National Scholar Updates

Book Review

Dennis Prager, The Rational Bible: Exodus (Regnery Faith, 2018)

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

          This review is a sequel to my recent review on Dennis Prager’s volume on Genesis, at https://www.jewishideas.org/article/review-dennis-prager-genesis.

          Dennis Prager is far better known as a political commentator than a Bible Scholar. Nonetheless, he is animated by his belief in the Torah and its enduring moral messages for humanity. His commentary, as the book’s title suggests, is rooted in a rationalist approach to the Bible.

          Whether or not one agrees with all of his politics or individual interpretations of the verses, Prager’s commentary is strikingly relevant when he emphasizes the moral revolution of the Torah and the vitality of its moral teachings to today’s overly secularized Western world. Rather than serving as bastions of moral teachings and American values, universities are increasingly at the vanguard of attacks against God, the Bible, family values, Israel, and the very notion of an objective morality. Prager pinpoints several of the major differences between the Torah’s morality and the dangerous shortcomings of today’s secular West.

          Throughout his commentary, Prager makes his case for belief in God, providence, the divine origins of the Torah, and the eternal power of the Torah’s morality. He also offers a running commentary on the Torah, bringing insights from a wide variety of scholars and thinkers, as well as from his personal experiences. In this review, we will focus exclusively on the former, as it is here that the commentary makes its greatest contributions.

          The God of the Torah is the most important idea of human history. Among its revolutionary contributions: The God of the Torah brings universal morality to the world. Good and evil are not merely societal opinions, but objectively real. God and morality give humanity hope for a better world. People have infinite worth and dignity and can elevate their lives in holiness. We aspire to universal brotherhood and human equality. There is a non-physical reality outside of nature, giving ultimate purpose to the universe. Human beings have free will and can and should make moral choices (93-97). These transformative ideas offer humanity the chance for redemption.

          Belief in one God is emphatically not identical to belief in the God of the Torah. The God of the Torah judges the moral behavior of every human being by the same moral standard. “A god in whose name believers cut innocent people’s throats, behead them, burn them alive, and rape girls and women—as is being done at the time of this writing by Islamist terrorists in the name of ‘the one God’—cannot be the same god as the God of the Torah, the God who gave the Ten Commandments, who commanded His people to ‘Love the stranger,’ and demanded holy and ethical conduct at all times. Likewise, those Christians who in the Middle Ages slaughtered entire Jewish communities in the name of Christ also clearly did not believe in the God of the Bible…” (132-135).

          Prager maintains that without the God of the Torah, there is no way of demonstrating that murder is objectively wrong. The twentieth-century atheist philosopher Bertrand Russel admitted that he could think of no better argument against wanton cruelty than, “I don’t like it.” We need God to declare murder as an absolute wrong, and not merely “I don’t like it,” or “I think it is wrong.” A common contemporary argument posits that murder is wrong on utilitarian grounds: We don’t murder others because we don’t want others to murder us. However, this argument is an abject failure. Most murderers do not want to be murdered. They murder nonetheless because they think they can get away with it. For suicide terrorists who do not mind being killed in return, the argument becomes entirely irrelevant. Finally, evil ideologies can overrule the utilitarian argument. For example, Hitler insisted that the Nazi extermination of Jews was for the betterment of the human species. Prager concludes, “In sum, it is unlikely there has been even one would-be murderer in history who decided not to murder because of the argument, ‘We don’t murder others because we don’t want others to murder us’” (258-260).

          Prager cites Thucydides’ fifth-century BCE History of the Peloponnesian War. Athens and Sparta were at war, and Athens pressured the island of Melos to support their war efforts. The Melians wanted to remain neutral, so Athens threatened Melos with destruction. “Is this your idea of fair play?” the Melians asked. The Athenians answered, “So far as right and wrong are concerned, there is no difference between the two. The strong do what they have the power to do and the weak accept what they have to accept.” Athens went on to besiege and destroy Melos, murdering the men and selling the women and children into slavery. Prager notes that 2400 years later, the nineteenth-century atheist Friedrich Nietzche wrote with contempt of those who sympathized with the Melians’ moral appeals. The God of the Torah combats this idea (322-323).

The Torah constantly emphasizes the significance of remembering our past. Remembering teaches us gratitude and wisdom. Remembering also connects us to the past and reminds us that we are part of an ongoing people and ideal. Pharaoh’s first act is to forget Joseph (Exodus 1:8). He therefore has no gratitude to Israel and instead wickedly enslaves them and decrees the murder of their baby boys. The Torah treats memory as an essential component of identity and morality. Prager extends this lesson to modern times. “Nations, too, are their memories. A nation that doesn’t remember its past…ceases to be the nation it was. This may be happening now in a number of Western European nations that teach their young people to consider themselves ‘world citizens’ or Europeans rather than members of a specific nation. It is also happening in the United States, where the level of ignorance of the American past among young Americans is unprecedented” (5-6).

In our society, intelligence and knowledge are valued far more than wisdom. One terribly mistaken believer in secular education as a replacement of religion for moral values was Sigmund Freud, who naively wrote in 1927, “Civilization has little to fear from educated people and brain-workers. In them, the replacement of religious motives for civilized behavior by other secular motives, would proceed unobtrusively” (The Future of an Illusion). Knowledge and intelligence are useful for technology and science. However, societies need wisdom far more than intelligence or knowledge. Nazi Germany, the Soviet Union, North Korea, and Iran all had or have intelligence and knowledge, but abused them for evil purposes. While the failure of German Christianity during the Holocaust (with a few notable heroic exceptions) is almost universally acknowledged, the moral failure of secular education and secular intellectuals in Germany is almost universally ignored (46, 136-138, 229-230).

The commandment to honor one’s parents is the guarantor for the civilization to endure. Parents transmit culture, religion, and ethics. The breakdown of the family ensures the breakdown of the civilization. A standard feature of totalitarian regimes is to shift children’s loyalty from their parents to the state or ideology. Strong families serve as bulwarks against totalitarianism (258).

          Pharaoh initiated the ruthless slavery, but the entire Egyptian society went along with him. The same can be said of Nazi Germany, where most Germans were not as evil as Hitler. These and so many other similar stories teach that you do not need a great number of truly evil people to carry out massive evil. You need only: 1) Ordinary people who allow themselves to be indoctrinated by the truly evil people; 2) People who benefit from the evil; and 3) A paucity of courageous good people. Prager laments, “I am convinced courage is the rarest of all good traits” (9).

          The heroic midwives, Shiphrah and Puah, may not have been Israelites. Their inspiring morality lies in their fear of God (1:15-21). Fear of God is a necessary ingredient to build a society of moral individuals. Of course there are individual good atheists as there were good pagans. And there are numerous people who practice religion who are wicked. However, a universal moral code from a universal God who judges all humanity is the only way to build a moral society (10-11).

          Through these and so many other religious-moral teachings, the Torah was a revolution in world history, and continues to bring relevant teaching to the modern world.

The Torah emphasizes repeatedly the importance of treating those around us with kindness and recognizing their fundamental humanity. This ongoing emphasis implies the Torah’s awareness that each of us is inherently self-interested and, consequently, that we require reminders and even commands to look outside ourselves and acknowledge the value and inherent holiness of others.

Often in the Torah’s presentation of such ideas, individuals who are not ourselves and whom we should treat as ourselves come from within our community and need our help: the widow, the orphan, and the poor among us. And, indeed, attending to the needs of fellow Jews is central to Jewish practice in the contemporary world—although there’s still significant work to be done in that area.

The sources for this mandated kindness and recognition of one’s self in the other are well-known and widely varied. To offer just a very few examples, Jewish texts underscore gemilut hassadim (found in Pirkei Avot 1:2 and many other places), injunctions to care for the orphan and the widow (first in Shemot 22:21–23, but nearly a dozen more times as well), and the mitzvoth that require caring for and seeing oneself in one’s neighbor, all of which point to Judaism’s concern for other Jews, especially those who are vulnerable or lack power. Rambam’s rationale for caring for the widow and orphan specifically highlights the importance of recognizing another’s feelings even when we ourselves do not share those feelings; he writes that a person is required to show special care for widows and orphans because their spirits are low and they feel depressed (Hilkhot De’ot 6:10). He reminds us of the importance of placing oneself in the sufferer’s position in order to express genuine sympathy, a difficult but necessary endeavor.

However, beyond this emphasis on those who fundamentally differ from us but, ultimately, come from among us, the Torah also insists upon an even more difficult responsibility: that we behave humanely to those from outside our community, the stranger or the Other. This Other is also required to be treated as an equal, as we learn throughout Torah. In vaYikra 19:34, we read, “The stranger who lives among you should be treated as a fellow citizen; you should love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. I am the Lord your God.” This common formulation—you should love another because you were strangers in Egypt—is meant to create an implicit connection between ourselves and everyone else. We have the imperative not only to remember the experience of stranger-ness, but to apply it meaningfully to our ongoing interactions with others. In every moment, as we see someone struggle, we are instructed to say to ourselves, “I was once a stranger in the land of Egypt” as a way to reorient ourselves to the plight of others, to see them not as separate—as fully and entirely Other—but as akin to us, sharing our own experience.

Our memory of that experience is so remote, though, and usually so fully relegated to collective rather than individual memory, that we need tools—such as the Seder—to help us flex that muscle of remembrance. That this verse ends with “I am the Lord your God” also recalls for us our shared origins with all of humanity: We were all created beTzelem Elokim, in God’s image. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks highlights this point when he writes that “Pesaĥ is the eternal critique of power used by humans to coerce and diminish their fellow humans.”[1] As the Mishnah in Sanhedrin 4:5 articulates, there was a single source for all humanity for a reason: “Because of this, humanity was created as one person, to teach that anyone who destroys one life is considered as having destroyed the whole world.” While some strains of Jewish thought teach that Jews are superior to others, a significant tradition exists that negates that opinion. As Hanan Balk explains of Rambam’s approach, “Maimonides emphasizes that the fundamental of free-will applies to all human beings and that every human being can achieve the highest possible rank in the realm of spirituality.”[2] Balk notes Rambam’s similar approach to Jews’ and non-Jews’ equal ability to serve God, to love God, to access divine prophecy, and even to achieve the holiest spiritual state. According to these views, all humans’ shared origin and similar godly potential are fundamental to recalling every person’s humanity, regardless of the person’s other qualities or identities.

For all people, not just Jews, understanding the true personhood of the Other is an ongoing struggle. When we look at someone who seems different, particularly when we have been conditioned by popular representation to see that person through a lens of various stereotypes and preconceptions, we struggle to see ourselves in the Other. With few opportunities to know Others on a deep and personal level, we find ourselves in a self-perpetuating cycle of distance from the Other: He or she is unfamiliar, so we separate ourselves, so he or she becomes even less familiar.

Allowing ourselves to live in this increasing spiral of isolation has obvious practical ramifications in decreasing mutual understanding and sympathy but also has profound ethical ramifications for Torah-observant Jews, effectively preventing us from living the Torah’s injunctions toward the Other. As Jews, we understandably and necessarily separate ourselves from Others in order to maintain religious community and a sense of identity that is, in some ways, part of the national and universal whole and, in other significant ways, quite separate from it. These choices put us in a logical bind, though: If we are indeed to live the mitzvoth related to the ger toshav, (technically, a non-Jew who observes the Noahide Laws, but now more often simply considered an ethical non-Jew), we have a responsibility to overcome certain aspects of the particularistic lifestyles we have chosen and learn to see ourselves in the Other as well as the Other in ourselves, a task made more difficult by our separation from these Others.

For high school students, just on the cusp of adulthood, the struggle may be even more pronounced. First, high school students are still young and, developmentally, are just emerging from an age at which they naturally see themselves as the center of the universe. For those who can conceive of the larger world, they may feel themselves to be relatively powerless and therefore not implicated in ethical decision-making. Perhaps most importantly, though, our students tend to have even less practical experience with people who are not like them than Jewish adults do. Especially for Jewish Day School students, whose lives revolve around an Orthodox community, the Other may be fully hypothetical or exist in their lives only as a bit player: the Haitian security guard at school, the Filipino housekeeper, the Catholic family down the block, the strangers at the mall or on the city bus.

