National Scholar Updates

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 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.

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.

Does Gender Matter?

I often start off lectures, particularly on college campuses, asking this question as a prelude to launching into an analysis of women’s obligation in mitzvoth. In order to clarify, I ask them where gender comes into play in our lives. The responses often veer to the biological differences between men and women. Biology, of course, determines certain fundamental differences between men and women. But beyond the biological, many sociological and psychological studies suggest that men and women feel and think differently, experience events and relationships differently, and learn differently. In short, science tells us that men and women are not the same physiologically, and often differ psychologically and emotionally as well.

The question, however, is, how does gender affect the decisions men and women make in the modern world? Inevitably, many people, particularly young people, admit that in their “secular” lives, it hardly matters at all. Their teachers and professors are men and women. Their fellow students or colleagues are male and female. Many have male and female employers or supervisors, or alternatively, employees of all genders. Men and women have equal educational and professional opportunities, and although women are still underpaid in some professions compared to men, and greatly underrepresented in some key areas such as government leadership and CEO positions, they are able to choose to study and work in fields that are meaningful, interesting, and financially lucrative.

Women are more likely than men to choose professions that will give them greater flexibility when raising a family, but many do not. In marriage, men and women create partnerships and divisions of labor with regard to the household and childrearing responsibilities that are not necessarily based on gender. When both parents are doctors, lawyers, research fellows, or computer scientists, scheduling will be based on who has the greater flexibility and on external childcare arrangements.

In contrast, gender matters very much for observant Jews. The traditional religious structure is made up of a binary in which men and women are different and far from equal. Men have more obligations, which often leads to having more rights. Men alone make up the quorum that allows a prayer service to take place. They alone lead services, read Torah and, generally, oversee the functioning of the synagogue.[1]They are obligated in daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly mitzvoth that take them out of the home to perform often tedious religious duties–but these also confer privilege. Men alone are capable of serving as witnesses (with a few exceptions) and judges, allowing them to halakhically witness marriages and hear petitions in the cases of divorce and conversion. Until recently, only men were asked halakhic questions because only they had studied Talmud and were well-versed in halakhic material. This gave them exclusive decision-making power in halakha and in the proceedings of rabbinic courts, which has had tremendous ramifications on the lives of both men and women. Finally, in Jewish marriage, a man exclusively acquires the sexual rights of his wife. There is no way to soften this legal reality. Jewish divorce requires the husband to willingly release his wife from this contract by saying, “You are now permitted to any man.” According to halakha, adultery is only defined as consensual sexual relations between a Jewish married woman and a Jewish man other than her husband. Married Jewish men cannot be charged as halakhically unfaithful or be implicated in the conception of a mamzer if their sexual partners are single women.

In the last 25 years, questions around women’s status in traditional Jewish halakha and community have become among the most pressing, theologically, sociologically, and halakhically. These issues unleash feelings of angst and at times vitriol, along with bigger questions about modernity, morality, evolution of halakha, and rabbinic authority.

Halakha, as a system, has responded admirably and thoughtfully to the challenges of modernity. While there are always myriad positions taken spanning stringency to leniency, science and technology have proven to hold no threat for the inner workings and integrity of the halakhic structure. Organ donation, fertility technology, modern banking systems, electricity on Shabbat, not to mention eruv, are all issues that have been considered and resolved. However, social structures, particularly, but not only, with regard to questions of gender, have been met with far less cooperation, great resistance, and suspicion of an agenda that threatens to blow up the traditional binary structure. In truth, the fear is not unfounded. If considered seriously and critically, a shift in gender structure could potentially result in a complete restructuring of traditional Jewish community, family, ritual, and practice;feminist critique identifies a deep-seated gender bias affecting the basic discourse of traditional Jewish sources, from the Torah itself through contemporary writings.

Rabbinic sources about women are complicated. They can be divided, in my opinion, into three main typologies.The first category refers to women as Other.[2] Women are portrayed as temptresses and pollutants.[3] They are light-headed and are liable to misconstrue information.[4] According to one Midrash, even God is unable to control woman’s subversive nature, despite having tried to create Woman as docile and submissive.[5] In one particularly difficult text, the Talmud writes: “A woman is a pot of filth and her mouth is full of blood and all run after her.”[6] These sources show a distinct suspicion toward, and bias against, women as Other in comparison to men.

In the second category, in contrast, sources about Jewish woman are overwhelmingly positive—particularly in their roles as mothers and wives. These texts acknowledge the tremendous influence and impact women have on their husbands and sons. Without women’s commitment to God’s covenant, the men, who are obligated to pass on the Torah, would not have the temerity or discipline to fulfill their duties. Women as wives are thus central partners in the perpetuation of the covenant. In short, Jewish theology saw woman and her role as exalted, but also essentially inferior in body and mind.

Finally, in the third category are texts presenting the halakhic status and obligations of women in distinction to men; here the imbalance between the sexes is made clear. Women are significant, but unequal, partners. Because men are obligated in more mitzvoth, their lives are worth more. Thus, if a choice must be made to save the life of a man or a woman, the man is given priority.[7] This attitude might be seen as a reflection of the Torah itself, where passages in Leviticus[8] make a distinct difference in the monetary valuation of men and women, with men being worth more.

It is not to say, however, that women are not important or valued. The Jewish nation could not survive without the wombs of Jewish women. Women’s importance and stature in traditional Judaism are defined by their position as mothers, passing on the covenant to their offspring, nurturing them as young children, and providing a warm home for the family.

Furthermore, the halakhic structure takes pains to protect the most vulnerable women in society. If a man or a woman needs to be supported financially, a community with limited resources should protect the woman first in order to shield her from a life of debauchery or prostitution. Married women have marital rights to food, clothing, and sexual relations and can petition the court if their husbands are not fulfilling those obligations. Over 1,000 years ago, a rabbinic decree banned polygyny in most of the Jewish world in order to minimize spousal abandonment and reinforce a man’s commitment to his one wife.

Nonetheless, as noted above, the halakhic structure does not value egalitarianism. One of the major distinctions between the genders is women’s exemption from positive time-bound mitzvoth, a classification of mitzvoth that will be defined and analyzed below. Growing up in the Orthodox world, it is often presented definitively as the seminal proof that men and women are intended by God to fulfill different roles. I would go as far as to suggest that the foundation of gender separation rests greatly on this distinction, which includes mitzvoth such as tzitzith, tefillin, sukka, lulav, and shofar.

There are two primary reasons that have emerged in modernity and are presented as the reasons behind women’s exemption from time-bound mitzvoth. In both cases, it is strongly asserted that women are not inferior to men in any way:

1. Women are more spiritual than men and, as a result, “need” fewer mitzvoth. This is understood to be the innate wisdom of Torah, which recognizes that men and women cannot be religiously fulfilled in the same way. Men are more at risk, and thus require more structure and boundaries to pursue a covenantal relationship with God.
2. Women must be free to take care of children and cannot possibly be obligated in all of the mitzvoth. This is largely the argument used to justify women’s exemption from prayer and synagogue, regardless of the presence of actual children. It should be noted that women are actually obligated in prayer, as will be shown below, regardless of childbearing status.

According to either of these approaches, which are ubiquitous throughout Orthodox educational institutions, there is no nefarious hierarchy that privileges men over women. Women and men are in essence equal in the eyes of God. They simply have different roles to play in religious society and this too comes from God. This line of thinking then, interprets the rationale behind the blessing men say daily “Blessed are you God, who has not made me a woman” in a like manner. Men are thanking God for the extra mitzvoth bestowed upon them as men. It should not be perceived as a putdown of women’s status. Nonetheless, in stark contrast, women do not make a blessing thanking God for not making them male, but rather, utter a blessing that was added to the prayer service for women, in which they thank God for making them as He desired. This of course, is not parallel at all, and only serves to reinforce the sense of male privilege when the Jewish man daily says three blessings for what he is thankfully not: gentile, slave, or woman.

Text study also chips away at the genteelly framed explanations put forth above. The Mishna that presents women’s exemption from positive time-bound mitzvoth gives no such explanation for the distinction between men and women. In fact, nowhere in the Talmud is any explanation put forth for the exemptions of women from some mitzvoth.

The first attempts to explain this disparity in mitzvah obligation appear in the Middle Ages. In those earliest sources (cited later in this essay), women are presented as spiritually inferior to men and thus, needing fewer mitzvoth. Alternatively, it was suggested that women’s time must be free for serving their husbands, thereby exempting them from spending their time serving God. The two reasons cited above—spiritual superiority and care for children—are a modern reworking of these suggested interpretations for the discrepancy in mitzvah obligation. This is presumably in order to present a more coherent picture in line with a modern ethos, which sees women as neither subservient nor fundamentally inferior to men.

These approaches essentially create a façade that denies that gender discrimination is evident in the formulation of a category of positive time-bound mitzvoth and then serves as the fulcrum for the emergence of woman as ezer kenegdo—a helpmeet to the more actively obligated men.

What Is a Time-Bound Mitzvah?

The primary source for women’s exemption from positive time-bound mitzvoth is found in a Mishna in Kiddushin (1:7), which presents four categories of mitzvoth without any indication of the source for such classification:

And all of the mitzvoth the son is commanded to do for the father, both women and men are equally obligated.

And all of the positive time bound commandments, men are obligated and women are exempt.

And all of the positive non-time bound commandments, both women and men are obligated.

And all of the negative commandments, whether time bound or not, both men and women are obligated except for the prohibition to shave one’s sideburns or beard with a razor and for priests (male) not to incur impurity of the dead.[RA1] 

All of the mitzvoth that a father is commanded to do for his son, women are exempted from.

The categories presented are defined as positive time-bound mitzvoth, positive non-time-bound mitzvoth, negative time-bound mitzvoth, and negative non-time-bound mitzvoth. Women are obligated in three of the four categories and only exempted from mitzvoth defined as positive time-bound. No explanation is given for this exemption, and there is no clarity as to what time-bound means or how to define the concept of time in this regard. Furthermore, the distinction between time-bound and non-time-bound mitzvoth appears only with regard to the difference in obligation between women and men. It serves no other function in the talmudic discourse.[9]

An idea that women have more of an active duty to husband than to serving God does emerge in a parallel Tosefta,[10] but in the context of key gender differences with regard to honoring parents. Whether this is the intuitive reason behind the broader exemption in the Mishna is unknown, however, it is worth looking at the Tosefta as illuminating the hierarchy that exists in the marital relationship and directly impacts women’s ability to practice in the religious sphere.

Men and women are equally obligated in the fifth of the Ten Commandments,  “Honor thy father and mother.” The passage in Tosefta states that married women however, are not free to fulfill this obligation because they require the permission of their husbands in order to do so. Due to their restricted freedom in the marital relationship, halakha exempts them from their divine duty to their parents.[11] The message is clear: A married woman will not be free to perform this central mitzvah, and perhaps other mitzvoth, in the same way as a man who is married.

Both the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmud add the caveat that if a woman becomes widowed or divorced she resumes her full obligation to her parents, reverting back to the original nature of the mitzvah obligating both men and women.[12] The exemption is only for the duration of marriage. While no one has suggested such a distinction between single and married women with regard to other mitzvoth from which women are exempt, it is interesting to consider such a possibility when rethinking gender distinction in mitzvoth today.

What Are Some Time-Bound Mitzvot?

Following the Mishna that baldly puts forward women’s exemption from positive time-bound mitzvoth, the Talmud brings several examples to illustrate. These include tzitzith, tefillin, sukkah, lulav, and shofar.[13] The mitzvoth can be grouped into two categories, although it is hard to come up with a unifying thread between the two.

1. Sukka, lulav, and shofar. These are time-bound because they can only be fulfilled on specific days of the year. No one disagrees with the time-bound nature of these mitzvoth. They have no meaning once the associated holiday passes. Accordingly, this exemption status should apply to all positive commandments that are calendar dependent, including Shabbat and Passover. This in actuality is not the case and women are obligated in many similar time-bound mitzvoth.

2. Tefillin and tzitzith. Both of these are ritual objects that are to be worn all day every day, but only in the daytime and not at night, at least in the time of the Talmud.[14] The time-bound nature is completely different than in the first category, since the time dimension is much less significant than in the first category. For instance, if one doesn’t wear tefillin or tzitzith on a particularly day or even for a whole week, one can wake up and perform those mitzvoth on the morrow. In addition, neither of these examples are uniformly accepted as time-bound. There are tannaitic sages who rule that women are obligated in both of these mitzvoth because they are in fact, not time-bound. To illustrate, in Tosefta Kiddushin and the parallel passage in the Jerusalem Talmud on Kiddushin, the Tanna Kamma defines tzitzith as non-time-bound. Only Rabbi Shimon disagrees.[15]

The Talmud in Kiddushin[16] begins to explore and challenge the Mishna’s classification of these commandments. The discourse is significant, for it brings several examples in which women are obligated in certain positive time-bound commandments and exempted from other positive non-time-bound commandments. The obligations that go against the rule include eating matzah, rejoicing on the holidays, and gathering to hear the king read the Torah every seven years. The exemptions that also go against the rule include Torah study, procreation, and redeeming the first-born son.

It should thus be apparent that the classification of women’s exemption from some mitzvoth and obligation in others is by no means clear-cut. The Talmud brings a statement of Rabbi Yochanan, “We do not learn from general statements,” to acknowledge the dissonance that emerges from so much inconsistency. This of course begs the question of why such a classification system needs to exist and what role it plays in shaping the gender binary. There is a deep sense of the arbitrary.

To illustrate, the talmudic discussion continues with an attempt to analyze women’s exemption from sitting in a sukkah in an attempt to include women in this time-bound mitzvah. On the face of it, it should seem possible to include women in the mitzvah of sukkah. In addition to some compelling methodological reasons to do so, there are  practical ones as well, since the exemption will potentially mean that men will be dwelling inside the sukkah, with wives and daughters on the outside. Given that Sukkot in particular is a holiday in which men and women are supposed to rejoice together, this seems counterintuitive! The famous sage Abaye notes that if the mitzvah on sukkot is to “dwell” in the sukkah, it should include women who are equated to a man’s dwelling. His colleague Rava argues that sukkah should be equated to Passover, since they both fall on the 15^th of their respective months. Although the Passover offering and matzah are time-bound mitzvoth, women are unequivocally obligated in them, and so, this could serve as an opening to obligate them in sukkah as well. In the end, the Talmud, based on the Midrash Halakha Sifra, concludes that they are indeed exempt because of an exegetical analysis of an extra letter in a verse that discusses the mitzvah.[17] Interestingly, the reason is not that it fits into the category of time-bound mitzvoth, even though the Tosefta lists  it as such. In fact, through the talmudic discourse analyzing the mitzvoth that can be included or excluded from the Mishna’s classification, the principle of exemption from time-bound mitzvoth does not make up the central argument in any of the cases. As a result, in the course of this evaluation of the halakhic nature of women’s exemption from some mitzvoth, a parallel reality is explored, in which women could have been included in all of the positive time-bound mitzvoth along with the central obligation of learning Torah using the same methodology that in the end is used toward exempting them.

