National Scholar Updates

Thanks to advances in scientific research and technology, many things have changed in the world of Jewish genetic testing since carrier screening for Tay-Sachs disease first became available in the 1970’s. Fast forward to 2020, testing is no longer only recommended for Ashkenazim. Genetic disease testing panels have expanded from just Tay-Sachs to include many more diseases common in Ashkenazi Jews, as well as those common in people with Sephardi and Mizrahi ancestry, and others that are common in the general population. These advances make screening relevant for Jews of all backgrounds, converts who do not have Jewish background, and people who do not know their ancestry.  

Results from genetic carrier testing indicate whether a person is a healthy carrier for a disease, which means they don’t have it, but are at risk to have an affected child if their partner is also a carrier.  Being a carrier is very normal, as everyone is a carrier of something, so there should not be a stigma regarding carrier status. 

To ensure the Jewish community has access to comprehensive and reliable testing, a national non-profit program called JScreen is making this a reality. JScreen uses state-of-the-art genetic sequencing technology to test on saliva for over 200 different genetic conditions with an easy, affordable (only $149!) and convenient at-home test.  JScreen is recommended for anyone thinking of starting or expanding their family. Inquiring about updating testing between pregnancies is advised, as more diseases may be added to the testing panel in the interim.

Once a person’s JScreen results are ready, licensed genetic counselors confidentially deliver the results by phone, providing the opportunity for the person (or couple) to have their questions answered. It’s important to point out that the majority of couples receive reassuring results. For those who are at increased risk, there are halachically permissible options, such as in-vitro fertilization (IVF) with pre-implantation genetic testing (PGT), to help them have a baby without the genetic disease they both carry.

To learn more about JScreen or to request a screening kit visit www.JScreen.org.

Rabbi Raphael David Saban, one of the wisest men of his time, once consulted Rav Benzion Uziel, the rabbi of Israel, in order to find a solution to interfaith marriage in Judaism which is a controversial matter to this day. Their communication can be found in Mişpete Uziel. It is of utmost importance that Rafael Saban is recognized by everyone both for his service to the community and because he was the first official rabbi of the Turkish Republic.

Rabbi Raphael David Saban                                                     (1873-1961)

The first official Chief Rabbi of the Turkish Republic      (1940-1960)

Published responsum kiduşin al tenay                                        ( 1923)

Rabbi Rafael Saban was born in Kuzguncuk, Turkey, in 1873. His father Nesim was a trader. Rabbi Saban began his Torah studies when he was a very young boy, under the tutelage of Rabbi Yosef Akohen, Rabbi Yomtov Akohen and Rabbi Konerte Dison.

At the age of nine, he became a very successful Talmud and Bible student and got his moel certificate when he was 15. He also received his shohet certificate at the age of 16.

When he was only 18 he became the secretary of the Chief Rabbi of the Ottoman Empire. Despite his young age, he was elected as the general secretary of Bet-Din of that time.  On that year he married Roza – Rabbi Hayim Nasi’s daugher in Hasköy.

Four years later he started his career as a grand Bet Din member. After his father in law Rabbi Hayim Nasi died, he became the head of the Jewish court and remained in this position for 8 years. He later became the rabbi of Galata, Beyoğlu, Kasımpaşa, İtalian and Ashkenazi communities and was their leader from 1912-1953.

İn addition to this difficult and demanding mission, he represented Rabbi Moshe Alevi, Hayim Nahum and Rabbi Hayim Becerano in finding a solution to serious halakhic issues that were confronting the community.

İn 1923 he published a responsum under the name of Kidushin al Tenay which covered religious divorce issues. He presented a clear-sighted and far-reaching approach to solving the agunah problem.

He became the offical Chief Rabbi of Turkey in 1923.

In one of his speeches during the 500th year of İstanbul’s conquest, he reminded the audience that since the day Jewish people were accepted in this land, they had been living their religious lives freely and happily.

In July 1953 Chief Rabbi Saban and his team went to Ankara and visited President Celal Bayar, Parliament head Refik Koraltan and also were received by Adnan Menderes – the vice president of that time.

Despite his old age, he attented Mustafa Kemal’s,the founder of the Turkish Republic, funeral as an offical guest. He was the first offical Chief Rabbi of the Turkish Republic.

He passed away in 1961 – 7 Kislev 5721 – when he was 87.

Among his writings is the  book “Midrash Laperushim” This book was about Bible and Rashi’s explanations. This book was published in Jerusalem in 5765 (2005). In his halakhic writings, he sought tolerant ways to deal with contemporary issues, such as intermarriage and conversion to Judaism.

          He argued that those Jews who married out of the faith were deficient in their religious observance, but that didn’t mean that they rejected the Torah and the Jewish community. They see themselves as Jews and want to be included in the Jewish community. They want to raise their children as Jews, and seek to have their baby boys circumcised by a proper mohel. Rabbi Saban sought an acceptable solution under the sacred light of our Torah ( 13 Nisan 5711).  Knowing that conversions done for the sake of marriages are not halakhically ideal, he asked advice from Rav Benzion Uziel, the great Sephardic rabbinic scholar in Israel. Rav Uziel noted that intermarriages were increasing; it was important to convert the non-Jewish partner for the sake of maintaining Jewish households and Jewish children. Rav Uziel supported his views with Talmudic passages and references to great halakhic authorities.

Rav Saban, like Rav Uziel, sought reasonable halakhic solutions to contemporary problems. Voices like theirs are very much needed today.

Comparative Study of the Sephardic and Ashkenazic Wedding Ceremony

Yamin Levy

I recently attended the wedding of a young (very young) couple. They were both raised in a strong Orthodox Sephardic community, yet religiously influenced by Chabad and Breslav. Their heroic attempt at creating a ceremony that was true to their Sephardic heritage and reflected the Ashkenazic / Chassidic traditions of their rabbis inspired the writing of this essay. What struck me as I watched the various parts of the wedding ceremony unfold was the contrasting ambiances, tones and qualities stirred by the conflicting cultural backgrounds that the diverse Minhagim exposed.

The research for this essay brought to light not only the substantive differences in the way Sephardic Jews and Ashkenaz Jews achieve community sanctioned matrimony but also uncovered the differences in Halakhic methodology and attitudes towards Minhag (which requires a more in-depth study). European legalist spoke with the same if not very similar authoritative voice when codifying Minhag as they did when codifying Halakhah while Sephardic authorities clearly distinguish between that which is Halakhic and essential to the ceremony and that which is Minhag and considered a dressing to the ritual. This of course makes for a much greater amount of material originating in Ashkenaz sources where codification, responsa and texts dedicated to Minhag rarely differentiate between the essential ritual (law, Halakha) and that which is tradition (Minhag).

Two Examples

Take for example the use of a gold ring band under the Chupah. The traditional wedding ceremony consists of two[1] parts: Erusin[2] (or Kiddushin) and Nesu’in[3]. Originally these two ceremonies were held as much as a year apart. Today both of these ceremonies take place under the Chupah[4].

Erusin is introduced with a blessing over wine and is completed after the groom places a ring that is at least worth a Peruta, a coin of minimum value[5], on the bride’s finger. This is not an act of acquisition as much as it is an act of separation or exclusivity thus the term Kiddushin. Rachel Biale argues that the fact that Halakha rules the smallest coin ratifies the kinyan suggests: “the amount of money is immaterial because the acquisition is symbolic”[6].

Halakhically this can be accomplished by giving the bride anything of value and declaring that the exchange is for purposes of Erusin[7]. Ahkenaz Jewry streamlined this ceremony and only permit using a simple gold band for the Erusin[8] while Sephardic authorities point out that the use of a ring is a Minhag and a coin[9] or anything of value may also be used to complete the Erusin ceremony. The preferred choice for Sephardic Jews is either a ring, a coin or a piece of Jewelry.

What is most interesting is that European Jewry’s Halakhic authority’s view the use of a ring not only as a quasi-legal stricture and is codified as such but much ink is invested in the details of how the transfer of the ring takes place, why it’s done this way and why a ring is chosen as opposed to any other object of value. In other words because this simple act of transfer is infused with legal, religious and theological meaning the detail becomes significant. The groom must take the ring in his right hand[10] and place it on the bride’s right forefinger[11]. If the groom is left-handed he must take the ring in his left hand[12].

The Zohar is invoked as stating that the right hand represents love while the left hand represents strength[13]. The ring is placed on the bride’s forefinger because it is the seventh finger if you count the five fingers of the left hand and seven is a meaningful number in the wedding ceremony[14]. These are but a sampling of the many permutations the symbolism and meaning of the gold ring band produced in Ashkenaz Halakhic sources.

Another legal matter that finds expression in Ashkenaz Halakhic sources which leads to unique Minhagim which do not exist in Sephardic Halakhic sources is Ma’aseh Goyim, not mimicking the Christian church wedding practices. For example there is a school of Halakhic authorities in Ashkenaz that forbid making a Chupah in a Synagogue Sanctuary because it is reminiscent of a church wedding[15].  This led to a substantive amount of literature on the symbolism and meaning of the Chupah and its association with, the giving of the Torah, the Mishkan, and Bet HaMikdash, creation, and the Garden of Eden as proof texts or proof ideas to support the tradition that a Chupah is best performed outdoors[16] or in a non-sanctuary hall. None of this exists in Sephardic sources[17].

It is difficult to distinguish when Ma’aseh Goyim is invoked to prohibit the mimicking of Church practices and when it actually influences Jewish law. Grossman argues that Ashkenaz attitudes towards age[18] appropriateness for Marriage, and polygamy[19] are two of numerous examples where the Christian cultural background influenced Jewish attitudes in Ashkenaz.

This leads me to make humble disclaimer before I proceed. The goal of this essay is simply to bring to light the varying Minhagim of the wedding ceremony as it is observed today. In addition I will suggest that the tapestry of Minhagim reflect a community’s attitudes towards, marriage, sexuality, and public celebration while setting the mood and atmosphere of the ceremony.

For a comprehensive study of issues relating to marriage, divorce and a range of other topics relating to women’s issues in Europe (and in Moslem lands) during the middle ages and by extensions their influence in contemporary ritual I recommend the most recent contribution to the subject written by Avraham Grossman Pious and Rebellious Jewish Women in Medieval Europe[20]. Another less contemporary but comprehensive work on the subject is Ze’ev W. Falk’s, Jewish Matrimonial Law in the Middle Ages.

The amount of material available is daunting and the way it is used and manipulated can be endless. As my footnotes indicate I use a limited number of sources that I believe reflect the roots of the unadulterated contemporary wedding ceremony in Ashkenaz and in Sephardic communities today.

NiSu’in

The second part of the wedding ceremony involves the recitation of seven blessings in the presence of a Minyan[21]. The seven blessings or the Sheva Berakhot are recited over a cup of wine. Ashkenazim use a second cup of wine while Sepharadim refill the first. The European tradition has nothing to do with the Halakhic stricture of yayin pagum[22] which is easily rectified by adding “non-pagum wine into the cup”[23]. Rather it may have to do with preserving an element of the original custom of Erusin and NeSu’in being two distinct rituals performed months apart[24]. By using a second cup of wine the officiating rabbi distinguishes one ceremony from the other.

The more interesting reason given is found in a classic work on marriage originating in Ashkenaz called Shulchan HaEzer[25]. There the author Rabbi Yizchak Tzi Leibowitz (Central Europe pre-ww1) argues that the reason two cups are necessary has to do with the possibility that the bride or groom are Shabbath desecrators and once they drink from the glass of wine the wine is disqualified and cannot be blessed again.

Each of the explanations for two cups of wine under the Chupah are independently fascinating.  The first suggests a lingering commitment to the way ceremonies were observed in the past and doing whatever possible to preserve even commemorations of the past behaviors. Rabbinic authorities in Ashkenaz infused tradition with religious significance, and even if the custom is irrelevant today, the way it was done in the past remains sacred.  The second reason introduces an inescapable element that involves the larger community. Clergy serve the public and the community comprises of people who observe the law at varying degrees. The Ashkenaz rabbinic authorities protect the clergy from the pitfalls of such contact by introducing strictures that Halakhically have little to do with the ceremony at hand.  

NiSu’in is completed with an act that unambiguously demonstrates that the couple is now husband and wife. The Talmud rules that the Sheva Berakhot are recited when the groom is ready to bring the bride into his home in order to consummate the marriage[26]. Although NeSu’in could be accomplished by physical consummation, in practice this was frowned upon[27]. How the NiSu’in ceremony is perceived and the nature of the Chupah leads to one of the more noticeable Halakhic differences between Sepharadim and Ashkenazim.

The term Chupah appears in Tanakh a number of times and is clearly associated with the marriage chambers[28]. In rabbinic literature Chupah is a preparation for intercourse[29]: “Everyone knows why the bride goes to the Chupah[30]”. The nature of Chupah is disputed among the authorities and leads to a difference in practice. The question at hand is whether or not Chupah suffices as a means of demonstrating marriage or not. According to European authorities Chupah alone does not suffice and therefore the couple must have enough time[31] in a secluded place to potentially consummate the marriage[32]. This is called Yichud. In some Ashkenaz circles the groom is either given the room or he pays a symbolic fee for the room so that he actually brings his bride into his own domain[33]. Two witnesses are designated and posted outside the chambers so that the couple’s seclusion is legally ratified[34]. The witnesses first examine the room and make sure it is empty before allowing the married couple to enter[35]. Yichud is thus, according to Ashkenaz tradition, the final stage of the NiSu’in.

