaps a few trembled at the prospect of "meeting God" via his neshama. What were people thinking the first time Kwartin cried out Tiher R. Yishmael? What anguish did he evoke with his pitiful sobs over the martyrdom of the sages? How humble and in awe of God was the congregation privileged to hear the premier of Yosselle Rosenblatt’s Hineni? I have no doubt that the sensitive congregant who heard Pierre Pinchik lecture God on the concept of Am haMuvhar when he chanted the Ahava Rabbah, stopped to think about his exceptional relationship with the Almighty. These were hazzanim who had a sense of mission. It was not their voices that ruled the day, not even their musicality. It was their drive to impart the meaning of the text to the congregation that mattered.

            Prayer stands at a precarious precipice. People are forgetting how prayer is supposed to sound. In the 1920s the great cantor and musicologist Leib Glantz went to the shtibels of the New York’s Lower East Side to hear old Jews pray the daily Shaharit. From their intonations, he composed his classic Shomer Yisrael for the Selihot service. In doing so, he preserved something of the essence of how prayer, at its most intimate and meaningful, should sound. It’s a sound worth listening to and remembering. It is the sound of a people who carried their sacred liturgy from the smoldering ruins of Jerusalem into the diaspora. It is the song we sang when we built the grand synagogue of Granada, the Shulhoff of Vilna, the Altneushul of Prague. It is the song of our nation and our history; hopefully of our future destiny. And it exists in a unique and beautiful form in the soul of every Jew. It is the key to opening up the meaning of the prayers to us. God is a “boher beShirei zimrah” and it’s time for us to be as well. Maybe then, God, and all of us will come home.

We recite the original command for Jewish education daily in the Shema: “You shall teach them diligently to your children and speak in them” (Devarim 6:7) … “and you shall teach them to your children” (Devarim 11:19). The Sages learned from these verses that parents are obligated to ensure that their children receive a Torah education, and if the parents are unable to personally provide this instruction, they must hire a teacher in their place. Shimon ben Shetah was the first to establish a mandatory elementary education system in Israel during the Second Temple era, and the success of this directive was ensured by Yehoshua ben Gamla, who installed teachers in every city for children ages six and older (Bava Batra 21a). Since then, establishing and maintaining Torah schools has been a mandate to Jewish communities as they are built and wherever they are established throughout the world. As the Talmud states, “The world stands on the breath of schoolchildren … Any city that does not have (a place of learning for) schoolchildren is destroyed” (Shabbat 119b).

As educators, we seek to inspire students to believe, yet we also encourage them to look critically at the texts with which they are engaged. The study of Tanakh in high school should be structured to make each student’s experience meaningful and relevant, and to foster a connection to God and the Jewish people through study of divine words.

Our first teachers are our parents, from whom we learn by example what it means to be committed to Judaism. It is through extreme passion for, and commitment to, formal Jewish education that parents enroll children in the Day School system. This system of education feels natural to the children, and that is the first key to the schools’ success: Torah education is a given right to every Jewish child. This is the true meaning of the verse in Devarim 33:4, “Torah tzivvah lanu Moshe, morashah kehillat Yaakov – Moshe commanded the Torah to us as an inheritance for the Jewish people.”

In preschool and early elementary school, students are taught to decipher and create letters in two languages, one that reads left to right while the other reads right to left. Students learn to give Hebrew names to things that they had, until now, only identified in English. Teachers during this stage provide the foundation for their students to become learners of Tanakh through exciting storytelling, which makes Torah vibrant and engaging. In upper elementary school, Tanakh learning skills begin through introduction to Hebrew root words and letters, prefixes and suffixes, and basic sentence structure. In the Chicago Day School system, the Humash curriculum moves from the more familiar stories contained in Bereshit and Shemot to the more complex ideas and laws through the Israelites’ experience in the wilderness in Bemidbar and Devarim. As Humash teachers provide their students with skills to explore, and not just decipher and decode, biblical text, they must also give students the confidence in their own abilities to identify and solve problems; to ask questions, and to feel as if they will be able to find resolution.

            Once students graduate from their respective Day Schools, then, it is assumed that they possess the skills they need for continuing their Torah education. But to ensure that these skills are actually put into use, we need to design a high school Tanakh curriculum that both challenges and inspires the next generation of Jews (though, of course, a skill-building agenda in text and parshanut—classical interpretation—persists). While some students choose to dedicate time after high school at yeshivot, seminaries, or programs in Israel to focus exclusively on Torah study, for many students, this is their last opportunity to study Tanakh in a formal, structured classroom as they graduate and move on to secular universities. Both of these groups must rely on their own motivation and acquired skills to continue their pursuit of Torah study once it is no longer essential to maintaining their GPA; it is therefore the job of Jewish high schools to build upon the foundations of skills and knowledge laid for students in elementary school and to foster love for learning Torah in its own right.         

The modern Jewish high school serves as the bridge between a sheltered Day School life and the realities of a world in which graduates must face multiple perspectives with clarity and conviction. It is for us, as educators and administrators, to determine what will be the most effective and important planks to include in building that bridge. When conducting a Tanakh curriculum review, each school makes choices based on its theological and educational philosophies, and on the needs of its student body. When my school’s committee set to work on the courses we had in place, we questioned whether each class was fulfilling our stated mission of “inspiring b’nei and b’not Torah to thrive in the modern world.” We found many reasons to be proud of what we were accomplishing; our courses were challenging, and some were innovative. However, we were concerned when we did not necessarily see our students connecting with the texts they studied. Upon investigation we realized that part of the reason for this was that they lacked fluency and perspective in the story of Tanakh. With that as our goal, we evaluated each sefer (biblical book) that had been included and that we felt should be included. We rearranged course structure at each grade level and selected units within each sefer that would have greater relevance to our students. We created a four-year continuum that shows students that the books of Tanakh create a picture of our history, and we hope that, when they have completed their course of study, our students will have gained increased textual and analytical skills while also seeing their place within that history.

Administration members must look not only at the course of study, but also at the role of the high school Tanakh teacher, which continues to evolve with each generation of learners. Successful implementation of any curriculum requires the support of faculty, and continuing education for all teachers is essential to establishing universal standards among staff. One curriculum model recommended by Dr. Jeffrey Glanz was developed by Ralph Tyler in 1949. “[This] model is practical in the sense that principals can work with teachers to establish curriculum goals that can then be translated into instructional objectives. Through curriculum development, teachers identify learning activities to provide students with meaningful learning experiences.”[1] There are some teachers who feel their job is primarily to provide a good feeling about Judaism in general, and they use the text to segue into personal homiletics rather than focusing on textual interpretation and analysis. Other teachers view their classes as being just another course of study, and they either teach text dispassionately or, at the other extreme, are relentless in drilling memorization and dissection of words without imparting meaning. Neither ideology is effective in a Torah classroom. Our students are not passive recipients of knowledge. We cannot, and should not, expect them to take whatever we teach them and accept it without question. Indeed, the entire structure of the Oral Law, beginning with the Talmud and continuing through written commentaries on Tanakh and halakha, center around shakla ve-tarya—a debate of details in the text. Jewish students should be encouraged to ask questions when they are not satisfied with the text at hand. The Mishna states, “lo ha-bayshan lamed”—one who is embarrassed to ask questions will not learn (Avot 2:5). It is our imperative to create a classroom environment in which students are encouraged to debate and question what they learn until it makes sense to them. Students do not have to agree with everything they learn, but they should understand and appreciate multiple perspectives on what we teach them. When teachers are involved in the changes to curriculum, they are more likely to create the classroom climate necessary to engage students.

Chicago’s Jewish elementary Day Schools teach the books of Tanakh in sequential order. Humash begins with Bereshit in first or second grade and finishes in eighth grade with Devarim. Logically, then, one might assume that high school Humash classes would re-start the cycle with a new look at Bereshit, through which students can ease into learning at the high school level with familiar stories, and then continue to learn the subsequent books in order. Indeed, many schools follow this model. However, even at the ninth grade level, there is a depth to Bereshit, especially to parshiyot Bereshit and Noah, that cannot be uncovered with 14-year-old students. Although they may be capable of learning complex ideas and debating morality theoretically, they lack the maturity and awareness to understand and internalize it practically. Because of this, schools that study Bereshit with freshmen often avoid those parshiyot and begin instead with the stories of Avraham and Sarah at the end of parashat Noah or the beginning of Lekh-Lekha. By doing so, students are deprived of any opportunity in their formal education to delve into the mysteries of creation from the Torah’s perspective. Even in studying the stories of the forefathers and foremothers, freshmen are unable to truly obtain the insight into the characters’ lives and relationships with God, each other, and the people around them in a meaningful way; in the words of Dr. Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg, “to discover the ways in which life and text inform each other.”[2] Dr. Leon Kass also writes that studying Bereshit as adults “invite[s] our active participation in a world larger than our own. We are drawn into the stories only to discover there a profundity not hitherto available to us. When we analyze, ponder, and discuss the text and when we live with its stories, the enduring text comes alive, here and now. We … are offered a chance to catch a glimpse of possibly timeless and transcendent truth about … whatever matter the text has under consideration.”[3] As the book in which students can connect so much of the material to their personal lives, and as the source of a great deal of unexplored textual depth, it makes sense that Bereshit be learned by seniors who are more emotionally and intellectually mature.

Many schools would agree that their Humash curricula should include full-year studies of Shemot, which, Ramban writes, begins the fruition of God’s promise to the forefathers,[4] and Devarim, which contains, among other things, a review and explanation of mitzvot and Moshe’s final charge to the Jewish people. However, Vayikra is the sefer of Humash, aside from Bereshit, that creates the most pedagogical questions. It deals heavily with the laws of korbanot, sacrifices, the reasons for which, according to Nehama Leibowitz, we do not understand in the absence of the Bet ha-Mikdash, the Temple.[5] It is a shame to completely omit Vayikra from the curriculum, though, as there are tremendous lessons in other sections, including parashat Kedoshim, which has so many well-known laws and practical applications. Additionally, one may gain from studying the story of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aharon who died after bringing an erroneous offering at the dedication of the Mishkan in what my teacher, Rabbi Michael Myers, calls “the 9/11 tragedy of the generation in the midbar.” Since we only have four years of high school, it does not make sense to take up an entire year of study with Vayikra; it is best paired with another sefer. Bemidbar makes the most sense for this, both chronologically and thematically.

Determining Humash curricula predicated on what we have discussed so far gives us several options. Schools may choose to review the story of Humash chronologically, with one year each dedicated to Bereshit, Shemot, Vayikra-Bemidbar, and Devarim. Another curriculum model is for the entire school to learn the same sefer at the same time on rotation. The latter creates unity and a sense of camaraderie in the school’s learning and prevents faculty from becoming stagnant in their teaching, but at the cost of anyone becoming experienced at teaching a particular content. In both of these designs, where seniors are not studying Bereshit as their primary sefer of focus, it behooves the administration to consider adding a seminar for seniors on issues in Bereshit, or to dedicate part of senior year to an exploration of under-learned and misunderstood passages. The model that best supports learning the greatest number of units in each sefer would have freshmen learning Shemot, sophomores tackling Vayikra-Bemidbar, juniors studying Devarim, and seniors doing an enhanced Bereshit course.