Maimonides[18] acknowledges this lack of consistency. Women’s exemptions from certain mitzvoth and obligations in others do not fit into clearly defined rubrics. He does not attempt to give a reason for the exemptions or the inclusions. He simply states that the mitzvoth women are exempted from are passed on by tradition. The rule exempting women from time-bound mitzvoth is not seen to provide comprehensive or clear guidance, nor does it convey anything about the nature of women when compared to men.

Moving on to the other central text on this topic, in Tracate Berakhot[19] women are grouped together with minors and Canaanite slaves, although the focus of the Talmud is really on women.[20] They are exempt from Shema and tefillin but obligated in prayer, mezuzah, and grace after meals. Women’s exemption from reciting the Shema especially provokes curiosity since Shema is a liturgical affirmation of the key doctrinal commitments underlying Judaism (belief in one God and dedication to God through performance of the commandments).[21] The Babylonian Talmud assumes the exemption from Shema is because it is a positive time-bound mitzvah from which women are exempt. In the parallel passage in the Jerusalem Talmud, however, the reason for the exemption from Shema is based on the verse that traditionally exempts women from learning Torah: And you shall teach it to your sons—to your sons and not to your daughters.[22] Here again, there is a lack of uniformity regarding the reason for women’s exemption from Shema. Is it due to its time-bound nature, or is it because reciting Shema is like learning Torah?

The next significant point of analysis in this Berakhot passage is regarding prayer called Tefillah and referring to the Shemonah Esreh. Tefillah will challenge the integrity of the entire structure of positive time-bound mitzvoth. If women are exempted from time-bound commandments, why are they obligated in prayer, which is a time-bound mitzvah with an obligation in the evening, morning, and afternoon? The answer given in the standard talmudic text is because women need to petition God for mercy and they are thus obligated. The point-counterpoint in the discourse is fascinating. It would seem, based on the Mishna’s principle, that although women should be undeniably exempt from prayer, the need for mercy is enough to override the principle. Interestingly, accepting the yoke of heaven in Shema is not enough to implement an override!

What is more noteworthy is that certain talmudic manuscripts, notably the Munich manuscript of Berakhot 20a has a totally different version which resolves the latent contradiction in obligating in Tefillah but exempting from Shema.

This version, which is quoted by the early talmudic commentaries Rif and Rosh in their commentary on this page of Talmud, defines Tefillah as a positive non-time-bound mitzvah obligating women. The tension however remains, since Tefillah as an obligation consistently refers to the prayer known as Shemonah Esreh, which requires commitment to recitation three times a day. This seems, even more than Shema, and certainly more than tefillin and tzitzith, to be time-bound. Subsequent codification of laws around Tefillah revolve around exacting time frames in which each Shemonah Esreh is said.

Maimonides resolves this to a large degree by bifurcating the obligation to pray into two, but even this leads to a certain internal inconsistency in his Mishneh Torah. In the first,[23] he states that Tefillah is a biblical obligation that is non-time-bound and non-defined. It requires only some sort of recognition and gratitude toward God along with a personal petition at some point in the day. Women and slaves are equally obligated along with men. However, in another chapter of Mishneh Torah on the laws of Tefillah,[24] he states outright that women and slaves are obligated in Shemonah Esreh, which is time-bound.

In short, the Talmud exempts women from time-bound mitzvoth despite the many exceptions to the rule. One of the major exceptions is to obligate women in regular daily Tefillah. The internal dissonance caused by this inclusion, which seems like it should be an exemption, leads to a leniency that is actually transgressive, for women naturally feel they are exempt from prayer just as they are exempt from Shema, tzitzith, tefillin, sukka, lulav, and shofar. From the early modern period until today, when rabbinic authorities have looked around and noticed that women are not praying Shemonah Esreh at all, they are pressed to come up with an explanation.

The Mishna Berura, for instance, takes issue with the Magen Avraham’s attempt to excuse such behavior writing,

Even though this is a positive time-bound mitzvah and women are exempt from those mitzvoth….they obligated them in morning and afternoon prayers like men since prayer is designated to invoke mercy. And this is correct because it is the opinion of the majority of legal deciders….therefore we should instruct women to pray Shemonah Esreh.[25]

The defense that women are occupied with childbearing is considered and only partially accepted even in the ultra-Orthodox community as illustrated by both Rabbi Ben Zion Licthman[26] and Rabbi Yekutiel Yehuda Halberstam, who commented as follows:

And perhaps since those who are busy with the needs of the many are exempt…one could argue that women who have small children they care for worried that if they pray they would not be able to properly care for their children and one who is engaged in a mitzvah is exempt from a mitzvah and her husband’s demands also fall on her…..[N]onetheless in the Talmud it is written they are obligated and there was no concern for such things and how can we go against a decree of our sages?…Still we must justify the position of the Magen Avraham…there is what to rely on for women at this time since they cannot check to make sure they have proper intent during prayer….since women are greatly distracted, and their husband’s authority hangs over them, and the children depend on them. Therefore it seems that most women do not pray regularly and only when they can evaluate themselves to see if they have proper intent do they pray when this is possible and it seems to me this correct…since truly the decree was to obligate them in prayer.[27]

One last text further emphasizes the lack of uniformity on the subject of women’s obligation in mitzvoth. It is found in the minor talmudic tractate of Sofrim/Scribes[28]:

…for the women are obligated to hear the reading of the book/Torah like men…and they are obligated in the reading of Shema and prayer (Shemonah Esreh) and the Grace after Meals and mezuzah, and if they do not know how to read in the holy language (Hebrew), they should be taught in any language they can understand and be taught. From here, it was understood that one who makes the blessing must raise his voice for his small sons, his wife, and his daughters.

In this rabbinic text, women are obligated to hear the reading of the book (Torah), and they are also obligated in Shema, Tefillah, Grace after Meals, and mezuzah. Furthermore, if they do not know the holy language (Hebrew), they are taught to say the prayers in any language that they can understand.

This is an interesting source for it directly contradicts the Mishna in Berakhot. Here the mitzvah of Shema, which stands at the crossroad of several critical exemptions (namely, tefillin and learning Torah) is defined as an obligation. As was noted in the analysis of the Kiddushin passage, there is a sense of a parallel halakhic process in which women could have been obligated in positive time-bound mitzvoth as well as in learning Torah.

Before moving on, below is a chart that underscores some of the lack of consistency that is apparent in the topic of women and mitzvoth. As stated earlier, women’s exemption from time-bound mitzvoth is often presented as reflective of women’s innate nature toward spirituality or toward raising children. However, a quick look at the chart shows that women are obligated in as many positive time-bound mitzvoth as they are exempted from, and more if you include rabbinic positive time-bound mitzvoth as well.

What becomes apparent is that women are obligated in all of the positive time-bound mitzvoth, biblical and rabbinic, associated with Shabbat along with all of the mitzvoth associated with Passover. They are obligated in the mitzvoth of Purim and must light candles on Hanukkah. In fact, there are almost no rabbinically-mandated time-bound mitzvoth from which they are exempt, with the possible exception of counting the Omer, which is rooted in biblical origins, and saying Hallel on festivals. This calls into question why, if an exemption from time-bound mitzvoth is so central to gender differentiation in Judaism, women were included in so many of the Rabbinic positive time-bound mitzvoth.

In the end, the entire gendered platform of women’s exemption from time-bound mitzvoth rests on nine or ten positive time-bound mitzvoth, many of which are not uniformly accepted as time-bound or exemptions for women in the talmudic literature; there are an almost equal number of exemptions from positive non time-bound mitzvoth. It is also interesting that while women are supported and encouraged in many homes and communities to voluntarily take on mitzvoth such as shofar, lulav, and sukkah, and, most especially, little girls, are taught at a very young age to say Shema in the morning upon waking up and before bed, there is little to no support within Orthodoxy for women putting on tefillin or wearing tzitzith. Those mitzvoth remain unquestionably gendered and taboo in their perception within religious society. This is probably because very few women within Orthodoxy wear tzitzith, tallith, and tefillin, while in the non-Orthodox denominations it is part of the coming of age process, which creates a further politicized divide between these time-bound mitzvoth and Orthodox women.

Infusing Meaning into the Unknown

At the beginning of this article, it was noted that the explanations most frequently given nowadays as to why women are exempt from positive time-bound mitzvoth are because of heightened spirituality or time restraints while taking care of children. However, the earliest attempts to give reason for these exemptions focus on a wife’s subordination to her husband and her spiritual inferiority.

Malmad HaTalmidim[29] in thirteenth-century southern France and the Abudraham[30] in fourteenth-century in Spain attribute women’s exemption from time-bound mitzvoth to the tension it would cause, placing the woman between God and her husband. Both suggest that without this exemption, women would be caught between “Creator” and husband. Each would be vying for her absolute fidelity, and neither God nor husband would understand her forsaking one for the other. In order to have harmony in the home, God exempted her from these obligations. It is assumed that God had a central role in engineering the exemptions to avoid discord, lest the husband feel undermined by her choosing God over him. They present women as exempt from time-bound mitzvoth that might bring them into conflict with household duties.

A different approach emerges in Rabbi Yehoshua Ibn Shuaiv (fourteenth-century Spain). Citing Nachmanides, he writes that just as the souls of Israelite men are holier than those of non-Jews and Canaanite slaves, so too they are holier than women’s, even those women who are included in the covenant. For this reason men were commanded in all of the positive and negative mitzvoth.[31]

This is startlingly distinct from the more widely known approach in modernity that appears in the sixteenth century, in the commentary of Judah Loew ben Bezalel, known as the Maharal of Prague, in which women are presented as spiritually superior and thus, less dependent on mitzvoth to nurture spiritual development.[32] In the nineteenth century, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch wrote in his commentary[33] that the Torah exempted women from positive time-bound mitzvoth because of their innate connection to the divine. He further writes,

The Torah affirms that our women are imbued with a great love and a holy enthusiasm for their role in Divine worship, exceeding that of man. The trials men undergo in their professional activities jeopardize their fidelity to Torah and therefore, they require from time to time reminders and warnings in the form of time-related precepts. Women, whose lifestyle does not subject them to comparable trials and hazards, have no need for such periodic reminders.

Upon reading Hirsch however, one cannot help but ponder this last sentence. Women were not in the past subject to comparable trials and hazards as men, but what would he say today when men and women interact regularly in the same challenging environments? Given that he greatly contextualizes his explanation to a reality that no longer exists, would he argue that now women should be equally obligated in all positive time-bound mitzvoth?

Feminist Scholars in the Twentieth Century

In the late twentieth century, female Talmud scholars began to introduce different explanations for women’s exemption from time-bound mitzvoth.

Before Professor Rachel Adler left Orthodoxy, she lived as a fully Orthodox Jewish feminist in Los Angeles. In an essay titled “The Jew Who Wasn’t There,”[34] she wrote movingly,

Make no mistake; for centuries, the lot of the Jewish woman was infinitely better than that of her non-Jewish counterpart. She had rights which other women lacked until a century ago... [T]he problem is that very little has been done since then (1000 ce) to ameliorate the position of Jewish women in observant society. All of this can quickly be rectified if one steps outside of Jewish tradition and Halacha. The problem is how to attain some justice and some growing room for the Jewish woman if one is committed to remaining within Halacha. Some of these problems are more easily solved than others. For example, there is ample precedent for decisions permitting women to study Talmud, and it should become the policy of Jewish day schools to teach their girls Talmud. It would not be difficult to find a basis for giving women aliyot to the Torah. Moreover, it is both feasible and desirable for the community to begin educating women to take on the positive time-bound mitzvoth from which they are now excused; in which case, those mitzvoth would eventually become incumbent upon women.

It is noteworthy, that when Adler wrote her essay in the 1970s, almost no one was teaching girls and women Talmud. Since then, many, although not all, Orthodox schools have added Talmud classes for girls. More significantly, serious post-high school Talmud study became available both in New York and more centrally, in the Jerusalem area where Matan, Nishmat, Lindenbaum, Migdal Oz, and most recently, Drisha, have educated thousands of young women who are comfortable and competent in Talmud study. Serious halakhic programs with ordination-like curricula have also proliferated in Israel at Matan, Nishmat, Lindenbaum, Migdal Oz, Beit Morasha, and Harel, as well as in New York, with the Maharat program,  which has graduated dozens of women, many of whom are serving in some capacity as communal rabbinic figures.

What Adler is suggesting, however, is that the disparity in obligation in positive time-bound mitzvoth inexcusably contributes to the hierarchy that discriminates against women. Ultimately, she left Orthodoxy, and one of the reasons she gave was the rabbinic reluctance to seriously consider a change in the halakhic status of women.

About ten years later, Blu Greenberg, who is known as one of the founders of Orthodox Feminism and specifically of JOFA, (Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance) wrote a seminal book called On Women and Judaism[35] in which she grappled with her love for tradition, ritual, and religious theology along with her awareness of feminism and the feminist critique of patriarchal structures. With regard to halakhic Judaism, she wrote,

I am not arguing here whether halakhic Judaism deems a woman inferior, although there are more than a few sources in the tradition that lend themselves to such a conclusion; nor will I accept at face value those statements that place women on a separate but higher pedestal. What I am saying is that halakhah, contrary to the feminist values I have described above, continues to delimit women. In some very real ways, halakhic parameters inhibit women's growth, both as Jews and as human beings.

I do not speak here of all of halakhah. One must be careful not to generalize from certain critical comments and apply them to the system as a whole. In fact, my critique could grow only out of a profound appreciation for the system in its entirety—its ability to preserve the essence of an ancient revelation as a fresh experience each day; its power to generate an abiding sense of kinship, past and present; its intimate relatedness to concerns both immediate and otherworldly; its psychological soundness; its ethical and moral integrity. On the whole, I believe that a Jew has a better chance of living a worthwhile life if he or she lives a life according to halakhah. Therefore, I do not feel threatened when addressing the question of the new needs of women in Judaism nor in admitting the limitations of halakhah in this area.

Neither Adler nor Greenberg was willing to accept apologetic explanations along the lines of separate but equal regarding the exemptions and exclusions of women that have been perpetuated for thousands of years. Both bring a respectful but critical questioning approach that could only emerge in the wake of greater educational opportunities for women, leading to a demand for a seat at the table when evaluating the future of women’s status in halakha.

At the beginning of the twenty-first century, Dr. Tamar Ross wrote Expanding the Palace of Torah, a book about feminist theology and the interpretation of Jewish text.[36] In the second chapter, she presented her analysis of women and their exemption from mitzvoth.

The net result is that women are at times classified in halakhic literature together with other marginalized groups such as slaves, children, imbeciles, androgens, hermaphrodites, and the deaf-mute—either because they are excluded from certain mitzvoth altogether or because they are merely exempt. … As in the case of other classes situated on the hierarchical scale, difference in religious responsibility then serves as rationale for women’s diminished valuation.

Ross connected the exemption from time-bound commandments with the absolute exclusion from Torah study which ultimately alienated women completely from the interpretive decision-making process in halakha. She called for a reinterpretation, philosophically, of all religious texts, particularly of the Torah, with a female voice rather than the male voice of the Old Testament, in order to read women back into the text.

Within these examples of three female voices come a different interaction and interpretation of the texts laying out the halakhic gender binary that reflects a heightened awareness of the impact this classification has had on the perception of women within marriage, family, community, and nation.