Sephardic authorities maintain that the Chupah suffices as a means of completing NiSu’in and the couple’s Yichud takes place after the wedding festivities when the groom brings the bride into his chambers or home. It has been suggested that the reason why the groom in Sephardic wedding ceremonies drapes himself and his bride with a new Tallith is in order to demonstrate publically that he is providing her a garment – a biblically ordained husbandly act[36]. Therefore Sephardic wedding ceremonies do not include Yichud immediately following the Chupah[37].

The Ketubah

According to Jewish Law it is forbidden for a man to live with his wife unless a Ketubah has been dully executed[38], and signed by two witnesses. The Ketubah remains in the possession of the wife or her agent. If it is lost a Ketubah deIrkhesa (Ketubah for one lost) must be written[39] and duly signed by witnesses.

Prior to Rabbenu Gershom (circa 960 -1028) a man could divorce his wife against her will. The costly promise of a Ketubah not only protected the wife financially in case of death or divorce but also mitigated the possibility of a man impulsively divorcing his wife against her will[40].

The difference between Sephardim and Ashkenazim regarding the Ketubah has to do with its legal origin. According to Sephardic Poskim the Ketubah is rabbinically legislated and is therefore written as such[41] in contrast Ashkenaz Poskim view the Ketubah as Biblically ordained[42] and their text states “zuzei matan dechazu likhi mide’oraita” “two hundred zuz that you are entitled to from the Torah”.

The differing conclusions suggest that there is more here than the interpretation of an ambiguous Talmudic text because the Talmud is not at all ambiguous. The majority of the Talmudic sages clearly rule that the Ketubah is Rabbinic in origin. The single opinion of Rabbi Shimon Ben Gamliel is even stated in a tentative manner: “Mikan Samkhu Liktubat Isha min HaTorah” From here the sages found SUPORT for the Ketubah being from the Torah. At least one medieval Ashkenaz authority created a legal compromise[43] in order to make sense of the position that the Ketubah is biblically ordained. One wonders if Chachmei Ashkenaz imputed a Biblical origin to the Ketubah in order to emphasize its importance to the people. Here again contact with the larger community presents a unique problem. Not everyone will observe and respect the ritual on the same level. In order to impress upon the uneducated the importance of the Ketubah, Chachmei Ashkenaz amplified its significance by attributing to it biblical authority. Once invoked the position becomes legal with all its ramifications.

The prevalent Ashkenaz custom is to read the entire Ketubah immediately following the Erusin while the custom among many Sephardic communities is to read the first few lines and the last few lines of the Ketubah[44].  If indeed Chachmei Ashkenaz were intent on emphasizing the importance and significance of the Ketubah it makes sense that it was read in its entirety at the wedding ceremony. For Sephardic communities the reading of the Ketubah under the Chupah functions as an interlude between the two parts of the wedding ceremony and therefore only portions of it need to be read.

Tena’im

The Signing of Tena’im[45], a contract setting the wedding date and stipulating certain prenuptial conditions was a Minhag that at one time was observed by both the Sephardic[46] and Ashkenaz[47] communities. Sepahardic communities call this a Shetar, a contract. This ceremony did not have a religious character and did not involve any sort of blessings. Sephardic communities therefore considered the engagement to wed a festive event[48] but never gave this ceremony religious significance. Verbal agreement or other forms of understanding between the families replaced the need of a Shetar[49].

In Ashkenaz the Tena’im were infused with religious and symbolic character and has thus been ensured a much longer life span. The difference between Sepharadim and Ashkenazim regarding this ceremony may have to do with their respective attitudes towards cancelling engagements. In Sepharad the cancellation of an engagement did not cast aspersions or shame on the family and Sephardic rabbis did not impose financial penalties. Rabbi Saadya Gaon clearly states:

“For in this generation we do not have monetary penalties for either shame or damages. For it is the custom of the world that several people may speak of marriage with the daughters of Israel, and they do not marry except the one who falls to their lot. Because the matching of a woman to a man is nothing short of an act from heaven”[50].

Chachmei Ashkenaz on the other hand penalized families who broke engagements[51]. Within this context it makes sense that the engagement ceremony Tena’im played a large role in European communities.

Ze’ev Falk attributes the strict rules associated with cancelling an engagement in Ashkenaz to the influence of the surrounding Christian society[52]. Pitchei Teshuva writes that trusting that the bride scheduled her menstrual cycle appropriately depends on her being assured that the Tena’im were duly signed. Rabbi Hizkia Medini in his work Sedei Hemed writes that it is the Minhag of Ashkenaz to break a glass plate at the Tena’im ceremony. The dish must be earth ware and is broken by the mothers of the groom and bride[53] as a reminder of the destruction of Jerusalem. Again we note the pattern of infusing a Minhag with symbolic and theological significance. The legal discussion continues as to why the mothers break the dish at this ceremony while the groom breaks the glass under the Chupah?[54] 

Today despite the template nature of the Tenaim text, and the lack of communal pressure associated with cancelling engagements the custom is still meticulously observed.

Seeing Each Other

Another difference in Minhag between Sepharadim and Ashkenazim has to do with the couple seeing each other prior to the wedding ceremony. In some Ashkenazic circles the couple does not see each other the day prior to the Chupah, in some circles they do not see each other evenings for an entire week while in some circles they don’t see each other at all and don’t even speak to each other for an entire week prior to the Chupah. Despite the accepted practice of this tradition it is hard to find an authentic rabbinic source for this Minhag[55].

The reasons given for this tradition vary. Some sources suggest that the Yetzer Hara is most potent at this time or that the Satan is eager to ruin the party. Other sources suggest that the bride and groom should miss each other and feel a yearning to be intimate and thus fulfill the Mitzvah of marital union with much greater zeal after not having seen each other for an extended period of time. A Halakhic parallel would be not eating Matzah for an entire month before Pesach so that the Mitzvah of eating Matzvah is performed BeTei’avon with enthusiasm[56].

The first time in one week that the couple sees each other is at a ceremony immediately prior to the Chupah called Bedekung in Yiddish or in Hebrew Hachnasat Kallah.[57] There the groom veils the bride and family blesses the couple.

Sepharadim do not share this practice at all. In fact the groom signs the Ketubah in the presence of the Bride immediately prior to the Chupah. Sepharadim did not share the concern of satanic influence and assume the bride and groom would yearn for each other’s closeness the more they saw each other prior to their Chupah. Some Sephardic sources suggest that forbidding the bride and groom the opportunity to see and speak with each other would cause them unnecessary Za’ar pain and suffering at this time of great joy.

The Day of the Wedding

A common practice among Ashkenazim is the Minhag that has the bride and groom fasting on their wedding day[58]. At the Minha service on the day of their wedding the Bride and groom recite Aneinu in the Amidah as they would on any other fast day[59]. In some Chabad circles the father of the bride also fasts on the day of his daughter’s wedding. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Schneerson (1878-1944) in his Likutim writes “whoever increases and intensifies his tears during this fast day, a day likened to Yom Kippur, is to be praised”. The Yom Kippur theme is further amplified by having the bride and groom recite “Al Chet” the penitential prayers of the eve of Yom Kippur and the viduy confessional prayers on the day of their wedding[60].

The Ashkenaz tradition has the groom wearing a Kittle under the Chupah[61]. The Kittle is a white cotton robe without pockets – a reminder of the shrouds in which one is buried[62]. Men wear their Kittle on Yom Kippur (and Rosh Hashanah) and under their Chupah. The Kittle on Yom Kippur is a clear evocation of death. In Frankfort it was customary that the groom cover his head like a mourner[63].  The assumption is that its appearance under the Chupah suggests the motif of repentance, sobriety and solemnity taken to an extreme. The groom on the happiest day of his life is reminded of his death[64]. Prior to the wedding ceremony some Ashkenazic communities place ashes on the head of the groom as a sign of mourning for Jerusalem[65].

In Sephardic circles any association with death or tragedy at an auspicious moment like a wedding ceremony would be very much frowned upon and regarded as a bad omen.

Sepharadim have never practiced Minhagim[66] (until the wedding of the young couple I mentioned above) that invoke mourning, penitence or even contrition. Such Minhagim for Sephardic Jews would be contrary to the celebratory and festive quality infused in every aspect of the day. The Talmud states clearly "Any man who has no wife lives without joy, without blessing, and without goodness" (B. Yev. 62b); ‘They taught: whoever has no wife is lacking in goodness, without help, without joy, without blessing without atonement…even without peace … without life … nor is he a complete person…[67]. A man is considered excommunicated from heaven if he does not have a wife[68]. These and numerous other such statements in Talmudic literature clearly describe a positive disposition towards marriage. Furthermore the Talmud takes very seriously the Mitzvah to rejoice the bride and groom. A page and a half of Talmudic discourse is devoted to how one dances before the bride and groom[69]. It is therefore no surprise that Rabbi Ovadia Yoseph z”l and earlier Sephardic Halakhic authorities took serious exception against those who fasted on their wedding day[70].

In stark contrast to the Kittle the Sephardic groom wears a newly purchased Tallith. Usually a gift from the bride, and if the ceremony is during the day the groom recites the blessing Lehitatef Bezizit and Shehecheyanu. If the ceremony is in the evening only Shehecheyanu is recited. The assumption being that the Mitzvah of marriage and the joy associated with the moment warrants the recitation of Shehecheyanu[71].

Here we encounter the most significant aesthetic difference between Sephardic Jews and Ashkenaz Jews in terms of the wedding ceremony. One can only speculate why it is that European Jewry introduced such sobering rituals into what should be a festive ceremony.  Some have suggested that the wedding ceremony is in consonance with the oppressed existence of the Jews in Christian Europe over the ages[72]. Sephardic Jews also experienced their share of oppression in Arab lands and did not turn joyous occasions into solemn ceremonies.

Others have suggested that discomfort with too much merriment has roots in the Talmud itself. The beginning of chapter five of Tractatce Berakhot pages 30b and 31a in defining the verse in Psalms “rejoice with trembling” the sages express ambivalence about too much festivity.

Alternatively, the sexuality underling the marriage ceremony made European authorities uncomfortable and led to a tempering of the rituals.

Marriage in Judaism is favorable (see above) and the institution of marriage is healthy as Rabbi Yaacov Ben HaRosh, the author of the Tur Shulchan Arukh insinuates in his introduction to his Evven HaEzer where lists the psychological, social and physical benefits of marriage. It is good for society and the most civil way to procreate and propagate. And yet Judaism walks a religious tightrope between the permissibility of sexuality within marriage and the value of ascetic denial of the libidinal drive. This very tension is expressed in the rabbinic statement: “Let us be thankful to our forefathers for had they not sinned (by having sexual intercourse) we would not have come into the world.[73]”

Sephardic Communities and Ashkenaz Communities through the Middle Ages and into contemporary practice have each emphasized the opposite spectrum of the tightrope-tension. In Muslim and Middle Eastern countries in Middle-Ages sexuality, while scrutinized, was actually celebrated in literature, poetry and art. Take the well know comment of Nachmanides on Shemoth 21:11 where he claims that the three biblical obligations of a man to his spouse: “She’era, Kesuta, Ve’Onata” all refer to the quality of sexual intimacy[74]. Such an interpretation can only emerge from a culture that is comfortable with sexuality and embraces it. The Iggeret HaKodesh which is ascribed to Nachmanides, but probably written by another Sephardic Medievalist Joseph Ben Avraham Gikatilla (1248-1325), has a very positive view of sexuality emphasizing the proper ways of initiating intimacy. He goes as far as saying that intercourse is a part of the divine process[75]. Shemuel HaNagid’s well-known erotic poetry[76] is not an exception in Muslim lands. There were countless Jewish and Muslim writers poets and artists who celebrated human sexuality through literature, exegesis, poetry and erotic art[77].

This attitude towards sexuality in Sepharad is not an innovation but rather a continuation of an attitude that finds full expression in Talmudic literature for example the very graphic advice Rav Hisda gives his daughters:

“Rabbi Hisda said to his daughters: When you husband caresses you to arouse the desire for intercourse and holds the breast with one hand and ‘that place’ with the other hand give him the breast at first to increase his passion and do not give him the place of intercourse too soon, until his passion increases and he is in pain with desire. Then give him[78].”

One does not find this kind of comfort with sexuality in Europe. As a result Ashkenaz had a very different attitude towards sexual intimacy and eroticism. The Church’s more suppressed views on marriage and sexuality carried the day in Europe and influenced Jewish attitudes on the subject. It is therefore no surprise that the Ashkenaz wedding ceremony tips towards the opposite direction in the tightrope-tension[79]. 

Rabbi Yehuda HaHassid

Rabbi Yehuda HaHassid (1150-1217) born Yehudah ben Shemuel of Regensburg was a leader of Chassidei Ashkenaz, a mystic sect in Germany. In addition to his most famous work Sefer HaHasidim that is devoted to ethical guidance he authored a series of decrees that have been passed down through the generations.

One of his decrees that influenced not only Ashkenaz communities but also some Sephardic communities has to do with the name of one’s bride. The saintly rabbi decreed that a man could not marry a woman whose name is the same as that of his mother[80]. While no reason was given some have speculated that this has to do with the man thinking about his mother while he engaged in sexual relations with his wife. Later Ashkenaz authorities have even ruled that if the man becomes aware of this after marriage he must divorce his wife. Again I argue that much of these Minhagim are driven by an ambivalence with sexuality.

Two decrees, which have been accepted universally by the Ashkenaz community but not at all by the Sephardic community, are: 1. Two brothers may not marry two sisters[81] 2. A man may not marry the sister of his deceased wife[82].  Both of these unions were universally practiced in Sephardic communities of the previous generation.

