National Scholar Updates

Not too long ago, I opened up an email that contained the following riddle: What’s the difference between a religious Jew and a spiritual Jew? The answer: A spiritual Jew goes off to the forest to commune with God. A religious Jew goes off and worries if there will be money to pay the oil company for the synagogue’s boiler.

Although clearly tongue in cheek, this quip got me thinking: Is that how we would distinguish a “religious” Jew from a “spiritual” Jew? Is one just wrapped up with the bottom line material concerns, while the spirit is ceded to others? If we think about it, this is a question that in many ways Orthodox Jews now have the luxury of asking. Until the third quarter of the twentieth century, it was an open question whether there would be a place for Orthodox Jews, be they of the modern, centrist or Hareidi variety. Happily, all realms of Orthodoxy are thriving. Whether we look at the study halls in Lakewood, the Bet Midrash at Yeshiva University, the establishment of Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, the surge in daf yomi learning in synagogues, offices, or even in a Long Island Railroad car, things have never appeared brighter. Add to that mix the unprecedented explosion in opportunities for women to learn Torah in secondary schools, post-high school yeshivot, general Torah study; or the communal conversation focusing on fashioning professional roles for Orthodox women within the framework of synagogues and yeshivot. On the surface, things have never appeared better. And yet I am reminded of the old joke of two men sitting on the park bench. One turns to his friend and says, Chaim are you an optimist or a pessimist? An optimist, Chaim answers. If so, asks his friend, why then do you look so troubled? To which Chaim answers—who says it is easy to be an optimist!

We have a lot to be optimistic about—but at times it is not so easy, as we confront some of the challenges that our community faces. There are too many stories of young Orthodox Jews who are leaving the world of religiosity behind them. Even within the world of Hassidism, we hear of “reverse Marranos”: those who retain their Hassidic garb on the outside but have become non-believers on the inside, struggling with belief and identity. And too many people who attend school or synagogue engage in what I call “deposit the body” syndrome. They are present but not present. In essence they have spiritually checked out.

What can we do to stem this phenomenon? Is it just an inevitable consequence of living in a modern world, hemmed in by time and financial pressures? After all, who has the luxury of looking at our spiritual ledger when we are too engrossed in balancing our financial one? What can we do to reach out to those who are not finding spiritual satisfaction through study and engagement with Jewish texts? Is there something we can do to fill in the missing links that will enrich and enliven everyone’s spiritual lives, despite the pressured lives we lead?

As we know, this is not a new conversation. If we look back for a moment at the rise of the Hassidic movement we are confronted by a very similar conversation.

One of the often cited polemics by the Hassidic movement against their Misnaged opponents was that Misnagdim were missing the fire in their souls. Referencing the verse in Devarim 5:5, where Moshe criticizes the Israelites, “you did not come near the fire,” the nascent Hassidic movement said: You are too staid! You don’t know how to engage in Avodat haShem (service of God). We have the hitlahavut (enthusiasm). We have Ahavat haShem (love of God). We have the joy that allows us to move from a mere intellectual approach and take it to a higher spiritual level.

The Misnagim answered: You are ignorant. You only focus on the ecstasy; you forsake the deep learning that can bring you closer to Avodat haShem. Where is your Yir’at Shamayim (fear of Heaven)?

When we look at the contemporary Orthodox religious scene, are we still mired in a conflict between those who emphasize learning as a means to a closer relationship with God and those who believe ecstatic prayer and service can bring us closer. To address this conflict, I think we need to examine the kind of spiritual communities we are creating in the lives of our children in school; in particular during the high school years. In addition, I think we need to examine the kind of spiritual atmosphere we are building in our synagogues. And last but not least we have to consider the spiritual values we are emphasizing in our homes.