Circling back to the beginning of this essay, gender matters because it has played a pivotal role in how the halakhic structure has functioned for thousands of years. I think it is important to acknowledge that for many, possibly even the majority in the broader Orthodox, ultra-Orthodox, and Hassidic communities, the classification of men and women having different gender roles has been central to religious identity and has probably been empowering to many of those who are committed to observance. However, it is equally important to acknowledge that the positivity assigned to these differing gender roles acts to smooth over a façade behind which lies a social structure that privileges men and can disempower and discriminate against women. The bigger issues are not those of tefillin and tzitzith, but the general disparities in mitzvah obligation that are  emblematic of a hierarchy that excludes women from halakhic decision making, leadership roles, and, most notably, continues to perpetuate the imbalance of power in the marital relationship.

I often say that I do not want to lose the men to gain the women, but I do want men to be less afraid of strong female leadership and women’s interest in increased practice in ritual, both in public and private space, particularly when halakhically legitimate. This is not a simple task to implement.

I want to bring an anecdote to illustrate the complexity in what I am suggesting. A college student of mine arrived at her single brother’s home for dinner on Friday night. While the meal had not yet begun, they had already made Kiddush. She asked for a cup of wine so that she could make Kiddush, and one of the male guests offered to make it for her. She politely refused and again, asked for wine so that she could make Kiddush. He again offered to make Kiddush for her more aggressively, insisting that women cannot make Kiddush. She knew that she could. What made the conversation more frustrating was that no one else, Day School and yeshiva graduates all, defended her or could remember the halakhic policy on this matter. She knew she was right but could not cite the source from memory. This kind of scene, of what I call permitted but prohibited, repeats itself regularly throughout the religious world. Religious women on college campuses are repeatedly prevented from making Kiddush or haMotzi for the community although halakhically they can fill the obligations for everyone. Even more surprising for such egalitarian academic spaces, tremendous resistance is expressed on many campuses to the idea of passing the Torah through the women’s section during Shabbat morning services. There is a sense of taboo that is formed around rituals traditionally performed by men but that can be performed by women. As one very important mainstream rabbi at Yeshiva University once tellingly told my brother, “Your sister is halakhically permitted to make the blessing on challah for everyone, but, she simply should not!”

I want men and women together to seek halakhic solutions and build halakhically committed communities with an emphasis on seeking greater partnership between the sexes. This I believe will perpetuate the integrity of a living Torah that continues to infuse and inspire our lives with the sense of the divine. To conclude with a quote from Blu Greenberg, “It is my very faith in halakhic Judaism that makes me believe we can search within it for a new level of perfection, as Jews have been doing for three thousand years.”

Judaism, to me, is not about laws but about music and musical notes. In all of its laws, I hear powerful sonatas that transform my soul: Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35, with its heights of intensity; Johann Sebastian Bach’s Piano Concerto No. 1 in D Minor, with his iron fist, uncompromising dedication to detail, and strict adherence to rigid rules of composition, resulting in a phenomenal outburst of emotion. When I listen to these masterpieces, I encounter the thunder and lightning experienced by the children of Israel when God revealed His Torah at Mount Sinai. It feels like being hit with an uppercut under the chin and remaining unconscious for the rest of the day.

But I also hear Igor Stravinsky’s recreation of Bach’s cantatas and, even more, his Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rite of Spring). The scandal it caused when it was performed in Paris on May 29, 1913, led to a breakthrough in the world of musical composition. The music never had a chance as the audience erupted in riotous behavior almost from the first sounds. The weird resonance, the odd twists and turns of melody proved disconcerting to many. There were reports of fisticuffs, spitting, slapping and even threats of dueling. Still, Stravinsky won the day. His first performance may have lost the battle, but since then, this masterpiece generates ecstatic reactions among many music lovers.

It brings to mind the great debates of the rabbis in the Talmud who showed unprecedented courage by interpreting Jewish law and philosophy in infinite ways that caused major conflicts, many of which have not been resolved to this day. The spiritual riots and debates concerning the words of God at Sinai continue to keep Judaism ever fresh.

I think of my non-Jewish friend who came to see me in the renowned Gateshead Yeshiva in England, the “Lakewood of Europe,” where I was studying at the time. He wanted to understand what a talmudic college was all about and wondered what I, once liberal-minded and secular, was doing in this “Jewish monastery.” I brought him into the Beit Midrash, where he expected to find a university-like, mannerly student body, speaking softly, whispering in near silence. What he actually encountered almost made him pass out. Hundreds of young men were nervously walking around, arguing and shouting at each other so that it was nearly impossible to hear one’s own voice. Turning to me in total astonishment, he asked whether this was a demonstration against the Queen of England or the British government. My answer shocked him even more: No, they are actually discussing what, precisely, did God say at Sinai over 3,000 years ago. I will never forget his response: “You still don’t know? “Indeed,” I said, “we still do not know!” Just as one can have major disagreements on how to interpret Bach or Brahms (remember Glenn Gould and Leonard Bernstein?) so it is with Jewish law. There are many possibilities, and all are legitimate! We still argue about the words of God and have therefore outlived all our enemies.

I worry when people, including influential rabbis today, suffocate Judaism by seeing it as nothing more than laws to be observed. Every dispute must be settled; no doubt may prevail; every philosophical disagreement has to be resolved. It seems they are unable to hear its ongoing and astonishing music. They are spiritually tone deaf.
****************
I was born by breech delivery, a very painful procedure, which my mother endured with iron strength. We nearly did not make it. It was Friday night, the eve of Shabbat, and I was born to two marvelous people who by Jewish law would not have been allowed to marry. Theirs was a mixed marriage. My father was Jewish, my mother was not.
The physician was a religious Jew, Dr. Herzberger, who had to violate Shabbat to save our lives. It was Amsterdam, the 26th of July, 1946, just after the Holocaust.

In many ways, both these facts—an unusual birth and being the child of a mixed marriage—have set the stage for my life. I often see things from a reverse position. What is normal for others evokes in me feelings of wonder and awe, and what others consider amazing I see as obvious. As the product of a mixed marriage, who converted to Judaism at the age of 16, I became somewhat of an in-out-sider. I had always seen myself as a “father Jew,” of zera Yisrael (Jewish ancestry) and therefore Jewish, but later on I learned that it did not make me a Jew according to Halakha.

My mother, while still a young woman, came to live with my father’s family once she had lost her Christian parents. So, she grew up in a liberal, socialist, Amsterdam-Jewish cultural milieu, where Friday night dinners were comparable to hatunot (weddings), though my father’s parents were not religious and as poor as church mice, as were most of Amsterdam’s Jews. My mother was completely integrated in this world and while she knew she was not Jewish, she was an integral part of the community, spoke its language and felt totally at home in this strange, secular but deeply Jewish world. It is no surprise, then, that she converted years later, when she was in her fifties, after I convinced her of Judaism’s beauty. After all, she had always been a Jewess.

With the permission of Hakham Shelomo Rodrigues Pereira, Chief Rabbi of the Portuguese Jewish community in Amsterdam, my parents were married kedat u-kedin (according to Halakha) by the same rabbi who married my wife and me three months later. There was, however, a small but crucial difference: my parents had been married for over thirty-five years, while my wife and I were just beginners!
*****
I spent more than 12 years learning in ultra-Orthodox yeshivot and received heter hora’ah (rabbinic ordination) from Rabbi Aryeh Leib Gurwitz who was, in his younger years, the havruta of Rabbi Elchanan Wasserman, the most well-known disciple of Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan, also known as the Hafetz Hayim. I know this world better than many do, but I am still not fully a part of it. Nor do I belong to the secular Jewish world, and surely not to the gentile world. I continuously struggle with my Jewish identity and religiosity; and now, at the age of 67, I am perhaps more involved in this endeavor than ever before. Day and night, I am busy with my great loves: Judaism, Israel and the Jewish people. Yet, I am unable to feel at home in the world of mainstream Orthodox Judaism. For many years I was a real bahur yeshiva, who had bought into the hareidi philosophy, but much later I realized that it had become too narrow, too insipid, and often trivial. Today, I believe that Modern Orthodoxy, too, has for the most part become tedious. Even the famous Rabbi Joseph Ber Soloveitchik, head of the rabbinical school at Yeshiva University in New York, was not able to lift it out of its spiritual malaise. Conservative and Reform Judaism are not options for my soul. They are too easy, too academic and unable to create a spiritual upheaval. My Judaism is one of dissent, protest and spiritual war against too much conformity. Self-critique is the crucial issue, not self-satisfaction. Not clichés, but insight; not obstinacy, but elasticity; not habit, but spontaneity; these and deep religiosity are for me the great movers behind this magnificent tradition.

My atypical beginnings have influenced my thinking in unconventional ways and to this day get me into trouble with some of my rabbinical colleagues, as well as with religious and non-religious Jews.
****
At the age of 21, I married a Jewish girl from an Orthodox home. We have been blessed with five children, special children-in-law, lots of grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren. All of them are deeply religious, love Torah and excel in a variety of professions. We have children who are rabbis, teachers, businessmen, and one who is an architect with a license in counseling! Some of my grandchildren wear black kippot, and some have pei’ot; others have colored kippot, small and large. Some are closer to ultra-Orthodoxy, others are Modern Orthodox; some fervent Zionists, others not. They all represent parts of my personality and I love the diversity.

My home is in Jerusalem, in an ultra-Orthodox neighborhood where I no longer feel at home. With few exceptions, I pray with people I can’t speak with and I speak with people I can’t pray with. Still, I love them all. They are Jews, so they are my family. But I do not share with them an intellectual or spiritual-religious language. I have little in common with the Orthodox or the secular Jew in the way I see the world, God and Torah. For some people I am much too religious; for others, something of a heretic.

This is my fate and I can live with it, though it sometimes feels a little, and at other times very lonely.
****
My brother is 64 and although according to Halakha he is not a Jew, he is more Jewish than many Jews I know. For years he ran a kosher home with his non-Jewish wife, to accommodate our family visits. He nearly converted but never took the final step. He wants to be buried in Beth Haim, the Portuguese Jewish Cemetery in Ouderkerk, which is a small town just south of Amsterdam. But he knows that will be impossible.

When I suggested to him that perhaps he should be buried in the Reform community’s cemetery in Amsterdam, he told me that he only wants to be buried in the Orthodox cemetery; other streams of Judaism are not on his radar!

Knowing that he will not be buried in Beth Haim, or any other Jewish cemetery, pains me greatly. How will it be possible to bury him among the gentiles when he is one of ours?
****
The Portuguese Jewish cemetery in Ouderkerk is full of contradictions and reflects the turmoil that existed within early Dutch Jewish society, which included many Marranos, also known as Conversos, who fled from the Inquisition and came to Holland but could not fit in. One will find there the extravagant tombstones of some of the most remarkable Jews in all of Jewish history: Don Samuel Palache, the Sultan of Morocco’s commercial and diplomatic envoy in the sixteenth century; the famous Doctor Ephraim Bueno, early seventeenth-century Jewish physician and writer, whom Rembrandt used as the subject of one of his paintings; Antonio Lopez Pereira, chief treasurer of the King of Spain; and many other famous Jews.

These remarkable tombstones are outstandingly artistic and somewhat un-Jewish, reminiscent of the Catholic Church whose influence had not yet weakened. They have images of biblical figures and their narratives carved in marble. There is even one with an image of God speaking to the prophet Samuel! This is in total violation of Jewish law and is a clear indication of the spiritual confusion in which these Jews, including my forefathers, lived. I realize that my brother and I are strange by-products of this turmoil.

Even the parents of the most celebrated Jewish apostate and world-class philosopher, Baruch Spinoza, are buried there. But the philosopher himself was laid to rest behind the NieuweKerk (New Church) in The Hague--a sad reflection of what transpired in this unusual Jewish Portuguese community that was teeming with people who had split personalities and tried to reclaim their Judaism after having been forced to live as Catholics for hundreds of years. Paradoxically, while the Inquisition and subsequent expulsion from Spain made these Jews long for Judaism as never before, when they came to Amsterdam many of them could not adjust to mainstream Orthodox Judaism. Some became practicing Jews outwardly but remained Christian in some of their beliefs. They believed Judaism to be a kind of Christianity, but without the cross. Others became secular but outwardly conformed to religious observance so as to remain members of the “Portuguese nation,” as they called themselves. They attended the Esnoga, the famous Sefardi Synagogue in Amsterdam, but their hearts were not in it. They had nowhere else to go, and they just wanted to belong. What made it even more critical was that they could not and did not want to be part of the Christian community of Amsterdam. Nor did they want to walk in the footsteps of Spinoza who, though he never chose baptism, was happy to leave the community and never looked back.
*****

As a child, I was always overwhelmed by the extraordinary, which was seen by others as normal. Wherever I looked, I encountered the miracle of life. Whether it was watching the sun go down, or seeing genetic life under a microscope, I was struck with wonder and amazement. What is life and what is the meaning behind it? How is it that we are able to think? The most incomprehensible fact is that we are able to comprehend at all. Is the world not more a question than an answer? Why was I put on earth at this time and born into this family? Had I been dead for millions of years before entering this world? As Polish-born American theologian Abraham Joshua Heschel put it, “a perpetual murmur from the waves beyond the shore” was my constant companion, and it left me no rest.

I realize today that these questions laid the foundations for my religious and philosophical inquiries.

Our family lived a completely secular life, but within me, unawares, grew a spiritual consciousness that had religious implications.
****
My father was an extremely nice man, always in a good mood and incredibly proud of his Jewishness, particularly of being a Portuguese Jew. I doubt that he could have married a truly non-Jewish woman. He could only have married somebody like my mother who was Jewish without being a Jew. I greatly loved my father. He was a business man but should have been a professor. He was of high intellect and very sharp. Since he was born into a poor, socialistic Jewish family, he was never able to study or attend university. At an early age, he went into business as a sales representative and traveled around Holland. Later, after the Holocaust, he started his own business, in sewing machines, which proved very successful.

Somehow, he discovered Baruch Spinoza who had lived in Amsterdam in the seventeenth century. Spinoza had been a member of the Portuguese community and was put in herem (a ban pronounced by the ma’amad—council of rabbis and lay-leaders—of that community) after he started to express doubts about the truth of the Jewish tradition. It became the most infamous and harshest ban in all of Jewish history: “Cursed be he by day and cursed be he by night; cursed be he when he lies down, and cursed be he when he rises up; cursed be he when he goes out, and cursed be he when he comes in.” In the words of contemporary English Philosopher Simon Critchley: “That’s quite a lot of cursing” (The Book of Dead Philosophers, p. 157). When my father began to study Spinoza’s critique of Judaism, he became a follower and decided to live a secular life. But, as with many Jews, he did not entirely succeed, for he was too much of a proud Jew and certain taboos remained. He would not eat pork; in fact, it never entered our home. Friday night was as it had always been. On Pessah we ate matzot, and in winter we sometimes had a menora and a Christmas tree lit at the same time. It was clear that what my parents had agreed on—not to allow any religious observance in our home—did not work from day one. No doubt that was partially due to our mother’s insistence on having a “Jewish home” and our father’s endless discourse about his Jewishness. It was completely impossible to remain neutral in matters of religion!