Nakh can be the harder part of the program in which to set the curriculum just because of the number of sefarim that can be included. Many students who attended Day Schools learned the sefarim of early nevi’im beginning in third or fourth grade with Yehoshua and finishing with Melakhim in eighth. In theory this would allow the high schools to go straight into learning the later nevi’im and the ketuvim; however, unless the stories are reiterated over time, it is unlikely that students will remember a narrative that was learned up to nine years earlier. The question becomes each school’s goal in teaching Nakh. Where the school’s focus is to be innovative and to introduce students to the most diverse sefarim, the options are tremendous. In such cases administrators tend to create themes based on authorship or time period, such as “the writings of Shelomo” or “books of the exile,” and they must consider whether students will relate more to the prophecies of Habakkuk or the dreams of Daniel. If the school’s primary goal is that its students graduate knowing the story of Tanakh, they should have a review of early nevi’im while simultaneously delving into the later nevi’im and ketuvim. Examples include learning the story of Ruth, which takes place in the time of Shofetim; studying perakim of Tehillim when learning about the troubles and triumphs of David in Shemuel; and reading the attempts of Yonah to avoid helping the enemy of the kingdom of Yisrael, and the exhortations of Yirmiyahu and his personal experience with the people and kings of Yehudah while learning of the downfall of these kingdoms in Melakhim. This program of studying Nakh adds greater depth and perspective to the earlier texts. Older students would also benefit from the practical wisdom imparted in Mishlei and Kohelet, whose messages lead to discussions on Jewish philosophy and the timeless question of humanity’s role in this world.

            When properly implemented, the experience of learning Torah in a strong Jewish high school program will send our students into the world with a greater knowledge of the story of Tanakh: where we come from, who we were, who we are because of it, and how to apply these lessons to our lives. In developing a curriculum for learning Tanakh, each school must choose the proper sefarim for each grade level and appropriate perakim and units within each sefer and at each level that will both motivate and challenge students. It is our goal to foster a connection to the books of God and the Jewish people, and to inspire Jewish youth to remain dedicated to their heritage, to become leaders within their communities, and to feel they are part of the legacy of our forefathers and foremothers, not just as links in a chain of transmission, but as contributors to Torah and its practice, le-hagdil Torah u-le-ha’adirah.

Notes

Introduction

            To the popular mind, the Mexican Inquisition conjures up images of torture chambers, prisoners strapped to the rack, their screams echoing throughout the Palacio de la Inquisición, or perhaps autos de fe, with countless numbers of Jews burning at the stake, the stench of their flesh permeating the streets of Mexico City. Did these ghastly events really take place? Certainly, but rarely with the frequency or intensity that many authors would have us believe.

            The perception that the Holy Office of the Inquisition had engaged in the relentless and continuous persecution of crypto-Jews^[1] in New Spain (and throughout the Indies) is largely the function of the Black Legend, anti-Spanish historiography that developed from the early nineteenth to the mid-twentieth century, represented principally by Protestant, Northern European scholars, and, later by authors analyzing the Mexican Inquisition from the perspective of Jewish history.^[2] The works produced by this school of historiography placed a heavy emphasis on the role that the Holy Office played in the persecution of crypto-Jews, despite the fact that the Mexican inquisitors concerned themselves far more with such mundane breaches of faith and morality, as blasphemy, bigamy, witchcraft, impersonation of priests, and solicitation of women in the confessional. Moreover, these authors often engaged in the inappropriate imposition of moral value judgments backward in time, ranting against the “moral depravity” of the Inquisition, and its “corrupt,” “unjust” procedures, such as holding “unfair trials,” where “flimsy evidence” was admitted.^[3]  If such outrage were directed at modern contemporary institutions, few would dispute these harsh words of condemnation. The imposition of such twentieth-century judgments backwards to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a decidedly less-enlightened and less ecumenical age, however, runs counter to standards of responsible historical scholarship.^[4]

            It is the thesis of this article that, in contrast to the interpretation outlined above, the policy of the Holy Office of the Inquisition in New Spain toward crypto-Jews was one more of toleration than persecution, relative to the experience between the two entities in Spain. Furthermore, the more distant one found oneself from the metropolis, the less intense and less frequent the attention paid by the inquisitors to the conversos, even within the context of this policy of relative toleration.

Iberian Backgrounds

            The roots of New Spain's crypto-Jewish settlement penetrate deeply into the history of Spain and Mexico. While legend placed Jews in the Iberian peninsula as early as the sixth century bce, more solid accounts trace the origins of the community to the Diaspora that occurred in the Late Roman Empire, when Jews expelled from their ancestral homeland found themselves scattered all across the Mediterranean region. Under the rule of the Visigoths, patterns of economic life began to emerge among Spanish Jews that would change little for centuries to come. Concentrated for the most part in the towns of Cataluña and Andalucía, and in Toledo, they engaged in commerce, both internal and overseas, and administered estates of Christian nobility. Some Jews owned their own land, and farmed it themselves, or utilized slave labor. Relations between Jews and the ruling Visigoths were by no means peaceful. Codes were enacted that severely restricted the opportunity for Jews to hold office, intermarry, and build synagogues. Increasingly through the sixth and seventh centuries, zealous Visigoth kings sought the conversion of Spanish Jews, achieving some moderate success. Those who retained their faith, like their descendants in New Mexico who were also forced to pursue their religious beliefs in a hostile environment, tended to observe such basic rituals as sanctification of the Sabbath and festivals, dietary laws, and circumcision.^[5]

            With the Muslim invasion of the Iberian Peninsula in 711, Spanish Jews received a reprieve from persecutions and attempts at forced conversions. While the Muslims by no means pursued a policy of total religious freedom, the general atmosphere was one of toleration of non-Muslim religious practices.^[6]  Barriers to social and economic mobility, imposed earlier by the Visigoths, were by and large removed. Jewish communities in areas under Muslim rule, and eventually in Christian areas as well, were allowed a large degree of autonomy in the administration of their affairs. Geographically, Jewish settlement expanded throughout the peninsula, initially to the major cities of Andalucía, such as Córdoba, Seville, Granada, and eventually through the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, into the more heavily Christian regions of Castile, León, and Aragón. During this period Jews tended to pursue urban trades, as artisans, craftspeople, and shopkeepers, in addition to serving as tax farmers for Christian nobles. In so doing, they often found themselves the object of scorn and hostility at the hands of their poorer, and relatively more rural Christian neighbors.^[7]            

            This hostility to the Jews of Spain that had been growing among the Christian common people, nurtured by generations of civil wars, taxes, and religious crusades against the infidel, began to manifest itself more clearly through the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The church mounted a concentrated campaign to convert the Spanish Jews to Christianity through a combination of both peaceful and violent means. This conversion effort achieved a high degree of success, especially among those wealthier and better educated elements of the Jewish communities. For many of them the transition from Judaism to Christianity was made without a great deal of inner spiritual conflict, for it represented a change of religion in name only. But many conversos and their offspring did not take their new faith seriously.  They continued to participate in the social, political, and religious affairs of their old synagogues. The pain of conversion was further eased by the new and unprecedented opportunities now available to these "New Christians.” Barriers that hitherto prevented them as Jews from rising to economic, social, or political prominence now disappeared, and there came upon the scene instantaneously a new class of nobles, courtiers, municipal office holders, and literary figures, obviously distinguishable from their Old Christian counterparts by their origin, manner, and appearance.^[8]

            The presence of a large and prosperous group of apparently insincere converts became increasingly disturbing to the Old Christian community through the fifteenth century. Anti-converso sentiment, which spread throughout Spain, soon found itself manifested in the official policies of ruling monarchs. The two emerging rulers, Ferdinand of Aragón and Isabel of Castile, capitalized upon this strong emotion in order to unite their subjects and thus solidify control in their dominions. The establishment of the Holy Office of the Inquisition by the Catholic Monarchs in concert with Pope Sixtus IV in 1483 may be seen as a logical institutional manifestation of the deeply-rooted religious feeling against the conversos and also of the royal desire to implement their sovereignty over their newly consolidated realms. Moreover, the Catholic Monarchs, through the Inquisition, sought to break down the economic power of the increasingly influential middle class, largely composed of Jews and conversos.^[9]  

            The ranks of the Spanish conversos were further swelled as a result of the edict issued on March 31, 1492 by Ferdinand and Isabel expelling the Jews from Castile and Aragón. Estimates vary on the number of Jews who opted to leave the Spanish realms, but it seems safe to conclude that of the estimated 200,000 Jews living in Castile and Aragón in 1492, well over half of them fled to safer havens. Of these exiles, most sought refuge across the frontier in Portugal, the others fleeing to France, Italy, and Turkish-controlled regions of the eastern Mediterranean. Those who remained in the Spanish kingdoms submitted to the conversion process and became, at least nominally, cristianos católicos. From this time forward, Catholicism was to be the only legally practiced religion, both in Spain and in the vast empire of the Indies that was about to be uncovered by Christopher Columbus in the very same year of the expulsion.^[10]

            The observance of Jewish rites and customs, now outlawed, was forced underground, to be practiced only in the secrecy of one's home. No longer Jews, those New Christians who chose to continue these observances did so as Christians, in violation of ecclesiastical law, and were often prosecuted for these relapses by the Holy Office of the Inquisition, the institution charged with the enforcement of Catholic orthodoxy among Spanish Christians, both Old and New alike. The situation was markedly different for those estimated 60,000 Spanish Jews who migrated westward across the Iberian Peninsula to join the smaller native Jewish population of Portugal. Although they were forced to either convert or leave the country by edict of Manoel I in 1497, conversion was for the most part nominal, and the enforcement of orthodoxy lax. In sharp contrast to the pressure on Spanish conversos to abandon all vestiges of their old faith, the attitude in Portugal was far more tolerant, and Portuguese New Christians tended to continue to observe Judaic laws and rituals discreetly, yet in an atmosphere of relative security. Thus, through the sixteenth century in Portugal there arose a new and distinct group of crypto-Jews, differing from the Spanish conversos by the retention of their old faith and religious practices.^[11]

            The Portuguese conversos distinguished themselves by their vigorous activity in the economic sphere, not only in the Iberian Peninsula, but also in Portugal's overseas colonies in America, Asia, and Africa, where these individuals played a crucial role in organizing and financing the initial commercial enterprises. For a variety of reasons, the last half of the sixteenth century witnessed an intensity of royal and ecclesiastical activity against crypto-Jews in Portugal. As in Spain, New Christians represented a threat by rising middle class, bourgeois elements against the older ruling aristocracy. Furthermore, the Protestant Reformation sparked a new spirit of vigilance among religious elements within the country, and a consequent strengthening of the powers of the Inquisition. Sealing the fate of the Portuguese crypto-Jews was the union of Spain and Portugal under the rule of Philip II, which came about as a result of a crisis of succession in 1581. The resulting increase in the activity of the Portuguese Inquisition against the crypto-Jewish community stimulated a veritable invasion of Portuguese New Christians into the Spanish realms from the 1580s through the early decades of the seventeenth century.^[12]

Crypto-Jewish Settlement in New Spain

            Within a few years, Portuguese crypto-Jews were also finding their way to distant parts of the Spanish Indies, including the viceroyalty of New Spain. The heaviest period of immigration occurred in the 1620s. This was owing to a variety of factors. Undoubtedly many crypto-Jews sought to take advantage of the relaxation in the immigration laws.^[13]  However, it is also clear that an equally strong motive for emigrating was the improvement of their material condition. In addition, New Spain served as a potential haven for crypto-Jews who wished to practice their secret religious rites in an atmosphere of relative security. In contrast to the Iberian Peninsula, where the Holy Office posed a constant threat to New Christians, the Mexican Inquisition was not particularly concerned with the persecution of judaizantes. With two exceptional periods of activity against crypto-Jews, one in the 1580s and 1590s, and the other in the 1640s, the Holy Office focused its attention upon less spectacular breaches of Catholic orthodoxy, such as witchcraft, bigamy, blasphemy, and the solicitation of women by priests. Thus, once the troubled Iberian crypto-Jews left their homeland for New Spain, they would be able to begin new lives, relatively free from the persecution of the past, and pregnant with the expectation of a comfortable material existence.

