National Scholar Updates

Cornerstones: The Bible and Jewish Ideology, by Rabbi Hayyim Angel, Kodesh Press, 2020

Reviewed by Steven Gotlib

Let’s talk about Tanakh. 

One of my biggest pet peeves about rabbinical school is that we just don’t spend much time (if any!) talking about Tanakh aside from when it’s cited in other works. I was always a bit confused about this. After all, Tanakh is the very cornerstone of our belief! What possible excuse could future rabbis have for not knowing it well? My desire to correct this for myself led me to study all the Tanakh that I could. Not only the books themselves, but scholarship as well.

It was this process that first introduced me to the prolific scholar, R. Hayyim Angel. I was amazed by his uncanny ability to reveal the depths of Tanakh, dissecting each layer of seemingly straight-forward narratives until his audience was blinded by their inner light. With each class that I listened to, I came away truly feeling like I had been handed “The Keys to the Palace,” to play on the title of one of his recent books. 

Thanks to those experiences, as well as working under R. Angel as one of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals’ campus fellows, I knew that his next book would be one I’d want. “Cornerstones: The Bible and Jewish Ideology” did not disappoint. This volume is a celebration of everything I love about the study of Tanakh in general and R. Angel’s methodology in particular, seeking to demonstrate once and for all that “the religious heart and soul of the Jewish people is the Hebrew Bible” (ix). 

One way that R. Angel goes about this is by demonstrating that although the Written Law found in Tanakh can differ significantly from its Oral and more legally binding counterpart, “the Written Law still teaches central values of the Torah” (93). R. Angel explains that “the Talmud and Midrash, Jewish philosophy and mysticism, and Jewish thought all find their deepest roots in the Bible. For millennia, Jews and other faith communities have been transformed by this unparalleled collection of 24 books… When we learn and teach Tanakh properly, we convey a sense of holiness and reverence, coupled with respect for individuality and intellectual struggle with our most sacred texts and traditions” (185).

This way of learning can even involve academic methodology, provided it is coming from the right frame of mind. “To benefit from contemporary biblical scholarship properly, we must first understand our own tradition – to have a grasp of our texts, assumptions and the range of traditional interpretations… Religious scholarship benefits from contemporary findings [and] the academy stands to benefit from those who are heirs to thousands of years of tradition, who approach every word of Tanakh with awe and reverence, who care deeply about the intricate relationship between texts” (188). 

In addition to stressing the importance of learning “Tanakh L’Shma” and “Tanakh U’Madda,” as I call them, R. Angel makes sure to emphasize that studying Tanakh as an academic interest alone is not enough. “One of the overarching goals of the Torah is to refine people’s moral character. Many laws and narratives overtly focus on morality, and many others inveigh against the immorality and amorality of paganism. The biblical prophets place consistency between observance of God’s ritual and moral laws at the very heart of their message” (52). The prophet Amos, for example, taught that “being God-fearing necessarily means rising to the highest levels or morality and social responsibility” (113).

To “just do it” may be enough for Nike, but not for the people of the Book. One must do what they do with an inspired spirit. With this in mind, R. Angel makes it clear that empowering and encouraging Jewish passion does not require us to reinvent the wheel. Rather, “[w]e must find [Judaism’s] most compelling elements within our classical sources and promote them. The best of Judaism has the power to attract and inspire many Jews and they in turn can create a positive model society to inspire humanity” (208). The values of Tanakh provide us a guide to living and thinking ideally. We need only to read and share it. 

In addition to this selection of quotes, each chapter of “Cornerstones” adds something new to the table. Whether it’s timeless discussions of the land of Israel, loving the stranger, and the place of superstition, or hot topics like contemporary moral intuition, religious dogma, and day school curriculums, R. Angel is unafraid to unite classical and contemporary scholarship in the service of upholding Tanakh’s enduring resonance. Though some of the essays may seem a bit repetitive at times, each of these topics and more are treated thoroughly and thoughtfully by R. Angel. As the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals’ National Scholar, his authoring this volume certainly succeeds at showing his readers that a Judaism grounded in Tanakh is one that is “intellectually sound, spiritually compelling, and emotionally satisfying.” This collection of essays, many of which were previously published in the Institute’s Conversations journal, is a must-have for all who want to learn and teach Tanakh effectively.

I’ll end this review with the concluding paragraph of one of the volume’s most powerful essays: “We pray for a growing embodiment of the Torah’s ideals: a loving faithful marriage as the central bond for raising a family and transmitting religious values; a universal commitment to law and justice; a realization that all human beings are created in God’s image, with no racism, sexism, or other forms of discrimination; a universal desire to connect to God through living a life of holiness; a world where all evil is eliminated, and humanity serves God and lives ideal moral lives” (65-66).

Amen.
(Pre-orders of Rabbi Hayyim Angel's new book may be made on this link:  https://www.jewishideas.org/corner-stones-bible-and-jewish-ideology-rabbi-hayyim-angel

Rabbi Marc D. Angel replies to questions from The Jewish Press

Is it proper, l’chatchilah, for a young married couple to apply for government welfare programs like food stamps and section 8?

Rambam wrote (Hilkhot De’ot 5:11): “The way of sensible men is for one first to establish an occupation by which he can support himself. Then, he should purchase a residence and then, marry a wife…In contrast, a fool begins by marrying a wife. Then, if he can find the means, he purchases a house. Finally, late in life, he will search for a trade or support himself from charity.”

Rambam assumed that a couple will first be sure that they have the financial wherewithal to manage their married lives. This was—and remains—excellent advice. In situations of genuine poverty, though, it may be necessary for young couples to receive support from family and friends.

If poor couples are genuinely without financial resources and are legally entitled to government assistance, then they may draw on this aid as a last resort.

I have heard of cases, though, where young couples live in a nice home, drive a nice car, dress and eat very nicely…and are supported generously by parents or others. Their personal earnings are below the poverty level, even though they definitely do not live in poverty. The government welfare system was established to assist the genuinely needy; to take these funds on any other basis is fraudulent.  People say: others exploit the system, why shouldn’t we? The answer is given by the Torah: ve’asita hayashar vehatov; the Almighty commands us to do that which is upright and proper. Any other behavior is an affront to the teachings of Torah.

Is it proper for a Jew to propose on one knee?

The practice of a man proposing marriage by bending on one knee seems to be a fairly modern phenomenon. We read of medieval knights who bent onto a knee in reverence to their beloved, and this old practice may have spilled over into more general society. But until relatively modern times, marriage proposals (Jewish and non-Jewish) were more business-like. Shadchanim and parents often arranged the “proposal.”

The image of a man bending on one knee to propose marriage has been a feature of modern romance novels and films. If a couple wants to follow this pattern, that is entirely up to them.

Couples will decide for themselves when and how to commit themselves to marriage. It’s proper for the rest of us to mind our own business, and not worry whether the man bends on one knee or not.

Let brides and grooms rejoice, tirbena semahot beyisrael.

At what age would you advise parents to allow their children to have a cell phone?

I would advise parents to use their own judgment. They know their children best. They know if, why and when a cell phone is important to their children. They know if their children are responsible enough to use the cell phone properly.

Often, the child’s first cell phone is granted because the parents want to have a ready line of communication. They want their children to be able to contact them promptly in case of an emergency.

There are various cell phones available, with various features. Before obtaining a cell phone for their children, parents should choose the age-appropriate phone that meets the specific needs of each child.

From a hashkafic perspective, is it important for a Jewish man to have a beard?

It really depends on one’s own hashkafa. Some men feel that beards are a sign of being more traditionally religious; some grow beards because that’s what is expected of men in their community. Some men feel more comfortable without a beard.  Let each man decide for himself.

Over the years, I have known many fine Jewish men with long beards, short beards and no beards. I have also known many less than fine Jewish men with long beards, short beards and no beards. What is important is not the beard, but the person. A fine Torah true Jew is a wonderful human being, with or without a beard.

My late father-in-law, Rabbi Paul Schuchalter of blessed memory, used to quip that it's better to have a rabbi without a beard than a beard without a rabbi. It would be even better if rabbis were not judged by their beards (or lack thereof) but by their Torah learning, compassion, love of their people, love of humanity. Judge rabbis by their words and deeds, not by their beards. What’s true for rabbis is true for Jewish men in general.

It is important to avoid stereotyping men based on whether they have full, trimmed or no beards.

How does one let go of a grudge against a person who harmed him or her egregiously?

Many years ago, my father—alav hashalom—was involved in a business transaction with a man he had known all his life, both being members of the same synagogue.This man cheated my father egregiously, causing him serious financial loss.

Years later, I received a call from my father. The man who had swindled my father was planning to be in New York for Rosh Hashana. My father asked me to arrange a seat for him in my synagogue and invite him to lunch. I was stunned. I asked my father: “This man cheated you and betrayed you. Why would you want to extend any kindness to him?”

My father replied: “What’s past is past. It’s no good to carry grudges. Life is too short to waste our emotional energy on anger or holding grudges.” And so, I arranged a seat for this man in my synagogue and invited him to lunch. 

My father taught me an important lesson. Carrying grudges is not productive, not healthy, and not necessary. Grudges hurt the “grudger” more than the “grudgee.”

Rambam taught (Hilkhot Teshuva 2:10): “When a sinner asks forgiveness, one should grant it with a full heart and willing soul. Even if the other had sinned greatly against him and caused him much anguish, he should not take revenge or bear a grudge.”

My father taught that one should not bear a grudge…even if the culprit doesn’t ask for forgiveness. I might have thought this was an impossible expectation. But my father proved it could be done…and should be done.

When I think back on my years at Yeshiva College (1963-67), I am forever grateful for having studied with a number of truly remarkable professors. One of the best was Dr. Louis H. Feldman (October 29, 1926-March 25, 2017).

Dr. Feldman taught classical languages. He had very few students—there were four of us in my Latin class. When I registered for Latin, one of the upper classmen warned me: Feldman is a very tough teacher; you should avoid him if you can. But instead of discouraging me, that warning whetted my curiosity. Who was this Dr. Feldman who had such a daunting reputation?

Wikipedia offers a short biographical sketch: “Feldman received his undergraduate degree (as valedictorian) from Trinity College, Hartford, CT in 1946 and his master’s degree the following year. In 1951, he received his doctoral degree in philology from Harvard University for his dissertation Cicero’s Concept of Historiography. He returned to Trinity College as a teaching fellow and eventually served as classics instructor before leaving for Hobart and William Smith Colleges in 1953. Feldman began teaching at Yeshiva University as an instructor in 1955, became an assistant professor in 1956, an associate professor in 1961 and, in 1966, a professor of classics. In 1993, he was appointed Abraham Wouk Family Professor of Classics and Literature at Yeshiva University.” Dr. Feldman published important works and won many academic honors.

Aside from teaching us Latin, Dr. Feldman taught us how to think. While I have forgotten most of my Latin, I have not forgotten his intellectual guidance.

In his lectures, he gave us the following notice. “Everything I tell you might be true or might be false. But if you ask me a question, I’ll always give you the correct answer.” We had to listen carefully when he spoke; and we had to use our critical faculties to assess whether the information he was giving us was true or false. If something sounded wrong, we had to ask him for clarification. His basic point was: don’t rely on authorities, not even your own professor. Think for yourself, think carefully and analytically.

Sure enough, on one of his exams we all answered a question “correctly,” and we all were marked wrong. When we objected, since we only wrote down what he himself taught us, he replied with a wry smile: “yes, but I wasn’t telling the truth then! You should have been more perceptive, you should have challenged me.” So we all received poor grades on that exam; but we learned a lesson that transcended Latin: we learned to be attentive, critical, self-reliant.

Dr. Feldman assigned us to write a paper that we would present to the class orally. Since I was taking a class in Chaucer at the time, I decided to write a paper on Virgil’s influence on Chaucer. When it was time for me to present my paper, Dr. Feldman sat in the back of the room. No sooner had I made my first point, Dr. Feldman raised his hand. “How do you know that Chaucer drew that phrase from Virgil? Maybe he came up with it himself?” I was a bit flustered, but replied with some confidence: “Professor Thompson, who is a foremost authority on Chaucer, wrote specifically that this passage was drawn from Virgil.” Dr. Feldman said: “I don’t care what Professor Thompson or anyone else thought. You have to demonstrate that in fact Chaucer was drawing on this passage from Virgil. Quoting this professor or that professor does not make something true.”  “But he’s an authority,” I replied. “Don’t rely on authorities,” said Dr. Feldman. “Analyze things for yourself. Citing an authority doesn’t prove your point.”

That was a powerful lesson that has stayed with me over the years. Whereas it is very common in religious life to rely on “authorities,” Dr. Feldman taught us to think for ourselves. Yes, we certainly can and should learn from scholars, but ultimately we need to make evaluations of our own. Because rabbi x or authority y said something does not in itself make something true.

Dr. Feldman had strict rules when it came to submitting our papers. He would deduct one third of a grade for every five typos/misspelled words/grammatical errors. We had to proofread our papers very carefully before handing them in; we knew that he graded strictly. The first paper I ever published was a term paper I wrote for Dr. Feldman comparing five English translations of the Aeneid. Dr. Feldman submitted the paper on my behalf to the Classical Journal…and it was published during my senior year at Yeshiva College.