Jewish Day School students, more than students of other backgrounds, are isolated from cultural difference. To some degree, most American school systems are broadly polarized by race, religion, and class because of historical and current realities of racial and class segregation, but the Jewish Day School system uniquely encourages a separation from others. It does so for valid and valuable reasons, including the basic practicalities of Torah learning, but also because of the strength that comes from community and from being surrounded by those with similar values and beliefs. As a minority faith, Jews have done well to separate themselves and create pockets of safety and security, something we understandably want for our children. Even as we may value diversity on certain levels, we recognize the importance of learning about one’s own culture in a meaningful and ongoing way, and, for those of us with children in Jewish schools, we have determined that self-knowledge—a deep understanding of Torah, Jewish history, and Jewish culture—is more important than the diverse friendships and intimate relationships with others that would come from a more integrated education.

And yet, as the Torah teaches, we must still genuinely value understanding the experience of the other. The obvious place in the Day School curriculum to compensate for this loss of diversity is the literature classroom, and I believe that a robust literature curriculum should be considered an ethical, religious imperative in Jewish schools. Rather than being seen as a potential site of undermining or conflicting with Jewish values, as is sometimes the case, English class is a site for reinforcing the very values that may be neglected by having a Jewish Day School in the first place.

Torah teaches that we must understand and even love the Other; the Jewish Day School model removes our students from contact with the Other (and, conversely, the Other from contact with our students). Literature class, while perhaps an insufficient substitute for real-life interactions, nonetheless allows students who, in service of other necessary values, are removed from the broader community to recognize a universal humanity and therefore provides them with a complete Torah education that would otherwise be incomplete. Literature in Jewish Day Schools should not be regarded as existing in service of eventual job seeking, nor about preparing students for college or offering them Western cultural literacy, although those may be tangential benefits. Instead, the study of literature makes a fuller, truer observance of Torah possible; it provides access to the sensibilities and sensitivities toward which Torah guides us. Torah wants us not just to “do” things but to become something better than our current selves, and literature provides steps toward that lofty goal.

To fulfill the religious and ethical purpose of studying literature, we must therefore read texts that delve deeply into the lives of people who are distinct from us, whose values and experiences and choices differ profoundly from ours. Understandably, this effort may feel initially antithetical to Jewish education, which may wish to protect students in every way from too much encounter with the outside world. But we are already protecting them by providing physical and cultural isolation; too much of this sort of protection will prevent them not only from understanding the world but from fully living the Torah’s commandments in regard to the Other. Our tendency toward maintaining comfortable distance is certainly understandable, especially when it comes to our youth, whom we want to protect in every way. But a true engagement with Torah consistently involves facing uncomfortable truths about the world, truths that challenge our perceptions about our own place and offer us insight into others’ experiences and perspectives.

The unease that accompanies a novel such as Toni Morrison’s Beloved, for instance, might make teachers want to avoid it. Fears around parents’ and administrators’ reactions, students’ discomfort, and our own difficulties talking about the novel make it easier to sidestep. However, this is one of those foundational novels that provides students with precisely the difficult insights into our shared humanity that the Torah requires.

I have heard people wish for a more “palatable” text that still introduces us to the painful reality of slavery—one that does not include rape, vivid descriptions of beatings and scars, bestiality, murder, and the many other degradations of slavery—but that nonetheless could show students something of the slave’s experience. Of course, even a cursory thought about this wish reveals its impossibility. What we need to know about slavery is precisely this reality; a sanitized version does not serve its purpose. When I teach this text, I preface it by discussing the history of slavery and the Middle Passage, about which many students are largely unaware. I also warn them about the difficulty of the text, not only in its language and use of the supernatural but also in its emotional difficulty. I encourage students to take breaks as they read, to talk with each other about what they’re learning, and to face the pain in manageable ways, surrounded by a community of readers.

But reading the novel feels absolutely necessary to me, as it exposes students to a world with which they are not familiar, in which white men are the feared enemy and every person’s trauma is permanently written on his or her body. To remember what it means to have been a slave means, in this case, to face the more recent memories of slavery in America and to understand in this visceral way what slavery meant and continues to mean for black Americans, not only as Others whose experience matters to us but as human beings who are us. Experiencing slavery, even vicariously, helps us to think of ourselves as having been slaves; but this principle applies not only to literal slavery but to any experience of having been a stranger. We have to experience it to know it, and literature helps us to do so.

This foundational history can, of course, be taught in history classes, but hearing the voice of a character who lived the experience is both more emotionally powerful and more humanizing. Naturally, literature must be taught in conjunction with history because knowing the fuller picture of an individual’s experience—its geopolitical import, how power shapes choice—is crucial to a complete understanding of any situation. But history must also be taught in the context of extended (rather than merely excerpted) narrative in order to emphasize the humanity of the individuals involved in larger historical events. In learning about slavery in history class, for instance, students are often taught that slaves were dehumanized or treated like animals. But in Beloved, the character Paul D talks about the experience of being held in chains and watching a rooster, Mister, strut past him:

"Mister, he looked so… free. Better than me. Stronger, tougher…". Paul D stopped and squeezed his left hand with his right. He held it that way long enough for it and the world to quiet down and let him go on.

"Mister was allowed to be and stay what he was. But I wasn't allowed to be and stay what I was. Even if you cooked him you'd be cooking a rooster named Mister. But wasn't no way I'd ever be Paul D again, living or dead.... I was something else and that something was less than a chicken sitting in the sun on a tub."

Paul D’s musings offer students an entirely different insight into the feelings of dehumanization, an emotion-driven sense of what “dehumanization” means when applied to individual human beings. Hearing Paul D’s voice shows them some tiny portion of his pain and, simultaneously, makes him into a real person. We can know that slaves were treated as animals, but hearing what that means to an individual who experienced it provides a more profound, more lasting understanding of what that historical fact meant to the individuals who lived it. In other words, it allows students not just to know but to feel that we should love the stranger as ourselves and to recognize the ramifications of withholding that love.

Interestingly, Day Schools tend not to shy away from extreme depictions of violence and degradation in one area, and that is the Holocaust. Our students are painfully aware of the physical and emotional traumas wrought on Jewish families in 1930s–1940s Europe; even very young children know about the death camps, the cattle cars, the tattooed numbers, the family separations, the starvation. Certainly by the time they reach high school, our children know about the human lampshades and soap, the piles of shoes and gold fillings left behind, and Mengele’s unthinkable experiments. These inhumanities may feel more important to teach in a Jewish context because they happened to us; they are the stories of many of our students’ own great-grandparents. Knowing these stories is a way of showing love and care for our own people. But if we believe that our students are capable of hearing these stories, just as we believe they are capable of reading the kinnot on Tisha B’Av or learning about the Crusades or the Inquisition or the blood libel or anything else that was done to the Jews, so should they be able to learn about the inhumanities practiced on African Americans or Cambodians or Japanese Americans. Knowing these stories is a way of showing love and care for the Other. And both of these—loving both the neighbor and the stranger—are central to living a life of Torah.

Perhaps we feel that high school students are simply too young to be exposed to these issues, but high school seems to me the optimal time; if we do not reach students while they are developing their understandings of the world, we miss a significant opportunity. In particular, while they remain sheltered in the safety of a Jewish school, they are most in need of this contact with the outside world. Without it, these students, fully obligated in mitzvoth, are largely prevented from understanding the Other in any deep and meaningful way. Importantly, when we recognize that we do share disturbing images and ideas in reference to Jewish oppression but not (or certainly not as much) in reference to others’ oppression, we may come to realize that our squeamishness is not only about violence or sexual assault but about whether we were the victims or the bystanders or even the perpetrators. A narrative that presents us as victims is more comfortable, if not less upsetting, because it maintains a narrative we wish to perpetuate, not of our own victimization but of our own innocence. Recognizing the ways in which white people, some of them Jews, may have benefitted or continue to benefit from racism in America is a much more difficult conversation.

Torah demonstrates for us the centrality of narrative in our understanding of the Other, and we might even begin each year’s study of literature with a literary study of a biblical text. The kind of study I suggest here is what might be termed “The Bible as Literature,” but in a far different way from the more controversial understanding of that term. Generally, when religious Jews hear “Bible as Literature,” they think of the documentary hypothesis and a study of Torah as having human authorship. However, that definition of “as literature” only holds true if one believes that the study of literature focuses on authorial intention and the writer’s role in the text. As Reader-Response Theories teach us, though, there are many other approaches to literary interpretation that do not involve probing the author’s intentions or the history of the text’s creation and publication. “Bible as Literature” can instead involve a close study of the characters’ motivations and thought processes as well as the perspectives from which their stories are presented.

We can easily see that the Torah’s reliance on complex narrative itself constantly pushes us towards these difficult conversations. One of the most impactful narratives for me is the story of Hannah, not because I affiliate myself principally with Hannah in her suffering but because I recognize myself in the flawed character of Eli, who judges too easily and believes too quickly that he understands the entirety of a situation by seeing certain behaviors that seem, wrongly, to point to a firm conclusion. When Eli critically asks, “How long will you remain drunk? Remove your wine from yourself” and is subsequently put in his place by Hannah, who fills in for him the pieces of her story about which he had made false assumptions, I am reminded of the many ways in which I have made similar errors. That lesson can be so powerful and important, but this biblical story is only a starting point for students (and all of us, really) to engage with the dangers of judgment and assumption. To understand the Other, in this story, is to feel Hannah’s pain and to feel Eli’s guilt, both absolutely essential to being a fully empathic, Torah-observant Jew.

One might ask, then, why Shemuel I or other biblical narratives are not sufficient for this sort of work since they present precisely the kind of character insight that can help readers see their own flaws and consider their treatment of others. But the kinds of Others our students encounter are broader than those discussed in Torah narratives, and while empathy and understanding may be transferrable skills, understanding the specific details of a range of experiences is work begun in Shemuel and continued in a vast array of texts that approach different time periods, types of people and experiences. Seeing Hannah’s story as a starting point to understand more contemporary experiences of Others can powerfully reinforce certain values: the dangers of pre- or misjudgment, sympathy for others’ pain, avoiding assumptions based on insufficient knowledge, and the genuine depth of others’ feelings. Similar lessons can be garnered from a range of biblical narratives, staging the groundwork for similar but more contemporary or wide-ranging approaches to narrative interpretation.

This kind of interpretive work requires recognizing that the reader’s affiliation with Yaakov rather than Esav is intimately connected to the narrative voice and the perspective from which the story is presented. When we read throughout Bereshith Chapter 27 of Rivka’s plan to obtain Yitzhak’s blessing for Yaakov instead of for Esav, we remain in the home with Rivka and Yaakov. We hear their planning and recognize them as the central characters of the narrative. We become privy, in the Torah’s spare prose style, to their emotions and thought processes, and we feel ourselves affiliated with them. Of course, we feel that affiliation from external factors too, including our outside awareness of Yaakov as one of the avot and ourselves as descended from his line and commentaries that present Esav as crafty or even villainous, but even aside from that knowledge, the narrative itself—its use of voice and perspective—establishes Yaakov as the character intended to win the blessing and demonstrates the lengths to which he and his mother go to achieve a divinely ordained outcome.

We are briefly made aware of Esav’s feelings in the heart-wrenching line: “Do you have only one blessing, my father? Bless me too, my father.” But we quickly move away from Esav’s narrative and return to following Yaakov’s development, making clear to readers that Yaakov was our intended subject all along and should be the focus of our interpretation. A literary reading of this story asks us to identify and articulate our affiliation and recognize the ways in which that affiliation shapes our understanding and interpretation of the narrative. Were the narrative to leave Yitzhak’s house and follow Esav outdoors as he worked to hunt for his father and fulfill his father’s desire, we would potentially have quite a different impression of the characters’ choices and decisions.[3] By considering other perspectives as we read, we can recognize our own fallibility as readers and the ways in which perspective shapes our interpretations. I would argue that a very similar process takes place when we read any literary text, and learning how perspective functions can help us to become not only more sensitive readers but more sensitive human beings.

The point in not restricting this kind of study to biblical narratives but extending it in the broadest possible way is to take biblical narrative as a starting point and recognize that there are countless other narratives in the world that also deserve our attention. Every person has a story, and every person’s story needs to be heard, not just to validate their experiences but to shape our understandings. When we learn about the experiences of someone who is like us, we begin in a small way to move outside of our necessarily limited perception of the world: other people, even those like us, interpret the same experiences in different ways. But when we branch even farther out, we begin to see that different entire worldviews exist in legitimate ways; the more of these stories we know, the more meaningfully connected we can become to all of humanity, and the more we can recognize our God-given shared humanity. Without knowing the stories of others, we can begin to believe, mistakenly, that our lives and perspectives matter in a way that others’ do not. When we remind ourselves that others have compelling lives and perspectives too, we can align ourselves with this most conceptually difficult of Jewish values: that we are all created in God’s image. Literature is a primary means of internalizing this central Jewish truth; without it, believing ourselves to be uniquely godly is far too easy and can lead us to decisions antithetical to those the Torah demands of us.