Besides the nuclear family the Torah presents the following list of forbidden relationships: One’s aunt, sister-in-law, stepsisters, mother-in-law, step-daughters, daughters of a sister-in-law, daughters-in-law and granddaughters. According to Maimonides these prohibitions cover all the females in an extended four-generation family that may be exploited by men in their care[83]. The one exception is one’s niece, which is not forbidden in Halakha. In fact marrying a sister’s daughter is considered a special act of kindness[84]. In Sephardic communities of the previous generation such marriage arrangement were common.

In Ashkenaz communities they were not only rare but as mentioned above relationships that are Halakhically permissible were forbidden in Ashkenaz.

Seven Rotations

The Ashkenaz wedding ceremony is unique in that it begins with the bride circling the groom seven times. In the Kabbalah this ritual symbolizes the Soveiv, God’s eternal light encircling the couple to protect them.[85]  Other explanations include the bride walking around the groom as an act of binding him to certain commitments and obligations[86]. On a more cosmological level the seven circuits represent the seven revolutions the earth made during creation[87]. Others associate this tradition to a selective reading of a verse in Jeremiah (31:21) where according to this translation the prophet says that in the time of Messiah woman will protect the man.

The Kabbalistic idea may very well have its origins in the mythological magic circle, which wards off evil spirits and demons. The use of a circle was common in other practices as a boundary of an area that becomes sacred. The area encircled is set apart from everyday life and is protected from evil influences.

Ashkenazim are not unique in introducing practices that are designed to ward off evil spirits or the evil eye. Sephardim have a ceremony called the Hinnah. This ceremony usually takes place the night before the wedding and the Hinnah dye is put in the hands of the groom and bride protecting them from the Ayin HaRa.

The Breaking of the Glass

Investigating the origin of Minhagim is often regarded as blasphemous. And yet it is something we cannot do without. The universal practice of breaking a glass at a marriage ceremony is nowhere to be found in Talmudic literature[88]. It first appears in the late Middle Ages in Franco German Ashkenaz[89]. A similar custom is found among the non-Jewish German folk who would break a glass when celebrating their joyous occasions in order to trick the demons into believing that a catastrophe rather than a celebration was taking place.

Like so many Minhagim, its source is not relevant and despite the controversial[90] nature of its origin breaking a glass was eventually universally accepted and practiced by both Sepharadim and Ashkenazim as a reminder that on their happy day, they should reflect on the destruction of the Temple.

The Bet HaMikdash is often associated with marriage. We pray that the groom and bride build a home where the Shechinah will dwell like the Bet HaMikdash. In contrast “The Mizbe’ach sheds tears when a couple divorces”.

This practice amplifies the meaning of the seventh of the Sheva Berakhot: “Let there soon be heard in the cities of Judah and the streets of Jerusalem the sound of joy and the sound of gladness the sound of the groom and the voice of the bride”.

Final Thought

It is theorized that even before the expulsion of the Jews from Israel after the destruction of the second Temple there was a range of Minhagim associated with life-cycle events, holidays and rituals. Certainly after the close of the Talmud and the dispersion of Jews throughout the world distinct Minhagim evolved into the practice of various, and geographically separated communities. In many cases Minhagim emerged with a basis in Talmudic or rabbinic lore while in some cases, Minhagim developed without support in the legal system. At times rabbinic authorities struggled with this kind of folk custom but when it became rooted in popular practice it became almost impossible to eradicate. Once a part of the ritual, these “new” Minhagim were given a Jewish interpretation, thus rendering them innocuous[91].

Halakha exposes Judaism’s core values while Minhag reflects its community’s fears, and aspirations, dresses moments with joy or navigates ceremonies through moments of sadness. Minhag transforms ritual into a culturally relevant aesthetic experience.

If this is indeed so our study of the differences in the way Sephardic Jews and Ashkenazic Jews wed has given us a unique viewpoint on the intersection between Law and tradition and its role in the making of special moments within Judaism.

ies and the Prohibition of Lo’eg LaRash, Jubilee Volume in Honor of Rabbi Shalom Carmy called Rav Shelom Banayikh.

Rav Benzion Meir Hai Uziel (1880–1953) and Rav Ovadia Yosef (1920-2013) are two towering figures of the twentieth-century Sephardic rabbinical world. They seem to share much in common: Both are tremendous talmidei hahamim; both are prolific authors of halakhic Responsa; and both held the position of Rishon leZion—the Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel.Yet a closer look at their worldviews marks a sharp distinction in two important areas: 1) the definition of a posek (rabbinic decisor of Jewish law), and 2) the Sephardi-Ashkenazi divide.

In 1934, Rav Uziel delivered an address entitled “The Posek in Israel.” He opened with the following statement:

The posek in Israel is not he who knows the laws of what is forbidden and what is permitted (Issur veHeter), what is impure and what is pure, or the financial laws governing relationships between man and his fellow man. One who knows such laws is not a posek; rather he holds a much more modest title of talmid haham (rabbinic scholar).
Rather, the posek in Israel is the Grand Bet Din (Bet Din haGadol), the chief legislative body that sits on Lishkat haGazit in the Temple in Jerusalem, from which comes halakhic rulings for the entire Jewish people.

The vision behind Rav Uziel’s words is that the ultimate posek in Israel is not the individual rabbi who gives rulings on a case-by-case basis, but rather the Bet Din haGadol, which has the power to rule on behalf of the whole Jewish people. To Rav Uziel, individual matters such as kashruth or ritual purity affect only the individual, but the grander scale halakhic issues that the Bet Din haGadol may rule on (such as civil law or homicide) have an effect on the entire Jewish nation. When Rav Uziel heard the word “posek,” what came to his mind was a “Supreme Court of the Jewish People” that had a potentially unifying effect for all of Am Yisrael, especially in the land of Israel.

Just 19 years later in 1953, a young Rav Ovadia Yosef published the first volume of his rabbinic Responsa, Yabia Omer. In his introduction, he takes an almost opposite point of view to that of Rav Uziel:

The main purpose of Torah study is pesak halakha (halakhic ruling). Therefore, [one’s] main course of study should be Orah Haim (daily, Shabbat, and holiday laws) and Yoreh Deah (the laws of Issur veHeter).

Nowhere does Rav Ovadia even mention the Bet Din haGadol or anything like it. Instead, he sees the halakhic rulings in the private domain as the ultimate expression of a posek in Israel.

In a letter to a rabbinic colleague addressing the different modes of pesak halakha from different countries, Rav Uziel wrote:

I do not relate to any distinctions or separations between Sephardim and Ashkenazim. It is not the countries of Spain (Sepharad) or Germany (Ashkenaz) that gave us great Torah scholars, rather the Torah itself—regardless of locale—that has inspired generation after generation of Torah learning. I believe in the unity of our people, and I reject divisions along ethnic lines. Our return to Erets Yisrael is our new era of unity, where the traditions of the Diaspora are creatively blended to form a new generation of Jews.

Rav Ovadia Yosef sees things differently. He insists on the restoration of the dominance of the halakha according to the Sephardic minhag in Israel. Rav Ovadia does not want equality with the Ashkenazim; he wants full dominance of the Sephardic minhag. In Yabia Omer, he actually levels a veiled criticism of his predecessor Rav Uziel:

It is known that the Sephardic chief rabbis before me were subordinated to their colleagues, the Ashkenazic rabbis. And for the sake of peace, they said nothing. But I, who am not subordinate, thank God, will uphold my mission that the ruling of Maran (Rabbi Yosef Karo) be adopted.

I believe that the different worldviews of Rav Uziel and Rav Yosef—in both areas—are attributable to one factor: the eras in which they lived in Israel and served as Chief Rabbis.
Rav Uziel lived during the Yishuv in Palestine. He was a fervent Zionist who fully identified with Religious Zionism, and saw the re-establishment of the Jewish State as a sign from God, and as an opportunity to create something new—a unified Jewish people. It was a Sanhedrin— not the individual rabbi —that would bring about halakhic unity to the Jewish state. With the Jewish people coming back to their land from all over the world, Diaspora concepts such as “Sephardi” and “Ashkenazi” would be replaced by a unified Jewish people in their common ancestral homeland.

Rav Uziel lived in an age of building and re-building, of new and renewed ideas. He was a true idealist. He did live to see the establishment of the State of Israel, but died in 1953, a mere five years into the State’s existence.

Rav Ovadia Yosef grew up in the State of Israel, with all of its complexities, social gaps, and socioeconomic/ethnic divisions. By the time he became Chief Rabbi in 1973, Rav Ovadia viewed his post as an opportunity to restore pride to Sephardim who had been suppressed in Israeli society, primarily by the elitist secular Labor Party political establishment. In the reality he faced, there would be no chance to create a grand halakhic body like the Sanhedrin, so he preferred for a posek to return to his traditional Diaspora role of rulings in the private domain. Given the deep social gap that existed between Sephardim and Ashkenazim, he could not see “unifying” halakha between them; quite the contrary, he saw this as an opportunity for something Sephardi—in this case halakha—to finally take precedence over something Ashkenazi.

Whose legacy do we wish to carry forward?

I grew up kissing the hand of Rav Ovadia Yosef, studying his books, and revering him as Israel’s Chief Rabbi. I think he did what he had to do with great wisdom, and he is arguably the twentieth century’s greatest talmid haham and posek. Unfortunately, his plan took a turn into politics, and with Shas, the results are simply miserable—for Sephardim, and for Am Yisrael.

It’s time for us to go back to dreaming Rav Uziel’s big dreams.

How tolerant should a person be of a son-in-law's desire to keep his own minhagim at his (the father-in-law's) Yom Tov table.

It is always desirable for a person to behave with good manners. It is especially important for a religiously observant person to be a model of excellent behavior, thoughtfulness, and respect for others.  Derekh eretz kadmah leTorah.

Among the Jewish people, many minhagim have developed over the centuries. When people with different minhagim sit at the same table for a Shabbat or Yom Tov meal, it is important for all to conduct themselves in a spirit of harmony.

>As a general rule, it is proper for guests to follow the custom of the host. “Wherever you are, follow the local customs” (Shemot Rabba 47:5).  Rabbi Eliezer Papo, in his classic Pele Yoetz, advises: “Do not sit when everyone else is standing or stand while everyone is sitting. The main principle is to do what others are doing as long as this does not transgress a prohibition.”

A son-in-law at his father-in-law’s table should follow the father-in-law’s minhagim, unless there is a strong halakhic reason that prevents this. For example, an Ashkenazic son-in-law should not eat kitniyot on Pessah at his Sephardic father-in-law’s table. But neither should a Sephardic father-in-law serve kitniyot to an Ashkenazic son-in-law. Mutual respect is vital.

If father-in-law and son-in-law foresee possible conflicts in minhagim, they should speak well before Shabbat or Yom Tov and come to a satisfactory accommodation so that there is no ill-will at the Shabbat or Yom Tov table. Gadol HaShalom.

Do young children belong in shul?

There is an extensive halakhic literature on this topic. Many have ruled that small children should not be brought to synagogue because they are likely to disrupt the prayers of the congregation. Others have pointed to the example of the Talmudic Sage, Rav Yehoshua, who was thought to have become so great because his mother brought him to the Study Hall even as an infant (and even when she was still pregnant with him!) It was believed that an infant absorbs holiness and wisdom by being in the proper surroundings. This would apply to places of prayer as well as places of Torah study. There is something beautiful about babies and toddlers absorbing the tefilot as a natural part of their upbringing.

   As a synagogue rabbi for many years, I had to deal with this issue first hand. Before I came to our congregation, children under age five were not permitted to be in the sanctuary during services. This policy may have been good for maintaining decorum, but it discouraged parents of young children from coming to services. We addressed the issue by setting up child care and youth group programs. We also told parents that they could bring their young children into the synagogue during services, as long as the children did not disrupt the prayers of others. Once children become restless or noisy, it is up to the parents to quickly take the children out of the sanctuary.

    I definitely feel that young children belong in the synagogue. But I also definitely feel that it is an obligation of parents to see to it that their children do not disturb the prayers of others.

Should the music of any composer be banned because of his/her private moral failings? Or should the music stand on its own merits, regardless of the personal life of the musician?

Throughout history, and including our own time, great musicians have composed music that has provided inspiration, elevation and joy. When we listen to or perform their music, we are engrossed in the music itself; we are not concerned with the personal lives of the composers.  If we could only listen to or perform music composed by sinless individuals, our musical experience would be vastly impoverished.

But music does not exist in a vacuum. If we despise the composer/musician, it is difficult to separate our emotions from the music itself. Whatever the merits or deficiencies in the compositions of Richard Wagner, his reputation as a racist, anti-Semite hovers over him. His music was glorified by the Nazi regime so that it is difficult, especially for Jews, to listen to Wagner without also feeling his malevolent presence in his music. 

Those who have strong repulsion to anything connected with Wagner should not listen to his music. For them, his music causes distress and pain. Those who know nothing or care nothing about Wagner should judge his music on its own merits. If they like his music, they are free to listen to it.

How important is it to be informed about political and world affairs?  Or is it important?  Should the average frum Jew read the newspaper (or a news website) every day

The real question is: how connected are we to the society in which we live? Do we feel that news is  about “us” and not just about “them”? And if it is about us, don’t we have a need and a responsibility to be informed citizens?  However, if we feel disconnected from general society, living in our own self-enclosed world, then we may see little point in devoting time to news about “them.”

Why do readers of the Jewish Press subscribe to the newspaper? On one level, it is to access the news, gain information, inspiration, guidance, etc. But on a more fundamental level, it is a way of connecting to a larger community that we see as “ours.” Each subscriber, knowingly or unknowingly, is indicating a connection to the larger readership of the newspaper.