Aside from his brilliance as a teacher, he was a singular role model. He was not only a world-class scholar of Greek and Latin; he was a Torah scholar who could often be seen in the Beit Midrash well into the night as he studied Talmud. He was serious, but very witty; he had a ubiquitous smile and dry sense of humor. He was strict but not austere. He was demanding but not pedantic.

It is one of the unique joys of life to have studied with great teachers. It is one of the unique qualities of great teachers to expand the intellectual horizons of their students. Dr. Louis H. Feldman was that kind of teacher and that kind of human being.

The Yemima Method: An Israeli Psychological-Spiritual Approach[1]

by Yael Unterman

     Let me begin by stating that along with a deep suspicion of charismatic figures, I recognize the value of having a good teacher in one’s life. At its deeply Hassidic apotheosis, this latter side of me yearns to have someone to call “rebbe,” with all the baggage that that word brings. I have, in fact, been fortunate to have had several people to call my rebbe so far. Of these, two recent and prominent ones are women, who passed away in 1997 and 1999.[2] 

The first is Nehama Leibowitz (1905–1997). After ten years spent writing and immersing in her biography and her Torah,[3] I presume I can call her my rebbe. 

     However, I truly learned what having a rebbe is from Yemima Avital (1929–1999). Very little is known about this special individual’s biography.[4] Born in Casablanca, Morocco in 1929 to a religiously observant family of kabbalists, Yemima made aliya at age 20 to Be’er Sheva. There she married, before  completing Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in French literature and psychology. She subsequently moved to Tel Aviv where she studied psychology at Tel Aviv University and began healing treatments in her house, along with teaching a new approach in emotional management to groups of students. In 1987, she founded Machon Ma’ayan in Herzliya to disseminate her therapeutic teachings, which coalesced into a method that officially goes under the title Hashivah hakaratit, “Cognitive/Awareness Thinking,” and unofficially Shitat Yemima, “The Yemima method.”[5]

     Yemima was not your run-of-the-mill teacher. She viewed herself as a channel for heavenly teachings that descended through her. She taught while covered in white scarves, sitting at first behind a curtain and then actually a full story above her students. This was so that the students’ attention would be focused on her message and not on her, to prevent the cult of personality from developing[6]—and also because she claimed to be able to “see” things about her students, which she found distracting when in their proximity.[7] People reported that she told them things about themselves that she could not have known, and she purportedly healed people of terminal diseases.[8] And yet her actual topics were not mystical at all, but rather focused on the basic building blocks of how a person functions emotionally, and how this functioning can be improved, for greater happiness, wellbeing, and centeredness.

     If asked what her influences were, I would have to say that I do not precisely know what these were, and I have not come across anyone listing them. If forced to hazard a guess, apart from heavenly inspiration, I’d assume both psychological knowledge (from her studies) and Jewish knowledge (from her background) played large roles in her work. Suffice it to quote one psychologist very familiar with her work, who notes that Yemima’s emphasis on one’s responsibility to the collective separates her from the discipline of psychology: “According to Yemima, you are obligated to fix your soul. It’s not a luxury, because all of Israel is responsible one for the other.”[9]

     Jewish ideas play a significant role in Yemima’s work. On the one hand, they are embedded in her teachings only sporadically: a few verses on the role of men or women, on loving your fellow as yourself, or on the essential meaning of Jewish holidays.[10] The sessions with her could not be described as shiurim or Torah classes in the classic sense. Her lessons would be discovered to be instructions for conscious self-work and psychological balance, containing unique terminology and catchphrases. Yet her acolytes would categorically claim that her system was connected to Jewish spirituality and Torah, or even revealed the inner meaning of the Torah to this generation. One student explains: “You can study ‘Yemima’ only in order to be calmer and happier and you do not necessarily touch spirituality or religion. But from the beginning, there are very specific and deep connections to Jewish spirituality hidden in the teachings, which one can understand only in subsequent stages.”[11] Indeed, a significant number of students became ba’alei teshuvah through Yemima.[12]

     I will return to this topic soon. First, though, I’ll bring some examples of her terminology to give a sense of her approach. One key term is “diyuk” (precision), meaning the precise action required in or by the moment. Taking into account the entire picture, and separating yourself as far as possible from your baggage, you arrive at the understanding of what is the most correct or highest course of action to take. 

     Of particular interest to me was the fact that while this action will sometimes involve giving to others, the question the student is encouraged to consider from the outset is, “What is precise and right for me?,” thus prioritizing one’s own needs.[13] Though this might seem at first blush to encourage selfishness—and indeed initially seemed so to me—in fact, Yemima was helping people (and religious women in particular[14]) to rebalance a socialized tendency to put others first that leaves them drained and dysfunctional. Amongst a number of mottos and pithy maxims that she coined was the saying: “I need to give to myself in order to give to others,” echoing Hillel’s statements in Pirkei Avot.[15] We learn how to give to others by learning how to how to give to ourselves; and giving to ourselves, when this is done with diyuk, can positively influence others around us.[16] Thus the intent was not to boost self-absorption; far from it.[17] For myself I can say that it was only when studying the Yemima method that I first discovered that it was not only legitimate but also crucial to attend to my own needs—a lesson that laid the foundations for my life and strengthened me immeasurably. 

     Yemima employed a number of other terms and concepts relating to emotional functioning, including: omess (literally “(over)load,” referring to emotional baggage and unconscious defense mechanisms from childhood); tihum veHafradah (creating boundaries and separation from the baggage); hakarah pe’ilah (active awareness); and regesh leKiyumi (positive feelings toward one’s own existence). Further terms she used included identifying, self-acceptance, coming close to oneself, not becoming entangled with others, and many more, repeating themselves in myriad ways throughout the lessons. Her general approach was that the human psychology is fundamentally positive.[18] She did not encourage picking at childhood wounds, but rather contemplating negative emotions as they arose in real time.[19]

     Yemima often commented on the relationships between her students and their parents and how pain from those early relationships should not be carried over into the present day. She directed her students to separate between negative behavior acquired through childhood omess and mahoot, the real essence of the human being which is of a good nature and well-constructed.[20] “The main purpose of her theory,” notes scholar Tsippi Kauffman, “is quite prosaic: to be able to listen and respond calmly to everyone who turns to us, to be able to stay emotionally balanced in the face of every event in life.”[21] This is done by creating a separation between the omess and the aware observing self, which can then, in the space created, expand into wellbeing, good, and self-love. This is what a person’s genuine self looks like, when finally free of omess.[22] One practitioner, a clinical psychologist, reported: “The baseline of my life rose to a higher level. I don’t fall down as much. I am a much happier person. I don’t hear this constant disturbing buzz of pain and bitterness that I did before I started.”[23]

     Yemima’s teaching was given over in halakim, “portions”;[24] the word “portion” indeed subsequently became the official name for any Yemima teaching. The portions were like “therapeutic conversations” addressed in second- or third-person singular. Yemima explained: “A ‘portion’ can awaken understandings that separate between the omess that creates distance from the sought-for balance. The more she strives to be accurate, the more likely that she will discover the blockages. The mending also mends the body.”[25] Her students would write these down as she spoke—often struggling to keep up with her pace, the speed of regular speech—and subsequently use them as a springboard for their own personal reflection, which would also be done in writing and shared with others.

     For Yemima, writing was an essential part of the practice, creating a necessary point of distance and reflection, and aiding the cleansing of baggage,[26] as well as serving to intensify the impression left by those things written about upon the field of awareness.[27] When writing one’s personal understandings of the portion, one is directed to examine one’s heart and being. Sharing such writings with the group leads to rich mutual gain. And when this sharing was done with Yemima herself, it could at times actually trigger other portions to come down to her.[28]

This writing took place for the most part with old-fashioned pen and paper. Due to this, many of these portions remain unpublished. She left behind no written legacy per se;[29] but her teachings are recorded in the notebooks of those students who went on to teach others from them. Occasionally, the portions reflected current events at the time of writing.[30] Some of the writings have now made their way onto the internet and Facebook.[31] Today the Yemima method continues to be taught all over Israel by her students,[32] as well as by students of students, using the same technique of dictating Yemima’s portions and then reflecting upon them for their specific personal relevance in the moment. 

     Yemima died in 1999, and I jumped on the bandwagon too late to meet her. But circa 2005 I spent a year and a half studying with a student of hers, Sara Schwartz, in the Nahlaot neighborhood of Jerusalem. This study was, as mentioned, life-changing, helping me to find balance and to be intentional in every moment’s “diyuk.” Our job is, I learned, simply to ascertain what the diyuk is, time after time, moment after moment. It was during this time that I grasped, probably for the first time in my life, what it means to have a rebbe. The way I articulated it to myself back then was, “there is someone who is so far above you in understanding that all you can do is grab onto their coat-tails and begin to soar.”[33] 

     While this experience of discovering a female rebbe for myself stood out as unique for me then, I was, unbeknownst to me, far from being alone in this when it came to Yemima. Many of those in contact her with her viewed her as the female version of the Hassidic tzaddik: the tzadeket.[34] It’s not for nothing that Yemima has been called the “Rebbe Nahman of our time.”[35] Both Rebbe Nahman and Yemima contributed profound and surprising insights into the workings of the inner world, and transmitted texts with the power to heal overwhelmed or broken souls.[36] Miracle stories were also told about her, such as wilted flowers coming back to life in her presence;[37] but I knew nothing of that (and, with my anti-groupthink tendencies, better so!). All I knew was the wisdom and insight I experienced, that had the power to cleanse my inner encrustations in a way I had never experienced.

     Tsippi Kauffman is an academic and scholar of Hassidism who, prior to her untimely passing in September 2019, was researching the connections between the Hassidic movement and Yemima’s work. She is the author of one of the very few scholarly articles about her, which I have cited extensively in this article. (A long-time friend, she was also the person who introduced me to the Yemima method in the first place; it is marvelous for me to read her sensitive academic analysis of something that was, for both of us, a meaningful experience that we shared as friends way back when). In the course of her article, Kauffman credits Yemima with founding “a contemporary Hassidic female movement.” She argues that while we could categorize Yemima and her method under the title of “new age” or other contemporary spiritual practices, the correct classification is as a Hassidic approach proper. The criteria Kauffman cites to support her claim are the existence of: (a) a goal of personal redemption; (b) a tzaddik mediator; (c) a method of mediation that conforms to the mystic-magic model; (d) the uniqueness of communal mysticism; and (e) an immanent theology.[38] 

      Einat Ramon, author of another very helpful article cited here, suggests that what Yemima did was to take Hassidic teachings one step further and to a more pragmatically-oriented approach, employing their language in the daily spiritual discipline (melakha) of recording personal-emotional observations, and creating her own idiosyncratic language along the way.[39] Oded David, a teacher of Yemima’s method, has termed it an “Israeli-kabbalistic creation,” but without further elaboration or explanation.[40] It should also be noted that not everyone took kindly to her innovation of a new approach with neither Torah precedent, rabbinical chain of tradition, nor approval from leading rabbinical figures.[41] Kauffman deliberately terms Yemima’s school of thought a Hassidic-female one (and specifically female, but not feminist).[42] Although Yemima taught men, too—separately from the women—many of whom connected to her teachings and went on to become teachers themselves, the women represented the majority and continue to do so. If Kauffman’s claim is correct, then we can note that in leading a Hassidic spiritual movement as a woman, with chiefly women followers and also some men, Yemima is unique in the Jewish landscape.[43] For those who claim that the rise in the feminine augurs messianic times, she represents another step towards global redemption.[44] This helps to pinpoint, too, how she differed from my other rebbe, Nehama Leibowitz, who appealed to both women and men equally, and also led no movement per se—and certainly not a Hassidic one.

     The momentum of Yemima’s teaching did not abate after her death. On the contrary, it picked up steam and continues to do so. On Thursday, May 30, 2019, I found myself at an event marking her twentieth yahrzeit, apparently the first of its kind. I walked into the grounds of a beautiful home in Gimzo, a religious moshav in central Israel: to my left, a barn containing several beautiful horses; to my right, a table selling Yemima paraphernalia. All around me, women milled around, dressed in colorful clothing, many sporting headscarves. Most were dressed in religious women’s clothing; some more modern and some less so, along with a small minority that were dressed in less traditional fashion. Regardless of their religious identification, what is certain is that every one of these women was interested in a path of personal growth, infused with a unique spiritual quality.

     After an introduction by our hostess and owner of the lovely house, Edit Shalev, a psychotherapist and Yemima teacher and practitioner, we split off into groups for workshops. The workshop I attended, by Avital Bar-Am, was based on what has apparently become known as the Yemima prayer, a “portion” containing the repeating phrase yehi ratzon, “May it come to pass.” As is typical in Yemima’s writings, the sentences are somewhat obscure and not always grammatically coherent. Here is a snippet, which will also provide a taste of a session studying Yemima’s teaching (my translation is inadequate in conveying the full force of her language): 

May it come to pass that we all merit the genuinely good, in truth.

May it come to pass that your heart shall cease its crying, and you will know happiness in it. 

And that you shall be happy, too, in the profound understanding of existence. 

And that you shall sleep well at night, and arise happy again, and that you will understand differently. 

That you will understand the heart and what occurred and also your parents, to know them well, the good in them and what is not good, if such there is, it is not your business. 

Live your existence. 

Then there will be within you a secure awareness of quiet existence, of whole existence. 

Light that flourishes grows from your deeds.