            To some degree, then, the study of literature is a constant exercise in perspective. To demonstrate the value and potential danger of being absorbed into another’s perspective, I often use the extreme example of The Godfather in my classes (although, as the years pass, I may have to choose something more contemporary). Any mafia film or text focused on the criminal’s perspective, from The Sopranos to Ocean’s Eleven to Breaking Bad, chooses to present the human side of mobsters, thieves, and criminals. Readers or viewers are captivated by the mobsters’ internal politics, relationships, sense of virtue and retribution, and views of the world. At the same time, stepping back from those texts can help us to move outside the topsy-turvy world in which these thieves and murderers seem to make ethical choices, and reorient ourselves to the disconcerting experience of having felt aligned with criminals. Accepting such narrative wholesale is potentially morally problematic, but recognizing the ways in which we can be unintentionally manipulated by such use of perspective can help us to become more attentive readers of text and of the world. Doing so requires some level of sophistication, but helping our students to hone that analytical ability is precisely the teacher’s role in literature courses.

            Just as we see that a narrative from Esav’s or Hagar’s perspective would drastically alter our understanding of those stories and our affiliation with or empathy for the characters, so too we see that the perspective in secular literature must be firmly viewed through Torah values. Catcher in the Rye, a work I teach every year to 11^th graders, has frequently been banned for its central character’s vulgarity, disrespect of authority, and misanthropy. My students believe almost unanimously that, were they to meet Holden Caulfield in person, they would dislike him immensely. Indeed, he is externally deeply dislikeable. But what they see from reading a story told entirely from his perspective is that he is a troubled young man, suffering from the loss of his brother to cancer and wounded by his parents’ inattention. His unpleasant behaviors become more understandable in the face of our entry into his head, and a number of students have expressed their increased willingness, after “meeting” Holden, to give others the benefit of the doubt when they behave in socially inappropriate ways. If reading that narrative gives students even a moment of pause in considering how they judge another, then Catcher in the Rye serves an ethical purpose. Those who wish to ban it imagine that readers are so unsophisticated that they will envision every protagonist as a role model. As my students demonstrate year after year, though, they do not see Holden as an aspirational figure but as one who can help them to recognize the fundamental humanity of even a difficult and unpleasant person. He can, in other words, make them kinder.

            The danger of such a reading is to lead readers towards a kind of moral relativism, which can feel frightening or, at least, destabilizing. If, for example, we begin not only to root for criminals or “bad guys,” but to understand and sympathize with their motivations, do they in some ways become too understandable? Will every behavior seem permissible if it has a rationale, even a corrupt one? From decades of teaching literature with ethics at the forefront of conversations, I can say with some confidence that this is not a risk. On a continuum of “us” on one side and “them” on the other, the experience of hearing the Other’s perspective can begin to move a character from fully Other to at least comprehensibly human. He or she is still not me, and never will be, but I can begin to understand his or her motivations not as those of a monster but as those of a person—a person who has made bad choices, perhaps, or who has been misinformed or traumatized or raised with a different set of values—but a human being nonetheless.

            Because this shifting of the Other’s place on that continuum can have such powerful effects, I go out of my way to share the voices of Others with my students. For instance, I relish the opportunity to bring Christian poetry into my classroom because that voice is so absent from my students’ understandings of the world. When they read the beautiful, moving, faith-driven work of John Donne or Gerard Manley Hopkins or Mark Jarman, they begin to understand how faith motivates the lives of these differently religious writers. Far from having a proselytizing effect as some might fear, hearing these voices allows students to say, “These poets believe in something completely different from what I believe, but their faith is as deep as mine.” Or they might say, “These Christians also struggle with or question their faith,” as indeed they do. That kind of understanding is the first step toward genuine conversation and understanding, and if it can be presented within the comfortable, Jewishly-oriented environment of a Jewish school, it can allow students to understand the Other within a framework of Jewish values. To avoid this kind of material only ensures that students will learn about it in some other way that will less effectively equip them to consider it within a Jewish framework.

            Ultimately, perspective and voice are central to our moral understanding. The more texts we can read from a variety of perspectives—and the more attuned we become to the way narrative choices shape our understanding of the world—the better off we are as actors in the real world. Given that most day schools include moral, Torah-centered behavior as among their stated goals, literature falls firmly within a curriculum that supports the Torah goals of a school. Far from being only a necessary skill for entering the work force or getting into law school, literature that includes the broadest possible range of voices and experiences itself fulfills a Torah value. Without it, we would be hard pressed truly to internalize the basic fact of God’s spark in every human soul. When we do not know the stories of Others—their travails and successes, their pain and joy—we create barriers that prevent our fulfillment of the injunction to love the stranger and to remember that we, too, were slaves. Importantly, those two statements are part of pair; the all-important “because” that connects them reminds us that our love for others grows from our understanding of our own history, and our understanding of ourselves comes from our love of others. We cannot separate these, just as we cannot remove others’ stories from our study of Torah. The two go hand in hand, and a Torah education that does not include stories written by, for, and about the stranger is incomplete.

(This article is excerpted from Marc D. Angel, Remnant of Israel: A Portrait of America’s First Jewish Congregation—Shearith Israel, Riverside Books, New York, 2004.)

The 1880s ushered in a period of mass immigration, with many hundreds of thousands of Jews among those seeking a new life in America. Some immigrants were fleeing oppression, and some were simply seeking a better life for themselves and their families. The image of America as a promised land with streets paved of gold attracted the poor and downtrodden of Europe. Between 1880 and 1900, the United States population surged 50 percent, from 50 million to 75 million.

Among the throngs of Jewish immigrants were many who were fleeing the pogroms and persecutions in Tsarist Russia. Most entered the country though the port of New York, and a large majority remained in New York City and environs. To Americanized Jews, their incoming coreligionists posed new challenges. The newcomers, for the most part, were poor, unfamiliar with English, and unskilled by American standards. They were very much “old country” in their garb, language, religious outlook, and manners. They needed places to live, jobs, schools for their children, and medical care. In short, they needed help in adapting to American life.

The Jewish immigrants crowded into tenements on the Lower East Side of New York, eventually also spreading out to other neighborhoods in uptown Manhattan, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. The native American Jewish community established agencies to help the immigrants, and expended considerable energy and resources to assist them. Certainly, there were sometimes tensions between them culturally, economically, and socially. Yet, to the credit of the New York Jewish community in particular—and American Jewry in general—much good work was done to assist in the absorption of the immigrants into American life.

Emma Lazarus

Emma Lazarus (1849–1887), a descendant of old and distinguished Shearith Israel families, became an ardent spokesperson on behalf of these immigrants. She spent time with Russian-Jewish families in their tenement homes and sought ways to alleviate their misery. A noted poet in her day, she expressed her empathy with the plight of immigrants and gave voice to American idealism at its finest. Her poem, “The New Colossus” was inscribed on a plaque and affixed to the Statue of Liberty in 1903. In it, she wrote her now famous words:

Give me your tired, your poor
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Among the millions of Jews who arrived in the United States between 1880 and 1924 were 30,000 to 40,000 Sephardim who were mostly from Turkey, the Balkan countries, Greece, and Syria. The existing Jewish agencies that helped immigrants were geared for Yiddish-speaking Ashkenazic Jews like themselves. They did not easily recognize the Sephardim as Jews because the Sephardim did not have what they thought of as typical “Jewish” names and because they did not speak Yiddish….

The Sisterhood [of Shearith Israel] established an “Oriental Committee,” whose sole task was to work with newly arrived Sephardim. The Sisterhood operated settlement houses on the Lower East Side specifically for the Sephardim. The one at 86 Orchard Street opened in 1913, and a larger one at 133 Eldridge Street opened in 1918. These settlement houses provide social services, advice, meeting places, youth programs, a Hebrew School, and even a synagogue.

Shearith Israel’s spiritual leader, Dr. Henry Pereira Mendes, was very interested in the welfare of the immigrant Sephardim. His assistant, Rabbi Dr. David de Sola Pool, worked most actively with the Sisterhood’s “Oriental Committee” and with the Sephardic immigrants themselves. He represented Sephardic interests at meetings of Jewish social workers and charity agencies, and wrote articles explaining their background and needs to the Jewish community at large….

Shearith Israel’s commitment to the Sephardic immigrants entailed a remarkable expenditure of time, effort, and money. Had Shearith Israel performed no other public service at the time, the congregation would still have reason for pride in its social action work.

However, the social conscience of the congregation found expression in other causes as well. Several members of Shearith Israel made particularly notable contributions to the improvement of life in New York City—and well beyond.

Maud Nathan

Maud Nathan (1862–1946) was a social activist and a strong advocate of women’s rights. She was a leader in the women’s suffrage movement and was appointed by Theodore Roosevelt as the head of the women’s suffrage committee in his National Progressive Party. She became an international figure in the women’s rights movement, addressing conferences on the topic in such places as London, Lucerne, Stockholm, Budapest, the Hague, Canton, and Peking.

Maud Nathan was once confronted by an opponent of women’s rights. The critic asked her derisively: “Would you want your cook to vote?” She answered calmly: “He does!”
A member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, Maud Nathan had deep roots in American life. A member of Shearith Israel, she was imbued with a commitment to public service. She was a founder, and the first President, of Shearith Israel’s Sisterhood, established in 1896.

Throughout the nineteenth century, almost all charity and social action work in New York was conducted on a denominational basis. Protestants, Catholics, and Jews each had their own separate institutions and agencies to meet the needs of their communities.

By the end of the nineteenth century, individuals from the different religious groups began working together. Maud Nathan was one of the first Jewish women in American to be involved on the highest levels in a social action cause that crossed denominational lines.

Josephine Shaw Lowell, a prominent personality in the New York social service world, invited Maud Nathan to become involved in the work of the Consumers’ League of New York, which was founded in 1891. Maud Nathan not only joined this group, but went on to serve as its President from 1897 to 1917. She also served as Vice-President of the National Consumers’ League that developed on the model of the New York Consumers’ League.

In her work for the Consumers’ League, she and her colleagues addressed the terrible working conditions of young women clerks in New York’s department stores and shops. The basic insight of the Consumers’ League was that the problem was caused not just by the callousness of employers but by the thoughtlessness of consumers. If shoppers would demand proper conditions for store workers, the employers would be forced to comply. The Consumers’ League printed a “white list” naming the stores that met at least the minimum standards required by the League. At first, only a few stores earned the right to be included on the list. It soon became clear, though, that consumers were becoming sympathetic to the cause. More and more shoppers were patronizing “white list” stores and many were refusing to shop in stores that exploited their workers.

Through persistent hard work and ongoing negotiations with employers, the Consumers’ League brought about a revolution in working conditions for the store clerks. The success was so monumental that other cities and states copied the New York model, which won adherents internationally as well. Maud Nathan described the history of the Consumers’ League in a book she wrote called The Story of an Epoch-Making Movement.

Through her work for the women’s suffrage movement and in the Consumers’ League, Maud Nathan left an imprint on American history. In eulogizing her at her funeral on December 15, 1946, Rabbi David de Sola Pool referred to “her strong spiritual insight.” She is noteworthy for having been able to translate her spiritual insight and idealism into practical action that helped her fellow human beings.

Maud Nathan was outspoken in her criticism of anti-Semitism and racial prejudice. She felt that group hatred and bigotry were increasing in New York during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In her autobiography, Once Upon a Time and Today, she reminded her readers:

Prejudice produces humiliation which is not easy to bear. And the sad part is that the nature becomes warped and the spirit of kindliness and friendliness is changed into bitterness and resentment. To live in peace, there must be mutual confidence, trust, cooperation, no antagonism. How often, instead of mutual respect for differing spiritual values, there is suspicion, intolerance. Does not this intolerance find its final expression in the un-American principles of the Ku Klux Klan?

She saw herself as a victim of discrimination, both as a woman and as a Jew. Still, she took pride in the fact that he had “been able to make her protest count, because she persisted.” She devoted her life to advocating the American—and Jewish—ideals of freedom, mutual respect, and social justice.