Not too long ago, I was speaking to the principal of a Modern Orthodox coeducational high school. I asked this educator’s advice on how to create a more meaningful prayer atmosphere for the students. The principal’s reply to me was “the best type of praying is the quickest.” I could not believe my ears. There is no question that the time scheduling pressures for high school students are extraordinary. How do you fit into each day all the limudei kodesh, have gym and lunch, and integrate the limudei hol? So “davening” then becomes the perfect foil, it’s the perfect expendable item. Get it over with and then the kids can move on to what is really important. Think about it. We are squandering the opportunity to start the day with wrapping these young minds with an understanding of how we should begin our day, in a passionate dance with the Almighty. As the Zohar teaches, the fire that was on the altar went into the hearts of the kohanim and the worshippers so that their song was full of passion and the immense power of prayer filled their beings. Is this too much for a 16 year old to absorb? Assuredly not. Even if only offered once or twice a week, a longer davening filled with melodies and time to explain the words and concepts, a prayer service filled with devekkut will not cause the students’ SAT scores to suffer. We have to set the example as to what is not only of academic importance but of supreme importance. We need to reintegrate the spiritual with the intellectual. We have to reclaim the fire. Otherwise the die is cast. We will create the next generation of daveners who think that the best davening is the one that is quickest. As much as we think the students will absorb the spirit from the texts of Torah and Talmud, we have to help them absorb the spiritual from the words of tefillah, our prayers.

And regarding our synagogues?

Perhaps a facet of synagogue life that we might prefer not to confront is what are people gaining spiritually from their synagogue experiences? No matter how long or short, do worshippers feel bored? Do they approach their prayers like the principal of the school, that the best davening is the quickest davening? Now here, let me be the realist and distinguish between a daily minyan (not in a school context) and Shabbat morning. In the world of the early morning minyan, where everybody is rushing off to work, every minute counts. Pity the poor prayer leader who on Rosh Hodesh drags out Hallel too long! The morning minyan is generally quite happy if an excuse can be found to skip the “Tahanun” prayers and thereby save a few minutes.

But what of Shabbat morning? With a whole day ahead of us to eat and sleep and spend time with family and friends, what’s the rush? And yet the flag of reality has to be waved every week-- go too long and it’s considered tirha d’tzibbura, a discomforting of the congregation. But is it the length of the service that really bothers people or rather is it the aura that surrounds the prayers? What is going through the minds of the average person in synagogue? Are people focused during Shaharit? Attentive during the Torah reading? Awake and engaged during the rabbi’s sermon?

Perhaps one way of raising the level of connectedness is for more synagogues to integrate more of the practices often found outside of a main minyan. For example, in many synagogues that offer Beginners’, Intermediate, or Learners’ minyanim, I have noticed that many of the people who attend these services are actually very knowledgeable. I would not classify these people as being on a “beginner” or “intermediate” level. So when I have asked them why they attend these minyanim, they answer: We like the discussion that surrounds the Torah reading. It makes the text come alive. We enjoy the periodic explanations. We enjoy the warmth and camaraderie.

It should give pause to consider introducing some of these elements into the main synagogue service, even at the risk of a service running a bit longer, as a way of enhancing the experience of those in a main minyan.

Another factor toward raising the spiritual experience for synagogue goers is the overall figure of the Shaliah Tsibbur (prayer leader). There is no question that overall, there has been an evolving relationship around the role of the professional cantor in the world of so many Orthodox synagogues. What was once a central figure of the synagogue service has now been downplayed or outright replaced by volunteer prayer leaders. Yet, while this may be helpful to the bottom line synagogue budget, thought must be given to this decision. Unless the volunteer prayer leaders are truly adept at the art of nusah, often we get exposed to a hodgepodge of styles and melodies, not to mention a variety of singing skills. There is no question that the embracing of the nusah of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach has led to a greater means of capturing a sense of spirituality. But that too must be executed properly, because otherwise it is a tirha d’tzibbura, no less that a hazzan who in the old days dragged out services. For example, at the services that take place at Kol HaNeshamah, (the organization that I co-founded with Cantor Ari Klein,) we have worked very hard to create an atmosphere of engaged daveners, including explanations at certain places, as well as highlighting congregational singing by combining traditional nusah with Carlebach niggunim, an atmosphere of hitlahavut (fervor) while being led by a hazzan and an a cappella group. The fervor I witnessed this past year on the Yamim Noraim, of hundreds of members of the kahal davening, singing, and dancing—men on the men’s side of the mehitsa, women on the women’s side of the mehitsa, made me realize that davening and devekut, Yir’at Shamayim and Ahavat haShem can go hand in hand. If executed correctly by the Shaliah tsibbur/hazzan (as I noted above, Carlebach nusah requires as great agility as the standard nusah), it will elevate our experience to a level that recognizes the importance of engaging the soul and the mind, the heart and the head.