     As with every Yemima class, the teacher initially dictated Yemima’s words and we wrote them down verbatim. We then scrutinized the sentences and attempted to decipher them. Participants were asked for their personal understandings of the phrase “the understanding of existence that goes deep/deepens” (havanat haKiyum haMa’amik).

     Avital then shared what she drew out of this prayer, what she defined as a surefire and accessible recipe for happiness: to do things piece by piece. If we internalize that the world is inherently imperfect, and that our job is simply to engage with those small units of goodness that are in our reach, implementing them steadily act by act, then we will be content in life, for these units are indeed within our grasp. She cited the Baal Shem Tov’s statement (concerning God’s oneness) that when you grasp a part, you have grasped the whole.[45] She related this to the idea that in doing our work incrementally, we will also be led to a gradual and steady cleansing and purification of our hearts; and hence to much joy. This, for Yemima, is the understanding of the ever-deepening existence and journey of life, which is to be found not in large gestures but in the daily portion of good work. Similarly, I recall to this day, after so many years, my own teacher quoting Yemima as saying, “May it be [halevai] that I may carry out my diyuk, like a simple laborer, day by day.” After all, what else is there?

     Following this, we heard a few short TED-style talks from different speakers. Tsippi Kauffman noted lines of similarity between the thinking of the Baal Shem Tov and Yemima. Aluma Lev, a popular young teacher, spoke about the gap between understanding and implementation, between awareness and emotion—likening it to two children on a school hike, with thought being the child that eagerly runs ahead of the bunch, skipping over rocks, whereas emotion is the child most often found lagging behind, heavy and awkward. “They don’t even see the same landscape,” she noted poignantly. 

     Ilan Haran, one of the few men present, then took the microphone and recounted the beginnings of his relationship with Yemima.  When Ilan, secular and successfully working in hi-tech, first heard Yemima’s name, both he and his wife were curious. His wife was the first to attend a lesson with Yemima, and responded afterwards to his “Nu?” with the words, “I didn’t understand anything; but it was nice.” The following week she gave a similar report, and seemed to want to continue. At this point, her husband decided to go see for himself. “I pride myself on speaking Hebrew fluently,” he informed us, “but I couldn’t comprehend in the least bit what was being said! Yet there was something special there. At the time I was not familiar with the concept of ‘light,’ but there was light there, so I continued.” 

     This journey was ultimately to bring Ilan to religion. He would familiarize himself with, and become part of, the light he had sensed initially but did not understand. This was true for many, though not all, of her students. Yemima was not an outreach (“kiruv”) teacher; she taught tools for improved mental wellbeing and cognitive and emotional functioning, of benefit to all. Yet Kauffman observes that people living according to the method reported feeling bathed in light, experiencing “openness to another dimension of reality, of spiritual life, of revealing the divine spark. They say that by being ‘in their place’ (al mekoman) according to Yemima’s teaching, they encounter ‘The Place’ (Ha-Makom), which means God in the Sages’ language.”[46] 

     Yemima referred to the generation of her students as “the generation of confusion,” indicating that many of the Jewish spiritual values had become blurred during the generation born and raised after the establishment of the State of Israel. She perceived this as due to  increased polarization of both secular and religious extremes.[47] Her work was clearly an attempt to moderate this ill. 

     Today, as noted, thousands of women and men continue to study the Yemima method,[48] including an entire new generation of millennials, for whose self-reflective/self-improving tendencies and emotional sensitivities the method is very well suited. She is often quoted by those active in the fledgling field of livuy ruhani (pastoral or spiritual care/chaplaincy) in Israel.[49] Her terminology has actually crept into day-to-day language in certain circles. Devotees of her method include high-profile Israeli celebrities such as Etti Ankri, Avri Gilad, and Shlomo Artzi. Her adherents span the religious spectrum and encompass many types.[50]

     However, Yemima’s work has not become known widely in the English-speaking world. Ilan Haran reports that, as a fluent English speaker, when he tried to convey Yemima’s portions in English, “the language was transmitted, but none of the light came through with it.” Thus, those wanting to study Yemima in depth will, for the most part, need to do so in Hebrew.[51]

When we talk about “God,” we intuitively think of a powerful, nonphysical entity that somehow created and runs the universe. To clarify this vague conception and set a more concrete groundwork for discussions about the nature of God, classical theologians have posited the Greatest Possible Being (GPB) thesis as the primary mode of understanding God.[i]After expounding upon the definition and implications of the GPB construct, this article will argue that a GPB identifiable as the God of religious tradition by said definition will contain responsiveness as one of its attributes rather than complete immutability as the Greeks and other classical theologians have posited.

The GPB concept requires both an intuitive and a more robust definition. Intuitively, the term “greatest possible being” accurately portrays God as “the being than which none greater can be conceived.”[ii] If one can conceive of a being greater than the working conception of the GPB, then the conception is wrong. Augustine explains the experience of thinking about a GPB conception of God as one where “one’s thought strains to reach something than which there is nothing higher or more sublime.”[iii] Experientially, in the process of thinking about God, the human intellect reaches its limits; Adams asserts that “Divine nature is permanently partially beyond our cognitive grasp” when grappling with the GPB.[iv]

The concept still needs a robust definition to make it comprehensible. Morris provides a clear framework of how one would construct a maximally perfect being a priori by explaining that “God is thought of as exemplifying necessarily a maximally perfect set of compossible greatmaking properties.”[v] Morris defines perfections as “Properties which are constituted by the logical maximum of an upwardly bounded, degreed great-making property,” which are “Properties it is intrinsically better to have than to lack.”[vi] These properties must also have a theoretical limit that can be maxed out for the GPB. For example, God can know everything, but God cannot be infinitely rich; therefore, knowledge is a greatmaking property and wealth is not. The maximally perfect set of these properties thus has room for flexibility; people can disagree about which properties are optimal for God to have while still agreeing on the general GPB framework.

There are two different approaches to a God that can both lead to the belief in a GPB. Morris outlines an a priorist tradition, which “begins with a purportedly self-evident conception of God as the greatest possible being” and uses this “exalted yet simple conception of deity to entail all the divine attributes.”[vii] An Anselmian theologian could construct a GPB without ever leaving the ivory tower. In contrast, an a posteriorist approach builds from empirical and experiential facts to a conception of God. Morris argues that rather than “contrast[ing] starkly the God of faith with the God of reason, the God of history with the God of the academy, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob with the God of the philosophers,” we can argue that these are one and the same.[viii] Because the GPB is a “proper object of religious devotion” due to its maximal perfection, religious individuals can certainly worship such a being.[ix]

The hinge of this claim that the GPB is the God of religious traditions is that the GPB is worthy of our worship. If our notion of God was only pretty good, and the possibility of a GPB existed, then it would not be logical to worship the PDGB (Pretty Darn Good Being).[x] However, if “we know that if there is a highest one, it deserves our fealty, not arbitrarily, but because of its perfections.”[xi] This move not only allows the GPB to be the God of religious traditions, but even more so argues that the GPB is the best candidate for the job.

With this in mind, I would like to shift to one specific greatmaking property, immutability, and analyze whether it belongs in the maximally perfect set of greatmaking properties, which belong to a GPB that is also the God of religious traditions. Morris asserts that “traditionally, the Anselmian description has been understood to entail that God is, among other things, omnipotent, immutable, eternal...”.[xii] Immutability is certainly a greatmaking property by definition; the question is if a GPB would possess this property or its competitor, responsiveness, in its maximally perfect set. Despite the philosophical tradition in favor of divine immutability, rejecting immutability would not pose a problem to Anselmian GPB construction. “The specific properties an Anselmian God must have are under-determined by the Anselmian formula and by the basic intuitions by means of which it is applied.”[xiii] So long as we can assert that responsiveness is preferable to immutability for religious observance or that immutability is not coherent, we can still uphold Morris’s claim that the GPB is the God of religion.

We must first analyze arguments for immutability to better understand its definition and implications. Relying on God’s assertion to Moses that God’s name is “I will be that which I shall be,”[xiv] Augustine argues that “a God who gave His very name as “I am” and is perfect must be the perfect case of being. But what can change is not a perfect case of being: it does not have its being so securely that it cannot cease to be what it is.”[xv] Since the perfect form of being is immutability, God, who engages in this process of being, must do so in a perfect way, and therefore is immutable. Boethius argues for divine timelessness along similar lines: “Temporal beings no longer live the past parts of their lives. They do not yet live the future parts of their lives.”[xvi] Under the premise that these are both defects, God must have “no past or future. What has no past or future does not change.”[xvii] Classical philosophers thus believe God cannot change for better or for worse because even improving is an imperfection in the state of being for these philosophers.

Such assertions are validated in the Jewish tradition as well. Malachi quotes a prophecy from God in which God asserts; “I am the LORD; I have not changed.”[xviii] Maimonides hones in on this verse in his Guide for the Perplexed, where he asserts that “[God] is immutable in every respect, as He expressly declares, ‘I, the Lord, do not change;’ i.e., in Me there is not any change whatever.”[xix] Similarly, Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra responds harshly when the Bible says that “God renounced the punishment God had planned to bring upon God’s people” following the sin of the Golden Calf, which seems to imply that God changed God’s mind about the punishment.[xx] Ibn Ezra emphatically declares “God forbid that Hashem should repent! No, the Torah is merely speaking in a language that human beings can understand!”[xxi] Clearly, the intuitive objection against divine mutability of any form influenced some of the greatest biblical commentators.

However, despite the tradition in favor of Divine immutability, there are several philosophical objections to divine immutability, including that of Norman Kretzmann:

1. If God is omniscient, God knows what time it is now.
2. What time it is now is constantly changing.
3. What God knows is constantly changing. (First, He knows that it is now t and not now t+1; later He knows that it is now t+1 and not now t.)
4. God is constantly changing.[xxii]

The primary objection to this is that God does not need to know directly what time it is now; rather, the timeless God knows what humans know the present time to be, at all times. The discussion on this objection extends far beyond the scope of the paper, but it introduces complexity into the concept of immutability from a purely philosophical standpoint without even invoking religious experience.

However, the most important objection to immutability and argument in favor of responsiveness is that a robust religious tradition which believes in a human’s ability to have a dynamic relationship with God must allow for modifications to Divine immutability. This need not reject all forms of immutability. One can argue that God possesses time-indexed attributes, that it is always true that at time X God does Y. But this does necessarily reject the Augustinian and Maimonidean notion of perfect being as described above, which refuses to allow God to change at all. Thus, “responsiveness” could be comprised of preordained responses of an immutable God rather than pure reactions to events as open theism posits.[xxiii] Either way, responsiveness means that God’s behaviors and actions can vary over time (even if God is not intrinsically changing). Being in a dynamic, loving relationship demands that God’s actions change over time in accordance with a person’s actions and state of mind. It could be preordained in that since God has foreknowledge of a person’s actions and states of mind, God could eternally have time-indexed responses to each person.[xxiv] However, these specific actions are always tailored to respond to the person in his/her present state.[xxv]

Responsiveness also has a place in religious traditions. The Bible raises several cases where God regrets a decision or changes God’s mind. For example, in Genesis, God “regrets that God created humankind.”[xxvi] God’s attitude toward humanity seems to change in response to humanity’s free choice to sin. The Akeidat Yitzhak, a fifteenth-century Spanish rabbi, explains that Divine regret

is a re-consideration of one's plans and attitudes based on a changed set of circumstances … it is an admission that one had erred in one's assessment of the facts which one's promise had been based on. A changed attitude then becomes an act of wisdom, a rejection of foolishness.[xxvii]

Of course, this is not to imply that God erred in original judgment and plan. Rather, “when the Bible describes God as having reconsidered, it tells us that God continued to desire that He could carry out what He had originally planned, but what had now become impossible due to the conduct of the other half of the partnership between God and Man.”[xxviii] The preservation of free will demands a God who can change God’s attitudes and actions in response to human choices. Thus, the language of regret can still apply to God, who is “saddened” in having to resort to the alternative plan even though God knew it would happen all along. As such, we can still preserve a perfect but responsive God at all moments in time: when the circumstances change, the most perfect God responds perfectly to those changes to remain perfect for each specific moment.

Similarly, Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav uses this verse to argue that God feels emotion, so to speak, in response to human actions.[xxix] He writes that “We find, therefore, that if there is any misfortune or harsh decree affecting [the world], then certainly the joy of the Holy One is lessened, as in, ‘He grieved in His heart.’²⁶ As the Sages taught: When a person sins, what does the Shekhinah [God] say? ‘My head is heavy! My arms are heavy!”’[xxx] The notion of a responsive God provides a model for religious experience where God deeply cares about our actions, rejoicing in our successes and lamenting our failures.

This concept of a responsive, dynamic God allows for some of the most important elements of religion, including Divine action and a personal God. For God to act in history, this requires that God not act the same way in all times, implying that God acts in relation to the world in a time-dependent manner, either through actual mutability or time-indexed immutability. William Mann provides an example from the Ten Plagues in Exodus: At time t₁, God willed that there be locusts in Egypt; at time t₂, God willed that there be neither locusts nor darkness; and at time t₃, God willed that there be darkness.[xxxi] Such a proposition contradicts the Augustinian notion of divine immutability, which would claim that God is timeless and remains the same at all times. Yet, for religions that believe that God intervenes in a temporal world and speaks to temporal beings, they must concede this point. Even more powerful is the notion of a personal God. The Old Testament emphasizes how God has a close relationship with each person. Performing good deeds strengthens one’s connection to God, sinning weakens it.[xxxii] The Bible asserts that God provides reward and punishment commensurate with one’s actions;[xxxiii] that God listens to prayers and responds to them;[xxxiv] that God comforts us in our pain and cares for us when we are vulnerable and downtrodden.[xxxv] One of the most poignant elements of religious experience is repentance. A person can change his/her ways, and ask God for forgiveness; Jewish tradition asserts that God responds to true acts of repentance by turning past sins into merits.[xxxvi] A GPB of religious experience has personal relationships and therefore must be responsive; an immutable being in such a circumstance would not be as great as one who responded and could engage in dynamic relationships with people.