Alice Davis Menken

A remarkable contemporary of Maud Nathan, also an active leader within the Shearith Israel community, was Alice Davis Menken (1870–1936). She, too, descended from early Shearith Israel families who had served in the American Revolution. Her husband, Mortimer Menken, was a successful New York attorney, and served as Parnas of Shearith Israel from 1922 to 1926. Alice Menken was President of Shearith Israel’s Sisterhood from 1900 to 1929….

Alice Menken’s interest in helping shape a better society went further [than the Sisterhood’s operation of settlement houses on the Lower East Side]. She was troubled by evidence of delinquency and vice among poor young Jewish immigrants. These young people often grew up in horrendous conditions and it is no wonder that some of them fell into anti-social behavior. Alice Menken believed that the way to deal with such individuals was through genuine, kind assistance and not through punishment. The goal was to rehabilitate them, not to harden them. In 1907, she was a prime mover in founding the Jewish Board of Guardians, which created a system of volunteers to look after wayward young people. Volunteers were given responsibility for supervising Jewish youth who had been placed on court-ordered probation.

In 1908, she organized a group of women from the Shearith Israel Sisterhood to work with the probation department of the Women’s Night Court of New York City. The Sisterhood group took responsibility for delinquent women so that they would not have to be incarcerated. In 1911, she helped found the Jewish Big Sister Association, through which women would “adopt” young women who were at risk of leading anti-social lives. Through one-to-one relationships, the “big sisters” could help guide the “little sisters” to constructive and fulfilling lives.

Alice Menken set a personal example for service. In the period from 1919 to 1922, in cooperation with the probation department, 346 probationers were under her own supervision—for as long a period as required by each of them. The average age of these women was 20, and 197 of them were foreign-born. Alice Menken spent time getting to know the young women, and assessing their needs and wants. She sought to find ways of helping them to help themselves. Almost all of the women for who she took responsibility went on to live better lives—returning home, finding jobs, establishing families of their own. In at least one case, Alice Menken took a probationer home to live in her own house, making her part of her own family for several years! The young woman went on to live a good life, and was ever appreciative of this incredible generosity of spirit.

In 1920, Governor Alfred E. Smith appointed Alice Menken to serve as a member of the Board of Managers of the Reformatory. In this capacity, she strove to improve prison conditions and to eliminate solitary confinement. She believed that prisoners needed an environment that offered them the possibility of rehabilitation.

In 1933, she published a book entitled On the Side of Mercy, in which she discussed her philosophy (and her actions) relating to problems in social readjustment. She wrote

We must seek a balanced philosophy of life. We must live to make the world worth living in, with new ideals, less suffering, and more joy….And when the cry of distress is heard from those overtaken by moral disability, organizations and individuals whose creeds are different, but whose ideals are one, respond in full measure. In this way the new generation, maturing during these years of depression, will be cheered to action and taught something of human and spiritual values.

Book Review:

Rabbi Haim Jachter, Bridging Traditions: Demystifying Differences Between Sephardic and Ashkenazic Jews

(OU Press-Maggid, 2021, 513 pages)

By Rabbi Hayyim Angel

Rabbi Haim Jachter, a dayyan (rabbinic judge) on the Beth Din of Elizabeth (New Jersey), and also the rabbi of the Sephardic Congregation Shaarei Orah of Teaneck, New Jersey, has written a phenomenal and valuable book.

Rabbi Jachter brings together his vast erudition, coupled with over 20 years of experience leading a diverse Sephardic congregation. He elucidates a wide array of matters of halakhah, custom, and ideology in a clear and accessible manner.

Conveying a reverence of Jewish tradition, sacred customs, and the great rabbinic leaders throughout the generations, Rabbi Jachter helps Jews of different backgrounds understand their respective traditions. He guides readers through complex halakhic issues when Sephardim and Ashkenazim live and pray together. What must Jews do to accommodate guests of varying backgrounds during the year and on Passover, when there are meaningful differences in halakhic observances? How should Ashkenazim pray when in Sephardic synagogues, and vice versa?

Often, Rabbi Jachter educates by explaining the rationales of the diverse traditions of our people. Instead of viewing different customs as strange or wrong, people will appreciate variegated traditions that have flourished in communities worldwide.

Rabbi Jachter gets to the roots of the views of Rambam (1138-1204, Spain-Egypt) and Rabbi Yosef Karo (1488-1575, Tzefat), which often form the backbone of Sephardic practice. He also traces the positions of Rabbi Moshe Isserles (Rama, 1530-1572, Poland), who generally reflects widespread Ashkenazic practice.

However, halakhic traditions did not freeze centuries ago with these seminal works. Mysticism, particularly through the influence of Rabbi Yitzhak Luria (Ari, 1534-1572, Tzefat) and his students, left its imprint on a myriad of practices. Later major Sephardic rabbis, such as Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai (Hida, 1724-1806, Livorno), Rabbi Yosef Hayyim (Ben Ish Hai, 1832-1909, Baghdad), and Rabbi Yaakov Hayyim Sofer (Kaf HaHayyim, 1870-1939, Baghdad, Jerusalem), sifted through and ruled on dominant practices.

In the 20^th century, no Sephardic halakhic decisor had more influence than Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef (1920-2013), who unsurprisingly plays a dominant role in Rabbi Jachter’s book. Other leading figures, such as Rabbi Shalom Messas (1909-2003) and Rabbi Mordechai Eliyahu (1929-2010), offered dissenting views and Rabbi Jachter carefully explains each position.

Various communities, such as Moroccan Jewry and Yemenite Jewry, remained faithful to their own traditions and practices, despite efforts by Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef to unify Sephardic observance in Israel. Rabbi Jachter explores several examples of these distinguishing practices.

Rabbi Jachter regularly emphasizes that although the many divergences in halakhah and custom between Jewish communities must be explored and appreciated, these differences are eclipsed by the staggering unity shared by all Jewish traditions despite millennia of living apart and often with limited contact.

Bridging Traditions will benefit scholars and laypeople alike. It particularly is a must-read for rabbis and Jewish educators, who will appreciate the spiritual wealth we gain and impart to our students and communities by teaching the wholeness of the Jewish people.

Rabbi Haim David Halevy (1924–1998) was one of the great rabbinic luminaries of his era. A prolific author and teacher, he was a gifted halakhic scholar, a devotee of Kabbalah, and a creative thinker who applied Torah wisdom to the dilemmas of modern times. From 1972 until his death, he served as the Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv.

Influenced by the profound and compassionate teachings of his mentor Rabbi Benzion Uziel, Rabbi Halevi—like Rabbi Uziel—represented the best in the Sephardic tradition of the Judeo-Spanish Sephardim. His monumental knowledge and keen insight were widely recognized. He won many prizes for his intellectual achievements, and in 1997 he was awarded the Israel Prize by the State of Israel in appreciation of his significant contributions to Torah scholarship.

One of Rabbi Halevy’s foremost concerns was education of youth in the ways of Torah. He emphatically believed that schools had the religious obligation to teach students honestly and correctly, and to inculcate proper religious behavior. He emphasized that parents bore the primary obligation of education, and schools were created to assist parents. Rabbi Halevy supported secular study, and advocated teaching Torah, including the Oral Law, to girls as well as boys. Rabbi Halevy struck a fine balance between reaching out to people from less observant homes while still preserving the integrity of the religious community. He addressed some delicate educational issues, such as opening the mail of a student suspected of misconduct, reading the diary of a student, and administering corporal punishment in class.

Schools Must Teach Everything Properly

Rabbi Halevy was emphatic and consistent in his argument that schools should always teach halakha fully and correctly, since the imprint made during childhood education was powerful.

He received a question from a school that accepted many students from less observant homes. The teachers wanted to know if they may omit teaching certain halakhot that they knew would not be observed by the majority of students. They invoked the rabbinic principle, “It is better that they act in error, than to violate the law willingly.” Rabbi Halevy explained that this rule applies only to those who publicly violated a halakha, and who likely would continue to violate it even if they were instructed properly. When educating children, though, it is the responsibility of every school to teach Judaism correctly and fully. Students need to have a clear and thorough knowledge of halakha, whether or not they come from observant homes (Asei Lekha Rav 1:75).

A school should not allow prayers requiring a minyan in younger classes where no minyan was present. It is inappropriate to do anything in school not in accordance with halakha, even for educational purposes. Rabbi Halevy recommended bringing a minyan of post-bar mitzvah students or adults to the class so that younger children could learn to pray properly with a minyan (Asei Lekha Rav 3:7).

One educator reported that due to students’ talking during the repetition of the amidah in morning prayers, he decided that the amidah should be read once aloud with kedushah (Asei Lekha Rav 4:13). The repetition would thus be omitted. Rabbi Halevy disagreed with this decision. The halakha does not permit routinely skipping the repetition of the amidah in the morning services. It is allowed, though not preferred, to omit the repetition during the afternoon prayer. Rabbi Halevy ruled that students should recite the morning amidah properly with repetition:

It is your obligation to educate the students to pay attention to the blessings of the hazzan and to respond “amen” as per the law; if you do not educate them now to fulfill the halakha according to its letter and spirit, when will they learn, and who will teach them?

As for the students talking during the repetition, a famous rabbi should be invited to address students on the importance of not talking during prayers.

In another instance, a school wanted to teach young children to count the omer with a
blessing. Yet, the blessing is recited only when counting the omer at night. Was it acceptable to let the students recite that blessing in the morning, for the purposes of education? Rabbi Halevy ruled negatively. Since the impressions from childhood education are lasting, students might grow up thinking that it was appropriate to count the omer with a blessing in the morning. Rabbi Halevy noted further that the primary obligation of Jewish education falls on the father, and not the school. Therefore, he should take his children to evening services all year long, and during the omer period they would be able to count with a blessing (Asei Lekha Rav 6:38).

Parents’ Obligation to Educate Their Children

Although schools bear responsibility to educate children, in fact parents have the foremost obligation in the educational process. Rabbi Halevy assiduously followed this principle in ruling on some difficult issues of educational policy.

A woman reported that her husband did not make an effort to provide religious education to their children (Asei Lekha Rav 1:41). Did this responsibility now devolve on her? Rabbi Halevy criticized the husband’s negligence. He then cited the Talmud (Nazir 29a) that indicates that a mother is not technically obligated to provide religious instruction to her children. However, Rashi included both parents in the obligation. Rabbi Halevy pointed out that many posekim have ruled that in cases where the father was not alive, the mother became obligated. In the case at hand, the husband was effectively non-existent. Even if the mother were technically exempt from this commandment, it obviously was a meritorious deed that she should perform.

A religious man had three observant sons, and one who no longer was observant (Asei Lekha Rav 1:64). He wanted to write the non-observant son out of his will. Rabbi Halevy cited the Shulhan Arukh (Hoshen Mishpat 282), that even if a son wrongs his father directly, he still should inherit with the other children. Rabbi Halevy proceeded to offer further reasons why the father should follow the halakha, rather than writing his non-observant son out of his will: (1) the non-observant son may yet repent one day, but most likely would not do so if he were cut out of the will; (2) that son, if disinherited, will deeply resent his siblings, causing permanent rifts in the family. Although Rabbi Halevy was saddened that the fourth son was non-observant, he tried to preserve family unity and to keep the door to repentance open.

During a lengthy teachers’ strike in Israel, many rabbis ruled that teachers were not allowed to disrupt their teaching of Torah to children. Rabbi Halevy considered the issue from a different perspective (Asei Lekha Rav 3:23; 5:23). Rabbi Halevy noted that the primary obligation for religious instruction devolves on the parents of the child, not the school (Kiddushin 29a; cf. Rambam Hil. Talmud Torah 1:1). He contended that all workers, including teachers, have the right to strike for better compensation. The parents must then fulfill their own primary obligation to teach their children Torah. It was unfair to accuse teachers of the sin of disrupting Torah study when the parents in fact bore the full responsibility for this sin by not paying the teachers adequately.
Rabbi Halevy noted, however, that the striking Torah teachers may not picket and prevent other willing teachers from entering the school. In this regard, the unique problem of bittul Torah created halakhic distinctions between a strike of Torah teachers and all other labor strikes. In a later responsum, he added that unless striking teachers had stipulated that they would not return to class unless they were paid for the lost time, they were not entitled to compensation for the period of the strike (Asei Lekha Rav 5:23).