            Those conversos who arrived from Spain and Portugal in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries did not find themselves in a completely alien environment. Viable crypto-Jewish communities had flourished in Mexico City and other towns in New Spain since the early 1500s. Mexican crypto-Jews tended to pursue mercantile trades in greater numbers compared with other endeavors. Their careers encompassed a wide variety of trading activities. Some crypto-Jews, stationed for the most part either in Mexico City or Veracruz, engaged in trade across the Atlantic, importing goods from Spain, as well as slaves from Angola, while exporting silver, dyestuffs, and other New Spanish products. Others worked out of Acapulco, and concerned themselves with the Philippines trade. Still others sought to take advantage of the profitable cacao trade with Maracaibo and Caracas, while certain other conversos maintained commercial ties with Peru. Exploiting the sources and markets within the viceroyalty of New Spain, itself, offered opportunities to many more crypto-Jewish merchants, including those who carried goods to remote areas of the far northern frontier of New Spain.^[14]

            As indicated above, Mexican crypto-Jews were able to practice their secret faith in an atmosphere of relative toleration, with the exception of the late 1580s and 1590s, and the 1640s. During these two periods, due to a series of complex factors, the Holy Office of the Inquisition embarked on vigorous campaigns against the conversos. The first of these, which lasted from 1589 to 1601, was initiated in response to the activities of one Luis de Carvajal, el mozo, Portuguese New Christian, and nephew of Luis de Carvajal y de la Cueva, the governor of Nuevo León.

            The elder Luis de Carvajal was born around 1539 in the small Portuguese mountain town of Mogadouoro to a converso family. He made his first journey to Mexico in 1567, as a merchant carrying a cargo of wine to sell in Veracruz, Mexico City, and Zacatecas.^[15] Recognizing the opportunities for exploiting the agricultural and mineral resources in the far northeastern frontier of New Spain, Carvajal sailed back to Spain in 1578 to submit a proposal to King Philip II. In return for opening up the Nuevo Reino de León for Spanish colonization, Carvajal asked the king for two major concessions: (1) that he be appointed governor; and (2) that no investigations be conducted into the ethnic background of the colonists he recruited to populate the new settlement. Under the terms of the royal cédula issued by King Ferdinand in 1501, it was illegal for anyone of Jewish or Moorish descent to emigrate to the Indies. To be sure, many conversos and their offspring did come over legally, but they came under assumed names or doctored limpiezas de sangre. Philip II agreed to these terms, and by means of a formal capitulación signed on May 31, 1579, Luis de Carvajal received his mandate to initiate his colonization effort.^[16] He immediately began to recruit approximately one hundred people from Spain and Portugal, most of converso origin, and brought them to New Spain, establishing his capital at Cerralvo in Nuevo León.

            The young colony survived the material challenges presented by a hostile environment. In religious matters, as well, it appears that the settlers were left alone to worship as they pleased, as long as they did so quietly. However, this atmosphere of calm was soon to be shattered, when one of the colonists betrayed the standard of discretion. Shortly after his arrival in New Spain, the governor's fourteen-year-old nephew was told of his Jewishness by older relatives. In contrast to the response of his contemporaries, young Luis de Carvajal decided that if he was a Jew, he was going to live openly as a Jew. Not only did he begin to practice his religion in full view, but he also initiated efforts to reconnect other New Christians back to Judaism.^[17] Even in an atmosphere of relative toleration demonstrated by New Spanish society, this behavior could not be endured. The Holy Office of the Inquisition, recently elevated to the status of tribunal, had been watching the growth of the Portuguese converso community in New Spain over the course of the previous few years, and had expressed concern over the potential for the spread of the practice of la ley muerta de Moisén—the Dead Law of Moses.^[18]

            The reaction on the part of the inquisitors in Mexico was strong and swift. Between 1589 and 1596, almost two hundred persons were arrested for the crime of judaizante, focusing on the Carvajal family, and extending to crypto-Jewish activity all over the viceroyalty. Young Luis de Carvajal was arrested in 1589, and was reconciled in the auto de fe of 1590. Undeterred by this castigation, young Carvajal resumed his proselytizing efforts, was re-arrested by the Inquisition, and convicted for relapsing into Judaism. He was burned at the stake in the auto de fe of 1596, along with several members of his family.^[19]          After 1604, the policy on the part of the Holy Office returned to one of relative toleration towards the crypto-Jews of New Spain, with only sporadic arrests in the 1620s and 30s. During the first four decades of the seventeenth century, the converso community grew substantially both in numbers and in commercial influence.^[20]

            The second intense campaign began in 1642, motivated in large measure by events across the ocean. In 1640, a successful revolutionary movement for Portuguese independence from the king of Spain stimulated in New Spain a fierce xenophobic reaction against all those of Portuguese background. It was feared that the Portuguese in Mexico City, Veracruz, and the northern mining areas would rise up in revolt against Spanish authorities, and attempt to deliver the viceroyalty to the new Portuguese king. A newly appointed anti-Portuguese viceroy initiated a comprehensive crackdown against this perceived foreign threat. Included among this target group were the estimated two thousand crypto-Jews in the viceroyalty, most of whom possessed Portuguese roots. By 1649, hundreds of crypto-Jews were arrested, tried, and convicted of the crime of "Observing the Law of Moses.” As in the previous campaign, a few were executed, but most were "reconciled,” and returned to resume their lives and careers.^[21]

            After the mid-seventeenth century, the policy on the part of the Holy Office toward the crypto-Jews of New Spain returned to one of relative toleration. From this point until the death of the Mexican Inquisition with the independence of Mexico from Spain in 1821, the inquisitors had very little interest in prosecuting judaizante cases, concentrating instead on more mundane breaches of heresy as blasphemy, bigamy, witchcraft, and censorship of Enlightenment literature. Many of the descendants of New Spain's crypto-Jews, generation by generation, assimilated and acculturated into mainstream Catholic society, losing all vestiges of Judaism. But others appear to have held on to elements of their ancestral faith, either retaining residual Jewish practices, or even passing along a consciousness of a Jewish heritage.

The Frontier as Refuge

            Before, during, and after the two aberrant periods of inquisitorial persecution against the crypto-Jews in New Spain, it appears that the far northern frontier served as a haven for conversos attempting to avoid arrest by the Holy Office. Solange Alberro, in her ground-breaking 1988 work, Inquisición y sociedad en México, 1571–1700, emphasized this fact in her analysis of seventeenth-century Zacatecas. The second-most important city in the viceroyalty of New Spain, Zacatecas served as an important mining center and mercantile distribution point for the region.^[22]

            Alberro argued that the great distance of Zacatecas from the center of authority in Mexico City, and its geographical isolation from other major communities “facilitated laxity and backsliding, practically assuring exemption from punishment” by the Holy Office.^[23] The permissive atmosphere of this northern mining community fostered an environment where heretical acts lost their character as social transgressions, and, as a consequence, behavior that would not have been tolerated in the capital passed virtually unnoticed in tierra adentro.  The frontier offered two major advantages for crypto-Jews seeking anonymity: remoteness from inquisitorial officials and an ample market for the goods and services provided by converso merchants. Alberro observed that, although several members of this community were denounced before the Mexican tribunal, only a minority of these cases were ever prosecuted.^[24] The testimony provided by inquisition records, however fragmentary, represents a unique window through which the role that these crypto-Jews played in the economy and society of the northern frontier can be viewed better.

            On the basis of this documentation, a clear picture emerges of converso participation in commerce from a variety of perspectives. The trade with the northern mining area was largely controlled by merchants based in Mexico City, who received on consignment such diverse items as wine from Spain, silk from the Philippines, cacao from Venezuela, cloth from obrajes in Tlaxcala, and wax from Campeche and then sold this merchandise on credit to traveling merchants bound for Zacatecas and other mining towns. These individuals comprised a mobile, adventuresome group, seldom remaining in one place for more than a few years at a time. For many, their trading experience in the mining areas was but one of several spheres of mercantile activity in which they had engaged during their lifetime. With few exceptions, these crypto-Jews were immigrants from Portugal and Spain who had come over at a young age to seek their fortunes. Their experiences reflected the needs and the hardships of the environment in which they lived. Some of them participated in the defense of the mining frontier against Indian attacks. Others suffered the loss of their wares along the highway at the hands of robbers. The danger and risk of their enterprises necessitated the development of interdependence and cooperation among the travelers, both crypto-Jews and Old Christians alike. Often, groups of traders undertook journeys together or joined in compañías for mutual aid and protection.^[25]

            Most of the traveling crypto-Jewish merchants tended to transact their business with certain other conversos who stationed themselves in the various communities of the northern mining areas. Most prominent among these individuals was Simón López de Aguarda. López received shipments from his contacts in Mexico City sent to Zacatecas by mule train and exchanged them for silver, which he sent southward. Several crypto-Jewish merchants, based on other towns, also brought their goods to López, depositing them in his store on the plaza pública.

            López performed other important functions in the northern mining community, most significantly in his role as a source of credit. At the time of his arrest in 1642, debts owed to him by residents of the mining region totaled almost ten thousand pesos.^[26]  In addition he served as fiador for several miners, thus enabling them to purchase mercury, a crucial commodity in the processing of silver. Residents of Mexico City also entrusted López to transact business for them in Zacatecas by means of powers of attorney. In the noncommercial area, López served the Spanish mining community with distinction as captain of the presidio of Atotonilco.^[27]

            Religious observance on the part of crypto-Jews of Zacatecas and the surrounding areas tended to follow the same pattern demonstrated in other parts of New Spain. Customs included abstaining from eating pork, porging of animals prior to slaughter, and fasting on Yom Kippur.^[28] Inquisition records even cite the existence of a synagogue in the city from the early seventeenth century.^[29] Moreover, like their coreligionists living elsewhere in the viceroyalty, Zacatecan conversos followed similar patterns of endogamy, taking care to marry within the community.^[30]Despite the formal prohibition of judaizing activity in New Spain, the practice of the Law of Moses in Zacatecas was, according to Alberro, “conscious, coherent, and deliberate,” thus indicating that the northern mining region functioned effectively as a zone of refuge.^[31]

Crypto-Jewish Settlement in New Mexico

            “If Zacatecas constitutes a zone of refuge in comparison with the central region of the viceroyalty,” according to Alberro, “New Mexico is, as [France V.] Scholes states, ‘a heaven for social outcasts from the mining camps of Zacatecas, Santa Bárbara and Parral’…. That is to say, the zone of refuge from the zone of refuge.”^[32] Indeed, it appears that New Mexico, like the mining areas of Zacatecas, also served as a focus of settlement of crypto-Jews seeking to escape persecution from the Mexican Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition.