A potential solution that saves divine immutability while sustaining religious experience rests on a metaphor taught by Rabbi David Aaron, founder and teacher at Yeshivat Orayta, an Orthodox Jewish learning institution in Jerusalem for American gap-year students. Rabbi Aaron would tell his classes that there is music in the room and fall silent as the students looked at each other, not hearing anything. Rabbi Aaron would continue and explain that there are radio waves constantly moving through the room. If one would just have the right equipment and tune to the correct frequency, s/he would be able to experience the music that had been in the room all along. So too with God, if one views God’s will as constantly flowing, we just “tune in” to different aspects of God through our various actions. God is always immutable; we just experience God differently at different times because we access God in different ways.[xxxvii] For a Christian example, one can argue for immutability even in the act of incarnation by asserting that “God was eternally ready to be incarnate, and eternally had those experiences of the earthly Christ which the Incarnation makes part of his life. Through changes in Mary and the infant she bore, what was eternally in God eventually took place on earth.”[xxxviii] God’s essential will and presence is constant and immutable while its earthly manifestation changes in accordance with human actions.

Yet, this approach fails to truly comprehend the nuances of a relationship of love between God and humans that forms the foundation for religious experience. Cobb and Griffin, in arguing for God as responsive love, assert that “responsiveness includes a sympathetic feeling with the worldly beings.”[xxxix] For God to perfectly engage in loving relationships, God must possess “sympathetic compassion” for the other. An ideal relationship transcends “active goodwill”; it entails truly caring for the other and remaining sensitive and present through all circumstances.[xl] For something like repentance to truly have religious significance, it must entail a change in the individual and a response from God, a repair in this mutual relationship. The music metaphor does not adequately provide meaning to this process, because this relationship is one-sided: The penitent could change what aspect of God s/he accesses, but no mutual transformation occurs. This would be a flaw in the relationship, and as such, Divine responsiveness is a property that should replace immutability in the maximally perfect set of properties that the GPB would have to validate Morris’s claim that the GPB is the God of religion.

Bibliography

"A Living Library of Jewish Texts." Sefaria. Accessed Jan 12, 2020. www.sefaria.org/.

Adams, Marilyn McCord, and The Society of Christian Philosophers. “Fides Quaerens Intellectum: St. Anselm’s Method in Philosophical Theology.” Faith and Philosophy 9, no. 4 (1992): 409–35. https://doi.org/10.5840/faithphil19929434.

Chignell, Andrew and Daniel Rubio. "Religion and Reason." Lectures at Princeton

University, Sep.–Dec. 2019. Notes by Andrew Arking.

Cobb, John B. and David R. Griffin, “God is Creative-Responsive Love” in Process

Theology: An Introductory Exposition. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1976.

Johnston, Mark. “Process Panentheism” in Saving God: Religion after Idolatry.

Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009.

Leftow, Brian. “Immutability.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta, Winter 2016. Metaphysics Research Lab, Stanford University, 2016. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2016/entries/immutability/.

Mann, William E. God, Modality, and Morality. Oxford University Press, 2015. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780199370764.001.0001.

Morris, Thomas V. “The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Anselm.” Faith and Philosophy 1, no. 2 (1984): 177–187.

Acknowledgments     

            I would like to acknowledge Professors Chignell and Rubio for an excellent and thought-provoking course that has enhanced the way I think about and discuss my religious faith. I would further like to thank my teachers from Yeshivat Orayta for giving me feedback on these ideas, including Rabbi David Aaron for his teachings. Finally, I would like to appreciate Izzy Zaller for his conversations and for clarifying my understanding of many important topics.

Notes

On Friday March 13, 2020, as the coronavirus was beginning to ravage Israel’s Haredi community, R. Hayyim Kanievsky, the 92-year old acknowledged leader of the so-called Lithuanian Haredim, issued an open letter “Regarding the concern of transmission of the Corona Virus Pandemic.” “Everyone,” he wrote, “must be mechazek [strengthen themselves] to refrain from Lashon Harah [gossip] and rechilus [slander] as it states in [Talmud] Arachin 15b…They must further strengthen themselves in the midah [attribute] of humility and to be maavir al midosav [let matters pass, that is, not take umbrage] as the pirush  haRosh [commentary of the Rosh] on the side of the page says explicitly in the end of [Talmud]Horios…And the merit of one who strengthens himself in these prescriptions will protect him and his family members so that not one of them will become ill.” [i] He said nothing about social distancing, or any other orders that might have emanated from the medical community.

The following night, Motzei Shabbat March 14, Rav Kanievsky’s grandson asked his grandfather (in Hebrew) whether Cheders (elementary schools) and Yeshivot should remain open. The grandson said that the “Medineh,” that is, the Israeli government, was warning that schools should remain closed until there was a way to deal with what he called the mageifeh   (plague). R. Kanievsky, mumbled something that was not entirely audible. The grandson then said, “so the cheders should remain open?” and R. Kanievsky nodded his assent. The grandson then followed up with “and the yeshivot should remain open too?” Again the Rav agreed. The grandson never mentioned medical advice, and the rabbi never asked.

Despite personal pleas the next day from top police officials, who did refer to medical opinion,  R. Kanievsky, together with R. Gershon Edelstein, the Rosh Yeshiva (Dean) of the famed Ponevezh yeshiva in Bnai Beraq and chairman of Aguda’s Mo’etzses Gedolei Hatorah (Council of Torah Greats) issued an open letter that called for Haredi schools at all levels to remain open though it did acknowledge the need for certain precautions. The letter began with a clarion call that no Haredi was likely to ignore:

“In a time when we are in grave need of great heavenly mercy to maintain the health of our nation, certainly it is proper to strengthen ourselves in the study of Torah, to be careful in committing slander (Lashon HaRah and Rechilus), and to strengthen ourselves in humility and to judge everyone favorably….Our sages have already stated (Yuma 28b), “Since the days of our forefathers, the Yeshivos have never ceased [to be active] from them.  They further stated (Shabbos 119b):  The world only exists on account of the sounds of children in the house of their Rebbe [yeshivos].  They are the greatest insurance possible that the destroyer not enter into the homes of Israel [my emphasis].”

The letter then made some allowances for the reality of the epidemic, calling for schools and yeshivot to split up students; ensure “that there is adequate space between person [social distancing – recommended at 2 meters” and that “classrooms and Batei Midrashim [study halls] be properly ventilated; and to appoint supervisors [Mashgichim] to maintain the proper level of cleanliness as a health necessity.” It also called upon educators to ensure that no one who was meant to be under quarantine, or had a family member under quarantine, was to enter the Beit Midrash.

The two rabbinical leaders then observed that “This is all from the perspective of an understood precondition to the action [of attending school or Yeshiva]. The Roshei Yeshiva [Deans] and the administrators of the Talmud Torahs (and Yeshivos) must be on guard to ensure compliance.” The letter did not specify whether “compliance” meant compliance with health regulations, or compliance with the directive to keep the yeshivot open. The letter then concluded with the admonition that “we must have faith in the Holy One Blessed Be He who watches over all His creations, and no man is stricken by a calamity if it was not decreed from Above.  And may the merit of Torah and all that strengthen us stand for us as protection and salvation.”[ii]

The letter prompted a major outcry over the danger into which the aged rabbi and his Ponevezh colleague had placed youngsters and their families and led to his reversal two weeks later. By then, however, considerable damage may have been done. Though it was unknown, indeed unknowable to what extent his ruling resulted in more coronavirus carriers and more Covid-19 deaths in Bnai Beraq, Jerusalem’s Haredi neighborhoods, and other Haredi enclaves such as Beitar Ilit, there was little doubt that the letter had added to the roster of both carriers and death.

It was also reported that Kupat Ha’ir, a charity based in Bnai Beraq that raises funds by offering to have young Haredi scholars pray at the kotel for all sorts of personal requests made by the donors, was advertising, in R. Kanievsky’s name, that donors who paid the shekel equivalent of $836 would “enjoy immunity from the coronavirus for themselves and their families.”[iii] This appeal for funds simply reinforced the intent of R. Kanievsky’s original edict of 13 March.

On April 20, shortly after the conclusion of Pesach, it was reported that R. Kanievsky had ordered the schools and yeshivot once again to open their doors but that R. Edelstein had put a hold on its publication. The latter denied that was the case, however, and instead, the two rabbis issued a second letter that revealed their impatience, warning that  if there will not be a response [to reopen the Yeshivot] and the foot dragging continues without real progress, the great Torah sages [of Agudah] will consider drastic action.”[iv]

Meanwhile the virus continued to rage in Israel generally, and among the Haredim in particular. Though Haredim accounted for perhaps 12 percent of the Israeli population, it was estimated that they accounted for as much as 50 percent of all hospital beds in the country. No wonder that R. Kanievsky’s edicts in response to the country’s health crisis prompted outrage among Israel’s non-Haredi elements.

At long last, in recognition of the depth of the crisis confronting the Haredi community no less than the entire Israeli population, the two rabbinic leaders, acting with the government’s consent, appointed a special task force consisting of  two younger rabbinic leaders, R. Shraga Shteinman, son of R. Kanievsky’s predecessor as leader of the “Lithuanian” Haredim, R. Aryeh Lev Shteinman (and R. Kanievsky’s son-in-law), and R. Baruch Dov Diskin, scion of another leading Haredi rabbinic family, together with Dr. Meshulam Hirt, “the Gedolim’s physician,” to examine ways to reopen schools in compliance with government directives. The task force issued its initial guidance on May 3, recommending that higher elementary grades and above could reopen under strict conditions mandated by the government. R. Kanievsky endorsed the task force recommendations.

For Haredim, Rav Kanievsky’s views were not merely the opinions of a wise leader. They were Da’as Torah[v] and thus had the imprimatur of the Divine.[vi] At a minimum, it was asserted in some quarters that if the rabbi had erred—and no one would dare say that he had—it was because he was so enmeshed in his studies that he did not fully realize the extent of the threat that the virus posed to Israeli society.

The problem, however, was not with R. Kanievsky’s initial responses. It was with the way the matter had been put to him.

Haredim and “The Medinah”

After 72 years of existence as a state, a consequential portion of the Haredi community has yet to recognize the reality of what they term “the Medinah.” Nothing has changed since 1912, when Yaakov Rosenheim convened the first Agudas Yisrael conference in Kattowitz (Katowice), then part of Germany, in no small part as a reaction to a decision by the Tenth Zionist Congress not to fund religious schools. Rosenheim envisaged Agudah as an umbrella organization for all religious Jews. While he never fully realized his dream, the organization did emerge as a major locus for opposition to Zionism. Not coincidentally, Da’as Torah also became enshrined in the Agudas Yisrael platform. Indeed, Agudah created a Council of Torah Giants (Mo’etses Gedolei HaTorah), whose pronouncements on all matters, whether Halachic or secular, were treated as authoritative and binding upon all religious Jews. And the Council was overwhelmingly anti-Zionist.

During the First World War, when Germany occupied parts of Russian Poland, leading German rabbis, notably Rabbi Dr. Emmanuel Carlebach, coordinated their activities with the Gerer Rebbe, Rabbi Avraham Mordechai Alter, one of the most prominent Hasidic leaders. Like the German rabbis, and indeed, Hasidic admorim (Grand Rabbis) of all stripes, R. Alter was hostile not only to secular Zionism, but also to religious Zionism, which was organized under the umbrella of the Mizrahi movement.

The Agudah leadership allied itself with the representatives of the so-called “Old Yishuv,” the long-standing Haredi community of Palestine, most of whose members resided in the older districts of Jerusalem and Tsefat. These Jews were violently opposed to the influx of Zionist settlers into what after 1918 became a British mandate. Not surprisingly, the Agudah leadership aligned itself with the leaders of the Old Yishuv who in 1937 testified before the British Peel Commission in opposition to the creation of a Jewish State.

Needless to say, Agudah invoked Da’as Torah in its opposition to Zionism and the notion of a Jewish State. In so doing, it was claiming heavenly support for what was essentially a political position. This was  consistent with the view, articulated by R. Yisroel Meir Kagan, best known as  Hofetz Hayyim, and subsequent rabbinic leaders such as  the late Rosh Yeshiva of the Mirer yeshiva, R. Nosson Zvi Finkel that Da’as Torah was as binding with respect to non-Halakhic matters as to Halakhic ones. As R. Finkel put it, “when a great man offers either advice or a ruling, Emunas Hakhamim [belief in the Sages][vii] mandates that one can neither hesitate nor doubt. This is Da’as Torah and this is how it should be.”[viii]

Agudah had no choice but to come to terms with the Jewish state once its leaders declared its independence in 1948. There was a sense among Haredim, as among some secular Jews, however, that the State would not survive more than a decade or at most fifteen years,[ix] but for the moment, Agudah felt it had no choice but to transform itself into an Israeli political party. Nevertheless, in so doing it did not relinquish its refusal to come to terms with the secular state. It refused to join government coalitions, or to allow its representatives to hold ministerial posts, though through a sleight-of-hand ruling, the Council of Torah Greats permitted Agudah’s representatives in the Knesset to serve as Deputy Ministers. These men often acted as de facto ministers, and in some “emergency” cases, held full ministerial portfolios.