It took my father many years before he was able to see the beauty of religious Judaism, revealed to him by his son, who was on his way to becoming a full-fledged Jew and who reintroduced him to the Jewish way of living.
*****
Gradually, I took an interest in religion. I asked many questions and could no longer remain indifferent. It had already affected my personality. I doubted whether a secular way of life would still be possible and indeed concluded that such an approach left too many questions unanswered, and that the lifestyle for the most part lacked spiritual depth. To drop religion was no longer an option. But which religion was the crème de la crème?

I started reading anything I could lay my hands on concerning other religions, including Christianity, Islam, Buddhism and Hinduism, but none of them inspired me. Both my Jewish background, which was deeply embedded in my DNA, as well as my father’s Jewish pride, had made a profound impression on me. Clearly, I was already under the spell of Judaism and believed that if any religion was close to the truth, this was the one. By that time, I was about 14 years old.

I began visiting bookshops looking for Dutch Jewish books, but there were very few. At home I read books on general philosophy by William Durant, who had written some splendid introductions to secular philosophy for laymen. They had been translated into Dutch and were part of my father’s small library on the subject. I was fascinated by many philosophers and found their books very illuminating, though there were parts I could not understand. It was also the first time I was introduced to Spinoza, and later my father told me more about his philosophy. We started reading sections of his works together: a havruta of sorts. Years later, Spinoza would play a big role in my life and, paradoxically, helped me come closer to Judaism.

There was one book I got hold of that completely captivated me. It was a Dutch translation of a Hebrew book, Dorenu Mul She’elot Ha-Netsach (translated to the English The Modern Jew Faces Eternal Problems), by Dr. Aron Barth, general manager of Bank Leumi in the 1950s. Reading this book was somewhat of a breakthrough for me. It introduced me to the world of Jewish religious thought, about which I knew very little. It discussed major theological issues through the prism of Judaism and dealt with many problems I was thinking about. It was deeply rooted in classical Judaism and written in a clear and lucid style. The author displayed much knowledge and wisdom in confronting major issues of the day. Although he was not completely honest when he tried to undermine every form of Bible criticism, he introduced me to some important challenges to Spinoza’s claim that the Torah comprised different documents authored by several writers, not by Moses.
****
As I was becoming more and more involved in my journey, my school studies got in the way. They were boring and of little importance compared to endeavors I believed were of much greater value: Judaism and discovering what life was really all about. I began neglecting my secular studies, and my school marks went down the drain. In fact, it got so bad that I failed my tests and was not promoted to the next grade. Understandably, my father was very worried.

Although the gymnasium where I studied was a first-class school, where Latin and Greek were taught, I felt that most of the classes were hopelessly dull and monotonous. What was completely absent was the challenge to discover things on our own. Everything was spoon-fed to the students. The teacher would tell us how to read Shakespeare and how to dissect a fish, instead of letting us find out for ourselves and only giving us advice when we were really on the wrong track. The learning process lacked all creativity and did not speak to our imagination. Instead of sending us home with a question, encouraging us to struggle with it, the teachers felt it was their task to ask the questions and immediately answer them. They did not realize that a question should sometimes remain unanswered, because every answer deals a death blow to further investigation.

I shall never forget that when one of the greatest scientists of our day, Isidore Rabi, was once asked why he became a scientist, he replied that his Jewish mother gets the credit. While other parents would ask their children what they had learned in school that day, she would ask: Izzy, what good question did you ask today? Answers are great, but doubt is what gives you an education.

Another boring aspect of my school education was that we were not allowed to come up with outrageous answers that would challenge the established system. If your answer did not fit the accepted scientific or literary framework, the teacher wouldn’t give you a second glance and would sometimes even punish you by sending you out of the room. I cannot remember how many hours I spent outside the classroom.

Years later, I was reminded of this while reading that the famous physicist Wolfgang Pauli once gave a lecture on elementary particle physics at Columbia University. Afterwards he asked Niels Bohr, arguably the greatest physicist of the twentieth century, whether he thought his theories were crazy. I do, replied Bohr. Unfortunately they are not crazy enough.

Encouraging students to be both curious and surprised is one of the great principles of good education. It is a sign of transcendence, the very foundation of authentic religiosity. Most of my teachers did not realize that and failed to adhere to the Greek proverb: Either dance well or quit the ballroom.
****
And so my education at school could not compete with my studies in Judaism. It became clear to me that Judaism is based on the need for constant questioning. I discovered that there are no absolute dogmas in Judaism, at least not in the way they are found within the Catholic Church.

Maimonides’ famous Thirteen Principles of Faith, which are sung in nearly every synagogue on Friday nights, were never accepted as the final version of Jewish belief and were in fact heavily attacked and challenged by the greatest rabbinical authorities. Today, I see that Maimonides’ thirteen principles caused major damage to Judaism. It was the famous Professor Leon Roth who once remarked: “For this Hebrew of Hebrews had in many respects a Greek mind and through his sense of logic and his passion for precision, he brought Judaism into a doctrinal crisis, the echoes of which are with us yet” (Judaism, A Portrait, 1960 p. 122). How true! Judaism, while surely consisting of certain beliefs, is open to self-critique, debate and ongoing discussions that have almost never been resolved. This spoke to my imagination. A religion with no dogmas, always open to new ideas! What could be better than that!
****

One cannot squeeze Judaism into well-established categories. It’s like trying to fit the ocean into a bath tub. Judaism is a way of living, accompanied by deep emotions and a strong religious experience. To argue that there are definite fundamentals of faith is to undermine authentic religious faith. It would be like arguing that musical notes are the fundamentals of music. They are not; they are only directions for the musician to follow, showing the way, but they are never das ding an sich, the thing itself. There are inexpressible dimensions of religious insights. Doctrines and creeds should never become screens; they can only function as windows into a world that is beyond definition. Faith can only be discovered in the light of one’s soul. It is a moment in which all definitions end, and any attempt to come to conclusive articles of faith can only yield stifling trivialities that become suspended in the heart of the man of real faith. Genuine Judaism can only be understood in its natural habitat of deep faith and piety in which the divine reaches all thoughts.

Even if dogma has a purpose, it can never function as a substitute for faith, only as a dry aspect of it, just as music is much more than what a musical note can ever convey. Basically, Judaism offers something that Christianity does not: a religion without a specific theology.

Halakha, while more down to earth—since it first asks for human action—is still open to various possibilities. There are many roads to God, as is abundantly clear after even a glimpse into the Talmud. Opinions abound on how to translate God’s commandments into down-to-earth deeds, which must be able to reveal the divine. In truth, we should each have our own individual Halakha, compatible to each soul and connecting it with one of the mitzvot. Mitzvot, after all, are a bridge to God, and since religion must be lived, and not just thought about or felt, it is the task of Halakha to translate belief into action.

Just as important is the need for people to live and worship together. This requires a halakhic framework that ensures a certain level of conformity while simultaneously allowing an act to touch the spirit in each individual. But that can only be done if there are constant attempts to connect with that spirit. Just as the musician needs to repeat a music segment before he feels his soul being touched by the music, so it is with a halakhic act. Like the musician who must know how to position his bow and move his fingers with great precision across the strings of the violin so as to draw the music out of the physical boundaries of the instrument, so the religious person must know how to release the deepest foundations of his soul via the halakhic deed.

****
I bought a German translation of the Talmud and then tried to decipher it. I peered into a world that had its own language, its own strange logic, one that was incompatible with anything the Greeks had offered. I soon learned that the Talmud discusses everything under the sun and is involved in trite trivialities, turning them into major issues as if life depends on them. Even more surprising was its frank discussion about sexuality. I’ll never forget the time I was in the middle of a tractate and the translation continued in Latin instead of German. I wondered why. Knowing some Latin, I tried it out and was totally surprised to discover that these passages advised women on how to seduce their husbands (Shabbat 104b). Where in the world would one find a book that discusses prayer, devotion to God, piety, and the art of sex on the same page? It is positively avant-garde!

Many years later I saw that these matters were openly discussed by yeshiva students and nobody took offense or even realized that if these Aramaic passages were to be translated into English, they would resemble a form of “holy pornography.” But the truth is, this is Torah, it is holy, and sex has nothing to do with the vulgar associations conjured up in people’s minds. In Judaism, sex is praying with one’s body. According to Hassidic teachings, this is clearly shown by the similarity in body movements of human beings when they make love and when they pray. In Ashkenazi circles, the latter is called shuckeling (swaying back and forth). (See Louis Jacobs, Hasidic Prayer, p. 60, and p. 171, note 33, where he brings the following sources: Tzava’at Ha-Ribash [Jerusalem 1948], p. 7b; Likutei Yekarim [Lemberg, 1865], p. 1b; Sefer Ba’al Shem Tov [Sotmar, 1943], vol. 1, p. 145, note 65.)
*****

Looking back at this period of my life, I realize how worried my father was. I was incapable of explaining what was going on, since I myself was too young to fully understand what was happening within me. One thing was clear: my schoolwork went down the drain. And not just a little bit. Although my father was a balanced man with an open mind, he must have panicked. What is my son doing? Not only is he neglecting his secular studies, but it is clear that this Judaism is drawing him to religious fanaticism!

It all came to a head when I expressed my wish to go to synagogue Saturday mornings, instead of going to school. My father, who by now felt that things were getting out of hand, would not hear of it.

I couldn’t persuade him to let me off, so I decided to continue going to school while simultaneously observing Shabbat. In Holland, everybody, including the queen would ride a bicycle, and I, being no exception, rode my bike to school every day. At that time we lived in a small town called Aerdenhout, 20 kilometers away from Amsterdam. We had to be in school at eight o’clock in the morning, which on winter days meant that I traveled in total darkness. Though it was imperative that I ride with my lights on, I decided that since it was forbidden to turn on a light on Shabbat, I would do the 20-minute ride without it. It didn’t even last a day. That first Shabbat morning, as I was bicycling to school, a policeman stopped me and asked whether I had lost my mind. Driving without a light on a dark, foggy morning was tantamount to suicide. I was unimpressed with his argument and told him that we Jews are obliged to observe Shabbat and I could therefore not turn on any light. He stared at me in bewilderment, no doubt contemplating sending me to a psychiatrist, and then told me that if I wanted to observe the Jewish day of rest, I should walk to school. And so I did.
Arriving very late, I entered the classroom, explained to the teacher that a policeman had stopped me, and then sat down. Unfortunately, we had a written exam that morning, which I believe was on Dutch literature and which presented me with yet another dilemma. How was I going to write?

This, too, would be a violation of Shabbat! There was only one solution: I wouldn’t do it! So I left my pencil untouched. It didn’t take long before the teacher noticed and asked me why I was not writing. I explained in clear terms that I was a Jewish boy and could not write, and that I should actually not be in school at all but in synagogue. He looked at me with a big, sympathetic smile and said: Hmm. Okay, see me after class. I expected a really stern rebuke and perhaps a threat that if I would not comply, the school would expel me. I was ready for a fight and determined not to give in. To my utter surprise, the teacher, who was also vice principal, asked me to sit down. Amused, but in no way derisive, he asked me whether I was serious about this. Did I truly want to go to synagogue and no longer attend school on Saturdays, and was I really so interested in Judaism? Or was this just a whim? What was so attractive about Judaism? It was clear that his questions were sincere, so I took the challenge. It was to become my first attempt at explaining to an outsider what this Judaism was all about, although my knowledge at the time was, to say the least, bordering on total ignorance.

To my astonishment, he showed a keen interest in what I had to say and sat a few minutes in total silence. Suddenly, he got up and said: Okay, I hear. I’ll speak with your father and tell him that you’re exempt from attending school on
Saturday mornings. I could not believe my ears and warned the vice principal that it would not be easy to convince my father. Maybe he, the non-Jewish teacher, was convinced that I should go to synagogue, but my father would be an entirely different story! He walked up to me, shook my hand and said: Let me deal with it. But I have one condition. You will miss many important lessons on Saturdays and will have to catch up every Sunday on anything you’ve missed. I promised to do so and left his room. After doing a small dance of triumph outside, I walked home to tell my father that the vice principle would like to see him. A good sport as always, my father smiled, gave me a kiss and said he would go. No doubt he knew what was awaiting him, yet he had no option but to comply. Reluctantly, but smiling that his son had defeated him, he gave in. I believe he was actually proud! And that made me love him even more.

And so, I went off to synagogue, but this was no small matter. I had never been there and had no idea what to expect. I had read a book called Yom Yom, by Dutch physician Dr. David Hausdorff. It was written in a very clear style and provided me with some information on synagogue service. I was excited, but also apprehensive. How was I to behave? It was a 50-minute walk to the synagogue, which was located in Haarlem, almost 5 kilometers from our home.

When I entered the synagogue that Shabbat morning, I could not have known that the young girl I noticed, about 14 years old, would one day become my wife. Years later, she told me that I had appeared in my all-white tennis outfit—complete with shorts!—probably because I thought that was the most appropriate way to dress when going to a holy place!

Slowly I got used to it. They had services only on Shabbat mornings, with an average attendance of 25. It soon became clear to me that I could not be counted for a minyan, since I was not halakhically Jewish. Freyda, the girl I had first noticed, took a real interest in me and so did the family of Rabbi/Hazan Michel Philipson who led the services and read the entire Torah portion perfectly and beautifully, in a way I have not heard since. He not only read it flawlessly but actually acted it out in a way that conveyed his emotional connection with the text, as if he were in the story. I found it very moving.

Rabbi Philipson and his wife Eva often invited me for Shabbat, and those visits brought me much joy. To this day, my wife and I are close friends with their daughter and two sons. I also received Shabbat invitations from Freyda’s parents, my future in-laws. It was there that my gastrointestinal tract was challenged when I was offered a piece of galerete, a gelatinous Eastern European dish, made from calf’s feet and considered a delicacy. My Dutch Sefardi stomach was too sensitive for this Ashkenazi cuisine. I was not sure I would survive, but being a good boy I complied. I faced a similar challenge years later when I studied at Gateshead Yeshiva and was served cholent every Shabbat. I solved that one by adding sugar so as to make it edible!

Since there were very few Jewish children in the Haarlem community, Rabbi Philipson tried to arrange a shidduch (marriage arrangement) between his oldest son and my future wife when they were both still babies. But, to my good fortune, my future parents-in-law declined the offer!