            The origins of European exploration of New Mexico date back to 1540, when Francisco Vázquez de Coronado led an expedition of over one thousand men and women north and west from Mexico City into what is today the U.S. Southwest.^[33] The Spanish explorers, in search of the mythical, wealthy “Seven Cities of Cíbola,” found little in the way of precious metals. But, perhaps more important, they encountered groups of sedentary Indians, whom they labeled “pueblos,” due to the concentration of the native population in towns. A combination of severe winters, failure to discover the treasures of “Cíbola,” and a debilitating injury to Vázquez, compelled the Spanish to return home to Mexico, thus leaving the colonization of New Mexico for another, more permanent enterprise five decades later.^[34]

            The campaign of the Mexican Holy Office against the crypto-Jews of Nuevo León of the 1580s and 1590s, discussed above, was to have a direct impact on the later exploration and settlement of New Mexico at the end of the sixteenth century. Upon the arrest of Governor Luis de Carvajal by the Inquisition for tolerating the presence of judaizantes under his administration, he left behind in Nuevo León as lieutenant governor of the province a seasoned military leader, Gaspar Castaño de Sosa. Like Carvajal, Castaño was born in Portugal, and was possibly of crypto-Jewish origin.^[35] Soon after receiving word of Governor Carvajal's conviction and appearance in the auto de fe of February 24, 1589,^[36] Castaño rounded up the some one hundred seventy colonists (comprising men, women and children) in Cerralvo and left on an uncharted expedition to the north. This "Colony on the Move," as Matson and Schroeder^[37] referred to it, reached the Río Grande,^[38] traveled upriver to its confluence with the Río Pecos, and trekked up the Pecos, crossing Glorieta Pass into the Río Grande Valley, finally stopping near the pueblo of Santo Domingo, in an attempt to establish the first permanent Spanish colony in New Mexico.

            Under the terms of the Spanish colonial system in the late sixteenth century, however, the Castaño de Sosa entrada of 1590 comprised an illegal expedition. Not only had Castaño failed to secure permission from the viceroy to leave Nuevo León (although his emissaries had made attempts to do so), but he had neglected to inform anyone in authority that he was embarking on such a venture. Moreover, Castaño's was the only expedition into the northern frontier of its day not to include a priest or any member of a religious order.^[39] The close ties maintained by Castaño to Governor Carvajal, the coincidence of the timing of his hasty (and illegal) departure for the north upon hearing of Carvajal's problems with the Inquisition, the absence of a priest on the expedition, and the allegations of his own familial ties to the crypto-Jewish community, all suggest strongly that Castaño might have initiated the dangerous entrada for the purpose of leading other crypto-Jews to a secure haven on the far northern frontier.

            Unfortunately, little is known about the background of the members of the Castaño de Sosa expedition. No muster roll has ever been found, which would provide clues as to the Iberian, or possible crypto-Jewish origins of its participants. While certainly not conclusive, possible links may be established by comparing the colonists’ names with those found in contemporary trial records of the Mexican Inquisition, tried for judaizante, names such as Rodríguez, Nieto, Díaz, Hernández, and Pérez.^[40] The participation of Juan de Vitoria Carvajal

also raises some interesting questions. Certainly the coincidence of his tenure in Nuevo León suggests a familial connection to Governor Luis de Carvajal.^[41] Could Vitoria Carvajal have represented a hitherto unidentified branch of the family attempting to escape to the north?

            Not all of the participants in the Castaño enterprise remain lost to history, however.  One of the members of the Castaño expedition who can definitely be linked to converso origins was Alonso Jaimes. Born in the Canary Islands, Jaimes tried to pass himself off as an Old Christian before immigration officials in an attempt to emigrate to Mexico in 1574. He had convinced Francisco Rodríguez to perjure himself by alleging that Jaimes was “free from all Muslim or Jewish blood.”  Recognizing the attempt to circumvent the prohibition of descendants of Jews to emigrate to the Americas, inquisition officials in the Canaries arrested Jaimes and accused him of being “a descendant of a line of conversos, reconciled by the inquisition.”  Unbeknownst to either Jaimes or Rodríguez, the inquisitors had maintained a dossier on Jaimes’s family, tracing them back five generations to Jews from various parts of Spain and Portugal who, after converting to Catholicism in 1492, had sought refuge in the Canaries. Rodríguez was fined eight ducados for his perjury. And, despite all the attention from the Las Palmas tribunal of the Holy Office, Jaimes apparently was able to emigrate to New Spain within a few years after this unpleasant encounter with inquisition officials.^[42]

            When the viceroy of New Spain was informed of Castaño's departure from Nuevo León, he sent Juan Morlete, a former associate of Castaño's, to arrest him and his entire party, not for practicing Judaism, but for having conducted an illegal expedition. Castaño was convicted of treason and exiled to the Philippine Islands, where he died shortly thereafter.^[43] Many of the survivors of the entrada returned to Nuevo León and participated in the founding of the town of Monterrey in 1596.^[44]  Others remained in central Mexico, fearful, perhaps, of attracting the attention of the Inquisition, now in the throes of its vigorous campaign against the converso community of New Spain.

            By the late 1590s the king had realized the efficacy of establishing a defensive outpost in the far northern frontier of New Mexico. Several candidates placed their names under consideration to lead such an expedition. One enjoyed the support of the Mexican Inquisition, Francisco de Urdiñola. Urdiñola was a comisario of the Holy Office, who, in the eyes of the inquisitors, would be in a position to ensure the purity of blood and orthodoxy of the colonists heading north.^[45] Viceroy don Luis de Velasco, however, had no intention of allowing a competing jurisdiction to interfere in such a secular venture. Charges were proffered against Urdiñola for the murder of his wife and several servants, and in the face of such serious allegations, Velasco simply could not permit the comisario to remain under consideration to lead the entrada to the north. The viceroy declared the mission suspended indefinitely.^[46]

            The next year, Velasco chose don Juan de Oñate, the son of a wealthy and powerful northern miner, and, himself a descendant of converted Jews,^[47] to serve as adelantado, and charged him with the task of establishing a new colony in the distant frontier of New Mexico. Among the people whom Oñate approached to join him in this effort were some of the survivors of the Castaño de Sosa expedition. After all, they had returned from New Mexico just a few years earlier and consequently knew well the route northward, the terrain, and had firsthand knowledge of the Pueblo Indians who inhabited the lands to be conquered and occupied. In short, Oñate must have realized the potential for these survivors of the Castaño expedition to help him establish his new colony on a strong footing.

            For their part, those survivors who did not return to Nuevo León might well have felt themselves somewhat vulnerable to arrest by the Inquisition, which, as has been demonstrated, was in the midst of its heaviest phase of activity against Mexican crypto-Jews. Whether for push or pull factors, at least two members of the Castaño entrada decided to return with Oñate in 1598, Juan de Victoria Carvajal and Juan Rodríguez Nieto. The latter appears to be the same Juan Rodríguez, identified by the Mexican Inquisition as a fugitive the previous year, and who was burned in effigy in the auto de fe of 1601 for practicing Judaism.^[48] Another member of the 1590 expedition, Alonso Jaimes, whose Jewish origins are discussed above, could be found in Oñate's military encampment at Casco in 1596.^[49] Another of Oñate's soldiers, Cristóbal de Herrera, was arrested several years later in Zacatecas, denounced before the Inquisition on suspicion of practicing Judaism.^[50] Alberro, in her discussion on the history of the Inquisition in Zacatecas, referred to Herrera as “un verdadero judaizante,” a true Jew.7^[51] The supplier of the Oñate expedition was a merchant by the name of Balthasar Rodríguez, possibly the same Balthasar Rodríguez, merchant of Nuevo León and brother of Luis de Carvajal, who had eluded attempts by Inquisition agents to arrest him several years earlier.^[52]

            Bartolomé Romero, a soldier accompanying Oñate to New Mexico in 1598, was listed on the muster roll as born in Corral de Almaguer, in the region of Toledo, the son of Bartolomé Romero.^[53] His mother was María de Adeva, possibly a relation of the Benadevas, a prominent Jewish, and later converso, family of Sevilla at the turn of the sixteenth century.^[54] Baptismal records from Corral de Almaguer note that other Romeros from the town either served as godparents of New Christians, or were, themselves, descendants of conversos.^[55] Yet another Romero from Quintanar de la Orden, located about fourteen miles from Corral de Almaguer, was convicted of judaizante by the Inquisition of Cuenca in 1589.^[56]

            Despite the presence of New Christians in New Mexico from the earliest years of Spanish settlement, the Inquisition, represented in the colony by the Franciscan friars, appeared unconcerned about the possibility of the practice of Jewish heresy in its midst. This was due to a variety of factors, including the general disinterest by the Mexican Holy Office in judaizante cases in the early seventeenth century, and the remoteness of New Mexico from the capital. Perhaps most significantly, the Franciscans were preoccupied with the struggle for power with the civil authorities in this far northern frontier outpost.^[57]

            During this period of inattention it appears that several more descendants of conversos emigrated northward along the Camino Real into New Mexico, including Simón de Abendaño, from Ciudad Rodrigo,^[58] along the Spanish-Portuguese border, Diego de Vera, from the Canary Islands,^[59] and the Portuguese Manuel Jorge.^[60] Suspicion of Judaic background extended even to the ranks of the Franciscan order. The investigation into the limpieza de sangre of fray Esteban de Perea, born in Villanueva del Fresno, on the Spanish-Portguese border, nominated to the position of custos in 1629, contained testimony alleging that the nominee’s ancestors had been Jewish.^[61] The Franciscan authorities chose to overlook this potentially damaging evidence, however, and confirmed Perea to the post.

            It was not until 1662 that Inquisition agents in New Mexico began to focus on crypto-Judaism. At 4:00 on the morning of August 27, comisarios of the Holy Office burst into the home of Governor Bernardo López de Mendizábal, arresting his wife, Teresa de Aguilera y Roche. Also taken that year were the governor, himself, and Sargento Mayor Francisco Gómez Robledo. All three were charged with secretly practicing Judaism. Arrested on unspecified charges of heresy were Capitán Cristóbal de Anaya Almazán, Sargento Mayor Diego Romero, and Capitán Nicolás de Aguilar.^[62] The documentation generated by these politically-motivated trials of these individuals offers a glimpse into crypto-Jewish activity in New Mexico during the period preceding these arrests, when neither the inquisitors, nor anyone else in the colony appeared to be bothered by such heretical practices.

            Testimony emanating from these trials revealed customs clearly identified as Jewish being practiced by early New Mexican settlers. Several witnesses testifying against Francisco Gómez Robledo insisted that it was common knowledge in the colony that his father, Francisco Gómez, was a Jew.^[63] The elder Gómez, born in Coina, Portugal, came to New Spain in 1604 in the retinue of Juan de Oñate's brother, Alonso, heading north to New Mexico shortly thereafter. During his nearly half century in the colony, Gómez held several civil and military positions.^[64]  Not only was Francisco Gómez Robledo found to have been circumcised,^[65] considered by inquisitors as a certain indication of judaizing,^[66] but his younger brothers, Juan and Andrés, were as well. It is worthy to note that in 1662 testimony against the latter two, the witness, Domingo López de Ocanto, conveyed the impression that knowledge of the circumcisions was widespread among the community:

They were asked if they knew, or if they had heard of any person or persons who were circumcised.

He replied that he only knows that Juan Gómez and Andrés Gómez, sons of Francisco Gómez, deceased, citizens of the Villa of Santa Fe, who are of the age of this witness, when they were young boys used to bathe together, and that it appeared to him that they had their parts circumcised, and that all of the young men of that age know this . . . (emphasis added).^[67]

As a result of this revelation, Inquisition prosecutor, Rodrigo Ruíz suggested that:

Juan and Andrés Gómez, brothers, sons of Francisco Gómez and doña Ana Romero [read Robledo] with regard to the aforesaid sign of circumcision or cutting, which demonstrates that they are observers of Judaism, as a consequence should be severely castigated by the Holy Office with the penalties established by law. . . .^[68]

Despite the clear indications of Judaic identity and practice, and the stern admonition by prosecutor Ruíz, Francisco Gómez Robledo was acquitted of all charges, and neither Juan nor Andrés were ever prosecuted by the Inquisition.