Agudah’s participation in Israeli political affairs did not extend to other aspects of Israeli society, however, particularly army service. The Haredi leadership viewed the army’s secular, assimilationist orientation as the leading threat both to its values and to its control of the community. Thanks to an agreement between Agudah’s acknowledged leader, R. Abraham Isaiah Karelitz, popularly known by the title of his works as Hazon Ish, and Prime Minister David Ben Gurion , yeshiva students were exempted from service in the Israeli Defense Forces. The agreement enabled Haredi leaders to maintain at least some semblance of a wall between their adherents and the rest of Israeli society, and to underscore their fundamental and principled opposition to what they termed “the Medinah.” It is in the context of this opposition that R. Kanievsky’s edict must be seen.

The Mantle of Haredi Leadership

Not all Haredim are anti-Zionist. In 1984 the great Sephardi leader R. Ovadia Yosef led his followers out of the main Ashkenazi Haredi political parties, and created the Shas Party with its own Council of Torah Sages (Motetset Hakhmei HaTorah). Shas displayed a more sympathetic attitude toward the state, including having its Knesset members serve as full ministers in the government.

Even among Ashkenazi Haredim, however, there is no common stance vis a vis “the Medineh.”  Although they share a common antipathy to Zionism, Haredi leadership is not vested solely in Agudah’s Council of Torah Greats. In particular, the Eidah Haredis, successors to the Old Yishuv, is far more vociferously, and far too often violently, opposed to the Jewish State. Moreover, whereas the majority of Haredi yeshivot do not hesitate to receive financial support from the State’s coffers, some –such as the Brisker yeshiva, following the leadership of its late dean, R. Yosef Zev Soloveichik—refuse to take any state funds. Nevertheless, whatever their differences, the vast majority of Ashkenazim look to a single leader for guidance, Da’as Torah, on major political and social issues.  Until his passing, Hazon Ish was that leader.

Hazon Ish rose to his position of prominence on the passing in 1940 of his brother-in-law, R. Hayyim Ozer Grodzinski, who had in turn succeeded Hofetz Hayyim as the acknowledged leader of the Lithuanian Haredi world. Familial ties among the Lithuanian Haredi leadership continue to this day: R. Kanievsky was not only a student of the Hazon Ish, but also his nephew.  And, as has been noted, R. Shraga Shteinmann, whom R. Kanievsky appointed to the coronavirus task force, is the latter’s son-in-law.

 At 93, R. Kanievsky represents the tendency of the Lithuanian Haredim to recognize as supreme leaders of the movement nonogenarians or even centenarians. Thus, R. Kanievski’s predecessor, R. Aryeh Yehuda Leib Shteinman was niftar (passed away) in 2017 at the age of 103, while his own predecessor, R. Sholom Yisef Elyashiv died at the age of 102. R. Elyashiv’s predecessor, R. Elazar Menachem Man Shach, likewise was 102 when he was niftar.

Is the problem the answer, the question, or the system?

The Torah teaches that Moses was as much in control of all his faculties on the day he died at the age of 120, as when he was a much younger man. That is not necessarily the case with other older persons, even if they are great scholars. It is arguable that by the time they reach their nineties, even leading Halakhic experts may have lost half a mental step. They might comprehend what is being asked of them, indeed, their replies may reflect their decades of Torah knowledge. Nevertheless, they may not have the mental acuity to probe all facets of whatever issue is brought before them, as they may have been able to do as recently as a decade earlier.

It is well known that Haredi leaders surround themselves—or are surrounded by—men who are collectively known as askanim. In the words of R. David Stav, leader of the moderate Orthodox Tzohar movement, askanim are “a small group of Haredi askanim who, because of their own personal interests, make Judaism and Haredi society hateful to Israelis." [x] R. Dov Lipman, an American-born moderate Haredi who served for a period as a Knesset member, outlined the power of these men:

“The issue of the gedolim Torah greats] is very largely the askanim who surround them…Askanim are the community activists and assistants who normally surround the leading rabbis and act as a buffer between them and the communities they lead. They [Torah greats] are totally controlled by people around them and that’s the biggest problem….[xi]”

These askanim clearly take advantage of elderly rabbis, putting questions to them in much the same way as pollsters with a particular political bias will put questions to their respondents. Not surprisingly, manipulative questioners will elicit pronouncements that are in line with what they want to hear. And since those pronouncements have the force of unchallengeable law for the Haredi community, they are in effect empowering their questioners to ride roughshod over that community.

This appears to have been the case when R. Kanievsky’s grandson, with one of the askanim standing over his shoulder, asked his grandfather whether yeshivot and elementary cheders should remain open. He did not explain clearly that not just the “Medineh,” but doctors had argued for such closures. Had he done so, R. Kanievsky would immediately have recognized that the issue was one of pikuach nefesh, saving lives. Without a doubt, had R. Kanievsky been asked whether schools should be closed to save lives, his answer would have been in the affirmative. After all, Halakha is unambiguous with respect to this issue; indeed, Halakha posits that even the remote possibility of life being endangered justifies violating the Torah.[xii] Indeed, once R. Kanievsky fully fathomed the severity of the crisis, he did call upon a trusted doctor, along with respected Haredi rabbis, to devise an approach that satisfied both the requirement to maintain safety and the objective of studying Torah. It was the word “Medineh” that had acted as a red flag to the aged rabbi and prompted his initial response.

The Challenge for the Haredi world

Modern Orthodox Jews do not recognize Da’as Torah outside the bounds of Halakha. They look to specialists, for example in the military or medical realms, for guidance on purely secular issues. They justify their attitude both because rabbinic greats ranging from R. Joseph B. Soloveichik to R. Ovadia  Yosef took this view, and because Da’as Torah has been on the wrong side of Jewish history in multiple occasions, failing the Jewish people at critical times in the recent past. These include opposing immigration to America or Israel when it was still possible before the invasion of Poland; opposition to the creation of the State of Israel; and opposition to public demonstrations to free Soviet Jewry. For the Modern Orthodox, therefore, Haredi rulings concerning responses to the coronavirus epidemic had little impact.

Moreover, not all Haredi leaders are as closed to the outside world, and therefore as vulnerable to askanim. The recently departed Novominsker Rebbe, R.  Yaakov Perlow, who died due to the coronavirus, graduated with honors from Brooklyn College![xiii] A group of Hasidic admorim and rabbonim residing in Boro Park, Brooklyn and led by R. Perlow, issued a proclamation on the eve of Pesach outlining the importance of maintaining government restrictions even at the cost of hallowed Passover traditions.

Introduction

The ongoing pandemic has put enormous stress on ordinary halakhic life. Many women cannot get to the mikvah, making abstinence and the “distancing” required of couples during niddah last indefinitely; mourners are deprived of shiva visits and kaddish; and the absence of thrice-daily, daily, or even weekly tefillah beTzibbur (communal prayer) sucks the oxygen out of many people’s religious lives.

These reactions are normal. In a crisis, restrictions that are ordinarily difficult become massive obstacles requiring Herculean strength to overcome. Ritual actions turn out to be needs as well as obligations, so that being deprived of them feels unjust and unbearable. Moral principles that feel satisfyingly altruistic in times of plenty now seem like playing a sucker’s game.

These reactions are justified. Maimonides teaches that the laws of Torah, like the laws of nature, are Divinely constructed to provide the best outcomes for most people in most societies in most places most of the time. They are not universal panaceas.

To account for the minority of situations where halakha is counterproductive, the Torah gives prophets, the Sanhedrin, and perhaps other rabbinic bodies the authority to suspend specific laws when necessary. Maimonides writes regarding this authority that “sometimes one has to amputate a leg to save the patient,” the same metaphor used centuries later by Abraham Lincoln to defend his suspension of habeas corpus in the run-up to the Civil War.

Amputation is a desperate last resort (and suspension of the laws of nature is not an option for physicians). The Torah commands us to heal — in other words, to understand, interpret, and utilize the laws of nature in the ways that maximize their human benefits and minimize their human costs. Competent posekim (halakhic decisors) relate to the laws of Torah in the same way. Nature and Torah are immutable, but human beings have the ability and obligation to adjust their effects, whether physical, psychological, or spiritual.

Every crisis generates calls for radical responses. Some of these recommendations may rise to the level of amputation. But the organizing metaphor of this article is medicine, not surgery. What are the tools we have within halakha to respond to crises? How far can we adapt our community’s praxis while maintaining the law rather than suspending it? 

The halakhic term for “ordinary crises” is sh’at haDehak. (Extraordinary crises that justify suspending the law are something along the lines of migdar milta vehasha’ah tzerikah lekakh.)  We can therefore frame our investigation as a study of how halakha adapts in response to which kinds of sh’at haDehak.

My thesis is that there are four distinct modes of adaptation. Those four modes are the following:

1. Ruling in accordance with a less authoritative opinion over a more authoritative opinion.
2. Stripping observance of the law down to essentials, rather than seeking the ideal.
3. Satisfying only the most authoritative opinion, rather than seeking to satisfy all authoritative opinions.
4. Lowering a legal standard beyond what was previously seen as an absolute minimum.

Calls for halakhic responses to the crisis can generally be understood and evaluated in terms of these categories.  

1.

To understand how halakha adapts, we need first to explain what halakha is. For our purposes, I suggest the following definition: “Halakha is what a posek  without opinions would say it is under ordinary circumstances.”

You are presumably asking yourself: What is a posek without opinions? Isn’t the whole role of posekim to input questions and output opinions? Let me illustrate what I mean by quoting Rabbi Moshe Isserles (Rama, Shulhan Arukh Hoshen Mishpat 25):

If the issue is one of “prohibition or permission,” then if the relevant prohibition is deOraita (Torah law)—follow the strict opinion; if (the relevant prohibition) is deRabanan (Rabbinic law)—follow the lenient opinion. This is only if the two disputants are of equal stature; one must not rely on the words of a lesser against those of one greater in wisdom and number,[1] even in a sh’at haDehak, unless there would also be great loss.

Rabbi Isserles sets out an algorithm for deciding prior halakhic disputes. One needs to answer four questions.

1. Is the level of personal authority behind each opinion equal, or is one side greater?
2. Is the relevant issue Torah or Rabbinic law?
3. Will following the opinion with greater authority cause someone a great loss?
4. Is this a sh’at haDehak?

If the levels of authority are equal, and there is no sh’at haDehak and possibility of great loss, then in deOraita cases one adopts the strict position, and in deRabanan cases one adopts the lenient position. However, if there is a sh’at haDehak and possibility of great loss, then one follows whichever opinion prevents the loss.

Rabbi Yoel Sirkes (Bah, Issur vaHeter) clarifies that “great loss” can be defined either objectively or subjectively. For example, having an intended main course declared non-kosher may be considered a great loss for a poor person on Monday, and a minor loss for a rich person that same day. But the intended main course for a Shabbat table is a major loss for rich and poor alike on Friday afternoon, when it cannot be replaced in time for Shabbat. This demonstrates that the category “great loss” applies to emotional or spiritual as well as financial loss.

What emerges is that in an ordinary crisis, the default rules of halakhic decision-making shift, and posekim should adopt whichever positions prevent people from suffering great financial, emotional, or spiritual losses.

This seems like a caricature of pesak halakha. And it is a caricature, until we realize that Rama is describing the process as engaged in by posekim with no opinions of their own. Where no other basis exists for decision, perhaps because one simply doesn’t know the material well enough for one’s own opinion to have weight, these rules apply. One is entitled to follow these rules only so long as one can adopt the resulting positions with integrity, meaning that one believes them as likely to be true as the alternatives.

Talmidei Hakhamim will generally have independent ideas as to what the texts mean, or what the intent of the law requires, and will therefore make halakhic decisions on those grounds. They will not be able to follow these rules. Ironically, in these cases they may have fewer options than a hypothetical pesak algorithm.

I think it is nonetheless clear that competent posekim should be heavily influenced by these rules. That is to say, an important factor in their interpretations and evaluations should be that texts and positions that cause fewer great losses are more likely to represent the true intent of the law.

Talmud Niddah 9b provides another limit on the posek’s discretion to rule in accordance with less authoritative positions. A Beraita records that Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi issued a ruling that followed the position of Rabbi Eliezer against that of the Sages. “When he remembered, he said: Rabbi Eliezer is worthy of being relied on in a sh’at haDehak.” The Talmud comments: “If you say that he remembered that the halakha does not follow Rabbi Eliezer but rather the Sages, how would that justify following Rabbi Eliezer in a sh’at haDehak?! Rather, it must be that the halakha was not formally determined either way, and it means “when he remembered” that Rabbi Eliezer was disagreed with by a group, not an individual.” In other words, an opinionless posek can adopt the less authoritative position only on open questions, but cannot relitigate settled issues even in cases of sh’at haDehak.

The boundaries of “open” and “settled” are themselves not always clear.  As with everything else, integrity and humility are necessary, and not always sufficient.