Studying Secular Subjects

Rabbi Halevy, who quoted secular scholars and thinkers on occasion in his writings, recognized the value of secular study. A student asked if he may study on Shabbat for an upcoming secular examination. Rabbi Halevy wrote that Rambam prohibited such study on Shabbat, whereas Ramban and Rashba permitted it. In the Shulhan Arukh, Rabbi Yosef Karo first cited Rambam’s opinion, and only then referred to the permissive opinion with the preface “some say.” From this formulation, Rabbi Halevy concluded that, in general, one should not engage in secular study on Shabbat. However, with the pressure of a forthcoming test, a student may become overly worried and not enjoy Shabbat properly. Presumably, the Shulhan Arukh included the permissive ruling in order to allow leeway in such pressured situations. Therefore, Rabbi Halevy permitted the student to study for the examination on Shabbat (Asei Lekha Rav 1:36).

In a later responsum, Rabbi Halevy followed up on this decision with an explanation of why studying for a test was not considered preparation from Shabbat to a weekday, something generally prohibited. The forbidden variety of preparation was when one derived no benefit on Shabbat itself (e.g., setting a table for a meal that will take place on Saturday night). In the instance of studying, however, the knowledge gained on Shabbat was beneficial (Asei Lekha Rav 4:31).

Elsewhere, he addressed a high school student who did not wish to study for his comprehensive examinations (bagruyot) at all, since he believed this preparation would distract him from Torah study (Asei Lekha Rav 4:46). Rabbi Halevy began by praising the student: “I am exceedingly pleased by the nature of your question, which attests to the love of Torah in your heart. May God bless you, and may you merit becoming a great sage and a God-fearing Jew who will be a source of pride to your family and all of Israel!”

Rabbi Halevy then advised the student that since he had already reached this level of education, he should complete his degree by studying for the examinations. Rabbi Halevy added that there is great value in secular study, both for the education itself and for earning a living later on. He suggested that if the student genuinely was bothered by losing this time from Torah study, he should make a careful accounting of the time spent preparing for the exams, and make up this time with additional Torah study after the examinations.

Torah Education for Girls and Women

In his ruling prohibiting the teaching of Oral Law to girls, Rambam stated that a majority of them were incapable of understanding the concepts involved (Hil. Talmud Torah 1:13). Rabbi Halevy noted, though, that the success of women in so many academic fields militated against the premise of Rambam’s ruling. Already in the eighteenth century, Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai listed historical instances of learned women who gave halakhic rulings. Rabbi Halevy demonstrated that within Rambam’s own formulation, one could find permissibility for contemporary women to study Talmud. A woman who demonstrated a willingness and capacity to study the Oral Law was not part of the “incapable majority” described by Rambam. Rabbi Halevy concluded that very young girls should not study Talmud. Once they reached high school and showed motivation, they could be taught Talmud (Asei Lekha Rav 2:52). It is noteworthy that Rabbi Halevy did not argue that Rambam’s ruling was no longer applicable. He worked within the existing textual framework to reach a novel conclusion.

Rabbi Halevy’s commitment to that earlier source became more pronounced in a later discussion, where he responded to members of a religious kibbutz that had begun teaching Talmud to girls (Mayim Hayyim 2:89). The leaders of the kibbutz had complained that in light of the change in women’s status, rabbis should have addressed the issue of females studying Talmud. Rabbi Halevy responded that (1) he did address the matter in Asei Lekha Rav 2:52; and (2) his response had nothing to do with the current change in the social status of women. He had quoted Rabbi Azulai, who lived in the eighteenth century, to support his permissive ruling. “From here, we see that rabbis in all generations, including before there were changes in the social status of women, never rebuked women who studied Torah.” Rabbi Halevy criticized the kibbutz leaders for suggesting that halakhot may be eliminated on the basis of social change.
In the final analysis, Rabbi Halevy reached the same decision as the kibbutz leaders, permitting and encouraging women to study the Oral Law. However, they arrived at their conclusions from different starting points. Rabbi Halevy represented faithfulness to the precedents of the past, whereas the kibbutz had hoped to bypass the system as a result of a new social reality. At the end of his responsum, Rabbi Halevy exhorted the members of the kibbutz:

Our rabbis were great of spirit and deep of mind; would that we could even understand their words…. They were not only great in Torah and wisdom, but also in their holiness. Therefore, it is appropriate for a person to relate to their words with all respect due to them.

Rabbi Halevy demonstrated the same consistent balance between faithfulness to Rambam’s ruling and finding permissibility for women to study the Oral Law in his book, Mekor Hayyim Livnot Yisrael (pp. 205–208). In discussing the halakhic exemption for women to study Torah, Rabbi Halevy quoted Rambam’s ruling in full, that a father should not teach his daughters the Oral Law. In the footnote, he cited his responsum (which was subsequently published in Asei Lekha Rav 2:52) that explained the permissibility of women studying Oral Law within Rambam’s formulation. By citing Rambam’s restrictive ruling in the body of the text, and his own permissive responsum in a footnote, Rabbi Halevy presented a fine balance for his educational program: Anyone motivated enough to read his lengthy footnote was indeed qualified to study the Oral Law! One just reading his book with the rulings in the body of the text probably would not have sufficient motivation to study halakha from its roots, including its talmudic underpinnings.

A couple asked Rabbi Halevy if they needed to make significant financial sacrifices to keep their daughter in a religious high school. Rabbi Halevy responded that the greatest honor for parents is to support their children in Torah study. This principle applies to girls as well as boys, even though girls do not have the same technical obligation to study Torah as boys (Asei Lekha Rav 1:74).

Rabbi Halevy was asked whether a school could stop having afternoon prayers for girls in order to enable all the teachers to attend the boys’ minyan. Rabbi Halevy responded that a school always must teach what is correct. Since women also are obligated to pray minhah, the teachers must give equal attention to the prayers of their female students (Asei Lekha Rav 6, short answer 9).

Rabbi Halevy did not permit mixed education, where boys and girls sat together in the same classes. He even forbade teaching in a co-educational religious school. It was better to teach in a purely secular school, where it was clear that the teacher did not support the religious values of the institution (Asei Lekha Rav 2:60). In an adult education setting, however, Rabbi Halevy ruled that men and women may attend the same classes if men were in one room, women in an adjacent room, and the teacher stood in the middle. Women also could participate in the group discussions (Asei Lekha Rav 4:56).

Separatism vs. Inclusiveness

A non-religious man sought a religiously observant woman in marriage (Asei Lekha Rav 1:62). He promised her that he would become observant for the sake of the marriage. Rabbi Halevy noted that as long as the man had not adopted a Torah lifestyle, he had the status of a sinner. Although he promised to be observant, the woman should not be so confident that he would succeed. On the contrary, he might influence her to become less observant. Non-observance often prevailed because it was less demanding.

Enormous tensions could plague the marriage. If the husband wanted to go out on a Friday night, the wife either would feel pressured to join him, or remain home alone while he went out. Rabbi Halevy therefore discouraged the marriage. He tried to protect the woman’s religious observance, and pointed out how vastly different levels of religious commitment could be detrimental to a marriage.

A school’s policy of requiring all parents to affirm that they were Shabbat-observant offended one parent. Rabbi Halevy, though, was sympathetic to this policy, even though it would exclude taking children from less observant homes. Religious students might go to the homes of less observant students and be influenced negatively. Moreover, the likelihood of the school influencing children from the less observant families was mitigated by the fact that their parents did not model observance at home. He concluded that it was preferable to send children to a school with an all-observant population (Asei Lekha Rav 6:60).

In another responsum, Rabbi Halevy ruled that a synagogue should conduct a bar mitzvah ceremony for a family known to violate Shabbat. However, food brought by car to the synagogue on Shabbat may not be eaten, since Jews may not derive benefit from another Jew’s Shabbat violation (Asei Lekha Rav 3:16). In this decision, Rabbi Halevy again balanced outreach to the not fully observant with the necessity of remaining faithful to halakha.

Parents are obligated to seek the best possible religious education for their children. Therefore, if a distant school provides a better religious education than the local school, parents have the right to send their children there and need not feel obligated to support the local school (Asei Lekha Rav 4:52). However, one praying in a local minyan with less observant Jews should remain there if they would not have a minyan without him (Asei Lekha Rav 5:1–2).

These responsa are particularly telling as to Rabbi Halevy’s educational philosophy. While he emphasized that one always should encourage the possibility of repentance, he realistically considered the religious hazards in these instances to be greater than the potential benefits. It was preferable to protect one’s religious identity rather than attempting to bring others closer.

Difficult Questions in Educational Policy

An educator in a girl’s high school expressed concern that a student may have been involved in a correspondence with a boy. The school’s policy forbade such correspondence. The question was: May a school official open the student’s mail to ascertain the facts of the case? Rabbi Halevy noted that Rabbeinu Gershom (eleventh century) instituted the prohibition of opening the mail of another. The only possibility justifying opening another person’s mail was to prevent something sinful. Thus, it would be permissible to open the student’s mail. That having been said, Rabbi Halevy strongly discouraged the opening of her letters. Rather, the girl’s teachers should have a private discussion with her. If she did not appear forthright, then only her primary educator may open her mail, and may not discuss the matter with anyone else (Asei Lekha Rav 1:42).

In a related responsum, Rabbi Halevy ruled that teachers must not read a student’s diary, unless it could be verified that the child was violating religious conduct. The teacher also must make sure that this reading was done exclusively to correct the problem (Asei Lekha Rav 6, short answer 91).

Is lying permissible in an educational setting? For example, a father noticed that his children tended not to be punctual. He decided to switch the clocks ahead in his house, so that the children would think it was later than it really was. Rabbi Halevy responded that willful deception is a serious prohibition. Although the primary categories of forbidden deception were for personal benefit—either in business, or to project a better self-image—Rambam prohibited all deception, even for a good purpose (Hil. De’ot 2:6). In the end, Rabbi Halevy ruled that one may use deception only to prevent someone from violating halakha. Therefore, it would be permitted to change the clocks in the house to encourage the children to come to synagogue services on time.

Similarly, a teacher deceitfully told his students that they would have daily tests for two weeks, simply to frighten his students to see how they acted under pressure. Rabbi Halevy ruled in one word: prohibited. Even with the best educational intentions it is forbidden to be deceitful in education (Asei Lekha Rav 4:62). Likewise, students are not allowed to cheat on examinations, and Rabbi Halevy adduced many reasons to support his point (Asei Lekha Rav 8:59).

May a teacher physically strike a student who was misbehaving? Rabbi Halevy quoted Rambam and Meiri, who allowed hitting a child lightly in order to promote education. One who struck a child with cruelty, however, should be punished in court and then excommunicated. Rabbi Halevy cited the original talmudic source (Baba Batra 21a), which permitted a light slap if a child were overly lazy. But there was no reference to hitting a child for misbehavior. Rabbi Halevy concluded that it was forbidden to strike a misbehaving child. One who disrupted class on an ongoing basis should be expelled rather than struck, since the primary obligation to educate fell on the parents (Asei Lekha Rav 1:76). Although traditional sources permitted striking a student under certain circumstances, Rabbi Halevy interpreted the sources so as to curtail the practice.

A student asked if he had the right to report students or teachers who were acting against halakha. Rabbi Halevy sternly discouraged this type of reporting, since one’s motivations needed to be unusually pure. He quoted the Talmud (Pesahim 113b) that one seeing another person violate halakha must not report it, since one witness cannot do anything other than damage someone’s reputation. Yet, he may be wary of the sinner. Meiri limited this rule to apply specifically to court testimony. However, he may inform a teacher, or warn others who might trust the sinner. The Hafetz Hayyim in turn restricted Meiri’s permissive ruling to cases where five conditions were met: (1) the person reporting the sin must have witnessed the sin firsthand; (2) the sin must a be well-known prohibition, allowing the offender no excuse to say that he was unaware; (3) when reporting, no exaggeration is allowed; (4) this could be done only with the intent to keep people distant from the sinner until he repented; (5) one may not report the sinner, and then act flatteringly to him. Rabbi Halevy concluded that since it was so rare for one to meet all of these criteria, it was preferable to try to speak to the person privately, without publicizing the matter (Asei Lekha Rav 1:71).