The rabbi had quite a large Judaica library, most of which I was unable to read because the books were in Hebrew. Within a short while, however, I became acquainted with the works of Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch. This, too, was a major discovery. Rabbi Hirsch was the great champion of Orthodox German Jewry and had in fact created a revolution with his booklet The Nineteen Letters, in which he presented his original view of Judaism in the form of a fictional correspondence between a young rabbi and a secular intellectual. He showed how Judaism was of great importance and relevance to the modern Jew and how it could help create a better world for all of mankind.
Rabbi Hirsch’s books were all written in hochdeutsch, a high, cultured German that was popular in the 19th century. The Nineteen Letters, however, was translated into Dutch, and I devoured it. It was just what I was looking for. Although it was nearly 100 years old by the time I read it, the book had not become outmoded; I even read it several times.
Rabbi Philipson owned all the books by Rabbi Hirsch, including his famous five-volume commentary on the Torah and his Gesammelte Schriften (Collected Writings), which covered nearly all the different aspects of Judaism. The problem was that there were no Dutch translations. Not only were they all written in hochdeutsch, they were also printed in Gothic lettering, a difficult typeface to decipher. One sentence could take up a whole page, if not more. By the time you got to the end of the sentence, you had already forgotten the beginning. Fortunately, I was studying German in school and my father—because of his knowledge of the language through business connections in East Germany and the Leipziger Messe (The Leipzig Trade Fair)—had helped me and my brother master it. So I took on Rabbi Hirsch’s Commentary on the Torah, his Gesammelte Schriften and his famous Horeb. I read and read, slowly becoming accustomed to the Gothic script. Rabbi Hirsch showed tremendous Jewish knowledge, had the entire Talmud at his fingertips and, above all, was very original. It was music to my ears. Later on, I realized that Rabbi Hirsch was a romantic, very German and basically an ultra-conservative. Still, his works are of great importance, his integrity untainted.
****

My interest increased daily, and I started going to synagogue every Shabbat morning. However, I was still under the sway of Spinoza’s philosophy, and though deeply impressed by Judaism I continuously debated with myself on whether or not it was all true. I was definitely not convinced! Never will I forget an incident that took place in the Haarlem synagogue and opened my eyes to something I had not thought about before. There was a young intellectual who came to synagogue regularly, and before the services began he would loudly declare: You are all sitting here for nothing. There is no God. He would then walk over to his seat, take his tallith out of his small cabinet, say a berakha and wrap it around his shoulders. He would recite all the prayers with great fervor and carefully listen to the reading of the parasha. I could not make heads or tails of it. Why come to synagogue, pray with intense devotion as if life depended on it when you do not even believe in God? This went on week after week, and one day I could no longer control myself. I approached him, asking for an explanation, and will never forget what he said: Indeed I do not believe in God, but I do believe in Judaism. It is the greatest religion ever to appear on earth, it has contributed more to ethics than any other religion or culture, and we owe it to the world to keep it alive. If we Jews abandon it, the world will be so much the poorer. So I will come to synagogue, eat kosher and observe some of the laws of Shabbat. If I don’t, I will be guilty of destroying one of the most beautiful things the world has been blessed with. Whether or not it is God-given does not really interest me.

To this day, it sends shivers down my spine to think of these words of truth. I realized that this man’s words were also a harsh critique of Spinoza. Why completely reject Judaism, as he did, when it contains such profundity and presents the world with its greatest values, such as Shabbat, a healthy attitude towards sexuality, profound ethics, and so much more. I still wonder why Spinoza refused to make a berakha before eating. How, after all, can one consume tasty food without uttering a deep expression of astonishment at the very existence of food? Does one really have to believe in God to do so? This is not orthopraxis; it is a deeply spiritual experience that someone secular can also encounter.

Even today I have my atheistic moments, especially when I am confronted with the intense suffering of children, such as in the case of terror attacks in and outside Israel, or when I read what happened to more than a million Jewish children in the Holocaust. For days, I can’t pray properly and I struggle with my belief in God. To this day, after a devastating terror attack I am astonished that religious Jews go to synagogue and instead of starting a demonstration against God they praise Him for His goodness. When I see a picture of a small black child in Africa who is weak from starvation and unable to move, I want to climb up to the heavens and protest. It is then that my friend’s observations in Haarlem’s synagogue save me from walking out on Judaism. At still a later stage, I realize that our love for God is tested by the question of whether we seek Him, or His goodness. The bottom line is there is no doubt in my mind that I will remain a religious Jew even if I were to become an atheist.
****

While growing in my Judaism I was confronted with many problems that led to some of the strangest situations. Today I would call them hilarious, but at the time they were major concerns. When I accompanied my father to the Leipziger Messe, I wanted to eat kosher but there were no kosher restaurants. So I ate fish or other parve foods. I clearly remember one Friday night when we ate in a tavern where the Germans used to drink their large mugs of beer, and some were even drunk. I put my kippah on my head and made kiddush over beer, to the total surprise of all the Germans present. I can still see their bewildered faces! On other occasions, such as our vacations in Italy, I would eat nothing but scrambled eggs for breakfast, lunch and supper, to the point where I could not swallow an egg any longer!
****

Fortunately, I had already been circumcised, though the procedure was not done until I was about 10, and I remember being hospitalized for a few days. My brother, on the other hand, was circumcised as a baby. I think that by the time he was born, my father found it emotionally difficult to have uncircumcised sons. My circumcision was performed by a surgeon, not a mohel, and though I was put under anesthesia, it was quite painful afterwards.

As part of my conversion, I still had to undergo a procedure called hatafat dam b’rit, drawing a drop of blood as a symbolic ritual circumcision. This was done by Dr. Aron Rodrigues Pereira, President of the Portuguese Jewish Community in Amsterdam and brother of the Sefardi Chief Rabbi, Hakham Shelomo Rodrigues Pereira, who had agreed to convert me. Days before, I had to appear before all the chief rabbis in Holland and explain why I had decided to become Jewish. The most prominent among them, Rabbi Aaron Schuster, was the Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Amsterdam, a man with an imposing personality, who did not walk but had a long, decisive stride. Though he was very formal, having been educated in Holland, the warmth he exuded pointed to his Eastern European lineage. I found it difficult to answer his question as to why I wanted to become Jewish. And my reply was not completely rational. It had to do with some inner musical notes carrying words that are ineffable. Only many years later did I realize how difficult it is to express in human language a religious upheaval. Rudolf Otto, the great non-Jewish German thinker, tried to make sense of it in his most famous work, Das Heilige (The Idea of the Holy). Renowned American philosopher William James also tried to articulate the meaning of religiosity in his important book The Varieties of Religious Experience. But above all, it is the Hassidic masters who dealt with this challenge, bringing unusual and original perspectives. Both Abraham Joshua Heschel and Martin Buber translated some of these ideas into German and English and explained them as best as possible.
****

I remember undressing at the mikvah. I was quite nervous, but my dear father was right by my side, as always. I had learned that by immersing in the mikvah’s waters I would be reborn as a full-fledged Jew. Water is the symbol of life and growth, and immersion is like returning to the mother’s womb where the fetus is surrounded by fluid. Three rabbis were present: Hakham Rodrigues Pereira, Chief Rabbi Aron Schuster and Rabbi Benjamin Pels, a member of the Amsterdam rabbinate. I had to immerse three times, making sure that the water covered all my hair. When I got out, the Hakham gave me a towel to cover myself and told me to say a berakha. It is perhaps the greatest berakha I have ever said: Blessed is the Lord our God, King of the universe, Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us on immersion. Immediately after that, the Hakham recited: May his name in Israel be called Nathan, son of Avraham Avinu. Nathan was my father’s youngest brother who was murdered in the Shoah. Later, after my mother converted, I changed this to Nathan, son of Yaakov, my father. I still tremble when I think about it. How many people have merited the opportunity to say this berakha on this particular occasion? I also said the berakha “shehehiyanu,” thanking God that I had arrived at this new and special moment in my life. Afterward, I got a kiss from my father, and a big smile. Although he had had reservations about my religiosity, he was pleased that I had now fully joined his beloved people.

Indeed the world looked different. I was delighted and beaming. The question that came to haunt me then, and still haunts me today, is how to keep such an exalted moment alive.
****
Some of my encounters with Judaism’s demands were much more radical and sometimes downright problematic, if not unacceptable. Only a short while ago my dear brother, two years my junior, reminded me of an incident that took place while I conducted the Pessah Seder at my parents’ home when I was still unmarried and very fresh in my Jewish observance. Having just learned the law about yayin nesekh, more correctly called maga nokhri—forbidding Jews to drink wine moved by a non-Jew once the bottle has been opened—I snatched a bottle of wine off the table, before my brother had the chance to pick it up and fill our glasses. I told my brother that non-Jews were not to move such a bottle, or the wine would be cursed. (In those days there was no yayin mevushal in Holland.) Nowhere in all of Jewish literature does it say that the wine would be cursed, and this unfortunate event simply reflected my total ignorance about many things I had yet to learn. Only now, nearly 50 years later, did my brother tell me, with tears in his eyes, how much he was offended. This is a typical example of how Jewish law, in my opinion, has stagnated. The law concerning yayin nesekh was enacted at the time when the Jews were in exile and non-Jews were idol-worshipers, often immoral, and frequently anti-Semitic. The rabbis felt it would be inappropriate for Jews to drink wine that was moved by such vile people and forbade its consumption even when the wine was produced by Jews. In this way, they emphasized the need for Jews to distance themselves in general from these depraved people. Since it was primarily wine that was used in worship by Jews and gentiles, that was the only alcoholic drink to which the law applied. This is a typical example of defensive Halakha, which may have been necessary at the time, while living among these gentiles. (It reminds me somewhat of my youth when the Dutch, just after the Holocaust had come to an end, would refuse under any circumstances to buy German products or even have them in their homes. It was completely taboo.) Today, when Jews are living in a totally different society, where most people believe in one God and are civilized, this law has lost much of its purpose. (See Rabbi Menachem Me’iri’s (1249-1316) Talmudic commentary, Beit HaBehira, on Sanhedrin 57a, Avoda Zara 11b, 13a, 14b 21a, 42b, although Me’iri himself does not mitigate the severity of the law of yayin nesekh.) When such a law offends another human being, as was the case with my brother, it does only harm and violates the integrity of Halakha and Judaism. This and similar laws need to be carefully reconsidered. After all, rabbinical laws are not categorically sacrosanct, as are biblical laws.
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Halakha has been in a waiting mode for too long. It has become the “preserver of precepts” and now has to free itself from what was once important. It is imperative to move Halakha forward and respond to a new and different Jewish world, especially because the State of Israel has drastically changed the situation of world Jewry and created a state of affairs never before encountered by Halakha. The incident with my brother is merely a symptom of the major problem with its application today. We are asked to be “a light unto the nations,” and it is our duty to inspire them to come closer to God and adopt high standards of morality.

This can be done only if we approach the non-Jewish world in a positive way. The law of yayin nesekh and others like it are not conducive to reaching that goal. It is high time that our rabbis adopt the approach of Rabbi Menachem Me’iri. Surely we should continue to drink only kosher wine made by Jews, but we should, in my humble opinion, waive the restriction concerning non-Jews moving our wines.

What we are badly in need of is a humane but aggressive, proud and prophetic Halakha that does not look over its shoulder but moves the Jewish tradition to the forefront of the world as a leading guide.
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My exemption from attending school on Saturdays got me into trouble with one of the teachers. He was a highly frustrated man who taught us Latin and Greek, and nobody liked him, as he would constantly make obnoxious comments about us. He taught us twice a week, and one of those days was Saturday. Since I no longer came on Saturdays, he hated me with a passion. On one occasion, he asked me a question, which he knew I could not answer since it had been discussed on the previous Saturday and was not in any of the books I studied on Sunday. It was a deliberate act to embarrass me. When I could not respond, he was outraged, took the blackboard eraser and threw it at me. I ducked just in time, and the weapon shattered the large window behind me. There was total silence in the classroom, and the teacher turned pale. I got up, walked out of the room without permission and went to see the vice principle who had helped free me from having to attend on Saturdays. I told him exactly what had happened. He got up, walked with me to the scene of the crime, and ordered the teacher to leave on the spot. As far as I remember, he was fired—an act that propelled me to stardom. I became somewhat of a celebrity in school and made many more friends. This was quite remarkable since I was a quiet kid, rather formal and stiff (today, I am much more easygoing), although I was chosen to be the class representative for several years. This meant that I represented my class on various occasions and advocated for my fellow students if they were in trouble with the school administration. Though I had become somewhat of an outsider due to my keen interest in Judaism, I was never asked to step down—even when I told my friends that I would no longer be dancing with the girls at parties that took place in the homes of classmates. I had actually been to dance school and had learned the art! But I had to tell my friends that I would no longer participate since Judaism did not look favorably upon this activity. In all honesty, although I believe that dancing is an art and in fact very beautiful, I must admit that I never really enjoyed it. I also told my classmates that I would not be able to eat anything non-kosher. Yet, instead of excommunicating me, my friends always made sure that there was a fruit available or other article of food that I was permitted to eat. Now, so many years later, I wonder what went through the minds of all these young people who had such a strange bedfellow in their class.
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One of the most wondrous religious experiences in all of my life happened during my years at the gymnasium. While I walked around bareheaded in the school, I would put a kippa on my head whenever I ate. This was the greatest moment of my day. Covering my head was truly a religious experience; I felt as if I was taken to a higher plane. It was extraordinary. It was not wearing the kippa on my head that did it but actually putting it on. It was a daring act because by doing so I presented myself before God—a declaration that I wanted to live in His presence, not just as a spiritual condition but as an act of elevation, of spiritual grandeur. It was a happening. After all, the main purpose of the kippa, as with all of Halakha, is to disturb. To wake people up and tell them that nothing is to be taken for granted. In my case it worked miracles! It made me wonderfully uneasy. I remember that my hands trembled when I put my kippa on.

But it is this very kippa that now causes me problems. I have a love-hate relationship with it. Now that it’s on my head all the time, it has nearly lost all its meaning. It used to excite me; now, 50 years later, it deadens me. It has little to do with my awareness that I live in God’s presence and has become an act of mindless self-indulgence, just something to make me feel good.

Deep down I know what to do. In order for my kippa to remind me of God, I need to take it off so that I can occasionally put it on. Hopefully, it would bring back the religious experience and take me out of this dull place called religious observance. But what can I do? What would my grandchildren think? This has become a major challenge in my life, for the problem of the kippa is simply a symptom of something much bigger. I have become so used to living an observant life, by all the requirements of Halakha, that I sincerely wonder whether I am still religious. “Faith is not a state of passivity, of quiet acceptance….Faith requires action….bold initiative rather than continuity. Faith is forever contingent on the courage of the believer” (Heschel, A Passion for Truth, p. 192).
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Scientific research has often revealed particles of matter in our universe that can stir the heart of man in ways that were not possible in earlier times. Scientists dedicate their lives to the minutest properties of our physical world. They are fascinated by the behavior of cells, the habits of insects and the peculiarities of the DNA code. God is in the details, the saying goes. So, too, halakhic authorities look for the smallest details to make people sensitive to every fine point of life so that one may discover God. By demanding of us meticulousness in how much matza to eat, what size lulav to use, and to what degree our etrog should be spotless, they create a subconscious awareness in us that the so-called trivialities of life are really opportune moments to meet God. Halakha is meant to be a protest against all forms of spiritual dullness. It is the microscopic search for God. But it only works when you hear the music behind the law. That is art at its ultimate. But do we still listen?