An interesting test case is the “Zoom Seder” controversy this year. A group of Israeli rabbis, mostly of Moroccan origin, issued a ruling before Pesah that permitted families to have interactive seders over the Zoom conferencing platform. They offered various policy grounds for regarding this as a sufficient sh’at haDehak to waive rabbinic violations of Yom Tov, but their backstop argument was the minority position that simply permits use of electricity on Yom Tov. A wide swath of Ashkenazic and Sephardic rabbis ruled the Zoom-seder position out of bounds precisely because of the reliance on that position. A plausible explanation of the disagreement is that one side saw the issue of electricity on Yom Tov as formally settled, while the other saw it as open, which allowed them to rely on the lenient position in a sh’at haDehak.

2.–3.

Talmudic halakha often distinguishes explicitly between what should be done leHatkhilah, ab initio, and what need not be redone beDiavad, post facto.

A universally accepted principle is kol sh’at haDehak kedieved damya, meaning that in pressing circumstances the beDiavad becomes acceptable leHatkhilah .[2]

There are at least two kinds of leHatkhilah / beDiavad divisions.

The first division is when the beDiavad meets an essential legal standard, while the leHatkhilah adds a requirement that is indirectly related to that standard. For example, aesthetic experience is basic to very few mitzvoth, but regardless, many mitzvoth are leHatkhilah only when done with aesthetically pleasing accoutrements. For negative commandments, the leHatkhilah often involves taking added precautions against violating the prohibition. This means that the leHatkhilah can be intimately bound up with rabbinic decrees intended to safeguard biblical prohibitions.

Rabbi Chaim Amsellem argues in U’Baharta BaHayyim that sh’at haDehak kedieved damya gives posekim the right to waive deRabanan decrees. On that basis he suggests, for example, that during the pandemic women can immerse in any mikvah large enough to contain them fully, and in water considered “drawn,” since in his opinion the requirement for 40 se’ah (the talmudic measurement of volume) and the requirement that the water not be “drawn” are deRabanan. Rabbi Daniel Sperber was reported on Facebook to have made a similar argument regarding “distancing” for women who will be unable to immerse during the pandemic.

One can counter that the Sages chose to make some of their decrees binding only leHatkhilah, but made others obligatory even beDiavad. Sh’at haDehak kedieved damya permits waiving only the first category, and the burden of proof may be on the posek to prove that a decree can be waived. One can also counter that preventive decrees may be waived only when there is little likelihood that the deOraita violation they were instituted to prevent will happen as a result. My sense is that both these counters are correct.

However, a different principle may allow waiving deRabanans of both types in emergencies. Mishnah Shabbat 24:1 teaches that a person trapped outside of town before Shabbat may ask a Gentile to carry his or her wallet in, even though asking a Gentile to perform work forbidden to Jews is generally forbidden. The reason given is that asking a Gentile is generally a preventive decree, lest one come to do the action oneself, but in this case such a decree makes it more likely that one will violate the prohibition oneself. Ravvyah (1:391) sees this as an example of a general principle that rabbinic decrees can be waived in cases where they are counterproductive. According to this, if one could demonstrate compellingly that a specific “distancing” is counterproductive during the pandemic, meaning that observing the prohibition makes it more rather than less likely that the couple will violate the prohibition against intercourse, the prohibition against that “distancing” could be waived. However, such demonstrations are hard to come by. 

The second kind of division is when the beDiavad satisfies only the most authoritative position in a halakhic dispute, whereas the leHatkhilah also satisfies less authoritative positions.

This leHatkhilah can metastasize into the idea that one must always be yotzei leKhol haDeiot (fulfill one’s obligation according to all possible positions). The excesses of that approach, which can literally threaten lives (as when the largest position about the size of an olive is combined with the position that one must eat an olive-size of matzah in one swallow), can make accounting for multiple reasonable positions seem unreasonable. However, an issue may not be ripe for conclusive decision, and sometimes accounting for multiple positions can increase the likelihood of approximating the Divine Will, at minimal cost.

Some of the recent discussions about Zoom seders, mikvaot, kitniyot and the like have revolved around these issues, both broadly and specifically. One might think, for example, that the time has come to adopt a coherent halakhic approach to electricity. But one might counter that technology continues to develop so rapidly that we are best off continuing to muddle through.

4.

The last, most controversial, and perhaps most radical way that halakha can change during a sh’at haDehak is by lowering a legal standard beyond what was previously seen as the absolute minimum.

A Beraita cited on Talmud Sukkah 31a states regarding the Four Species:

If they are withered—they are valid; If they are dried-out—they are invalid. Rabbi Yehudah said: Even if they are dried out (they are valid). Said Rabbi Yehudah: It happened that the people of Karkom would bequeath their lulavim to their grandchildren. They replied: What proof is that!? A sh’at haDehak is no proof.

Rosh and Raavad, cited by Tur (OC 649), derive from the response to Rabbi Yehudah that that the city of Karkom lived in a permanent sh’at haDehak regarding lulavim, and as a result, its residents could fulfill their obligations with lulavim that anywhere else would have been invalid even beDiavad.

However, Bet Yosef notes that Raavad eventually came to consider this result absurd:

“How could this be, that in a situation of dehak, one fulfills obligations with it and make blessings over it leHatkhilah, if in a situation of not-dehak, one does not fulfill one’s obligation with it even diavad?!” Raavad concludes that the people of Karkom waved their ancestral lulavim so as not to forget the mitzvah rather than to fulfill the mitzvah.

Bet Yosef himself responds that authority to determine the halakhically necessary standard of lulav-freshness was given over by Scripture to the Sages, and they said that in a situation of not-dehak, one’s obligation is not satisfied even beDiavad (with a desiccated lulav), so that Israel would be scrupulous about mitzvoth, but in a situation of dehak, they validated such lulavim, since the mitzvah could not be fulfilled any other way, and even permitted blessing over them.

Bet Yosef concludes by splitting the difference; one can wave such lulavim in a sh’at haDehak, but not make the blessing over them.

This seems to me the best framework for analyzing the Zoom minyan issue. I think halakhic precedents make clear that a minyan ordinarily requires physical community. However, the question was whether the halakhic standard of community ought to be redefined in this sh’at haDehak. The general answer of the community was to do so only where there was no risk of making a berakhah leVatalah, or blessing made in vain.

Rabbi Eliezer Melamed’s astonishing assertion that saying kaddish without a minyan is not a violation of any sort therefore opened up the possibility of kaddish via Zoom. In my humble opinion, his position should at most be used to allow a mourner to say kaddish deRabanan (kaddish said after learning together) in a Zoom minyan that has learned together, rather than kaddish yatom (mourner’s kaddish), because one can argue that the minyan for learning is constituted by a shared experience rather than shared presence.

Conclusion

Halakha has ample mechanisms for adapting in times of crisis. Competent posekim can utilize these mechanisms to develop creative strategies to reduce communal and individual burdens and allow better access to the consolations and joys of ritual.

These mechanisms are governed within halakha by formal rules. Deviating from those rules moves a posek from the realm of adaptation to that of “amputation,” from maintaining the law to suspending it.

Ultimately, though, the metarules of halakhic adaptation, like those of ordinary halakha, are subject to interpretation. The integrity of halakha always depends on the integrity of those who decide it, and on the integrity of the community that empowers them to decide it.

On Dec. 10, 1966, Shabbat in Stockholm ended at 3:55 p.m. This gave Israeli writer S.Y. Agnon, his wife Esther and their daughter Emunah exactly 35 minutes to travel from the Grand Hotel to the Stockholm Concert Hall, where Agnon would receive the Nobel Prize in Literature.

As Shabbat ended, Agnon prayed the evening Maariv service, made Havdalah for his family, and — being that it was the fourth night of Chanukah – lit four candles and recited all of the accompanying blessings. He rushed to get dressed in his tuxedo and tails, and the family then met the limousine driver who hurriedly drove them to the ceremony. To save time, Agnon shaved in the limo.

When Agnon arrived and ultimately took the stage to receive his Nobel Prize from Swedish King Gustav VI Adolf, the audience noticed that in place of a top hat, Agnon had a black velvet yarmulke perched atop his head. Upon receiving the prize from the king, Agnon recited the Hebrew blessing traditionally said upon seeing a king. He then delivered his acceptance speech in an ancient Hebrew dialect, staking his claim as a Hebrew writer representing the continuity of a canon of sacred literature:

“Who were my mentors in poetry and literature? First and foremost, there are the Sacred Scriptures, from which I learned to combine letters. Then there are the Mishnah and the Talmud and the Midrashim and Rashi’s commentary on the Torah. After these come the Poskim — the later explicators of Talmudic Law — and our sacred poets and the medieval sages, led by our Master Rabbi Moses, son of Maimon, known as Maimonides, of blessed memory.”

On this night, the European-born boy originally known as Shmuel Yosef Czaczkes became the first-ever Hebrew language writer to be awarded a Nobel Prize. Moreover, he did so as a citizen of the State of Israel, becoming the country’s first ever Nobel Prize winner in any category (and to this day, it’s only winner in literature).

When reading Agnon, who moved to Palestine as a young immigrant in 1908, one is treated to a unique and unprecedented literary experience, where modern-day stories are composed in a Hebrew that is entirely ancient, with the narrative and dialogue creatively woven from phrases lifted directly from Biblical, Talmudic and Rabbinic literature. This, along with Agnon’s observance of Jewish law, paints the portrait of what one might potentially call a “religious writer.”

But was Agnon a “religious writer”? 

In her personal memoir, Emunah Yaron (Agnon’s daughter) addresses the question of her father’s religiosity and faith: “There are many who did not believe that my father was an observant Jew, even though a big black kippah always covered his head. There are those who said that this kippah was simply a mask, a deceiving appearance intended to fool the public into believing that he was actually a religious Jew who observed the commandments.”

What could possibly account for this wide held perception amongst many of Agnon’s readers? Yaron continues: “Perhaps the lack of belief by many in my father’s religiosity stems from the fact that in reading my father’s works, they often detected in his plots and characters subtle or even overt theological speculations into religious matters, which many of his readers interpreted as outright heresy.”

In Agnon’s story “The Dust of the Land of Israel,” the narrator proclaims: “The doubters and skeptics, and all who are suspicious of things — they are the only people of truth, because they see the world as it is. They are unlike those who are happy with their lot in life and with their world, who, as a result of their continuous happiness, close their eyes from the truth.”

Agnon’s masterpiece novel “A Guest for the Night” is full of cynicism towards God. The novel grew out of Agnon’s visit in 1930 to his birthplace in Buczacz, Poland (now part of Ukraine).  The narrator returns to visit his hometown, Shibush (a sarcastic play on Buczacz — the Hebrew word “shibush” means “disorder” or “confusion”) and finds it completely desolate, bearing the evidence of the ruins of war and pogroms.

The people he meets in Shibush are crippled physically and emotionally, including Daniel Bach, whose brother has recently been killed and who has himself seen a corpse, wrapped in a prayer shawl, blown up. Bach declares, “I’m a simple person, and I don’t believe in the power of repentance … I don’t believe that the Holy One, blessed be He, wants the best for his creatures.” Later in the novel, the narrator echoes Daniel’s bitter reflections: “If it is a question of repentance, it is the Holy One, blessed be He — if I may say so — who ought to repent.”

Although “A Guest for the Night” could easily be understood as Agnon’s post-Holocaust lamentation on the destruction of Eastern European Jewry, he actually wrote the novel in the 1930s, and it was published in 1939 — all before the Shoah. Agnon’s novel foresaw the dark fate of Eastern European Jewry, including the last remaining Jews of Agnon’s hometown Buczacz, where he was born in 1888. As such, Agnon’s bitter indictments of God take on somewhat of a prophetic tone.

Yom Kippur plays a central theme in Agnon’s writing, as does the harsh reality of the physical destruction of Eastern European Jewry. In his story At the Outset of the Day these two themes come together, as the narrator and his daughter (whose home has just been destroyed) come to the synagogue on the eve of Yom Kippur. As the father tells his little daughter that they will soon bring her a “little prayer book full of letters,” he asks his daughter “And now, dearest daughter, tell me, an alef and a bet that come together with a kametz beneath the alef – how do you say them?” “Av,” answered the daughter.

The word “Av” means “father,” but it is also the name of the darkest month on the Hebrew calendar. By asking the daughter to spell “Av,” Agnon is alluding to the fact that this particular Yom Kippur (a fast day) closely resembles the gloom and darkness of Tisha B’Av (also a fast day). The theological irony is that the narrator goes on to tell his daughter “And now my daughter, what father (Av) is greater than all other fathers? Our Father in heaven.” In his typically sarcastic fashion, Agnon employs a linguistic double entendre linking the Av in heaven (God) to the mood of the month of Av (the destruction of the father and daughter’s home) on this Yom Kippur.

In his story Ha-hadlakah (The Kindling), Agnon tells the story of the great pilgrimage and kindling of bonfires on the grave of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai on Lag Ba’Omer (the 33rd Day of the Omer Period). The Omer period is traditionally associated with collective rites of mourning (no shaving, no weddings or celebrations) due to the tragedies to have befallen the Jewish people during this time period (plagues, pogroms, massacres). Agnon frames the turning point of the story – when the situation starts to improve -- in sarcastic theological terms: “With the passage of time, the Holy One Blessed Be He returned His head into the place from where it was removed, and He saw what had happened in His world.”