The good news is that more and more synagogues are aware of this and are creating a more spiritual experience within the construct of a traditional service. The challenge is to get even more congregations on board, realizing how high the stakes truly are. When we think about it then, how to meld the intellectual with the spiritual is not merely a theoretical question harking back to the Hasisdic-Misnagdic fight of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

It is necessary in our times to bring the fervor back into our schools, our synagogues, and our homes. It also means that we can’t just cede it to the professionals. It isn’t just up to the rabbis, the principals, the teachers. It is incumbent upon each of us in our homes to set an example of working on both our dedication to Jewish daily practice, to Jewish knowledge and daily study of and dedication to Jewish texts but especially to our religious fervor.

(This week's Angel for Shabbat column is a sermon I delivered at Congregation Shearith Israel on Rosh HaShana, 5769. Its message continues to be relevant. I wish you all a happy, healthy New Year. Tizku leShanim Rabbot.)

Gilda and I recently were invited to attend a charity dinner at a very fancy New York hotel. The moment we arrived, we immediately knew we might have been happier if we had stayed at home!

We, of course, tried to be “non-judgmental”. Nonetheless, we were unfavorably impressed with the many women dressed (or not quite dressed) in outlandish outfits, with ludicrous hairdos, with gaudy jewelry dangling as conspicuously as possible. We were equally unimpressed with the many men who dressed in flashy tuxedos with flamboyant suspenders, gold necklaces, and with their hair dyed—except for the gray sideburns—and greased back.

When we looked at these people, we saw pomposity, stupidity, terrible taste, vanity.

But then I thought: when these people looked in the mirror before leaving for the fancy dinner, what did they see? How did they view themselves? The answer is: they probably saw themselves as attractive, elegant, fashionable, and perhaps 20 or 30 years younger than they really were.

What could account for the vast discrepancy in how I described them, and how they would have described themselves? The answer is: we don’t always see ourselves objectively! We see ourselves and judge ourselves in the best possible light; we don’t even realize when we are deluding ourselves.

The New York Times recently reported that 97% of the retirees of the Long Island Railroad claimed disabilities upon retirement and therefore received extra pension payments. This practice has cost hundreds of millions of dollars. It is truly amazing that all these workers were healthy during their working years, and suddenly became disabled the day they retired. It is equally amazing that doctors signed statements confirming these disabilities, and that administrators paid out these disability claims so readily. Based on the newspaper reports, we would conclude that there are a lot of cheaters who are literally stealing money from the public. But how do these people see themselves? They see themselves as good, honest, fine people. They are just going along with the system, not doing anything different from anyone else. They put in their years of service, and now they are “entitled” to take whatever they can get. The company can afford it! The public will pay!

Or let us turn (a bit grimly) to the current financial crisis gripping our nation and the world at large. Huge companies have gone bankrupt. Corporations have been horribly mismanaged. The sub-prime mortgage scandal reflects greed, poor judgment, misleading of investors. All of us have been hurt by this crisis, our assets are down, our pension funds are down. We might come up with choice words to express our opinion of the corporate leaders who have enriched themselves at the public’s expense, and who have brought on a global financial panic. Yet, how do the corporate leaders who have caused this crisis view themselves? They see themselves as honest and upstanding business people who tried to maximize profits for their companies. They only did what others were also doing. They have not offered to return the many millions of dollars they were paid in salaries and bonuses, while their ineptitude caused financial distress and ruin to so many of their victims. They feel that they earned their money fairly.

Does anyone say: I’m really a bad person who tries to do evil and to hurt others? Even terrorists claim to be good people acting on behalf of a noble cause. Criminals claim to be good people, forced into crime by poverty and other social ills.

The fact is: it is human nature to judge ourselves in the most charitable way. Indeed, human beings who always feel that they are wrong and guilty—these people need to see a psychiatrist to deal with their poor self-esteem. Most people feel comfortable with themselves and see themselves favorably.

These observations also apply to us in our religious life. Rarely have I heard anyone say: “I’m really a bad, unspiritual person. I know what our religion teaches and I willfully reject it and ignore it, because I’m just no good.” More often, people say: “I do my best; I’m better than many others; I may not study much Torah and may not observe the mitzvoth too carefully, but I mean well. I do many good things. God will understand.”

Our self-perception sometimes borders on self-delusion. We wear masks, we rationalize, we make excuses, we justify ourselves.