The same holds true when it comes to reading general newspapers or news websites. If we subscribe or click on to the news, we are not merely learning about current events that affect others. We are indicating, knowingly or unknowingly, that we consider ourselves part of the community of readers of the news…part of general society. What affects “them” also impacts on “us”. We want to know what’s going on so that we can be responsible citizens, vote intelligently, engage in activism when relevant etc.

If the “average frum Jew” sees him/herself as a full member of society, he/she will want to be an informed and responsible member of society.

Rabbi Hayyim AngeI recently published a book review in the Fall, 2019 issue of Tradition (the journal of the Rabbinical Council of America) on Rabbi Yonatan Grossman's new book on Genesis chapters 1-11. He combines classical commentary with modern literary analysis. 

Review Essay

Where Literary Analysis Leads to the Fear of God[1]

Jonathan Grossman, Creation: The Story of Beginnings, trans. Sara Daniel (Maggid, 2019), 439 pages.

It always is a welcome moment when Rabbi Dr. Yonatan (Jonathan) Grossman publishes a new book. As one of the exceptional young scholars of our generation, his prolific output bridges the best of traditional Tanakh learning with contemporary literary methodology. A faculty member at both Herzog College of Yeshivat Har Etzion and Bar-Ilan University, Grossman moves seamlessly between traditional and academic scholarship, demonstrating how both modern literary analysis and our classical commentators contribute to our understanding of the Torah. Most importantly, he remains focused on deriving the religious messages from the text.

Grossman analyzes texts carefully and methodically, interpreting individual words, the flow of passages, and the overall structure and meaning of broader sections. He frequently cites possible options, and offers transparent and oftentimes compelling reasoning why he adopts the readings he prefers. Like his 2014 volume on Abraham, Grossman’s new book on Genesis chapters 1-11 reads as a systematic commentary. In this essay, we will consider several of Grossman’s critical methodological positions, and then explore his central thesis regarding the content of Genesis chapters 1-11.[2]

Methodology

In his introduction (1-10), Grossman addresses the fact that life in chapters 1-11 is markedly different from our reality, and even different from the reality of the rest of Tanakh beginning with Abraham and Sarah in chapter 12. The snake in Eden speaks without the Torah noting that its speaking was a miracle, unlike God’s “opening the mouth” of Balaam’s donkey (Num. 22:28). Other extraordinary elements include the longevity of the first ten generations (chapter 5), and the “sons of God” who marry the “daughters of men” (6:1-4, see discussion below).

Grossman quotes Sforno (on 3:1), who interprets the talking snake as a metaphorical embodiment of Eve’s evil inclination. Although that allegorical interpretation is conceptually appealing, Ibn Ezra (on 3:1) rejects it since God’s curse on the snake (3:14-15) refers to real snakes that slither on the ground.

Grossman maintains that we should read the Eden story and the rest of chapters 1-11 as a symbol, not an allegory. With a symbolic reading, the literal reading is meaningful, but the symbolic message is paramount. With an allegory, the true meaning lies exclusively in the inner meaning. The literal meaning of the Eden narrative is relevant, as noted by Ibn Ezra. At the same time, the inner meaning is the primary intended purpose of the story, so we should understand the snake as also symbolizing Eve’s evil inclination. At the literal level, the story of Eden is a one-time event. On a symbolic level, it is lived out in each generation and by every individual. These chapters are a pre-history that present eternal lessons for the world we live in. Grossman thus remains focused on the Torah’s eternal religious lessons, and does not get bogged down in the rationalist questions that inevitably arise when reading these chapters.[3]

            Grossman (24-29) addresses the potential parallels between the Torah and ancient Near Eastern texts. There are very few compelling literary parallels between Genesis 1-11 and such texts, with the notable exception of the Babylonian flood narrative.[4] There also is relevance in comparing and contrasting the broader ideas found in ancient Near Eastern texts with those of the Torah. That said, our primary goal is to understand the Torah on its own terms to derive its eternal messages.

Even in the case of the flood, Grossman briefly mentions the primary ideological contrasts and then devotes the overwhelming majority of his analysis to understanding the Torah’s account of the flood and its nuanced messages. Overall, Grossman strikes an excellent balance of considering potential Near Eastern parallels as ancillary learning aids, while never allowing them to replace the careful analysis of the biblical text and its messages.

            A recurring assumption Grossman makes is that when there are two textually compelling sides of an argument, the text must intend a dual meaning. He uses this approach both for local interpretations of individual verses and for entire passages. Sometimes Grossman makes a convincing case for the dual meaning. On other occasions his analysis is less compelling, both because it is unclear that the text intends a dual meaning and, even if it does, it is unclear how one should interpret that dual meaning.

For example, Grossman advances a convincing dual reading of the Garden of Eden narrative (102-111). On the one hand, the narrative is about sin and punishment. Had Adam and Eve not eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, they would have remained in Eden. On the other hand, the story opens by stating that the earth needed people to work the land:

When the Lord God made earth and heaven—when no shrub of the field was yet on earth and no grasses of the field had yet sprouted, because the Lord God had not sent rain upon the earth and there was no man to till the soil (2:4-5).

This opening generates the expectation that God will create human beings who will then work the entire earth. From this perspective, Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden resolves the problem of an otherwise barren earth. The final two verses of the narrative capture these two aspects:

So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden, to till the soil from which he was taken. He drove the man out, and stationed east of the Garden of Eden the cherubim and the fiery ever-turning sword, to guard the way to the Tree of Life (3:23-24).

In 3:23, Adam leaves Eden with a mission to work the land, thereby resolving the problem of the earth’s barrenness from 2:5. In 3:24, Adam’s banishment from Eden is a punishment for his sin, and there is no positive dimension. Although Adam and Eve sinned and lost Eden, humanity was intended to fill the earth and work the land.

            Grossman further extends this dual thesis to the effects of the Tree of Knowledge (111-137). The process of maturation into adulthood brings work, sexuality, children, and awareness of death. God punishes Adam and Eve for their sin, but their punishment also contains all the elements of human adulthood. The text thereby presents a story of sin-punishment, while it simultaneously sets the stage for adult human life and the development of the earth. This point derives further support from the fact that both childbearing (1:28) and marriage (2:18-24) are ideal components of creation prior to the sin of Adam and Eve. Both dimensions are well-attested in the text.

            On other occasions, the dual analysis appears less convincing. For example, Grossman surveys the arguments for reading the flood story as one continuous harmonious narrative, and the arguments for reading it with multiple aspects, given the contradictions and redundancies in the narrative.[5] He finds both arguments sufficiently convincing, and therefore concludes the Torah intends both layers of meaning, suggesting that the Torah presents this dual reading in order to raise the question of how the post-flood world will be different. The story is not just about the destruction of the world, but rather its destruction and renewal (233-252).

It is fair to maintain that the flood narrative contains elements of both destruction and renewal. However, it may be facile to assume that the text is intended to be read as a continuous narrative as well as a complex account. Moreover, even if Grossman’s assumption were correct, why specifically would an intertwined complex and harmonious narrative suggest the conclusion that the flood narrative contains elements of both destruction and renewal? We should pursue the question of how God will build a better world, regardless. Sometimes, Grossman appears to want to have it both ways without having to decide or to remain unsure.

            Needless to say what one reader finds compelling, another may not. Regardless of where one may draw the line between peshat and derash in each instance, Grossman does an admirable job of summarizing and evaluating each argument, and offers a reasonable interpretation of the evidence.

The Book’s Central Thesis

Perhaps the most valuable and impressive feature of the book is how Grossman offers a sustained verse-by-verse analysis, and then combines all of his local analyses into a global thesis. However, there is one modification that should be made to his central thesis; namely that God’s commanding laws to Noah is a vital element of God’s project to build a better world after the flood. Adding this point to Grossman’s analysis enables him to emerge with a compelling explanation of Genesis chapters 1-11.

            From the beginning, the Torah sets out its ideal vision for humanity and its role in the world:

And God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. They shall rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, the cattle, the whole earth, and all the creeping things that creep on earth.” And God created man in His image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them. God blessed them and God said to them, “Be fertile and increase, fill the earth and master it; and rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and all the living things that creep on earth” (1:26-28).

The verb b-r-’ (created)—used uniquely with divine acts of creation—appears three times in 1:27 (italicized above). God creates humanity in His image and gives humanity rulership over the animal kingdom. People rule the animals, but do not eat them (1:28-30). The Garden of Eden furthers the Torah’s ideal picture by presenting absolute harmony in creation.

Coupled with the exalted position of humanity, there are also allusions to the potential hazards of human free will. Addressing the plural form in “let us make man,” (1:26), Grossman cites two related verses that also employ this plural form: God’s reaction to Adam and Eve’s sin in Eden, and to the builders of the Tower of Babel:

And the Lord God said, “Now that the man has become like one of us, knowing good and bad, what if he should stretch out his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat, and live forever!” (3:22).

 Let us, then, go down and confound their speech there, so that they shall not understand one another’s speech” (11:7).

The common element of these three verses is a central theme in chapters 1-11: God exalts humanity as rulers of the world, but remains concerned that people should not overstep their boundaries in the God-human relationship. When human beings attempt to be all-powerful, God restricts their powers to restore the proper equilibrium (91-93). Grossman views the primary problem of the builders of the Tower of Babel as overconfidence in their technological prowess, attempting to make for themselves a name and eliminating God from their lives (365-400). Alternatively, many scholars suggest that the Tower was a ziggurat, specifically the Temple of Marduk, the protector god of Babylon. The story would then represent a lapse of humanity to idolatry.[6] Either way, the builders of the Tower are not rebelling actively against God, but their actions display a lack of fear of God and therefore require divine action to restrict them.

            Additionally, human beings are not said to be “good” as opposed to the description of nearly every other creation. Grossman interprets this conspicuous omission as an emphasis on human free will. Since people can make good or bad choices, they cannot definitively be called “good”.[7] Immediately preceding the flood, God saw the opposite outcome of what He had hoped: “The Lord saw how great was man’s wickedness on earth, and how every plan devised by his mind was nothing but evil (rak ra) all the time” (6:5).

            There are three interrelated ways for people to overstep their bounds. They might disobey God in an attempt to be godlike, as Adam and Eve did (3:5, 22). They might act immorally, against God’s expectation of all humanity, as Cain did by murdering Abel. A subtler but critical hazard is when people do not yet sin, but they eschew a relationship with God. This lack of fear of God inevitably leads to immorality. After his punishment, Cain leaves God’s presence (4:16), and his family subsequently produces Lamekh whose murderous tendency suggests a culture of murder within Cain’s line (4:23-24) (187-196). As noted above, the builders of the Tower of Babel likewise severed their relationship with God as a result of their arrogance (and likely also idolatry).

One of the most productive discussions in this volume is Grossman’s analysis of 6:1-4 (211-231):

When men began to increase on earth and daughters were born to them, the divine beings (benei ha-Elohim) saw how beautiful the daughters of men (benot ha-adam) were and took wives from among those that pleased them. The Lord said, “My breath shall not abide in man forever, since he too is flesh; let the days allowed him be one hundred and twenty years.” It was then, and later too, that the Nephilim appeared on earth—when the divine beings cohabited with the daughters of men, who bore them offspring. They were the heroes of old, the men of renown (6:1-4).

Grossman surveys various explanations of these unions, ranging from interbreeding of angels and humans, to nobles exploiting the poorer classes, to intermarriages between the families of Seth and Cain. Grossman maintains that benei ha-Elohim and benot ha-adam sound like two types of beings, rather than different social classes or families. It also is unlikely that the Torah is describing sexual unions between angels and humans, given that there is no other such reference to angels behaving this way in the rest of Tanakh.

Grossman observes that despite the widespread assumption that the Nephilim were the offspring of these relationships, the text does not say this. The Nephilim were already (hayu) on earth at that time (6:4), suggesting that this closing verse provides the backdrop for the story. The Nephilim are the benei ha-Elohim, who were there at that time. The “heroes of old, the men of renown” were the offspring of the unions between these giants and regular human beings. Grossman observes that the word elohim sometimes means exceptionally large, like Nineveh being an ir gedolah le-elohim, an enormously large city (Jon. 3:3, see Radak ad loc.). Thus, the benei ha-elohim were incredibly large people, namely the giants (cf. Ralbag).

If this interpretation is correct, why are these marriages problematic, and how do they set the stage for the rampant human immorality and flood which immediately follow (6:5-8)? Grossman offers the following speculative interpretation: the offspring of these unions are anshei shem, men of renown (6:4). There is no inherent sin in the marriages of “giants among men” and “regular” human beings, but excessive human power often contributes to an absence of the fear of God, creating the environment for the sin that overtook humanity. The fear of God is required to build a moral society, and lack of that fear inevitably leads to moral disaster.

Abraham later recognized this correlation and told Abimelech that he assumed Philistine immorality was a given, since it was not a God-fearing society:

“What, then,” Abimelech demanded of Abraham, “was your purpose in doing this thing?” “I thought,” said Abraham, “surely there is no fear of God in this place, and they will kill me because of my wife” (20:10-11).[8]

            Despite the sins of Adam-Eve and Cain, the Torah never loses sight of its ideals. Seth’s genealogy picks up right where God’s pristine creation left off (209-210):

And God created man in His image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them (1:27).

This is the record of Adam’s line. When God created man, He made him in the likeness of God; male and female He created them. And when they were created, He blessed them and called them Man (5:1-2).

The Seth line also prays to God (4:26, see Ibn Ezra, Sforno), and sets the stage for exceptional figures to arise, most notably Enoch and Noah. The goodness of Seth’s line carries beyond the flood primarily through Shem. Abraham then continues on this ideal path, invoking God by name (197-198):

And to Seth, in turn, a son was born, and he named him Enosh. It was then that men began to invoke the Lord by name (4:26).