In his classic story “Tehilla,” Agnon describes Jews, including newcomers to Israel, gathering at the Kotel – Judaism’s holiest site - for prayer: “From Jaffa Gate to the Western Wall, men and women from all the communities of Jerusalem moved in a steady stream, together with those newcomers, whom the Place had restored to their place, but they had not yet found their proper place.” The Hebrew word for “place” is makom, and in the Talmud, Ha-Makom is one of the titles for God. Understood this way, these newcomers were restored by “The Place (Ha-Makom) to their place (l’m’ekomam)” – meaning God brought them home to Jerusalem – “but they have not yet found their place (me’komam).” In Agnon’s sarcastic style and use of double entendre, he leaves the interpretation of the second me’koman open to either mean “their place”, or “their God.” The irony of newcomers coming to Jerusalem, but not yet having found God, is vintage Agnon.

In Amos Oz’s semiautobiographical “A Tale of Love and Darkness,” the Israeli author devotes an entire chapter to Agnon, where he writes, “Agnon himself was an observant Jew, who kept the Sabbath and wore a skullcap. He was, literally, a God-fearing man: in Hebrew, ‘fear’ and ‘faith’ are synonyms. Agnon believes in God and fears him, but he does not necessarily love him.”

Oz also explored these issues in “The Silence of Heaven: Agnon’s Fear of God,” where he writes that Agnon’s heart was “tormented by theological doubts,” and that Agnon’s characters often treat their challenges in life as “religious issues — providing that the term ‘religious’ is broad enough to encompass doubt, heresy and bitter irony about Heaven.”

When asked if Agnon was a “religious writer,” Emunah Yaron writes that her father’s response to this question was that he is “an author of truth, who writes things as he sees them, without any ‘make-up or rouge’ camouflaging the face of things, without any décor trying to deter the eye from the core issues.”

“For these very reasons” writes Yaron, “my father — who was a religiously observant Jew — refused to join the Union of Religious Writers in Israel.”

As an observant Jew writing from within the tradition, Agnon reminds us that it is possible to observe God’s commandments and pray to God while simultaneously struggling with God.

In the story “Tehilla,” Agnon’s narrator is standing at the Kotel, contemplating prayer: “I stood at times among the worshipers, and at times among those who wonder.”

That’s life for S.Y. Agnon, and that’s life in an Agnon story. Indeed, for people of faith who understand that faith is complex – that’s life.

You Shall Love Truth and Peace

By Rabbi Benzion Meir Hai Uziel

translated from the original Hebrew by Rabbi Daniel Bouskila

Translator’s introduction: Rabbi Benzion Meir Hai Uziel (1880–1953) was a visionary rabbinic leader and the twentieth century’s most authentic embodiment of the classic Sephardic rabbinic tradition. He was the Haham Bashi (Ottoman-appointed Chief Rabbi) of Jaffa-Tel Aviv (1911–1939), and the Rishon L’Zion (Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel) of the pre-state Yishuv under the British Mandate (1939–1947) and then of the State of Israel (1948–1953). He authored multiple volumes of groundbreaking Halakhic Responsa (Jewish legal rulings on practical matters), as well as original books of Jewish philosophy, theology, and ethics. From his earliest moments as a young rabbinic leader, all the way to his famous “Spiritual Will to the Jewish People,” written a few weeks before his death, Rabbi Uziel was a strong advocate for Jewish unity. This essay, “You Shall Love Truth and Peace,” originally appeared in his classic work of Jewish thought Hegyonei Uziel (volume 2, pages 33–34). It is one of his most eloquent statements on unity, and beautifully encapsulates his creative blend of classic rabbinic scholarship with responsible leadership.

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In his grand vision describing the redemption of Israel, the prophet Zechariah declares:

Thus said the Lord of Hosts: The fast of the fourth month, the fast of the fifth month, the fast of the seventh month, and the fast of the tenth month shall become occasions of joy and gladness, happy festivals for the House of Judah, but you shall love truth and peace. (Zechariah 8:19)

From here we learn that the redemption of Israel is contingent upon their loving truth and peace, for much like the two bronze pillars Yachin and Boaz upheld King Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem, so, too, do truth and peace uphold the entire universe of Israel.

The God of Israel is a God of truth and peace. God’s Torah is a book of truth, and one of God’s names is “peace,” as taught by the rabbis: “Great is peace, for the name of the Holy One Blessed be He is Shalom (peace), as it is written, “and He was called Hashem-Shalom” (Judges 6:24). 

In addition to being a book of truth, the Torah is also a book of peace, as it is written, “Her ways are pleasant ways, and all her paths are peaceful” (Proverbs 3:17).

Our rabbis declared that peace is one of Judaism’s most beloved principles, for “The entire purpose of the Torah is to bring about peace in the world” (Gittin 59b).

Jerusalem is comforted in the language of peace (“My people shall dwell in peaceful homes,” Isaiah 32:18), God blesses Israel with daily blessings of peace, and “Shalom” is the national greeting of one Jew to the other.

One of the most powerful expressions on the importance of peace is learned from the teachings and deeds of our rabbis:

Come and hear: Although Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel disagreed on several legal issues related to family matters—such as rival wives and sisters, an outdated bill of divorce, a doubtfully married woman, the case of one who divorces his wife and later she lodged together with him at an inn, money and its equivalent in valuables, a peruta or the equivalent value of a peruta (for the purposes of establishing a betrothal). Nonetheless, Bet Shammai did not refrain from marrying women from Bet Hillel, nor did Bet Hillel refrain from marrying women from Bet Shammai. This serves to teach us that despite their differences, they practiced love and friendship between them, to fulfill that which is stated: “You shall love truth and peace.” (BT Yebamot 14b)

The parallel teaching in the Jerusalem Talmud says:

Although Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel disagreed on several legal issues related to family matters…nonetheless…they practiced truth and peace between them, as it is written, “You shall love truth and peace.” (JT Yebamot Chapter 1).

With Shammai and Hillel having practiced both “love and friendship” and “truth and peace,” we learn that love and truth are one and the same, and any love that is not grounded in truth is false. It goes without saying that falsehood and lying are abominable in the eyes of God, as it is written “Keep away from anything false” (Exodus 23:7) and “Do not lie to one another” (Leviticus 19:11).

The Nation of Israel is commanded to live by the two great pillars of truth and peace, for doing so will eternally distinguish them for blessings and praise, no matter what the circumstances. These pillars are especially needed in the State of Israel, for truth and peace will help create an atmosphere of pleasantness and tranquility throughout the land. Each individual in Israel must internalize truth and peace, thus fostering a true love for the State of Israel and for its internal peace. This internal peace within Israel will ultimately lead to our making peace with all nations and kingdoms.

We are taught how to achieve this desired internal peace through the Torah and its commandments, “whose ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.”

The achievement of internal peace through the Torah is promised by the Torah itself: “If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments…I will grant peace in the land so that you will sleep without fear” (Leviticus 26: 3–6).

Let us place this message upon our hearts, removing from our midst any hint of evil inclination, divisiveness, or hatred of the Torah and its commandments. Let us clothe ourselves with an elevated devotion and sense of love for one another, as commanded by the Torah, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself, I am the Lord” (Leviticus 19:18).

By the same measure, let us also love the stranger in our midst, as it is written, “The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens, you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt, I am the Lord your God” (Leviticus 19:34).

This is not the place to explain in depth the details of this important Jewish law (of loving the stranger), but let us all recognize that all of us were strangers in the four corners of the earth. Therefore, in addition to the commandment to “love your neighbor as yourself,” we have another commandment of love that obligates us to accept and welcome all immigrants to our land, regardless of their ethnic community or country of origin. We must accept them from a place of genuine love, both the love of “you shall love your neighbor as yourself” and “you shall love him (the stranger) as yourself.”

From this same place of genuine love, let us conduct ourselves in the paths of true peace, respecting each other’s opinions and feelings, as well as respecting the differences amongst the factions in our country. Let us remove all language of hatred, animosity, and provocation from our midst, so that we may fulfill amongst ourselves that which our enlightened rabbi Maimonides commanded us: “Accept the truth from whatever source it comes.” Let us also live by the enlightened deeds of our rabbis, Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel, who behaved with love and respect toward one another and respected each other’s opinions, fulfilling the verse, “You shall love truth and peace.”

From a sincere place of love and devotion, let us come closer to our Holy Torah and all of its laws and commandments. For the Torah is our life and the length of our days, here in this land that God has given to our ancestors and to us as an inheritance. This is all for our own good and for the good of our children, forever and ever.

May God, the King of Peace, bless us with peace, and may we merit to see the fulfillment of the great prophetic vision for the End of Days for world peace, as it is written: “And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not take up sword against nation, they shall never again know war” (Isaiah 2:4).

I conclude my words by quoting the beautiful words of Maimonides from the end of his “Laws of Kings” (at the very end of his Mishneh Torah):

The Sages and the prophets did not yearn for the Messianic era in order to have dominion over the entire world, to rule over the gentiles, to be exalted by the nations, or to eat, drink, and celebrate. Rather, they desired to be free to involve themselves in Torah and wisdom without any pressures or disturbances, so that they would merit the world to come, as explained in Hilkhot Teshuvah.

In that era, there will be neither famine nor war, envy, or competition, for good will flow in abundance and all the delights will be freely available as dust. The occupation of the entire world will be solely to know God.

Therefore, the Jews will be great sages and know the hidden matters, grasping the knowledge of their Creator according to the full extent of human potential, as Isaiah 11:9 states: “The world will be filled with the knowledge of God as the waters cover the ocean bed."

In 1966, the Nobel Prize for literature was awarded to S. Y. Agnon. This was a major event for the Jewish world at large and for Israel in particular. Agnon was the first Israeli to win a Nobel in any field, and he remains the only Hebrew-language author ever to have received the Nobel Prize in literature. In Israel, Agnon’s award was viewed as a major diplomatic coup, and a ripe opportunity for the young state to gain attention as a cultural force on the world stage. Let us recall that the year 1966 is but a moment in historical memory from the Holocaust. As such, the prize was perceived as recognition not only of the Jewish people’s physical survival of the smokestacks of Auschwitz, but of its self-reconstitution as a sovereign nation—such an entity bests its enemies but no less develops a meaningful culture.

For Agnon, too, the Nobel Prize was an affirmation—of what Hebrew as a language of Jewish life, learning, and literature had reached. Agnon had been a young “combatant” in the great Hebrew wars, joining the likes of Bialik and others, often against Eliezer Ben-Yehuda. The battle concerned the existential state of the Hebrew language: Was it to be revived, as the latter firmly held, or only reconstituted, as Agnon believed? In Agnon’s view, Hebrew could not have been revived, because in order for something to be revived it first had to be dead, which as a language of prayer and scholarship it never was. It was precisely those sources of learning, and especially rabbinic Hebrew, that Agnon sought to distill and recast as modern literature.

Agnon’s sense of self-worth has been well documented, as has his biting mock modesty. Upon notification of his award he declared, “To be able to write a single sentence properly in Hebrew is worth all the prizes in the world.” It may be safely said that he was happy to receive the Nobel Prize, an award that he had  sought for decades. Significantly, at nearly 80, Agnon was much older than the typical Nobel laureate in literature. The world generally expects at least one final piece of work from the recipient of a Nobel. Not so in Agnon’s case. Although he was toying with Shira and with the stories that would become A City in Its Fullness and a few other unfinished pieces of business, his career was essentially over. And here he was in 1966, in his white tie and tails, Agnon and his wife and the king of Sweden.

It might be said with some certainty that the Swedish Academy had never met a laureate quite like Agnon. Upon hearing his or her name announced, the Nobel laureate is expected to walk to the podium, accept the prize, and shake hands with the king. That is the extent of the expected interaction; the recipient is then meant to return to his or her seat. Agnon, however, took the opportunity to engage in an extended discussion with King Gustav.^[1] The king was a tall, lean man and Agnon rather short and stout; the king, being hard of hearing, leaned over to listen as Agnon chattered on and on. Later, during his speech, Agnon famously recited the blessing one recites upon seeing a king. The significance and theatrics of the occasion were not lost on the Hebrew author.

Agnon shared the Nobel Prize with Nelly Sachs, a German Jewish poet who wrote lyrical poems about the Holocaust. The highly acclaimed author was not happy about the idea of sharing the prize with Sachs, whose work has not received a great deal of diffusion and who, until today, remains relatively unknown (the force of her verse not being well conveyed in translation). Although there is precedent for the literature prize being divided, it is not common to do so, and to date, this was the last time it was done. The constitution of the Nobel Committee makes it clear that a shared prize does not indicate that the recipients are somehow “half worthy.” Each recipient of a shared Nobel Prize must be worthy of having received it on his or her own. Not infrequently, scientific research is conducted in collaboration with others, in which case a shared prize is well understood. In the field of literature, this sort of collaboration is markedly less frequent.

Unusual as it was on the Stockholm stage, Ingvar Andersson of the Swedish Academy faced the two authors, Agnon and Sachs, and informed them, “This year’s literary Prize goes to you both with equal honor for a literary production which records Israel's vicissitudes in our time and passes on its message to the peoples of the world.” Turning to Agnon, he continued,

In your writing we meet once again the ancient unity between literature and science, as antiquity knew it. In one of your stories you say that some will no doubt read it as they read fairy tales, others will read it for edification.^[2] Your great chronicle of the Jewish people’s spirit and life has therefore a manifold message. For the historian it is a precious source, for the philosopher an inspiration, for those who cannot live without literature it is a mine of never-failing riches. We honor in you a combination of tradition and prophecy, of saga and wisdom.