On a related subject, Rabbi Halevy was asked whether students may conduct group discussions about teachers’ personalities (Asei Lekha Rav 1:72). Rabbi Halevy lamented that this question even was asked. Those who criticized the teachers were guilty of lashon hara, and those who defended the teachers still were guilty of secondary lashon hara, since they were defending them in the presence of those known to dislike them. Of course, one may debate ideas with teachers, or else truth cannot be clarified, but character evaluation is expressly prohibited. Rabbi Halevy concluded that if one needed actual protection from a teacher, then one may complain to the administration.

Given the significance of religious education, there is little wonder that Rabbi Halevy devoted so much attention to these matters. He was indeed an educator’s educator, providing guidance to individuals and schools in order to promote a society that imparts proper Torah education to all its constituents.

I am often asked what was it that attracted me, a Dutch Calvinist Protestant, to Judaism.[1] There were many motivations for my eventual conversion to Judaism, such as the desire to experience a spiritual connection (for which many if not all religions could qualify), a belief in one God (limiting my options to the monotheistic faiths), the Torah (narrowing it down to Judaism), and a religiously inspired and committed lifestyle that permeates life in all its different realms (which left me with Orthodoxy). But although I highly appreciated these values, there were and are other things that I value as well, among them: A communal striving for responsible and ethical conduct, a path of challenging and deepening studies, open-mindedness and respect for people with different mindsets and opinions, innovational out-of-the-box thinking, intellectual honesty, creativity, and aesthetics.

When someone first becomes interested in Judaism without knowing it from up close, the first image that often comes to mind is a romanticized Fiddler-on-the-Roof kind of religion. An image of old, kind men and wise rabbis dressed in black hats and long robes, men sporting beards, shuckling [2] while bending over a Talmud page. I believe that this image is so powerful that in the minds of many a seeker the often subconscious conviction has been imprinted that (ultra)Orthodoxy is the only genuine kind of Judaism and anything more moderate, modern, or enlightened is a false spinoff from the real thing. I have seen more than a few converts readjust themselves to this image while donning black outfits and even adopting a pronunciation of Hebrew that reflects the influence of East-European Germanic and Slavic dialects. It is thus of no surprise that in some circles the term Modern Orthodoxy raises eyebrows. It sounds to them like an artificial adaptation of something ancient, like Mozart’s music put to a synthesizer beat.

The issue of Jewish authenticity surely is an important one. To answer the question of which group, denomination, or community is most worthy for fitting the label of authentic Judaism, of course depends on one’s subjective definitions and expectations. In my opinion, authentic Judaism is first and foremost traditional, meaning that it perpetuates ancient rituals and practices with serious dedication. This includes traditional ways to celebrate and sanctify the Sabbath and holidays, as well as prayer. In other words, my definition of authentic would exclude communities that practice these rituals only when it pleases them and give up on them when it becomes convenient. Keeping traditional rituals is perhaps the most powerful way to connect today’s generation with its ancestral lineage throughout the ages, to connect our present with our past. And most likely it is also the most effective way to pass on that rich heritage to the next generation, connecting the past with the future. Being traditional also implies a careful application of the Jewish precepts as formulated by the Sages. This does not mean that Judaism cannot or does not evolve, but in order to remain authentic, it cannot bear too radical changes, purely based on the fashion of the day.

Authentic Judaism is also, in my opinion, cherishing and cultivating a connection with God as our Creator and the Instigator of the Jewish people and religion. This implies a central role for Torah, both in liturgy and lifestyle. This does not mean blindly proceeding in the trodden path of tradition and following our rules and rituals without a critical mind. On the contrary, being authentic means thinking analytically and identifying the possible effects of our conduct on families, society, and the world at large. Assuming that Judaism is meant to be an enriching, liberating, and wholesome influence in the world, then if our lifestyle, or any aspect of our practice would—God forbid— cause pain, suffering, or grief to others, then surely we have misinterpreted the precepts of our religion and should rethink them. For that reason alone, we need to train ourselves and each other in critical, independent thinking. The biggest chance for something to go terribly wrong in a community or in a society is when its members do not notice a detrimental development soon enough. So if we can’t think analytically, how will we ever be able to identify possible harmful or unjust developments before it is too late? Free thinking is therefore part and parcel of being authentic. Looking at it from another angle: God (the same God who gave us the Torah) gave us a brain and an amazing capacity for innovative thought, discovery, and problem-solving. It only makes sense that we have to cherish this human capacity.

Of course there are many more aspects of authenticity besides the ones I mentioned here. No doubt one could compose a long list, but basically what it comes down to is that authentic Judaism should both be loyal to its hallowed history and traditions and also be a force for good in the world at large, encouraging peaceful and wholesome innovations, or at the very least not frustrating them.

Before my eventual Orthodox conversion, I reflected on Reform Judaism,[3] and found that it did not meet my search criteria. Of course there are different levels within Reform Judaism, and I have the utmost appreciation for any level of observance that people feel they are able to apply in their lives. In the end, however, I found that people within the Reform movement are encouraged to observe on the level that they are personally most comfortable with. In essence, nothing becomes completely binding, partially because traditions may be seen as something culturally instead of divinely inspired. Fearing to be ethno-centric and particularistic, Reform Jews often tend to put a relatively high emphasis on universal values, which is in itself a good thing, but if you sacrifice too much of your own unique identity for the sake of universalism, and you end up too close to the general culture, then sooner or later the question comes up: What is the use of being a practicing Jew at all?

In other words, why would anyone sacrifice his or her time and efforts to participate in services and celebrations if people who reject these practices are just as good and meritorious? In my own spiritual journey I wanted to honor and integrate the Torah into my life, as a way to serve my Creator while growing towards a more complete, enriched, and responsible personality. But in my own experiences, what I saw among Reform Jews was often an attitude that halakha is largely archaic, kashruth is outdated, and strict adherence to the rules of Shabbat is for extremists.

Based on the above, the commitment that the Orthodox world shows for Jewish traditions would seem to more align with my beliefs. That was my own first impression as well. Torah-commandments are actually practiced with consistency. But then again, apart from a stricter adherence to Jewish laws, sometimes the spirit behind these laws seemed to be in jeopardy. If a woman sticks out her hand in order to greet an observant man, and he refuses her hand in an unkind manner, he may be keeping with traditional law, but at the same time embarrassing or insulting a fellow human being who is unaware of his religious practice.[4] There is a rule that people should dress modestly and not expose body parts that may arouse the other sex, a practice that I believe enhances the person’s dignity. But is it really dignifying if this is taken to such an extreme that a woman after her wedding is supposed to shave off all her hair so no one will ever see any of it, not even her own husband, and she has to compensate this with a wig? And is it really liberating if the pre-Pessah cleaning becomes so thorough that every single spot in the house has to be cleaned, including places such as behind the radiators or the electrical outlets, with the result that family members (often in this case the women) may enter the holiday in a frazzled state?

Perhaps as a result of the insular character of certain Jewish communities, some followers seem to lack attention or empathy for outsiders. Besides encountering many warm and wonderful people before my conversion, I also have experienced at times when I greeted someone that my outstretched hand was refused or that people looked the other way when I wished them “Shabbat Shalom.” I have personally heard about a rabbi who bluntly sent away a woman who tried to enroll her child into her local Jewish Day School. The reason given was that she had no proof of being Jewish. Even though her entire family was killed in Auschwitz, this rabbi wouldn’t talk to her. Does that jive with the many teachings in Torah and Talmud of dealing with people kindly and respectfully?

Judaism should be a positive force in the world, working toward peace and reconciliation. That implies accepting people even if you disagree with them. Besides, there will always be people who choose different levels of observance. Not everybody will be happy in the one denomination that we may deem the best. So Reform Judaism, even if I may disagree with a number of their teachings, still fulfills a role for a number of people. We can try to boycott and utterly defeat them, but even assuming such an effort would have a chance of success, let’s first stop and think what the alternative would be if there were no Reform or Conservative synagogues where less observant people would feel comfortable. From an Orthodox perspective, at least they congregate on a regular basis to pray to God and celebrate Shabbat and holidays. They recite the Shema, proclaiming the oneness of God. Would we rather have them not go anywhere and not practice anything? Isn’t any level of observance better than none, and valuable in itself? My impression is that a number of Hareidi rabbis are so opposed to non-Orthodox communities that they would prefer people to be 100 percent secular rather than identify with these denominations.

Critical, independent thinking is a problem as well in some circles. Reinterpreting parts of Genesis in metaphoric ways,[5] in light of overwhelming proof for a much older history of our planet than formerly assumed, may place someone in the category of a heretic. Even though it seems that Orthodox Jews, through Talmud study, are trained in critical thinking and asking inquisitive questions, this notion may need to be reevaluated. The questions that are asked (and tolerated) in yeshiva circles are typically only those that fall within the framework of accepted teachings, in other words, not critical, out-of-the-box questions, to which there is no conventional or straight forward answer.

I will give you one personal example of what happened to me shortly after my conversion. It was right before Shabuoth, and I had recently started a part-time job as a religion teacher at a Jewish Day School. The three days before Shabuoth are sometimes called “sheloshet yemei hagbala” (the three days of fencing off). This refers to the story in the Torah: [6] “And the LORD said to Moses, “Go to the people and consecrate them today and tomorrow. Have them wash their clothes and be ready by the third day, because on that day the LORD will come down on Mount Sinai in the sight of all the people.” Many communities have specific traditions connected to these days. I raised the following question to another teacher: “We count the three days before Shabuoth as the sheloshet yemei hagbala. However according to Scripture, the giving of the Torah (which we celebrate on Shavuot) took place not after the three days, but on the third day. So if we would keep that narrative consistently, we would count the sheloshet yemei hagbala from two days before Shabuoth and consider the holiday itself as the third day.” Although I meant to raise this only as an interesting point of discussion, I was accused of rejecting the teachings of our Sages. A few days later I was told that my position had been terminated because I did not fully subscribe to the traditional teachings of Judaism.

After reading about some of my disappointing impressions of the Jewish community, one may ask what in the world made me follow through with an Orthodox-Jewish conversion. The reason is, I always believed in the beautiful ideals that the Torah and Judaism potentially embody. Having grown up in a completely non-Jewish environment, I had started out exploring and gradually practicing a Jewish lifestyle based on studying the Bible and other books that inspired me greatly and showed me a spiritual richness that is preserved and activated through the rituals, celebrations, and life-cycle events as experienced in Judaism. My tantalizing search started before I encountered any Jewish community, and true, the encounter may initially have been a test, rather than an encouragement.

If Judaism had only consisted of Hareidi-style Orthodoxy and Reform, then I might never have pushed through to where I am now; perhaps I would never have eventually converted. I might have continued in the same vein as I lived before: leading a quasi-Jewish lifestyle, more or less on my own. But that would not have been an ideal situation, to say the least. After all, Judaism is not just a religion. What makes it unique and different from other religious entities, is that it is first and foremost a nation; a people with its own religion, its own special way to connect to God. But somewhat uniquely to Judaism, a Jew who abandons his or her faith is still a Jew.[7] And likewise, the Torah as a way of life that includes prayer, Shabbat, holidays, and so forth, can never be fully experienced outside the community. Having said all that, how did I overcome my obstacles and find my place within the Jewish people?

The answer is that I found my way into Judaism through the Sephardic community. Even though people come in all kinds and flavors in every community,[8] here I felt accepted for who I was. Nowadays not all Sephardic communities truly reflect all their principles-of-old anymore, but the classical Sephardic mindset (that can still be found in many places) was exactly what I was looking for: loyalty to Torah and tradition and at the same time open-mindedness toward modernity, sciences, and secular learning.

Being a linguist, an attractive point for me was that Sephardim have traditionally emphasized proper pronunciation of the Hebrew and the study of grammar. And very importantly, true Sephardic Judaism doesn’t have the same compartmentalization as the Ashkenazic world, where the severely observant join Hareidi communities, the moderately Orthodox congregate in less strict synagogues, the less strict go to Conservative synagogues, and the least practicing to Reform temples. Within a compartmentalized Judaism, if you worship within a community of a different level of observance than yours, chances are that you won’t feel at home. Typically in traditional Sephardic houses of worship the hakham and a number of individual members would be observant, while overall the congregants display different levels of adherence. And what is important: people tolerate each other. In other words, Sephardic synagogues are traditionally inclusive and open-minded.