            So, too, did the record generated by the trials of Governor Bernardo López de Mendizábal and his wife, Teresa de Aguilera y Roche suggest a connection to Jewish background. López, arrested for judaizante in 1662, swore that he was of pure Old Christian noble origin, and that none of his ancestors had ever been castigated by the Inquisition.^[69] He rather conveniently neglected to mention that one of his maternal great-grandfathers, Juan Núñez de León, had been penanced by the Mexican Inquisition for judaizante in 1603.^[70] Testimony against Aguilera included Sabbath observance, such as changing linens and bathing on Fridays, and reciting prayers in secret on Friday evenings.^[71]

            Cristóbal de Anaya Almazán, as cited above, had been arrested on an unspecified charge of heresy. His testimony, however, appears to have suggested a fear of charges against him for practicing Judaism:

Item—he also says and declares that in August of the previous year, in the pueblo of Sandía, having complied with the order brought by the Holy Tribunal, don Fernando de Durán y Cháves said to the witness that he had taken back that which the Holy Tribunal had ordered, to which the witness responded to him, I, too, take back what I said so that the people should not be saying what is being said, that perhaps they arrested me for practicing Judaism, which was said before don Agustín de Cháves, Padre fray Raphael, and doña Catalina Vásques, from whom I also ask for mercy as a Catholic Christian.^[72]

            During the course of the 1660s persecutions in New Mexico, testimony emerged from the trial of Governor López that shed light on the Jewish practices of another early colonist. Padre fray Nicolás de Villar, related that during lent of 1657, one of his Franciscan brethren had told him of a young girl, the eldest daughter of Portuguese blacksmith Manuel Jorge, who had confessed to him that “she observed the Law of Moses with exquisite rites and ceremonies.” The priest did not report her heresy to anyone, since the Mexican Tribunal was 500 leagues distant, and he was not aware of the presence of any Inquisition official in the colony.^[73]

Conclusion

            The examples cited above suggest that the crypto-Jewish identity and practices of early New Mexico colonists were quite well known both to the general populace and to religious officials. But, absent extraneous factors, in this case the effort in the 1660s on the part of the Franciscans to break down the political power of Governor López de Mendizábal, the authorities, both civil and religious, appeared to be unconcerned about this heresy in their midst. In this sense, the New Mexico experience supports the thesis that the frontier served as a haven for those fleeing from the authority of the Inquisition. The farther one found oneself from the metropolis, the greater the sense of toleration. In the case of the crypto-Jews, those who fled from their homes in Spain and Portugal found a relatively safe haven in central Mexico. During the two aberrant periods of persecution by the Mexican Holy Office in the sixteenth and seventeenth century, New Christians were able to escape to an even more secure environment on the far northern frontier of New Spain. Indeed, it appears that the distant outpost of New Mexico represented, in Solange Alberro’s words, “the zone of refuge from the zone of refuge” with regard to its policy of toleration of a crypto-Jewish presence.

Notes

* The author would like to acknowledge the Estate of Eva Feld for its support of the research that formed the basis of this article. His book, To the End of the Earth: A History of the Crypto-Jews of New Mexico, was published by Columbia University Press in 2005.

2015.)

Since the founding of Yeshivat Chovevei Torah (YCT), and some years later, Yeshivat Maharat (YM), I and others have been asked whether we are creating a new movement within Orthodoxy. Movements are generally not announced; they evolve. They are not proclaimed; they emerge, sometimes gradually, other times swiftly. Their growth is usually painstaking, surfacing here and there. Although they meet opposition, if they are strong and viable, they coalesce to become a powerful voice. It’s only years later that one can assess whether a movement has taken root.

But of one matter I am certain: Since the early 1990s, Orthodoxy has undergone a number of great shifts. Responding to a precipitous move to the right within Modern Orthodoxy, a plethora of institutions and organizations have emerged. These include the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance (JOFA), Edah, YCT and YM, the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, and the International Rabbinic Fellowship (IRF). In Israel, too, Beit Morasha, Beit Hillel, Ne’emanei Torah Ve’Avodah, and others were founded, and today women are being ordained (receiving semikha) from Yeshivat Maharat as well as Yeshivat Har’el.

Modern Orthodoxy, which 25 years ago faced a significant decline, has been reclaimed by tens, even hundreds of thousands of adherents.

Debate has surfaced over what this reassertion should be called. In the end, names are secondary to the substantive changes that have been put in place. Still, names matter as they are descriptive of what we are, our mission and values, taking into account the changes and challenges of the times.

For example, when Rabbi Norman Lamm became president of Yeshiva University (YU) in the late 1970s, he abandoned the term “Modern Orthodoxy,” replacing it with “Centrist Orthodoxy.” My sense is that he did so as a way of distancing Yeshiva University from Rabbi Emanuel Rackman and Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, two of the most dynamic and charismatic leaders of Modern Orthodoxy. For RIETS (Yeshiva University’s rabbinical school) and the RCA (the rabbinical organization of which most YU rabbis are members), Modern Orthodoxy was becoming too liberal. A more cautionary, middle-of-the road label was necessary: Centrist Orthodoxy.

From the beginning, I and others were uncomfortable with this term. Centrist Orthodoxy never resonated, as it suggests a position in the center of those on both sides. As the flanks shift, the center must also shift in order to remain in the middle. Centrist Orthodoxy becomes reactive, losing its autonomy.

With the advent of YCT, YM, the IRF, JOFA, and others, honest and respectful discussion is taking place concerning what terms should be used to describe these new phenomena in Orthodoxy.

Some suggest the continued use of the term “Modern Orthodoxy.” Modern Orthodoxy is a trademark term. Bearing in mind that it has been abandoned by RIETS and the RCA, a vacuum has been created. Why not fill that vacuum by reclaiming it and infusing it with new ideas and new perspectives while holding on to the term with which people feel comfortable.

Others, like myself, prefer a new term: “Open Orthodoxy.” In the 1960s and 1970s, Modern Orthodoxy dealt primarily with two issues: secularism and Zionism—more broadly, the modern secular world, and the modern State of Israel. Modern Orthodoxy insisted that one could be Orthodox while embracing the humanities and science, even as one could be Orthodox while committed to the rebirth of the State of Israel.

Truth be told, those battles are behind us. Today, large portions of the Haredi world encourage their young people to attend college and to participate in the workforce. They may not see “holiness” in disciplines outside of Torah, but they have come to understand the importance of acquiring skills to making a living and getting along in the modern world. While secularism for the Haredi has no pure, intrinsic value, it is a means to a greater end.

Over time, the Haredi world has also become more committed to the welfare of Israel—its defense and citizenry—even as it rejects the religious significance of the establishment of the State. Agudah, Shas, and Chabad do not sing Hatikvah, nor do they recite the tefillah lishlom haMedinah—but they care deeply about the welfare of Israel, the safety of its citizens, and its security.

“Modern” issues of 40 and 50 years ago are no longer modern. We are, in fact, in the postmodern era, as we face new issues and challenges.

The dividing line within Orthodoxy today revolves around inclusivity. Is Orthodoxy inclusive of women—encouraging women to become more involved in Jewish ritual and Jewish spiritual leadership? Notwithstanding the Torah prohibition on homosexuality, are those in such relationships included as full members in our synagogues, and are their children welcomed into Day Schools? Do we respect, embrace, and give a forum to those who struggle with deep religious, theological, and ethical questions? Do we insist upon forbiddingly stringent measures for conversion, or do we, within halakhic parameters, reach out to converts with love and understanding? Should Orthodox rabbinic authority be centralized, or should it include the wide range of local rabbis, who are not only learned but also are more aware of how the law should apply to their particular communal situations and conditions? Are we prepared to engage in dialogue and learn from Jews of other denominations, and, for that matter, people of all faiths?

Put simply, is our focus on boundaries, fences, high and thick—obsessing and spending inordinate amounts of time ostracizing and condemning and declaring who is not in—or is our focus on creating welcoming spaces to enhance the character of what Orthodoxy could look like in the twenty-first century? To quote the late Rabbi David Hartman’s description of having been raised Orthodox: “I grew up in a home where I didn’t feel piety needed an object to hate. I felt close to God without saying, ‘I don’t like him, I don’t go into his shul.’ I never felt piety through anger and negation, but piety was the result of internal conviction and joy.”

This is Open Orthodoxy. While insisting on the foundational divinity of Torah and observance of halakha, this Orthodoxy is not rigid. It is open to a wider spectrum.

In my travels through America, I have found that people—the amkha—have become alienated from such ossified terms as “Modern Orthodoxy.” This term no longer reflects vibrancy; it is dried up. People are looking for something new that speaks more directly to their inner convictions and passions. They are looking for an Orthodoxy that is inclusive, non-judgmental, and open.

It’s the model of our forebears Sarah and Abraham. Unlike Noah, who is best known for his ark—insulated and separated by high walls from the rest of society—Abraham and Sarah dwell in a tent. It is open on all sides, welcoming not only those who come in, but they are also prepared to run out of the tent and greet all passersby, encouraging them to drink from the waters of Torah.

Introduction

Filling the position of Posek haDor, the leading halakhic arbiter of the Jewish people, has become an almost hopeless undertaking in our complicated and troubled times. We are told that the Posek haDor must be someone whose halakhic knowledge is greater than anyone else’s. He must be someone who is totally imbued with Torah knowledge; he has acquired Torah values and refined his character to such a degree that he embodies, and is thus qualified to offer, Daat Torah (an authentic and authoritative Jewish view on all matters). Daat Torah is seen as quasi-prophetic, and thereby beyond reproach.[1] The Posek haDor has to decide on issues of life and death, literally and figuratively. He must make judgments about political matters—especially in and concerning the Land of Israel—that are so complicated that they are nearly beyond anyone’s grasp. People insist that this person must have wisdom that surpasses anything ordinary mortals could ever dream of. He is asked to singlehandedly decide on matters that will affect hundreds of thousands of religious Jews, and, by extension, millions of secular Jews. This is most dangerous.

To Be A Posek HaDor: Is It Possible?

The establishment of the State of Israel cast all Jews around the globe into a new world order, and created a need for pioneering religious leadership and a completely new kind of halakhic arbiter. Social and economic conditions as well as ideologies have changed radically, creating major upheavals in Jewish life. As a result, unprecedented circumstances have arisen that need to be translated into reality. The question is whether the Posek haDor will grasp these opportunities and turn them into major victories so as to inspire people. Developments in the rabbinical world show that we no longer have such extraordinary people. Most of the time, halakhic authorities have withdrawn, living in denial and continuing to believe that the world has not evolved and that nothing of substance has happened that requires an altogether new approach.

Today, halakhic authorities need to lead religious Jewry through a new world order. They must realize that their views will affect Jews as well as Gentiles, for their voices will be heard far beyond the Jewish community, transmitted via the Internet. Their observations may cause ridicule and even anti-Semitism if they misrepresent Judaism and Jewish law. Rather unfortunately, this has happened on more than a few occasions.