And he went on to say,

We honor you both this evening as the laurel-crowned heroes of intellectual creation and express our conviction that, in the words of Alfred Nobel, you have conferred the greatest benefit on mankind, and that you have given it clear-sightedness, wisdom, uplift, and beauty. A famous speech at a Nobel banquet—that of William Faulkner, held in this same hall sixteen years ago—contained an idea which he developed with great intensity. It is suitable as a concluding quotation which points to the future: “I do not believe in the end of man.”

 Faulkner, the great author of the American South, created through words a wholly realized world, Yoknapatawpha County in Mississippi. This literary world recalls a southern Buczacz. In Agnon we meet a young man from Buczacz who leaves his hometown, almost never to return. But our protagonist never really leaves Buczacz at all; when he dies, an old man, he is still there in Buczacz, it is part of him. In like manner, Hannibal is part of Mark Twain, and Newark remains in Philip Roth. Faulkner uttered these lines when the dust was still settling on Auschwitz. He was conveying the power of literature as a vivifying force—somehow culture can be nearly destroyed, and yet in the spring the buds will again emerge. In Agnon’s writing this was the message broadcast in the shadow of the Holocaust in nowhere less than in the State of Israel and in no delivery system less significant than the ancient Hebrew language, which was now returning.

At this point, we, too, return—to Agnon in the Stockholm limelight: We see him rise to deliver his speech—a speech that is written in Hebrew. Indeed, such a speech would have been unimaginable in any other tongue, and for two reasons. First, Hebrew, Yiddish, and German were the only languages Agnon could speak; second, it was inconceivable that the Israeli Hebrew laureate would deliver his thanks to the Swedish Academy in in anything other than the Holy Language in which he toiled. Abba Eban, then foreign minister of Israel, thought that he ought to have a hand in crafting Agnon’s speech; after all, from a diplomatic standpoint, the Nobel Prize ceremony was an unprecedented opportunity to advance Israel’s diplomatic goals. Agnon, however, took a different view of the matter. It is said that he retorted, “Tell Abba Eban that when he receives the Nobel Prize, he can write his own acceptance speech.”

Thus, Agnon would write his own speech, and he would deliver it in Hebrew. A small glitch remained: Not a soul in the room save the laureate, his wife, and small handful of guests could understand the language. Agnon’s solution was to deliver the opening section in Hebrew, after which the full text would be read on his behalf in English. As a piece of rhetoric, Agnon’s text is decidedly bizarre. Of the slightly more than 2,000 English words in the speech, a solid half was biographical in nature.^[3] By way of introduction, the prize-winning author told his audience the talmudic tale of men of distinction of Jerusalem, who would only dine with those they knew personally (Sanhedrin 23a). One can imagine that at this point, the king of Sweden might have glanced at the old Jewish author with the big black skullcap and mused: What is this rabbi yammering on about? Perhaps answering that unspoken question, at this moment Agnon tells the audience, “I must tell you something about myself, then.” And so, Agnon does.

Significantly, Agnon’s biography was amongst his greatest artistic creations. Everything about him, from his date of birth to the date of his aliya to his very name, was part of the myth, part of the fable the author had crafted about his own identity. It is a matter of historical record that he was born in the summer of 1887. Agnon claimed that he was born on Tisha B’Av 1888, which fell out on August 8 that year (the numerically lyrical 8^th of the 8, ’88). As it happens, Tisha B’Av did not fall out on August 8 that year, nor did Tisha B’Av fall out on Agnon’s birthday the year before. Agnon was born around Tisha B’Av in 1887. This birth year obfuscation was likely related to draft-dodging efforts. Yet, we might suggest a further signification: For a writer possessed by the notion of the relationship of diaspora and redemption, the symbolism of being born on Tisha B’Av would have been of chief importance.

Indeed, Agnon anchors his name in such ideas, deriving his pseudonym from the Hebrew term agunot; not the agunot of estranged husband and wife, but the igun of the Jewish people being both chained to their Father in heaven and being distanced from Him. If one begins from the midrashic notion of God and the Jewish people in the bonds of matrimony, these marital partners are clearly in need of counseling. God has not divorced the Jews, but perhaps we might say that they are separated over these many years since their banishment from Jerusalem. The Jewish people itself is an aguna. God has abandoned them; they are akin to the proverbial abandoned wife; such themes echo time and again in the Agnon oeuvre. In Stockholm, Agnon’s biography may well have struck the uninitiated as rather odd from a rhetorical point of view, especially compared to other Nobel laureate speeches. Yet, what Agnon offered was not biography qua biography; rather, it was biography qua midrash. In effect, what Agnon provided for the Swedish Academy and the world was a myth of himself that melds into the myth of the Jewish people.

At this point, we might note Agnon’s rendering of the line that until recently emblazoned the 50-shekel bill in the State of Israel: “As a result of the historic catastrophe in which Titus of Rome destroyed Jerusalem and Israel was exiled from its land, I was born in one of the cities of the Exile. But always I regarded myself as one who was born in Jerusalem.” Agnon went on to say,

In a dream, in a vision of the night, I saw myself standing with my brother-Levites in the Holy Temple,^[4] singing with them the songs of David, King of Israel, melodies such as no ear has heard since the day our city was destroyed and its people went into exile. I suspect that the angels in charge of the Shrine of Music, fearful lest I sing in wakefulness what I had sung in dream, made me forget by day what I had sung at night; for if my brethren, the sons of my people, were to hear, they would be unable to bear their grief over the happiness they have lost. To console me for having prevented me from singing with my mouth, they enable me to compose songs in writing.^[5]

This particular autobiographical claim, like so many made by Agnon, is quite outlandish. Yet much can be gleaned from the story he chose to tell about how his work unfolded. By all rights, as Agnon tells the tale, he ought to have gotten up every day, gone to the Temple in Jerusalem, and there sang the psalms of King David, thus performing the job of a Levite. As that position has been closed on account of the destruction of and exile from Jerusalem, he instead wrote stories. Those 23 tomes of modern Hebrew literature are a compensation for such holy work having been denied him. Agnon, according to Agnon, was compensated to compose in prose what was formally sung in praise. Making a radical statement, the author likens his work to nothing less than Temple worship.

Setting aside for the moment the grandiloquence of Agnon’s move, we might consider just how this work serves as a consolation for the trials and tribulations of Jewish history. Agnon alludes to this notion recurrently, both in his works of fiction as well as in occasional essays or talks.^[6] These passages are beautiful portrayals of the purity of religious experience as it is depicted in the author’s stories, through eyes of the child: the child in his grandfather’s house, the child with the Bible or prayer book, the child receiving his first pair of tefillin, the young boy going off with his father and grandfather, his first memories of going to shul on Yom Kippur, the splendor of Yom Kippur. Such transmission does indeed communicate the mystery, the grandeur of the religious experience.

Here Agnon presents a major leitmotif of his production: “I was five years old when I wrote my first song. It was out of longing for my father that I wrote it. It happened that my father of blessed memory went away on business and I was overcome with longing for him and I made a song.” Agnon, we recall, had learned in heder and had a very close relationship with his father, who was a Torah scholar, having penned a volume on Maimonides’ monumental code of Jewish Law. In the Nobel speech as well as in a variety of other places in his writing—both in the guise of autobiography as well as outright fiction—Agnon recounted that his very first composition came to him almost prophetically as a statement of poetic longing and lamentation for his beloved father, traveling on business to the regional fair, absent from the happy home in Buczacz in which young Shmuel Yosef Czaczkes (Agnon’s birth name) was raised. This motif, namely, writing, storytelling, and creativity itself as a balm for pain, runs like connective tissue through Agnon’s work. One need not be adept at unpacking literary symbolism to suggest that a little boy’s longing for his father might also be read on the national plane of Israel’s pining for its Father in heaven. Such polytextured writing lies at the core of Agnon’s genius, and accounts for why a writer who was apparently so steeped in the “old world” of eastern European Judaism was honored in Sweden as one of the greatest of modern authors.

Agnon, recognized early on as a prodigy, enjoyed a happy childhood with his parents and four younger siblings. His father worked in the fur trade and would leave several times a year to attend the regional fairs. The little boy, sick for the absence of his father,  comes home and places his head on the “handles of the lock”—a powerful symbol of longing for a lost love and, allegorically, for the Divine (Song of Songs 5:5). He knows that on the other side of the door his Abba won’t be there. So what happens? A wail emerges from his heart and he cries out, “Where are you father, father? Where can you be found?” Right away another cry comes forth, “I love you with a love so profound” (the spontaneous cries of the boy come out as a rhymed Hebrew couplet). Agnon is not composing a poem; rather, these words are flowing from him. When we sing or pray we must generate the words; in prophecy, the words come to us from somewhere else.

Agnon is not claiming prophetic vision. Yet we have here a description of the artist as a young man, and the initiation of the artist to his craft, that of the art of writing. The art of composing is one that comes through some kind of nearly divine inspiration but is depicted as the immediate reaction to pain and loss. That, at least, is the art of writing for Agnon; a response to suffering, a response to longing. It is about standing with one’s hand on the handle of the lock, fully present to the uncertainty of the fulfillment of your desires. Gershon Shaked observed that Agnon, like Kafka, portrays “the artist as a poeta doloroso, a poet whose torments become the source and substance of his work. But Agnon’s most conscious poetic manifesto associates his creativity with a specifically nostalgic sorrow...a longing for the lost ancestral home as the wellspring of his work.”^[7]

Agnon’s stories, particularly those of childhood—for example, “The Kerchief”— feature the element of the father going away to the fair and the mother waiting in anxious anticipation for his return. Intensely multivalent, these stories brilliantly succeed in conveying that one single thing means a multiplicity of things. In this light, we are ready to ask: When Agnon stood on the stage in Stockholm and announced, “As a result of the historic catastrophe that Jerusalem was taken and we were sent into exile and I always imagined myself as if I was Jerusalem born,” what, precisely,  does he wish his audience to understand?

Agnon is making a subtle move, an almost-intertextual one. In a kind of understated thematic intertextuality, I submit that he is drawing our attention to a different time that a Jew talked about singing a song, namely Psalm 137, “By the waters of Babylon.” Ruth R. Wisse points out in her important book, Jews and Power, that the ambiguous relation between Judaism and power can be traced to this very Psalm, which conveys the predicament of the captives in Babylon following the sack of Jerusalem. The Babylonian captors taunt the Jews, ordering them to perform songs of Zion, “You Jews, you captive Jews with your harps. Give us a song, one of those old ditties you used to sing in that burnt Temple of yours.” The Jews refused, uttering instead the pledge that would echo through the ages, “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its cunning.” The captive Jews sing about their longing for Jerusalem. When the Jews finally do sing out in that Psalm, the tune is far from the dirge that their captors demanded. “Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem’s fall how they cried, strip her, strip her to the very foundations. Fair Babylon, you predator, a blessing on him who repays you in kind what you inflicted on us.” “You want a song?” we imagine them saying. “We’ll sing you a song. We’ll sing you a song about what happens to people who oppress the Jews.”

Wisse elaborates,

“Edomites” are the generic enemies of Israel, Babylon the immediate aggressor. Rather than crushing the Jews’ morale, the scorn of their captors has spiked Jewish anger and stiffened national resolve.... Yet for all its rhetorical severity, Psalm 137 does not exhort Jews to take up arms on their own behalf. Assuming full moral responsibility for the violence that war requires, it calls on the Lord to avenge the Jews’ defeat and on other nations to repay Babylon “in kind.” This reflects the historical record: It was the Persians, not the Jews who defeated the Babylonians, and King Cyrus who allowed the Jews to return to Jerusalem to rebuild their Temple, thereby inspiring Isaiah’s reference to him as “the Lord’s anointed,” the messenger of God’s will, God’s hand. God’s hand, not the soldiering of Israel is credited with the Jews’ political recovery.^[8]

We conclude by returning to 1966, with Agnon receiving the Nobel Prize. The Swedish Academy has finally recognized the Jewish people, the Hebrew language, the nation, the State of Israel—and Agnon stands in Europe and is asked to give a song (or speech) of Zion. This request is far from the evil-minded one made by the bloodthirsty Babylonians; nonetheless, Agnon is indeed standing there in the shadow of the Holocaust. “You want me to sing a song?” Perhaps he thought. “I’ll sing you a song. Let me tell you what we do in the face of suffering and exile: We do not respond, we do not wage war,” and if we waged war in 1948, and six months after the Prize ceremony in 1967, it is only out of defensive necessity. Instead, what is the authentic Jewish response to suffering? Jews know what it means to live in exile. In her book, Wisse notes that the first Babylonian exile proved that the Jewish nation could survive outside the Land of Israel, leaving open the question of when and how they would regain it. At this point, Agnon might ask: Jews knew how to survive and now they’ve returned; do you know how Jews still survive? They survive in the text. But the texts become transformed in modernity through a renewed cultural production in our own language, in an authentic way, the kind of writing that Rav Kook, years earlier, had recognized that Agnon was writing.^[9] Creativity is the authentic Jewish response to pain and catastrophe. From the catastrophe of history they will write modern literature; that was Agnon’s message, delivered between the lines, standing there 50 years ago in Stockholm.