From there he moved on to the hill country east of Bethel and pitched his tent, with Bethel on the west and Ai on the east; and he built there an altar to the Lord and invoked the Lord by name (12:8).

            The pre-flood attempt to create an ideal humanity failed. God destroyed the old world and began a process of renewal with Noah and his family. However, God did not simply attempt to rebuild a new world that would be identical to the pre-flood world. A careful comparison and contrast of the two halves of chapters 1-11 suggests several fundamental differences that serve as concessions to human weakness, but that simultaneously keep the doors to Eden open for the ideal future.

            Post-flood, God permits humanity to eat meat (9:2-4). This change represents a lowering of the standing of humanity. People no longer rule over the animals after the flood, but rather are predators at the top of the food chain (253-270).[9]

God’s concession that human beings have great weaknesses also helps ensure that God will never flood the world again:

The Lord smelled the pleasing odor, and the Lord said to Himself: “Never again will I doom the earth because of man, since the devisings of man’s mind are evil from his youth; nor will I ever again destroy every living being, as I have done” (8:21).

Human nature has not changed, but the lowered standing of humanity prompts God to judge them with greater mercy (266-268).

Grossman also understands God’s choosing of Abraham as a necessary element of this post-flood project. The division of nations sets the stage for God’s choosing Abraham’s nation that can provide the religious vision to lead humanity back to Eden (268-269). Grossman derives support from the fact that Noah curses Canaan and blesses Shem who will lord over Canaan. Additionally, only Canaan’s borders are delineated in the chapter pertaining to the division of humanity into 70 nations:

He said, “Cursed be Canaan; the lowest of slaves shall he be to his brothers.” And he said, “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Shem; let Canaan be a slave to them” (9:25-26).

The [original] Canaanite territory extended from Sidon as far as Gerar, near Gaza, and as far as Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, and Zeboiim, near Lasha (10:19).

These references foreshadow Abraham’s nation, descending from Shem, who will displace the Canaanites (325-336).

Moreover, Ham’s sexual depravity foreshadows that of his Canaanite (and Egyptian) descendants, and the Canaanites were dispossessed from their land because of this depravity. If Israel wants to retain its land, it must live a God-fearing, modest lifestyle, like their ancestors Shem and Abraham:

You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws… So let not the land spew you out for defiling it, as it spewed out the nation that came before you (Lev. 18:3, 28).

Although this thesis is cogent, there is one gaping hole: Grossman does not include God’s revelation of the Noahide laws to all humanity as an essential ingredient of the post-flood world. To Grossman, the responsibility of post-flood humanity is simply to procreate, whereas God charges Abraham’s family with the religious-ethical mission to guide the rest of humanity.

Additionally, while the division of humanity into nations does foreshadow the displacement of the Canaanites with the Abrahamic descendants of Shem, God does not choose one family immediately after the flood. It seems as if God’s command of religious-ethical laws to Noah and his descendants gives another chance for all humanity to succeed, but then the Tower of Babel ruins this project. At that point, God scatters humanity into nations and chooses Abraham. Grossman’s downplaying of the Noahide laws affects several aspects of his analysis of chapters 9-11, which we will consider presently.

God speaks to Noah and his sons after the flood, blessing humanity and commanding several rules:

God blessed Noah and his sons, and said to them, “Be fertile and increase, and fill the earth. The fear and the dread of you shall be upon all the beasts of the earth and upon all the birds of the sky—everything with which the earth is astir—and upon all the fish of the sea; they are given into your hand. Every creature that lives shall be yours to eat; as with the green grasses, I give you all these. You must not, however, eat flesh with its life-blood in it. But for your own life-blood I will require a reckoning: I will require it of every beast; of man, too, will I require a reckoning for human life, of every man for that of his fellow man! Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for in His image did God make man. Be fertile, then, and increase; abound on the earth and increase on it” (9:1-7).

Following this statement, God uses the rainbow to symbolize that He never again will destroy the world (9:8-17). Grossman observes that God calls the rainbow a sign of a covenant, berit, even though it sounds more like a unilateral promise not to destroy humanity. Assuming that this covenant suggests mutuality, he maintains that people have a responsibility to procreate (9:1, 7), creating a direct parallel with God’s oath to preserve humanity. He quotes some contemporary scholars who also include the moral imperative to not eat the life-blood of animals and not to murder (9:4-6), but he rejects this reading since the obligations of the rainbow covenant are primarily on God (285-288).

            It is difficult to see why Grossman distinguishes between the blessing to procreate and the obligation to live morally in 9:1-7. One could view God’s covenant as unilateral, with no obligations on humanity directly connected to the covenant of the rainbow. Grossman himself (293-298) observes that in 6:18-19 and 9:8-17, the term le-hakim berit (to uphold a covenant) is used, rather than li-khrot berit (to strike a covenant). Le-hakim berit suggests that God is upholding a preexisting covenant to preserve the world from the time of creation. From this point of view, God’s blessings and commands to procreate, not to eat an animal’s life blood, and not to murder in 9:1-7 are not obligations in a mutual treaty, but rather blessings and obligations for humanity in a post-flood world. Alternatively, if these are mutual covenantal obligations, then all humanity must procreate and live moral lives.

            At any rate, God expects human beings to be moral from the time of creation, and holds them accountable when they are not. God’s revelation of the Noahide laws following the flood is an essential component of building a better post-flood world. To say that Noah’s descendants must only procreate overlooks a central feature of the post-flood narrative.

            Grossman (341-356) argues further that the creation of nations is a direct result of the flood. Noah was part of the old-world order that featured one united humanity. Once humanity failed pre-flood, God divided people into nations so that He could choose Abraham’s family to correct the world. Once again, Grossman overlooks the fact that the post-flood generation of the Tower of Babel still had a united humanity; “Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words” (11:1). God’s dispersion of humanity into nations and the subsequent choosing of Abraham occurs only at that moment, and was not an immediate consequence of the flood. Hypothetically, had Noah’s descendants not failed with the Tower of Babel, and remained God fearing, there still would not have been a need to select one family from among the family of nations. Sforno makes this point in his introduction to Genesis:

It then teaches that when hope for the return of all humanity was removed, as it had successfully destroyed God’s constructive intent three times already, God selected the most pious of the species, and chose Abraham and his descendants to achieve His desired purpose for all humanity…[10]

To summarize and modify Grossman’s overall position: God made several critical modifications in the post-flood world. God lowered the status of humanity and permitted them to eat meat. God also acknowledged the weaknesses in the human condition as cause for mercy, and He charged all of humanity to procreate and live a religious-moral life. When human beings failed again at the Tower of Babel (whether through idolatry, arrogance, or both), God divided them into nations and chose one righteous family—that of Abraham—to provide the necessary guidance to humanity to return ultimately to Eden. Abraham’s adhering to the human ideals channeled through Seth, Noah, and Shem, coupled with his commitment to teaching righteousness and justice to his family and household (18:19), made him the ideal choice.

The overall structure of Genesis chapters 1-11 presents the absence of the fear of God at the heart of rebellion and immorality. Those who arrogantly make for themselves a name (the offspring of the giants and regular human beings in 6:4; the builders of the Tower of Babel in 11:4) create the wherewithal for an immoral society. Those who call in God’s name (Seth’s descendants in 4:26; Abraham in 12:8) live up to God’s ideal mission for humanity.

When Abraham’s descendants fulfil their mission, all nations of the world will serve God as good Noahides, and religious morality will prevail (Isa. 2:2-4). There will be harmony between humanity and the animal kingdom (Isa. 11:6-9; 65:25). The scattering of the nations will be replaced by a unified humanity speaking the language of serving God (Zeph. 3:9).

The events of Genesis chapters 1-11 occurred thousands of years ago, but they also set out the Torah’s ideal vision that will yet be experienced in the future. Most importantly, this vision challenges us to live up to the mission for Abraham and his descendants: to live God-fearing lives, teach our children and society about righteousness and justice, and lead all humanity back to Eden.

R. Yonatan Grossman’s exceptional literary analysis of each passage, coupled with careful attention to his global thesis, brings the fear of God to the very heart of the purpose and mission of every person created in God’s image, and places that yirat Shamayim where it properly belongs—at the forefront of our reading of Genesis.

To our members and friends

One of our core mission projects is our University Network, through which we reach hundreds of university students across North America and beyond. We send journals, electronic resources, and other materials to these thoughtful students so that they can engage with high-level content as they build their own religious identities. We are thrilled that our Campus Fellows have been running a wide variety of programs to promote our ideology and to engage students of all backgrounds. It has been a singular pleasure for me to work with these fellows as a component of being the National Scholar of the Institute. Here are some of the Fellows' latest reports. If you know of college students who would like to sign up to our University Network (it is free), please have them go to our website, https://www.jewishideas.org/civicrm/contribute/transact?reset=1&id=9. If you know of students who would like to take a leadership role as a Campus Fellow, please have them contact me at [email protected] and I will help them with the process. We thank the Rabbi Arthur A. Jacobovitz Institute for their ongoing support of our University Network and our Campus Fellows Program.

Thank you and have a Happy Thanksgiving

Rabbi Hayyim Angel, National Scholar

Yona Benjamin (Columbia)

I plan to hold sessions which discuss the relationship between traditional Jewish learning/practice and the insights and methods of academic Talmud study. I believe by using my studies of the Mishnah as the topic, my events will be accessible to a wider swath of the community. While currently still being planned, I hope to have one session discussing the benefits of putting a text like the Mishnah in its historic context (contrasting modern work with the letter of Sherira Gaon.) And a second whose exact content is not set but will hopefully deal with how we learn differently from manuscripts than from printed texts. 

The goals of these events will be to expose participants to academic resources, but to show how ultimately these tools can enrich and work in concert with many traditional sources and insights. I hope to use these discussions as a way of broaching broader topics about Jewish ideas and religiosity in the context of the secular university. 

Matt Jelen (Harvard)

We currently have two events on the agenda for the Institute over the next month.

The first is a lecture on Bishul Akum with Rabbi Barry Dolinger, Rav HaMachshir of a few local restaurants. It's an especially interesting event because his hashgacha is the subject of much debate in the Boston community, specifically with regard to Rabbi Dolinger's views on the issue of Bishul Akum.

The second is a Friday night Q&A dessert reception with Rabbi Jeremy Wieder and Dr. Chaviva Levin, who will be joining our community for Shabbos in two weeks' time.

Mikey Pollack, Aryeh Roberts (Maryland)

Over Simchat Torah we ran our first Jewish Institute of Ideas and Ideals event- Torah Dash. During a break in shul we gathered over 100 people to give short dvar Torah’s on each and every parsha in the Torah. We bought Starbucks coffee to help enhance the event.

Zachary Tankel (McGill)

Our first Institute event was a shiur by David Chaim Wallach, a Judaic studies teacher at one of the local Jewish high schools. The shiur was about confronting our sins in the process of teshuva. 

We are planning to bring in another speaker in late November. Although we haven’t confirmed yet, there is a student in Montreal who is connected with a rabbi named Eli Deutsch from the Mizrachi World Movement in Israel, and since he will be visiting Canada, we are hoping to host him.

Sara Evans (Queens College)

I am planning to have a speaker from Israel hopefully come in to speak at Queens college in November that has never spoken here before and I am hoping to have a discussion on a Shabbat afternoon also hopefully in November, but haven’t decided on the topic yet. 

Raffi Levi and Benjamin Nechmad (Rutgers)

We conducted a rather meaningful conversation on how we the Torah portrays our leaders as imperfect which makes them much easier to relate to as human beings. It also allows their messages and lessons to be conveyed in a much more relatable manner. We used the recent article from Rabbi Marc Angel as an inspiration and guide for the event. 

Marta Dubov (Ryerson)

I am currently planning a monthly Rosh Chodesh “High Tea” with a group of young women with the intention to distribute some of the institution’s journals and make commentary, share thought on them. I have a location and time roughly planned, and will be promoting the event soon.

Ora Friedman (Stern College for Women, Yeshiva University)

On Tuesday, December 17, Rabbi Gamliel Shmalo will be leading a discussion on "Modern Orthodox Approaches to Faith." 

On Wednesday, December 18, Rabbi Besser, teacher at Ma'ayanot Yeshiva High School and dayan on RCA Beit Din of America, will be speaking on "The Halachic Way: The Power and Parameters of Rabbinic Innovation" about whether it's true that if there's a Rabbinic will there's a halachic way? It will touch on many of the sensitive issues like Aguna. 

Ari Barbalat (University of Toronto)

For this semester, two programs are planned.

One, in conjunction with the JLIC of Toronto, will be an evening with Yair Rosenberg, discussing Responding to Anti-Semitism Online. It will be held this Thursday evening. Rabbi Aaron Greenberg, who oversees JLIC Toronto, is helping with all the logistics of the event.

Rabbi Greenberg mentioned that he would be open to me doing a session at U of T Hillel in the time slot that he usually reserves for his own Shiur on either November 21 or 28. My intended topic is the missing Yemenite Children Affair in Israeli history, which disproportionately affected religious and traditional Jews. I intend to address its moral importance and contemporary significance. I intend to include contemporary Israeli multimedia on the affair, such as the materials of "Edut Amram," one of Israel's central activist organizations pertaining to this issue, and other Israeli sources as available.

Daniel Fridman (Yale University)

I'm currently planning a multi-week discussion-based series where the Jewish community could come together to discuss questions related to Orthodoxy in the modern world (this can include the meaning of being Orthodox and how that may have changed over time, increasing diversity within the Orthodox community and the challenges this brings and how to address them, halakhic leniency vs. stringency in face of a rapidly changing modern world, etc.). This event could include different sources, both traditional and contemporary, as well as student-led discussions.