The posek has to understand that he may be called upon to give guidance to an often extremely secular and troubled world that is in great need of hearing the words of a Jewish sage. His decisions must reflect the imperative that we Jews are to be a light unto the nations—a light that must shine everywhere. It is no longer possible to focus on the often narrow world of Orthodoxy and look down on or ignore the secular and Gentile world.

Is the Halakha Still Exciting and Ennobling?

Most Jews today are no longer observant, nor are they even inspired by Judaism. To them, it has become irrelevant and outdated. The reasons for this tragedy are many, but no doubt a major cause is the failure to convey halakha as something exciting and ennobling, like the music of Bach, Mozart, or Beethoven. Only when a Jew is taught why halakha offers him or her the musical notes with which to play the soul’s sonata, will he or she then be able to hear its magnificent music.

            Just as great scientists are fascinated when they investigate the properties of DNA, or the habits of a tiny insect under scrutiny, so should even a secular Jew be deeply moved when encountering the colors and fine subtleties of the world of halakha.[2] But does the posek realize this, and does he know how to convey that message when he deals with halakhic inquiries?

The Curse of Nearsightedness

Many religious Jews are nearsighted and in dire need of a wider vision. Is making sure that a chicken is kosher all that there is to kashruth? Or, are the laws of kashruth just one element of a grand weltanschauung that defines the mission of the People of Israel; a mission whose importance surpasses by far the single question of a chicken’s kashruth? Such inquiries are but one small component of a larger question concerning the plague of consumerism and humankind’s obsessive pursuit of ever-increasing comfort. Should the posek who is asked about the kashruth of someone’s tefillin not ask that person: “And what about the kashruth of your much-too-expensive and ostentatious car?” After all, the posek needs, foremost, to be an educator. Hard-line narrow rulings will not create the future for a deeply spiritual Judaism.

The first requirement of a posek is to live in radical amazement and see God’s fingers in every dimension of human existence, including the Torah, Talmud, science, technology, and above all, in the constant changing of history, which may well mean that God demands different decisions from those of the past. Today’s halakhic living is severely impeded by observance having become mere habit. As Abraham Joshua Heschel put it so beautifully:

Indeed, the essence of observance has, at times, become encrusted with so many customs and conventions that the jewel was lost in the setting. Outward compliance with externalities of the law took the place of the engagement of the whole person to the living God.[3]

Over the years, this problem has become exacerbated because everything in Judaism has been turned into a halakhic issue.

Unknown Landscapes

The future posek must reverse this crisis. He can do so only if he is touched by something much larger than himself. It is entirely impossible to pasken (render a halakhic ruling) when his own soul is cold and all he does is go by the book. He must live the Divine, and the Divine must emerge from his decisions. To paraphrase Heschel: The posek must feel more than he understands in order to understand more than he grasps. He must touch Heaven while standing with both his feet on the ground, similar to what takes place when one hears the music of Bach, Mozart, or Beethoven, and suddenly feels that he is taken on a journey to unknown landscapes. I would even suggest that some posekim should actually listen to this kind of heavenly music while contemplating halakhic problems presented to them. It will broaden their minds and hearts, and they will see a world emerging that opens halakhic possibilities they never contemplated before. They will sense God’s presence, because music sets the soul free and evokes in us wonder about who we are and what we live for. As Swiss Protestant theologian Karl Barth once wrote, “Whether the angels play only Bach in praising God, I am not quite sure; I am sure, however, that en famille they play Mozart.”[4]

No Legalism

It is the posek’s task to ensure that Judaism is not identified only with legalism. There is an entire religious world beyond halakha—one of aggada, philosophy, deep emotional experiences, devotion, and often unfinalized beliefs. Shouldn’t these be part of the process of deciding how halakha is to be applied? The task of halakha has always been to ensure that Judaism does not evaporate into a utopian reverie, a superficial spiritualism. But the facts on the ground suggest something entirely different. Judaism has developed in a way that has destroyed the delicate balance between law and spirit, and it has turned into a type of sacred behaviorism. Halakha is supposed to be the practical upshot of even unfinalized beliefs. Judaism was never supposed to become a religion that is paralyzed in its awe of rigid tradition. It is a fluid liquid that must be transformed into a solid substance so as to enable the Jew to act. It must chill the heated steel of exalted ideas and turn them into pragmatic deeds without allowing the inner heat to cool off entirely.

            Halakha is the midwife that assists in the birth of not only answers but also profound spiritual questions created by that very halakha. As such, we must ensure that the Posek haDor does not turn into someone who gives automatic answers on the spot. Instead, he should walk the person through a landscape in which these questions are properly discussed.

The Wife of the Posek

It is high time that a group of women, particularly the wives of posekim, be deeply involved in certain halakhic decisions when they touch on emotions and social conditions that they may understand better than the posek/husband. Why do we almost never hear about the wife of the Posek haDor, her wisdom, and especially the sacrifice entailed in being married to such a great man who is needed by so many and who often has little time for his own family?[5]

Today’s Posek haDor is often absolutely sure of the truth of his religion, but not informed or aware of the many challenges today’s world presents to religious faith and Judaism. How could such a person be able to understand the many issues of people who live in religious doubt? Furthermore, the posek must sincerely appreciate the plight and pain of the confused teenager, the Jewish Ethiopian, the bereaved parent, the struggling religious homosexual, the child of a mixed marriage with only a Jewish father, even the Christian or Buddhist who has an affinity for Judaism and asks for guidance.

The Need for Advice

Is there anyone in this world who has all the qualities necessary to singlehandedly rule on these matters? It is entirely unfair and extremely dangerous to ask one person, however pious and wise, to adequately respond to all these issues. It requires teamwork with fellow rabbis and teachers, who may not be as learned in halakha but are much more familiar with many of the problems of which the Posek haDor may not be aware. The Posek haDor should be advised by a team of highly experienced professionals—psychologists, social workers, scientists, and even poets and musicians—before giving a ruling, so as to prevent major pitfalls. Halakha should be decided by consensus (as was once the case with the Sanhedrin) instead of by one person, even if he is the greatest. Centralized authority has become a dangerous matter. It may be wise to allow people, with some guidance, to decide on their own after having heard all the halakhic views and spiritual dimensions of their question.

New Torah Ideas and Not the Vatican

Posekim should encourage new Torah ideas and shun the denunciation of those books that try to bring religion and science together in harmony. Instead of banning them, as the Vatican used to do in former times, they should encourage these works. In the last few years, powerful rabbis have tried to prevent books from being published, or have condemned them, because they did not agree with their content, claiming them to contain heresy. In their ignorance, they tried to ban them and their authors, causing a terrible hillul Hashem (desecration of God’s name) after secular newspapers were informed of these condemnations and ridiculed them, since they indicated a total lack of scientific knowledge on the part of those who signed and endorsed these bans. Some of these great rabbis should stop the banning and instead learn to offer scientific and philosophical solutions to possible conflicts between Torah, science, and philosophy. But to do so, they need to acquire enough knowledge! What is the point of labeling certain ideas as heresy when one does not have the knowledge to understand the issues involved? In any case, bans and inquisitions have no place in Judaism.

            The Posek haDor must have shoulders broad enough to carry and appreciate different worldviews, including Zionist, non-Zionist, ultra-Orthodox and Modern Orthodox. And he must ensure that all these denominations feel his impartiality and his allowance of space for their varied ideologies. Perhaps he could even have an open ear for Reform and Conservative Judaism and realize that many of their adherents are serious about their religion, even though he would not agree with these movements. And when he disagrees, he should be sophisticated enough to explain why he indeed differs.

A true posek should visit women’s shelters, speak personally with abused women and children, and perhaps periodically deny himself food and drink so that he feels the real horror of poverty and rejection. Unless he is a very sensitive soul, he should perhaps get himself hospitalized and spend time observing and even experiencing the lives of people who are incapable of leaving their beds. They are in the hands of doctors and nurses who do not always deal with their patients in an adequately compassionate manner, whether due to lack of time, insensitivity, or some other reason. He should also carefully listen to the complaints, problems, and frustrations of the medical staff.

The Posek Should Go into Exile

Before dealing with the question of agunot[6] and the refusal of husbands to grant their wives a get (writ of divorce), it would perhaps be a good idea for the posek to leave his wife for a period of time (with her consent, of course) and live in total loneliness, so as to understand what it means to live in utter silence and have no life partner.

Above all, it is the Posek haDor’s responsibility to narrow the serious gap between the ultra-Orthodox and the rest of Israeli society, and to come up with creative halakhic solutions that will boggle the minds of all branches of Jewry.

Posekim must be people who will propose unprecedented solutions for the status of the tens of thousands of non-Jews with Jewish roots living in Israel. They must ensure that courses on Judaism are so attractive that halakha becomes irresistible. They should instruct their students to welcome these people with open arms, knowing quite well that otherwise we will be confronted with a huge problem of intermarriage in Israel, which threatens the very existence of the Jewish state.

The posek’s farsighted and long-term view must ensure that major problems, such as the exemption of yeshiva students from army service, will be resolved once and for all.

Over nearly 2,000 years of exile, Jewish law has developed into a “waiting mode” in which it has become the great “Preserver of the Precepts.” It has been protective and defensive, and mainly committed to conformity, in order to ensure the survival of Judaism and the Jews who were surrounded by a non-Jewish, mostly hostile society. It became a “galut halakha”—an exilic code—in which the Torah sometimes became overly stultified. It may have worked in the Diaspora, but it can no longer offer sufficient guidance in today’s world and in Israel.[7]

The State of Israel is the great catalyst for this new situation, which we have not experienced during the past 2,000 years. Consequently, we are in dire need of “prophetic halakha,” in which not only the rules of halakha are applied, but also the perspectives of our prophets who spoke of burning social and ethical issues. This should be combined with a melodious spiritual resonance that introduces new points of view on genuine and deep religiosity.

 Isn’t it time to leave the final codification of Jewish law behind us; to unfreeze halakha and begin reading between the lines of the Talmud to recapture halakha’s authentic nature?

To Be a Conductor of an Orchestra

To be an arbiter of Jewish law is to be the conductor of an orchestra. It is not coercion, but persuasion that makes it possible for the other to hear the beauty of the music and to accept a halakhic decision, just as one would willingly listen to the interpretation of a conductor—because one is deeply inspired.

To be a posek means to be a person of unprecedented courage; one who is willing to initiate a spiritual storm that will shake up the entire Jewish community. A storm that will free conventional and codified halakha from the sandbank in which it has been stuck. In a revolutionary shift, posekim should lead the ship of Torah, in full sail, right into the heart of the Jewish nation, creating such a shock that it will take days, weeks, or even months before it is able to get back on its feet. With knives between their teeth, like the prophets of biblical days, these great halakhic arbiters, of impeccable an uncompromising conduct, should create a religious uproar that will scare the moral wits out of both secular and religious Jews and weigh heavily on their souls.

To Be Feared and to Be Loved

Posekim should not be “honored,” “valued,” or “well-respected,” as they are now. As men of truth, they should be both feared and deeply loved. Jews of all backgrounds should be shaking in their shoes at the thought of meeting them, while simultaneously being incapable of staying away from their towering, fascinating, and above all, warm personalities.

Halakhic decision-making is a great art. The posek should never forget that he is the soil in which the halakha is to grow, while the Torah is the seed and God is the sun.[8]

We are in need of decentralized rabbinical authority in which many more rabbis will have a personal relationship with their flock and consequently be able to respond to the often difficult and very personal questions their followers are asking. There are no longer such unusual great rabbis who know the art of reading people’s minds and hearts without having a personal relationship with them. This was exactly the point that Yitro made when he told his son-in-law Moshe Rabbeinu to appoint ministers “as leaders of thousands, leaders of hundreds, leaders of fifties, and leaders of tens.”[9] Only the major cases would be brought to a giant authority like Moshe. But alas, such leaders no longer exist.