One of the greatest challenges confronting Judaism is behaviorism. People get used to the way Judaism informs them to respond to all of life, and instead of being nothing less than extraordinary, life becomes ordinary and insipid. Halakhic living becomes self-defeating. It actually encourages what it wishes to prevent. In the spirit of Nietzsche’s observation of how much wisdom lies in the superficiality of man, I would suggest that one of the great tragedies of today’s halakhic man is his obliviousness to the profundity behind his halakhic superficiality.
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After my conversion, I wanted to study in a yeshiva. I had read about such places and was deeply impressed. It seemed like a dream world to me, although I had little knowledge about it. I believed a yeshiva was a place where all the great questions about life and religiosity were discussed and where the debates were of a theological and philosophical nature—the topics closest to my heart. When I actually entered the famous Gateshead Yeshiva, Europe’s largest talmudic college, I was greatly disappointed to learn that most of the studies were about legal discussions in the Talmud. On top of this, I did not have even the most elementary knowledge necessary to participate in such discussions. I lacked all the basic tools. Only later did I realize that I knew many things about Judaism that the yeshiva students and some of their rabbis didn’t know. Matters related to the weltanschauung/philosophy of Judaism and the many schools of thought concerning its nature were never studied, or were given so little time that it was meaningless. The classic Kuzari, in which 12th century Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi offered his understanding of Judaism, was not at all discussed. And certainly not Maimonides’ Moreh Nevukhim (Guide for the Perplexed) let alone later and modern classics. I was told in yeshiva that these works were of minor importance and what was really essential was the shakla ve-tarya, the give-and-take in talmudic legal discussion. When I asked what the religious and philosophical implications of all these talmudic debates were and how it touched their lives, there was total silence. I remember that when I asked how my fellow students were so sure that God exists, or that the Torah is min ha-shamayim (from heaven), most of them used poor arguments, if any, and were astonished that I dared to ask these questions.

When I approached one of the main rabbis and asked him a question related to the German philosopher Leibniz, who had argued that this world was the best world God could have created, he told me in great humility that he had no idea what I was talking about. It took me a long time to grasp that this was the wrong address for these questions, although I did still realize that the great legal debates made Judaism very special. Unlike other religions, they reflect the need for God to enter the marketplace, the courtroom and all that is mundane. Judaism is pragmatic, realistic and cognizant of the fact that to be a veritable way of spiritual living it needs to be available and attainable.

The rashei yeshiva and other rabbis showed incredible integrity, deep religiosity, and the total absence of any personal agenda. What counted was the service of God through the study of the Talmud. This monumental text took them back to Mount Sinai, and through its pages they relived the greatest moment in all of Jewish history. I have never seen anything like that anywhere else. Paradoxically, there was a certain naiveté, a withdrawal from the rest of the world, which made them seem like human angels while studying the laws of damages and injuries. Much later, I understood that even the brilliant legal discussions had tremendous religious meaning, but this was never discussed in the yeshiva. Once I understood that it was not philosophy but the legal intricacies of Halakha that kept yeshiva students fascinated, I was able to enjoy the studies. To this day, I get excited about Rabbi Aryeh Leib HaCohen Heller’s Ketzot HaHoshen and similar works created by other talmudic geniuses.

I spent 12 years in yeshivot, and today when I speak with many people who reject the yeshiva world and criticize it harshly for all its faults, I realize that although I agree with many of their critical assessments, they fail to understand the inner music of these institutions. They do not realize that this introverted but remarkable world somehow lifted the Jews out of their misery throughout history and gave them the strength to survive all their enemies under the most intolerable conditions brought on by anti-Semitism. It was this denial of time that made the Jews eternal. The yeshiva world was no doubt very small compared to what it is now, but up until the emancipation it was the pride of the entire Jewish world. The Talmud afforded the Jews wings, enabling them to fly to other worlds, to return to the past that no longer existed and to look toward worlds that were still to come. It became the Jews’ portable homeland, and their complete immersion in its texts made them indestructible even as they were tortured and killed. The Talmud became their survival kit, which ultimately empowered them to establish the State of Israel, nearly 2000 years after they were exiled from their land. This is unprecedented in all of the history of mankind. Regretfully, most Israelis do not realize this.
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We can no longer afford to have yeshivot teaching only Talmud, and the manner in which it is taught also needs to be drastically changed. Its many tractates must be made relevant by getting behind the text and understanding its music, poetry and, above all, its religiosity. This requires a radical restructuring of the yeshiva curriculum. We should challenge the more sophisticated students by studying secular texts with them—Spinoza, John Locke and many others—and see how the Talmud, the Midrash and all other classical sources respond to these important writings. In that way, one can reveal the profundity of these Jewish texts. Heschel, Buber, Rosenzweig, Berkovits, the great Hassidic masters such as the Mei HaShiloah by Rabbi Mordechai Yosef of Izbitze, and many others should be carefully read. Students must learn how to convey to others why they are religious, and why Judaism is of vital importance not just for the Jews but for all of mankind. I often wonder: what if Spinoza had met these spiritual giants? Would he have realized that his interpretation of Judaism was based on a very rigid and faulty reading, part of which he adopted from his rabbinical teachers in Amsterdam and part of which was his own often deliberate misreading of the nature of Judaism? Would he have turned into a Sefardi Kotzker Rebbe with his near obsession for the truth and nothing but the truth? Would he have understood that all power corrupts, including the power of using reason exclusively?
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There was one philosophy text, of several volumes, that was extremely popular in Gateshead Yeshiva: Mikhtav Me-Eliyahu by Rabbi Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler (1892-1953), one of the most influential mussar teachers in modern times. But unlike other mussar books, this is a rare combination of philosophy, Kabbala, Hassidut, and Mussar. He even borrowed ideas from modern psychology. Its publication caused quite a stir, since the teachings contained therein were drastically different from anything known in the yeshiva world until then. These volumes opened a world well beyond the study halls of Gateshead Yeshiva. In fact, it laid the foundations for some radical thinking, far exceeding what Rabbi Dessler himself wanted to accomplish. It reminded me a bit of how Spinoza, lehavdil, had taken Maimonides’ ideas about God and radicalized them to the extent of ending up with a form of pantheism. Spinoza was not the greatest philosopher in history but certainly the most daring one, at least in classical philosophy. In some ways that is true about Rabbi Dessler’s writings and several Hassidic texts as well.

Mikhtav Me-Eliyahu triggered some thoughts that would later lead me to form a different approach to Judaism, though still deeply rooted in tradition. A novel understanding of God, Torah min ha-shamayim, human autonomy, religious wonder, universalism, the problem of halakhic behaviorism and much more were clearly alluded to in Mikhtav Me-Eliyahu. This despite the fact that Rabbi Dessler, an ultra-conformist, never moved away from the official yeshiva world. He never mentioned any of these topics in an unconventional way, but it was all there between the lines.

Interestingly, Rabbi Dessler reminds me of the famous Rabbi Avraham Yitzhak HaCohen Kook (1865-1935), who was the most powerful and perhaps most controversial Orthodox thinker in Israel. No doubt, Rabbi Kook was much more daring and universalistic than Rabbi Dessler, but one cannot deny the similarity.

While studying in Gateshead, I had never heard about Rabbi Kook; he was a Zionist and considered much too radical. The other great thinker never to be mentioned was Rabbi Joseph Ber Soloveitchik, also known as the Rav. He, too, was a Zionist, and he held a doctorate in philosophy! As such, he was persona non grata in Gateshead Yeshiva. I only discovered these great men when I came to live in Israel many years later. They, together with other philosophers such as Will Herberg, Eliezer Berkovits, Heschel, Norman Lamm, Michael Wyschogrod, Arthur Green and even the Israeli rebel Professor Yeshayahu Leibowitz, had a great influence on me. Included in this list are many profound non-Jewish thinkers as well, such as Paul Tillich and Reinhold Niebuhr.
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One of the major tasks of Jewish education is to deliberately create an atmosphere of rebellion among its students. Rebellion, after all, is the great emancipator. We owe nearly all of our knowledge and achievements not to those who agreed but to those who differed. It is this virtue that brought Judaism into existence. Avraham was the first rebel, destroying idols; he was followed by his children, then by Moshe, and then by the Jewish people.

What has been entirely forgotten is that the Torah was the first audacious text to appear in world history. Its purpose was to protest. It set in motion a rebel movement of cosmic proportions the likes of which we have never known. The text includes all the radical heresies of the past, present and future. It calls idol-worship an abomination, immorality abhorrent, and the worship of man a catastrophe. It protests against complacency, self-satisfaction, imitation, and negation of the spirit. It calls for radical thinking and drastic action, without compromise, even when it means standing alone, being condemned and ridiculed.

All of this seems to be entirely lost on our religious establishment. We are instructing our students and children to obey, to fit in, to conform and not stand out. We teach them that their religious leaders are great people because they are “all-right-niks” who would never think of disturbing the established religious and social norms. We teach them that they are the ideal to be emulated. By doing so, we turn our backs on authentic Judaism and communicate the very opposite of what Judaism is meant to convey.

By using clichés instead of the language of opposition, we deny our students the excitement of being Jewish: excitement resulting from the realization that one makes a huge difference and takes pride in it, no matter the cost; excitement at the awareness that one is part of a great mission for which one is prepared to die, knowing that it will make the world a better place.

When we tell our children to eat kosher, we need to inform them that this is an act of disobedience against consumerism that encourages human beings to eat anything as long as it tastes good. When we go to synagogue, it is a protest against man’s arrogance in thinking that he can do it all himself. When couples observe the laws of family purity, it is a rebellion against the obsession with sex. The celebration of Shabbat must be presented as an enormous challenge to our contemporary world that believes our happiness depends on how much we produce.

As long as our religious teachers continue to teach Jewish texts as models of approval, instead of manifestations of protest against the mediocrity of our world, we will lose more of our young people to that very mediocrity.
Judaism is in its essence an act of dissent, not of consent. Dissent leads to renewal. It creates loyalty. It is the force through which the world is able to grow. To forget this crucial element is to betray Judaism.
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When my wife and I moved to Israel with our three children, intending to stay for two years so that I could continue to learn in yeshivot, I was approached by the administration of a well-known ba’al teshuva yeshiva in Jerusalem, for non-religious young people interested in learning about Judaism. The ba’al teshuva movement was not as widespread as it is today, and I had never heard about such an institution. The directors asked me whether I was prepared to give some lectures. In response to my inquiry about the nature of the school, they told me it was an institution that functioned as a bridge between Harvard University and Ponevezh Yeshiva in B’nei Brak. The latter was then the most famous yeshiva in Israel. I liked the idea, it seemed to fit my way of thinking, and I started lecturing there on a daily basis. I had already begun giving daily lectures in a large ba’al teshuva seminary for women and greatly enjoyed it.
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While teaching in this yeshiva, I began studying more intensively the works of Heschel. His were some of the most remarkable ideas I would ever encounter. Heschel came from a deeply Hassidic family and was surrounded by a great number of authentically religious people including famous Hassidic rebbes. His great-great-grandfather and namesake was Avraham Yehoshua Heschel, the Apter Rav (1755-1825), known as the Ohev Yisrael (lover of Israel) who was an exceptional proponent of the mitzva of loving one’s fellow Jew. Heschel spoke their spiritual language but began writing in poetic, sensitive and emotional style once he came to the United States.

There was also Franz Rosenzweig (1886-1929), the great German Jewish philosopher who had nearly converted to Christianity, but changed his mind after attending Yom Kippur services at a small Orthodox synagogue in Berlin, which sparked in him a spiritual explosion. He devoted the rest of his life to teaching and writing about Judaism.
These philosophers opened a new world for me, and I began reading very interesting books by Conservative and Reform rabbis and thinkers. Some were outstanding and taught me a lot, although there were areas where I felt they were mistaken. My thoughts on Judaism began to change. I realized that it was actually even more beautiful and that the narrow reading of hareidi Judaism did not tell its entire story and even caused it to stagnate. At the same time, I understood that the existential problems that confronted Judaism and the Jewish people would not be solved by the Reform or Conservative movements. They required authentic, rebellious Orthodox Judaism that would correct its mistakes, stop acting defensively and start being creative and daring.
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I began to include in my lectures some of the ideas I had read. One of the rabbis at the yeshiva where I was teaching had shown me a Reform rabbi’s interpretation of a certain narrative in the Torah. I thought it was good and used it in one of my lectures, mentioning the rabbi’s name. The administration heard about it and was very upset that I dared to not only use an interpretation that was “not kosher” but to mention the name of the Reform rabbi as well. They questioned me about it, and I answered them candidly that I did not see anything wrong with the interpretation and that I thought it would be small-minded not to mention the Reforms rabbi’s name. This was not taken in good spirit and created much tension between the yeshiva rabbis and me.

On another occasion, I had defended Rabbi Shlomo Riskin who had published a piece in the Jerusalem Post and had written that Moshe Rabeinu was perhaps not the greatest communicator and teacher. This was anathema to the yeshiva heads. I believed that while one did not have to agree with Rabbi Riskin’s approach, he was definitely entitled to his opinion and it did not constitute heresy.
I once published an open letter in The Jerusalem Post to Shulamit Aloni, a secular, left-wing member of the Knesset. She had ridiculed Judaism for its backwardness. I wrote that all her arguments were outdated and irrelevant, and that I hoped she would come up with some substantial criticism that would dare the rabbis to rethink Judaism. My students at the yeshiva were very impressed by my letter and hung it up in the building where I taught. This, too, was not appreciated. I think that my willingness to reassess Judaism was too much for the leadership of the yeshiva to accept. It reached a point when they wanted to place a herem on me, and due to my inexperience I made the mistake of fighting it. Nothing would have been more beneficial to me than to have been put under a ban. Many more of my books would have been sold and my ideas disseminated. But alas, I succeeded in preventing it. Still, all these unfortunate incidents led me to leave the yeshiva. I no longer felt at home, and the directors were uncomfortable with me teaching there. Looking back, I realize what a blessing it was. I was able to develop my ideas independently and felt great relief. It set me on a road that gave me the opportunity to discover new worlds. Most disturbing was the fact that with the exception of one, none of my colleagues at the yeshiva, including a former professor, had the integrity and courage to stay in contact with me. I never heard from them.

Still, I owe the yeshiva and the women’s college much gratitude since they gave me the opportunity to teach. Even more important, they sent me on lecture tours to the United States, Canada, England and South Africa, all of which opened new doors for me.
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One of my daughters asked me whether I ever regretted my decision to become fully Jewish. I consider this a very important question. My answer is unequivocal: I have never regretted it. It’s the best decision I’ve ever made. Furthermore, even had I not been a “father Jew,” and of zera Yisrael, and even had I not felt this Jewishness running through my blood, I have not the slightest doubt that I still would have fallen in love with Judaism had I encountered it. Once you discover it, there is no turning back! But would conversion in that case have been the right step? I have my doubts. What would have stopped me is the overwhelming notion that mankind is urgently in need of a new universal religion. Judaism gave birth to two most important and powerful religions—Christianity and Islam. But both have failed miserably. And now there is a need for Judaism to once again give birth to a new religion for non-Jews. It has a wealth of resources to work with. I wonder whether if I had remained non-Jewish I could have been instrumental in creating such a religion, which would be something similar to Judaism. But today, as an Orthodox Jew, it is much harder to be fully involved in this. It requires a leader, a mover, and that means being fully dedicated to the religion that one has helped create, and living accordingly. That would be impossible for a Jew living by the demands of Halakha. It would involve violating certain commandments that only apply to Jews. Having been born into my family, my only choice was to go all the way and fully integrate into the Jewish people and Judaism. The joy it gives me is ineffable. The task of creating and leading a new religion must be left to others, although I hope to play a role from a distance.
The world is waiting for this. Non-Jews need a Shabbat experience, some degree of kashrut (dietary laws), taharat ha-mishpaha (laws of family purity and sexual intimacy between husband and wife) and even laws such as shemitta (the seventh year of the seven-year agricultural cycle, when one does not work the land). The latter could also be applied to the car and computer industries, as well as other technologies that are overproducing and creating financial instability. This religion would include all halakhic requirements of the Seven Mitzvot B’nei Noah, the commandments that—according to the Talmud—were given by God to Noah as a binding set of laws for all mankind. As in the case of the Ten Commandments, they actually include numerous branches with many more mitzvot. Both these sets of laws are the grundnorm (fundamental norm) from which many other ethical and religious ideas follow.