Yoni Abrams, Steven Gotlib (Yeshiva University)

We have Rabbi Barry Kornblau (from Queens) approved by the University to speak about Ecology and the Environment and to lead a discussion about the Jewish imperative to care about these issues. We want a date in November, but we haven't finalized that date yet.

Teaching Torah Today

            In his comments on the importance of incorporating a literary approach into our study of Tanakh, R. Aharon Lichtenstein notes,

We should learn to recognize archetypal forms and techniques of thematic development; to discern patterns of imagery and principles of structure; to be sensitive to narrative flow and dramatic interaction; to observe rhythmic movement and verbal texture. In short, I propose, first, that we discover—or rather, rediscover—kitvei ha-kodesh as literature; and, second, that, in order to deepen our appreciation of them as such, we seek to approach them critically….

What we readily acknowledge with respect to language generally is certainly true of kitvei ha-kodesh: form and substance, manner and matter, are directly interwoven. To understand, to experience a pasuk fully, we best approach it both cognitively and aesthetically. Words are not numbers nor verses equations. The structure of a perek and the response induced by it are part of what it presumably is intended to communicate to us. The symbolic import of a phrase or a pasuk—what we call its “meaning” —is a function of the sum total of associations elicited in its specific context; and that context is a matter of form as well as of substance, of form insinuated in substance.[1]

            Not surprisingly, this attitude is reflected in R. Ezra Bick’s Preface to the new collection of Bible studies from Yeshivat Har Etzion’s Herzog College. R. Bick outlines its contemporary approach to the study of Tanakh:

            First and foremost is the belief that Tanach is meant to be read and understood by the reader, without the absolute necessity of outside interlocutors.… If we are reading the text directly, then we are reading it as a text meant to be read, and this introduces the need to read using the tools of literary analysis. Of course, if the Torah is not a book, but a code or a mystery, it would be illegitimate to read it with the same eyes and mind that one reads literature. For this we have the oft-repeated principle, dibra Torah belashon benei adam. The Torah is literature, divine literature, written not in a special divine language but in the language and style of man…. Another result of the above is that the field of interest is not focused on the single verse, but on the story, the entire narrative, and in some cases the whole Tanach.[2]

The Torah is a book of teachings, and teachings assume many forms and employ a variety of strategies. For example, to teach children to be ethical we might tell them to tell the truth or not to lie. Or we might tell a story about someone who always told the truth and someone who lied—and let them draw the appropriate conclusions. Alternately, we might tell children a story about someone who grew in self-understanding and personal integrity and let them absorb the lesson as a role model. Each strategy has its own advantages and disadvantages, and in the book of Genesis the Torah makes almost exclusive use of storytelling as its mode of teaching.

In reading these narratives as a whole, it is worth noting what R. Mosheh Lichtenstein wrote regarding his own analysis of Moses’ life:

The interpretive approach adopted throughout this work is under­girded by the basic presumption that human nature in the Torah is basically similar to the human nature we are familiar with. Our view of the biblical drama, and our suggestions for analyzing the narratives, are based on an understanding that emotions like love, hate, envy, compassion and the whole gamut of human emotions with which we are familiar, are identical to their counterparts in the inner world of our forefathers... .

Human events as well as metaphysics are woven into the text [of Be­reishit]. This is true of Noah, Avraham and Sarah, Yitzhak and Rivka, Yaakov and his family, and many others. … The characters are living people with real emotions, coping with the whole range of situations with which human existence challenges them. The Torah wants us to study these stories for a number of reasons: because these are the basic experiences that shaped our ancestors, because they help us to understand the Torah more fully and accurately, and so that we can better understand the human condition as reflected in their lives and actions.[3]

            Indeed, this was surely the approach taken by Hazal and various Rishonim and Aharonim when they pointed out the human component in the actions of the forefathers and foremothers, even highlighting our biblical ancestors’ shortcomings and the resulting consequences. As R. Samson Raphael Hirsch notes:

            The Torah never presents our great men as being perfect; it deifies no man, says of none ‘here you have the ideal, in this man the Divine becomes human’ … The Torah never hides from us the faults, errors and weaknesses of our great men. (Commentary to Genesis 12: 10–13, Levy translation)

This should not undermine our respect for these spiritual giants, but rather should humble us. We often think—alas, mistakenly—that we are above petty considerations and self-serving strategies. Beware of such hubris, we are warned. Even giants such as our biblical ancestors can fall prey to such pitfalls. Stay on guard. If they could not always live up to their great potential, surely your might fail, too.

            Of course, it is true that presenting the human side of the forefathers and foremothers might distort a sense of their greatness—but only if the presentation is made in too early a grade, when youngsters are appropriately forming a “heroic” view of these individuals. Indeed, negative numbers would confuse first-graders learning subtraction, and imaginary numbers would confuse middle-school students learning signed numbers. But woe to the high school math student whose teacher really thinks that there is no such thing as imaginary numbers! A Bible teacher must know when to introduce these human portraits of our Torah greats and how to maintain a proper sense of respect and awe toward them.

            It is also true that some of those who portray our biblical heroes in human terms do so from a perspective that simply lacks respect for the grandeur of the Tanakh and the greatness of Hazal. We must distance ourselves from them as we would from fire, says R. Aharon Lichtenstein.[4] On the other hand, he continues,

There are those ...who totally erase the human side [of the biblical heroes]. They know that Ramban spoke of this, but they partially put aside the Ramban and work with other commentators.…

This dehumanization is dangerous for two reasons. They erase the descriptions of these giants like Moshe as Hazal saw him. And what is even worse in my eyes is their reason. Why are they so opposed to seeing the emotional side of Moshe Rabeinu or Avraham Avinu? It is because they oppose feelings and emotions!... Hazal knew of emotions; the biblical text knew of emotions, but they do not… They distort the Tanakh…[5]

Distorting the teachings of Hazal is no way to develop students who are sensitive to the values of Hazal and the Torah they teach. The Torah had an educational purpose in showing us the human side of the forefathers and foremothers, and we should be open to it.

With this is mind we wish to turn to the stories the Torah chooses to tell us about Avraham Avinu. The purpose of some of these stories is clear enough: We must be told that God chose Abraham and we—his children—have a certain destiny that includes inheriting a special land. Indeed, that point is reassuringly made over and over again. But there is another series of intertwined stories whose purpose is less obvious. Our aim here is not to give a close reading of the text of each of these individual stories or expose their literary techniques. Rather we wish to understand the sequence of stories as part of a larger coherent whole that reflects an educational strategy, one that drives home the fact that Abraham—a great spiritual giant, to be sure, an individual whose attainments may be well beyond our reach—was still a human being, and we should not be intimidated from trying to emulate him.

Introducing Abraham[6]

            The first Abraham story in this latter group is the story that is not there. The Torah introduces Abraham and God’s revelation to him with little fanfare:

Terah took his son Abram, his grandson Lot the son of Haran, and his daughter-in-law Sarai, the wife of his son Abram, and they set out together from Ur of the Chaldeans for the land of Canaan; but when they had come as far as Haran, they settled there. The days of Terah came to 205 years; and Terah died in Haran. The Lord said to Abram, “Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing: I will bless you, and curse him that curses you; and all the families of the earth shall bless themselves from you. (Gen. 11:31–12:3, NJPS translation).

This short story is remarkable in the absence of the material that we would find most interesting and valuable. For example, how did Abraham become the type of person to be chosen by God? What education did he have? Maimonides (Rambam) fills in some of the gaps:

After this mighty one was weaned, he began to explore and think. Although he was a child, he began to think incessantly throughout the day and night, wondering: How is it possible for the sphere to continue to revolve without anyone controlling it? Who makes it revolve? Surely, it does not cause itself to revolve… Ultimately, he apprehended the way of truth and understood righteousness path through his accurate comprehension. He realized that there was one God who controlled the sphere, that He had created everything, and that there is no other God to be found exclusive of Him. He knew that the entire world was making a mistake…. Abraham was forty years old when he became aware of his Creator (Hilkhot Avodat Kokhavim 1:3).

            This, though, is not the only external description we have of Abraham’s training. For example, as Avivah Zornberg points out, according to the Midrash ha-Gadol, “The recognition of God is not a final conclusion reached after a long private philosophical odyssey, but …an unlocated passion which inspires him with energy for hope and disillusion that takes him through the phases of his experience.”[7] Which of these or other descriptions is true, and why would the Torah take such deliberate pain to hide the truth from us?

We suggest that the description is omitted because it is important that we not know it. Maimonides was a philosopher and he naturally saw proper training in philosophical exploration. But what of us who lack philosophical acumen, inspiring passion, or any of the other possible useful qualities that Abraham might have possessed? Should we be discouraged from aiming to be able to hear God’s call? Abraham was far from “everyman,” but he is introduced as such so that we not be discouraged from identifying with him. Any of us might be headed toward our promised land without realizing it, and many of us stop along the way without realizing that we have unwittingly abandoned our destiny. God speaks to Abraham to tell him to keep moving; He may speak to any of us, and we have to know that we too can hear His call.

The Descent to Egypt

            No sooner does Abraham enter Canaan and begin to wander through it does he hear God’s promise that this land will be given to him and his descendants. We then read the following story:

 There was a famine in the land, and Abram went down to Egypt to sojourn there, for the famine was severe in the land. As he was about to enter Egypt, he said to his wife Sarai, “I am well aware that you are a beautiful woman. When the Egyptians see you, they will say, ‘She is his wife,’ and they will kill me, but let you live. Say then that you are my sister, that it may go will with me because of you, and that I may live thanks to you.” When Abram entered Egypt, the Egyptians saw how very beautiful the woman was. Pharaoh’s courtiers saw her and praised her to Pharaoh, and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s palace. And because of her, it went well with Abram; he acquired sheep, oxen, asses, male and female slaves, she-asses, and camels. But the Lord afflicted Pharaoh and his household with mighty plagues on account of Sarai, the wife of Abram. Pharaoh sent for Abram and said, “What is this you have done to me! Why did you not tell me that she was your wife? Why did you say, ‘She is my sister,’ so that I took her as my wife? Now, here is your wife; take her and be gone!” And Pharaoh put men in charge of him, and they sent him away with his wife and all that he possessed (Gen. 12:10–20 NJPS).

Is this what we would expect from someone who had just heard God’s promises? Disloyalty to the land promised to him and disloyalty to his wife? When Jacob will later condemn Laban for his duplicitous actions, he will use Pharaoh’s charge to Abraham: “What is this you have done to me!” Is the Golden Calf what we would expect from those who had just heard God’s voice at Sinai? Are our own actions what we would expect from one who merits many blessings each day? In what way are we the better for knowing that Abraham failed?

Soon after this story in Egypt is told, God once again reassures Abraham that the land will be his. That, we suggest, is the real point of the story. Abraham does not forfeit God’s promise and continued loyalty by not living up to his ideals—and neither do we. This point is missed if we do not acknowledge Abraham’s failings, and that is why Nachmanides (Ramban) explicitly points it out:

Know that Abraham our father unintentionally committed a great sin by bringing his righteous wife to a stumbling-block of sin on account of his fear for his life. He should have trusted that God would save him and his wife and all his belongings, for God surely has the power to help and to save. His leaving the Land, concerning which he had been commanded from the beginning, on account of the famine, was also a sin he committed, for in famine God would redeem him from death. It was because of this deed that the exile in the land of Egypt at the hand of Pharaoh was decreed for his children (Commentary to Gen 12:10, Chavel translation).

            Had this story been left out, we might have been left with the mistaken impression that God calls only on saints. The Torah quickly tells us that even Abraham can misjudge a situation. If that could be said of him, it can be said of his descendents who, while far from his high stature and closeness to God, need not despair of meriting the promised blessings despite their faults.

Separating from Lot

            Abraham emerged from Egypt with his values intact, but Lot did not. Abraham realizes that he and Lot must part geographically, but he does not yet appreciate the significance of the move. He offers Lot to go to the right or the left. In a society facing the eastern rising sun, it is an offer to go south or north. Abraham assumes that Lot will want to stay with him in the north-south mountain range, where the need for rain accentuates one’s dependence on God’s grace. But Lot eyes the plains of the Jordan where, as in Egypt, water is plentiful. It is not relevant to him that the people of Sodom are evil and sinning to God. The Torah tells us that because it will help us understand a subsequent contrast with Abraham.

Abraham Rescues Lot

            The next episode in Abraham’s life that the Torah chooses to relate is a war story. Lot had left Abraham to go to Sodom, and he got caught up in a local war and taken captive. General Abraham rallies his troops and rescues him. An academic secular commentary such as the Anchor Bible[8] sees this story as “an intrusive section within the patriarchal framework,” one in which Abraham is depicted as “a resolute and powerful chieftain rather than an unworldly patriarch.” But the story is hardly an intrusion. On the simplest level, this story shows us that the Torah will not allow us to form a stereotype of this complex spiritual giant. The man who found God can also field an army—and the man who fields an army can also find God. We are not allowed to picture Abraham as emerging from any particular educational experience. We are not allowed to picture him as completely trusting and brave. And we are not allowed to picture him as meek and subservient. Indeed, whatever picture we form will turn out to be wrong. And whatever excuse we have for not trying to reach his heights will be undermined.