We should be very thankful that we witness the disintegration of rabbinical authority in our days. Nothing could be worse for Judaism and the Jewish people than having rabbis who are admired as great spiritual halakhic leaders when for the most part they are not. We will witness, slowly but surely, the rise of a completely new rabbinical world, which will give us more reason to be proud Jews and live a spiritual halakhic life. Yes, it will take time—but it will surely happen.

Perhaps our future rabbis should first listen to the heavenly music of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, after which they will be able to render a truthful halakhic decision. It might do wonders!

Ladino Transitions:

Vernacular Religious Literature and the Modernization of Ottoman Jewry[1]

By Matthias B. Lehmann

One of the earliest newspapers that appeared in Ladino, the Judeo-Spanish language of the Ottoman Jews, was Sha‘arei Mizrah (later known as Puertas de Oriente), published in the port city of Izmir since the mid-1840s. In one of its first issues, Sha‘arei Mizrah expressed clearly the educational agenda of the nascent Ladino press: the editor thanked the Ottoman authorities for having granted permission for the newspaper to be published and declared with much confidence that this must have been due to Sultan Abdülhamid’s desire to see his subjects progress and be educated. “Being aware that the benefits of printing are such that we can learn about every aspect of science, just like the most civilized nations of Europe,” the authorities had granted their support to the publication of this new Ladino journal, and its editor expressed his hope that “thus we will be able to prosper in everything” and will become “worthy subjects of such a gracious and just sovereign.” These phrases represent the themes that set the agenda for the political and cultural changes in Ottoman Sephardic society promoted by the secular Judeo-Spanish press throughout the second half of the nineteenth century: Ottoman patriotism, the desire for a regained prosperity through modern education, and the rhetoric of “civilizational progress” inspired by Western, European culture.

After timid beginnings in the 1840s, the newspapers in Ladino flourished from the 1860s onwards and were the most important vehicle in spreading the politics of westernization and modernization among the Sephardic communities of Turkey and the Balkans. Secular genres in Ladino literature such as the novel, adapted from Western (in particular French) literature, developed in the framework of a growing Judeo-Spanish public sphere. Historians have pointed out the significance of these secular genres of Ladino literature and in particular of the new Judeo-Spanish newspapers for the modernization of Ottoman Jewry in the late nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries. As a force of change and modernization, they reinforced the effect of two other agents of change: the political-legal reforms adopted by the Ottoman state, the tanzimat of the nineteenth century; and the influence of the Paris-based Alliance Israélite Universelle, which advanced its own westernizing agenda through a network of schools that it opened throughout the Ottoman Empire. In fact, if the direct reach of the Alliance was limited to a small, westernizing elite, the writers of Ladino literature and Ladino newspapers were broadcasting its ideal of modernization through westernization to an ever increasing audience of Ottoman Jews.

If, however, we want to understand the beginnings of the modern transformation of Ottoman Jewry—its “genealogy of modernity”—then we need to go back to the beginnings of Ladino literature in the eighteenth century. If the combined effect of tanzimat, the Alliance schools, and a secular Ladino public sphere profoundly transformed Ottoman Jewry in the last quarter of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the twentieth century, this transformation was only possible because the rise of a vernacular Judeo-Spanish literature beginning in the eighteenth century had prepared the ground. This early stage of Ladino literature has attracted surprisingly little attention among historians who still tend to privilege the external forces, imperial-governmental or European, in their accounts of Ottoman Jewish transitions in the modern age. In those accounts, Ottoman Jews mostly responded to change, but they didn’t contribute to it. In particular, the Ottoman rabbis are usually seen as a rather passive force, steeped in their traditionalism, and responding to developments around them but never quite being part of the story. In spite of themselves, however, these rabbis had laid the foundations for the subsequent flourishing of Ladino print culture, and thus, the traditional leadership contributed, in spite of itself, to the rise of modern Sephardic culture, including its more secular manifestations.

When the Jews were expelled from Spain in 1492, some of the exiles appeared in Ottoman cities soon after, as early as the summer of 1492 in the case of Constantinople. The first Spanish-Jewish immigrants were followed by subsequent waves of Sephardic immigration, some of whom arrived by way of Italy or North Africa in the course of the sixteenth century, then by conversos who had been forced to convert to Christianity in Spain (1492) or in Portugal (in 1497) and left the Iberian peninsula in a constant trickle of emigration throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The Spanish Jews brought with them their religious-cultural traditions and, given their demographic predominance in many parts of the Ottoman Empire, soon established their primacy over the local, mostly Greek-speaking Jews. They also brought with them their own language, Castilian Spanish, which morphed into a distinct form of Judeo-Spanish—the vernacular language of the Ottoman Sephardim also called Ladino. Their influence was such that Judeo-Spanish became the Jewish language in the Balkans and in Asia Minor, and it persisted as a distinct language of the Sephardic community even in places where the immigrants encountered a strong Arabic-speaking Jewish community, for example in Aleppo or in Jerusalem. As a matter of fact, in spite of the promotion of French literacy in the Alliance schools and the commitment to educate the Jewish public in Turkish which was professed by many Ottoman Jewish intellectuals, still at the turn of the twentieth century some 85 percent of Jews in Turkey declared that Ladino was their first language.

            In spite of the predominance of Ladino as a spoken language, few books were published in Judeo-Spanish before the eighteenth century. Those that were printed—Spanish Jews had introduced the printing press into the Ottoman Empire as early as 1493—were largely directed at former conversos who needed vernacular literature to facilitate their return to Judaism after having escaped the Inquisition. But these texts remained marginal in an Ottoman Jewish literature that continued to be written and published in Hebrew. One author who did write in Judeo-Spanish, including on secular topics, was Rabbi Moses Almosnino. In the 1560s, Almosnino was part of a Jewish mission from Salonika to the imperial government in Istanbul in order to negotiate more favorable economic conditions for his community. During the lengthy visit to the imperial capital, Almosnino wrote a short history of the Ottoman sultans and an extensive description of the city, all of it in the Judeo-Spanish language. His work was printed, in Latin characters—though outside the Empire, in 1638 in Madrid.

            It was only in the second quarter of the eighteenth century that Ladino emerged as a language of literature. Credited with this development are primarily two figures, both living and working in the imperial capital Istanbul: Jacob Huli, who published the first volume of his encyclopedic Bible commentary, the Me‛am Lo‛ez, in 1730; and Abraham Asa, a prolific translator and author of literature in the Judeo-Spanish vernacular. Asa published the first complete Ladino translation of the Bible between 1739 and 1745, explaining the educational reasoning behind his monumental effort in the introduction to one of the volumes:

David Qimhi [a medieval biblical exegete] explains that what sustained the Jews in their exile was their ceaseless study of the Bible. And Isaac Abrabanel [a leader of Spanish Jewry in 1492] says that the reason for the expulsion from Spain was that people did not study Scripture; while they had more than five thousand rabbis of universal fame, the masses did not read the Bible.

Since most people do not understand what they are reading when they recite the biblical text in Hebrew, Asa went on to say, “the printer Jonah [Ashkenazi] wanted … to print the Bible in Ladino, well translated [bien ladinado], and including Rashi’s [classical biblical] commentary.”

            These remarks by Abraham Asa capture the educational ethos of a group of writers who I call the “vernacular rabbis.” These rabbis responded to what they perceived as the cultural decline of Ottoman Jewry and to a much broader educational ideal that developed as a corollary of the Lurianic school of Jewish mysticism coming out of sixteenth century Ottoman Palestine. They were no longer content with a learned discourse limited to the rabbinic elite and remaining beyond the grasp of most Ottoman Jews. Instead, they developed an educational ideal which appealed to the Ottoman Jewish “masses.” The fact that Asa explicitly acknowledged the role of Jonah Ashkenazi, the printer of many of his and numerous other Ladino works, further testifies to the close relation between an emerging group of scholars, printers, intellectuals, and rabbis who produced and disseminated a growing number of books in the vernacular language of the masses. In due course, Asa added translations from the Hebrew of the prayer book, a digest of rabbinic law, rabbinic ethical writings, and even a “History of the Ottoman Kings.”

            Jacob Huli, in turn, authored what became the first in a long series of biblical commentaries and a classic of Ladino letters in the eighteenth century and beyond. His monumental Me‛am Lo‛ez was a veritable encyclopedia of Jewish knowledge, intertwining information about Jewish religious law, moral teachings, entertaining stories, and instruction on a wide array of topics within what was ostensibly a Judeo-Spanish commentary on the Bible. Huli provided a vast anthology of rabbinic tradition in an easily accessible, vernacular idiom, making it entertaining at the same time. In a similar vein, Asa produced an entire library of Jewish knowledge through his tireless translation efforts. Together, these authors (and others of their generation) gave shape to what became a new Ladino literature, which had not previously existed. What their works had in common, and what they shared with the secular and westernizing literature of modern Ladino writers in the late nineteenth or early twentieth centuries, was that they wanted to educate and entertain. It has been said that all of Ladino literature was educational, whatever the literary format or genre, and thus, long after Huli’s and Asa’s ideal of a religious revival gave way to the secularizing ideal of Alliance-educated authors a century and a half later, the basic function of Ladino literature as an educational device addressed to a popular audience had not changed at all.

It is important to note that the emergence of Ladino print culture (and the revival of Hebrew print) in the eighteenth century was not an isolated development. The same period also saw the emergence of Ottoman-Turkish print in Arabic script. Up to that point, Muslim jurists had rejected the use of print for Arabic or Turkish works. While Jews and later various Christian minorities had established their own printing presses in the Ottoman Empire before, it was only in the late 1720s that we find the timid beginnings of an Ottoman Turkish print culture. An emblematic figure in the advancement of printing in the Ottoman Empire was Ibrahim Müteferrika, who is also known as one of the first Ottoman diplomats to have advocated a new openness towards the West and the reformation of the Ottoman military on European models. In 1726, he submitted a treatise, “The Means of Printing,” to the Grand Vizier and the leading Islamic authorities; after obtaining authorization to establish a press, he began operation a year later. None other than Jonah Ashkenazi, the Hebrew printer of Asa’s Bible translation and Huli’s Me‘am Lo‘ez, was among those credited with having helped Müteferrika establish his press. Ibrahim Müteferrika even applied to exempt his Jewish associate from the poll-tax, for he had, as he explained, “profited from the services of the Jew named Yuna [i.e., Jonah], who possesses all the important elements [needed for printing] ….”

What exactly was the contribution of rabbinic literature in the Ladino vernacular to the subsequent transformation, or modernization, of Ottoman Jewry? It seems somewhat counterintuitive to attribute such an impact at all to a literature that emerged precisely to bolster traditional religious knowledge among Ottoman Jews, and there is no question that Ladino rabbinic literature continued to be a conservative effort aiming at the preservation of the existing religious and social order. One of the most important contributions of Judeo-Spanish literature for Ottoman Jewish culture, however, was that it opened rabbinic literature to women—and, in fact, to all who did not belong to the educated elite. Women had been all but excluded from the traditional ideal of studying rabbinic tradition, but they were now discovered as a relevant reading audience by the vernacular rabbis. Initially, in the eighteenth century, women were still addressed in an indirect way. In one classic translated by Abraham Asa, a book called Shevet Musar, the author included women as a public to be instructed in Judaism, but not as a reading public: “The ignoramus who does not know to read,” he wrote,

should go on the Sabbath and festivals and at any time of the day to the study house to listen to words of Torah and derekh erets (proper deportment). And what he hears, he should tell his wife and the people of his household when he returns home in the evening.