A religion such as this would also need to build synagogues for non-Jews and create rituals to inspire. Suggestions like how to perform marriages for non-Jews with some kind of Jewish ceremony will be very important. How Jewish should we make burial rituals for non-Jews? Should non-Jews make kiddush, refrain from driving, and limit their use of electricity on their day of rest? Should we introduce Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur into this new religion, for are not all humans judged on these days? One cannot really answer or even contemplate these complex questions without a proper understanding of Talmud and the later authorities.
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A strong sense of mission overwhelms me. I realize that my life is different from most other people’s, including religious Jews. What I experience is the Hand from Above that gives me no rest and humbles me. I’m driven by it but do not always know where I am going. Often, I feel the need to step out of all this and start living a normal life. But, much as I have tried, it just doesn’t work. I am convinced that although I may never know what it is, there is great meaning behind this seemingly absurd life of mine. It is beautiful and demanding, yet quite frightening. I often wonder why God chose me to be born into this family, from a Torah-forbidden marriage, and why I had to encounter Judaism in such an unusual way. I realize that by biblical standards I should never have been. Am I the product of a divine comedy? And am I living up to it?

God has blessed me with the ability to inspire, and I try to not just convey my ideas in lectures but to actually live them, like a musician who lives his music. This has a lot to do with my background. There are moments when I feel like a Marrano; other times like a Hassid in a state of d’vekut (religious ecstasy through bonding with God); and sometimes I identify with Spinoza’s level-headed sub specie aeternitatis! Inside me lives the arrogant Portuguese Jew with his joie de vivre, extravagant attire, top hat and tailcoat, praying in the Esnoga of Amsterdam and filled with Spanish gravidade (dignity). On some occasions I immerse myself in a mikva, longing for kedusha (holiness), which is nearly impossible to attain. But all these exceptional experiences are not of my making. I did not ask for them, nor did I work to achieve them. They are divine gifts, and I carry them with me. I only pray that all these different dimensions blend well and make me a balanced person.
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I often wonder whether my non-Jewish grandparents, whom I never knew, have any connection to all this. I do not feel at all affiliated with them. They are complete strangers to me, and my mother never spoke about them. I do not say kaddish for them, nor do I even know when they died or where they are buried. Perhaps their graves have already been removed and I should have prevented it. But there is nothing internal that pulls me to find out or take action. Is this right? After all, am I not of their blood, and are they not part of my strange story? On the other hand, I love to meet my brother’s children who, while proud of their Jewish background, live in a non-Jewish world. My children, also, are in regular contact with them, and this gives me great joy. I even have two first cousins from my mother’s side with whom I stay in touch. So, why do I feel a kinship to them, but not to my grandparents? Am I the victim of Freud’s subconscious repression and denial?

We are all neighbors of ourselves, watching our own lives through a distant window. Do I even know myself? Although we are married more than 45 years, am I a stranger to my dear wife because I was incapable of telling her what was happening in my innermost self since the day I contemplated giyur? For years, my giyur was absent from my conscious life. I had forgotten about it, and even today, when I hear Jews make discriminating remarks about gerim, it never touches me personally. I am a Jew like all others. So why do I suddenly feel a moral obligation to tell my story in order to inspire? And is the good Lord behind this?

My children and grandchildren are all aware of my background and do not seem to be bothered by it. They’re actually proud of it. But to what extent does my story play a role, perhaps subconsciously, in their lives? I will never forget when one of my daughters, as a child (now the mother of four), came home one Friday night crying and refusing to look at me. When we asked her what had happened, she said that her best friend had just informed her that her father was a goy! My wife and I then realized that unlike with our other children we had forgotten to tell her about my background. Only after we explained it all did she calm down and allow me to once again be her father!

When each of my children entered the world of shidduchim, I made sure the other party knew about me before the two would meet. When one of my granddaughters was rejected twice for a marriage proposal because of my background, it hit me like a bolt of lightning. I felt very bad for her, but it did not touch me personally. I view the people who rejected her, and those who advised them, as being guilty of violating Halakha and not having a clue as to what Judaism is all about.
****

I often ask myself why I have merited these many blessings: discovering Judaism just at the right time, when I was still young, unmarried and open to new ideas; being married to a wonderful woman; having the opportunity to learn, write and speak about Torah for most of my life; and, of course, living in Israel. It still frightens me when I think of how close I was to marrying a non-Jew. There is not a moment when I take it for granted that I have Jewish children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren who are all deeply religious. Could it be z’khut avot (the merits of our forefathers)? Or perhaps divine intervention? More and more, I believe it is the z’khut of my mother who had the courage to hide my father, his mother, brothers, sister and their wives and husband right under the noses of the Nazis in the center of Amsterdam, and saved all of them from the atrocities of Auschwitz. She risked her life several times, telling the Nazis that her husband and family had already been taken to the camps while they were actually hiding behind cupboards six feet away from where she stood. The same strength she displayed at my birth.
****

What I’ve learned over the years from my own story is that I don’t believe it’s possible to be steadily and persistently religious. One can only be in that state at certain moments, when one experiences a unique, ineffable encounter with God. All we can do is live in a religious context that will constantly remind us to long for that unparalleled moment.

To be a Jew is so much more than just being part of the Jewish people, having a Jewish mother, or even converting. It is living in the spiritual order of Judaism; living through the Jews of the past, the present and the future. One becomes somewhat Jewish when one realizes there cannot be life in the absence of moral conscience and without an often complicated encounter with God. To be a Jew is to challenge the stabilization of accepted values; to live in dissent and protest; to overcome stagnation and move beyond trivialities and clichés; to be involved in radical thinking. It is to dare to stand before God and, if need be, to challenge Him. To be a Jew is to realize that we Jews are either indispensable or superfluous. Only when we comprehend this and live accordingly can we slowly grow into real Jews.

I am still on the road. When will I arrive and be an authentic Jew? Just as Judaism is still in the making, so am I.
****
With thanks to Channa Shapiro, Jerusalem

aking, so am I. **** With thanks to Channa Shapiro, Jerusalem

In 1919, Rabbi Benzion Uziel, then a young rabbi, spoke to a conference of rabbis in Jerusalem. He stated: "Israel, the nation of peace, does not want and never will want to be built on the ruins of others....Let all the nations hear our blessing of peace, and let them return to us a hand for true peace, so that they may be blessed with the blessing of peace." In 1939, when Rabbi Uziel became Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel, he delivered his inaugural address in Hebrew, and then added words in Arabic. He appealed to the Arab community: "We reach our hands out to you in peace, pure and trustworthy....Make peace with us and we will make peace with you. Together all of us will benefit from the blessing of God on His land; with quiet and peace, with love and fellowship, with goodwill and pure heart we will find the way of peace."

At around the time that the State of Israel was being recognized by the United Nations, the Chief Rabbis of Israel wrote a letter in Arabic to the Arab world. The Sephardic Chief Rabbi Benzion Uziel, who was fluent in Arabic, likely wrote this letter that was signed by him and the Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi Yitzchak Herzog. They wrote:

21 Kislev, 5708
"A Call to the Leaders of Islam for Peace and Brotherhood."

To the Heads of The Islamic Religion in the Land of Israel and throughout
the Arab lands near and far, Shalom U'Vracha:

Brothers, at this hour, as the Jewish people have returned to its land and
state, per the word of God and the prophets in the Holy Scriptures, and in
accordance with the decision of the United Nations, we approach you in peace and brotherhood, in the name of God's Torah and the Holy Scriptures, and we say to you:

Please remember the peaceful and friendly relations that existed between us
when we lived together in Arab lands and under Islamic Rulers during the
Golden Age, when together we developed brilliant intellectual insights of
wisdom and science for all of humanity's benefit. Please remember the sacred words of the prophet Malachi, who said: "Have we not all one Father? Did not one God create us? Why do we break faith with one another, profaning the covenant of our ancestors?" (Malachi 2:10).

We were brothers, and we shall once again be brothers, working together in
cordial and neighborly relations in this Holy Land, so that we will build it
and make it flourish, for the benefit of all of its inhabitants, without
discrimination against anyone. We shall do so in faithful and calm
collaboration, so that we may all merit God's blessing on His land, from
which there shall radiate the light of peace to the entire world.

Signed,
Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel
Yitschak Isaac Ha-Levi Herzog

The words of Rabbi Uziel and Rabbi Herzog reflected the wishes of the tiny Jewish community in the land of Israel in those times. Those words still reflect the wishes of the Jewish community of Israel today. Hawks and doves alike would like nothing better than genuine, secure peace. They would like Israeli society to be free and happy, without the specter of warfare and terrorism, without the constant threat and reality of Arab military, economic and political attacks. They would like to live in harmony with their Arab neighbors-and to trust that their Arab neighbors will want to live in harmony with them.

We applaud the United Arab Emirates and the State of Israel for reaching the decision to establish full diplomatic relations. The President of the United States and his representatives played an important role in this historic peace-making process. We pray that other Arab nations will join the "circle of peace," by establishing peaceful, harmonious and productive relations with Israel.

It takes courage and wisdom to work for peace. It takes courage and wisdom to maintain an environment of peace and mutual respect. Israel and the United Arab Emirates have taken a giant step forward. May others follow their example.

What guided our sages’ decisions when they placed aggadic (non-legalistic) passages in the Talmud? Perhaps they came armed with a treasure trove of quality material, such as the account of R. Shimon bar Yohai in the cave and the final moments of R. Hanina ben Teradyon’s life, and they simply looked for associations enabling the insertion of this material into the Talmud. If so, analyzing the placement will not contribute to meaning. Alternatively, the sages built upon thematic connections in arranging the aggadot. Talmudic stories can connect to themes of the tractate, the chapter, or a preceding sugya (talmudic passage), be it halakhic or aggadic. If so, study of placement enhances understanding.

As far as I know, the major traditional commentaries on aggadic material, Maharsha (R. Shemuel Eidels, 1555–1631) and Maharal (R. Yehudah Loeb of Prague, 1520–1609), did not raise questions of placement. However, in the nineteenth century, R. Zadok Hakohen from Lublin made a programmatic statement that all aggadot relate conceptually to their talmudic location. Stories about the Temple’s destruction are found on pages 55b–58a of Gittin, a tractate about marriage and divorce, since the destruction represents a breach in the marital relationship between God and the Jewish people.[1] Aggadot about the manna can be read on pages 74b–76a of Yoma, a tractate about the laws of Yom Kippur, because eating this heavenly food reflects a less corporeal consumption that reminds us of the angelic transcendence of the physical on Yom Kippur.[2]

R. Zadok also notes how placement at the beginning of tractate can set the tone for the entire tractate. Pesahim (mainly concerned with the laws of Pesah) begins with a long discussion about what the word “ohr” means in the opening Mishnah. It then proceeds to a discussion of different values involved in speaking well, including refined speech, clear discourse, and brevity. For R. Zadok, this fits the topic of the exodus since he connects refined speech with yihus, lineage or pedigree, and sees the exodus as emphasizing Jewish uniqueness.[3] I would like to suggest an alternative connection. Dialogue plays a bigger role on Pesah than on any other holiday. The Torah commands us to relate the exodus story over to our children, and the Seder attempts to facilitate this momentous conversation. Therefore, the tractate begins with a study of proper discourse.

R. Zadok assumes purposeful placement regarding every aggada. Such an assumption expresses his belief in omnisignificance, an apt term coined by Dr. James Kugel describing the eschewal of technical explanations in the search for a maximum of religious meaning.[4] R. Zadok goes so far as to suggest a deeper explanation for why the mitzvah to write a Sefer Torah appears specifically in siman 270 of the Shulhan Arukh. This commandment corrects the sin of Judah’s son Er (see Genesis 38), whose gematriya (the numerical value of the Hebrew letters) is 270.[5] Many of us will find this degree of omnisignificance too extreme, but we can still accept a more moderate version of R. Zadok. Perhaps some placement is meaningful while others are more arbitrary.

Let us move from the Batei Midrash of nineteenth-century Poland to the libraries of contemporary academia. Yonah Fraenkel deserves a lot of credit for initiating literary academic study of talmudic stories. He showed that these tales are not merely historical accounts but finely  crafted literary creations. Fraenkel also insisted in the principle of “closure,” which reads each story as an independent unit. His approach resembles the literary theory called New Criticism, which champions focusing on the poem itself, with an indifference to the biography of the author or historical context. Along similar lines, Fraenkel contends that we should analyze an individual story about a given sage without bringing in information from other stories. A sage can be poor in one tale and quite wealthy in another.[6]

Fraenkel notes a contrast between biblical and talmudic writing, in that only the former operates within a historical framework. Megillat Rut begins with a historical context, the time of the judges, and ends with a clear historical direction, heading toward the Davidic dynasty. Talmudic stories do not function that way. Even when a string of stories on roughly the same theme appear together, such as the aforementioned aggadot about the Temple’s destruction, they are not seriously connected to each other in a chronological or thematic fashion.