            But there is more to this story. There is a striking parallel between this story and the descent to Egypt episode. In both there is danger—there to Abraham and here to Lot. In both there is a response to the danger—there by passing off Sarah as his sister and here by gathering an army and going to war to rescue Lot. In both there is a financial award—there quickly taken and here refused in an act of Kiddush HaShem. One cannot help but see tremendous transformational growth in Abraham’s response; and one cannot help but understand that that if there is room for growth in Abraham—a spiritual giant who found God and who was found by God—then there is no excuse for our not always trying to reach higher in our own lives. Indeed, rather than being “an intrusive section,” the story fits well within the educational strategy of Abraham’s Stories.

Sarah, Hagar, and Ishmael

            The Torah tells us two stories about Sarah arranging for the banishment of Hagar and Ishmael. We understand easily the reason for the second. The Torah must inform us that despite the fact that Ishmael is Abraham’s son, he is not the promised son—and his descendents are not the promised people. But what is the purpose of the first story?

            Abraham has been promised a son and Sarah apparently cannot deliver him. So she offered her maidservant Hagar to him to be a surrogate. We cannot help but be touched by Sarah’s altruistic behavior. “Abram listened to Sarai” without any reservation or protest.

            Regretfully, Sarah could not live up to her magnanimous gesture. She soon became jealous of Hagar and mistreated her. Nehama Leibowitz acutely sums up one reason for the Torah’s telling of this story: We must have high ideals, but they must be realistic ones.

Perhaps the Torah wished to teach us that before a man undertake a mission that will tax all his moral and spiritual powers, he should ask himself first whether he can maintain those high standards to the bitter end. Otherwise man is liable to descend from the pinnacle of altruism and selflessness into much deeper depths than would ordinarily been the case… Had Sarah not wished to suppress her instincts and overcome every vestige of jealousy for her rival …there might not have been born that individual whose descendants have proved a source of trouble to Israel to this very day.[9]

            However, there is an additional reason for the telling of this story, for without it the second story would have been less poignant:

Sarah saw the son, whom Hagar the Egyptian had borne to Abraham, playing. She said to Abraham, “Cast out that slave-woman and her son, for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.” The matter distressed Abraham greatly, for it concerned a son of his. But God said to Abraham, “Do not be distressed over the boy or your slave; whatever Sarah tells you, do as she says, for it is through Isaac that offspring shall be continued for you.” (Gen. 21:9–12, NJPS)

Sarah again tells Abraham to banish Hagar, but Abraham has grown from his past experience: “The matter distressed Abraham greatly, for it concerned a son of his.” This was not only an intellectual response but an emotional one—he was being asked to send away his son. But Abraham was wrong again! This time Sarah was right and, significantly, she had learned something very valuable from her previous experiences (something we cannot fully say of Abraham, who later repeats trying to pass off Sarah as his sister).

Sarah had learned that we need not be paralyzed by our mistakes. She had been wrong in first banishing Hagar, and that might have made her lose her confidence when she now realized that Hagar and Ishmael had to be sent away. At this point it was right to banish her—God confirms it—and she had the confidence to act. And what was it that gave her the insight to realize that Isaac cannot be raised in the presence of Ishmael? It was, we suggest, the intervening story of Lot. Sarah saw what happens when one lives with people who mock Abraham’s teachings.

Lot in Sodom

            We understand well the importance of major parts of the story of the three messengers visiting Abraham. Part of the story is the continued assurance that God’s promise will be fulfilled. Part of the story is to add a clarification of sorts to God’s promise to Noah (Gen. 9:11) that there will never again be a flood to destroy the whole earth. That promise was not a “free pass” for evil doers: the world may never again be destroyed, but a city of evil doers can still face devastation. Part of the story is the message is the universal concern for justice that Abraham has come to represent. He pleads not for his nephew in Sodom, but for the righteous. But why must we be told the venue and menu?

Lot is Abraham’s literary foil who serves in contrast to point out Abraham’s traits. Abraham sits alone in the desert at his tent’s door; Lot sits “in the gate of Sodom” where the judges of the city sit. He thinks he will judge them but it is they who will have distorted his judgment. Abraham is leisurely and gracious in welcoming them; Lot has them rested, washed, up early and out in a rapid staccato of verbs. Abraham offered a morsel of bread and gave them a feast; Lot offered a feast and gave them matzah. (Rashi comments, “It was Pesah”—Lot’s holiday of freedom, that is, as the messengers come to free him from the existential slavery of being in Sodom.[10]) Lot thinks he has remembered all the lessons gained from his time with Abraham, but living in Sodom has corroded them. So corrupted was his sense of hospitality, that he offers his daughters to be raped to spare his guests! Sarah, having seen what happened to Lot in Sodom, will not raise her son in anything but a fully wholesome household.

Lot’s Daughters

            While the educational value of the story of Lot’s rescue is clear, the epilogue concerning his daughters is at first puzzling. Why should we be told the sordid story of their raping him, almost mida ke-neged mida? Thinking that the three of them were the only ones left in the world, the daughters serially get their father drunk so that he would impregnate each of them. Why must we know the origins of their descendants, the Moabites and children of Ammon? Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik explains:

Lot’s daughter had something beautiful to contribute to the emerging personality of the King Messiah. What did this primitive girl possess that the Almighty, gathering virtues and noble traits from all over the world, picked up? She was uncouth and primitive, she committed incest, and yet she was the great-great-grandmother of Ruth [the Moabite]. The Messiah will be her descendant!

              She was under the impression, says Rashi (Gen. 19:31), that a cosmic cataclysm had struck and only three human beings had survived…. She acted as she did because she wanted to save humanity. This girl wanted to rebuild the world, to start from scratch and raise another race to take the place of the human race, which she believed had been destroyed simultaneously with the destruction of Sodom. This was heroism of an undreamt caliber. Instead of giving up, she had the courage to try to rebuild the world, to make a new humanity arise from the ashes of Sodom. She convinced her younger sister. Never mind that their method was primitive and crude. These two girls took upon themselves an impossible task, something staggering and awesome….

Mattan Torah is bound up with the Messiah, who will possess the heroism of his grandmothers [including Ruth] whom the Almighty found in the non-Jewish world. They represented the heroism of loneliness, the heroism of universal commitment, and the heroism of faith and waiting. The ideal of mattan Torah will be fully realized only in the time of the Messiah. This great vision of a redeemed world would have been impossible had Lot’s daughters been destroyed in Sodom.[11]

To fulfill God’s ultimate plan, the descendents of Abraham will have to draw on the strengths of descendents of Lot. We are who we are because God chose Abraham, but He did not discard the value of the rest of humanity—and neither should we.

Abraham’s Final Test

            Abraham’s final test was the Akedah, a narrative that needs its own comprehensive analysis, if only to understand why Abraham pleaded for the innocents of Sodom and not for his innocent son Isaac. But it is not this complicated matter that concerns us here; it is rather the epilogue to the story:

How shall we understand this anti-climax to the drama of the Akedah? Rabbi Soloveitchik explains:

After the Akeida, some questions began to bother Abraham. Why was I required to constantly bring sacrifices and always undergo these bitter tests? Why am I different from my bother Nahor and his wife Milcah who had so many children without suffering long-standing heart-rending yearnings, without taking his mother’s only son to the Akeida?[12]

Abraham’s whole life centered around God’s promise regarding his children. For decades he held firm, fighting his doubts, and God then tests him once more regarding his children. And then he hears that his idolatrous brother had such an easy time with having progeny, that his pagan brother Nahor will, through Rebecca, share in being the father of God’s people. To be able to continue to believe that he was nonetheless right, that his struggle was worth it, that was the real test. And the response was: “Abraham lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold behind him a ram caught in a thicket by his horns: and Abraham went and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt offering in the stead of his son” (Gen. 22:13). He realized that a Jewish life is one of sacrifice. “His fate was clear to him: Judaism has a tremendous tradition; it is not simple and easy to live a life of Torah and mitzvot. One must be willing to sacrifice on its behalf many things and to bring sacrifices, small and large.”[13]

Here then is the denouement of the Abraham Stories. One need not have a particular pedigree to become an Abraham. One need not necessarily be a weak or strong person. One need not be free of misjudgments or doubts. One need not be at a place that demands no further growth or help from others of a different community. But one must be prepared to sacrifice for a life of Torah and mitzvot.

Notes 

The Torah opens with the account of the creation of the universe and human beings; the early generations of humanity; the lives of the Patriarchs, Matriarchs, and their children; the slavery in Egypt and the redemption from it—all of this long before the giving of the Torah. The Master of the Universe did not begin the Torah with “I am the Lord your God” and with the giving of the Ten Commandments, but rather with the story of creation—the deeds of human beings and the way the world operated before the Torah was given. The world functioned in its natural glory even before the giving of the Torah. This fact elicited various interpretations in the teachings of our Sages. One of these lessons found expression among our Sages in the phrase, derekh erets kademah leTorah (the ways of the world precede the Torah).

In order to understand the significance of this phrase, we must first analyze its various components. The phrase derekh erets, in the usage of our Sages, refers to the natural ways of the world. Derekh erets is the phrase the Sages use when speaking of earning one’s living through labor; interpersonal relations; principles of good behavior among human beings; natural needs; and all things that are in fact the ways of the world, the way in which the world operates. As for “Torah,” this is explained by many Sages to refer to “the giving of the Torah;” this phrase, in the view of our Sages, emphasizes the fact that long before the giving of the Torah there existed derekh erets, the ways of the world.

Does this refer merely to a chronological record? Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, of blessed memory, asserted that this historical fact has broader significance relating to the structure of the Torah. The Torah accepts the natural ways of the world. It does not create derekh erets, and certainly does not negate it. Derekh erets is the basis for the fulfillment of Torah.

The Torah takes the derekh erets that already exists in the world, and builds upon it a second level. This second level is the level of holiness, purity, the unique Torah teachings on relationships among human beings. Many times, the Torah delimits the boundaries of derekh erets and demands that human beings restrict themselves by not following what they might want to do. For example, the Torah accepts the natural derekh erets of eating, but it establishes that there are forbidden foods, and that there are forbidden procedures such as the mixing of meat and milk. However, the starting point of the Torah is that human beings eat as a natural part of their functioning, and the halakha does not take issue with that. Sometimes, the Torah expands on the natural ways of the world, requiring humans to be more active and do more than is customary. For example, the Torah commands humans to be fruitful and multiply; according to our Sages, there is also a mitzvah to continue to expand the family even after the basic mitzvah has been fulfilled.

This position has numerous halakhic ramifications. In fact, all of halakha is based on this presumption. It is a common error to think that halakhic texts establish the image of a Jewish person in the world. What establishes this image actually has two sources: the Jew is a citizen of the world and is part of it, and in this respect functions in the framework of all humanity. However, the Jew also is unique, separate and alone, “not reckoned among the nations.” The Jew is, in his or her own way, sustained not merely from the natural ways of the world, but also from the higher level of humanity—the level that includes the acceptance of the yoke of Heaven, mitzvoth, and holiness.

This worldview is the key to confronting many problems of our generation. For example, an inseparable aspect of the human personality is the deep connection with culture—as a creator of culture and as one who needs culture. In recent years, we have witnessed a flowering of religious people in many fields of culture, such as the arts and sciences. Naturally, this phenomenon entails many halakhic and intellectual evaluations on the question of the place of culture in the worldview of the religious person. These analyses are quite similar to those that took place in the previous generation on the topic of Torah u’Mada (Torah and general knowledge/science).

It is necessary to consider two basic approaches that are reflected in the various analyses of these questions. One approach begins with the premise that we are obligated to find justification for culture or general knowledge/science, and only through this justification is it possible to bring them into our worldview. Some find justification in that these areas enable us to better understand God. Others find justification in that engaging in these areas enables us to influence the world. Still others find justification in various economic concerns, while others find justification in that the non-involvement in these areas will cause spiritual tension—and that one must engage in these areas in order to find some relief. The common denominator of all these religious philosophies is that there is a need for justification.

However, there is no Torah source for this approach. For example, the Torah finds no need to justify the fact that our Patriarchs were wealthy, or that some of our biblical ancestors were physically beautiful, or that our biblical heroes searched for love. The Torah, as has been stated, sees the natural way of life as the foundation of existence. Thus, its expression of ideas relating to wealth, love, beauty, and so forth, is natural and unself-conscious. Likewise, the concern for earning a livelihood by the labor of one’s own hands, one’s partnership with the world, one’s cultural ties, one’s general knowledge—these are self-evident in the Torah. There is no need whatsoever for any justification, since these things are part of the ways of the world. On these foundations, we must build the second level: the prohibitions of mixed species (kela’im) that limit the fields of science and agriculture, the principles of modesty that delimit art, and so on with additional mitzvoth.

The entire halakha is built this way. The laws of prayer do not establish the needs of humans. These needs are established by the normal ways of the world. Humans pray for what they need in light of the second level of the laws of prayer. The halakha does not essentially establish what is the proper rest for the Sabbath (see the Ramban on Parashat Emor); rest was determined in light of the definitions derived from the world of human beings; on these foundations did the Torah command the laws prohibiting certain forms of work. The Torah did not essentially establish how a married couple should relate to each other; these relationships are established according to the ways of human beings. Yet, the halakha builds a second level—the laws of family purity. The halakha does not establish what people talk about and what is important for human beings to know; these are established in light of the ways of human beings. However, the halakha limits speech through the prohibition of lashon hara (gossip and slander), and through the laws of chastising those who are sinning or of rising to aid someone whose life is in danger.