Of course, Sephardic communities are going through their own issues and struggles as well. Firstly, a growing part of the Sephardic communities are falling into the “compartmentalization trap”: Reform Sephardic temples, Hareidi Sephardi synagogues, and so forth. I consider this a very unfortunate trend. On a relevant side note, in my opinion we should ask ourselves if we want Modern Orthodoxy to be yet another segment in this compartmentalization process within Judaism. Does Modern Orthodoxy want to be another sub-denomination that caters to like-minded, kindred souls? Or should Modern Orthodoxy learn from the Sephardic model and create an environment of inclusiveness: traditional style services paired with open-mindedness in thinking, in which a broad range of people feel comfortable?

Another issue, in my opinion, is that throughout the centuries, Sephardim have tried to create and facilitate unity with other Jews, often at the expense of giving up its own special identity. It seems like a natural thing in our days, but does anyone ever think about why Sephardim study the Talmud just like Ashkenazim, with the Ashkenazic commentaries of Rashi and Tosafot instead of their own commentators such as Moses Maimonides or Moses Nahmanides ? [9] Another effort to create unity was the embracing of the Shulhan Arukh as the authoritative guideline, the famous halakhic codex by Joseph Karo that comprises a mixture of Sephardic and Ashkenazic halakhic approaches and interpretations. It seemed like a good idea: Both communities make a number of compromises and end up with something that everybody agrees on. However, these compromises were to no avail for the Sephardim. Soon enough the Ashkenazim went their own sweet way by adding and following the commentaries of the Rama, often based on their own local customs. Sephardim gave up parts of their own traditions and halakhic insights for unity, but unity was not achieved. Since then Sephardim, especially the more religious ones, have moved over even further to the Ashkenazic side. Students in yeshivot follow Ashkenazic methodology, wear European-style suits and black hats, and speak in Ashkenazic lingo—so-called “yeshivish.”

I personally never understood the idealization of Eastern European culture. I don’t understand why Hungarian folk-style music became Jewish music, and why the Eastern European eighteenth-century dress code got to be considered “Jewish clothing.” Hebrew is considered more religious, more “frum” (to use one of many German terms that are in vogue in the Jewish world) when it is pronounced according to the rules of Eastern European dialects. On a personal note, these ways of pronunciation remind me of the peasant dialects I grew up around in Europe. Not that I don’t find this endearing; in a way I still do. But I never thought it appropriate to use it in prayer or liturgy. In my opinion, when someone stands before a king, would he address him in a cockney accent, or would he make an effort to express himself in grammatically correct, proper English?

When one believes that the sources of Judaism have to be understood in their historical context, then an orientation toward the cultures of the Middle East seems more appropriate, especially in understanding the Scripture and its languages. And if at the same time one holds that Judaism has an important message that can enrich different cultures, then there is no need to imitate exotic cultures in dress or behavior. If there is an affinity, then no harm is done, but dressing up or using foreign terminology doesn’t make anyone more religious.

I am sharing my thoughts on Sephardism for a reason. Authentic Sephardic Judaism, just like Modern Orthodoxy, is highly challenged by the tide of Hareidi influence. And that is not the only commonality. I believe there is much that Modern Orthodoxy can learn from the original attitudes and approaches within Sephardic heritage. Not disregarding the fact that the reality of any movement is generally less desirable than the ideals behind it, I believe that at least the original ideals of Sephardism can help Modern Orthodoxy define its aims and goals: Solid in teaching and at the same time inclusive of the less committed. A traditional definition of life’s guidelines paired with open-mindedness to modernity, participation in intellectual thinking, and willingness to contribute to society at large. When necessary, redefining halakha within the limitations and perimeters of the essential sources.

What these sources are is a point of discussion, the importance of which cannot be underestimated. The term sources can mean many things to many people. Within Rabbinical Judaism there may be some to whom a source is only absolutely binding if it is a Mishnah, Tosefta or Baraita, to others a twentieth-century Responsum may be a binding source. The discussion of this is beyond the scope of this article but if Modern Orthodoxy is to be more than a diluted form of Hareidism, some crucial questions will have to be answered, such as: Within Modern Orthodoxy’s orientation, what exactly is the hierarchy in authority among the writings of Tannaim, Amoraim, Geonim, Rishonim and others? Which practices can be redefined, largely depends on the answers given.

One relevant observation between Sephardic and traditional Ashkenazic attitudes is a somewhat different approach to local customs (minhagim). No doubt, the Talmud gives importance and authority to minhagim, but the scope and definition of this principle, in my perception, is not entirely the same within the two traditions. Of course Sephardim are just as proud as others of their own liturgy, including tunes and piyyutim, [10] their specific way of putting on tefillin, or their special haroset recipes. Nonetheless they have displayed a somewhat different attitude towards the binding character of customs. If changing circumstances, communal needs, or even insights necessitated it, Sephardic hakhamim on occasion have changed even well-established customs in favor of the application of other halakhic interpretations. This seems to reflect an underlying belief that not every custom automatically has the halakhic status of minhag. In contrast, many Ashkenazim consider any established custom a halakhically binding practice. This has far reaching consequences. In Ashkenazic circles there can be in-depth discussions on certain halakhic questions, going over the Mishna, Gemara, Geonim, Rishonim, Aharonim, commentaries on commentaries, looking at it from all directions and perspectives, and a halakhically satisfactory answer to the problem may emerge, but in the end the result can be wiped off the table with the remark: “But our minhag is different.” I would like to illustrate this with an example related to the tzitzith.[11] According to Torah law, a man is obliged to fulfill the requirement of wearing tzitzith if he has a four cornered garment. [12] He does not need to buy such a garment (i.e., a tallith [13] ) in order to attach tzitzith to it and fulfill the commandment. However, from several authoritative halakhic writings it is clear that one should make an effort to own a tallith (with tzitzith), and wear it, especially during prayer. [14] In Eastern Europe, where people used to be poor and could not easily afford to buy a tallith, it became the practice for a groom to be gifted a tallith as a wedding present. Thus in those communities men customarily did not pray with a tallith before marriage. At a certain point this was perceived as an official minhag, endowed with halakhic power, and even though nowadays most descendants of Eastern European Jews can afford to buy a tallith, many unmarried men will not fulfill their halakhic requirement of donning a tallith during prayer because “it is not my minhag.” From here we can see the important role that the concept of minhag plays to the extent that it can override (pure) halakhic considerations. As a side effect, minhag has become such a determining factor in halakha, that it makes any chance for renewal or change impossible. Even if there are good ethical and halakhic reasons to change a practice, if the concept of minhag renders a practice “law,” change will be blocked.

However, within the classic Sephardic approach, this has been quite different. A clear example can be found with Maimonides in his halakhic codex Mishneh Torah. It is clear that Maimonides intended to unite all of Judaism through this codex by deciding once and for all on the most correct interpretations of Jewish law. The concept of minhag played little to no role in his project. Thus it seems that in Maimonides’ view customs can exist and develop around halakha, but they don’t have halakhic power in themselves and thus can never overrule halakhic rules or push them away.[15] I believe a revision of the concept of minhag in congruency with this classical Sephardi approach, is essential for Modern Orthodoxy in defining an authentic model for future reconsideration of halakhic practice, when necessary.

What is Modern Orthodoxy’s position among the other currents of Judaism? Throughout his body of work, Rodney Stark, professor of Sociology and Comparative Religion,[16] distinguishes between—on the one hand—religious movements with relatively intense levels of commitment. Such movements require of their adherents high levels of compliancy and investments in terms of devoted time, lifestyle and dedication, while at the same time offering high spiritual and often social rewards. However, these movements tend to exist in relatively sharp tension with their cultural environment. On the opposite end of the spectrum are low intensity religious movements that require very modest investments and dedication. Such movements exist in relative harmony with their environment, but they also give little in return in terms of community life and spiritual rewards. One of the challenges of high tension ideologies is that, while there is certainly a considerable group of people that find satisfaction in such movements, every next generation of people that grow up in such high-demanding communities tends to gravitate towards lower levels of commitment and towards less tension with the general culture. Therefore, over time, high intensity movements tend to become less intense. However, people are not all the same, and often this process is interrupted when a group of people from within the movement stand up to turn the tide, demanding higher intensity commitments (and rewards). This is how revival movements and sects originate.

In the first place this distinction can help explain why many who look for spirituality and meaning in Judaism, are attracted to Hareidism. I am talking about those non-Jews who turn to Judaism for religious and spiritual reasons, in contrast to those who are moved by social motivations. The mere fact that these people search for meaning and truth beyond their ancestral horizon already puts them in the category of “big investors,” high intensity devotees. Furthermore these movements attract their attention simply because in general, the most outspoken expressions define a religion’s reputation in the world.

It is tempting to look at the different currents of Judaism in the above described manner: Hareidi Orthodoxy as a high intensity community, Conservative and Reform Judaism as relatively low intensity movements, and somewhere in the middle Modern Orthodoxy with a medium intensity level. Professor Stark describes a general phenomenon in religion, and Judaism has the same pulls-and-pushes as other faiths. But Modern Orthodoxy is not just a haven for people who long for a certain, moderate level of commitment, not too extreme, not too liberal. It should be much more…

The future of Modern Orthodoxy depends on how it will define and profile itself. This may prove to be no small challenge. At present one can find communities that define themselves as Modern Orthodox with the only difference from the Hareidi world being that, working for a living alongside Torah study is not considered a second choice. Others who are called Modern Orthodox have made more radical changes towards egalitarian services and women clergy. Modern Orthodoxy needs to find its own position between the worlds of innovation without fixed tradition and fixed tradition without innovation. In order to be successful and offer a credible alternative to either of the extremes, it needs to develop its own religious philosophy and its own halakhic scholarship. In order to offer more than a moderate version of Hareidi orthodoxy, Modern Orthodox scholars need to know halakha at least as good, preferably better than Hareidi scholars, which is a huge task but not impossible. In too many yeshivot much time is spent on detailed studies of marginal topics and on creating artificial reconciliations of contradicting opinions that cannot be genuinely reconciled for the simple reason that they are contradicting opinions. In the process, a real overall understanding of halakha often gets lost in studying minute details. Modern Orthodoxy should not just delve into the study of halakha, but grasp its structures and underlying principles as well.

In the process we need to educate our children in the spirit of Modern Orthodoxy, which is more than just a weakened form of Orthodox Yeshivish schooling. This means exposing our youth to authentic, primary sources that support an approach of Judaism as described above, solid in halakha, innovative in thinking. If we fail, our children will soon pick up on the notion that the more serious you are about Judaism, the more yeshivish you become. And before you know it, Modern Orthodoxy will fall in the same trap as the multitudes of Sephardim who surrendered to a mindset of Lithuanian yeshivot.

Modern Orthodoxy is walking a fine line, on a tightrope between a total surrender to modern, secular thinking on the one side, and on the other side totally immersing in religiosity while giving up participation in the modern world of science, philosophy, etc. The only chance we have in fulfilling the Jewish ideal of impregnating the material world and general society with spirituality, is if we can be exactly where we are: in the middle, where we can integrate both worlds. But it is no easy place to be and there is no easy solution. We cannot design a new, prescribed way of life, no matter how modern or moderate it might be, and follow it blindly. That would be betraying the ideals of Modern Orthodoxy. We always need to look at the way we do things and ask ourselves if we are loyal to our heritage and at the same time what the effects are of our practice on the people and the world around us. What are the possible negative side effects of our conduct? Should we rephrase, reframe and rethink our teaching and practice? In order to answer those questions, we have to know clearly what we stand for and what we have to offer that is so special and that we world is in need of. This implies that we need to know the secular world real well and at the same time excel in our knowledge of Jewish heritage, spirituality and ethics. We need to offer high quality education for young people and enable new, inspiring leadership to emerge. The demands on them will be enormous. But then again, it is hard to be a (Modern Orthodox) Jew.