The High Holy Day season, beginning with the month of Elul, is a period of teshuva, repentance. This is a time to take off masks, to cut through our excuses, and to see ourselves as honestly and clearly as possible. Surely, we have many virtues. But we also have deficiencies, areas where we can improve. If we can adjust our self-perception, we can really be so much better and so much happier.

But how can we gain a proper perspective on ourselves? We can’t rely entirely on our own opinions of ourselves, since we tend to glorify our virtues and downplay our failings. We can’t even rely on what others may say about us, since they may be judging us by the wrong standards as well, and either over-praise us or over-criticize us.

Each year at this season, I call to mind two Talmudic passages that help me put things into perspective. One deals with a great sage, Akabia ben Mahalalel. Akabia was at odds with his colleagues on several points of halakha. Although he was a minority of one, he would not concede to the majority rulings. His colleagues made him an offer: “Akabia, if you will retract your views and accept ours, we will make you head of the Sanhedrin. You will then have great status and great authority.” Akabia declined this offer, and responded with an immortal line: “I prefer to be called a fool every day of my life, but not be wicked in the eyes of God for even a moment.” Akabia taught us something very important. We must try to view our lives, to the extent possible, from the vantage point of God. If we realize that we will have an accounting to give and that we will not be able to deceive the Judge in any way, we can hope to keep proper perspective on our lives. Our goal is not to impress others, not to gain power or wealth, not to win ephemeral success, not to outsmart “the system”: our goal is to be able to stand honestly in God’s presence. We must try to live our lives so as not to be wicked in the eyes of God for even an instant.

The other Talmudic passage tells of the son of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi. This young man, a promising scholar in his own right, died. The grief was great. But then, amazingly, the son came back to life. (Perhaps this is an early example of the near-death phenomenon which is being studied by modern psychologists and doctors.) The joy was great. Rabbi Yehoshua realized that his son had gone to the next world and had now returned to this world. Rabbi Yehoshua asked his son: what did you see in the next world? The son replied: olam hafukh ra-iti, I saw a topsy-turvy world. Those who are great in this world, are of little account in the next world. Those who are little-esteemed in this world, are highly honored in the next world. Rabbi Yehoshua stated: no, son, you did not see a topsy-turvy world. You saw things as they really are, olam barur ra-ita.

The message of this story is that ultimate reality is the truth from the vantage point of God and from the vantage point of the next world. In this world, we are easily deceived. We think of some people as powerful and great and successful—when in fact they are little-esteemed in the next world. We think of some people as insignificant, powerless, unsuccessful—when in fact they are highly-esteemed in the eyes of God.

Our rabbinic sages, in describing Rosh Hashanah, drew on the symbol of the Book of Life. The imagery is that God sits in judgment over each of us, and decides in which book to inscribe our names. What this symbolism is really teaching is: our lives need to be viewed in perspective of God’s judgment, and that we are answerable for ourselves to God. That is what is ultimately important and genuine. No more self-delusion, no more mask-wearing, no more chasing after illusions and shadows. When we look into the mirror, we should see who we really are—not idealized versions of who we think we are.

During this period of Teshuva, may we more clearly develop our self-perception; more wisely lead our lives; more happily and meaningfully strengthen ourselves, our families and our community. Amen.

Originally published in the Forward (www.forward.com), November 7, 2007

Every year, thousands of non-Jews make the fateful decision to convert to Judaism. Some are seeking spiritual fulfillment. Many are married to or planning to marry a Jewish spouse. Others have a Jewish father or grandparent and desire a full sense of belonging to the Jewish people. Some have discovered Jewish ancestry and wish to reconnect with their roots. Many are living in Israel and want acceptance as Jews in the Jewish State. Whatever their original motives, they are a remarkable--and growing--part of the Jewish people.
The conversion phenomenon should be a source of celebration for Jews. Each convert gives eloquent testimony to the ongoing attractiveness of Judaism and Jewish peoplehood.

At a time when thousands of people are considering conversion to Judaism, however, Israel's Orthodox rabbinic establishment is raising ever higher barriers to them. While Israel's chief rabbinate accepts candidates who are willing to become fully committed Orthodox Jews, it will not readily accept those who are not ready for total commitment. Thus, a would-be convert must usually spend years studying Torah and halakha, or Jewish law, and adopt an entirely Orthodox lifestyle in order to be considered for conversion.