The ordinary man attending the rabbis’ studies at the bet midrash is thus understood as a broadcaster of the rabbis’ educational message, taking it beyond the immediate audience of listeners and readers.

In the nineteenth century, the inclusion of women became more explicit. In the Pele Yo‘ets, one of the most popular rabbinic works in Ladino of all time, Judah Papo (son of Rabbi Eliezer Papo who wrote the original Pele Yo’ets in Hebrew) spelled out an educational ideal that included a female reading public alongside his male readers. Thus he suggested the establishment of separate women’s study groups:

How good it is if women, friends and relatives, meet, one Sabbath at the home of one friend, and another Sabbath at another friend’s home, and each group appoints a woman who can read and they spend the hour with [study]. One advantage is that they will look for ways to teach their daughters [how to read as well].

Significantly, Judah Papo encouraged women to learn how to read and write not only for the sake of religious study. He explicitly mentioned secular commu­ni­cation like reading and writing letters among the things women should be able to do. Other Sephardic rabbis who published vernacular books at the time also insisted on the importance of educating girls. Isaac Amarachi and Joseph Sason wrote, for example, that it is appropriate

to teach the daughters the holy tongue [Hebrew] and the language of the country in which one lives, and teach them to understand the prayers they say, and writing and calculus, and then teach them a profession, because idleness leads to promiscuity.

Obviously not all women took advantage of the new possibilities opened up to them by vernacular rabbinic literature, just as not all men flocked to the study sessions or read the new volumes of Judeo-Spanish rabbinic writings. But reading and study were now increasingly stripped of their gender-specific association with a male public sphere. Some rabbinic authors may very well have resisted this development, but they could not stop its far-reaching social consequences. By including women among the intended readers of their popular books, the authors of popular Ladino rabbinic literature paved the way for the emer­gence of a female reading public which would prove a most re­ceptive audience for new, secular genres of Judeo-Spanish literature that began to flourish in the nine­teenth century.

The vernacular rabbis did not only address a new reading audience, thus democratizing access to traditional Jewish knowledge and decentralizing rabbinic control over Ottoman Jewish reading culture. Over time, Ladino rabbinic literature also began to introduce new ideas, though it did so cautiously. By the late nineteenth century, however, the rabbis were increasingly forced to respond to new ideas promoted in the secular Ladino press and literature, for which they had helped prepare a reading public but which was now beyond their immediate control.

The explanation of lunar and solar eclipses provides an interesting example of how the vernacular rabbis moved from representing traditional rabbinic ideas in Judeo-Spanish language, then cautiously introduced new ideas, and finally responded to the open challenge of rabbinic authority presented from the outside. Jacob Huli, in the Me‛am Lo‛ez of 1730, simply presented the classical astronomy of the rabbis as it was expressed in the Talmud. According to his explanation, the sun revolves around the earth; it is in the north during summer and in the south during the winter, which allows the earth to cool. (Elsewhere, Huli cited the slightly divergent opinions of two Talmudic rabbis and explains that the sun moves below the sky during the day and above the sky at night.) Writing in 1730, Huli was by no means defensive in his approach to Talmudic authority on scientific issues: if Ashkenazi rabbis in Central Europe (perhaps most prominently the Maharal of Prague) had found it necessary to grapple with the implications of a heliocentric model of the cosmos back in the seventeenth century, Huli was seemingly oblivious to contemporary astronomy. In any case, Huli was not interested in knowledge for its own sake but as a vehicle to promote observance of rabbinic law and piety. In Huli’s understanding, eclipses did not require a scientific explanation because they constituted a divine warning and their real purpose was to teach a moral lesson. Thus, he asserted that an eclipse of the sun was a bad sign for the entire world and an eclipse of the moon a bad sign for the Jewish people. He also gave a rather odd list of four things that caused an eclipse of the sun, for example an occasion when a great sage has not been buried according to his rank, or the sin of sodomy. In other words, Jacob Huli did not discuss astronomy for its own sake. Natural phenomena interested him insofar as they carried a divine message (such as a call for repentance), but not as something that called for a scientific explanation.

Almost one hundred years later, with Ladino rabbinic literature entering its second golden age, the situation was markedly different. Two Salonikan authors, Amarachi and Sason, wrote popular rabbinic treatises in Ladino in which they perpetuated, on the one hand, the traditional message of rabbinic popular literature. But, on the other hand, they also chose to use their writing to educate and to enlighten their readers through exposing them to secular knowledge. Thus, for example, they pointed out the importance of smallpox vaccinations, noting that “more than a thousand children” had died in Salonika the previous year of smallpox. This would not have happened, they claimed, if everyone had listened to the rabbis, who had called for the smallpox vaccination of all children. The authors opposed popular miscon­ceptions and ignorance, denouncing what they called old women’s talk, which had led the uneducated masses to doubt the importance of vaccination. If rabbis previously had explained disasters such as this one as divine punishment for the sins of the community, Amarachi and Sason now offered a rational explanation, juxtaposing the enlightenment of the rabbis to the ignorance of the masses.

In Amarachi’s and Sason’s writing, secular knowledge and rabbinic knowledge do not compete but are presented as entirely compatible. They undertake to teach their Ladino-reading public some basic astronomy. In doing so, they confidently proclaim the traditional pre-Copernican, geocentric view, which also informed the Me‘am Lo‘ez:

It is well known that the sun moves around the earth in twenty-four hours. When the sun is where we are, it is night for those who are in America, and when the sun is on America’s side, it is night for us ….

They claim that the Talmudic sages and the Zohar had made it quite clear that the earth is round—“una pelota”—and they proudly conclude:

Behold how great was the science of our ancient sages. They had already told us about something that appears to have been discovered by the scientists through their studies, and there is nothing which is not already written or hinted at in our holy Law.

What is interesting is the fact that Amarachi and Sason take most of their scientific explanations from a Hebrew work by a Lithuanian rabbi that had been published in 1797 (Pinhas Hurvitz’ Sefer ha-Berit ), translating several passages into Ladino. The Hebrew original, however, included an extensive discussion of Copernican versus rabbinic astronomy, and presented a long argument in defense of the traditional view as expressed in the Talmud. Huli, Amarachi and Sason were obviously aware of the conflict between rabbinic and scientific knowledge, yet they decided that it was irrelevant to their readers and to their educational project. In the 1840s, it seems, Ottoman rabbis still had no need to compete with a non-traditional worldview that would have challenged the authority of Jewish tradition. Instead, they proclaimed that rabbinic and scientific knowledge were compatible and that rabbinic literature was, in fact, the best way to enlighten the masses. In adapting an Ashkenazi, Hebrew work wrestling with the tension between secular and rabbinic knowledge, they chose to omit all sign of controversy.

Amarachi’s and Sason’s unapologetically traditional view should not obscure the novelty of their approach. While they avoided contrasting rabbinic and scientific knowledge, they did contrast rabbinic enlightenment with popular folk knowledge and they sought to include scientific explanations into the canon of vernacular literature. Thus, unlike Jacob Huli in the Me‘am Lo‘ez, Amarachi and Sason stripped the phenomenon of the eclipse of its ominous character. Instead, they told their readers not to be terrified, adding a rational, scientific explanation based on Sefer ha-Berit’s geocentric astronomy. The two Salonikan authors are thus a good example for the (certainly unconscious) revolutionary potential of Ladino rabbinic writing: they saw themselves as enlightening Ottoman Jews, appropriating scientific knowledge as compatible with rabbinic tradition and challenging what they identified as popular superstition.

A generation later, in the 1870s, the scene had changed quite dramatically. Judah Papo, in the widely-read Pele Yo‛ets, at first sight continued in the mold of early Judeo-Spanish literature. He affirmed the traditional geocentric version of a stationary earth and the sun revolving around it. The decisive difference was that Judah Papo, writing less than thirty years after Amarachi and Sason, found it necessary to defend his view. What was taken as a truth self-evident to the intended reader in the 1840s, needed to be explained and justified when Papo published his Pele Yo‛ets in the 1870s. Not only did he acknowledge that the traditional geocentric worldview of the rabbis was at odds with modern science, but he presented a lengthy polemic against those who relied on modern science instead of trusting the validity of rabbinic knowledge. Confronting a new kind of reader, Papo had now to contend with a secular, westernizing discourse promoted by the schools of the Paris-based Alliance Israélite Universelle and the new Judeo-Spanish newspapers. The modern Sephardi intellectuals who were promoting Western education and were the enthusiastic editors of numerous Ladino journals and daily papers were making their own voice heard in a public sphere that hitherto had been dominated by the rabbis. They employed literary techniques first developed by the vernacular rabbis in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Like their predecessors, they wanted to educate, enlighten and entertain Ottoman Jews, and they did so by presenting a secular and Western worldview as an alternative to the previously dominant rabbinic tradition.

Papo dismissed the assertions of non-Jewish scientists—in fact, unlike his predecessors, he made a clear distinction between Jewish, i.e., rabbinic, knowledge and non-Jewish, i.e., scientific or philosophical, knowledge. In the Pele Yo‛ets he claimed that the non-Jewish scientists were not even certain of their own knowledge (and he uses this assertion to back up his claim that the readers of secular Ladino literature should return to the certainties offered by rabbinic tradition). “According to the theory of the ancients,” he says,

the sun revolved around the earth and the earth was stationary. In later generations, other philosophers discovered that the sun is stationary and the earth revolves around the sun. In later generations, yet other philosophers claimed that the sun is moving and the earth also. … And as it happened to the philosophers of earlier times, so it can happen to the philosophers of our day. This is to say, in the science of philosophy there is no basis and nothing is certain.

Nevertheless, it must be added, Judah Papo was ambivalent about secular knowledge and acknowledged the benefits of one of the main vehicles for the communication of this new knowledge, the newspapers. In the same Pele Yo‛ets in which he denounced the follies of modern science, he also endorsed the usefulness of the Judeo-Spanish press for spreading knowledge among the masses. In doing so, he echoed the self-understanding of the editors of the Ottoman Ladino press.

In an article dedicated to the explanation of eclipses, the Istanbul-based newspaper El Tiempo (published in November 1873) challenged the traditional notion of considering them a bad omen, which had been the message in Huli’s Me‛am Lo‛ez. If, in the traditional view, eclipses were ominous harbingers of disaster, divinely ordained signs warning of imminent punishment, then El Tiempo praised modern science as liberating people from such superstitions. In typical enlightenment rhetoric, the article affirmed: “[Science] liberates the people from darkness, it illuminates them by sending out the rays of its light and makes them feel the heavy weight of their cloak of ignorance ….” The vernacular rabbis, writing in Ladino since the 1730s, could not have said it better—except that they would have substituted “rabbinic tradition” for “science.” What Ladino literature, from its outset in the early eighteenth century to the flourishing of secular genres in the late nineteenth century, had in common was its didactic agenda. The vernacular rabbis in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries set out to educate the Ottoman Jews and enlighten them through reading. Once a new, Judeo-Spanish public sphere had been created, the modern intellectuals educated in the schools of the Alliance used this same public sphere to push their own educational agenda, contributing further to the fundamental transformation of Ottoman Jewry in the last half-century of the Empire’s existence.