More recent scholars disagree with Fraenkel arguing that context does matter. Ofra Meir utilizes different versions of stories in rabbinic literature to show how they are shaped by context. The story of R. Shimon bar Yohai hiding in the cave appears in the Jerusalem Talmud without the Babylonian Talmud’s theme of the tension between Torah study and mundane work. In the Babylonian Talmud’s immediately preceding Gemara (Shabbat 33b), R. Shimon bar Yohai states that the illness called askara is a punishment for bittul Torah (wasting time on activities unrelated to Torah). Thus, R. Shimon’s call for intense dedication to Torah study was already lurking in the background of this passage and helped focus the ensuing presentation. Furthermore, R. Elazar son of R. Yossi attributes askara to the sin of lashon hara (gossip), which also appears in the story when Yehuda ben Gerim relates the rabbinic conversation to the Roman authorities.[7]

Meir notes the identical phenomena regarding two versions of R. Hananya ben Hakhinai spending over a decade away from home studying Torah and then shocking his wife upon returning home. In the Babylonian Talmud (Ketubot 62b), the story appears in a larger context discussing when husbands have the legal right to eschew domestic responsibilities in order to study Torah. In a midrash (Vaiykra Rabba 21:8), the story supports a theme of not suddenly entering one’s abode, fitting the biblical context of Aaron’s sons illegally entering the Holy of Holies. Meir shows how differences between the two accounts reflect the themes of each version.[8]

Jeffrey Rubenstein adds more arguments in favor of looking beyond the story itself. [9] He notes literary connections running through extended passages such as key words and thematic continuity. For example, the verb tikun comes up repeatedly in Shabbat 33b, first as something the Romans do, then as something R. Shimon bar Yohai does, and finally as something our patriarch Jacob does.[10] To use an example from Fraenkel himself, a series of stories about husbands spending significant time away from home to study Torah play off each other (Ketubot 62b). In one story, R. Hama bar Bisa tries to avoid the mistake of R. Hananya ben Hakhinai from the preceding tale. Furthermore, the entire picture balances stories critical of the rabbis for avoiding domestic responsibility with the successful model of R. Akiva spending many years away.[11]

Yonatan Feintuch’s recent book, Panim el Panim, makes a major contribution to aggada study and brings more evidence showing the importance of context. He points to a series of stories about confronting the evil inclination (Kiddushin 82a). In the first few, rabbis struggle with sexual urges and the tales encourage great precaution to prevent sin. However, in the final story, we see R. Hiyya renouncing sexuality with his wife leads to martial tension, R. Hiyya consorting with someone he thinks is a prostitute, and R. Hiyya punishing himself by sitting in a burning oven. This balances the preceding message; we cannot address the challenges of temptation with complete abstinence. These examples indicate that reading each story in isolation will miss some of the force of the overarching message.[12] 

Beyond literary context, Rubenstein also stresses the importance of cultural context. We can turn to other talmudic sources for help “when confronted by a symbol, such as a column of fire, or a motif, such as a sage forgetting his studies.”[13] To use an example of my own, carob trees appear in the stories of Honi haMe’agel sleeping for 70 years (Ta’anit 23a), in the oven of Ahkhinai when R. Elazar utilizes miracles to support his halakhic position (Baba Mezia 59b), and when R. Shimon and his son live in the cave (Shabbat 33b). Consistent usage of the same tree does not seem to be coincidence. In the Honi story, carob trees produce fruit only after an extremely long duration. Maharsha suggests that the choice of carob trees adds to the miraculous quality of R. Shimon’s survival in the cave since the tree that grows to feed him normally takes decades to bear fruit.[14]

To be fair, Fraenkel himself did not always adhere to his closure principle. He understands the significance of Moshe sitting in the Bet Midrash’s eighteenth row (Menahot 29b) based on a different talmudic story (Hulin 137b).[15] In a chapter on future directions for aggadic scholarship, he mentions the idea of a topos, a commonplace theme in a given body of literature.[16] Thus, even the champion of “closure” occasionally saw the value of looking beyond the individual story.

Feintuch’s work includes several models of how aggadic stories impact on adjacent halakhic sugyot. They can present another opinion. The halakhic discussion of the five afflictions of Yom Kippur ultimately decides that only not eating and drinking are included in the biblical command of afflicting oneself on Yom Kippur whereas the other prohibitions come from a different source. Feintuch shows how the subsequent aggadot (Yoma 74b–78a) relate to abstinence as a kind of innuy (affliction), differing from the preceding halakhic texts.[17] From this aggadic perspective, innuy is not only concrete discomfort or pain but even the absence of pleasure.

Secondly, the aggada can reveal some of the difficulties in applying the abstract halakha in the real world. One Gemara (Bava Batra 22a) grants special selling privileges to scholars who function as traveling salesmen. In a following story, R. Dimi comes to a town intending to sell dates. One of the locals, R. Ada bar Ahava, asks R. Dimi an obscure halakhic question and stumps the latter. R. Dimi doesn’t receive the privileges of a scholar and his dates therefore turn rotten. Feintuch suggests that applying this law proves difficult in practice since determining who qualifies as a talmid hakham (sage) can bring out scholarly competition and become a major source of social tension. The aggadic tale adds an important dimension to the legal ruling.[18]

Finally, a talmudic story can convey a level of extralegal piety. Berakhot 33a teaches that someone engaged in prayer interrupts his prayer if a life-threatening situation emerges. For example, a snake may not endanger the person praying but a scorpion will. Nevertheless, a preceding story tells of a pious fellow who does not interrupt his prayer to return the greeting of an important Roman official. In theory, ignoring the Roman is a very dangerous gambit. Feintuch explains that this story presents a level of super piety, which would allow for taking on risks in the pursuit of intense devotion to God.[19]

Yakov Blidstein offers a similar read of aggadic stories about not destroying trees. In one tale, the son of R. Hanina apparently perishes for cutting down a tree. In another, Rava bar R. Hana resists eliminating his own tree despite its negative impact on his neighbor, R. Yosef (Baba Batra 26a). Rava was willing to have R. Yosef remove the tree but refused to do the act himself.[20] Blidstein explains that while halakha actually allows for cutting down such trees, the aggadic material reflects a religious attitude extremely committed to the ideal of bal tashhit (not being destructive). 

R. Zadok and university professors obviously do not approach Talmud from the same vantage point, yet the parallels between them are intriguing. Both think that placement and context matter, and both find religious meaning in their analysis of these literary issues. I would like to close with one further parallel. We noted earlier how R. Zadok thinks that placement of a sugya at the beginning of a tractate can be telling. Several academics have made the identical suggestion about an aggada at the beginning of Avoda Zara relating how the nations of the world complained that they were not given a chance to accept the Torah. This conversation appropriately sets the stage for a tractate about the relationship between Jews and gentiles.[21] 

Perhaps this happens on a meta level at the beginning of the entire Talmud. The first line in the Talmud questions how the Mishnah could simply jump into the details of keriat shema without initially establishing the existence of a mitzvah to recite the Shema. The Gemara answers that the Mishnah works off biblical verses establishing the Shema requirement. R. Zadok and a contemporary Israeli scholar think that this opening question and answer begin the Talmud to establish an idea that the reader will carry through the entirety of the Talmud. R. Zadok explains that the rabbinical discussions found in all of the Talmud are rooted in the biblical world. This ancient legal dialogue is not just a conversation of intelligent humans but a discussion of the divine word.[22] Ruth Calderon says this opening conveys how each rabbinic text builds upon earlier texts. Unlike R. Zadok who speaks of God, Calderon writes about the nature of being part of an ongoing literary canon. Both think the placement here at the start of our talmudic journey was purposeful.[23]

Parallels between Hassidic rebbes and university professors should encourage us to realize that these two worlds need not always remain completely apart. The yeshiva world has much to gain from the keen insights of Fraenkel, Rubenstein, and others. Conversely, academics would benefit from utilizing the interpretations of traditional rabbinic commentary. We need not collapse methodological distinctions and theological assumptions to learn from each other.

America.

That was the dream of so many poor Jews in the

old Ottoman Empire at the beginning of the 20th

century. America was hope, a chance for a better

life, a way out of poverty and squalor, a bastion of

freedom.

America.

Enthusiasm for the new “promised land” spread

from heart to heart. Thousands of hopeful souls

uprooted themselves from the old world and set sail

for the new.

Among them, in 1908, were Bohor Yehuda Angel

and his eldest son Moshe. They left the Island of

Rhodes and made the long, arduous trip to Seattle,

Washington, where a small community of Rhodes

Jews had already settled.

Bohor Yehuda was a sturdy, pious man. He left his

six young children in Rhodes with his wife Bulissa

Esther. He and Moshe planned to work hard, earn

money, and bring the entire family to Seattle as soon

as possible.

Bohor Yehuda opened a shoe-shine stand in

downtown Seattle. Moshe worked at various odd

jobs. They lived simply and with great self-sacrifice.

They regularly sent money to their family in Rhodes

to sustain them until they could save enough to

bring them all to Seattle. It took them three years

of toil and scrimping before they finally raised the

necessary funds.

Bulissa Esther received the news with ineffable joy.

The past three years had been difficult. Separation

from a husband so many thousands of miles away in

a strange land was not easy. Caring for six children

in the absence of their father was a huge challenge.

Although she was blessed with great wisdom and

patience, Bulissa Esther was taxed to the limit of

her abilities. At last, she could now arrange to travel

with her children to America and the family could

once again be united.

Bulissa Esther and her six children set sail in the

summer of 1911. They traveled steerage, but no one

complained. They were on their way to the freedom,

happiness, and the promise of America. They were

on their way to family reunion.

When they arrived in New York harbor, they looked

forward to stepping onto American soil. They would

soon take a train cross-country to Seattle. All would

be well.

As they exited the ship, all passengers were brought

to the immigration office. American officials checked

their names, their places of origin, their ultimate

destinations in the United States. They asked many

questions, although most of the immigrants did not

know English and could not understand what was

being asked of them. Somehow, though, most of

the passengers answered well enough and received

papers admitting them into the United States.

When the turn of Bulissa Esther and her six children

came, she stood before the examining officers with

trembling anticipation. She told the officials that

they were on their way to Seattle to reunite with her

husband and eldest son.

One of the officials, following standard immigration

procedures, checked the family members to

determine if they had any obvious diseases or health

issues that would prohibit their entry into the

United States. Bulissa Esther and five of her children

were deemed to be healthy. Her nine-year-old son,

Joseph, was found to have a scalp disease, tinias.

This was not a serious health problem in itself; but

the immigration official ruled that Joseph could not

be admitted into the country due to his disease.

Bulissa Esther’s heart jumped a beat when she was

made to understand that Joseph could not enter the

United States. She broke down crying. She pleaded

with the officials. He is just a little boy, we will get

medicine for his tinias, please let him in, what am I

to do if you do not admit him? We’ve waited three

years for my husband and son to raise the funds to

bring us here! We can’t go back to Rhodes again!

No, said the official, you don’t have to go back to

Rhodes. You and five of your children can continue

your trip to Seattle. But Joseph can’t be admitted

into the United States.

Please, have mercy on a mother and her children.

Have mercy on a nine year old boy. How can we

separate him from the rest of us? How will he go

back to Rhodes alone? Who will care for him there?

That is not our problem, said the official. Joseph

cannot be admitted. You need to decide what to do

now.

America.

The promised land. A land with laws, but without

mercy. A land that would turn a young boy away,

that would break the hearts of a good, honest family.

Bulissa Esther was beside herself with grief. She

could not bring her family back to Rhodes. But

neither could she abandon little Joseph.

As it happened, a Jewish man from Rhodes, who

had been on the same ship as Bulissa Esther, was also

denied entry into the United States due to a health

problem. He had no choice but to return to Rhodes.

When he heard Bulissa Esther crying, he came over

to her and learned of the problem with Joseph. He

volunteered to bring Joseph back to Rhodes with

him, to settle him in with a family of relatives until

such time as Bohor Yehuda could raise enough

money to pay passage for Joseph to join the family

in Seattle.

Bulissa Esther had no other realistic option. She

thanked the man profusely for agreeing to look

after Joseph. So she kissed her beloved son and said

goodbye. All the brothers and sisters hugged Joseph

and promised that they would see him again soon.

Bulissa Esther and five of her children traveled on

to Seattle, reunited with Bohor Yehuda and Moshe,

and gradually adapted to their new lives in America.

Joseph was brought to the home of relatives in

Rhodes. Bulissa Esther prayed for the day when

Joseph could be brought together with the rest of

the family in Seattle.

That day never came.

Bohor Yehuda could scarcely earn enough to

support his large family in Seattle, let alone to save

money to buy passage for Joseph. Meanwhile, world

events were impacting on life in Rhodes, making

Joseph’s travel to the United States increasingly

unlikely.

War broke out between Italy and Turkey, with

Italian forces occupying the Island of Rhodes in

May 1912. After nearly four centuries of Turkish

dominion, Rhodes was now under Italian control.

Italy was officially granted Rhodes in July 1923 under

the Treaty of Lausanne. The Jews of Rhodes, along

with the other residents of the island, soon began to

speak Italian, to think Italian, to be Italian subjects.

Economic life in Rhodes blossomed. Little Joseph

grew up at a time of growing optimism among the

Jews of Rhodes.

He couldn’t easily travel to America during the

Turco-Italian War years. Then World War I broke

out in July 1914, making travel across the Atlantic

Ocean dangerous if not impossible. By the time the

war ended in November 1918, Joseph was a young

man, already comfortable in his life in Italian-ruled

Rhodes. In due course, he was married to a lovely wife,

Sinyorou; and they went on to have four children—

two boys and two girls. Life was moving along well.

They could see no reason to move to America; and

in any case, American quota laws of 1921 and 1924

dramatically limited the number of immigrants

eligible to enter the United States. Joseph had been

turned away from America once; he had no desire to

face American immigration officials a second time.

But conditions in Rhodes were to change radically.

In June 1936, Italy aligned itself with Nazi Germany.

Jews living in Italian territories—like Jews living in

Germany—became victims of a horrific policy of anti-

Semitism.

The Jews of Rhodes were thunderstruck

by the dramatic undermining of their lives and

their livelihoods. The Rabbinical College of Rhodes

was forced to close. Jews in Rhodes were required

to keep their stores open on the Jewish Sabbath

and festivals. In September 1938, anti-Jewish laws

went into effect in Rhodes that prohibited kosher

slaughter of animals. Jews were no longer allowed

to buy property, employ non-Jewish servants, send

their children to government schools. Non-Jews

were forbidden from patronizing Jewish doctors or

pharmacists. Jews who had settled in Rhodes after

January 1919 were expelled from the Island. (They

were the fortunate ones!)

For a short period in the early 1940s, there was

a slight easing of the anti-Jewish measures. Yet,

conditions were dire. Aside from dealing with their

loss of civil status and human dignity, they had to

deal with the ongoing hardships of living in a war

zone. British planes dropped bombs on Rhodes in

their effort to defeat the Axis powers, and dozens of

Jews were among those killed in these attacks.

When Mussolini was removed from power in July

1943, the Jews of Rhodes thought their troubles

were over. But contrary to their expectations, the

Germans occupied Rhodes. The situation of the

Jews worsened precipitously. In July 1944, the Jews

of Rhodes had all their valuables confiscated by

the Germans. They were then crowded into three

small freight ships. Of the nearly 1,700 Rhodes Jews

deported by the Nazis, only 151 survived. Almost

all the Jews of Rhodes were viciously murdered in

Auschwitz.

Among those who suffered this cruel and inhuman

death were the entire family of Joseph Angel.

Little did the American immigration official realize

in 1911, that by turning away a little boy with a scalp

infection, he was condemning that boy and family

to a calamitous destruction. That official no doubt

slept peacefully the night he sent Joseph back to

Rhodes, separating the young son from his mother

and siblings. The official was following the rules.

If that official was still alive in July 1944, he probably

slept the sleep of the innocent, not realizing that

his actions led to the death of an entire family. His

dreams were not haunted by nightmares of the

ghosts of Joseph’s family.

How does the Torah and Jewish Thought relate to the rest of humanity?
Join National Scholar Rabbi Hayyim Angel for a three-part series on
topics such as The Chosen People, Judaism and Racism, The Resident
Alien in the Bible, and other pertinent discussions pertaining to a
Jewish outlook toward Israel and the Nations.

Wednesdays August 12, 19, and 26, from 12:00-1:00pm Eastern Daylight Time.

The classes are open to the first 100 registrants, so please register here

https://www.jewishideas.org/zoom-class-rabbi-hayyim-angel-judaism-and-humanity