Now, Israel's increasingly extreme chief rabbinate is attAempting to impose its views on the Jewish Diaspora. Here in the United States, it has already forced the Rabbinical Council of America--the Diaspora's largest Orthodox rabbinical association--into line.

In the spring of 2006, Rabbi Shlomo Amar, Israel's chief Sephardic rabbi, proclaimed that the chief rabbinate would no longer accept conversions performed by Orthodox rabbis in the Diaspora, except for those specifically approved by the chief rabbinate. The RCA had to decide how to respond to this affront to the integrity of its members. After all, the chief rabbi was basically saying that RCA members cannot be trusted to do proper halakhic conversions.

Sadly, the RCA leadership capitualted to the demands of Rabbi Amar. The RCA agreed to establish regional rabbinic courts to handle conversions in line with the dictates of the chief rabbi. This means that individual RCA rabbis may no longer perform conversions and expect them to be sanctioned by the RCA--or by the chief rabbinate in Israel. Power is being concentrated in fewer and fewer hands, and only into the hands of those who agree to adopt stringent and restrictive positions. The result is that many non-Jews who considered halakhic conversion will turn to non-halakhic means of conversion, or will give up on conversion altogether.

This is a tragedy--and an unnecessary one at that, since there is no halakhic reason why the chief rabbinate's view should carry the day. The Talmud and classic codes of Jewish law actually grant considerable leeway in the halakhic acceptance of converts. While converts must "accept the mitzvoth" there is wide latitude in understanding what this phrase means. The Talmud itself says that we must instruct the candidate for conversion in "some of the major and some of the minor commandments." There is no requirement or expectation that the candidate must learn all the mitzvoth in advance of conversion, nor that he or she will promise to keep all the mitzvoth in every detail after conversion.

Yet, many contemporary rabbinic authorities have taken a far narrower and more exclusionary view. Zvi Zohar and Avi Sagi (in their book Giyyur veZehut Yehudit) found that the narrow view gained traction only as recently as 1876 when Rabbi Yitzchak Shmelkes ruled that conversion was to be equated with an absolute commitment to observe all mitzvoth. Any candidate for conversion who was not committed to becoming fully Orthodox in observance was to be rejected. Later rabbis adopted this new position, until it became normative among right-wing (and much of the rest of) Orthodoxy.

Of course, great rabbinic voices opposed this radical change in approach. They favored maintaining the far more flexible and inclusive views of the Talmud, Maimonides and Shulhan Arukh. A great representative of the classic halakhic view was Rabbi Benzion Uziel, who served as Sephardic chief rabbi, first in British Mandate Palestine and then in the State of Irael, from 1939-1953.

Rabbi Uziel argued that not only may rabbis do conversions in less than ideal circumstances, but they are obligated to do so--even when the would-be convert is not expected to become fully observant religiously. Since so many conversion cases involve intermarriage or potential intermarriage, Rabbi Uziel believed we should perform conversions in order to maintain whole Jewish families that can raise Jewish children within the Jewish community. He viewed himself as being "strict" in his opposition to intermarriage, not as being "lenient" in matters of conversion.

Historically, the halakha has allowed rabbis to draw on the full array of halakhic sources; to consider the nuances of each individual conversion case; to use their own judgment on whether to accept or reject a candidate for conversion. Now, the halakhic options have been sharply curtailed. A rabbinic bureaucracy is usurping the authority of individual rabbis.

Several important Orthodox voices in Israel and the United States have risen in protest of the vast injustice being committed in the realm of halakhic conversion. In matters of conversion, we are not dealing with an abstract legal nicety: we are dealing with real human beings with real families. We have a responsibility to address issues of conversion with a full halakhic toolbox. Indeed, our tradition demands this.

Rabbinic tradition teaches that one who oppresses a convert is violating 36 Torah laws. How many laws will be broken by the Orthodox rabbinic establishment in causing torment to halakhically valid converts and their children? How many tears will be shed by victims of religious narrowness? How many would-be converts will be turned away from any possibility of a life of Torah and mitzvoth due to the intransigence of certain rabbis?

This is precisely the time when we need a visionary, inclusive Orthodoxy that can convey the messge of Torah Judaism in a spirit of love and compassion. I believe this kind of Orthodoxy will rise again. I believe that every Jew can help make this happen.