[1] I wrote about my spiritual quest in Rabbi M.D. Angel’s: Choosing to be Jewish. Hoboken, 2005, pp. 25–35.
[2] Ritual swaying of worshippers during prayer.
[3] While my native country, the Netherlands, has no Conservative Jewish community, the existing Reform congregations there are in my opinion closer to the Conservative than to the American Reform movement, both in philosophy and ritual observance.
[4] Of course if this person would make an alternative gesture, such as a friendly bow, then this would not be rude.
[5] In line with Maimonides’ approach that whatever in the Torah conflicts with science, should be interpreted as metaphorical.
[6] Exodus 19, 10–11.
[7] In contrast, a Christian who rejects his/her Christian creed is not considered a Christian any more.
[8] Of course there are many wonderful Ashkenazim and needless to say, not every Sephardi is a lovable person either.
[9] In fact, Maimonides only wrote a commentary on the Mishnah (be it an extensive one) but not on the Gemara, while Nahmanides is considered by some to be influenced already by Ashkenazic thinking. So in all honestly, classic Sephardic Talmud commentaries just happen to be less available than Ashkenazic ones.
[10] Liturgical poems
[11] Ritual fringes
[12] Numbers 15, 37–41.
[13] Usually translated as “prayer shawl”
[14] Mishneh Torah, Sefer Ahava, Hilkhot Tefilla, Chapter 5, Halakha 5; Hilkhot Tzitzith, Chapter 3, Halakha 11; Shulhan Arukh, Orah Hayyim, Chapter 2, 24:1.
[15] This approach to minhag seems to me more authentic. I have never heard of a Babylonian Amora who travelled to Eretz Yisra’el and kept two days of Yom Tov while there, because it was his custom.
[16] See: e.g. For the Glory of God, pp. 17–20, 25–27.

Esther the Jewess marries King Ahashverosh. Her Uncle Mordecai tells her not to reveal that she is Jewish. The Jews throughout the 127 provinces of the Empire know Esther is Jewish. But not one of them gives away the secret. Ahashverosh, Haman and the entire royal court are kept in the dark about the Queen’s true identity.

This, commented Rabbi Haim David Halevy (late Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv), was an amazing phenomenon, a veritable miracle. Not one Jew in the entire empire betrayed the secret. The Jewish people were united, discreet, and disciplined to an extraordinary degree.

Let us imagine how this story would play out if it occurred today.

Jewish reporters would fiercely try to outscoop each other to report about a Jewish Queen.

Wikileaks would put an image of Esther’s birth certificate on the internet, with the indication that she was born Jewish.

The Hareidim would demonstrate worldwide at the travesty of a Jewish woman marrying a non-Jewish king, a wicked one at that.

The Chief Rabbinate of Israel would issue a statement that Esther’s Jewishness was in question, and that she would need a “giyyur le-humra” (a conversion to be on the safe side) if she wanted to be considered Jewish for purposes of aliyah.

The Zionists would point to Esther and say: you see, the Jews of the diaspora are assimilating; they all should make aliyah before they totally disappear.

The zealous Litvaks would say: Esther is merely a Persian Jewess and doesn’t have our fine Ashkenazic pedigree. We wouldn’t want our sons to marry such a woman.

Chabad would send another shaliah to Shushan, to re-enforce the staff already there at the Chabad House. Cholent (Persian style) would be dished out each Shabbat morning along with prayers for the Queen’s prompt release from bondage in the palace.

The Sephardi Federations around the globe would glow with quiet satisfaction that one of their own made the big time.

The peaceniks would say: this whole crisis could have been avoided if Mordecai simply bowed to Haman and would not have been so stubborn. If Jews simply gave everything away, we wouldn’t have to worry about anti-Semitism.

The kabbalists would manufacture a new batch of red strings for bracelets, and sell them at a suitable price to those who wanted to provide mystical salvation to Esther and the Jewish people.

The secularists would blame the fanaticism of the religious community; the religious would blame the secularists for their innumerable sins which surely brought on God’s wrath.

Jewish newspapers would be filled with spicy attacks and accusations, op ed pieces and letters to the editor. Everyone would have an opinion, invariably wrong. All the commotion within the Jewish community would catch the attention of the non-Jewish media.

It would not take too long for Queen Esther’s hidden identity to be revealed. Esther would have then been ejected from the throne; Haman would have had full sway; the Jews would have had no powerful person to intercede on their behalf. The Purim story would have ended in disaster. The joyous holiday of Purim would never have come to be.

The Jews of the ancient Persian Empire demonstrated remarkable intelligence and restraint. They understood what was at stake and they rose to the occasion with admirable self-control. They surely had differing opinions and ideologies among themselves; but when faced with national crisis, they knew enough to set their differences aside, to refrain from destructive gossip and back biting.

While we modern Jews cannot hope to achieve the unity and self-control of the ancient Persian Jewish community, we can strive to act and speak with discretion, courtesy, and respect for the views of others. We can avoid vitriolic attacks on those with whom we disagree. We can focus on the really big issues which confront the Jewish people, and think how each of us can be constructive members of our community. We can know when to speak and when to remain silent. We can know when action is necessary and helpful, and when action is counter-productive and misguided.

Rabbi Halevy thought it was miraculous that the Jews of ancient Persia acted so wisely and so discreetly. Perhaps it is too much to expect such miraculous behavior from us. But perhaps—with intelligence, compassion, discretion and respectfulness—we can be part of a new Purim miracle for our generation.

Torah Is Freedom

By Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar

And it says, “And the tablets were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, graven upon the tablets” (Exodus 32:16). Read not harut [‘graven’] but herut [‘freedom’]. For there is no free man but one that occupies himself with the study of the Torah (Mishnah Avot 6:2).

This midrashic re-reading of God’s engraved tablets has intrigued me for years. The image of God’s words engraved in stone sounds rather permanent and unchanging. Yet, the Sages find an opening to promote one of their cornerstone values, namely, the Torah brings to its adherents true inner freedom and nobility.

In his classic commentary on the Mishnah, Rabbi Yisrael Lifshitz (1782-1860, Tiferet Yisrael) suggests that the Torah offers freedom from enslavement to one’s bodily desires. Offering a more expansive definition of this freedom, Rabbi Marc D. Angel comments that “God did not impose mitzvot in order to crush freedom and autonomy, but to give divine guidance on how best to live one’s life” (Koren Pirkei Avot, 156).

Anyone who engages meaningfully with the sacred texts of our tradition is immediately transported into a millennia-old dialogue and debate regarding the meaning of God’s word. It is precisely this pursuit of divine truth that brings the Torah to life, and makes its learners active recipients of God’s engraved words.

When Torah instead becomes about control and uniformity, its spirit is eviscerated. Authoritarian interpreters who stifle or willfully ignore valid alternatives within tradition veer from the very idea of Torah, even when such individuals speak in the name of Torah.

Since its founding in 2007, the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals has been motivated to fight for these inherent Torah freedoms. We have been animated in particular by two unsettling trends in our community: (1) A right-wing authoritarian voice that tends to stifle and ignore many valid alternatives, proclaiming that it alone has the truth. (2) A widespread tendency within many aspects of Yeshiva education that tends to ignore Sephardic and other non-Ashkenazic voices of the previous 500 years.

Through our writings, website, classes, programs, and teacher trainings, we reach tens of thousands of people annually, including hundreds of rabbis and educators. We promote diversity and inclusion, and the freedom of an authentic encounter with the wholeness of Torah.

One additional threat that requires immediate attention is an equally disturbing trend of tyranny from the left—both in our broader society and especially within the Jewish world. A growing number of voices subscribe to the repugnant idea of “cancel culture,” in which any dissent or questioning can result in people losing their jobs, reputations, and even ability to publicly “exist.”

Over the years, I have attended rabbinic meetings of more “right-wing” and “left-wing” orientations. While each meeting had its own distinct agenda, votes often ended up “unanimous,” at least in the sense of nobody publicly disagreeing. This shocking unanimity over legitimately debatable points is extremely unlikely to occur among large numbers of diverse, thoughtful, and learned people. Nevertheless, a prevailing culture has emerged: dissent, questioning, critical thinking, or challenging would not be tolerated. We live in a world where such intellectual timidity and cowardice grows exponentially and aggressively. We have an extra obligation to provide meaningful discourse so that the entire panoply of Jewish opinion shines forth.

At the Institute, we are proud to present a wide diversity of voices in our journal, Conversations; our website; and all of our programs and writings. These teachings educate and inspire Jews of all backgrounds to find avenues of entry to tradition that resonate most with them. Thank you for promoting and supporting this noble endeavor.

Haham Solomon Gaon passed away on 19 Tevet 5755 (December 22, 1994). During the course of his lifetime, he impacted on many thousands of people. He served for many years as the Haham of the Spanish and Portuguese community in London; and was the founder and director of the Sephardic Studies Program at Yeshiva University in New York.

As one of Haham Gaon’s first students at Yeshiva University in 1963, I want to share a few thoughts about a man who was not merely a teacher, but a mentor and friend. Had I not studied with Haham Gaon, I almost surely would not have become a rabbi; had he not been a constant guide and friend, I almost surely would not have had a rabbinic career spanning five decades.

Solomon Gaon was born in Travnik, Yugoslavia in 1912 and studied at the yeshiva in Sarajevo. Both his parents died in the Holocaust. He received his rabbinic ordination from Jews' College in London. In 1949 he became Haham (Chief Rabbi) of the Sephardic congregations of the British Commonwealth. With Alan Mocatta, he is credited with revivifying a declining community. Beginning in 1963 he became involved (initially on a part-time basis) with Yeshiva University in New York, and was integral in the founding of its Sephardic Studies Program. While in New York, Haham Gaon was closely identified with Congregation Shearith Israel where he attended services regularly.

Haham Gaon had an uncanny understanding of human nature. He seemed to know what was on your mind without your ever having to tell him. He was one of those rare rabbis and teachers who actually cared about others with a fullness of concern. He held impressive titles and received many honors; but he was among the humblest people I have ever known. Whatever he achieved was not directed at self-glory, but was for the glory of God. He spoke to all people with respect and kindness. He was as non-judgmental a rabbi as I have ever met. His motivating emotion was love; his compassion and empathy seemed to know no bounds.

Haham Gaon seemed to have boundless energy. He traveled extensively; he visited many Sephardic communities around the world. He spoke at many conferences and scholarly gatherings. As busy as he was, he always seemed to have time for family, friends, and students. He and Mrs. Gaon were gracious hosts; they enjoyed being with people, sharing happy times.

Haham Gaon had a lively sense of humor. He also had gravitas. He knew how to carry himself with great dignity while still not becoming aloof.

Haham Gaon, like the classic rabbis of Sephardic tradition, placed great emphasis on prayer. He seemed to have a remarkable spiritual intimacy with the Almighty. When Haham Gaon prayed, all of us in his presence felt an extra spiritual energy in the room.

In an article I wrote on Sephardic models of rabbinic leadership, I referred to Haham Gaon: “As a young rabbi, I learned much from my teacher Haham Solomon Gaon, with whom I studied at Yeshiva University, and to whom I turned for guidance for many years thereafter. I once complained to Haham Gaon that I was called upon by various organizations and committees to attend their events and meetings. I felt I should be exempt from these communal responsibilities, so that I could devote more time to my studies. I thought the Haham would support my request. Instead, he gently rebuked me. He said: the people who devote their time and effort on behalf of the community need to know that the rabbi is with them. They need to see the rabbi, to hear the rabbi’s suggestions, to know that the rabbi appreciates and participates in their work. Yes, you need time to study; but you also need to devote time to working with members of the community. Haham Gaon was a Haver ha-Ir, a friend of the community.”

I went on to write that the classic Sephardic rabbinic model personified by Haham Gaon has been on the decline. “For a variety of sociological and psychological reasons, there has been a sea change in Orthodox rabbinic leadership in general—and an even more profound change in Sephardic rabbinic leadership. The upsurge in the influence of extreme Hareidi religious authorities has dragged much of Orthodoxy to the right.”

Haham Gaon represented a balanced religiosity, deeply faithful to tradition while deeply sensitive to the needs and feelings of modern men and women. Haham Gaon was a model of dignity, compassion, and total commitment to the People of Israel and the State of Israel. He did not attempt to validate his religiosity by adopting “Hareidi” style rabbinic garb; on the contrary, as a proud Sephardic rabbi, he refused to compromise his own traditions in order to curry favor among others. He respected Ashkenazic rabbis who were faithful to their traditions, and he expected them to be respectful of his traditions.

As we mark the anniversary of the passing of Haham Gaon, we may well also be marking the end of an era of Sephardic rabbinic leadership. The broadness of vision, tolerance, spirituality and humanism of the Sephardic rabbinic tradition is on the brink of extinction. At the very moment when the Jewish world needs exactly this kind of spiritual leadership, we miss Haham more than ever.

Haham Gaon was an optimist. He believed that the tradition he embodied would be a source of strength to the Jewish People in the generations to come. Those of us who were his students and friends must also be optimists. We must be worthy heirs to the spiritual legacy he has left us.