Without the principle of derekh erets kademah leTorah, we would not be able to function properly in the Bet Midrash. We would not be able to make rulings on the laws of how people should dress. It would be impossible to rule on monetary cases if we did not have the principles of natural ownership according to the guidelines of society; it would be impossible to delineate the forbidden labors on Shabbat if we did not first understand the natural workings of the world. We would be obligated to devote the entire governmental budget to healthcare to save lives, and we would be unable to arrange the government’s budget in the normal way governments arrange their budgets. The Torah itself indicates, when it discusses monarchy in Israel, the learning from the natural order of the world among the nations, “as all the nations around us.” My argument is that although only some of the posekim (rabbinic decisors) have written directly on this topic, in fact all of the posekim throughout the Responsa literature base themselves in a permanent and fixed way on the foundation of the world and the natural way of life. The “news” of the Torah is not in the denial of this principle, but in adopting it, strengthening it, limiting it, sanctifying it, purifying it, and giving it boundaries.

 I wish to emphasize that the principle of the naturalness of life is not reflected only in halakhic leniencies. On the contrary, many times it leads to halakhic stringencies of a significant level. It obligates us to relate to natural morality, to the proper interrelationships among people even when no halakha specifically is involved. In this framework, one accepts upon him or herself the ways of the world in the matter of the ethics of warfare and the struggle against military crimes. It obligates us to rest on Shabbat, not merely from the proscribed labors, but even from those things that interfere with Shabbat rest. In fact, in some cases it transforms the notion of uvdin de’hol (mundane activities typical of weekdays) into the category of Torah prohibitions, for it is concerned with the natural human ways of rest. It requires a married couple to establish a deep bond between themselves, far beyond the halakhic and legal principles found in the tractate Ketubot. At root, it obligates a religious person to play a role in the development of the world and its advancement on all levels—societal, intellectual, and cultural.

Therefore, the Torah personality resembles a pyramid, specifically in light of the descriptions in the Torah. First, he or she is a being created in God’s image, called on to be fruitful and multiply, and to develop the world according to the natural and foundational principles upon which the world operates, in all areas of life, individual and public. Above this level is built the level of the Israelite nation. The Jew does not stand only as an individual before God, but as part of the entire Jewish nation. At the top level are placed the Torah and mitzvoth, which nourish the lower stories with the dimension of holiness and clinging to the Master of the Universe. Strengthening this Torah position is the basis of many halakhot and the way of the people of Israel in its relationship with the entire world.

          By the measurable standards of today’s corporate-driven society, producers and consumers of Jewish education in America have much to celebrate. More Jewish boys, girls, and adults are learning today in yeshivot, seminaries, Day Schools, kollels, and post-college programs than at any other time in our history. Foundations such as Avi Chai and Mandel, professional organizations such as PEJE, and large metropolitan federations across the country are pumping more dollars, developing more programs, and deploying more human capital—from teacher induction and education to vision-driven curricular deliberations, from managerial expertise to experiential learning initiatives via student missions to Israel and other Jewish communities globally—than ever before. These are surely the best of times, institutionally-speaking, at least; if only we could creatively solve the tuition crisis—no small feat, of course—we’d immediately usher in a new Golden Era of Jewish education, a model for the ages.

          Still, despite our strong numbers and increasingly professionalized infrastructure, ask a Modern Orthodox educator how our community is doing, and you’ll likely hear ambivalence or frustration at best, apocalyptic predictions of the imminent demise of our movement at worst—certainly not the triumphalism or chest-thumping that our ostensible institutional success would seem to warrant. Alternately identified as an eclipsing of yir’at shamayim, a lack of passion or punctiliousness in shemirat haMitzvot, a religious behaviorism that belies the richness and depth of an authentic religious sensibility of inwardness and meaning, or some other such critique, this prognosis now coexists side-by-side with the increasingly clichéd “slide to the Right” and the phenomenon of “Flipping Out”—every comfortable Modern Orthodox parent’s worst nightmare. With her flanks falling off to the sides, the center just won’t hold. The martial metaphor here is apt: our educational institutions, starting first with the family, are engaged in nothing less than a counter-cultural struggle against the forces of consumerism, sound-byte oversimplification, and functionalism, on the one hand, and an often disdainful and stifling parochialism that denies the Divine Presence in the totality of the order of creation, on the other. Unsurprisingly, the sociological and cultural dispositions of both these unhappy alternatives feed off of each other in a vicious circular frenzy, further eroding the chances for a healthy and vibrant culture of critically engaged Orthodoxy. To name these troubling spheres of influence for the hearts and minds of our children and students is not to equate the threat posed by each to the religious well-being of our constituent population. The one necessary thing—the cultivation of an unapologetic life of avodat Hashem—must always be paramount. But the emotional and intellectual fallout from this communal tug-of-war has created nothing short of a profound crisis of meaning for many of our students.

          Recent conversations, mainly in Israel but slowly trickling stateside, on the omnipresence of Talmud in the traditional yeshiva high-school curriculum and the perceived crisis of value looming in the dati-le’umi horizon have sharpened the focus of this educational deliberation. Much of the discussion to date has centered around the question of “relevance” in our contemporary Talmud curriculum, with the sides of traditional Brisker lomdus squaring off against the newer schools of applied, contextualized, values-driven interpretation and teaching. I also want to raise the issue of relevance, not only in the relatively thin sense that shor sheNagah et haParah will not naturally resonate with today's suburban students as much as it did with our farm-friendly ancestors but, far more significantly, in the more robust, foundational sense that our students do not perceive the worlds of knowledge, experience, or meaning through the lenses of a Torah-centered consciousness. Simply put, Modern Orthodoxy struggles to articulate and transmit a coherent, compelling, and systematic worldview for its students, a worldview that gives consistent meaning and value to the welter of experience comprising our engagement with reality. This lack of a comprehensive worldview impacts many areas of a student’s religious life and development, from an inability to identify and articulate basic theological principles and commitments to a widespread confusion regarding the viability and parameters of our community’s engagement with modernity, civil society, and both high and popular culture. The vast majority of our students are unable to articulate what an authentically traditional position might be on a host of live issues facing them in today's world, that is to say, what to think Jewishly. Furthermore, they appear even far less equipped to begin the deliberation of how one would go about thinking Jewishly, how to frame or perceive an issue from a place of authority, meaning, and Jewish understanding.

          Thomas Mann once defined authenticity as a kind of "life full of citations," a way of being that draws on our lived and total engagement with our textuality, that constructs our consciousness out of the shared storehouse of our sacred scriptures, texts, and sources for our deepest sense of meaning and purpose. Our educational institutions fall far short of this ideal not just in the obvious inability of the vast majority of her students to quote or even simply recognize biblical verses, sayings of our Sages, or other sources from tefilla, mahshevet yisrael, mussar, and Hassidut—although talking to most Modern Orthodox high schoolers today will easily confirm this sad reality. Torah doesn't merely have something to say about everything we encounter in our lives, public and private, from politics to popular culture (often confused these days in our media-drenched society), from economic theory to sports, and everything in between; it is the very ground of our thinking, the prism through which we ought to understand all reality—beOrkha nir’eh or. This is first an epistemological claim, and only secondarily a pedagogical one. In both keys, this lack of a coherent and comprehensive hashkafat olam precludes our students from seeing knowledge, beauty, and experience in a religiously relevant fashion. (Although the literature on the religious significance of “worldview thinking” is rapidly growing in the communities of Christian academic and educational inquiry [see, most recently, James W. Sire, Naming the Elephant: Worldview as Concept, InterVarsity Press, Downers Grove, Il, 2004], to date, little has been contributed to the world of Jewish Thought in this important area. Two exceptions to this lacuna in our contemporary theological literature are Max Kadushin’s classic, The Rabbinic Mind, and, more recently, an important article by Jonathan Cohen, “Deliberation, Tradition, and the Problem of Incommensurability: Philosophical Reflections on Curricular Decision-Making” in Educational Theory 49 (1), pp. 71–89. Needless to say, more must been done to creatively appropriate this useful concept in Jewish educational circles.) There are, blessedly, study halls in Israel that are just beginning to seriously engage in this explicit work of worldview-formation from the rich depths of our mesorah and its robust application to the realia of cultural and political life. I have in mind here places such as Beit Morasha, Yeshivat Siach Yitzchak's Machon Bina l'Itim, Beit Midrash Ra'avah, and, on a more public scale, the Shalem Center. However, nothing remotely like this is happening in our Day Schools, yeshivot, or other mekomot haTorah in America—nor are there any signs that this vision- and value-driven talmudic inquiry is likely to take hold in major institutions of Torah study in the United States. We seem to be stuck in a sort of collective communal time-warp when it comes to our Talmud Torah, bound by modes of mechanical mastery of a technical or conceptual nature. Without the kind of values-driven, reflective halakhic study we’re describing here, Modern Orthodoxy in America will remain a religiously minimalist community of affluence and mediocrity, a spiritual halfway house for those on a serious quest for meaning, unable to provide its adherents with the religious and cultural resources to realize its ambitious and holy mandate.

To illustrate what I’m trying to capture in this call for the cultivation of a comprehensive worldview, I want to briefly focus on one particular area where I think our failure is most obvious and acute. For all the talk about the primacy of mitzvot bein adam leHaveiro in our tradition, I submit that our yeshivot and Day Schools would look very different if we didn’t merely pay lip-service to this domain of religious life, but, instead, really lived as our faith requires. What would our curriculum look like if we took seriously Hillel’s maxim that the entire Torah can be distilled into the principle of veAhavta leReakha kaMokha, and that the rest of the Torah is simply an elaboration of this ideal? What would our Day School and yeshiva graduates look like if they lived their lives as if the closest we came to the Divine Other in this world was in the divine face of the human other, if they really internalized C. S. Lewis’s powerful expression from his war-time sermon, The Weight of Glory, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal…but it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit”? Something like Levinas’ transformational reading of Rav Hayyim Volozhin or Rav Simcha Zisl’s ideal of acquiring Torah by “bearing the burden of the Other,” is what we’re programmatically—in the most tentative, telegraphic form—grasping at here. (For Levinas’ ethical-theological reconstruction of Nefesh haHayyim, see “’In the Image of God’ According to Rabbi Hayyim Volozhiner,” reprinted in Beyond the Verse: Talmudic Readings and Lectures (London and New York: Continuum, 2007), 148–163. For Rav Simcha Zisl, see Hokhma U’Mussar, chs. 1–4, MeOrei Orot haMussar, vol. 2, ed. Simcha Zisl Levovitz (Jerusalem, 2003) and the thoughtful analysis in Ira F. Stone, A Responsible Life: The Spiritual Path of Musar, (New York: Aviv Press, 2006.) But where is this embodied ethical learning and teaching taking place in Modern Orthodox America, or in most places in Israel, for that matter? Let me leave the reader with a couple of suggestions toward cultivating a mussar consciousness in our communities, one curricular, the other centered around school culture—before closing on a more hopeful note.

First, our choice of texts and topics—especially the way in which we study our traditional texts—should more concretely reflect this goal of making explicit the mostly implicit value-system or worldview contained within our mesorah. From Nezikin to Nashim, as well as in the more straightforward areas of ethical inquiry embodied in the halakhot governing shemirat haLashon, tsedakah, bikkur holim, ribit veOna’ah, kibbud av veEim, tseni’ut, and kavod haBeriot, to name just the most obvious cases, our curriculum must raise the questions of human value, of personal identity, of conceptions of gender and community, of social and political justice, and, above all, of the radical commitment to an ethic of religious humanism, a theological anthropology, that saturates our tradition. Obviously, more attention should be paid to classics in mahshava, mussar, and Hassidut, which treat these concerns in a direct manner (again, read and studied in a deliberate and reflective fashion—Mesillat Yesharim can be taught, and usually is, I’m afraid, in a way that bypasses almost all of these concerns, making it less, not more, of a source of real, transformative power), but the yam shel Talmud and halakha are still the most significant sources for this sort of study. Second, our schools and yeshivot need to create the spiritual space for faculty, rebbeim and teachers, to engage in their own religious and ethical growth and development, a personal-pedagogical discipline of heshbon haNefesh. Rav Dov Singer, Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Makor Hayyim in Kefar Etzion and one of our community’s most thoughtful educators, once told me that when his yeshiva’s students are not experiencing tefilla with the proper kavana, or are becoming too competitive and not forming a cohesive cohort, or are otherwise not striking a healthy balance between an appropriate work ethic and a sense of the larger goals of learning, the faculty look inward, and search within themselves for the latent sources of dysfunction. Institutional and classroom leaders must model this kind of introspective habit if our students are to see spiritual practice in action and be receptive to its proper place in their own lives.

          In 1789, Samuel and John Phillips founded their academy in Andover, Massachusetts, and wrote the following lines, elegantly articulating the very kind of comprehensive religious and moral educational vision we’ve just outlined:

But above all, it is expected that the Master’s attention to the disposition of the minds and morals of the Youth under his charge will exceed every other care; well-considering that, though goodness without knowledge…is weak and feeble; yet knowledge without goodness is dangerous; and that both united form the noblest of character…the first and principal object of this institution is the promotion of Piety and Virtue. (Cited in F. Washington Jarvis, With Love and Prayers: A Headmaster Speaks to the Next Generation, [Boston: David R. Godine Publishers, 2000], xxi.)

          Less than a century after the founding of the Phillips Andover Academy and halfway around the world, Rav Yisrael Salanter made a similar claim for the priority of ethical education over traditional forms of talmudic scholarship, of charity over theory, radically revolutionizing the landscape of Jewish education for the next fifty years. If not for the destruction of European Jewry in the middle of the past century, the Mussar Movement may still have been advancing the aims of reflective, practice-based character education, stemming from a comprehensive worldview grounded in the sources of our mesorah, to ever more sophisticated heights. Perhaps what this postmodern world needs most, with its deep skepticism toward abstract rationality divorced from pragmatic value, is another kind of Salanter-inspired renaissance.